‘We borrowed the robes and shaved our faces,’ Tyler murmured. ‘We could not leave our friends here. Thibault and Blanchard cannot be trusted.’
‘And we have always wanted to visit Master Blanchard.’ Jack Straw kicked the dead keeper’s body. ‘We had more than a few scores to settle with him.’
‘And now?’ Watkin asked. ‘Where do we hide?’
‘Oh, you are not hiding.’ Grindcobb laughed. ‘We have the safest place in Southwark for you.’
Athelstan and Cranston knew fresh drama was awaiting them as soon as they turned into the narrow twisting alleyway leading up to St Erconwald’s. The Piebald tavern stood eerily deserted. Merryleg’s pie shop, which, with his large brood of children to assist, usually stayed open until the early hours of the morning, was all shuttered. The Fraternity of Free Love, a group of colourful characters who used St Erconwald’s for their meetings, came hastily up behind them. They wouldn’t even stop to answer Athelstan’s questions but merely shouted that something was happening at the church.
‘God knows that’s true,’ Athelstan groaned. ‘The question is what mischief is brewing now?’ They reached the enclosure before the church to find virtually all the parish had turned out. Gathering in groups, they were shouting at Mauger the bell clerk standing on top of the church steps. Athelstan heard the names Pike and Watkin mentioned. Mauger was shaking his head, throwing his hands in the air and, when he glimpsed Athelstan, cried shrilly as a cockerel greeting the dawn. The bell clerk virtually skipped down the steps, dragging Benedicta with him. He pushed his way through the crowd, almost colliding with Athelstan.
‘Pike and Watkin!’ he gasped, pointing at the open church door. ‘Pike and Watkin!’ he repeated. ‘The Upright Men took them out of the Bocardo. Keeper Blanchard and three of his turnkeys lie slain. Pike and Watkin escaped; they fled here seeking sanctuary.’
Athelstan bit back his angry retort, brushed by Mauger and hastened up the steps into the church; the nave was freezing cold and black as pitch. The Hangman of Rochester had set up guard on the door through the rood screen. Athelstan pushed by him and strode up the sanctuary steps. The two miscreants crouched in the mercy enclave, warming themselves over a bowl of charcoal and sharing a pot of ale and a platter of diced meat, courtesy probably of the Hangman who dolefully followed Cranston into the sanctuary.
‘Ye angels of heaven!’ Athelstan exclaimed. ‘What in the name of all that is holy?’
‘Nothing to do with us, Father,’ Pike brazenly declared. ‘The Bocardo was attacked by the Upright Men disguised as Dominicans.’
‘Dominicans!’
‘Yes, Father, we thought they had been sent by you.’ Pike’s grin widened. ‘It just goes to show you, doesn’t it, that you cannot trust anyone. They slipped into the prison, executed Blanchard and his turnkeys for their many crimes against our community. The doors were left open and so we fled here for sanctuary.’
‘Don’t feed me your dish of lies!’ Athelstan snapped, but at the same time the friar felt deeply relieved. Thibault was in a dangerous mood, whilst Athelstan could not forget the real sense of evil from the now dead Blanchard. Pike and Watkin were free of him, close to their families and parish, a clever, subtle move …
‘Sir John?’ a voice called. Athelstan turned. Flaxwith, cloak dripping, stood at the entrance to the rood screen, his ugly mastiff Samson as close to his muddy boots as any dog could get.
‘Hell’s teeth!’ Cranston exclaimed. ‘The scripture is correct: no rest for the wicked!’
Athelstan had a few admonitory words for his two fugitives and followed Cranston and Flaxwith into the nave, telling the Hangman to go and help Mauger and Benedicta. Once he had gone, the chief bailiff gave a pithy summary on what had happened at the Bocardo, interspersed by Cranston’s quiet curses and Athelstan’s exclamations of surprise.
‘How do you know all this?’ Cranston asked.
‘From two young whores Blanchard had locked in the waiting cell. They won’t be having the pleasure of him. Anyway, they heard the conversation, Pike and Watkin’s exclamations and realized what had happened. Blanchard was tricked by Dominicans.’
‘Dominicans.’ Athelstan shook his head. ‘I wonder where they got the robes from – but, there again, I am sure the Upright Men have chests full of what they need.’ He laughed quietly to himself. ‘Prior Anslem will have a great deal to say in Chapter, whilst Brother Marcel must be feeling highly embarrassed.’
‘Very clever,’ Cranston declared as Flaxwith let Samson out through the corpse door so the mastiff could run in the cemetery. Athelstan just prayed that Bonaventure and the dog did not meet, for the one-eyed tomcat nursed a passionate hatred for Samson which the mastiff replied in good measure.
‘Very clever,’ the coroner repeated. ‘The Upright Men have taken Pike and Watkin out of the murderous clutches of both Blanchard and Thibault. Brother, I did not wish you to brood, but the Bocardo enjoyed the most sinister reputation. Blanchard was equally notorious for his senseless cruelty. In the meantime, no one will dare accost those rascals here, not in sanctuary at their parish church with its priest Athelstan a friend and colleague of the Lord High Coroner. No, no, they will be safe here, close to you, close to their family, and, if the worst happens, they can always swear to abjure the realm. The Upright Men would give then safe escort to the nearest port. Brother, I will drink to them.’ Sir John took a generous swig from the miraculous wineskin even as he quietly promised himself that he would have a hand in Blanchard’s replacement. He glanced quickly at the friar. Athelstan seemed perplexed; he had turned away, staring through the open door of the rood screen as if trying to memorize every detail of what he was studying.
‘Brother?’ Cranston asked. There was no reply, so Cranston wandered over to examine one of the Hangman of Rochester’s fresh paintings on the north wall. Sir John smiled. The scene described a story from the Acts of the Apostles about Peter being freed by an angel from Herod’s prison. In the background was a river with what was probably Peter’s barque, his fishing boat, though it looked more like a war cog on the Thames. Cranston narrowed his eyes. He knew what Athelstan had found and discovered on board The Five Wounds. Sir John had promised Athelstan he would not yet interfere, though the coroner had already instructed Flaxwith to approach Sir Robert and give him two warnings under pain of high treason. First, The Five Wounds must stay in its berth. Nothing must be unloaded from it. Secondly, Paston and his family were to reside at The Candle-Flame. If they left without his permission all three would be put to the horn as outlaws. Cranston now wondered what path Athelstan was following.
The friar was thinking the same himself as he stared across the sanctuary, his mind twisting and turning with snatches and glimpses of what he had seen and heard. Different voices echoed like the trailing verses of half-heard songs. Athelstan conceded to himself that he was now deep in the maze. He was certain of that. All he had collected, garnered and stored needed to be winnowed, sifted, crushed and milled to produce the truth. The reality of what happened was out there, that was logical. All he had to do was fit the pieces together, to reject what was false and to grasp what was real. The wine press was now ready, the grapes of God’s wrath full to bursting. The dreadful sin of murder had been committed. Now the press would be turned. It was just a matter of time before it produced the juice of justice. Athelstan glanced over his shoulder.