The House of the Red Slayer

they hit their target. A legless beggar pulled himself along through the slush on wooden slats. A group of tattered watermen muttered abuse at the frozen river and cursed the great frost which had taken their livelihood from them. Others, hooded and cowled, pushed forward into the city or joined Athelstan and Cranston in crossing the narrow frozen bridge to Southwark.
    The coroner suddenly reined in his horse, staring back at a group of dark figures who had just slipped by. Were they a group, he wondered, or just individuals travelling together for comfort and security? He was sure he had glimpsed Lady Maude amongst them, her pale face peering out from beneath her hood. But what would she have been doing in Southwark? Apart from Athelstan she knew no one there, and Southwark was a dangerous place to visit on a dark winter’s day.
    ‘Sir John, is all well?’
    Cranston stared once more at the group receding into the darkness. Should he go back? But then a great metal-rimmed cart came crashing by, the people behind Cranston began to mutter and moan, so the coroner nodded at his companion that they should continue on their way. They crossed the bridge, passing the Priory of St Mary Overy at the far end, and took the main highway into Southwark. The two men rode down the narrow alleyways where the great four-storey houses were interspaced with the ramshackle cottages and lean-tos of the workmen and artisans. The coroner caught the acrid tang of dog urine.
    ‘The snow doesn’t hide the stench!’ he muttered, twitching his nose.
    Athelstan agreed, pulling the cowl of his hood closer against the sight of rotting refuse, discarded food and human excrement tossed out in night pots, mixed with the sweepings from the houses as the citizens prepared for a festive season. Southwark, of course, never rested. The artisans and cottagers continually plied their trades: chandlers making tallow from pig fat; skinners, cheesemongers, capmakers, blacksmiths, and at night, when the stalls came down, the raw-boned villains of the underworld who scrounged for easy pickings amongst the brothels and stewsides of the Thames. No one, however, approached Cranston or Athelstan. The friar was well respected whilst Cranston was more feared than the Chief Justice himself.
    They found St Erconwald’s in darkness. Athelstan was pleased that Watkin had doused the lights. He was about to lead Sir John through the wicket gate to the priest’s house when a dark shape jumped from the shadows and grabbed Philomel by the bridle. Athelstan stared down at the long, white face under its tarry black hood.
    ‘Ranulf, for God’s sake, what’s the matter?’
    ‘Father, I have been waiting for you all afternoon.‘
    ‘Tell him to bugger off, Athelstan! I’m cold!‘
    ‘Never mind Sir John.’ Athelstan replied soothingly. ‘What do you want, Ranulf?’
    The rat-catcher licked bloodless lips.
    ‘I have an idea, Father. You know how the great guilds across the river have their own churches? St Mary Le Bow for the mercers, St Paul’s for the parchment-makers?’
    ‘Yes. So?’
    The rat-catcher looked up pleadingly.
    ‘Go on, Ranulf, what do you want?’
    ‘Well, Father, I and the other rat-catchers wondered whether St Erconwald’s could be the church for our guild fraternity?’
    Athelstan hid a smile, glanced at Cranston’s glowering face and bunched the reins in his hands.
    ‘A guild of rat-catchers, Ranulf? With St Erconwald’s as your chancery church and I your chaplain?’
    ‘Yes, Father.’
    Athelstan dismounted. ‘Of course.’
    ‘We would pay our tithes.‘
    ‘In what?’ Cranston bellowed. ‘A tenth of the rats you catch!’
    Ranulf flashed the coroner a dagger glance but Cranston was already rocking to and fro in the saddle, laughing uproariously at his own joke.
    ‘I think it an excellent idea,’ Athelstan murmured. ‘And we shall talk about it again. You have my agreement in principle, Ranulf, but for the moment Sir John and I are both busily engaged on other matters. If you could stable our horses, give them some hay?’
    The rat-catcher nodded vigorously and, gathering the reins of Sir John’s horse, trotted into the darkness. Philomel followed, moving a little faster as he sensed feeding-time was very close. Athelstan led Cranston round the church, stopped, and told the coroner to wait until he fetched a sconce torch. He hurried back to the priest’s house, plucked one from the wall, lit it with a tinder and ran back