caught her husband’s arm.
‘You’re supposed to be St Peter!’ she shouted. ‘But Watkin will distribute the parts as he thinks fit.’
Husband and wife, now firm allies, headed off in the direction of St Erconwald’s. Athelstan continued on his way, past the priory of St Mary Overy to the approaches of London Bridge. At the roadside the beadles were busy meting out punishments. Two dyers, who had used dog turds to make a brown dye that washed out in the first shower, were standing, bare-arsed, with only a scrap of cloth covering their privy parts, tied hand and foot to each other. They would stand there until sunset. The stocks and pillories were also full with the usual malefactors – footpads and other petty villains who regarded capture and a day’s confinement as an occupational hazard. However, the death-cart had arrived and stood now beneath the high-beamed scaffold. A felon, the noose already around his neck, was proclaiming, to the utter indifference of the crowd, that he was an innocent man. The condemned man’s face, almost hidden by his ragged hair and beard, was sunburnt. When he saw Athelstan, he jumped up and down in the cart.
‘There’s a priest!’ he shouted. There’s a priest! I want to be shriven! I don’t want to go to hell!’
Athelstan groaned as Bladdersniff the bailiff came towards him, his vinegarish face looking even more sour than usual.
‘We haven’t been able to find a priest to hear his confession,’ Bladdersniff said. ‘He killed a whore in a tavern brawl, was caught red-handed and spent the night in the compter drunk as a pig.’ Bladdersniff clutched Philomel’s reins and swayed dangerously.
You’re none too sober yourself, Athelstan thought. He dismounted, threw the reins at Bladdersniff and climbed up into the death-cart. The condemned felon was pleased, whether at the postponement of his execution or at the appearance of spiritual comfort Athelstan could not decide. The black-masked hangman, Simon, who also worked as a scullion in Merrylegs’s pie shop, pulled the noose from the man’s neck, smiled through his executioner’s mask at Athelstan, jumped off the cart and walked out of earshot.
‘Sit down,’ Athelstan said. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Robard.’
‘And where do you come from?’
‘I was born in Norwich.’
‘And how have you lived? What have you done?’
‘Oh, I was a sailor, Father.’ He pulled back the rags of his jerkin to reveal a shrivelled arm. ‘That’s until someone poured boiling oil over me.’
‘Did you know Captain Roffel?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Captain Roffel!’ Robard replied, his whiskered face breaking into a gap-toothed grin. ‘Yes, I knew him, Father – the biggest pirate this side of Dover. A real killer, Father.’ Robard belched a gust of stale-ale fumes into Athelstan’s face. ‘He was also a bugger.’ Robard looked apologetic. ‘I mean in the real sense, Father. He liked little boys and pretty young men. Always touching them on the buttocks, he was. But he never touched mine, more’s the pity. If he liked you, good rations always came your way.’
‘Your confession,’ Athelstan reminded him.
‘Oh yes, Father.’ The felon sketched the sign of the cross. ‘Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s thirty years since I was shriven. I confess all.’
‘What do you mean?’ Athelstan asked.
‘I confess all,’ Robard declared. ‘You name it, Father, I’ve done it. I have shagged women, boys and, on one occasion, even a sheep. I have stolen men’s property, even their wives. I curse every hour I am awake. I have never been to church.’ The man’s eyes suddenly filled with tears. ‘You know, Father, I have done bugger-all in this life. I have not done one good thing!’ He blinked and looked at the friar. ‘I have never shown any love but, there again, I’ve been shown bugger-all myself! I don’t know my father. My mother dumped me on a church’s steps when I was two summers old.’
‘You’re supposed to be St Peter!’ she shouted. ‘But Watkin will distribute the parts as he thinks fit.’
Husband and wife, now firm allies, headed off in the direction of St Erconwald’s. Athelstan continued on his way, past the priory of St Mary Overy to the approaches of London Bridge. At the roadside the beadles were busy meting out punishments. Two dyers, who had used dog turds to make a brown dye that washed out in the first shower, were standing, bare-arsed, with only a scrap of cloth covering their privy parts, tied hand and foot to each other. They would stand there until sunset. The stocks and pillories were also full with the usual malefactors – footpads and other petty villains who regarded capture and a day’s confinement as an occupational hazard. However, the death-cart had arrived and stood now beneath the high-beamed scaffold. A felon, the noose already around his neck, was proclaiming, to the utter indifference of the crowd, that he was an innocent man. The condemned man’s face, almost hidden by his ragged hair and beard, was sunburnt. When he saw Athelstan, he jumped up and down in the cart.
‘There’s a priest!’ he shouted. There’s a priest! I want to be shriven! I don’t want to go to hell!’
Athelstan groaned as Bladdersniff the bailiff came towards him, his vinegarish face looking even more sour than usual.
‘We haven’t been able to find a priest to hear his confession,’ Bladdersniff said. ‘He killed a whore in a tavern brawl, was caught red-handed and spent the night in the compter drunk as a pig.’ Bladdersniff clutched Philomel’s reins and swayed dangerously.
You’re none too sober yourself, Athelstan thought. He dismounted, threw the reins at Bladdersniff and climbed up into the death-cart. The condemned felon was pleased, whether at the postponement of his execution or at the appearance of spiritual comfort Athelstan could not decide. The black-masked hangman, Simon, who also worked as a scullion in Merrylegs’s pie shop, pulled the noose from the man’s neck, smiled through his executioner’s mask at Athelstan, jumped off the cart and walked out of earshot.
‘Sit down,’ Athelstan said. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Robard.’
‘And where do you come from?’
‘I was born in Norwich.’
‘And how have you lived? What have you done?’
‘Oh, I was a sailor, Father.’ He pulled back the rags of his jerkin to reveal a shrivelled arm. ‘That’s until someone poured boiling oil over me.’
‘Did you know Captain Roffel?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Captain Roffel!’ Robard replied, his whiskered face breaking into a gap-toothed grin. ‘Yes, I knew him, Father – the biggest pirate this side of Dover. A real killer, Father.’ Robard belched a gust of stale-ale fumes into Athelstan’s face. ‘He was also a bugger.’ Robard looked apologetic. ‘I mean in the real sense, Father. He liked little boys and pretty young men. Always touching them on the buttocks, he was. But he never touched mine, more’s the pity. If he liked you, good rations always came your way.’
‘Your confession,’ Athelstan reminded him.
‘Oh yes, Father.’ The felon sketched the sign of the cross. ‘Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s thirty years since I was shriven. I confess all.’
‘What do you mean?’ Athelstan asked.
‘I confess all,’ Robard declared. ‘You name it, Father, I’ve done it. I have shagged women, boys and, on one occasion, even a sheep. I have stolen men’s property, even their wives. I curse every hour I am awake. I have never been to church.’ The man’s eyes suddenly filled with tears. ‘You know, Father, I have done bugger-all in this life. I have not done one good thing!’ He blinked and looked at the friar. ‘I have never shown any love but, there again, I’ve been shown bugger-all myself! I don’t know my father. My mother dumped me on a church’s steps when I was two summers old.’
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