‘There’s a priest!’ he shouted. There’s a priest! I want to be shriven! I don’t want to go to hell!’
Athelstan groaned as Bladdersniff the bailiff came towards him, his vinegarish face looking even more sour than usual.
‘We haven’t been able to find a priest to hear his confession,’ Bladdersniff said. ‘He killed a whore in a tavern brawl, was caught red-handed and spent the night in the compter drunk as a pig.’ Bladdersniff clutched Philomel’s reins and swayed dangerously.
You’re none too sober yourself, Athelstan thought. He dismounted, threw the reins at Bladdersniff and climbed up into the death-cart. The condemned felon was pleased, whether at the postponement of his execution or at the appearance of spiritual comfort Athelstan could not decide. The black-masked hangman, Simon, who also worked as a scullion in Merrylegs’s pie shop, pulled the noose from the man’s neck, smiled through his executioner’s mask at Athelstan, jumped off the cart and walked out of earshot.
‘Sit down,’ Athelstan said. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Robard.’
‘And where do you come from?’
‘I was born in Norwich.’
‘And how have you lived? What have you done?’
‘Oh, I was a sailor, Father.’ He pulled back the rags of his jerkin to reveal a shrivelled arm. ‘That’s until someone poured boiling oil over me.’
‘Did you know Captain Roffel?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Captain Roffel!’ Robard replied, his whiskered face breaking into a gap-toothed grin. ‘Yes, I knew him, Father – the biggest pirate this side of Dover. A real killer, Father.’ Robard belched a gust of stale-ale fumes into Athelstan’s face. ‘He was also a bugger.’ Robard looked apologetic. ‘I mean in the real sense, Father. He liked little boys and pretty young men. Always touching them on the buttocks, he was. But he never touched mine, more’s the pity. If he liked you, good rations always came your way.’
‘Your confession,’ Athelstan reminded him.
‘Oh yes, Father.’ The felon sketched the sign of the cross. ‘Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s thirty years since I was shriven. I confess all.’
‘What do you mean?’ Athelstan asked.
‘I confess all,’ Robard declared. ‘You name it, Father, I’ve done it. I have shagged women, boys and, on one occasion, even a sheep. I have stolen men’s property, even their wives. I curse every hour I am awake. I have never been to church.’ The man’s eyes suddenly filled with tears. ‘You know, Father, I have done bugger-all in this life. I have not done one good thing!’ He blinked and looked at the friar. ‘I have never shown any love but, there again, I’ve been shown bugger-all myself! I don’t know my father. My mother dumped me on a church’s steps when I was two summers old.’ Robard licked his lips. ‘Now I am going to die, Father. I have been in hell on earth, why should I spend the rest of eternity there?’ His tears were coming freely now. ‘I wish I could go back,’ he whispered. ‘I wish I could. There was a girl once, Father. Her name was Anna. She was soft and warm. I think she loved me.’ He wiped the tears away from his face. ‘I am sorry, Father.’ The fellow licked dry lips. ‘I’ll never look at the sea again, or study the sky. Never feel a woman’s soft skin or drink red wine. I’ve drunk good wine, Father. Christ, I need some now!’
Athelstan looked over his shoulder at Simon. ‘Simon, get this man a drink, a good deep bowl of claret.’ Athelstan fished in his purse and tossed a coin, which the executioner expertly caught. Athelstan pointed at the executioner. ‘And one for yourself.’
Simon popped into the nearest ale house and returned with a two-handled hanaper brimming with strong Bordeaux. He handed it to Athelstan, who gave it to Robard, placing it carefully, for the man’s hands were bound at the wrists.
Robard pushed it gently back. ‘No, Father, you take a sip. Wish me well.’
Athelstan obeyed. ‘I wish you well, Robard.’
Robard held the wine.
‘Do you deserve to die?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Oh, yes, I killed the whore. She was laughing at my arm. Will I go to hell, Father?’
‘Do you want to go there?’ Athelstan replied.
‘Oh no, Father.’
Athelstan murmured the words of absolution and made the sign of the cross slowly. ‘You are absolved, Robard. The only people who are in hell are those who wish to be there.’ Athelstan got to his feet. ‘You may have lived a bad life but you will die a good death. Christ on the cross showed he was partial to penitent criminals. Now, drink the wine. Drink it fast. May God help you.’
Athelstan climbed off the cart and, as he passed Simon, the executioner, he gripped him by the arm.
‘For the love of Christ!’ Athelstan whispered. ‘Let him finish his wine, then make it quick!’
Simon nodded and Athelstan walked over to remount Philomel.
‘Father!’
Athelstan looked back towards the scaffold. He kicked his horse forward and reined in next to the cart. Robard drained the hanaper.
‘I said no one showed me any love. Bugger-all was the phrase I used.’ The felon smiled. ‘I was wrong. By what name are you called, Father?’
‘Athelstan.’
‘God be with you, Brother Athelstan.’
Athelstan turned Philomel away and urged him on. Behind him he heard the crack of Simon’s whip and the creaking of the wheels as the horses pulled the cart from underneath Robard. He thought he heard the crack of Robard’s neck as Simon pulled hard on the condemned man’s legs.
‘Oh, sweet Jesus,’ he whispered to himself, ‘have mercy on him and all of us!’ He stared across the busy approaches to the bridge. ‘But especially him! Especially him!’
CHAPTER 6
Athelstan knocked on the door of Cranston’s house. He was immediately greeted by a raucous noise – the poppets screaming and Cranston’s two great wolfhounds, Grog and Magog, barking furiously. The door opened and Cranston’s petite, pretty wife Maude came out, patches of flour on her cheeks and the sleeves of her dress. In each arm she held her beloved poppets Francis and Stephen, their little heads now covered in downy hair, their round, fat faces red and cheery. Behind her Boscombe the steward prevented the two great dogs from lunging at Athelstan and licking him to death.
‘Brother Athelstan,’ Lady Maude exclaimed, her face smiling in pleasure.
The two poppets strained towards him, clapping their fat hands and gurgling with glee.
‘Come in, Brother.’ Lady Maude stepped back.
Athelstan shook his head. ‘Sir John’s not at home?’
‘He could be in the Holy Lamb of God,’ Lady Maude replied sharply.
‘Dadda.’ One of the poppets strained forward, a fat, dirty finger pointing at Athelstan. ‘Dadda.’
Athelstan seized the finger and squeezed it gently. The beaming baby burped.
‘Just like his father!’ Lady Maude declared.
‘Dadda.’
Athelstan grasped the chubby little finger and stroked the other baby’s head. ‘Bless you both, bless you all.’ He grinned. ‘But I’m not your Dadda.’
‘Dadda,’ the baby repeated.
Athelstan, a little embarrassed, pointed at Lady Maude. ‘And who’s that?’
The baby stared at his mother and then back at Athelstan.
‘Not Dadda.’
Athelstan laughed. He said he would search out Sir John and, leaving the confusion of Cranston’s household behind him, pushed his way through the throng. He stabled Philomel in the Holy Lamb of God’s stables and entered the taproom. Lady Maude was right. Cranston was sitting in his favourite chair, a tankard of ale in front of him, and staring mournfully into the garden.