Leif needed no second invitation and, despite his ungainly gait, rose and sped like a whippet into the house. Athelstan watched him go and thought about Cranston. Another murder? he wondered. Or was it something personal?
‘Who cares?’ he muttered to the cat. ‘It’s going to be a fine Sunday.’ Athelstan screwed up his eyes and looked at the sky. Perhaps it was time he acknowledged the real reason for his happiness — he hadn’t been called to attend the Inner Chapter of the Dominicans at Blackfriars. Nevertheless he felt a twinge of regret. After all, some old friends would be there. . but there again, so would William de Conches, the Master Inquisitor from Avignon. He would be in attendance on the debate about the new teaching of that brilliant young theologian, Brother Henry of Winchester.
‘At least I’m spared that,’ Athelstan murmured.
‘Who are you talking to, Father?’ asked Crim, popping his head round the church door.
Athelstan winked at him. ‘Bonaventure, Crim. Never forget, there’s more to this cat than meets the eye.’
Athelstan went up the nave, through the rood screen, genuflecting before the winking sanctuary lamp, and into the small sacristy. He washed his hands and face again, brushed some of the straw from Philomel’s stable from his robe and began to don gold-coloured vestments for the church was still celebrating the glory of Eastertide.
He jumped as the door at the back of the church opened with a crash. Surely not Cranston? he thought. But it was only Mugwort the bell-ringer, who went into the small alcove and began to toll the bell for mass. Crim sped in and out of the sacristy like a fly as he prepared the altar. Water for the lavabo, wine and the wafers for the Offertory and Consecration, the great missal, suitably marked for the day, a napkin for Athelstan to wipe his hands on. At a solemn nod from the priest, candles were placed on each side of the altar, their wicks cleansed and lit as a sign that mass was imminent.
Athelstan went to the sacristy door and stared down the church. This would be the last time he said mass in the old sanctuary. He had gained permission from the Bishop of London to remove both the altar and the sanctuary stone, and take down Huddle’s rood screen for a while so the old sanctuary could be broken up and the new flagstones laid. He watched Mugwort yank the end of the rope, the man’s twisted face alight with pleasure as he pulled on the bell like some demented spirit. Athelstan grinned to himself. Whether they came to mass or not, by the time Mugwort was finished, everyone for a mile around would know that it was Sunday and time for prayer.
His parishioners began to arrive. First Watkin the dung-collector, sexton of the church and leader of the parish counciclass="underline" a formidable, squat man, his face covered in warts, nostrils stuffed with hair, sharp-eyed and vociferous. A step behind him came his even more formidable wife; the way she walked always reminded Athelstan of a knight in full armour. Pernel the Fleming came next, her white face half-crazed, eyes staring as she chattered to herself about this or that. Ranulf the rat-catcher followed with two of his children. Athelstan had to hide a grin behind his hand for, like their father, the children were dressed in black with tarry hoods concealing their pale, pinched features; all three looked like the very rodents Ranulf was supposed to catch. He caught Athelstan’s eye and grinned knowingly, and the priest remembered his promise that, once the new sanctuary was built, St Erconwald’s would become the Chantry church of the newly formed Guild of Rat Catchers. Others came, led by Huddle the painter, with his dreamy expression and childish face. The self-made artist immediately went up to touch one of his most recent paintings — a brilliant rendition of Daniel in the lion’s den. Next came Tab the tinker, still suffering the effects of too much ale the night before, then Pike the ditcher, leading what looked like a small army of dwarfs. Somehow or other he had become responsible both for his own large brood and for Tab’s.
Athelstan watched Pike carefully. He knew the ditcher was friendly with the radical peasant leaders both inside and outside the city, known to be constantly plotting rebellion. What concerned Athelstan more was that Pike, together with blonde-haired, sweet-faced Cecily the courtesan, was plotting a violent assault on Watkin’s position as leader of the parish council. He sighed, for when that happened, a violent power struggle would ensue.
Benedicta the widow woman entered, dressed in a light blue kirtle with a white veil over her night black hair. Athelstan’s heart beat a little faster. He lowered his gaze for he loved the widow with an innocent passion which sometimes embarrassed them both.
Benedicta closed the door and waved to him, then moved away quickly as it was thrown open again and Ursula the pig woman, followed by her evil-looking sow, waddled in.
‘I’ll kill that bloody pig!’ Athelstan whispered. ‘I’ll kill it and eat pork for a year!’
Ursula, however, smiled sweetly at him, then crouched by a pillar, the sow squeezing between her and Watkin. Athelstan had to bite his lip for the pig bore a striking resemblance to the sexton.
Ursula was usually the last to arrive so he went round to the foot of the altar, made the sign of the cross and began the great mystery of the mass. His small congregation, who had been sitting whispering to each other, now gathered at the entrance to the rood screen, watching intently as their priest began to intercede for them before God.
CHAPTER 2
Once mass was over, Athelstan invited the members of the parish council across to the priest’s house. Mugwort and Crim were left to clear everything from the sanctuary — altar-cloths, candles, flowers and glasses — as the labourers Athelstan had hired were waiting in the entrance of the church, ready to begin their work. Once assembled, Athelstan served his council cups of wine, intoned the prayer to the Holy Ghost and began the meeting. Within minutes his worst fears were realised and he suspected there had been a great deal of plotting the night before.
Pike the ditcher, aided and abetted by a smirking Cecily and a red-faced Ursula, launched a vitriolic attack against Watkin, the bone of contention being whether children should be allowed to play in the cemetery or if they could afford the building of a new fence there. Naturally, Watkin’s wife intervened and the row became even more acrimonious. Athelstan just sat back and stared in disbelief at the intense passion of the debaters who argued like lawyers in King’s Bench, pleading over a matter of life and death. Huddle just grinned dreamily, Tab the tinker constantly changed sides, whilst Leif the beggar man, sitting on a stool in the inglenook, his mouth full of Athel-stan’s soup, occasionally intervened to shout abuse at Watkin’s wife whom he heartily detested. Benedicta bit her lip and grinned at Athelstan.
By noon, as his irritation grew, Athelstan sensed they were all becoming exhausted and quickly brought the discussion to an end; he served his guests bowls of the soup Leif was still drinking, slurping noisily from it as he leered at Cecily and shouted abuse at Watkin’s wife.
For a while silence reigned. Athelstan and Benedicta seized the opportunity to go out into the sunshine and inspect the small garden. The friar not only wanted to evade the heated atmosphere, he was also concerned at Benedicta’s silence. Usually she would intervene to pour oil on troubled waters, or else be taken by a fit of the giggles at the abuse which was exchanged. Benedicta always alleged that the real cause of the power struggle in the parish council was that Watkin’s wife hated Cecily, and Pike the ditcher hated Watkin, because they both jealously suspected that Watkin’s walks with the young courtesan through the cemetery were not always connected with parish business.
Once outside, Athelstan stood next to Benedicta, listening to the growing commotion from his house and the clanging and crashing from the church where the labourers were now raising the old flagstone.