‘I am sorry. You are no traitor, no Judas!’

Pike grasped his hand. ‘Can you help me, Father?’

Athelstan pursed his lips.

‘Yes, I think I can. But it will take time. Meanwhile don’t do anything rash, man. And…’

‘And what, Father?’

‘What do you know of Ira Dei?’

Pike laughed. ‘Father, I am a very small leaf low down on a very tall tree. I don’t even know who the rebel leaders are. No one knows who Ira Dei is. He comes, shrouded in darkness, delivers his message, and just as mysteriously leaves. He could be anyone. The Lady Benedicta, Watkin, even Sir John Cranston!’ Pike grinned. ‘Though I think people would recognize him. Father, I know nothing. I swear on the life of my children!’

‘But could you get a message to him?’

‘I could tell certain people. Why?’ Pike’s face became concerned. ‘Father, take care. Have no dealings with such violent men, be they nobles or peasants. Do you know what I think? It’s a fight between the rats and the ferrets over who will rule the chicken run.’

Athelstan smiled, touched by Pike’s concern.

‘The message is simple. Say Athelstan of St Erconwald’s would like to meet Ira Dei.’ He made Pike repeat the message.

‘Is that all, Father?’

‘Yes, it is. I have kept you long enough. I am sorry for my temper.’

Pike shrugged. ‘You get what you deserve, Father. But you will help me?’

‘Of course!’

‘I’ll never forget, Father.’

Pike disappeared. Athelstan thought of the ditcher’s gangling son, deeply in love with Watkin’s daughter, and stared at Bonaventure, who had been watching them with close attention.

‘Well, well, my cunning cat,’ he whispered. ‘Perhaps Sunday morning won’t be so terrible after all, eh?’

Athelstan stared round the church and remembered his promise to another parishioner. He locked St Erconwald’s and hurried through the streets to Ranulf the rat-catcher’s house, a small, two-storied tenement on the corner of an alleyway. The pale pinch-faced rat-catcher was waiting for him. His brood of children, all resembling him, gathered behind their father at the door to welcome the priest to their house. As Athelstan entered the darkened passageway, he recalled that Ranulf was a widower whose wife had died in childbirth five years previously. Ranulf, his brood trailing behind, ushered Athelstan into his small solar or working shop. Athelstan sniffed as he sat on the stool. With the ratcatcher on the chair opposite, children around him, eyes intent on the priest.

‘Do you like the smell, Father?’

‘Why, yes, Ranulf, it’s not offensive.’

Ranulf patted his black-tarred jacket. ‘I rub aniseed and thyme into this. Rats like that.’

He paused as his eldest daughter, dressed in a ragged black dress, solemnly served Athelstan and her father pots of tasty soup. As she did so, the friar gazed round: in one corner was a cage with sparrows; in another hung fishing lines, a badger’s skin, lead bobs and eel hooks.

‘Do you like rats?’ Ranulf suddenly asked.

Athelstan stared back.

‘There are four types, Father. Barn rats, sewer rats, river rats and street rats. The worst are the sewer rats — they are the black ones.’ He pulled back the sleeve of his tarred jacket, displaying an arm badly pocked with the marks of old wounds ‘The black rats are bastards, Father. Sorry, but they are real bastards! I have been dead near four times from bites. I once had the teeth of a rat break in my finger.’ He extended his hand. ‘It was terrible bad, swollen and rotted. I had to have the broken bits taken out with pincers. I have been bitten everywhere, Father.’

Athelstan jumped as a small, furry animal, which seemed to come from nowhere, ran up the rat-catcher’s leg and sat on his lap.

‘This is Ferox,’ Ranulf announced, ‘my ferret.’

Athelstan stared in disbelief at the creature’s little black eyes and twitching nose.

‘Ferox means ferocious.’ Ranulf continued, not giving Athelstan a chance to speak. ‘Now, ferrets are very dangerous but Ferox is well trained. He has sent at least a thousand rats to their maker.’

Athelstan hid his grin, finished his soup and handed the bowl and pewter spoon back to the girl. The rest of Ranulf’s children stood staring at their father with eyes rounded in admiration. The priest looked at the ratcatcher’s slightly jutting teeth, pointed nose and white whiskery face, and recalled his recent conversation with Pike. Ranulf was the same: a hard-working man, a good father, one of the small ones of the earth, so far from power and wealth and yet so close to God.

‘Ranulf, you wanted to talk to me about the Guild?’

‘Yes, Father, we’d like our Guild Mass at St Erconwald’s.’ Ranulf swallowed nervously. ‘The Guild would meet in the church and then we’d have our feast in the nave afterwards. If that’s all right with you, Father?’

Athelstan nodded solemnly.

‘Every month on the third Saturday we’d meet at St Erconwald’s for our Mass and use the nave for a meeting.’

Athelstan again nodded.

‘And we’d pay you two pounds, fifteen shillings every quarter.’

Athelstan guessed the rat-catcher thought the amount rather low.

‘That will be most satisfactory,’ he replied quickly.

‘Are you sure, Father?’

‘Of course.’

‘And wives and children can attend?’

‘Why not?’

‘And you’ll bless our ferrets and traps?’

‘Without a doubt.’

‘And do you know of a patron saint, Father?

Athelstan stared back. ‘No, Ranulf, that puzzles me but I am sure I can find one for you.’

Ranulf gave a sigh of relief and got to his feet.

‘In which case, Father, you have our thanks. Osric, he’s the chief rat-catcher in South wark, will draw up the indenture. He knows a clerk at St Paul’s.’

‘I can do that with no fee,’ Athelstan answered, getting to his feet.

Ranulf crowed with delight and clapped his hands whilst his children, catching his good humour, danced round Athelstan as if he was their patron saint. He glimpsed a trap hanging on the wall and suddenly thought of Cranston’s poor friend Oliver Ingham.

‘Tell me, Ranulf, have you ever heard of a rat gnawing a corpse?’

‘Oh yes, Father, they’ll eat anything.’

‘And you kill them with traps or ferrets?’

‘Aye, and sometimes with poisons such as belladonna or nightshade, if they are really cunning.’

Athelstan smiled his thanks and walked to the door.

‘Father!’

Athelstan turned. ‘No, Ranulf, before you ask — Bonaventure is not for sale. But we can always enrol him as a member of your Guild.’

Athelstan took leave of Ranulf and his family. He was half-way down the alleyway, his mind full of rats, poisons, traps and ferrets, when suddenly he stopped, mouth gaping at the idea which had occurred to him. He smiled and looked up at the brightening sky.

‘O Lord, blessed are you,’ he whispered. ‘And your ways are most wonderful to behold.’

He almost ran back to the rat-catcher’s house and hammered on the door. Ranulf appeared quite agitated as Athelstan grasped him by the shoulder.

‘Father, what is it?’

‘You must come with me. Now, Ranulf! You must come with me now to see Sir John! Ranulf, please, I need your help!’

The rat-catcher needed no second bidding. He went back indoors, shouted instructions at his daughter, kissed each of his children and, with Ferox firmly penned in a small cage, allowed Athelstan to hurry him through the streets of Southwark down to London Bridge.

Rosamund Ingham paled as she answered Sir John’s insistent knocking. She stood with the door half-open and glared at the Coroner then at Athelstan, with Ranulf standing behind him. ‘What’s the matter, Mistress?’ Cranston greeted her. ‘You look as if you have seen a ghost!’

‘What do you want?’

‘You asked me last night to remove the seals from your dead husband’s room and that’s why I am here.’ He pushed the door further open. ‘We can come in, can’t we? Thank you so much.’