The Field of Blood (22 page)

Alice felt her stomach rumble. She went and took the linen cloth from the trauncher revealing a pastry. Then she removed the piece of parchment over the jug and filled the tin cup. Taking that and the pastry, she sat on a stool and began to eat. She also drank rather quickly so the poison in the wine soon made its presence felt with searing pains in her belly which ran up into her chest, sealing of her throat. Alice dropped the cup, spilling the dregs out on to her gown. She staggered towards the door but the pain was dagger-sharp, she couldn’t breathe and collapsed on the floor. She stretched out her hand, opened her mouth to scream but no sound came. All she could think of, strangely enough, was Black Meadow, that great oak tree and those graves beneath it.

In St Erconwald’s the celebrations were well under way. Athelstan had informed the happy couple that he could now see no impediment to their marriage: at Mass, the following Sunday, he would proclaim their forthcoming nuptials for all to hear. Eleanor and Oswald fairly danced with joy and the news had quickly spread. The Piebald tavern was closed. Basil the Blacksmith did the same with his forge. Watkin and Pike, only too eager to hurry from their work, also spread the good news and the parishioners thronged in front of the church steps. Athelstan, Sir John smiling beatifically beside him, announced that they would not pay the fine. The assassins responsible for the murder of Miles Sholter had been unmasked and were now already lodged in the King’s prison of Newgate.

‘We’ll have a celebration!’ Pike shouted.

‘The parish council will have a celebration!’ Watkin declared, eager to exercise his authority. He glared spitefully at Pike’s sour-faced wife who kept in the shadows, muttering that she was glad ‘the difficulty had been resolved.’

Tables were set up, benches brought from the church; Watkin brought his bagpipes; Ranulf the rat catcher his lute; Manger the hangman his tambours. Merry Legs provided pies and pastries which, he proclaimed, were only two days old. Other offerings were made and Joscelyn was cheered to the heavens when he rolled barrels of ale and beer along from the Piebald. Athelstan promised that some of the expense would be met from the parish coffers.

Sir John, of course, was determined to stay. He drank two blackjacks of ale and, when challenged by Watkin and Pike, drank another faster than they. Afterwards he danced a jig with Ursula the pig woman and Pernell the Fleming: even Crim declared him light on his feet and nimble as a juggler.

Athelstan sat on the steps and watched it all. He drank his stoup of ale a little too fast and felt rather tired. Eventually he and sir Jack left the parishioners and retired to the priest’s house where the coroner threw his beaver hat and cloak into a corner, took off his doublet and sat on a bench opposite Athelstan, mopping his face.

‘I sometimes curse your parishioners, Athelstan, yet they are a merry lot: it’s so good to dance! Did I tell you I was at Windsor when the Countness of Salisbury lost her garter?’

‘Tomorrow, Sir John, another lady will lose more than her garter!’

Sir John sobered up, ‘Aye, Athelstan. What we’ve learned is bad enough but only the good Lord knows how much Master Whittock has unearthed. I hope Hengan’s wits are sharp and keen for he is going to need all of his power to defend Mistress Vestler.’

‘Let us say,’ Athelstan ventured, ‘for sake of argument, that Mistress Brokestreet is a liar.’

‘Which she is.’

‘Then how, my dear coroner, did she know about those two corpses? That’s the nub of the case. The murder of two innocents is not something you proclaim for all the world to hear.’

‘So?’

‘There are a number of possibilities, Sir Jack, Firstly, Kathryn Vestler told her about the corpses, but that’s hardly likely. Secondly, somehow or other, Alice Brokestreet found out about the murders and kept the secret to herself.’

‘In which case,’ Sir John mused, ‘we must ask why the assassin should tell her?’

‘And that’s my third point, Sir Jack. If Alice Brokestreet is lying and Mistress Vestler is innocent, someone else murdered Bartholomew and Margot. He, or she, then gave the secret to Brokestreet so she could escape execution by approving Mistress Vestler.’

‘So Brokestreet will know the identity of the assassain?’

‘Not necessarily, Sir John. She could have been informed by letter, or by a mysterious visitor to Newgate or even before she committed her own murder. Brokestreet is not the problem. She is only the cat’s-paw. She was informed by the assassin who, I suspect, will take care of Mistress Brokestreet in his own way and at his own time. Now Vestler is a widow. If she’s found guilty of a felony and hanged, the Crown will seize the Paradise Tree and sell it to the highest bidder.’

‘So?’

‘The real assassin could be the one who buys it in order to search for Gundulf’s treasure.’

Sir John whistled under his breath

‘That’s going to be hard to prove, little friar. The Paradise Tree is a profitable, spacious tavern; there will be many bids for it.’

‘Yes, I know,’ Athelstan sighed. ‘So I suppose my conclusion is weak. However, it will not go well for us tomorrow. The profits of the Paradise Tree will have to be explained; as will those mysterious visitors at night and, above all, two corpses in Black Meadow. You went to Bapaume the goldsmith?’

Sir John nodded. ‘He told me that Bartholomew Menster had intimated he was drawing all his gold and silver out to by something but he didn’t say what!’ He tapped Athelstan on to back of the hand. ‘But you did well, Brother. At least Mistress Vestler is cleared of the deaths of those other skeletons. I just hope Chief Justice Brabazon accepts your plea that Black Meadow was a cemetery during the great pestilence.’

He started at a knock on the door.

‘Come in!’ Athelstan shouted.

Joscelyn, the one armed tavern-keeper, staggered in, his face wreathed in smiles. Under his arm he carried a small run of wine which he lowered on to the table.

‘Sir Jack,’ he slurred. ‘This is the best cask of Bordeaux claret, held in the cellars of the Piebald for such an occasion. It’s only right that you and Brother Athelstan are the first to broach it.’

Cranston scooped it up like a mother would a favourite child. He examined the markings on the side, drew his dagger and began to cut at the twine which held the lid securely on. Then he paused, put the dagger down and held the cask up, inspecting it carefully.

Joscelyn’s smile faded. ‘What’s the matter, Sir John?’

‘You know full well, sir. I am the King’s officer.’

Joscelyn licked his lips nervously and lowered himself on to a stool at the far end of the table.

‘Sir Jack?’ Athelstan asked. ‘Is there a problem?’

‘Yes there is, Brother.’ Sir John tapped the top of the cask. ‘This is rich claret brought from Bordeaux.’ He pointed out the markings on the side. ‘This tells you the year and the vineyard. But, Joscelyn,’ he added sweetly, ‘would you like to tell your priest what is wrong?’

‘Why should I, my lord coroner? You are the King’s officer.’

‘The good tavern-master here,’ Sir John said, ‘has very generously brought a cask of wine to broach but one thing’s missing: all wine from Bordeaux brought into this realm must pay duty. Each cask is marked with a brand saying it has come through customs. It is then sealed showing the port of entry. Such marks are very hard to forge.’

‘Oh, Joscelyn, no!’ Athelstan groaned. ‘You haven’t been involved in smuggling along the river?’

‘Sir John, Brother, I brought it as a gift. Such casks are common among the victuallers and tavern master of London.’

‘True.’ Sir John smacked his lips. ‘I am only here to celebrate and I am not a customs official.’

‘Joscelyn, you should be careful,’ Athelstan warned. A memory stirred. ‘Where did you buy it from? Come on, Joscelyn. If you were involved in Smuggling, my precious parish council would be involved up to their necks: Moleskin, Watkin and Pike. Are they? I don’t want to see them dance on the end of a rope.’

Joscelyn swallowed hard.

‘You bought this from someone else, didn’t you? Your son talked about the Paradise Tree and Mistress Vestler.’

Sir John opened the cask with his dagger and groaned with pleasure.

‘Don’t lie to your priest!’ Athelstan stood over tavern-keeper.

‘Yes, Brother, I bought it from Mistress Vestler. There are a number of tavern-keepers in Southwark . . .’

‘Enough said.’ Athelstan patted him on the shoulder. ‘Go on, Joscelyn, thank you for the wine. Join the revelers, your Secret’s safe with us.’

Joscelyn, all sobered up, sped out the door.

Sir John had broached the cask and was now filling two cups.

‘Is it a sin to drink it, monk?’

‘Friar, Sir John. No, I don’t think it is. The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. Moreover, the mood I am in, I recall St Paul’s words: “Use a little Wine for thy stomach’s sake”, even if the customs duty has not been paid!’ Athelstan sat opposite his friend and sipped the wine.

Sir John closed his eyes, smacked his lips and signed, ‘Oh this is truly a gift from heaven.’

‘Well, we’ve solved one mystery,’ Athelstan said. ‘We now know who Mistress Vestler’s midnight visitors are: river smugglers. They take their barges out to the wine ships before their cargo is unloaded, pay the captain a good price, then it’s along to the Paradise Tree and other riverside taverns. Mistress Vestler must have done a roaring trade.’ He thought of that lonely stretch along the mud flats and laughed. ‘It also explains her charity, Sir John.’

The coroner, more interested in the wine, looked puzzled.

‘The Four Gospels,’ Athelstan explained. ‘That’s why she let them camp there. Do you remember what they told us? How they lit a fire on the mud flats in case St Michael came by night? The fisher of men referred to it as a beacon.’

‘Of course! And, on a moonless night with a river mist swirling in, there’s nothing like a fire to draw a smuggler in. I wager a cup of wine to a cup of wine that Master Whittock knows something of this. No wonder Kathryn wouldn’t tell us.’

Athelstan turned as the door opened.

‘Yes, Benedicta?’

‘Brother, you have a visitor.’

She stood aside and Hengan, cloak about him, swept into the house.

‘I will leave you,’ Benedicta called out and closed the door.

The lawyer sat down, unhitched his cloak and tossed it on the floor. He put his face in his hands.

‘Master Ralph, what’s the matter?’

‘Alice Brokestreet’s been murdered!’

‘What!’ Sir John exclaimed.

‘Someone took a flask of poisoned wine and a pastry to the gatehouse. Now, because Brokestreet was a prisoner of the Crown, her gaolers treat her tenderly. All they remember is a man cowled like a monk.’ He smiled thinly. ‘He actually had the impudence to say it was a gift from Master Odo Whittock. Of course, our good serjeant-of-law knows nothing of this. Now, in other circumstances the gaolers would have drunk or eaten it themselves but the jug or flask was sealed. Both Brabazon and Whittock are well known for their long arms and vindictive tempers so the wine was safely delivered. Mistress Brokestreet must have died immediately, there was more arsenic in it than grape.’

‘Does that mean her testimony will collapse?’ Athelstan asked.

‘No,’ Sir John said. ‘She made a solemn declaration before the chief justice and, if Master Whittock has a brain in his head, he will have taken a sworn affidavit.’

‘It’s more dangerous than that,’ Hengan continued. ‘Brabazon will ask who wanted Mistress Brokestreet dead? And they’ll lay the blame at Kathryn’s door.’

‘But that’s not right!’ Athelstan expostulated. ‘Mistress Vestler herself is a prisoner. How could she be held responsible?’

‘Oh, Whittock will weave his webs. He’ll say that Kathryn has an accomplice outside.’

‘Aye, and it will get worse,’ the coroner growled.

He succinctly informed Hengan what they had discovered regarding Mistress Vestler’s smuggling activities. The lawyer groaned.

‘You know nothing of this, sir?’

‘Of course not!’ Hengan snapped. ‘Yet, be honest, Sir John, there’s not a tavern in London which does not receive smuggled wine. Even the royal household is involved in it. It’s almost a national pastime, yet I understand what you say. If Whittock discovers it, and I am sure he will, he’ll allege that Mistress Vestler consorts with well-known outlaws and smugglers.’

‘And she arranged for one of these to carry out Brokestreet’s murder?’

‘Precisely, Brother.’

Athelstan went to the door and opened it. The night air cooled his face as he looked out at where the parishioners were still dancing and singing.

‘Why the interest?’ he asked, turning round. ‘I mean, Alice Brokestreet has made a declaration; the case against Kathryn is overwhelming. So why is Whittock involved? She can only hang once.’

‘What I suspect,’ Hengan replied, ‘is the Crown now knows about Gundulf’s treasure. Maybe the Regent himself is involved? There are thousands upon thousands of pounds at stake. They may even think Mistress Vestler has discovered its Where abouts.’ Hengan pulled a face. ‘That’s serious enough. However, you must also remember Bartholomew Menster was a royal clerk. The Crown does not take lightly to its minions being ruthlessly murdered.’

‘It will come down to this.’ Sir John, despite the ale and wine he had drunk, remained calm and level-headed. ‘It will come down to, ‘he repeated, ‘the twenty-fifth of June this year, when Bartholomew was last seen.’

‘He definitely worked in the Tower on the twenty-fifth, the morrow of the birth of John the Baptist,’ Hengan said. ‘He left his chamber late in the day and, as we know, said he was going to the Paradise Tree. He was never seen again. I’ve also established that Margot Haden was last seen in the tavern on that day. According to witnesses she went out and never came back.’

‘What!’ Athelstan exclaimed.

‘Well.’ Hengan raised his hand. ‘We know Bartholomew visited the tavern and they both left.’

‘And Mistress Vestler?’

‘Oh, she was definitely there.’

‘How do we know that?’

‘From the servants . . .’ Hengan rubbed his chin. ‘I wish I had been there.’