The Nightingale Gallery (22 page)

Cranston was loath to stop the fight. ‘And again, my buckos!’ he cried. ‘Just once more and then a wound, an injury. If I don’t kill you, the hangman will! Be sure of that.’

The small, weasel-eyed man looked at his companion, and before the coroner could advance another step, both men took to their heels and fled. Cranston leaned suddenly against the wall, wiping away the sweat now coursing down his face. His jerkin was stained with damp patches at the armpits and chest.

‘You see that, Athelstan?’ he gasped, resting his sword point on the ground. ‘You saw me, didn’t you? The sword play, the footwork. You will vouch for me with Lady Maude?’

Athelstan smiled. Sir John saw himself as a knight errant, a chevalier, and his little wife Maude as his princess.

‘I saw it, Sir John,’ he said. ‘A born soldier. A true Saint George. You were in no danger?’

Cranston coughed and spat.

‘From those? Alleymen, roaring boys, the dregs of some commissioner’s levy! I tell you this, Athelstan,’ sheathing his sword and dagger, ‘I fought in France against the cream of French chivalry for the Old King, bless him! We were raging lions then and England’s name was feared from the northern seas to the Straits of Gibraltar. In my younger days,’ he bellowed, pulling his shoulders back martial fashion, ‘I was keen as a greyhound, fast as a falcon swooping to the kill.’

Athelstan hid a smile, looking at the sweat still pouring down the fat coroner’s face, the great, stout stomach wobbling with a mixture of pride and anger.

Of course they had to stop at the nearest tavern for Sir John to take refreshment and go over his sword play, step by step, blow by blow. Athelstan, concealing his amusement, listened as attentively as he could.

‘Sir John,’ he interrupted finally, those men, the footpads, they were sent, were they not? They were waiting for us.’

‘Yes,’ Cranston stuck his fiery red nose deeper into his tankard, slurping noisily, ‘they were sent after us. Which means, Brother Athelstan, that our final remark to Sir Richard as we left the Springall house hit home. The murderer now knows that we are on his trail. Vechey, Brampton and Allingham are dead, and the number of suspects shrinks. We have a greater chance of being able to flush this assassin out. But we must remain vigilant, Brother, for he may strike again.’

He stood up and gazed round the tavern. Athelstan wondered if he was going to describe to all and sundry the recent fray in the alleyway.

‘You will come back with me, Athelstan, to Lady Maude?’

He shook his head. If he went back the day would be done. Cranston would drink himself silly, celebrating his triumph, and make Athelstan recount time and time again his great victory.

‘No, Sir John, I crave your pardon but not this time. We shall meet the day after next. We have an invitation to a tournament which we must accept.’

Cranston reluctantly conceded his point and they both left the tavern and walked back to collect their horses. The coroner stood and watched Athelstan mount the ancient but voracious Philomel.

‘My Lady Maude will come to the tournament,’ he said, then looking up at the friar, tapped the side of his fleshy nose. ‘You can always bring the woman Benedicta.’

Athelstan blushed. He dare not ask how Cranston knew about Benedicta. The coroner laughed and was still bellowing with mirth as Athelstan urged his horse forward out into the street. He still retained the staff Cranston had bought him. On the journey home he felt slightly ridiculous, like some broken-down knight preparing for a tournament. He tried to ignore the murmured whispers and laughter as he made his way through the streets across London Bridge and back into Southwark. He thought over the attack but felt no fear. The danger from the footpad, the silent assassin, was always present, here in his church or across the river. Athelstan stopped his horse outside St Erconwald’s and thought about that further. Suddenly he realised he had no fear of death. Why? Because of his brother? Because of his priesthood? Or because his conscience was clear? Then he thought of Benedicta and felt a twinge of doubt.

That night, whilst Sir John roistered in his house like Hector home from the wars, Athelstan fed Philomel and Bonaventure. He promised himself he would not go up to the tower to observe the stars. Instead he went into his own church, secured the door, lit candles and took them to his small carrel where he placed his writing tray. He chose a piece of smooth parchment and began to write down everything that had happened since he first went to the Springall mansion. He was sitting there, half dozing over what he had written, when there was a loud knocking on the door. At first he refused to answer, then realised that no assassin would make such a noise so went down to the door and called out: ‘Who’s there?’

‘Rosamund, Brother!’

Athelstan recognised the voice of the eldest daughter of Pike the ditcher. He unlocked the door and peered out into the darkness. A fresh-faced young girl burbled out her news. How her mother had just given birth to another child, her fifth, this time a boy. Athelstan smiled and mumbled his congratulations. The little girl looked at him solemnly.

‘Mother wishes you to choose a name.’

Athelstan smiled and acknowledged the great honour.

‘She wants a saint’s name, Brother.’

Athelstan promised he would do what he could and hoped to see her and her family as soon as possible. He heard the girl run back down the steps and her footsteps faded in the distance. He locked the door and went back to the carrel. Athelstan picked up the piece of parchment and the candle, scrutinising what he had written. He shook his head. He was too tired for work but felt he must continue otherwise he would think back to Cranston’s words about Benedicta. Idly, he wondered if the widow would accompany him. After all, there would be nothing wrong in a day out for both of them. ‘Christ had his friends,’ he kept murmuring to himself. He thought of little Rosamund and went to the high altar where the great missal lay. The friar opened the book, turning to the back where a previous incumbent had written the names of all the saints, listing in a neat hand which guild, craft or profession they were patrons of. Joseph, Athelstan grinned, patron saint of undertakers and mortuary men. The friar laughed. Joseph of Arimithea -the only man he ever buried was alive and well three days later! Perhaps not the best saint the church should have chosen for such a profession. His eyes ran down the list, looking for a suitable saint’s name. Suddenly he saw one and stopped, his heart pounding with excitement. He was fully awake. He looked at the name again and the craft and guild of which he was patron. Was it possible? Was it really possible?

Athelstan closed the missal, all thoughts of Pike the ditcher and his family cleared from his head. He went back to the carrel, seized his pen and continued to write out everything he knew. He tried to extract every detail from his memory, quoting to himself what he had said to Cranston earlier in the day: ‘If there’s a problem, logically there must be a solution.’ For the first time ever, Athelstan had a piece of evidence, something that would fit, something which might unlock the rest of the secrets.

He fell asleep for a few hours just before dawn and woke cold and cramped, his head on the small desk, his body somehow wedged on the stool. He stretched, cracking muscles, and looked up at the small window above the high altar, pleased to see it would be a fair day. He prepared the altar for Mass, opened the door and waited for the small trickle of his congregation to enter. At last, when he thought he could wait no longer, he glimpsed Benedicta slip silently up the nave to join the other two members of his congregation, kneeling between them at the entrance to the rood screen. The widow’s ivory face, framed in its veil of luxurious black curls, seemed more exquisite than ever and Athelstan said a prayer of thanks to God for such beauty.

As usual, after Mass, Benedicta stayed to light a candle before the statue of the Virgin. She smiled as Athelstan approached and asked softly if all was well.

Athelstan took his courage in both hands and blurted out his invitation. Benedicta’s eyes rounded in surprise but she smiled and agreed so quickly that the friar wondered if she, too, felt the kinship between them. For the rest of the day he could hardly concentrate on any problem, caught between contrition that he had done something wrong in inviting Benedicta and pleasure that she had so readily accepted. He could not really account for what he did, moving from duty to duty like a sleep-walker, so buoyed up he didn’t even bother to study the stars that night, in spite of the sky being cloud free. His mind was unwilling to rest. Sleep eluded him. Instead he tossed and turned, hoping Girth the bricklayer’s son had delivered his message to Sir John Cranston indicating where they should meet the next day.

The friar was up just before dawn and celebrated his Mass, Bonaventure and Benedicta being his only congregation. Athelstan’s pleasure increased when he saw that Benedicta, her hair now braided and hidden under a wimple, had a small basket by her side in preparation for their journey to Smithfield. After Mass they talked, chatting about this and that, as they walked from Southwark across London Bridge to meet Cranston and his wife at the Golden Pig, a comfortable tavern on the city side of the river.

Lady Maude, small and pert, was cheerful as a little sparrow, welcoming Benedicta like a long lost sister. Cranston, with at least three flagons of wine down him already, was in good form, nudging Athelstan in the ribs and leering lecherously at Benedicta. After Sir John had pronounced himself refreshed they made their way up to Thames Street to the Kirtle tavern which stood on the edge of Smithfield, just under the forbidding walls of Newgate Prison.

Athelstan remembered what he had learnt from his study of the Index of Saints but decided not to confide in Sir John. The puzzle had other pieces and the friar decided to wait, although he felt guiltily that Benedicta’s presence might have more to do with his tardiness than it should have.

The day had proved to be a fine one. The streets were hot and dusty, so Cranston and Athelstan’s party welcomed the tavern’s coolness. They sat in a corner watching the citizens of every class and station go noisily by, eager to reserve a good place from which to watch the day’s events. Merchants sweltering under beaver hats, their fat wives clothed in gaudy gowns, beggars, quacks, story-tellers, hordes of apprentices, a man from the guilds. Athelstan groaned and hid his face as a crowd of parishioners led by Black Clem, Ranulf the rat-catcher and Pike the ditcher, passed the tavern door, roaring a filthy song at the top of their voices. At last Cranston finished his further refreshment and, with Benedicta so close beside him his heart kept skipping for joy, Athelstan led them out into the great cleared area of Smithfield. Three blackened crow-pecked corpses still hung from a gibbet but the crowd ignored them. The food-sellers were doing a roaring trade in spiced sausages and, beside them, water-sellers with great buckets slung round their necks sold cooling drinks to soothe the mouths of those who chewed the hot, spicy meat. Athelstan looked away, his gorge rising, after seeing Ranulf the rat-catcher sidle up beside one of these water-sellers and quietly piss into one of the buckets.

Smithfield had been specially cleared for the joust. Even the customary dung heaps and piles of ordure had been taken away. A vast open space had been cordoned off for the day. At one side was the royal enclosure with row after row of wooden seats, all covered in purple or gold cloth. In the centre a huge canopy shielded the place where the king and his leading nobility would sit. The banners of John of Gaunt, resplendent with the gaudy device of the House of Lancaster, waved lazily in the breeze. Marshalls of the royal household in their colourful tabards, white wands of office held high, directed Cranston and his party to their reserved seats.

All around them benches were quickly filling with ladies in silk gowns, giggling and chattering, who clutched velvet cushions to their bosoms as they simpered past the young men eyeing them. These gallants, with hair long and curled, and jerkins dripping pearls, proved to be raucous and strident. Cranston was merry, but some of these young men were already far gone in their cups. Athelstan ignored the lustful glances directed at Benedicta, trying to curb the sparks of jealously which flared in his heart.

Once they were seated, he looked round, studying the tournament area. The field, a great grassy plain, was divided down the centre by a huge tilt barrier covered in a black and white canvas. At the end of this barrier were the pavilions, gold, red, blue and scarlet, one for each of the jousters. Already the contestants were arriving and around each pavilion scuttled pages and squires. Armour glinted and dazzled in the sun; banners bearing the gules and lozenges, lions, wyverns and dragons of the noble houses, fluttered in the faint summer breeze. A bray of trumpets stilled the clamour, their shrill so angry the birds in the trees around Smithfield rose in noisy protesting flocks. The royal party had arrived.

Cranston pointed out John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster, his face cruel under blond hair, skin burnt dark from his campaigns in Castille. On either side of him stood his brothers and a collection of young lords. In the centre of the group, with one of John of Gaunt’s hands on his shoulder, stood a young boy, his face white as snow under a mop of golden hair, a silver chaplet on his head. Cranston nudged and pointed again: beside the royal party Athelstan glimpsed Chief Justice Fortescue in scarlet, lined with pure white lamb’s wool, Sir Richard, Lady Isabella, the priest Crispin, Master Buckingham, Dame Ermengilde, and others of their household. Athelstan was sure that they all looked his way but again came the shrill bray of the trumpets. Gaunt raised his hand as if welcoming the plaudits of the crowd. There was clapping from the claque of young courtiers around him but the London mob was silent and Athelstan remembered Cranston’s mutterings about how the expensive tastes of the court, coupled with the military defeats against the French, had brought Gaunt and his party into disrepute.

‘Our quarry’s in sight!’ Cranston whispered to the friar, though his voice carried for yards around them. Athelstan looked sideways at Benedicta and his heart lurched. She had turned slightly, staring coolly back at a young, dark-faced gallant, resplendent in red and white silks, who lounged in his seat with eyes for no one but Athelstan’s fair companion. Cranston, sharp enough under his bluff, drunken exterior, caught the friar’s pained glance. He leaned over and tapped Athelstan on the arm.