Murder most holy
whore, her scarlet wig askew, leaned against a wall and shouted friendly abuse at him. A tinker with a hand cart full of battered apples went down to take up position near the bridge to await the morning custom. A journeyman, his pack animals strung out behind him, walked briskly, determined to get out of Southwark before the day’s business began. At the small crossroads between Stinking Alley and Pig Lane a group of lepers, heads hooded, faces masked, crouched in a tight group and watched a mad gipsy woman do a strange, silent dance.
Athelstan stopped and looked up between the overhanging houses. The sky was now streaked with light so he went back to his house, still determined to keep his mind clear. He tidied up, washing cups and sweeping the floor. Outside Southwark woke, stirred by the rattle of carts, the cries of children and shouts of traders. A small group began to assemble outside the church as the workmen returned, announcing their presence by loud oaths and the clatter of tools.
Athelstan decided to leave matters be. He went upstairs and knelt at his small prie-dieu and began to recite divine office, Matins, Lauds and Nones, his mind swept up by the mystery of the psalms, the chants of praise and the graphic descriptions from the prophet Isaiah.
Athelstan heard a commotion below but decided to ignore it. Then a series of shouts and exclamations, followed by a loud knocking on the door. He breathed a final prayer and hurried down. Watkin and Pike stood there, faces bright with excitement.
‘Father! Father! You’ve got to come! There’s been a miracle!’
‘Every day’s a miracle,’ he replied harshly.
‘No, Father, a real miracle.’
They dragged him out of the house and round to the front of the church where a small crowd had assembled. They ringed a tall, white-haired man who had the sleeve of his green gown pushed back and was showing his arm to all and sundry.
‘What is this?’ Athelstan snapped, forcing his way through.
The fellow turned. His face was broad and sun-tanned. Athelstan noted the laughter wrinkles round his mouth and eyes and the good quality of his garments. Beside him was a woman, auburn ringlets peeping out from under a light blue head-dress; her buttercup yellow smock over a white shift looked costly, well cut and clean. The man smiled at Athelstan. ‘Father, a miracle!’
‘Nonsense!’ snapped Athelstan.
‘Look, Father!’ The man showed Athelstan his right arm from elbow to wrist. ‘When I woke this morning my arm was infected. Five days ago I received a cut.’ He pointed to a small, pink line still faintly discernible halfway up his arm. ‘I left it untreated and so contagion set in, corrupting the skin. Physician Culpepper treated it with ointments and bound it with bandages but it got no better.’ The fellow looked round and Athelstan saw many of his parishioners staring owl-eyed and open-mouthed at the man’s dramatic story.
‘Last night I could not sleep, Father. The itching was so intense.’ He licked his full lips. ‘Yesterday we heard about the saint being discovered. Father,’ the man’s eyes pleaded with Athelstan, ‘I became desperate. I went into your church. I leaned against the coffin and prayed for help.’
‘It’s true!’ The young woman beside him spoke up. She pointed to a pile of dirty bandages just outside the church door. ‘My husband said he felt better, the pain and itching had gone.’ Her smiling eyes pleaded with Athelstan. ‘I can only tell you what happened. We took the bandages off.’ She pointed to a water-seller hurrying down the street. ‘I bought a stoup of water and cleansed the arm. There was no contagion, Father. The skin is as clear as a baby’s!’
A gasp of astonishment greeted her declaration. Athelstan gazed suspiciously at the man’s arm.
‘You said you leaned against the parish coffin and said a prayer?’
The man now unrolled the sleeve of his gown. ‘It’s as I have said, Father. I was there no more than ten minutes.’
‘I saw the bandage being taken off!’ Watkin shouted. ‘It’s true, Father! It’s a miracle!’
People crossed themselves and looked fearfully back at the church.
‘Father,’ Tab the tinker roared, ‘what shall we do?’
‘We should shut up, Tab, and keep a cool head. Come!’ Athelstan ordered. ‘Everyone, back into the church. Pike, go and get physician Culpepper. Give him my apologies but it’s important that he come here now.’
The parishioners
Weitere Kostenlose Bücher