The House of Shadows

did!’
    Cranston suddenly remembered where he was and snatched off his beaverskin hat. He hurriedly made a sign of the Cross, one of the fastest Athelstan had ever seen, then fished beneath his cloak and unhooked the miraculous wine skin which never seemed to empty, unstoppered it and took a mouthful. He offered it to Athelstan, who refused, though the Misericord grabbed it greedily and took a generous swig. Cranston snatched it out of his hands.
    ‘Now, my lovely boy,’ Cranston breathed. ‘You killed a man last night, or had him killed. You went to Master Rolles’ for the Great Ratting, and I will see mine host about that. You knew you were being hunted, so you paid some unfortunate who had a passing resemblance to you to wear that misericord dagger around his neck, a man with red hair and pale face. The Judas Man went to arrest him, and Toadflax—’
    ‘Toadflax?’ Athelstan queried.
    ‘Toadflax,’ Cranston explained, ‘was a dog collector. He took the corpses of dead animals from the streets; now and again he became involved in petty thievery.’
    Cranston jabbed a finger in the fugitive’s face.
    ‘He was the one you bribed. What did you give h im for his life? A penny? A groat? Some numbskull who wouldn’t know his right hand from his left; now his corpse is stiffening in an outhouse.’
    Cranston turned swiftly to Athelstan.
    ‘Will you bury him, Father? Will you anoint him with oil and put his body in the ground?’
    Athelstan nodded.
    ‘Now we have business to do.’ Cranston pointed threateningly at the fugitive. ‘You stay here, you understand? You only leave here to go to the jakes. That Judas Man is in a fair temper; he will have your neck.’
    The Misericord, all courage drained, nodded quickly. Cranston took Athelstan by the elbow and steered him out of the sanctuary.
    ‘Well, good morrow to you, Sir John.’
    The coroner beamed down at this friar whom he loved more dearly than a blood brother.
    ‘You look well, Sir John, in fine fettle.’
    Cranston stroked his moustache and beard. ‘The Lady Maud and I,’ he whispered, ‘we had a celebration last night, downstairs and upstairs.’ He winked knowingly.
    ‘So the Lady Maud is in good health?’
    ‘Aye, but there are three corpses at the Night in Jerusalem!’
    ‘Three!’ Athelstan exclaimed.
    ‘You know the tavern? It’s owned by one Master Rolles, a true sicarius who harvested rich plunder in France .’
    ‘I know of Master Rolles and his tavern, Sir John — but three corpses?’
    ‘Two flaxen-haired whores and poor Toadflax,’ Cranston explained, the smile fading from his face. ‘I need you Brother, you are my secretarius.’
    Athelstan bit back his disappointment. He’d planned to do so much today: visit the sick, scrutinise the accounts, and he dearly wanted to read a new commentary on Ptolemy. The manuscript had been copied by scribes in his own order, and Athelstan had been loaned it by Prior Anselm, allowed to take it away from its great oaken shelf in the library at Blackfriars.
    Heavy-hearted, Athelstan returned to his house, collected his writing satchel, which he hooked over his shoulder, and donned the heavy cloak Cranston had given him as a gift last Michaelmas. The kitchen looked clean and scrubbed, everything in order. Bonaventure was sprawled in front of the dying fire. Athelstan murmured a quick benediction that all would be kept safe, then he grasped his walking stick and joined Sir John, now standing on the steps of the church like a Justice come to judgement. It was obvious that the Judas Man intended to stay, his bully boys now bolstered by members of the parish council: Pike, Watkin, Ranulf and others eager for mischief. They had ringed the cemetery, keeping every window and door under close scrutiny. The Judas Man had even hired a couple of braziers, where the charcoal and wood crackled merrily, as well as supplying his comitatus with bread, meat and wine.
    ‘He is being well paid,’ Cranston murmured, staring across at the Judas Man, who sat on the cemetery wall gazing coolly back.
    ‘Who’s hired him?’ Athelstan asked. ‘Not the Corporation?’
    Cranston shook his head. ‘The Corporation won’t do it any more, not unless they have to. It’s too expensive. Yet I tell you this, Brother, and I swear by Satan’s tits.’ He gestured with his head towards the Judas Man. ‘He’s well named, an evil bastard! He doesn’t care if he brings his quarry in dead or alive. There’s more