The Field of Blood (9 page)

Athelstan decided it was time to take another coin out of his purse.

‘But the river is another matter,’ First Gospel declared in a red-gummed smile.

‘In what way?’

‘Oh yes,’ the women chorused, eager now to earn another coin.

Athelstan quietly prayed that the Lord would understand his distribution of coins taken from the corpses earlier that day.

‘What happens on the river?’ he asked.

‘Well, we light our fire and maintain our vigil,’ First Gospel declared. He leaned closer, eyes staring. ‘But we?ve seen shapes at night, Brother: boats coming in from the river, men cowled and hooded.’

‘You are not just saying that for the silver coin?’

‘Brother, would we lie? Here, I’ll show you.’

He sprang to his feet and led Athelstan out through the gap in the hedge, down over the old crumbling wall which overlooked the mud flats. He pointed to his right towards the Tower.

‘There, you see the gallows?’

Athelstan glimpsed the high-branched gibbet. He could just make out the bound and tarred figure of a river pirate hanging from the post jutting out over the river.

‘Just there, near the gibbet! Barges come in. We’ve glimpsed lanterns, figures, shapes moving in the night.’

‘You are sure they are not soldiers, men going to the Tower?’

‘No, Brother, why should they stop there? It’s only mud and what are they doing?’

‘How often do they come?’ Athelstan asked.

First Gospel blew his cheeks out. ‘About once a month. They don’t mean well, Brother. If it wasn’t for the glint of a lantern, we’d hardly know they were here.’

‘And where do they go?’

‘I watch them. But this is all I know. They go into the common lands beyond Black Meadow.’ He turned, gripping Athelstan by the elbow, his eyes gleaming with expectation. ‘At first we thought it might be the angels,’ he whispered. ‘But, surely, Brother, they’ll come with fiery lights, banners unfurled and trumpets braying?’

‘I suspect they will. I thank you, sir.’ Athelstan followed the First Gospel back to the rest grouped around the fire. ‘I want to ask you another question.’ He handed the coin over.

First Gospel took it and smiled triumphantly at his women.

‘A good day’s work, sisters! Proceed, Brother: your visit proves that the Lord giveth as well as taketh away.’

‘Or rather that Samson the dog does,’ Athelstan replied. ‘You are correct! Two corpses have been dug up beneath the great oak tree. We know who they are.’

First Gospel’s face flinched. He blinked and licked nervously at a sore on his lip.

‘You probably know,’ Athelstan continued, ‘the man is Bartholomew Menster, a senior clerk from the muniment rooms in the Tower. The other was a young chambermaid, Margot Haden. They were sweet on each other, that’s what the gossips say. Bartholomew often visited the Paradise Tree. Around midsummer they both disappeared. You did know them, didn’t you?’

Athelstan sensed a shift of mood in the group: no more fawning smiles or air of innocence. He studied their close-set faces: you may not be what I think you are, he thought. The friar now understood why the group had not been troubled as they quickly hid behind an air of surly aggressiveness.

‘Brother, we travel here and there.’

‘That wasn’t my question.’ Athelstan shifted on the log, picked up his chancery bag and placed it in his lap. ‘I only seek information. It’s good to do it on a sunny autumn afternoon. However, I can petition Sir John Cranston and continue my questioning at another time and in a place much less congenial.’

‘There’s no need to threaten.’

‘I’m not threatening. I’m giving you my solemn promise. Horrendous murders have taken place. Justice must be done for Margot and Bartholomew.’

‘We knew them.’ One of the women spoke up, ignoring First Gospel’s angry glance. ‘They often came into Black Meadow and walked down towards the river, hand in hand, cheek to cheek.’

‘They were pleasant people?’ Athelstan asked. ‘They must have stopped and talked to you?’

‘Oh, they did.’ First Gospel spoke up. ‘Usually about the river but the clerk, Bartholomew, he was full of tales about the Tower: about its history and the gruesome deeds it had witnessed.’

‘And?’

‘He talked of Gundulf the Wizard.’ First Gospel closed his eyes. ‘That’s right, the sorcerer who built the Tower for the Great Conqueror. He said that in or around the Tower . . .’

‘Go on!’ Athelstan insisted.

‘Gundulf had buried a great treasure.’

Athelstan’s heart quickened. ‘And where was this treasure buried?’

First Gospel smiled slyly and tapped the side of his head.

‘Many people think our wits wander, Brother, so they talk to us as if we were children.’

‘What did he say?’

‘Go on!’ the woman urged. ‘Tell him. It was an interesting tale.’

‘Bartholomew was a scholar,’ First Gospel added slowly. ‘I am not sure, Brother, but sometimes I got the impression that he knew where that treasure was.’

‘Did he say as much?’

‘I asked him once. He and his sweetheart, I am not too sure whether she understood. Bartholomew said: “It shines like the sun, lies under the sun, so we have to find the sun.” I laughed at the riddle for the sun we see but Bartholomew shook his head and would say no more.’

‘And did he give any other clue?’ Athelstan asked.

‘That’s all he said, Brother.’

‘And did they talk of Widow Vestler?’

‘The clerk never did but the young woman often complained, said she was a hard task mistress though she could be kind.’

‘Brother.’ One of the Four Gospels had taken a crude, silver-grey medallion from her purse. ‘Take this, it will provide you comfort and protection. It depicts St Michael . . .’

‘No thank you!’

Athelstan glanced across the field. The shadows were lengthening as the sun dipped in the west. He felt weary, slightly frightened, but he didn’t know why. The meadow didn’t look so pleasant now. He made his farewells and walked back towards the tavern.

At the end of the alleyway leading up to his parish church, Athelstan paused, closed his eyes and muttered a quick prayer. Sometimes he was a simple parish priest, more concerned with ensuring Huddle painted the gargoyle’s face correctly or Bonaventure didn’t drink from the holy water stoup. Or the children came on a Saturday so he could teach them divine truths and take them through the life of Christ, using the paintings on the church wall. He’d meet the parish council; now and again tempers were lost but there was also the bonhomie, the sheer comedy of parish life, truly a gift from God. Sometimes, however, in his dreams, Athelstan glimpsed murder come shuffling along this alleyway, a yellowing cadaver dressed in a red cloak and hood while behind him clustered dark shapes, carrying corpses, the bloody work of sudden death.

‘You are hungry, Athelstan,’ he reminded himself.

‘And you are tired. Don’t let the mind play tricks on the soul.’

He drew a deep breath and marched up the alleyway. Athelstan expected to see the enclosure in front of the church crowded with those three grisly cadavers laid out on a sled. He stopped in surprise. It was empty! No sled, no corpses! No one, except Benedicta sitting on the steps, Bonaventure beside her. The widow woman had taken off her veil and her hair, black as a raven’s wing, fell uncombed down to her shoulders. She was talking to Bonaventure, sharing a piece of cheese with him.

‘A true mercenary,’ Athelstan said to himself. He stood in the shadows and watched this beautiful woman with her perfect face and those kindly eyes, always full of merriment. Athelstan never knew whether he loved Benedicta or not. He’d admitted to this attraction in confession.

‘You do love her,’ Prior Anselm had replied. ‘Being a friar, Athelstan, does not build a defence round the heart but you must remember your vows. You are a priest dedicated to God. You do not have time for those relationships which are so important to others: there can be no distraction to your work as a priest.’

Bonaventure suddenly espied him. Athelstan, embarrassed, stepped out of the shadows and walked across. Benedicta clapped her hands and got to her feet.

‘I thought you were never returning.’ She caught the friar’s hand, eyes dancing with laughter. ‘I am so pleased to see you. The house is swept. Philomel has eaten and Merry Legs was kind enough to send two pies. He solemnly swore he’d baked them today.’

‘But the corpses?’

Benedicta’s face became grave. ‘Thank God they’ve been recognized, Brother. The young woman was a whore, Prudence. She plied her trade at the Lion Heart tavern. The swarthy man was one of her customers.’ She gave a half-smile. ‘Apparently a preacher who warned against the lusts of the flesh. I suppose,’ she added tartly. ‘he wanted to find out whether they are as delicious as they sound. Bladdersniff took the cadavers away.’

‘Where will they be buried?’

‘The common grave at St Oswald’s. Bladdersniff declared that God’s acre in St Erconwald’s had its fair share of strange corpses, which nearly led to a fight between him and Watkin?’

‘And the young man?’

Benedicta’s lips tightened. ‘He’s been recognised too: Miles Sholter.’ Benedicta indicated with her head. ‘His widow and friend are in the church.’ She moved closer. ‘Brother, is the rumour correct? Was Miles Sholter a royal messenger? They say he and his companion, Philip Eccleshall, were taking messages from the Regent John of Gaunt to the Earl of Arundel, who is on pilgrimage to Canterbury. Is it true, Brother,’ she insisted, ‘that if a royal messenger is murdered, the parish where his corpse is found is held responsible until the killer is found?’

‘All things are possible,’ Athelstan told her. ‘But let me see them.’

Now he was back in his parish, Athelstan did not feel so tired or weary. Inside the church the young widow, Eccleshall beside her, was sitting in the far corner near the steps to the tower. They rose as Athelstan entered and came out of the shadows. Eccleshall was tall, blond-haired, podgy-faced. He was dressed in a dark-brown jerkin with slashed, coloured sleeves; a war belt strapped round his waist carried sword, dagger and leather gauntlets. His leggings were bottle-green, tucked into high-heeled riding-boots in which spurs still clinked. He carried a cloak over his arm; on his chest were emblazoned the royal arms and he carried a small wrist shield which bore the same insignia. A soldier, Athelstan thought, a man used to camp and warfare. Mistress Sholter was tall, dark-haired, with an imperious face, high cheekbones and slanted eyes. Her painted cheeks were now stained with tears. Like Benedicta, she was dressed in a gown of dark-brown wool with a cloak fastened over her shoulder by a silver brooch. Around her neck hung a silver harp on a gold chain.

‘This is Brother Athelstan, our parish priest,’ Benedicta said.

‘I’m Philip Eccleshall, Brother, royal messenger and this,’ Eccleshall flicked his fingers as if his companion were beneath him, ‘is Bridget Sholter.’

The young woman started to cry, shoulders shaking, and went towards Athelstan, hands out. The friar caught her cold fingers and gripped them.

‘I’ve heard the news, Brother,’ Eccleshall informed him.

Athelstan waved them to the bench.

‘Sit down! Sit down!’

His guests did so. Athelstan and Benedicta lifted across another bench to sit opposite them.

‘Can I offer you something to eat or drink?’ the friar enquired.

The woman shook her head. Eccleshall, too, refused.

‘We must be gone soon, Brother. Miles’s corpse has been taken to Greyfriars near St Paul’s. I have paid the good brothers to dress it for burial.’

‘Tell me what happened,’ Athelstan began.

‘Miles and Mistress Bridget live in Mincham Lane.’

‘That’s off Eastchepe?’ Benedicta asked.

‘We have a house there.’ The young woman lifted her head. ‘I am a seamstress, an embroiderer. I buy in cloth and sell it from a small shop below.’ Her lower lip quivered. ‘Miles and I had been married four years. He was well thought of. Why should anyone . . .?’

‘Tell me what happened,’ Athelstan repeated. He leaned across and patted the young woman on her hands.

‘The day before yesterday,’ Eccleshall replied, ‘I went down to Westminster and received the Regent’s letters for the Earl of Arundel. I then journeyed back to the royal stables in Candlewick Street where, by the Chancellor’s writ, two horses and a pack pony were ready.’

‘What time was this?’ Athelstan asked.

‘After three o’clock in the afternoon. I then journeyed on to Mincham Lane. Miles was already waiting. He made his farewells and we travelled down Bridge Street across the Thames and through Southwark. A pleasant journey, Brother, no trouble. We decided to lodge for the night at the Silken Thomas.’

‘Wouldn’t you travel further?’

‘No, once you get beyond Southwark the highway becomes lonely, rather deserted. Miles and I had decided to rest overnight and leave before dawn. By riding fast and changing horses, we could be in Canterbury by nightfall.’

‘And nothing happened?’

‘We arrived at the Silken Thomas. I hired a chamber while Miles took our saddlebags up. A simple, narrow room, two cot beds, the promise of a meal with bread and ale before we left in the morning. We must have stayed there about two hours. The sun was setting. I was dozing on the bed when Miles shook me awake. “Philip,” he hissed. “I’ve forgotten my silver Christopher.” Show him, Bridget.’

The young woman undid her purse and took out a silver chain with a medal of St Christopher hanging on it. The medal was large, about two inches across. Athelstan took it and studied it carefully. It weighed heavily, probably copper-gilt with silver.

‘Miles had always been a royal messenger,’ she explained. ‘And, whatever the journey, he always took this with him. But, before he set off, he changed and left this on a stool in our bedchamber.’

‘And he went back for it?’ Athelstan asked.

‘He wouldn’t listen to me.’ Eccleshall shook his head. “I’m going back,” Miles said. “It won’t take long.” He put on his cloak and hood and went downstairs. I followed and said that I would wait for his return, he replied he wouldn’t be long and galloped away.’