‘What is it, Roland?’

The little boy whispered something and Athelstan had to crouch to listen as Ranulf the rat-catcher’s son explained that his father wanted an urgent meeting with Athelstan.

‘Yes, yes,’ he replied, straightening up. ‘Tell your father, I’ll see him tomorrow.’

He chewed his lip to hide his smile for the little boy was the image of his father, with the same cast of features as the very rodents he hunted. The boy scampered off to join the rest and Athelstan walked back up the nave where the two young lovers sat in front of the rood screen.

‘Father.’ Thomas got to his feet. ‘You must see our parents soon.’

‘Why?’ Athelstan looked nervously at the girl. ‘Has anything happened?’

She smiled and shook her head.

‘Father,’ she pleaded, ‘we have come and told you our secret. You have checked the blood book, there are no ties between us except Thomas’s great-great-uncle was married to a relation of my grandmother.’ The girl ticked the points off on her fingers. ‘We have agreed to receive instruction. Thomas has a fine job with the port reeve at Dowgate and I am very good at embroidery. Father, it was I who made the altar cloths. So why can’t the banns be published?’

Athelstan held up his hand. ‘All right. I will see your parents this Sunday after morning Mass. Perhaps they can all come for a glass of wine at my house to celebrate the good news?’ He kept the fixed smile on his face as the two love-birds jumped for joy and almost ran down the nave, hand in hand.

‘Oh, Lord!’ he breathed. ‘There are only five days left till Sunday and the outbreak of civil war!’

‘In which case I had better be there!’

Athelstan smiled. ‘Benedicta,’ he replied without turning round. ‘How long have you been here?’

‘Long enough to hear you talking to yourself, Father.’

Athelstan turned and walked down the church to where the widow woman stood, one hand on a pillar. She looked as elegant and beautiful as ever. Her smooth, olive-skinned face framed in a cream-coloured wimple, and those eyes which could be mocking, smiling, tearful, generous, sad and soulful, and those lips… Athelstan slipped his hands up the sleeves of his gown and pinched himself as he remembered the words of scripture: ‘Even if you desire a woman in your mind’s eye…’ He unclasped his hands.

‘Benedicta, what brings you here?’

She grinned impishly. ‘How’s the baking going for the autumn festival?’

‘That,’ Athelstan declared heatedly, ‘is the least of my worries.’

He described his previous day’s visit to the Guildhall, breaking off only when Benedicta began to laugh at his description of Cranston and the two wolf hounds. However, as he described the killings, her face grew sombre.

‘You should be careful, Father,’ she murmured. ‘The gossip is spreading through Southwark like fire in dry stubble. There’s talk of a great revolt, of assaults on tax collectors, and Pike the ditcher is up to mischief again.’

‘Does the name Ira Dei mean anything to you, Benedicta?’

I have heard it bandied about, that and the Great Community of the Realm. Pike the ditcher knows everything.’ She smiled wryly. ‘Or at least he says he does. Pike is more full of ale than malice.’

‘I expected Cranston,’ Athelstan said, wistfully staring at the door. ‘You see, one of his old comrades has been murdered, and the city fathers not only want their murders resolved and their gold back, they are also demanding an explanation of why the dismembered limbs of traitors are disappearing from the spikes above London Bridge.’

‘A cup of troubles,’ Benedicta said. ‘But, Father, I have to add to them.’

‘How?’ he asked sharply.

‘A woman came to the church last night.’ Benedicta narrowed her eyes, trying to recall the name. ‘Eleanor Hobden, that’s right.’

Athelstan’s heart sank.

‘She claims her daughter’s possessed,’ Benedicta continued. She says she will take you to her house tonight after Vespers. What’s it all about, Father?’

Athelstan’s dark eyes looked mournful but she resisted the urge to clasp his hand or stroke his cheek.

‘Trouble,’ the priest muttered. ‘Benedicta, when I do go tonight, will you come with me?’

‘Are you frightened?’ she half-teased.

‘No, no. But I’ll ask Sir John to accompany me too. In these cases the salt of common sense can be better than a priest’s blessing.’

‘Caught you at last, monk!’

Athelstan and Benedicta started and looked round as Cranston, hat off, legs astride, stood at the entrance to the church beaming at them.

‘Oh, Lord,’ Athelstan whispered. ‘He’s been at the miraculous wineskin.’

‘Caught you at last!’ Cranston boomed again, and walked down the nave. He stopped and peered about.

‘Where’s that bloody cat?’

‘He’s gone hunting.’

‘Good!’ Cranston came over, put one bear-like arm round Benedicta and planted a juicy kiss on her cheek. ‘Lovely girl!’ he whispered. He smiled at Athelstan.

‘She’ll make someone a lovely wife.’

‘Sir John Cranston!’ Benedicta cried with mock anger.

‘Hold thy tongue, woman,’ Cranston teased back.

‘Brother, you have to come.’

‘Oh no, Sir John, where?’

‘To Billingsgate, Botolph’s Wharf. They have just fished Sturmey’s body from the river — a knife, similar to the one used on Mountjoy, planted deep in his chest. He apparently disappeared yesterday afternoon.’

‘What was he doing in Billingsgate?’

‘God knows!’ Cranston smacked his lips and stared admiringly round the church. ‘This is becoming more like a house of God than a barn.’

Athelstan winked at Benedicta as he turned and led Sir John back to the door. ‘And how are Gog and Magog?’

‘Eating as if there’s no tomorrow.’

Cranston stopped, threw back his head and laughed. ‘Boscombe’s proving worth his weight in gold yet he can’t tell me anything more about Mountjoy’s death. However, what he did tell me,’ Cranston laughed again, ‘is that Gog and Magog chased poor Leif up a tree: the silly bastard wouldn’t come down for hours!’

His face became serious. ‘Gaunt and the Guildmasters interviewed me this morning. They reminded me that I have only ten days to find the gold and trap the murderer.’

‘Are they insisting on this?’

‘Yes, Lord Clifford is also to seek out what he can.’

‘Or else what?’ Athelstan asked curiously.

‘What do you mean, monk?’

‘Well, what happens after ten days?’

‘Gaunt loses his allies, his gold and his power.’

Cranston stopped and peered down at the baptismal font. He studied the carving round the rim: St John the Baptist, waist-high in a River Jordan which reminded the Coroner of the Thames rather than any river in Palestine. ‘Those Guildmasters… Lady, I beg your pardon,’ he also bobbed his head towards the tabernacle, ‘but they are murderous villains! Cheek-biters, gull-catchers, marble-hearted, ass-headed dogs!’ He breathed out. ‘They all sat there like great jellies: pop-eyed Goodman, balding Marshall, foppish Denny, and Sudbury with a face even a pig would despair of. What makes me angry, monk…’

‘Friar, Sir John!’

‘As I was saying, monk, what makes me angry is I know one or more of those bastards is a murderer. He must be!’

Cranston would have continued his litany of curses but Athelstan guided him out on to the sun-washed steps of St Erconwald’s. He locked the door of the church and that of his house and, after grabbing his saddle and bag of writing implements, went to collect Philomel. Cranston, after taking two generous swigs from his wineskin, forgot what he termed the ‘Poxy Guildmasters!’ and returned to his perennial teasing of Benedicta. At last Athelstan was able to saddle a protesting Philomel. He slung his bag over the saddle horn and carefully mounted.

Sir John collected his own horse from where it had been chomping the cemetery grass and swung himself into the saddle with such force that Athelstan winced; no wonder, he reflected, Crim called Sir John ‘Horse Cruncher’. Athelstan urged Philomel forward and, not the best of horsemen, almost careered into Sir John. The friar glared down at a grinning Benedicta and tossed her the keys to both the church and his house.