Napham screamed, yelling for help. He turned round, his terror increasing as the flames raced along the rushes, catching the cloth of the bedstead. Sobbing and gasping, Napham tried to push himself towards the door. If he could only reach it, take himself and his pain beyond the fury of the growing fire. He pulled himself two, three paces but the agony was intense. He fell into a dead swoon even as the fire licked the dry cloths of the small four-poster bed and roared greedily towards the ceiling.
Athelstan sat in his kitchen. Even though the rays of the setting sun streamed in through the open shutters, the friar was cold with rage at what he had witnessed in the cemetery. Bonaventure, sitting on the table, studied his little master with his one good eye. The cat sat motionless as if he knew there was something wrong. Athelstan smiled and gently caressed the tangled remnants of Bonaventure’s damaged ear.
‘It’s not you, great cat,’ he murmured. ‘But you should have seen that great fool Watkin! He was striding up and down with a tin pot on his head, a basting spoon in his hand, guarding the gateway to the cemetery! And the others! Tab the tinker, Pike, Pernell, even Ranulf the rat-catcher, organising the visitors now streaming into St Erconwald’s to pray before their miraculous crucifix.’
Athelstan rose and paced up and down. Bonaventure solemnly followed. ‘It’s not right,’ Athelstan murmured. ‘Crucifixes don’t bleed!’
He paused, the great tomcat almost crashing into his legs. There was something wrong. Watkin was bellicose, Pike and the rest were screeching about their rights. Athelstan could see the figure on the crucifix had been bleeding again, the blood glistening in the light of the many candles which had been placed beneath it.
Athelstan glanced down at the tomcat. ‘What happens if it wasn’t a miracle, Bonaventure, eh?’
The cat winked and yawned.
‘Exactly,’ Athelstan rejoined. ‘Miracles don’t happen in Southwark!’
‘They happened in Bethlehem!’
Athelstan whirled round. The tall, lean-visaged Dominican stood just within the door, hidden in the shadows.
‘Why, brother Niall!’
Father Prior’s lieutenant and messenger walked into the kitchen. He and Athelstan embraced each other and exchanged the kiss of peace. Athelstan stared at the pale face and green eyes under the shock of red hair.
‘Welcome to St Erconwald’s, Brother Niall. Pax tecum. ’
‘Et cum spirito tuo.’
‘Some wine, Brother?’
Athelstan’s visitor nodded. ‘And if you have some bread and cheese?’ he called out as Athelstan went into the buttery. ‘I decided to fast today but the journey exhausted me. The good Lord will understand.’
‘Man does not live by bread alone,’ Athelstan retorted.
‘That’s why I asked for the cheese as well,’ Niall quipped back.
Athelstan brought back food and drink for himself and his visitor as well as a pannikin of milk. Bonaventure, if not distracted, would only join in and take the food literally from his visitor’s mouth.
They sat down. Brother Niall took out a small knife, cut himself a piece of cheese and popped it into his mouth. He stared appreciatively around. ‘The house is clean and sweet-smelling, Athelstan. The bread and cheese are soft and fresh.’
Athelstan shrugged. ‘Nowhere in the Gospel does it say you have to be dirty to be saintly.’
Niall laughed, covering his half-open mouth with his hand. ‘You were always quick, Athelstan.’ His face became grave. ‘I’ve been in the cemetery. I’ve seen the crucifix.’
‘It’s nothing to do with me,’ Athelstan snapped back. ‘And don’t tell me you’re here on a pilgrimage!’
Niall shook his head. ‘How long have you been here, Brother?’
‘Almost three years.’
‘Athelstan, Athelstan.’ Niall shook his head. ‘You were one of the best scholars in the schools. Your love of mathematics and sciences were well known. And then…’
‘And then,’ Athelstan finished, ‘I wrecked it all three years before my final vows, by going off with my brother Francis to the wars.’
‘Why did you do it?’
‘My brother and I were always close.’ Athelstan half closed his eyes. ‘Two peas out of the same pod, Niall. Oh, he was a merry soul, his eyes and heart were full of joy. He could charm the birds out of the trees. He didn’t want to kill, he saw himself as a knight errant. He begged me to join him. Perhaps, for the last time in our lives before I became a Dominican, we’d share something together, come back laden with glory. So I went.’ Athelstan fought to keep his voice steady. ‘Francis was killed and I saw the glory of war: mangled corpses, widows and orphans. I committed a great sin before God and my parents. I broke their hearts and the rule of St Dominic. I returned to Blackfriars, took my vows and spent three years cleaning the latrines, kitchens and corridors.’
‘Yes, yes, I know,’ Niall interrupted. Athelstan was on the verge of tears.
‘Then Father Prior sent me here to work amongst the poor. I fell in love with these ordinary people who lead such extraordinary lives. They can’t read, they can’t write. They are taxed and they are pushed around, but they have a joy, a courage I have never seen before.’ Athelstan closed his eyes. ‘And sometimes they are stupid. God knows what lies behind that mummery in the cemetery!’
‘And Cranston?’
‘Sir John is my brother. A fat, uncouth, curmudgeonly coroner but brave as a fighting cock, innocent as a child. A good father, a loving husband, a man of deep integrity. He likes his wine and his food but there’s not a shred of malice in that huge frame. Anyway, why has Prior Anselm sent you?’
‘He thinks you have worked here long enough. Our house in Oxford requires a Master of the Natural Sciences, a man with your logic and love of study…’
‘Nonsense!’ Athelstan retorted. ‘It’s the Regent, isn’t it? John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster. He doesn’t like me. Ever since that business at Westminster when I investigated deaths amongst the knights of the shires! He knows that I am aware of his subtle schemes and clever plots.’
‘His Grace admires you immensely,’ Niall argued, putting his knife down. ‘But I can’t lie, Brother. He fears you. He fears that you know the truth but, above all, he fears the way you are loved and respected here in Southwark. Summer’s dying, autumn is coming and the harvest is due. Outside in the shires, the peasants meet and plot. Gaunt fears an uprising. Armies marching on London. He does not want some friar whipping up the mobs of Southwark!’
‘As if I would!’
‘I know that, you know, Father Prior knows, but John of Gaunt doesn’t.’ Niall got to his feet, brushing the crumbs from his robe. ‘Father Prior is minded to move you, and that business in the cemetery might prove to be the last straw.’
Athelstan sighed and got to his feet. ‘Then tell Father Prior,’ he declared, ‘that I am a loyal son of the order. I will do what he says but if I am moved then, for the third time in my life, my heart will break. So plead for me, Niall.’
They embraced, Niall opened the door and slipped out into the gathering dusk. After he had gone Athelstan sat, face in his hands, and cried quietly. Eventually he wiped his face and breathed in deeply.
‘I’m going to have a goblet of wine,’ he declared to Bonaventura but the cat, busily finishing off the remains of Niall’s bread and cheese, just swished his tail. Athelstan filled his goblet and sat: sleep would be impossible. He put the wine goblet down and pushed it away. He knew the dangers of that: too many priests on their own drinking and brooding, unleashing the demons in their souls. He picked up his writing bag, took out a scrap of parchment and placed his inkhorn on the table.