Ailward turned and almost fell on the sword of the cowled figure cloaked all in black. Ailward gagged as the sword dug deep, its razor-sharp blade slicing his innards. He screamed again, a long, harrowing cry choked off by the blood welling through both nose and mouth . . .
Athelstan caught his breath as he and Sir John hurried along the byways and alleyways leading off Cheapside down to the river. The day was drawing on. Bells tolled for the Angelus and noon day Mass as well as the sign for traders to break their fast in the cook shops, pastry houses, inns and taverns. Athelstan roughly shouldered by a pedlar of old boots with an assortment of footwear hanging from a stick, swiftly dodged one of St Anthony’s pigs, bell tingling around its neck, as it charged across an alleyway pursued by a group of ragged urchins armed with sticks. He crossed himself as a funeral cortège went by with bell, cross and incense. A young boy carolled the Dirige psalms while a group of beggars, clothed as penitents and fortified with bread and strong ale, staggered behind the purple-clothed coffin, funeral candles drunkenly held. Cranston and Athelstan crossed Fish Street. They passed St Nicholas Coe Abbey where the Brotherhood of the Beggars was feeding lepers on mouldy bread, rancid pork, slimy veal, flat beer and stale fish. Athelstan glanced away in disgust at the loathsome platters set out on a tawdry stall. He also felt guilty. He and Sir John had left Kilverby’s mansion. They had braved the importunity of the two beggars who haunted Cheapside – Leif and his associate Rawbum who’d once had the misfortune when drunk to sit down on a pan of burning oil. After they had coaxed their way by this precious pair, Cranston and Athelstan went into the warmth of ‘The Holy Lamb of God’, Cranston’s favourite ‘chapel’ since the merry-mouthed, rosy-cheeked landlady had taken over from the old harridan who had once resided there. Minehost had been preparing Brouet de Capon. The tap room was enriched by the fragrance of almonds, cinnamon, clove, peppers and grains of paradise. They’d eaten and drunk well. Now, faced with all this desperation, Athelstan paused. He opened his purse and went back to distribute coins into the bandaged hands of the ever-desperate lepers.
‘Dangerous,’ Cranston observed when the friar returned, ‘the contagion could catch you.’
‘Nonsense,’ Athelstan retorted, ‘there’s no real harm to be had from that. A silly fable, Sir John. You have to live with these poor unfortunates perhaps months, years before the contagion takes you.’ Athelstan was about to continue but he noticed a well-known foist approaching so he gripped his leather satchel more tightly and urged Cranston on.
A short while later they reached Queenshithe Wharf and hired a covered barge to take them down to St Fulcher’s. The river was swollen and dark; a freezing fog had rolled in to cloak the Thames in a deep greyness. Shapes of other craft emerged then swiftly faded. Lantern horns placed in their prows glowed as beacons whilst along the banks similar warning lights flared from the steeples of St Nicholas, St Benet and other churches. Cranston had refilled his miraculous wineskin at ‘The Holy Lamb of God’. He took a generous swig from this, settled himself more comfortably against the cushions in the stern and offered Athelstan a drink. The friar shook his head and stared fearfully across the river, a forbidding thoroughfare he reflected, full of mystery and sudden terrors. He recalled the Fisher of Men who, with his little band of swimmers led by Icthus, combed the river for corpses which, at a price, could be collected from his chapel, the ‘Barque of St Peter’. Even at the height of summer this river reeked of danger and Athelstan recalled some of the ghoulish tales narrated by Moleskin the boatman.
‘Dangerous weather,’ Cranston murmured. ‘These sea banks of fog float in and the French war cogs use them. A fleet of privateers prowl the Narrow Seas; they could slip into the estuary to pillage and burn, but,’ he sighed, ‘such thoughts darken the mind. Now Athelstan, Kilverby, there’s a family of choice souls?’
‘That does not concern us, Sir John.’ Athelstan steadied himself as the barge rocked violently. ‘Not yet. Let us move to the arrow point, to the conclusion then argue backwards. According to the evidence, Sir Robert Kilverby, in good health, locked and bolted himself in that chancery chamber. He never left, no one entered. No trace, as yet, of any noxious substance has been found in that room, but Sir Robert was definitely poisoned.’
‘Could that have happened before he went in?’
‘No. I suspect the potion he took grew in its malignancy. We deduced from those who knocked on the door later that evening that Sir Robert remained hale and hearty. No, that rich man was poisoned by some malevolent potion growing within him. But how and why I do not know. Even more mysteriously, someone took those three keys from the chain around his neck, opened the casket, removed the Passio Christi and put the keys back.’