‘It’s a possibility,’ he confirmed. ‘But I think, Sir John, I’ll be in St Erconwald’s for some time. Prior Anselm says there’s no further need for me to be your secretarius. But I have begged him that I can continue and he has agreed.’

Sir John had to be comforted by that. Athelstan had first been sent to St Erconwald’s and appointed his secretarius as a penance. Years earlier, Athelstan had fled his novitiate and, his mind full of glory, had joined his feckless younger brother in the armies in France. Stephen had been killed and Athelstan had returned, a changed and chastened man. Sir John, who had little time for prattling priests or mouldy monks, as he termed them, regarded Athelstan as a very special friend. If the Dominican ever left, some of the joy and warmth of his own life would be diminished.

The coroner licked his fingers, drained his tankard then put the dish on the floor so Judas could finish what was left of the vegetables. He slammed a coin on the table and walked back into Cheapside. The urchins were waiting. He groaned, gritted his teeth and walked along until he reached the corner of Poultry near the Tun on the corner of Lombard Street. This great open space was used by the beadles and bailiffs of the city to punish malefactors. A whore had been bent over a barrel; her grimy, fat buttocks were being lashed by a switch of canes. A counterfeit man was being branded on his left thumb. Another was getting his ears clipped. Sir John glanced away. He hated such sights. The stocks and pillories were also full. He recognised a cheeky, dirty face under a shock of white hair straining between the wooden slats placed round his neck.

‘Why, if it isn’t old Godbless!’

The man pulled up his head as far as he could, wincing with pain.

‘God bless you, Sir John, it’s kind of you to notice. You have a fine billy goat there. Cleaner and more obedient than a dog, Sir John.’ He stretched his neck. ‘Lord save us, I’m here to dusk and my neck’s already aching.’

‘What did you do?’ Sir John asked, an idea forming in his mind.

‘The watch found me with a piglet under my cloak. They claimed I was stealing it. I said I had found it wandering and was looking for its mother.’

Sir John laughed and called over one of the bailiffs.

‘Free this man!’ he ordered.

The bailiff wiped his dirty, sweaty face on a rag.

‘But, Sir John, the law says…’

I am the law. Now, sir, either you free him or I’ll free him and make you take his place!’

Godbless was soon released. A small, sinewy man dressed in a motley collection of rags, he danced in glee at his liberation. The other malefactors in the stocks now began to shout.

‘Sir John, over here!’

‘Innocent as a lamb, I am, Sir Jack!’

‘I didn’t mean to hit the beadle!’ another cried.

‘I only drank four quarts of ale!’ someone else bawled.

Sir John ignored them and seized the dancing Godbless. ‘You’ve worked with animals, haven’t you, Godbless?’ The man stopped his dancing and nodded.

‘Well, you’ve been freed to help the Crown.’ Sir John passed the rope over. ‘This is Judas and he’s well named. I’m taking him to St Erconwald’s. You will follow behind at least a good three yards.’

He passed across a coin. Godbless took it in the twinkling of an eye. The coroner leaned down and, grasping the beggar by the jerkin, picked him up till his face was level with his.

‘Don’t even think of it, Godbless!’

‘What, Sir John?’ Godbless’s bright eyes gleamed.

‘Running!’ Sir John declared. ‘Taking my goat and running.’ He shook Godbless. ‘Understood?’

‘Every word, Sir John. I’ll be your shadow.’

‘Not too close,’ Sir John warned.

He put the beggar man down and, with Godbless trailing behind him leading the little goat at a trot, Sir John Cranston, coroner of the city of London, swept down to London Bridge.

Brother Athelstan leaned back in the sanctuary chair and gazed round at the members of his parish council. He drew a deep breath and glanced warningly at Watkin the dung-collector, leader of this council: one of the prime movers in everything which happened in St Erconwald’s parish.

‘Would you mind repeating that, Watkin?’

The dung-collector got up from his bench and walked into the middle of the circle of benches just inside the porch of the parish church.

‘The cemetery is God’s acre, yes, Brother?’

Athelstan nodded.

‘And, according to Canon Law…’ Watkin smiled round at the rest, eager to show his knowledge off.

Athelstan closed his eyes. He regretted, for the umpteenth time, ever telling his parishioners about Canon Law and their rights.

‘According to Canon Law,’ Watkin continued triumphantly, ‘and the sayings of St Judas…’

‘Peter,’ Athelstan interrupted. ‘Judas was the traitor. Peter was the chief of the apostles.’

‘Same thing.’ Hig the pigman, who prided himself on some knowledge of the gospels, spoke up.

‘I beg your pardon! Have you been reading the same text as I?’

‘Judas betrayed Jesus,’ Hig the pigman insisted. ‘And so did Peter.’

‘Yes, but Peter asked for forgiveness. Judas didn’t.’

Hig scratched his red, greasy hair. With his flaring nostrils and jutting lower lip, Hig looked like the beasts he cared for. Athelstan nipped his thigh; he should remember charity but he was becoming rather tired. He surveyed the people present. Pernell the Fleming woman was carefully examining the tendrils of her dyed orange hair. Cecily the courtesan kept leaning down to fasten a thong on her sandal. Every time she did so, her well-endowed bodice strained and all the menfolk immediately looked towards her. Ranulf the rat-catcher, however, was becoming impatient and he seemed more interested in his two pet ferrets which nestled on his lap, Audax and Ferrox, the scourge of all rats south of the river. Crim the altar boy was sticking his tongue out at Pike the ditcher’s wife, a veritable virago of a woman; Athelstan wondered how long she would curb her temper. Huddle the painter was staring dreamily at the bare wall, lost in a reverie, desperate to do his painting of the Last Judgement. The rest, including Mugwort the bell-ringer and Amisias the fuller were staring owl-eyed at Watkin who was waiting for the sign to continue.

‘Go on, Watkin,’ Athelstan said wearily.

‘It’s quite simple,’ Watkin said. ‘God’s acre, the cemetery, belongs to the parish. According to Canon Law and the sayings of Judas

…’

Athelstan just glanced at Benedicta, laughing behind her hand as she raised her eyes heavenwards.

‘All we intend to do, Father, is make sure the far wall of the cemetery is secure. We’ll cause no hurt to anyone. The sun sets late. Pike and I can dig the ditch and the next morning fill it in.’

‘Why leave it overnight?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Oh, that’s just to ensure that, ah…’ Watkin looked at Pike for help.

‘We do not want to do too much work, Brother. We’ll also be able to judge if any water’s trickling in from the brook on the other side. It’s best to inspect such foundations in the full light of day.’

Athelstan was surprised but could see no real problem. He clapped his hands.

‘Very good. Agreed.’

He paused as Bladdersniff the beadle burst through the door, his red, chapped face bloated with drink, his eyes bleary.

‘That bloody sow’s loose in your garden!’

Ursula the pig woman gave a screech and sprang to her feet. Despite her years, she fair ran out of the door.

‘One of these days,’ Pike muttered, I’m going to kill that sow. Cut it into collops!’

‘You can’t do that!’ Manyer the hangman declared. ‘That’s theft. You could hang, Pike!’

‘He’ll hang anyway.’ Watkin’s wife spoke up.

‘The next matter we must discuss,’ Athelstan intervened quickly, ‘is that the Guild of Rat-Catchers have asked to hold their Guild service here next week.’