They left the House of Secrets and walked up through Newgate into Cheapside. The broad thoroughfare was empty apart from Leif the beggar and others of his ilk. The red-haired bane of Sir John’s life was standing on the stocks. He balanced himself precariously, holding the great wooden post, the other hand on his chest, head thrown back, eyes closed, entertaining his companions with a song.
‘As God lives!’ Sir John exclaimed, staring across at the motley crew. ‘Just listen to that, Brother.’
Athelstan had to agree that Leif as a singer left a great deal to be desired. As if in answer to a prayer, a window of a shop above Leif was thrown open.
‘For the love of heaven!’ a voice bawled and the contents of a chamber pot splashed out, but Leif was quicker, hopping like a squirrel from the stocks. He turned and shook his fist.
‘I must be home,’ Sir John said. ‘Brother Athelstan, Sir Maurice, will you join us to eat?’
‘Sir John, I thank you,’ Athelstan replied. ‘But today I must have words with Sir Maurice here. Perhaps it might be safer at St Erconwald’s than elsewhere. Sir John, I will ask for your assistance tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow is tomorrow. But, today is Sunday. My poppets await and I want to be home before they miss their daddy too much.’
He stomped off, gathering speed as Leif suddenly caught sight of his great fat friend. The beggar gave a screech of welcome and staggered towards him.
‘Poor Sir John,’ Athelstan said. ‘Come.’
They made their way down Cheapside and across London Bridge. Southwark was empty, sleeping under the hot summer sun. Athelstan found the church quiet, the front door locked, Godbless and Thaddeus dozing on the steps. Benedicta had seen to Philomel and left a pot of stewed meat and some fresh rolls. So Athelstan, Sir Maurice, Godbless and Thaddeus, not to mention Bonaventure, dined like kings that afternoon. Afterwards Godbless returned to the cemetery taking Thaddeus and the mercenary Bonaventure with him. Athelstan opened the great chest beneath the small window and took out the garb of a Dominican monk.
‘My brothers at Blackfriars always send me fresh robes at Easter and Christmas. Some are longer than others.’
Sir Maurice’s jaw dropped. He looked even more concerned when Athelstan dipped again into the chest and brought out a pair of long, sharp shears.
‘Brother?’
‘Yes, Brother,’ Athelstan replied. ‘You are no longer Sir Maurice Maltravers but Brother Norbert of the Dominican Order. You are going to let me crop your hair, form a small tonsure, teach you how to walk and talk like a Dominican, if that’s possible.’
The grin spread across the young knight’s face.
‘Tomorrow, we are going to visit that child of God, Lady Angelica Parr, at the convent of the nuns of Syon.’
Sir Maurice jumped to his feet like a boy who’s been promised a much-prized reward.
‘Is that possible, Brother?’
‘Provided you keep your wits about you and Lady Angelica doesn’t betray us, who will know?’
‘What happens if Sir Thomas has a guard there?’
‘Fighting men are not allowed in convents and the nuns of Syon are a law unto themselves, as you will find out.’
‘But, Brother, won’t you get into trouble?’
Athelstan closed the lid of the chest. ‘Sir Maurice, I am always in trouble. And, for the love of God, what is wrong with what we are doing? It’s all for love! That will be my defence!’ He gripped the shears more securely. ‘But, for everything under the sun, there’s a price. Brother Norbert, loosen your jerkin.’
An hour later Sir Maurice Maltravers quietly confessed that he had been transformed. His dark hair was cropped, a small tonsure at the back. He was now garbed in the black and white habit, a knotted cord round his middle. He practised walking up and down the kitchen, hands up his sleeves, eyes downcast. Bonaventure had returned and curiously watched this strange transformation. Athelstan laughed and clapped his hands.
‘And they will allow us in the door?’ Sir Maurice asked anxiously.
‘Oh, not us,’ Athelstan replied. ‘But there’s not a door in London Sir Jack Cranston can’t get through.’
‘And what will happen inside?’
‘Well, I don’t expect you to go down on one knee and make a confession of love,’ Athelstan said, stroking Bonaventure, who had jumped on to his lap. ‘But you can talk.’ He pulled a face. ‘About love in general, spiritual terms. However, you must observe the disguise and the secrecy I have given you. If you break that I will leave and give no further help.’
‘And what will come of this?’ Sir Maurice asked anxiously.
‘Sir Maurice, I am a Dominican and this is St Erconwald’s. I am not a miracle-worker, so we’ll take each day as it comes. Stay there!’
Athelstan went into his bed loft and brought down a gilt-edged tome bound in calfskin.
‘These are the writings of St Bonaventure.’ He handed the book over. ‘No, not the cat. A great Franciscan, a doctor of theology. His writings on love, particularly that which should exist between a man and his wife, make refreshing reading. There’s a favourite passage of mine where he says that the best friendship which exists must be that between husband and wife. You sit there and read it.’ Athelstan moved towards the door. ‘I am going to pray in church, for a little guidance and some protection. Afterwards, we’ll visit Godbless and make sure he is the only living person lying down in our cemetery!’
Athelstan left the house. He checked on Philomel who was standing up, leaning against the side of his stall fast asleep. The Dominican crossed to the church. Engrossed in his thoughts, he failed to see the shadow at the bottom of the alleyway watching him intently, a malignant, dark presence. Once the priest had gone inside, the watcher crouched down again to continue his close study of the church and the little house beside it.
CHAPTER 10
Dusk was falling, cloaking Whitefriars in darkness. At this time its main streets and offal-filled alleyways came to life. Cunning men and beggars swarmed like rats over a midden-heap looking for plunder, for the unwary, for the vulnerable, ready to turn on each other at the slightest hint of weakness. A place of mean houses, narrow lanes and even meaner hearts. Mercurius knew it all.
He had been here years ago skulking from the law and the way he walked, the swagger, dagger and knife pushed into his belt, were sufficient warning for those who lurked in doorways or peeped from behind broken shutters. He entered the Ragged Standard, a large, evil-smelling tavern only a stone’s throw from the Carmelite monastery from which the quarter took its name. The taproom was lit by thin, weak tapers which gave off an acrid stench.
Mercurius pulled his vizard closer around his face and ensured the cowl was full across his head. He sat by the window and looked out at the gathering dusk. The taverner had made a pathetic attempt at laying out a garden, a patch of sun-scorched weeds fenced off from the dusty, tawdry herb plots by sheepshank bones and the skulls of different animals. A slattern came over. Mercurius pulled out a silver piece.
‘Ale,’ he ordered. ‘Properly drawn and the blackjack had better be clean!’
He removed a small arbalest from the hook of his belt and placed it on the table. The slattern hurried off. Outside in the stable yard, two stallions jigged at the ostler and reared neighing, lashing out. Some of the customers went across to watch the fun. One rogue shouted that he was prepared to accept wagers that the ostler would be hurt. The taverner, a greasy barrel of a man, shoved them aside and walked out, a flaming brand in his hand, to separate the two stallions.
Mercurius eased himself in the corner. In the middle of the floor sprawled a member of a troupe of travelling actors, drunk as a sot. The man lay spread on his back, the devil’s mask still clasped to the top half of his face. A little boy crouched next to him wiping away the pool of spittle filling his slack mouth. Across the taproom other members fought for the takings. They hushed for a while as the flame man came down the street, ringing his bell and shouting at householders to be careful; fires were to be doused and candles made safe. Someone else bawled raucously that he had a fresh maid for sale.