The bishop pricked a finger, brought it to his mouth. ‘The thistle is important to the Scots, I’m told,’ he said with a smack of his lips. ‘Perhaps some new Robert de Bruce is on the rise.’ His voice sounded almost jocular now, as if he were putting me on.
I looked at his rounded back. ‘With respect, your lordship, the work your friar just recited is written in a modern fashion – its style, its rhythm. It sounds like the story of King Horne, or that vision of Piers the Ploughman that was so much in favour around the Rising. I have to say, I’m surprised so much is being made of an obvious forgery.’
He turned to look at me. ‘The thing could have been written by anyone schooled in our nation’s chronicles. Is that what you are thinking, Gower?’
Finally some sense. ‘The church is familiar with false prophets, my lord.’
With an audible crack of his long spine, Braybrooke stood, flicking dirt off his hands. ‘Your scepticism is admirable, Gower, and matches my own.’ An attendant stepped forward with a bowl. Braybrooke dipped his hands and wiped them on a cloth. He turned to the friars and canon, who robed and capped him. He waved off his mitre like a cat refusing tack.
‘We are men of the law, Gower,’ he continued as we walked to the river. ‘I serve the church now, but I still have faith in our earthly institutions. The crown, Parliament, even the courts. You know all too well how my trust was once challenged in this regard, John, and I’m still grateful for the compassion you showed.’
It was a rare moment of candour from Braybrooke, whose ambition often outstripped his memory. I murmured my thanks.
He puffed his cheeks, blew air. ‘My contempt for Lancaster is no secret.’
‘I’ve witnessed it.’
‘Heresy and war arrange us in peculiar alliances.’ He said nothing of Oxford, though I assumed he was thinking of the earl. ‘If the reports I have received are accurate, the thirteenth prophecy is known only to a few.’
‘The thirteenth prophecy?’
‘England has had thirteen kings since the conquest.’ He waited a moment, then said, ‘Thirteen, including William.’
‘Yet if William—’ I stopped walking, finally understanding, and feeling like a fool.
He stepped down on to the Fulham quay. ‘Now you know why a man in my position would be anxious to root out this book before the thirteenth prophecy becomes known, let alone realized. My friar, Brother Thomas back there, has heard only whisperings of its content, but apparently it implicates someone quite close to the king. Who that might be we don’t yet know, though one can guess. So you see it hardly matters whether the De Mortibus is a genuine work of prophecy or a clever forgery. If word of the last prophecy were to get out …’ He looked at me.
‘Yes, my lord.’ A missing book, a girl murdered in the Moorfields, and now this. ‘The thirteenth prophecy, then, concerns—’
‘The death of King Richard. Still a boy, really, but with all the world on his shoulders.’ He gazed across to the far bank. ‘Whatever Chaucer is paying you to find this book, I will give you double if you bring it to me instead, Gower. Triple.’ With that the Bishop of London turned from me, walked up the embankment, and was gone.
Cutter Lane, Southwark
Hook out the belly, knot up the guts, snip out the anus – all that was fine, but Gerald still had trouble with the hiding. How to keep it one piece when it wants to split apart at the shoulders, that was the thing. As Grimes liked to remind him, a split hide wasn’t worth half a whole, and you’ll get the hole, boy, get it right through your pate ’f you split another vellum on me.
This time it worked. Gerald grunted happily as he felt the spine, pared to the haunch, begin to loosen against the gored skin. Spines had their own smell, too, that chalky air of fresh bone. He pulled it free. Hard part of this calf was done. He felt his arms loosen, the knife working its magic as he sliced and split with the ease of a stronger, bigger man.
Gerald loved butchery, felt he was born to cut up these beasts. Only bad part was Grimes. His master was inside now, prattling with that priest. He’d first shown up two weeks ago. This was his third visit. Gerald could hear them all the way from the cutting floor, their voices raised in an argument of some kind. Same as last time.
The priest’s comings and goings were putting Grimes in a bad state, even worse than usual. More blows to the cheek, more boxes to the ear, more threats of worse to come. Part of him knew his brother was right – well, his sister – his broster, his sither, whichever way in God’s name Edgar–Eleanor was swerving these days, it was true that Grimes’s shop wasn’t a safe place for a boy Gerald’s age. Better to be back in London, with its laws. But what could he do about it? What could Edgar do, for that matter – let alone Eleanor? He shook his head, trying to put it all out of his mind and concentrate on the carcass swinging in his face.
Tom Nayler came in, wiping his hands. ‘I’m off, then,’ he said, tossing his chin in the direction of the high street. ‘Got a coney to slit up the market. This’ll wait, yeah?’
‘Suit yourself,’ Gerald said, wondering who the lucky girl was this time. Tom had a way with the daughters of oystermongers and maudlyns. ‘I’ll finish this one up. Not a lot left.’
Tom ambled off. Gerald sliced and cut contentedly for a while longer. Flanks, legs, heart, with the offal for the dogs. The master’s shop had grown quiet, though he hadn’t seen the priest leave. He stepped off the floor and glanced up the alley. Tom Nayler was long gone. After a look in the other direction he wiped his blade, set it down on a board, and stared at the shop, his thoughts churning.
What was it with Grimes and this priest? Wasn’t a parson of the parish, that was sure. Gerald knew the local parson, just like he’d known the parson at St Nicholas Shambles in his younger days. No, this one wasn’t a Southwark man. Not even a Londoner. A northerner, maybe. Or a Welshman. Talked with a gummy twang, like his words were tangled up in brambles and couldn’t get out.
The only window on this side of the shop was shuttered, as usual when important visitors came to talk to Grimes. The butcher liked to keep his inquisitive apprentices at bay. Taking his time, Gerald walked over to the shop, found the right spot, and pressed his ear to the gap between the boards. More than once he’d saved his hide this way, catching snatches of the master’s complaints about his apprentices and correcting himself accordingly.
He heard the priest, speaking low. At first none of it made sense. A lot of talk about how Grimes had to listen, had to do this and that, think about his future. Then, a stream of verse. ‘Listen to it, Nathan Grimes. It’s you this prophecy is talking about, you and your cutters over here.
By bank of a bishop shall butchers abide,
To nest, by God’s name, with knives in hand,
Then springen in service at spiritus sung.
Butchers, Nathan. Butchers bearing knives. They’re to be the blood of it, and you the heart.’
Grand words. But what did they mean? Gerald heard Grimes clear his throat. ‘Lots of butchers in London, Father, over in the Shambles and such. There’s nothing in the verse to say it’s to be a Southwark meater, is there?’
‘Not exactly, no,’ said the priest slowly. ‘But “bank of a bishop”? And