The Straw Men(11)

PART TWO





‘Mulcator: Despoiler’




Athelstan crossed on to the bridge, coughing and spluttering at the thick smoke and fumes wafting up from the nearby tanneries. He made his way around the potholes, choked with rank weeds and coarse grass which thrived in the sluggish ooze and slush left by the ebb and flow of the river. So lost in his own thoughts, he was across the bridge before he knew it. Athelstan paused, took a deep breath and made his way up towards St Erconwald’s. Now and again the friar paused to exchange a few words with those he met, especially the Brotherhood of the Cloak. Athelstan always liked to find out what mischief they were plotting. The Brotherhood was really a group of beggars who sometimes used the nave of his parish church for what they called ‘Conclaves of their Pastoral Councils’. The leading light of the Brotherhood was Freelove, a buxom young woman with jet-black hair and cheeky eyes, who was always accompanied by her group of admirers – men who rejoiced in the names of Littlerobin, Rentabut, Eatbread and Godshelf. His brief encounter with these colourful characters calmed Athelstan’s mind, though he told them off roundly when they confessed that they planned to cross the bridge to beg in the city under the guise of poor pilgrims to Jerusalem and elsewhere. To deepen their deception, the Brotherhood had fixed fraudulent scallop shells, sprigs of greenery and small pilgrim medals to their tattered cloaks.

Further up the lane, Athelstan found to his dismay Matilda Milksop, scarcely a gospel greeter at St Erconwald’s, though one who considered herself a member of his parish. Matilda was fastened by her neck and wrists in the stocks. The notice pinned next to her proclaimed, ‘How Matilda Milksop, through her malicious words and abuse, had greatly molested and annoyed her neighbours, sowing envy, discord and ill-will, and oft times defamed and back-bitten many of the same neighbours, so she must be punished as a common scold’. Matilda was crying from the pain and the freezing cold. The bailiff, seated on a stool beside her, chewing one of Merrylegs’ pies with a brimming blackjack of ale from the nearby Piebald tavern, ignored her pleas. Athelstan, having produced a coin and mentioned Cranston’s name more than once, secured Matilda’s release. Once she could stand upright, he helped the woman into the dark, warm stuffiness of the Piebald tavern with strict instructions to Joscelyn, its owner, the one-armed former river pirate, to give her good sustenance. By the time he reached the lychgate of St Erconwald’s, Athelstan felt much better, slightly regretting his treatment of Sir John. He stood just beyond the entrance and stared out over the hard, frozen ground. The ancient headstones and crosses glittered in the frost light, and a small column of smoke curled between the shutters of the death house.

‘Godbless,’ Athelstan shouted, ‘you are well?’

‘God bless you too, Brother,’ the beggar replied. ‘God bless your trousers and all you have in them. Thaddeus and I are warm and snug. Mistress Benedicta gave me a bowl of stewed pottage and a jug of ale. We are as merry as robins.’ Athelstan smiled and went up the path through the main door of the church. A strong flutter of torch light further up the northern transept showed only Huddle, ably assisted by the anchorite, busy in what both proclaimed to be their ‘Magnum Opus’, an eye-catching, vivid portrayal of the Seven Deadly Sins. Huddle had finished Greed and was now busy on Pride, ‘that great snare of the devil’, as Huddle had written in the scrolled tag at the bottom of the painting.

Both artists acknowledged Athelstan as he walked over to them, but they were really lost in their creation, almost impervious to his presence. Athelstan stopped to admire the work. Huddle had taken as his theme for Pride the fall of Lucifer from Paradise. The painting depicted fanged, clawed and cloven-hoofed demons as well as bat-winged, sooty hobgoblins, the usual citizens of Hell. Lucifer, however, was totally different. Still an archangel, he fell from Paradise in a thick ream of golden stars while the rebel angels he had seduced flowed after him like brilliant tongues of fire. Lucifer was no creature of the dark pit but a beautiful young man, blond curls framed a face of serious sweet youthfulness; his body glowed white and pure as the driven snow; his limbs were perfectly proportioned. Athelstan was tempted to ask how Huddle had devised such an original treatment but he and the anchorite were locked in deep discussion about the mixing of paints, so he left them to it and returned to the priest’s house. He first checked that Philomel the old war horse was, as Crim the altar boy declared, ‘still breathing’. He certainly was, chewing slowly on a bundle of sweetened hay. Athelstan patted and blessed him and crossed to the priest’s house. He found the secret place where Benedicta had left the key, unlocked the door and walked into the cold, stone-flagged kitchen.