It had been long after midnight before Athelstan had quietened things down and snatched a few hours’ sleep.
‘Ah well,’ he said, crossed himself and went into the sanctuary.
The Mass was a great success. The rat-catchers with their ferrets, cats, small dogs, cages, traps, mallets and spikes, nets and leather sacks were all piled together in the sanctuary. The ceremony was one of the liveliest Athelstan had ever conducted. One dog howled throughout the entire ceremony as if singing its own divine chant. Bonaventure slunk in and, if Crim hadn’t intervened, the most horrendous fight would have broken out as this prince of the alleyways’ one good eye alighted upon a rival. Two ferrets escaped and were pursued by a dog into the cemetery. One was caught but Ranulf came back, just as Athelstan finished the consecration, shaking his head and announcing in a loud whisper that ‘the little bastard had gone for good’.
At the end of the Mass Athelstan preached a homily on all God’s creatures being a delight in His sight. Ranulf stuck his hand up.
‘Does that include rats, Brother?’
‘Rats have their purposes, Ranulf,’ Athelstan replied. ‘But God knows why.’
‘They clear away rubbish,’ Ricauld, a rat-catcher from the priory of St Mary’s, announced.
‘You’ve got the makings of a theologian,’ Athelstan told him. ‘But, truly, you all do a great service for the community. I appeal to you to do it honestly and as kindly as possible.’ His eyes caught Ranulf’s. ‘And not charge too much.’
After the homily Athelstan had blessed the different animals. On reflection this was very dangerous. Some of the ferrets lunged for his fingers. Bonaventure’s rival curled its lip in protest. If it had not been for a well-aimed kick from Crim’s boot, one of the dogs would have cocked its leg against Athelstan. The friar moved among the different pets, sprinkling them with water and afterwards blessing them with incense. The dog, which had been thankfully quiet during his sermon, now decided to renew his chant. Athelstan just thanked God Sir John wasn’t there.
At the end of the Mass all the rat-catchers, together with the parishioners, thronged into the porch of the church and the open area in front. Stalls and booths had been set up to sell ales and cakes. Benedicta had cooked pies. Watkin’s wife had brought fruit. Everyone announced it was a success and Huddle, ecstatic that the Rat-Catchers’ Guild had hired him, loudly announced that soon he would be putting a fresco on the wall to honour the new confraternity.
Boso, a one-eyed cleric with a slit nose and one ear missing, who Athelstan secretly thought was a defrocked priest, set up a small table and unrolled the Articles of the Rat-Catchers’ Guild. Each member signed their name or made their mark. A cat, a rat, a trap or a cage. Ranulf solemnly took out from his pouch the new seal of the Guild and Boso poured hot wax on the parchment. Ranulf sealed this and Athelstan did the same with the parish insignia. Fresh copies were produced and the same process repeated. Athelstan, feeling rather bemused by the whole affair, quickly conceded that a copy should be placed in a case and stored in the parish archives in one of the tower chambers of the church. He tried to catch Benedicta’s eye but she just smiled, busy in making sure the revelry went smoothly. Watkin, Pike, Hig the pigman, Mugwort the bell clerk and others stood in a corner, heads together, whispering darkly among themselves. Athelstan was about to join them when he heard his name called. Sir Maurice, who had excused himself from the Mass, was standing in the doorway of the church holding a piece of parchment in his hand.
‘Athelstan, it’s urgent! It’s from Blackfriars!’
The friar hurried across to take the parchment and walked into the house. It was cool and quiet after the frenetic activity of the church. He examined the seal, broke it and quickly read what Simeon the archivist had written. Athelstan smiled to himself.
‘At last!’ he said.
‘Good news, Brother?’
‘Good news, Sir Maurice.’
‘Are we going to visit the nuns of Syon?’ the knight asked hopefully.
‘I think not.’ Athelstan leaned over and grasped the young knight’s wrist. ‘Why should we go there, Sir Maurice?’
‘Why, to see the Lady Angelica.’
‘I do worry about you, Brother Norbert,’ Athelstan teased. ‘Sometimes I think that all you can think of is Angelica!’
‘I love her. I go to sleep thinking about her. I dream of her. I see her face in crowds. Haven’t you ever loved, Brother?’ The knight bit his lip. I am sorry.’
Athelstan sat down on a stool. The knight stared at him.
‘I–I didn’t mean to embarrass you, Brother.’
Athelstan closed his eyes and thought of Benedicta.
‘Is it hard?’ Sir Maurice asked, intrigued by this olive-skinned little friar who seemed so sharp and kept his emotions under such firm control.
‘Is it hard? When you are a priest, Sir Maurice, it’s not the love act you miss, though the demands of nature do make themselves felt.’ Athelstan laughed quickly. ‘But that passes. It’s the terrible loneliness, the feeling that you are watching the world go by and cannot become part of it. Sometimes, just sometimes, you meet someone! Thank God, not often, but you can see it in her eyes or face, the way she looks at you. Your heart beats quicker; your blood drums a little faster in the brain; your mouth becomes dry.’
‘And what do you do?’
‘You get on your knees, Sir Maurice, and you pray that you never ever fall in love. That you are never put to the test because, if you are, there’s every chance that you’ll be found wanting.’
‘And do you envy men like me, Brother?’
Athelstan smiled up at the knight.
‘You are a good man, Sir Maurice, you would have made a good priest, an excellent Dominican.’ The smile widened. ‘Particularly when it came to counselling young nuns.’
Sir Maurice laughed and fastened on his war belt.
‘Believe me,’ Athelstan continued. ‘You will marry the Lady Angelica but keep praying! Pray,’ Athelstan repeated, ‘that your love never dies, never wavers but grows stronger by the day.’
‘Oh it will’
‘Yes, I am sure it will. Now, go and find Sir Jack and tell him to wait for me at Parr’s house but Sir Maurice, do not now or in the future tell Sir Thomas, or indeed anyone, what you learned last night.’ Athelstan went to the door. ‘I’m going to talk to Godbless about his adventures in Venice and a man who should have died but didn’t.’
Maltravers left as fast as a greyhound. Athelstan went across to the death house, chattered to Godbless then returned to collect his writing-bag and slipped out of the house down to the riverside.
He found Moleskin with other boatmen on the quayside watching the executioners despatch a river pirate from the gibbet which stood like a great black finger poked up against the sky. The felon had been pushed up the ladder. A huge, burly oaf, he kept threatening the hangman and spitting out at the waiting crowd. Athelstan sketched a blessing in his direction. The pirate saw this and made an obscene gesture with his middle finger.
‘Come away, Moleskin!’ Athelstan called.
The boatman swaggered across, his cheery, leathery face dour, his eyes hard.
‘You shouldn’t watch such sights,’ Athelstan said. ‘It’s terrible to see a man such as he about to fall into the hands of the living God.’
Moleskin looked over his shoulder at the gibbet.
‘I couldn’t think of a better place, Brother. That bastard is responsible for the deaths of three boatmen to the north of London Bridge. You know the marshes? Well, he kept a wherry there. He poled out, took their money and slit their throats.’
Athelstan followed his gaze. The rope was now round the felon’s neck. There was a shout from the crowd. The executioners slithered down. The ladder was pulled away and the felon began his dance of death.