The ale-keeper nodded.
‘Tell him to search out Master Tibault, he’ll know what I mean. He must ask Tibault which of the clerks liked to wear spurs.’
Haman looked perplexed. Athelstan made him repeat the message until he had it by heart. Then he rejoined Alison.
‘Was that important, Brother?’
‘Yes, yes, it was but…’ The friar touched her gently on the elbow. ‘Not enough to hang a man.’
‘Someone will hang,’ she replied. ‘Won’t they, Brother? All those dreadful deaths: Ollerton poisoned; Peslep killed on a latrine with his hose about his ankles.’
‘And Elflain,’ Athelstan added. ‘Earlier today he was killed by a crossbow bolt.’
He crossed himself and they continued on. At the corner of Lombard Street, near the Cornmarket, Athelstan stopped and stared back.
‘What’s the matter, Brother?’
‘Nothing,’ he replied but he was unsure. When he had crossed over to see Haman, Athelstan was certain he had glimpsed a figure behind him. He shook his head.
They went down an alleyway which led out to Gracechurch Street and London Bridge. The houses on either side towered over to block out the sunlight; the runnel was gloomy, filled with offal. The contents of chamber pots stained the walls on either side, the stench reminding Athelstan of the city ditch near Cock Lane. The palfrey became skittish, picking its way daintily over the bloated corpse of a dead cat. Alison took out a nosegay and held it to her face. Athelstan was about to apologise bitterly regretting taking this short cut, when two figures stepped out of a shabby doorway. They were dressed like rifflers, the masked foot-pads who preyed on the unwary in the warren of London’s alleyways. One was short, the other tall; battered leather masks covered their faces, their heads were concealed by pointed hoods. Each carried a stabbing dirk in one hand, a cudgel in the other.
Alison stopped. Athelstan patted her on the arm and, plucking up his courage, walked forward.
‘I am Athelstan, priest of St Erconwald’s in Southwark. This young lady and myself have little wealth.’
‘Stay where you are!’ the taller of the two ordered, his voice gruff behind the mask.
‘Why do you stop us?’ Alison shouted.
‘Keep your tongue still, pretty one,’ the smaller one replied in a high, ready voice.
Athelstan peered at the diminutive footpad. He recalled Cranston’s words to him earlier in the day.
‘You are William the Weasel, aren’t you? One of the parishioners of the Vicar of Hell.’
The little man backed away as if Athelstan had slapped him. The taller one was disconcerted, coughing and muttering behind his mask.
‘Sir John would not be very pleased,’ Athelstan took another step forward, ‘to hear that William the Weasel dared to rob the coroner’s secretarius and friend.’
‘We are not here to rob you,’ the little man screeched back.
Athelstan smiled; these two would-be footpads were not as terrifying as they appeared. ‘Well, why are you here?’ he snapped. ‘How dare you stop a priest and a young lady going about their proper business!’
‘Tush, tush, Brother!’ the taller man replied. ‘We would ask you to give Sir John a message from the Vicar of Hell.’
‘What message?’
‘The Vicar of Hell is angry. He has an affair of the heart with young Clarice. He objects to Sir John keeping Dame Broadsheet’s house under strict surveillance. My Lord Coroner should be careful.’
‘I’ll tell him to be so,’ Athelstan responded. ‘But, as you know, Sir John does not frighten easily.’
‘We bring other messages.’ There was now a note of desperation in the Weasel’s voice.
‘Then you’d better hurry: we haven’t all the time in the day to stand in this stinking alleyway.’
‘Tell the lord coroner,’ the Weasel was almost pleading, ‘that the Vicar of Hell sends his compliments and that he had no hand in the dreadful murders at the Chancery of the Green Wax.’
Athelstan sighed. Sir John was right! There was some connection between the Vicar of hell and these clerks. Now London’s most famous outlaw was trying to distance himself from the horrid murders taking place.
The two figures disappeared. Athelstan came back and patted Alison on the shoulder. He was pleased the young woman was not shaken by the encounter. ‘You do not frighten easily, mistress?’
‘No, Brother, I do not.’
They walked on down to London Bridge. City guards were already taking up their positions, chatting merrily to Robert Burdon, the little gatehouse keeper. He was busy combing the hair of three severed heads laid out on the table, before placing them on pikes which would jut out over the river.
‘I like things to be tidy and neat,’ he shouted as Athelstan passed by. The friar sketched a hasty blessing and hurried on.
In the middle of the bridge Alison stopped and stared across at the small chapel dedicated to Thomas a Becket. Tears filled her eyes and she bit her lip. ‘If only,’ she whispered, ‘if only, if only I’d been there, Brother.’
Athelstan gently led her on, trying to cheer the girl with his chatter. They entered Southwark, now coming alive as the sun began to set and the stallholders set up their evening market. One of the traders called him over.
‘Come, buy something, Brother Athelstan, needles, pins, a bit of cloth. A new leather bridle for your horse?’
‘I’m in a hurry,’ Athelstan replied.
‘Oh yes, of course. Everyone’s heard of the great miracle at St Erconwald’s. I’ve been there myself and paid a groat. Tell your parishioners I’ve lovely things to sell, cheap at the price.’
‘They are not his to sell,’ Athelstan murmured as they walked on. ‘Oh, they are not thieves, Mistress Alison. As Sir John Cranston often remarks, it’s just that they find it difficult to tell the difference between their property and everyone else’s!’
As Alison and Athelstan threaded their way through the alleyways of Southwark, Thomas Napham, clerk of the Green Wax, was also hurrying home. Napham was highly anxious. He did not trust Alcest but he recognised that he was in great danger. That little friar whom they had mocked was as sharp as a razor, and someone was killing his colleagues, hinting that he knew what they were guilty of. Napham had given in to Alcest’s urging. He would leave the Chancery, collect a few belongings and make his way downriver to the Tower. He’d be safe there and, by all that was holy, he would never leave that narrow, well-guarded place until the assassin was caught. He paused in the entrance to his lodgings and peered through the gloom. Was someone there? A door opened further down the passageway; another tenant emerged, a journeyman apprenticed to a clothier in Cheapside.
‘Have you been here all day?’ Napham asked abruptly.
‘Why, yes, I have, working on my master’s accounts.’
‘Has anyone come here inquiring after me?’
‘Not that I know of but, there again, I am a journeyman not the doorkeeper!’
Napham unlocked the door to his chamber and pushed it open. He failed to see the scrap of parchment nailed to the wall above the door. Instead, he stopped and savoured the sweet smell from the herb pots placed around the room. ‘You have nothing to fear,’ he whispered.
The door had been locked. No one had forced an entry. Napham walked into the darkness. He took his tinder out and lit a candle on the table. The shutters on the window flapped in the evening breeze. Napham froze. The window had been shuttered before he left this morning! He lifted the candle up, but could see nothing disturbed. The shelf containing his books, the small coffers and pieces of parchment on the table beside his bed: everything was as he had left it. He walked across to pull the shutters open and allow in the light whilst he packed a few belongings. Napham’s foot caught something hard. There was a snap followed by the most excruciating pain. Napham screamed. The pain in his right foot shot up his leg like a sudden spurt of fire. He collapsed to the floor, and the lighted candle, as if it had a life of its own, rolled away from him. Instead of the flame going out it now burned greedily as it caught the dry rushes. Napham didn’t care. The pain in his foot was so intense! He pulled himself up and saw the great iron-toothed caltrop hidden amongst the rushes had bitten through his soft boot, gripping his foot. The blood now poured out like wine from a cracked jug.