She joined Cranston, Flaxwith and Benedicta at the door.
‘I’d best go, Brother.’
Benedicta, who was dabbing at her eyes, pointed across at the small writing desk under the window. ‘Oh, I’m sorry. Whilst you were across at the Tower, Brother Niall came. He left a letter for you.’
‘He probably wants a book back,’ Athelstan replied quickly before Cranston could demand what the letter might contain. He walked to the door.
Alison smiled again, Cranston bade goodnight and they left.
Once they were gone, Athelstan sat down on the stool, face in his hands, and said a short prayer for Alison Chapler. ‘I didn’t even get to know her real name,’ he murmured.
Bonaventure, as if he knew that Samson had gone, slipped through the window, tail erect, head stiff. He walked in and, as if disgusted at the fact that his master had dared to have a dog in the house, jumped on to the writing desk, curled up and went to sleep.
Athelstan walked across, picked up Brother Niall’s letter, undid the seals and began to read it.
Cranston and his party walked on to London Bridge, along the narrow thoroughfare between the shops and houses. The coroner walked in front, Benedicta, one arm linked through Alison’s came next, Flaxwith and Samson trailed behind. At the chapel of St Thomas, Alison stopped.
‘Sir John!’ she called out.
The coroner turned.
‘I’ll never be given the opportunity again,’ she said and pointed to the narrow passageway which ran along the side of the chapel. ‘I’d like to go there,’ she said. ‘I really would: say a short prayer where poor Edwin died.’ She held the coroner’s gaze. ‘Please,’ she whispered, gently pushing Benedicta’s arm away. She walked up and tugged at Cranston’s jerkin. ‘Please,’ she repeated. ‘You know what is going to happen to me, no mercy will be shown. Just a few moments. Please!’
Cranston glanced at Benedicta. She looked away. Flax-with crouched as if closely studying the leather collar round Samson’s neck. Even the dog turned its head away. Cranston looked up at the sky.
‘Go,’ he said. ‘Go and say your prayers, then I’ll come for you.’
Alison walked away, the patter of her sandals echoing along the passageway.
‘Sir John! Sir John!’
The coroner turned. Athelstan was running towards them, hood pulled back, one hand clutching his robe. He slipped and slithered in the mud. A window casement opened and someone shouted out.
‘The riddle!’ Athelstan gasped. ‘The very first one.’ He looked round. ‘Where’s Alison?’
‘I let her go to the bridge rails,’ Cranston replied. He pointed to the passageway, refusing to meet Athelstan’s eyes. ‘She said she wanted to pray where Edwin’s corpse was thrown over.’
Athelstan ran down the passageway, Cranston and the others following. There was no one there, nothing, only a piece of silk Alison had wrapped round her waist; this was tied to one of the rails of the bridge, flapping forlornly in the evening breeze. Athelstan looked over at the water frothing below. He closed his eyes and said the Requiem.
‘It’s better that way,’ Cranston said. ‘Better that way, Athelstan. She had suffered enough. I didn’t want to see her burnt at Smithfield or struggling at Tyburn. God knows what horrors would have happened to her in Newgate.’
‘God rest her!’ Benedicta whispered.
‘She said she’d do it,’ Athelstan declared. ‘That first riddle, about a king conquering his enemy but, in the end, victor and vanquished lying in the same place, like chess pieces, gathered up and placed in their box. They’ve all gone now: Alcest, Ollerton, Elflain, Napham, Peslep. Good Lord, Sir John, what tangled lives we lead.’ He turned. ‘And for what? A little more gold, a little more silver? A pair of pretty breasts? Or the best food and wine to fill the stomach? The lust of money is surely a great sin. Because of that those clerks are dead. Alison is dead. Drayton is dead. Stablegate and Flinstead condemned to wander the face of the earth like the sons of Cain they are.’ He rubbed his face. ‘Sir John, tell the Fisher of Men to search for her corpse. Tell him to treat her gently. Bring it back to St Erconwald’s. She can lie next to the man she loved and whom she so ruthlessly avenged.’
‘I’ll walk back with you,’ Cranston declared. ‘Darkness is falling.’
They went back to the Southwark side. Athelstan refused any offer of refreshment from Sir John.
‘Take Benedicta home,’ he said. ‘Make sure she’s safe. Oh, Sir John…?’ Athelstan went up and gripped his hand. ‘You are big in every way, Jack the lad,’ he murmured. ‘Big of body, big of mind, big of soul. God bless you, Sir John Cranston!’
The coroner looked at him strangely but Athelstan just shook his head. He squeezed the coroner’s podgy hand and strode off up an alleyway.
Once he was back in his house, Athelstan bolted and locked the doors. He filled his blackjack full of ale. He lit a candle and picked up Father Prior’s letter, rereading it carefully, then put it down. For a short while he cried. Bonaventure came and jumped into his lap. Athelstan stroked the great tomcat. He picked up the letter again. One paragraph caught his eye:
On your oath of obedience to me, you are to leave St Erconwald’s quietly and as quickly as possible. Take those few possessions you have and proceed immediately to our house in Oxford. There you will receive fresh instructions.
Athelstan put Bonaventure down on the floor. ‘Ah well!’ he sighed. ‘Now is as good a time as any.’
For the next hour Athelstan packed, pushing manuscripts and his other paltry possessions into battered leather saddlebags. He cleared the table and cleaned the scullery, leaving out any food for his parishioners to take. He then went out to the yard and surprised Philomel, leading him out and throwing the tattered saddle across him. He secured the saddlebags with a piece of twine and went back into the house. He checked that all was well, blew out the candles and walked to the door. Behind him Bonaventure miaowed. Athelstan stared down at him.
‘It’s up to you,’ he said quietly. ‘It’s entirely up to you. Father Prior has said that I have got to go.’
Crouching down, he scratched the tomcat on the back of the neck. ‘I can’t stand any upset. I don’t want to see old Jack cry or, worse, have Watkin try and bar me in the church. I’m going, not because I want to, but because I have to.’
The old cat looked up at him, studying him carefully with his one good eye.
‘I’m sorry I can’t write,’ Athelstan continued. ‘What on earth could I say? Maybe old Jack will come to Oxford, bring the Lady Maude and the poppets? Or Watkin? He and Pike could organise a pilgrimage to some shrine, call in and see me. Philomel’s coming and, if you want, so can you.’
The cat padded back into the darkness. Athelstan shrugged and closed the door. He went and gathered Philomel’s reins.
‘Come on, old friend,’ he murmured. ‘We’ll strike east, find a place to cross the Thames.’ He looked up at the sky. ‘Sleep out in the fields perhaps. Anyway, come on!’
Athelstan led Philomel down the alleyway. He turned and looked back at St Erconwald’s and then jumped as something soft brushed his ankle. Bonaventure stared up at him expectantly.
‘Oh, very well,’ the friar whispered. ‘You can come.’
And Brother Athelstan, friar in the Order of St Dominic, formerly secretarius to Sir John Cranston, coroner in the city of London, and parish priest of St Erconwald’s, walked out of Southwark accompanied by his old warhorse and the faithful cat Bonaventure.