‘Now hold that and, as I walk through the street, you go before me carrying the light. And here,’ he went behind the altar and took a small bell, ‘you ring this. Now, if the candle goes out, don’t be afraid. Just keep on walking and ringing the bell. You know where we are going?’

The little boy, round-eyed, shook his head.

‘To Hob the grave-digger.’

‘Oh. He’s dying, Father!’

‘Yes, Crim, I know. And he must die with Christ, so it’s important we get there. Do you understand?’

The little fellow nodded solemnly. Athelstan, taking the keys from his belt, went up beneath the winking red sanctuary lamp and opened the tabernacle door. He took out the Viaticum, placing it in a small leather pouch which he slung round his neck, then went into the sacristy to collect the church’s one and only cope. A faded, red and gold garment, showing the Holy Spirit as a dove with one wing, sending faded rays down on an even more faded Christ. Athelstan wrapped the cope around him and, telling Crim to go forward, they left the church, processing down the steps and into the maze of Southwark streets. Athelstan was always surprised at the effect he caused; here he was in a place where men died for the price of a few coins, but at the sight of the lighted wax candle, the sound of the small tinkling bell and him swathed in a cope, the coarsest men and women stood aside as if they acknowledged the great mysteries he carried.

Hob’s cottage was a dour, earth-floored building divided into three rooms; one a bedroom for Hob and his wife, the second for his four children, the third a scullery and eating-place. It was poor but swept clean, a few pewter pots and pans, scrubbed in boiling water, hanging from nails in the wall. Inside, at the far end of the hut, Hob lay on a bed, his face white, the red blood frothing at his lips. Athelstan blessed the man, holding his hand, reassuring his good wife that all would be well whilst trying not to look at the blood. He gave the man the Viaticum and blessed him, anointing him on the head, chest, hands and feet. Afterwards he had a few words with Hob’s wife, the children cowering around her. Athelstan promised he would do something to help her and left quietly, the cope still round his shoulders, Crim jumping up and down in front of him all the way back to the church.

Ranulf the rat-catcher was waiting for him just outside the door, a sleek, well-fed Bonaventure in his hands. He waited until Athelstan had put the black pouch back into the tabernacle and Crim had taken his penny and fled like the wind, before putting the cat down and approaching Athelstan.

‘I found him waiting, Father, but if you want to sell him?’

Athelstan smiled.