standing.’
‘And when will St Michael come?’
‘Why sir, the year of Our Lord, thirteen eighty-one.’
‘Why not thirteen eighty-two?’ Athelstan asked.
‘One, three, eight and one make thirteen!’ came the sharp reply. ‘If you count the figures together, they come to thirteen. Now one and three is four, and we are the Four Gospels preparing the way!’
Athelstan gaped in astonishment. Of all the theories he’d heard, both sublime and ridiculous, this was the most bizarre. Yet the Four Gospels seemed harmless enough, probably swinging between sanctity and madness. He smiled to himself. Prior Anselm always believed the line between the two was very thin.
Sir John pointed to the gap in the hedge. ‘And you go out there on to the mud flats to watch and wait?’
‘Oh, yes, even at night.’
First Gospel got to his feet and led them through the gap in the hawthorn hedge. Athelstan was immediately caught by the contrast. It was like moving from one country to another. The lush green meadow, the sweet smell of cooking, the perfume of the flowers, gave way to the mud flats along the Thames, which even in the sunlight looked bleak and forbidding. The ground fell away like a sea shore, the steep incline cut by a barrier wall, probably built to resist flooding though the stones were crumbling and mildewed. He and Sir John made their way carefully down and stood on that. Beyond it the broad mud flats were dotted with pools, the hunting ground of gulls and cormorants which rose in clusters and with loud shrieks. The tide was still ebbing, the river itself quite peaceful now. Only the occasional barge or wherry, bearing the royal arms, made its way along to the Tower quayside.
‘What is this?’ Athelstan tapped his sandalled foot on the wall.
‘Widow Vestler said it was Roman but that sharp lawyer of hers, Hengan, he came down here once to make sure all was well. He said all these lands once belonged to Gundulf, the man who built the Tower.’
‘And why did Widow Vestler let you stay here?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Oh, she’s kind-hearted, very generous. She gives us food and drink, says we are harmless enough.’
Athelstan glanced at the base of the wall and noticed the ground was charred and burned. The embers looked fresh.
‘What is this?’ He pointed.
‘Widow Vestler allows us to build a fire at night and put an oil lamp here. We asked her permission,’ First Gospel added warningly.
‘Of course,’ Sir John agreed. ‘Just in case St Michael comes by night and can’t see his way.’
‘Oh, Sir John, you are a wise man,’ one of the female Gospels simpered, standing behind them.
‘Flattery! Flattery!’ Athelstan nudged the coroner in the ribs. ‘Another admirer, eh, Sir Jack!’
He glimpsed one of the standards flying from a passing barge and recalled Sir John’s outburst in the Guildhall. He climbed down from the wall, tugging at the coroner’s sleeve.
‘Sir Jack, you mentioned that you know one of the victims?’
Cranston tapped his forehead with the heel of his hand.
‘Lord save us, friar, I did.’ He led Athelstan away from the Four Gospels. ‘I am sorry, in the excitement I forgot but, look you Brother, I glimpsed that messenger wearing the royal livery in the Guildhall, yes?’
Athelstan nodded.
Sir John swallowed hard. ‘I believe that young man, the victim who had no boots, he, too, was a royal messenger. And, unless my memory fails me, a principal one.’
Athelstan’s face paled. ‘Oh no!’ he groaned.
Sir John himself looked worried, clicking his tongue.
‘I think he was called Miles Sholter.’
‘Heaven forfend!’
‘According to the law,’ Sir John continued, ‘if a royal messenger is killed, the parish or village in which his corpse is found is liable to a heavy fine unless it produces the murderer.’ He looked over his shoulder to where the Four Gospels were chattering excitedly among themselves. ‘Southwark is known as a nest of sedition and rebellion.
‘And when will St Michael come?’
‘Why sir, the year of Our Lord, thirteen eighty-one.’
‘Why not thirteen eighty-two?’ Athelstan asked.
‘One, three, eight and one make thirteen!’ came the sharp reply. ‘If you count the figures together, they come to thirteen. Now one and three is four, and we are the Four Gospels preparing the way!’
Athelstan gaped in astonishment. Of all the theories he’d heard, both sublime and ridiculous, this was the most bizarre. Yet the Four Gospels seemed harmless enough, probably swinging between sanctity and madness. He smiled to himself. Prior Anselm always believed the line between the two was very thin.
Sir John pointed to the gap in the hedge. ‘And you go out there on to the mud flats to watch and wait?’
‘Oh, yes, even at night.’
First Gospel got to his feet and led them through the gap in the hawthorn hedge. Athelstan was immediately caught by the contrast. It was like moving from one country to another. The lush green meadow, the sweet smell of cooking, the perfume of the flowers, gave way to the mud flats along the Thames, which even in the sunlight looked bleak and forbidding. The ground fell away like a sea shore, the steep incline cut by a barrier wall, probably built to resist flooding though the stones were crumbling and mildewed. He and Sir John made their way carefully down and stood on that. Beyond it the broad mud flats were dotted with pools, the hunting ground of gulls and cormorants which rose in clusters and with loud shrieks. The tide was still ebbing, the river itself quite peaceful now. Only the occasional barge or wherry, bearing the royal arms, made its way along to the Tower quayside.
‘What is this?’ Athelstan tapped his sandalled foot on the wall.
‘Widow Vestler said it was Roman but that sharp lawyer of hers, Hengan, he came down here once to make sure all was well. He said all these lands once belonged to Gundulf, the man who built the Tower.’
‘And why did Widow Vestler let you stay here?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Oh, she’s kind-hearted, very generous. She gives us food and drink, says we are harmless enough.’
Athelstan glanced at the base of the wall and noticed the ground was charred and burned. The embers looked fresh.
‘What is this?’ He pointed.
‘Widow Vestler allows us to build a fire at night and put an oil lamp here. We asked her permission,’ First Gospel added warningly.
‘Of course,’ Sir John agreed. ‘Just in case St Michael comes by night and can’t see his way.’
‘Oh, Sir John, you are a wise man,’ one of the female Gospels simpered, standing behind them.
‘Flattery! Flattery!’ Athelstan nudged the coroner in the ribs. ‘Another admirer, eh, Sir Jack!’
He glimpsed one of the standards flying from a passing barge and recalled Sir John’s outburst in the Guildhall. He climbed down from the wall, tugging at the coroner’s sleeve.
‘Sir Jack, you mentioned that you know one of the victims?’
Cranston tapped his forehead with the heel of his hand.
‘Lord save us, friar, I did.’ He led Athelstan away from the Four Gospels. ‘I am sorry, in the excitement I forgot but, look you Brother, I glimpsed that messenger wearing the royal livery in the Guildhall, yes?’
Athelstan nodded.
Sir John swallowed hard. ‘I believe that young man, the victim who had no boots, he, too, was a royal messenger. And, unless my memory fails me, a principal one.’
Athelstan’s face paled. ‘Oh no!’ he groaned.
Sir John himself looked worried, clicking his tongue.
‘I think he was called Miles Sholter.’
‘Heaven forfend!’
‘According to the law,’ Sir John continued, ‘if a royal messenger is killed, the parish or village in which his corpse is found is liable to a heavy fine unless it produces the murderer.’ He looked over his shoulder to where the Four Gospels were chattering excitedly among themselves. ‘Southwark is known as a nest of sedition and rebellion.
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