Athelstan blushed. He dare not ask how Cranston knew about Benedicta. The coroner laughed and was still bellowing with mirth as Athelstan urged his horse forward out into the street. He still retained the staff Cranston had bought him. On the journey home he felt slightly ridiculous, like some broken-down knight preparing for a tournament. He tried to ignore the murmured whispers and laughter as he made his way through the streets across London Bridge and back into Southwark. He thought over the attack but felt no fear. The danger from the footpad, the silent assassin, was always present, here in his church or across the river. Athelstan stopped his horse outside St Erconwald’s and thought about that further. Suddenly he realised he had no fear of death. Why? Because of his brother? Because of his priesthood? Or because his conscience was clear? Then he thought of Benedicta and felt a twinge of doubt.

That night, whilst Sir John roistered in his house like Hector home from the wars, Athelstan fed Philomel and Bonaventure. He promised himself he would not go up to the tower to observe the stars. Instead he went into his own church, secured the door, lit candles and took them to his small carrel where he placed his writing tray. He chose a piece of smooth parchment and began to write down everything that had happened since he first went to the Springall mansion. He was sitting there, half dozing over what he had written, when there was a loud knocking on the door. At first he refused to answer, then realised that no assassin would make such a noise so went down to the door and called out: ‘Who’s there?’

‘Rosamund, Brother!’

Athelstan recognised the voice of the eldest daughter of Pike the ditcher. He unlocked the door and peered out into the darkness. A fresh-faced young girl burbled out her news. How her mother had just given birth to another child, her fifth, this time a boy. Athelstan smiled and mumbled his congratulations. The little girl looked at him solemnly.

‘Mother wishes you to choose a name.’

Athelstan smiled and acknowledged the great honour.

‘She wants a saint’s name, Brother.’

Athelstan promised he would do what he could and hoped to see her and her family as soon as possible. He heard the girl run back down the steps and her footsteps faded in the distance. He locked the door and went back to the carrel. Athelstan picked up the piece of parchment and the candle, scrutinising what he had written. He shook his head. He was too tired for work but felt he must continue otherwise he would think back to Cranston’s words about Benedicta. Idly, he wondered if the widow would accompany him. After all, there would be nothing wrong in a day out for both of them. ‘Christ had his friends,’ he kept murmuring to himself. He thought of little Rosamund and went to the high altar where the great missal lay. The friar opened the book, turning to the back where a previous incumbent had written the names of all the saints, listing in a neat hand which guild, craft or profession they were patrons of. Joseph, Athelstan grinned, patron saint of undertakers and mortuary men. The friar laughed. Joseph of Arimithea -the only man he ever buried was alive and well three days later! Perhaps not the best saint the church should have chosen for such a profession. His eyes ran down the list, looking for a suitable saint’s name. Suddenly he saw one and stopped, his heart pounding with excitement. He was fully awake. He looked at the name again and the craft and guild of which he was patron. Was it possible? Was it really possible?