The Nightingale Gallery

four plots by small gravelled walks and paths. These were fringed by a hedge of varying shrubs and small trees – white-thorn, privet, sweetbriar and the occasional rose – all entwined together. They sat against the wall on turfed seats in the shade, looking out over raised herb banks of hyssop, lavender and other fragrant shrubs. «A slattern brought a small table for Athelstan to rest his writing tray on, and of course a jug of wine and two goblets, though Athelstan shook his head and asked for water. They sat enjoying the fragrant smells and the coolness after their dusty ride through the city.
    'I could stay here all day,' Athelstan said, leaning back against the wall. 'So quiet, so peaceful.'
    'You would prefer to be back in your monastery?'
    Athelstan smiled. 'I didn't say that!'
    'But you do not like your work?'
    'I did not say that either.' He turned and looked at Cranston, noting how the fat coroner's face was dewed with drops of sweat. 'Do you like yours, Sir John? The murder, the lies, the deceits? Do you remember,' Athelstan asked, 'I once quoted Bartholomew the Englishman?'
    Cranston looked expectant.
    'He wrote a book entitled The Nature of Things,' Athelstan continued, 'in which he described the planet Saturn as cold as ice, dark as night, and malignant as Satan. He claims that the planet governs the murderous intent of men.' Athelstan squinted, watching the bees hover round a succulent rose. 'I often think it governs mine. You heard Fortescue refer to my own brother?' Cranston nodded. 'My father owned a prosperous farm to the south, in Sussex. I was intended for the religious life. My brother was destined to till the soil. Now there's a road which goes by our farm down to the coast. We used to see the men-at-arms, the crossbow men on their way to the ports for the crossing to France, then we'd watch them return laden with booty. We heard the legends and romantic stories about knights in shining armour, war horses moving majestically across green fields.
    'One spring I left my noviciate and came back to the farm. The next party of soldiers which passed, my brother and I joined. We sailed from Dover, landing at Honfleur, joining one of the many bands plundering across France.' Athelstan stared up at the sky. 'We were under the command of the Black Prince with his general Walter de Manny and others. Our dreams soon died. No chivalrous knights, no majestic armies moving according to rules, but horrible deeds, towns gutted and burnt, women and children slain. Then one day my brother and I, serving as archers, were caught outside a town by a group of French horsemen. We took up our positions, driving stakes into the ground in the usual pattern. The French charged sooner than we thought. They were amongst us, hacking and killing.'
    Athelstan stopped to compose himself before continuing: 'When it was over, my brother was dead and I had aged a hundred years. I might as well tell you, Cranston. I returned home. I'll never forget my father's face. I'd never seen him like that. He just stared at me. My mother? All she could do was crouch in a corner and sob. I think she cried till the day she died. My father soon followed her to the grave. I went back to my Order. Oh, they accepted me but life was harsh. I had to do private and public penance, take a solemn vow that, after I was ordained, I would accept whatever duties my superiors gave me.'
    Athelstan snorted with laughter and leaned forward, his arms crossed, as if he was talking to himself and had forgotten the coroner sitting beside him. 'Whatever duties! Hard study and the most menial work the house could provide; cleaning sewers, digging ditches and, after ordination, I must go here, I must go there! Eventually I protested so Father Prior took me for a walk in the meadows and said I was to prove my worth with one final task.'
    He leaned back against the wall. 'My final task was St Erconwald's in Southwark.' Athelstan stared across at Cranston. 'My father prior chose well. My parents accused me of the murder of my brother. Every day in Southwark someone dies. Men and women drenched with drink, quarrelling and violently fighting each other. In some alleyway or runnel a man hacked to death for stealing ale. A woman slashed from jaw to groin found floating in a ditch. And then you, Sir John! Just in case I should forget, or withdraw, or hide behind my church walls, you are here, ready to lead me along the streets, remind me that there is no escape from