Ranulf now stood up, cradling the two ferrets in his arms.

‘I have agreed to that,’ Athelstan continued. ‘Rat-catchers from all over Southwark will attend. I will offer a Mass of thanksgiving, bless the cages, traps and ferrets…’

‘And cats,’ Ranulf added, glancing enviously at the great, one-eyed Bonaventure sitting so patiently by Athelstan’s feet. The rat-catcher licked his lips. He would pay gold for Bonaventure, a great assassin of mice and vermin, a superb hunter. Ranulf secretly worshipped the ground Bonaventure trod on and, unbeknown to the priest, had tried to inveigle the cat away with dishes of cream and salted herring. Bonaventure had taken the temptation but promptly returned to his master.

‘You are all welcome to attend.’

Athelstan paused as the church door was thrown open and Sir John Cranston swaggered in, cloak over one arm, sword clanking against his leg. The coroner beamed round the parish council.

‘With a number of notable exceptions,’ he smiled at Benedicta, I have seen fairer faces in the stocks at Newgate.’

‘You keep a civil tongue in your head!’ Pike the ditcher’s wife sprang to her feet. ‘Just because you’re coroner…!’

‘Hush, woman, I’m only jesting. You are all my beloveds.’ He tucked his thumbs into his sword belt. ‘Brother Athelstan, a word?’

The parish council rose. If the truth be known they were slightly fearful of Sir John and his powers. A man, despite his girth and bluff ways, who had the eyes of an eagle and the hunting instincts of one of Ranulf’s ferrets. Athelstan nodded at Benedicta.

‘I suppose I’ll be going soon,’ he said. ‘Make sure that Philomel’s safe in the stables and leave some milk out for Bonaventura.’

The widow woman smiled and Athelstan’s heart skipped a beat. He was glad he had not left Southwark and that beautiful, dark-haired, soft-eyed woman was one reason. Athelstan had examined his conscience: he did not ‘lust after her in his mind’s eye’, as Scripture said, he just loved being near her, particularly when she teased him.

Once the church had emptied, Sir John closed the door. He pulled up one of the benches and sat opposite Athelstan. He flinched in distaste as Bonaventure, who seemed to adore the stout coroner, came to rub his body against his fat leg, arching his back in pleasure, tail high, eyes half-closed.

‘I don’t like cats.’

‘He likes you, Sir John.’ Athelstan got to his feet, put his hands in the small of his back and stretched. ‘But I don’t like parish councils.’ He sighed. ‘You’re here on official business?’

‘You can read my mind, Brother. His Grace the Duke of Lancaster, John of Gaunt, Regent of the kingdom, uncle to the King, requires our presence at the Savoy, immediately.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Ah well.’

Athelstan went to the door and then started back as a tousled Godbless trotted into the church, the little goat skipping behind him.

‘What on earth?’

Godbless crouched down, putting one arm over the goat, which turned and nuzzled his unshaven cheek. Sir John quickly described what had happened.

‘I can’t keep it!’ he wailed. ‘The Lady Maude has a horror of goats.’

Athelstan caught the pleading look in his eyes.

‘What’s its name?’

‘The four-legged goat’s Judas. The two-legged one’s Godbless.’

‘Why Godbless?’

‘Godbless is a pickpocket. He attends Mass just before the communion when the kiss of peace is exchanged. He grasps your hand, kisses you on your cheek and, as he whispers “God bless”, tries to lift your purse.’

Athelstan crouched down beside the beggar man.

‘Are you a thief, Godbless?’

‘Not a very good one, Brother.’

Athelstan gently touched the goat. ‘And this is Judas?’

‘I likes him.’ Godbless spoke up. ‘And he likes me. I have no place to live either, Brother.’

‘Friars are supposed to like animals,’ Sir John offered.

‘We are all supposed to like animals, Sir John, and this goat is a most handsome fellow. And so are you, Godbless.’ Athelstan got to his feet. ‘Godbless, I can’t offer you a place in my house, there’s barely enough room for one.’ He thought of the overgrown cemetery, his constant pleas to Watkin and Pike to clean it up. ‘But you can have the death house in the cemetery. When a corpse is put there for the night, you can sleep in my house. I’ll leave a note for Benedicta the widow woman. She’ll set up a bed and, perhaps, a stool. The place is clean, scrubbed and doesn’t smell.’

Godbless’s face creased in pleasure.

‘In return you can look after the goat. It can graze in the cemetery. You can also keep an eye on what happens there.’

Athelstan felt a glow of triumph. He was always suspicious about how his parishioners used God’s acre, be it Pike or Watkin in their drinking or the amours of Cecily the courtesan. He fished in his purse and brought out a coin.

‘Take the goat. You’ll find some rope in the death house. Let the animal graze but make sure that it’s on a long lead, fasten it to one of the hooks in the wall.’

Godbless nodded and stared down at the coin.

‘Then go down to the pie shop. It’s at the end of the alleyway. Ask Merrylegs for one of his freshest pies and tell him that you have joined our parish.’

Godbless sprang to his feet but Athelstan grasped him by the arm.

‘And we can’t keep calling him Judas, can we? There was another apostle, one who didn’t betray Christ; he had a name similar to Judas. Ah, that’s it, Thaddeus!’ Athelstan dipped his fingers into the holy water stoup and sprinkled both Godbless and the goat. ‘I rename thee Thaddeus, goat of this parish!’

A short while later, after they had taken Moleskin’s wherry along the Thames, Sir John and Athelstan disembarked at the quayside near the palace of the Savoy. They were greeted by retainers wearing the livery of John of Gaunt. They were let through the cordon and up the pebble-dashed path which led to the gates of the Savoy. More soldiers were on guard. Inside the vaulted gateway, which led into the gardens, knights and archers wearing the royal livery took Sir John’s war belt and led them through the spacious, exquisitely laid-out gardens and into the perfumed coolness of the palace.

Athelstan gazed round in wonderment. The walls, floors and ceilings were of white stone and he thought it was pure marble. On either side of the galleries hung exquisite tapestries from Hainault and Flanders, brilliant flashes of colour depicting scenes from the Bible and antiquity. Such opulence grew more apparent as they went deeper into the palace. The floors were of shiny wood, which smelt richly of polish, and almost covered in great thick woollen rugs of different colours. Statues stood in niches, small portraits of former kings and princes hung in thick, black, wood-edged frames on the walls. Soldiers were everywhere. They guarded staircases, the entrances to chambers and thronged about them as they waited to be taken up to the first gallery where the Regent had his own chambers.

Athelstan recalled Sir John’s monologue as Moleskin had rowed them along the Thames. How popular resentment against the Regent was growing, particularly in the shires and around the city: his tax-collectors, in particular, were being attacked, their demands refused. Even in the House of Commons, protests had been drawn up; the members demanded a reform of government and a thorough investigation into the war against France which had resulted in a recent truce due to the intervention of the papacy.

‘We live in hard times, Brother Athelstan.’ Sir John had shaken his head and looked out across the river at the ornate, high-pooped Venetian galleys, the war cogs of England and the great, fat-bellied merchant ships from Lubeck. Around these swarmed wherries, bum-boats, barges and fishing smacks.

‘All this could end,’ he had mournfully declared.

‘What do you mean?’ Athelstan had asked, just wishing Cranston would keep his voice down. Moleskin, although bent over the oars, always listened intently to the conversations of his customers. Cranston had taken a slurp from his wineskin.