After he had stabled Philomel, Athelstan remembered the verses from Scripture and studied the great leather-bound Bible that he kept chained in his house’s one and only cupboard. Genesis 3, Verse 1: ‘The serpent was the most subtle of all wild beasts in that garden God had made.’ Athelstan translated as he read aloud: ‘Did God really say you were not to eat any of this tree in the garden?’ And the other text, the Book of the Apocalypse 6, Verse 8: ‘I heard the voice,’ Athelstan murmured, ‘of the fourth animal shout “Come!” and immediately another horse appeared, deathly pale, and its rider was called Death and all Hell followed at its heels.’

What could they possibly mean? Somehow Athelstan knew these texts were the key to the mystery. And Sir John? Athelstan wondered whether he should eat a hasty evening meal and go back across the city and make his peace. But he felt tired, he’d had enough, such matters would wait.

He went out and unlocked the church and checked that all was well. He took a pitcher of water for Philomel and a dish of creamy milk for Bonaventure. He’d bought the latter just after he had crossed London Bridge. Still feeling perturbed, he went back into his house, lay on his pallet bed and stared up at the flaking ceiling. He tried to compose himself, first with a psalm, ‘Exsurge Domine, Exsurge et vindica causam meam - Rise, oh Lord, rise and judge my cause.’

Athelstan let his mind drift, back to Cranston and the startled, frightened face of Lady Isabella. Athelstan shook his head free of such images. He wondered what the evening sky would be like and if Father Prior would send him a copy of the writings of Richard of Wallingford. Once Abbot of St Albans, Richard had invented the most wondrous instrument for measuring and fixing the stars. Athelstan had talked to another friar who had seen Wallingford’s ingenious clock, the wheels within it fixed as if by magic, which not only measured the hours but indicated signs, the phases of the moon, the position of the sun, the planets and the heavens. Athelstan licked his lips. He would give a fortune for one of those. Everything he owned just to have it in his hands for a few hours. Perhaps Father Prior would help? He’d already asked for a copy of the calendars of the Carmelite, Nicholas of Lyn.

The ceiling reminded him about the church, the roof had been mended but really it was little more than a pig sty. He heard voices outside his door, rose in just his robe, peered out of the window and groaned quietly. Of course, he had forgotten, the meeting with his parishioners! They were to assemble in the nave and discuss the pageant for Corpus Christi.