The Straw Men

Cranston sighed noisily. ‘You’re needed.’ He beckoned. ‘Master Thibault wants you, so collect your cloak and writing satchel.’ Cranston gestured where the friar had laid these over a small trestle table. ‘Tell the widow woman and the rest to look after your church. A bloody business awaits us.’
‘What, Sir John?’ Athelstan’s stomach lurched. He recollected how most of his parishioners had attended Mass except for Ranulf the rat catcher, who’d burst in so unexpectedly.
‘We will talk as we walk,’ the coroner smiled, ‘or at least try to.’
They re-entered the deserted sanctuary. Benedicta was lighting a taper in the Lady Chapel. Athelstan quickly whispered to her that she and Crim look after the church and the priest’s house, for God only knew at what hour he would return.
‘Be careful, Father.’ The widow woman’s lovely face creased with worry. Her anxious eyes held those of this celibate priest whom she loved so much, she had to be shriven at another church in the city. After all, how could she confess her most secret thoughts to the man who was the very cause and root of such thoughts?
‘Be careful, Athelstan, please.’
‘What, Benedicta…’
She grasped his hand in her mittened fingers. ‘Father?’ She looked over her shoulder at Cranston standing further down the church, admiring Huddle the painter’s most recent offering, ably assisted by the Anchorite, a vivid warning against pride.
‘Benedicta?’
‘Father, I have heard rumours. They have trapped some Upright Men in the Roundhoop, a tavern near the Tower…’
‘Brother Athelstan!’ Cranston was marching towards the door. The friar squeezed Benedicta’s hand, raised his eyes heavenwards and hurried after him. Cranston was standing on the top step outside the church, glaring across at Watkin, Pike, Ranulf and others huddled together like the conspirators they were.
‘Keep well away from the Roundhoop!’ Cranston roared. ‘I do not want to see any of you fine fellows across the bridge. Do you understand?’ Watkin detached himself from the group as if to challenge the coroner, who went down the steps, hand resting on the hilt of his sword.
‘Watkin!’ Athelstan warned, coming out of the church, shifting the strap of his writing satchel more comfortably around his neck.
‘Watkin,’ he repeated, ‘go into God’s Acre. Make sure Godbless has enough to keep himself and Thaddeus warm and fed.’ Athelstan forced a smile at the thought of that omnivorous goat ever going hungry. ‘Merrylegs!’ Athelstan beckoned at the pie-shop owner. ‘I will need two of your pies by the time I return. Huddle, you are being given money to finish the Fall of Pride. Ask the anchorite for his advice.’ Athelstan walked down the steps, calling each parishioner by name, giving them either work or advice. The group broke up. Athelstan crossed himself in gratitude. He must not lose his temper. He closed his eyes and whispered the prayer he always did after the Eucharist.
‘Jesus Lord, welcome thou me
In form of bread as I see thee
Jesus, for thy holy name,
Shield me today from sin and shame.’
He opened his eyes. Cranston, despite his bulk and swagger, had come quietly up beside him and was now staring at him curiously.
‘Sir John, I am ready.’
They left the enclosure, going up the alleyway to the main lane leading down to London Bridge. Flaxwith, Cranston’s principal bailiff, together with his mastiff, which Athelstan secretly considered to have the ugliest face in London after its owner, were waiting, swaddled in their heavy cloaks. Flaxwith, along with other members of Cranston’s comitatus, had cornered a relic-seller, who bleatingly introduced himself as ‘John of Burgundy’, more popularly known as ‘Bearded John’. This counterfeit man owned a little fosser of blue and black satin holding what he proclaimed to be the most holy relics, including a finger of one of the Holy Innocents and a bone of one of the Eleven Thousand Virgin Martyrs of Cologne, as well as a piece of rock from where God met Moses. The relic-seller, eyes bright in his chapped face, babbled like a babe. Cranston heard his patter then thrust the fosser back into the man’s trembling hands.
‘John of Burgundy, be gone,’ the coroner whispered, pushing him away. ‘Today, we hunt greater prey.’
‘I did hear…’ Bearded John babbled.
‘Yes, yes, I’m sure you did.’ Cranston thrust him out of the way and continued on. Athelstan had to hurry to keep up. He felt like reminding the coroner how he would like to know what was happening but the noise and bustle of the streets made that impossible. The snow clouds had broken and a weak sun had brought out the crowds. For the last few days the grey, icy frostiness had stifled trade and imprisoned people in their chambers and garrets. Now, even this mild change in the weather had enticed them out. Everybody wanted to trade, sale, buy, beg or steal, not to mention visit the cook shops, wine booths, alehouses and taverns. An enterprising leech had set up shop close to Sweet Apple Court, a name Athelstan considered to be the most blatant lie in Southwark as the enclosure was as filthy and stinking as any piggery. Nevertheless, in spite of the reeking odours, the leech had gathered a crowd, assuring all and sundry that if they adjourned to his chambers in nearby Firkin alley, he would examine their urine and let a little blood. Afterwards he would provide them with his miraculous elixir, the cheapest sort containing cloves, nutmeg, mace and similar ingredients; the more expensive, ‘for the more discerning’, would be made up of ambergris, juniper and white frankincense. Athelstan, bemused, shook his head, constantly surprised at the sheer gullibility of the human heart. He walked on cautiously. The ground underfoot was frozen, the rutted ice covering the filthy slops and congealed mud. Athelstan murmured a prayer for safety to St Christopher as he dodged sumpter ponies, high-wheeled carts and lumbering oxen. A stiff river breeze blew a cauldron of smells and odours, a rich stew of fish, spices, fried meat and freshly baked bread along with the stench of animal dung and