‘My lord coroner, I must hasten back.’

‘Aye.’ Sir John sighed and stretched out a hand. ‘I meant no offence, young man.’

Sir Maurice stared into the ice-blue eyes and recalled what the gossip said about this great coroner with his red face and bristling white moustache and beard. A man of integrity, a warrior, bluff and truthful, who didn’t even spare the Regent his strictures. He grasped the older man’s hand.

‘None taken, Sir John. My Lord of Gaunt will tell you the reason for his summons.’

Sir John snatched the rope from Simon’s hand and stood listening to the young knight go down the stairs.

‘A veritable hero, Simon,’ he repeated dreamily. ‘Perhaps England still produces the like, its crops of heroes, brave men. Have you ever heard that line?’

The scrivener shook his head.

‘I don’t know who wrote it,’ Sir John continued as if speaking to himself. ‘Anyway, it goes something like this.’ He threw his head back and put one leg forward, like a chanteur. ‘Ah yes. That’s it. “Since the beginning of time two things are constant: the greenness of the earth and the courage of man.”’ He wiped a tear from his eyes. ‘Beautiful poetry! Oh, Satan’s arse!’

Judas the goat had sidled up and was now nibbling at the wineskin. The coroner stared down at the goat which, as if he had taken a great liking to his new owner, stared innocently back.

‘Haven’t you read the Scriptures?’ Sir John bawled. ‘Judas went out and hanged himself. If you’re not careful, my lad, the same bloody thing will happen to you! That’s my wineskin.’ He held the precious object up. ‘You never, ever touch it!’

And, dragging the goat by the rope, Sir John left the chamber and went out into Cheapside.

If he had known what was going to happen, Sir John would never have done what he did that morning. The broad thoroughfare of Cheapside was thronged with people swirling like shoals of coloured fish among the many stalls. He was hardly out, pushing his way through the crowds, before people noticed.

‘There goes Sir Jack and his goat!’ someone shouted. A penny for the man who can tell the difference!’

Sir John gazed round, eyes popping.

‘Tadpole!’ he bawled at a scrawny beggar boy. ‘Did you shout that?’

‘Me, Sir John?’ The dirty face was as innocent as an angel’s, eyes rounded. ‘Sir John, would I say such a thing?’

Muttering under his breath, he continued on his way. The sun was strong and the stall-owners were doing a roaring trade: leather goods, silks and tapestries, pots and pans, vegetables and fruits from the outlying farms and villages. The air was rich with the smell of horse dung mingling with the sweeter smells from the cookshops and bakeries. Young gallants from the court paraded in their long, gaudy jackets, tight hose and high-heeled leather riding boots, and protuberant codpieces: round slim waists hung brocaded war belts with sword and dagger pushed in. Their hair was prinked and crimped. The coroner looked away in disgust. He was sure some of the men even wore make-up.

‘Pretty bum-boys!’ he mumbled. ‘No wonder the French have it all their own way.’

Everyone seemed to have thronged into Cheapside. Merchants in their costly robes, their wives in samite dresses, their ornate head-gear created out of wisps of veils which threatened to catch signs hanging over the shops behind the stalls. Apprentices scurried, seeking custom. A farmer was trying to get two bullocks up through the crowds to the slaughterers at Newgate. Outside the Peascod Tavern, men were wagering on a fight between a badger and a dog. In the open space before St Mary-Le-Bow, a blind bear danced while beggar children played a reedy tune on pipes. Felons from the Marshalsea and Fleet prisons, manacled together, clattered and clashed their chains as they were marched up to the courts, the tipstaffs keeping order with their white willow wands. Windows and doors were flung open, people were shouting and talking to passersby. A dung cart had turned over, spilling its messy contents out. Some of the ordure had landed on a fruit stall and bailiffs were desperately striving to prevent a fight breaking out between its owner and the dung-collector. Everyone fell silent as a funeral procession passed. The corpse was laid out on a stretcher covered by a sheet, carried by four friars who mumbled the prayers of the dead; an altar boy ran in front of them, holding a candle and ringing a bell.

Sir John kept his head down as he pulled at Judas who really needed no second bidding but trotted along as obediently as any trained dog. A group of whores came out of an alley, heads bald as pigeons’ eggs, coloured wigs clutched in their hands. They espied Sir John and followed him, making up a lewd song about the coroner and his goat. Only when he turned round, his face like thunder, did the whores stop. One of them turned and lifted her ragged, dusty dress and they all fled laughing and joking among themselves. A few beggar boys then took up the game. Sir John sighed; by evening Lady Maude would know what he had done and he would have to explain.

‘Oh Sir John, Sir John!’

He groaned and stopped. Leif the red-haired, one-legged beggar came hopping towards him as nimble as a cricket. Sir John had never met a more vexatious fellow but one look at poor Leif’s scared face and the coroner’s heart softened. Leif could wheedle a penny out of a miser.

‘Sir John, have you heard me?’

The coroner used the opportunity to flail out at the urchins who scampered away.

‘Why, Sir John, what a beautiful goat. Are you taking it home?’

Sir John gazed bleakly back.

‘You’ve heard me, Sir John,’ Leif gabbled, deciding it best to ignore Sir John’s strange companion.

‘In sweet heaven’s name, Leif, what are you chattering about?’

‘I’ve decided to become a singer, Sir John. A chanteur.’

And, without being invited, Leif threw his head back, one hand on his chest. ‘My love,’ he warbled, ‘is like a flower, fresh and sweet.’

‘Thank you, Leif,’ Sir John bawled.

‘I sang last night, Sir John, outside your chamber.’

I thought it was cats fighting.’

Leif stared mournfully back. Sir John heaved a sigh and delved into his purse. He thrust a coin into the beggar man’s hand.

‘Look, Leif, there’s a penny.’

‘Oh, thank you, Sir John, is that for my singing?’

‘No, Leif, it isn’t. You are not to sing beneath my chamber. You will frighten the poppets. Secondly, you are not to follow me into the Holy Lamb of God. And, thirdly, you are not to tell Lady Maude I’ve been there.’

‘Very good, Sir John.’ Leif hopped away, warbling his head off.

‘Come on, Judas!’ Sir John urged. ‘There’s no problem in life which can’t be resolved by a meat pie and a tankard of ale.’

And, like an arrow finding its mark, Sir John pushed his way across Cheapside into the tangy, warm welcome of the tavern.

The taverner’s wife fussed over him. She brought a frothing tankard of ale and a meat pie. Sir John made the mistake of sitting back in his favourite seat near the garden window; when he glanced down, Judas was munching the greens round the pie and licking the pastry.

‘Oh!’ he groaned and called for a second dish. ‘I just hope Brother Athelstan takes you.’

The taverner’s wife, laughing and joking, brought across a second tray. Sir John held it on his lap and ate quickly, glaring suspiciously at Judas.

I wonder what Athelstan will think about you?’ he muttered.

But, there again, the coroner reflected, there were many questions he would like to ask his secretarius. He had been horrified by the stories, which had not been proved or denied, that Athelstan had been ordered out of London to Oxford. He had only been stopped at the last minute by the direct intervention of Prior Anselm. Cranston had made his own enquiries but could discover nothing. When he had summoned up the courage to question the little Dominican, Athelstan had just shaken his head and smiled.