‘Watch out for that bloody dog!’ Sir John shouted. ‘It will eat the goat!’
Sir John and Athelstan returned to St Erconwald’s. Athelstan walked into the graveyard where he looked across at the wall and the huge leafy sycamore rising above it. He was tempted to cross and investigate immediately but he was wary of arousing suspicion. One of his parishioners might wander in and they were always very curious about what their priest was doing. Strange, he reflected, he’d had deep suspicions that something unsavoury was happening in the cemetery and that Watkin and Pike were at the root of it. Thaddeus’ discovery of a newly fashioned arrow had simply brought these suspicions out into the open.
They returned to the house. Sir Maurice was sitting on a stool, still poring over the writings of Bonaventure. He glanced up hopefully but took one look at the grim face of his host and stared quizzically at Sir John who just winked and put a finger to his lips. Athelstan went across to his writing desk. He took a fresh quill, sharpened it, opened the ink pot and wrote a short message, which he then rolled up and sealed.
‘Sir Maurice, I don’t want to use you as a messenger but would you please take this across to our mother house at Blackfriars and then come back here with the reply?’
‘Of course, Brother, what’s it about?’
‘It’s about poisons. We have no leech or physician at Blackfriars but Brother Simeon, our archivist, is a most knowledgeable man and knows exactly what books and manuscripts the library holds. I have asked him to make a search. It may take some time but the Brothers are very hospitable. And Sir Maurice.’ Athelstan smiled. I am so grateful for your stout defence last night but your head is full of love and your wits are wandering. For the love of God, man! Don’t forget your war belt!’
‘Oh yes, of course.’ The knight fetched it and strapped it round his waist.
‘Take care, Sir Maurice!’ Sir John eased himself down on the vacated stool.
‘Oh, Sir Maurice!’
‘Yes, Brother?’
‘When you visit Blackfriars tell them nothing about the nuns at Syon or the visit of a certain Brother Norbert!’
Sir Maurice smiled. ‘Of course!’
He left, closing the door behind him.
‘That man,’ Sir John declared, taking a swig from the wineskin, ‘is so deeply in love, I don’t think he even knows what day of the week it is.’
‘It’s Tuesday, Sir John, and we have villainy to pursue, the truth to discover and God’s justice to carry out.’
‘You are in fine fettle, Brother. Was it the attack last night?’
‘No, not that. The business at Hawkmere will have to wait. It’s more St Erconwald’s, or some of its parishioners that concern me: a few strands are coming together and that arrow neatly ties them.’
After that the friar refused to be drawn. Instead he took his book of accounts and pretended to immerse himself in these. Sir John went off to get another pie, and probably also to renew his acquaintance with the Piebald Tavern.
Once the coroner had left, Athelstan checked on Philomel, his old war horse, and went into the church to prepare for the Mass for the Guild of Rat-Catchers the following morning.
By the time he came out, Sir John had returned, walking down the alleyway with his old friend, chief bailiff Henry Flaxwith, the ugly, squat Samson trotting behind them. Godbless, holding Thaddeus, trailed along looking rather tired. The attendant bailiffs were a brawny, stout group who carried mattocks and hoes, picks and shovels. Athelstan grasped Flaxwith’s hand.
‘I thank you for coming, Henry. I can’t give you refreshment yet. However, I’d like you to dig a ditch for me.’ He scanned the sky where fleecy white clouds floated. ‘It’s late afternoon,’ Athelstan said. And probably the best time. Once we are in the cemetery, I want one of your men to guard the lych gate. No one is to be allowed in until we finish. Now, Godbless, go into the house and refresh yourself. Keep Thaddeus away from Samson.’
The rest all marched into the cemetery, Flaxwith leaving one of his men to guard the lych gate. Athelstan led them across to the boundary wall.
‘This,’ Athelstan explained, ‘is a ditch dug by two of my parishioners, Watkin and Pike. At first I made no objection, as they said they only wished to check that the foundations of the walls were firm. They apparently dig it, fill it in later then continue the trench.’
Flaxwith scratched his balding head. ‘What’s wrong with that, Brother? It’s often done. It’s the only way to make sure the foundations of a wall are firm and secure, especially a place like this where the damp can seep in.’
‘That’s what they said. A small brook runs on the far side. Now and again it can flood and break its bank. However, I’ve become suspicious about their entire plan. Can you and your lads reopen the ditch? I’d like to see what you find.’
The bailiffs set to with gusto. The soil was soft, being freshly turned over and soaked by the previous night’s rain. Sir John and Athelstan walked back to the priest’s house where the coroner immediately became immersed in an animated conversation with Godbless about their warring days abroad and the depredations of the Free Companies in Southern France and Northern Italy.
Athelstan went up to his bed loft where he opened the divine office, crossed himself and began the psalms and readings for that day. Every so often he would stop and lift his head as if waiting for something. He wondered what would happen if nothing were found but then he heard the sound of running footsteps as Flaxwith burst into the house.
‘Brother Athelstan! Sir John! You’ve got to come and see this!’
They followed him out across the cemetery. The ditch was now opened. The two corpses, buried earlier that morning, were back up, lying on the side of the ditch. Athelstan caught Flaxwith by the sleeve.
‘I’m sorry,’ he apologised. ‘I should have told you about them.’
‘Oh Brother, that’s what cemeteries are for and we saw the cross. Anyway, Sir Jack and Godbless told us what had happened. However, this is what we’ve found.’
He led Athelstan and the coroner over to a pile of soil-stained canvas sacks. Two of them had been opened; one glance and Athelstan knew he was correct.
‘Arrows! Freshly cut and barbed! I suppose it’s the same with the rest?’
Flaxwith nodded.
‘Lucifer’s bollocks!’ Sir John exclaimed. ‘Henry, you’d better get the lot out!’
‘Hide them over there.’ Athelstan pointed to some gorse bushes in the far corner of the cemetery.
‘You suspected this, didn’t you?’ Sir John asked.
‘When Godbless brought me that arrow, yes. I’ve also been highly suspicious about those ghosts he saw.’
‘Let me see. Let me see.’ The coroner rubbed his hands. ‘If old Jack’s brain is as sharp as it should be.’ He led Athelstan well out of earshot of the rest. ‘Down the alleyway, Brother, and out of Southwark, we reach London Bridge. Once you are across that you are into the city.’
‘Go on,’ Athelstan said.
‘Now. If the Great Community of the Realm, that bunch of snivelling, secret traitors, plot their rebellions and the peasant armies move on London, the city can be defended to the north, east and west by the old wall but the southern side is different. Whoever controls London Bridge will, in fact, control the city. If the rebels pour across they can lay siege to the Tower and cut it off from the rest of London. They’ll also be able to swing west to control both banks of the Thames as well as capture Gaunt’s palace at the Savoy. Once done, they can pour into the city with no one to stop them.’
‘True, Sir John. We have been through this many a time.’
‘Now the peasant army will be armed with hoe, mattock, spade and axe. Every peasant carries a bow and so they’ll need a constant, fresh supply of arrows. By the time they reach Southwark their supplies could well be depleted as they clash with local sheriffs’ posses, landlords, barons, the great seigneurs of the countryside.’
‘Once the Regent and the Corporation know that the rebel army is marching, they’ll seize all arms supplies and either destroy them or hide them,’ Athelstan said.