The Relic Murders

should kill you,' he whispered. 'But you've powerful friends and I have bigger game to hunt. You may prove useful.' He drew himself up. 'So, this time a warning, as well as confiscation of all your goods.'
    He pointed to a pile of my possessions in the corner. I glimpsed my saddlebags, shirts, relics, even the small bag of coins I had hidden under the floorboard in my chamber at the Flickering Lamp. 'I want to show you something. Bring him forward.'
    Hustled by two ruffians I followed Charon out. We entered a long gallery lit by torches with caverns off the walkway. To my right was the sewer water, black, glinting in the torchlight.
    'The stench is not so bad,' Charon said over his shoulder. 'Hardly any offal comes this way.' He shrugged. 'My sense of smell I lost with my nose but cleanliness is next to Godliness, Shallot! My ruffians here have directed the offal elsewhere.'
    We walked further down the causeway then Charon stopped. He took a torch from the wall and held it out over the black, slopping water. Something was floating in the water, lazily, like an otter in a stream. 'Throw some food,' Charon ordered.
    One of his henchmen cast some bread into the water as well as on to the opposite ledge. The water swirled. I moaned in terror at the black, slimy rat which crept out of the sewer and on to the far side. Now, you gentle readers know what I think of rats! I have been pursued by leopards, wolves, and savage hunting dogs but nothing terrifies me more than a rat. This was not one of your little brown gentlemen but a long, black, slimy bastard, at least a yard in length from the tip of its tail to that quivering snout. He grasped the scraps and gnawed at them. Looking up, the rodent stared across at me, as coolly as a man would inspect some juicy meat pie. Charon led us on. The air grew colder. We turned into a cavern. A corpse lay in an iron gibbet on the floor. It was beginning to decay and the air was rich with the stench. Rats were already moving amongst the iron bars. There's only so much my poor mind can take. I closed my eyes and, God forgive me, swooned like a maid.

Chapter 3
    I awoke in an alleyway. At first I didn't know who, or indeed where, I was. My hands and feet were tied. I struggled to my knees. My head throbbed and my side ached where someone had kicked me. A beggar came out of a doorway and stared pityingly. 'Faugh!' His hand went to his nose.
    I looked down. I was naked and covered in thick, clammy mud from head to toe: I had been rolled in the contents of a midden heap. 'Help me!' I wailed. 'Piss off!' the beggar grated.
    I crawled along the alley. I felt so miserable I started to pray: desperately, I swore great oaths that I would never touch another drop of wine or even think of lifting a girl's petticoat. (You can see how low I must have fallen!)
    Even the beggars stayed away from me whilst a drunk kicked me with his boot. The ropes around my ankles and wrists were tied tightly, the cord biting into the skin. At last I crawled to the steps of a church. I fainted and, when I regained consciousness, my hands and feet were freed and I was staring into the kind eyes of a friar, his weather-beaten face, greasy, straggly moustache and beard framed by his cowl. 'Help me!' I begged.
    'I can do no more,' the friar replied. 'I've cut your cords.' He lifted a battered, tin cup to my lips. The wine was watered but it tasted like nectar. He pointed to some sacking on the ground beside me. 'Put this on.' He got me to my feet, helped me put the sacking over my head, and fastened it round my middle with a piece of cord. He then gave me a staff and thrust a piece of bread into my other hand. 'God have mercy on you, Brother!'
    And he was gone. Ever since I have always had affection for the little brothers of St Francis. Even now, in my secret chamber, I have that piece of sacking. Moreover, on the walls of my chapel, despite the fact that my chaplain is of the reformed faith, I have had the words of St Francis boldly painted: 'GO OUT AND PREACH THE GOSPEL. PREACH! PREACH! PREACH! SOMETIMES YOU CAN EVEN USE WORDS!'
    After the friar left me, I realised I was in Grubb Street to the north of Cripplegate. The sky was already scored with the red gashes of sunrise. I slipped through a postern gate into the city and made my way along an alleyway near Mugwell Street, As I walked my confidence returned. My throat was parched, the bread had long disappeared, and my belly ached for food. I thought how splendid it