Athelstan smiled. ‘Did you like him, Cecily?’
‘Oh, yes, Father. He promised he’d be back within two months.’
Athelstan nodded and urged Philomel forward. Aye, he thought, poor Cecily. Cranston would say: ‘Alberto would be back when Ursula’s sow takes flight.’ He patted Philomel’s neck.
‘We are the poor, Philomel,’ he whispered, ‘remember that. And if wishes were horses, beggars would ride.’
‘Are you talking to yourself, Father?’
Athelstan looked up. He’d passed the priory of St Mary Overy and was on the broad street leading down to the bridge. People were shoving and pushing around him and he couldn’t see the person who had spoken.
‘Father, it’s me.’
Athelstan stared down to where Burdon, the keeper of the gatehouse, stood almost hidden beneath Philomel’s muzzle.
‘No, Master Burdon, just praying,’ he lied.
The manikin slipped towards him. ‘Where’s Sir John? Oh, don’t tell me, deep in his cups in some city tavern. What about my heads?’
‘What about them?’ Athelstan asked. ‘Have more gone?’
‘No.’ The little man squared his shoulders. ‘But them that’s gone should come back.’
‘Well, I’ll see Sir John about that.’
‘Good! And tell him to stop by soon. My wife is expecting another child.’
Athelstan waved and urged Philomel on. He didn’t want Burdon to see the surprised grin on his face for surely it was one of God’s great mysteries how such a little man could be the proud father of enough children to fill a choir stall?
London Bridge was packed with carts and dray horses and Athelstan had to wait patiently, remembering not to look between the gaps at the seething river below. At last he was across, riding up Bridge Street, Lombard Street and then into bustling Cheapsidc.
Sir John, full of the joys of spring, had received Crim’s message and was seated in The Holy Lamb of God busily munching on a dish of eels and newly baked bread. He looked fresh and rested, and almost crushed Athelstan in his embrace.
‘I have said it once,’ the Coroner boomed, ‘and I’ll say it again! For a monk, you are not too bad!’ He held Athelstan at arm’s length. ‘Have some claret.’
‘No, Sir John.’
‘You’ve discovered the murderer?’ Cranston whispered.
‘You have sent the message to the Guildhall?’
Cranston nodded.
‘Then, Sir John, sit down and I’ll tell you what I think.’
Cranston sipped his drink whilst Athelstan developed his explanation. The Coroner asked a few questions then sat cradling his tankard, staring out into Cheapside.
‘Are you sure, Brother?’
‘Not fully, but it’s the only logical conclusion.’
‘How do we know the person you name might not be Ira Dei?’
‘I doubt that, Sir John, but it’s possible.’
‘But could someone use a dagger like that? No, no.’ Cranston waved a hand. ‘On second thoughts, it could be done. Let me take you to Simon the armourer. Our comrades of the Guildhall are not to meet us until noon, yes?’
Athelstan nodded. Cranston heaved his great bulk up and swaggered out into Cheapside and up Friday Street. The houses crowded together here; shop signs jutting out on poles swung dangerously above people’s heads. Cranston stopped under a gaudily painted picture of a steel basinet and a pair of gauntlets.
‘Let’s have a word with old Simon.’
Despite its narrow frontage, inside the shop was large and cavernous. In the back yard beyond was a small smithy, where sweating apprentices brought pieces of metal from the roaring fires and placed them on anvils to hammer with all their might. A small rubicund man appeared as if from nowhere. He reminded Athelstan of a goblin with his bright, darting eyes, thin hair and long, pointed ears.
‘Sir John!’ The little man’s eyes gleamed at the prospect of profit as he surveyed the portly bulk of the Coroner. ‘You have come to buy armour?’
The little man wetted his lips as he calculated the fee for protecting such a wide girth in chain mail and plate armour. For a while Cranston teased him but then clapped the little fellow on the shoulder, almost driving him into the ground.
‘Nonsense, Simon, and you know it. My fighting days are over. This is Athelstan, my clerk.’ He waved one podgy hand airily. ‘And he has a theory. Explain!’
Athelstan did so. Simon heard him out, pulled a face and shrugged.
‘Of course.’
He went into the back of the shop, opened a huge chest and became involved in a heated discussion with Cranston over daggers, dirks, Italian stilettos, long bows, crossbows and arbalests. An apprentice was called in to demonstrate the proof of Simon’s argument. An hour later Cranston, Athelstan and the little armourer, a leather sack over his shoulder, walked back into Cheapside, heading directly for the Guildhall. Athelstan stopped at a baker’s to buy some marzipan and doucettes wrapped in a linen bag. They had also to pause as beadles led a line of malefactors and felons from the Newgate and Fleet prisons to be punished.
There was the usual despondent procession of footpads, felons, night-walkers, but then came a cart preceded by two musicians playing bagpipes — a jaunty skittish tune. Then a horse and cart, the latter filled with all forms of grisly objects which made the air stink like a sewer and provoked cries of outrage and clamour from the crowd. At the tail of the cart were the two relic-sellers Cranston had arrested the previous day. The men’s faces were bloody, their tousled hair covered in all sorts of filth as the crowd pelted them with offal and refuse.
Cranston grinned. Athelstan felt a twinge of compassion, for both men had their hose pulled around their ankles whilst their bare buttocks were sore and bleeding as two beadles lashed them with thick leather belts. Behind the malefactors another official walked with a gaudily painted proclamation describing ‘The horrible crimes of these two counterfeit men’.
‘What will happen to them?’ Athelstan Asked.
‘Not what they deserve,’ Cranston growled ‘The carts full of their so-called relics will be taken down to London Bridge to be burnt by the public hangman. After that our two beauties will be whipped to Aldgate, cut loose and banned from the city, under pain of forfeiture of a limb for the first offence, their lives for the second.’ Cranston gazed over the crowd, now yelling abuse as the carts disappeared up the Mercery. ‘It’s a lesson for the others which by tomorrow they will undoubtedly have forgotten.’
They continued across Cheapside, the little armourer drawing Cranston back into an acrimonious debate over the superiority of certain weapons At the Guildhall they had to cool their heels for a while before a tipstaff took them up to the council chamber where Gaunt, flanked by Clifford and Hussey, sat with the Guildmasters. The Regent dispensed with ceremony. Not even inviting them to sit, whilst he looked disdainfully at the little armourer. Simon was so overcome in the presence of such august personages he couldn’t stop bobbing and bowing, until Cranston hissed at him to stay still and stand by the door.
‘You have something to report, My Lord Coroner?’
‘Yes, Your Grace.’
Gaunt played with the leather tassels on his expensively quilted jacket. Athelstan could see that the Regent had been looking forward to a morning’s hunting in the fields and marshes north of Clerkenwell, Hussey was his usual diplomatic self, pleasant-faced but quiet. Clifford rubbed his wounded shoulder thoughtfully, whilst the Guildmasters were like a pack of hunting dogs: Goodman the Mayor tapping his fingers loudly on the table. Sudbury and the rest were arrogant and resentful at being summoned from a morning’s trade.
‘Well?’ Goodman snapped. ‘We are busy men, Sir John!’
‘As am I, My Lord Mayor.’
‘You have come earlier than we thought,’ Sudbury snarled. ‘Do you have our gold?’
Cranston shook his head.
‘Have you arrested Ira Dei?’
‘No.’
Gaunt leaned forward and smiled falsely.
‘So why in God’s name are we here, Sir John?’