Athelstan took off his robes, placed them on the table in his small sacristy and bowed to the crucifix. He then knelt on the prie-dieu and recited a short prayer of thanksgiving.
‘Brother Athelstan!’
He turned. Crim the altar boy was dancing from foot to foot.
‘Go outside if you want a pee, boy. I’ve told you not to drink from the water butts before Mass. It’s cold and it’ll go straight through you.’
‘It’s not that, Brother.’ Crim crinkled his face. He’d washed it but the dirt was simply pushed up around his ears. ‘Is it a sin to belch in church?’
‘Why, Grim?’
‘Because I was doing it during Mass. Mother made a stew last night …’
‘It’s no sin.’ Athelstan patted him on the head. ‘Always remember, Crim, sin comes from the will. You must mean evil or disrespect and God has mercy on a rumbling stomach. Are you well now?’
‘I will be soon, Brother.’
And the boy dashed out of the side door, heading for the enclosed privy on the outside of the church.
Athelstan walked back into the sanctuary. He ensured all was well and went down the nave; most of his parishioners were thronging in the porch. Watkin’s and Pike’s wives had put up a trestle table and were busy selling church ales drawn from small kegs and barrels placed on stools. Athelstan wondered how much of the money would eventually find its way into parish coffers. Yet he was resigned to such losses. His parishioners weren’t thieves, just very poor and, as he’d remarked to Sir John, it’s easy to be virtuous when you are not tempted.
‘Morning, Brother.’ They all raised their battered, leather black-jacks of ale.
‘It’s a beautiful day, Brother.’ Pernell the Fleming woman spoke up.
Athelstan agreed; he had been out for a walk before Mass. He’d left Godbless and Thaddeus in the cemetery and checked on Philomel. The old war horse never seemed to age and ate as if his life depended on it. Athelstan walked to the door of the church. Parishioners sat on steps enjoying the sunlight. Children ran around, dogs yapped. Ursula the pig woman’s huge sow came rumbling up, heading straight for Ranulf the rat-catcher who had a stack of apples between his feet. He was snapping them with his hands, sharing them out to his brood of a family, all dressed the same in their little black jackets with hoods and cowls like their father’s. Athelstan went back into the church where a small crowd now thronged round Godbless.
‘There’s ghosts in the cemetery,’ Watkin declared sonorously.
‘Ah yes.’ Athelstan looked waraingly at Cecily who was combing her long, blonde hair with her fingers: the minx stared innocently back. ‘Who was in the cemetery last night?’
A chorus of: ‘Not me, Brother!’ greeted his question.
‘Well, someone was. Godbless here definitely heard something.’ He looked questioningly at the beggar man, Thaddeus standing proudly beside him. ‘What exactly did you see, Godbless?’
‘Shapes and shadows in the moonlight,’ Godbless replied mournfully. His eyes looked troubled. ‘I do not mean to cause any trouble but I know what I saw.’
Athelstan excused himself and went outside. The cemetery was quiet except for the buzzing bees and a host of butterflies which swarmed like miniature angels over the green grass. A peaceful, serene place with its crumbling headstones and decaying wooden crosses.
Athelstan followed the path to the death house and looked in. Godbless had certainly made himself at home. In fact, Athelstan had never seen the place look so clean and homely. He closed the door and glimpsed the pile of earth on the rim of the ditch Watkin and Pike were digging along the cemetery wall. He walked across. The earth was dry and powdery, baking under the summer sun. Athelstan stared down at the ditch: it must be three to four feet deep but he could see nothing untoward. He walked round the cemetery but discovered only a faded pink ribbon. He smiled and picked it up.
‘Brother, are you hiding?’
Athelstan jumped. Sir John was standing near the church, Sir Maurice Maltravers beside him.
‘Lord save us!’ Athelstan whispered. ‘It must be trouble.’
Sir John never bothered him on a Sunday. Indeed, it was becoming customary for Moleskin to row Athelstan across the river so he could spend the afternoon with Jack and his family, especially on a day like this. They would sit in an arbour in Sir John’s garden. The coroner would sup his ale and pontificate upon everything and everyone, Athelstan listening quietly beside him. The poppets would stagger around, the two great mastiffs doze in the shade.
‘What’s wrong, Sir John?’
Athelstan walked towards them. Sir Maurice looked pale, even sickly, his face haggard, his eyes red-rimmed from lack of sleep. Sir John, on the other hand, looked the picture of health. He was dressed in his Sunday best, a purple doublet over a cream satin shirt, tied at the neck with a silver collar. He opened the wallet on the shiny belt round his great girth, took out a small scroll and thrust it into Athelstan’s hand.
The Dominican sat down on a gravestone and studied it. The writing was small, the letters imperfectly formed.
To my beloved, I have journeyed up from Dover. I have begged to see you but you have refused. So, what is life without love? You have used me. You have forsaken me so I have forsaken life. Signed: Anna Triveter.
‘What is this?’ Athelstan asked.
‘You’d best come with us,’ Sir John said. ‘Our young knight here has a great deal of explaining to do.’
Athelstan returned to the church where Benedicta was sitting on a stool talking to Bladdersniff the bailiff. The young widow woman looked up.
‘Lock the church,’ Athelstan told her. ‘Keep an eye on the house and Godbless. Oh, by the way.’ He thrust the piece of faded pink ribbon into her hand. ‘Tell Cecily the graveyard is for the dead to lie in, not the living!’
Sir John and Sir Maurice were waiting impatiently at the corner of the alleyway. Sir John marched as if he were advancing towards an enemy, his whole body bristling with anger. Athelstan looked across at Sir Maurice but the young knight was like some tired dog lost in his own sea of troubles.
They didn’t take a wherry. Sir John was too impatient. Instead they strode across London Bridge. Athelstan quietly murmured a prayer of thanks that Master Burdon, the diminutive keeper of the bridge gate, did not espy them, for he always loved to chat to Sir John. Athelstan averted his eyes from the poles jutting out over the bridge bearing the severed, rotting heads of traitors. The alleyways between the shops and houses built on either side were quiet. They passed the chapel of St Thomas. From inside Athelstan heard singing as the community of the bridge attended their Sunday Mass, then they were across, going up through the quiet streets.
‘What is the matter, Sir John?’
Cranston stopped and wiped the sweat from his brow.
‘We are going to the Golden Cresset. It stands opposite St Anthony’s hospital in Bishopsgate. Last night,’ he tapped his wallet where he had returned the scroll, ‘or yesterday evening, a young woman, Anna Triveter, hired a chamber. She locked and bolted the door, closed the shutters and promptly hanged herself.’
Athelstan closed his eyes.
‘She must be twenty summers old,’ Sir John continued. ‘She had apparently come from Dover. Her palfrey is still in the stable. Apparently a young woman of some repute.’
‘And what is she to do with you, Sir Maurice?’
‘Well, our young Hector here, when he was in Dover, formed a relationship with a Mistress Triveter.’
‘What sort of relationship?’
‘You saw the scroll.’ Sir John pulled it out.
Athelstan read the line on the reverse side.
‘Oh heaven protect us!’ he whispered. I didn’t see this: “To my husband Sir Maurice Maltravers”.’