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Authors: Paul Doherty
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fluttering in the wind. If you see or touch it, you die within the day.’
‘What does your Richard of Wallingford say about that?’ Cranston asked sardonically.
‘Something similar,’ Athelstan replied.
He made to walk towards the barricades. One of the archers lifted his bow. Athelstan held his hand up in a gesture of peace and stepped back. The friar sighed and made to go on.
‘Richard of Wallingford says something similar,’ he repeated. ‘He talks of black dogs roaming about at night with burning eyes and mangy coats. Every age,’ Athelstan continued, ‘has its own signs and wonders about the plague.’
‘I know,’ Cranston replied, eager to walk beside the pretty young Alison. ‘When I was a lad, knee-high to a cricket, my grandfather said the plague rode a black horse over London Bridge or floated down the Thames in a sombre barge.’
‘In Epping,’ Alison interrupted, ‘the peasants see the plague as a reaper who digs the earth with his scythe and lets out serpents, black blood and repulsive vermin. Last year, when the pestilence visited the town, a dismal wailing was heard from the cemetery. Some people saw ghosts dancing in the meadows. A taverner claimed he had seen thirty coffins in a neat line covered with black palls. On each stood a dark figure, a gleaming white cross in its hand.’
Athelstan stopped and turned to face the young woman. ‘You are very knowledgeable, mistress. You know of Richard of Wallingford, astronomy, astrology, the Plague Virgin.’
‘My father schooled both myself and Edwin,’ she replied, a slight blush to her cheeks.
Athelstan grasped her fingers. ‘But you don’t study your horn book now?’
She smiled coquettishly and glanced at the friar from under lowering eyelashes.
‘No, Brother, I am a seamstress and a very good one.’ She came closer and kissed Athelstan gently on each cheek. ‘I thank you for your generosity and kindness, Brother. When Edwin is buried, and this is all finished, I shall fashion new altar clothes for your church.’
Athelstan saw Cranston grinning eagerly behind him, thoroughly enjoying his discomfiture. ‘Thank you,’ he murmured and coughed in embarrassment. ‘But we really should move on, Sir John. Mistress Alison, there’s really no need for you to accompany us.’
‘Oh, I couldn’t care less about Peslep,’ she replied. ‘But I want to be there when you visit Edwin’s lodgings.’
They continued across the great open expanse of Smithfield. A water-tippler, who had drunk too deeply, staggered about, the buckets slung over his shoulder slopping out, much to the merriment of a group of ragged-arsed urchins.
Athelstan made for the looming mass of St Bartholomew’s Hospital. At first he thought the crowd assembled there was waiting to make their devotions at the tomb of the Blessed Rahere in the nearby priory or, perhaps, seeking sustenance from the hospital until a shriek of pain curdled his stomach.
‘Oh lord, no!’ Cranston whispered. ‘It’s branding day!’
Athelstan walked more quickly. ‘Don’t look,’ he whispered to Alison. ‘When you pass the door of the hospital, turn away.’
He pulled his cowl over his head, half closed his eyes and recited a prayer. Cranston, walking more leisurely behind, stared over the heads of the crowd to a small platform set up beside the hospital door. Beside it a line of felons from the Fleet and Newgate prisons waited to be branded: an ‘F’ for forger, a ‘B’ for the blasphemer, a ‘T’ for the twice-convicted thief. Pickpockets would have their ears clipped; whores, caught plying their trade within the city limits for the fourth time, had their noses slit. Some bore it stalwartly, others shrieked and protested, crashing their chains about as they were held down by burly city bailiffs.
‘Come, Sir John!’ Athelstan called over his shoulder. ‘This is no place for a lady’
‘It’s no place for anyone,’ Cranston grunted. ‘Now, in my treatise on the
‘What does your Richard of Wallingford say about that?’ Cranston asked sardonically.
‘Something similar,’ Athelstan replied.
He made to walk towards the barricades. One of the archers lifted his bow. Athelstan held his hand up in a gesture of peace and stepped back. The friar sighed and made to go on.
‘Richard of Wallingford says something similar,’ he repeated. ‘He talks of black dogs roaming about at night with burning eyes and mangy coats. Every age,’ Athelstan continued, ‘has its own signs and wonders about the plague.’
‘I know,’ Cranston replied, eager to walk beside the pretty young Alison. ‘When I was a lad, knee-high to a cricket, my grandfather said the plague rode a black horse over London Bridge or floated down the Thames in a sombre barge.’
‘In Epping,’ Alison interrupted, ‘the peasants see the plague as a reaper who digs the earth with his scythe and lets out serpents, black blood and repulsive vermin. Last year, when the pestilence visited the town, a dismal wailing was heard from the cemetery. Some people saw ghosts dancing in the meadows. A taverner claimed he had seen thirty coffins in a neat line covered with black palls. On each stood a dark figure, a gleaming white cross in its hand.’
Athelstan stopped and turned to face the young woman. ‘You are very knowledgeable, mistress. You know of Richard of Wallingford, astronomy, astrology, the Plague Virgin.’
‘My father schooled both myself and Edwin,’ she replied, a slight blush to her cheeks.
Athelstan grasped her fingers. ‘But you don’t study your horn book now?’
She smiled coquettishly and glanced at the friar from under lowering eyelashes.
‘No, Brother, I am a seamstress and a very good one.’ She came closer and kissed Athelstan gently on each cheek. ‘I thank you for your generosity and kindness, Brother. When Edwin is buried, and this is all finished, I shall fashion new altar clothes for your church.’
Athelstan saw Cranston grinning eagerly behind him, thoroughly enjoying his discomfiture. ‘Thank you,’ he murmured and coughed in embarrassment. ‘But we really should move on, Sir John. Mistress Alison, there’s really no need for you to accompany us.’
‘Oh, I couldn’t care less about Peslep,’ she replied. ‘But I want to be there when you visit Edwin’s lodgings.’
They continued across the great open expanse of Smithfield. A water-tippler, who had drunk too deeply, staggered about, the buckets slung over his shoulder slopping out, much to the merriment of a group of ragged-arsed urchins.
Athelstan made for the looming mass of St Bartholomew’s Hospital. At first he thought the crowd assembled there was waiting to make their devotions at the tomb of the Blessed Rahere in the nearby priory or, perhaps, seeking sustenance from the hospital until a shriek of pain curdled his stomach.
‘Oh lord, no!’ Cranston whispered. ‘It’s branding day!’
Athelstan walked more quickly. ‘Don’t look,’ he whispered to Alison. ‘When you pass the door of the hospital, turn away.’
He pulled his cowl over his head, half closed his eyes and recited a prayer. Cranston, walking more leisurely behind, stared over the heads of the crowd to a small platform set up beside the hospital door. Beside it a line of felons from the Fleet and Newgate prisons waited to be branded: an ‘F’ for forger, a ‘B’ for the blasphemer, a ‘T’ for the twice-convicted thief. Pickpockets would have their ears clipped; whores, caught plying their trade within the city limits for the fourth time, had their noses slit. Some bore it stalwartly, others shrieked and protested, crashing their chains about as they were held down by burly city bailiffs.
‘Come, Sir John!’ Athelstan called over his shoulder. ‘This is no place for a lady’
‘It’s no place for anyone,’ Cranston grunted. ‘Now, in my treatise on the
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