Murder most holy

had taken his telescope and charts back to the only lockable chest in the priest’s small house, gone across to St Erconwald’s to chant Vespers with Bonaventure still beside him, then back for some light ale, a piece of bread smeared with honey, milk for Bonaventure, and so to bed.
    Brother Athelstan felt pleased with himself and softly sang a song from boyhood as he washed, shaved and donned his black and white robe. Beside him faithful Bonaventure stretched and yawned, licking his whiskers with his small pink tongue in hopeful expectation of a dish of fish and a bowl of milk. Athelstan re-arranged the small towel, looping it over the wooden lavarium, and crouched to stroke the cat, scratching it softly between its ears until Bonaventure purred with pleasure.
    ‘You are getting fat, master cat. The more I see of you the more I think of Cranston .’
    Bonaventure seemed to smile and snuggled closer.
    ‘You are getting fat, Bonaventure,’ Athelstan repeated, ‘And I am not feeding you this morning. You will have to hunt for your breakfast.’
    Athelstan gazed round his small, sparsely furnished bedchamber. He tidied the horsehair blanket on his trestle bed, emptied the water he had used out of the window and jumped as he heard an angry grunt from below. He looked down and found Ursula the pig woman’s fat sow staring up at him. I Athelstan quietly swore and slammed the shutters closed. He hated that bloody pig: it seemed to have an almost demonic intelligence. As soon as the cabbages and other vegetables Athelstan had carefully planted began to sprout, that damned animal would come lurching along to help itself.
    ‘I wonder if Huddle would build a fence?’ Athelstan murmured. He shrugged. But there again, he had other jobs for Huddle and, despite the pig’s forays on to his small vegetable patch, Athelstan felt a small glow of triumph. Today, Sunday, the sixth after Easter 1379, the workmen would begin work on converting the sanctuary. They would take down the rood screen, lift the cracked, water-soaked flagstones and lay new ones, carefully cut and painted black and white. Athelstan didn’t care if it was Sunday, it was the best day for work and most appropriate for the beginning of a major attempt to beautify God’s house.
    Humming the song, he checked that the coffer containing his astrological charts and telescope was firmly padlocked and went down the rickety stairs into the kitchen. Bonaventure, tail held high, followed as reverently as any acolyte at holy mass. The kitchen was as bare as Athelstan’s bedroom, containing a few cupboards, a table and some stools. A small fire still glowed in the hearth, slowly warming a pot of soup Athelstan had been cooking since Friday. Benedicta had advised him that stock from meat should not be discarded but boiled for a number of days, spiced and allowed to bubble until it provided the most appetising of soups. Athelstan, a hopeless cook, was delighted with the succulent smells now filling the kitchen. He went into the small scullery, cut himself a crust of bread and poured a cup of watered wine. Bonaventure followed him in and looked pleadingly up.
    ‘No milk, Bonaventure,’ Athelstan snapped.
    The cat purred and brushed against his leg.
    ‘All right.’ Athelstan relented. He picked up an earthenware pitcher and poured the cream into a bowl on the floor. He admired the black sleekness of Bonaventure as this lord of the alleyways, this one-eared king of cats, daintily lapped at the milk. Bonaventure likes his milk, Athelstan thought, as Cranston likes his wine. The friar walked absentmindedly back into the kitchen, sat on a stool and gazed into the dying embers of the fire. He wondered how the good coroner was faring for he, like Sir John, had been mystified by the Regent’s invitation, Cranston being no friend of the court party.
    ‘I hope he’s careful,’ Athelstan murmured to himself. He looked into his wine cup and smiled. The coroner had a big belly, a big mouth and a big heart, but Athelstan feared Cranston ’s forthright honesty would one day lead him into danger. He closed his eyes and said a short prayer for Cranston and his wife, dainty, quiet Lady Maude, the only person Cranston truly feared. Athelstan shook his head that such a petite lady could produce such sturdy twin boys as Francis and Stephen. True, she had experienced a great deal of pain in childbirth, a little fever afterwards, but now the Lady Maude even looked younger whilst