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Authors: Paul Doherty
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on.’
‘Can I come with you?’ Alison picked up her cloak and swung it round her shoulders. ‘I have lodgings at the Silver Lute.’ She added hastily, ‘On the corner of Milk Street.’
‘Of course,’ Athelstan replied. ‘You are more than welcome, mistress! Your belongings?’ he asked.
‘They are already there,’ she replied.
The young woman picked up her leather bag and made to swing it over her shoulder. Cranston gallantly took it from her. They made their farewells and left the Chancery. Outside, in the street, Athelstan paused.
‘Daydreaming, monk?’
‘No, Sir John.’ Athelstan smiled at Alison. ‘This friar is just thinking. There was something wrong with those young men.’ He rubbed his hands together. ‘Nothing of substance, just a look, a glance.’
‘What makes you say that, Brother?’ Alison asked.
Cranston brought his hand down on Athelstan’s shoulder. ‘Because, mistress, he has the mind of a veritable ferret, always scurrying about for the truth, and, if he’s not doing that, he’s listening to those woebegone parishioners of his or sitting on his tower staring up at the stars.’
‘You study the heavens, Father?’
Athelstan smiled at the young woman’s sweet face. ‘Why yes, and as I walk I’ll tell you about a book I’m reading by a monk called Richard of Wallingford. He was abbot of St Albans . . .’
Athelstan, pleased to find someone so avidly interested in the works of astrology and astronomy, briskly chattered on. Cranston, rather sulkily, hung back, now and again muttering to himself about bloody monks and stars or taking an occasional swig from his miraculous wineskin.
They made their way along Holborn. The crowds had thinned; only the solitary cart, a late arrival at the markets, or the usual travellers, journeymen and chapmen were travelling into the city. Athelstan found Alison a ready listener with a keen interest in the working of astrology and astronomy, particularly in the effect of Saturn on men’s affairs. Only once, as they passed Cock Lane, the usual haunt of prostitutes, did Athelstan stop. Usually the mouth of the alleyway was thronged with whores in garish wigs and even more colourful garb touting for custom. If they ever glimpsed Sir John, the air would ring with their catcalls and lurid descriptions of what they would do to him. However, this morning the entire area was quiet, not a whore in sight. Instead the alleyway was sealed off by two great timbers placed across the entrance and guarded by a line of archers. These were all dressed in black, a hood of the same colour covering their faces. They were armed with sword and dagger, quivers on their backs; in their hands the longbows were already strung, an arrow notched to the string. Over the wooden barrier someone had draped a piece of white cloth bearing a large red cross with the words ‘Jesu Miserere’ scrawled beneath.
‘Lord have mercy on us!’ Cranston whispered. ‘The plague is here!’
Athelstan felt the hairs prickle at the back of his neck; one of the great nightmares of London had returned. Every so often the pestilential miasma would seep into the city. Sometimes it would infect every place; at others, like now, just one alleyway, street or quarter would be blighted. When this happened all the inhabitants were locked and barred in their houses, dying in bed together. Children would cry beside the corpses of their parents; priests would refuse to administer the sacraments, doctors decline to visit; even the gravediggers would not touch the dead.
‘The Plague Virgin!’ Alison whispered.
‘The what?’ Cranston asked, staring across at the barricades.
‘A Norfolk legend,’ the woman replied. ‘The Plague Virgin’s a spectre who flies through the air like a bluish flame and stops at the place of her choice. She then takes human form and goes from house to house anointing doors and windows with her feverish poison. Sometimes you can even glimpse her blood-red scarf
‘Can I come with you?’ Alison picked up her cloak and swung it round her shoulders. ‘I have lodgings at the Silver Lute.’ She added hastily, ‘On the corner of Milk Street.’
‘Of course,’ Athelstan replied. ‘You are more than welcome, mistress! Your belongings?’ he asked.
‘They are already there,’ she replied.
The young woman picked up her leather bag and made to swing it over her shoulder. Cranston gallantly took it from her. They made their farewells and left the Chancery. Outside, in the street, Athelstan paused.
‘Daydreaming, monk?’
‘No, Sir John.’ Athelstan smiled at Alison. ‘This friar is just thinking. There was something wrong with those young men.’ He rubbed his hands together. ‘Nothing of substance, just a look, a glance.’
‘What makes you say that, Brother?’ Alison asked.
Cranston brought his hand down on Athelstan’s shoulder. ‘Because, mistress, he has the mind of a veritable ferret, always scurrying about for the truth, and, if he’s not doing that, he’s listening to those woebegone parishioners of his or sitting on his tower staring up at the stars.’
‘You study the heavens, Father?’
Athelstan smiled at the young woman’s sweet face. ‘Why yes, and as I walk I’ll tell you about a book I’m reading by a monk called Richard of Wallingford. He was abbot of St Albans . . .’
Athelstan, pleased to find someone so avidly interested in the works of astrology and astronomy, briskly chattered on. Cranston, rather sulkily, hung back, now and again muttering to himself about bloody monks and stars or taking an occasional swig from his miraculous wineskin.
They made their way along Holborn. The crowds had thinned; only the solitary cart, a late arrival at the markets, or the usual travellers, journeymen and chapmen were travelling into the city. Athelstan found Alison a ready listener with a keen interest in the working of astrology and astronomy, particularly in the effect of Saturn on men’s affairs. Only once, as they passed Cock Lane, the usual haunt of prostitutes, did Athelstan stop. Usually the mouth of the alleyway was thronged with whores in garish wigs and even more colourful garb touting for custom. If they ever glimpsed Sir John, the air would ring with their catcalls and lurid descriptions of what they would do to him. However, this morning the entire area was quiet, not a whore in sight. Instead the alleyway was sealed off by two great timbers placed across the entrance and guarded by a line of archers. These were all dressed in black, a hood of the same colour covering their faces. They were armed with sword and dagger, quivers on their backs; in their hands the longbows were already strung, an arrow notched to the string. Over the wooden barrier someone had draped a piece of white cloth bearing a large red cross with the words ‘Jesu Miserere’ scrawled beneath.
‘Lord have mercy on us!’ Cranston whispered. ‘The plague is here!’
Athelstan felt the hairs prickle at the back of his neck; one of the great nightmares of London had returned. Every so often the pestilential miasma would seep into the city. Sometimes it would infect every place; at others, like now, just one alleyway, street or quarter would be blighted. When this happened all the inhabitants were locked and barred in their houses, dying in bed together. Children would cry beside the corpses of their parents; priests would refuse to administer the sacraments, doctors decline to visit; even the gravediggers would not touch the dead.
‘The Plague Virgin!’ Alison whispered.
‘The what?’ Cranston asked, staring across at the barricades.
‘A Norfolk legend,’ the woman replied. ‘The Plague Virgin’s a spectre who flies through the air like a bluish flame and stops at the place of her choice. She then takes human form and goes from house to house anointing doors and windows with her feverish poison. Sometimes you can even glimpse her blood-red scarf
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