Athelstan stopped and looked up between the overhanging houses. The sky was now streaked with light so he went back to his house, still determined to keep his mind clear. He tidied up, washing cups and sweeping the floor. Outside Southwark woke, stirred by the rattle of carts, the cries of children and shouts of traders. A small group began to assemble outside the church as the workmen returned, announcing their presence by loud oaths and the clatter of tools.
Athelstan decided to leave matters be. He went upstairs and knelt at his small prie-dieu and began to recite divine office, Matins, Lauds and Nones, his mind swept up by the mystery of the psalms, the chants of praise and the graphic descriptions from the prophet Isaiah.
Athelstan heard a commotion below but decided to ignore it. Then a series of shouts and exclamations, followed by a loud knocking on the door. He breathed a final prayer and hurried down. Watkin and Pike stood there, faces bright with excitement.
‘Father! Father! You’ve got to come! There’s been a miracle!’
‘Every day’s a miracle,’ he replied harshly.
‘No, Father, a real miracle.’
They dragged him out of the house and round to the front of the church where a small crowd had assembled. They ringed a tall, white-haired man who had the sleeve of his green gown pushed back and was showing his arm to all and sundry.
‘What is this?’ Athelstan snapped, forcing his way through.
The fellow turned. His face was broad and suntanned. Athelstan noted the laughter wrinkles round his mouth and eyes and the good quality of his garments. Beside him was a woman, auburn ringlets peeping out from under a light blue head-dress; her buttercup yellow smock over a white shift looked costly, well cut and clean. The man smiled at Athelstan.
‘Father, a miracle!’
‘Nonsense!’ snapped Athelstan.
‘Look, Father!’ The man showed Athelstan his right arm from elbow to wrist. ‘When I woke this morning my arm was infected. Five days ago I received a cut.’ He pointed to a small, pink line still faintly discernible halfway up his arm. ‘I left it untreated and so contagion set in, corrupting the skin. Physician Culpepper treated it with ointments and bound it with bandages but it got no better.’ The fellow looked round and Athelstan saw many of his parishioners staring owl-eyed and open-mouthed at the man’s dramatic story.
‘Last night I could not sleep, Father. The itching was so intense.’ He licked his full lips. ‘Yesterday we heard about the saint being discovered. Father,’ the man’s eyes pleaded with Athelstan, ‘I became desperate. I went into your church. I leaned against the coffin and prayed for help.’
‘It’s true!’ The young woman beside him spoke up. She pointed to a pile of dirty bandages just outside the church door. ‘My husband said he felt better, the pain and itching had gone.’ Her smiling eyes pleaded with Athelstan. ‘I can only tell you what happened. We took the bandages off.’ She pointed to a water-seller hurrying down the street. ‘I bought a stoup of water and cleansed the arm. There was no contagion, Father. The skin is as clear as a baby’s!’
A gasp of astonishment greeted her declaration. Athelstan gazed suspiciously at the man’s arm.
‘You said you leaned against the parish coffin and said a prayer?’
The man now unrolled the sleeve of his gown. ‘It’s as I have said, Father. I was there no more than ten minutes.’
‘I saw the bandage being taken off!’ Watkin shouted. ‘It’s true, Father! It’s a miracle!’
People crossed themselves and looked fearfully back at the church.
‘Father,’ Tab the tinker roared, ‘what shall we do?’
‘We should shut up, Tab, and keep a cool head. Come!’ Athelstan ordered. ‘Everyone, back into the church. Pike, go and get physician Culpepper. Give him my apologies but it’s important that he come here now.’
The parishioners followed Athelstan and the man with the miraculous cure back into St Erconwald’s. Athelstan ordered them to sit down on a bench and keep quiet. He went outside and leaned against the door as an excited clamour broke out behind him. He crouched and examined the pile of dirty bandages: they were soiled with dark stains and gave off a putrid odour. Athelstan was still scrutinising them when Pike returned with an aggrieved-looking Culpepper.
‘Father, what is it now?’
‘Master physician, I apologise but there’s a man in the church, one of your patients. He claims his arm had some putrefaction of the skin, that you dressed and bandaged it.’
Culpepper hitched his fur-trimmed robe closer round his bony shoulders, his usually humorous face now tense with vexation.
‘Father, is this all it’s about? I can’t remember every injury!’
‘Go in there,’ Athelstan pleaded. ‘Go in, see the man, look at his arm and then come back and tell me.’
Shaking his head and muttering curses, Culpepper obeyed. Athelstan stayed outside. The babble of voices behind him stilled for a while and then broke out again as Culpepper, a surprised, anxious look on his face, re-emerged from the church.
‘Well?’ Pike asked, his face and body tense as a whippet’s.
The physician looked sheepishly at Athelstan.
‘It’s true, Father. Some days ago Raymond D’Arques came to me with a terrible skin infection. I examined it carefully, put some ointment on, bandaged it and charged him a fee.’
The arm was putrefying?’
‘Definitely, Father. Some sort of fungus-like rash which coarsened the skin and caused a terrible itching.’
‘And now it’s healed?’
‘You have seen it, Father. So have I.’
‘Could such an infection be healed by the ointment you put on it?’
‘I doubt it, Father. Not in the time. Such infections, and I have seen them before, take weeks, even months to heal. The skin is now wholesome and fresh.’
Athelstan kicked the small pile of bandages. ‘And these are yours?’
The doctor picked them up without a second thought and sniffed them carefully. ‘Yes, Father, and if you don’t need them, and he certainly doesn’t, I’ll take them back to use again.’ The physician pushed his face close to Athelstan’s. ‘I can’t explain it, Father, and neither can you. Anyway, why shouldn’t God work miracles in St Erconwald’s?’ He turned on his heel and stamped off down the street.
Athelstan looked at Pike. ‘What do you know of this Raymond D’Arques?’
‘A good man, Father. He and his wife Margot live off Dog Leg Lane. He owns quite a big house near the Skinner’s Yard.’
Athelstan leaned against the wall. Dog Leg Lane was just within the boundary of his parish.
‘I never see them at church,’ he muttered.
‘Ah,’ Pike replied, ‘that’s because he and his young wife are prosperous and go to St Swithin’s. They are good, pious people, Father, and give regularly to the poor. He’s a fair tradesman, well liked and respected. You ask old Bladdersniff. He knows every man’s business.’
Athelstan sighed and went back into the church where his excited parishioners now ringed Raymond D’Arques and his wife. The man came towards him, waving the others back.
‘Father,’ he whispered, ‘I am sorry. My arm was sickly, I came here to pray. All I can do is thank God and you. Please accept this.’ He pushed a silver coin into Athelstan’s hand.
The priest stepped back. ‘No, no, I can’t.’
‘Father, you must. It’s my offering. If the church won’t have it, give it to the poor.’ D’Arques clasped Athelstan’s hand. ‘Please, Father, I won’t trouble you again. Margot,’ he called over his shoulder, ‘we have bothered this poor priest enough.’
He walked away. His wife smiled at Athelstan, touched him gently on the hand and slipped quietly through the door after her husband.
‘Well, Father!’ Watkin the dung-collector, arms folded, legs apart, confronted his priest. ‘Well, Father,’ he repeated, ‘we have our miracle. The cure proves that we have a saint here in St Erconwald’s.’