by Paul Doherty
‘What’s the matter?’ Benedicta asked.
‘Eleanor!’ Athelstan shouted. ‘Eleanor! You are to come here!’
He glimpsed a flash of colour. Eleanor rose from where she was hiding behind a tomb, head down, hands hanging by her sides. She came along the trackway. Athelstan climbed down.
‘Eleanor, what are you doing here?’
‘I feel as if I want to die, Brother. I just miss Oswald but our parents will not allow us to see each other and it’s all due to that wicked vixen’s tongue.’
‘You’ll die soon enough. And then you’ll go to heaven. In the meantime you’ve got to live your life. God has put you here for a purpose and that purpose must be fulfilled.’
‘I feel like hanging myself.’
Benedicta put her arm round the young girl’s shoulder and stared in puzzlement at the friar.
‘She loves Oswald deeply,’ Athelstan explained. ‘But, according to the blood book, a copy of which we haven’t got, they are related.’
‘Ah!’ Benedicta hugged the young woman close.
‘Come back with me,’ Athelstan suggested. ‘Have some pie and ale. A trouble shared is a trouble halved.’
They returned to the kitchen. Godbless sat, his chin smeared with the meat and gravy, a beatific smile on his face.
‘You are worse than the locusts of Egypt,’ Athelstan complained. ‘But, come, sit down.’ He sketched a hasty blessing. ‘Lord, thank You for the lovely meal and let’s eat it before Godbless does!’ Athelstan raised his cup and toasted Eleanor. ‘Now, let me tell you what happened today because it will be common knowledge soon enough in the city.’
Athelstan half closed his eyes, his mind going back to Black Meadow: the Four Gospels, those shadowy shapes slipping in from the river at night and, above all, that dreadful pit and the skeletons and corpses it housed.
‘Brother?’
Athelstan glanced at Benedicta.
‘It’s a tale of murder,’ he replied. ‘And, I’m afraid, before God’s will is known, more blood will be shed!’
Chapter 6
Athelstan was up early the next morning. He celebrated a dawn Mass with Bonaventure as his only congregation. He tidied the kitchen, checked on Philomel, Godbless and Thaddeus while trying to make sense of what had happened the day before.
The business of Kathryn Vestler he put to one side. It was too shadowy, too insubstantial, but he still held to the conclusion he had drawn about the murder of Sholter and the other two. However, his real concern was Eleanor, Basil’s daughter, and, when Crim appeared to serve as altar boy for his second Mass, he sent him round to members of the parish council. Afterwards Athelstan hastily broke his fast, went back to his bed loft and knelt by a chair to recite the Divine Office. He kept the window open and eventually heard the sounds of his parishioners arriving. He flinched at Pike’s wife screeching at the top of her voice. He closed his eyes.
‘Oh Lord, please look after me today as I would look after You, if Athelstan was God and God was Athelstan.’
He crossed himself. He often recited that prayer, particularly when he was troubled or anxious. Then he put away his psalter, climbed down from the bed loft and went out across to the church.
Athelstan always marvelled how his parishioners sensed some impending crisis. The whole council had turned up, eager to learn any tidbits of scandal and gossip. They all now sat in a semi-circle at the back of the church where he and Benedicta had met their two visitors the previous evening. The benches were neatly arranged, the sanctuary chair had been brought down for himself.
Of course there had been the usual struggle for positions of authority. Athelstan groaned at the way Pike’s wife was glaring at Watkin’s bulbous-faced spouse, for her expression suggested civil war must be imminent. Watkin, as leader of the council, sat holding the box which contained the blood book and seals of the parish. These were the symbols of his authority; the way Watkin gripped them and looked warningly at the rest from under lowered bushy brows reminded Athelstan of a bull about to charge. Pike sat next to him. Hig the pigman, his stubby face glowering, looked ready to pick a quarrel with the world and not give an inch. Pernell the Fleming woman had tried to change the dye in her hair from orange to yellow. Athelstan tried not to laugh. The result was truly frightening. Pernell’s hair now stuck up in the most lurid colours. Benedicta sat next to her, whispering to assuage the insult one of the rest must have levelled at the poor woman. Mugwort the bell clerk, Manger the hangman, Huddle the painter, eyes half-closed, and Ranulf the rat-catcher: from the huge pockets on his leather jacket Ranulf’s two favourite ferrets, Ferox and Audax, poked out their heads. Cecily the courtesan wore a new bracelet and looked like a cat which had stolen the cream. Basil the blacksmith and Joscelyn from the Piebald tavern were also present. The door was flung open and Ursula the pig woman hurried in, her great sow trotting behind her. The ferrets sniffed the air and disappeared. The pig would have headed like an arrow straight into the sacristy but Ursula smacked its bottom and it sat down immediately. Athelstan looked daggers at the offended sow. If I had my way, he thought, I’d bring bell, book and candle and excommunicate that animal!
‘We are ready, Brother,’ Watkin announced sonorously. ‘The council is in session.’
‘Do you know what that means, Watkin?’ Pike jibed.
‘Shut your mouth!’ Watkin’s wife retorted. ‘My man knows his horn book, he can make his mark. Unlike some of the ignorant . . .!’
‘Thank you. Thank you,’ Athelstan intervened. ‘Remember we are in God’s house. The Lord is a witness to what is going to happen. I do thank you all for coming.’
Before anyone could object, Athelstan made the sign of the cross and intoned the ‘Veni Creator Spiritus’. He sat down.
‘We are in session!’
‘We need more sinners for the choir!’ Mugwort spoke up: his remark immediately provoked roars of merriment. ‘I mean singers,’ he corrected himself.
‘In St Erconwald’s,’ Athelstan said, ‘it’s the same thing. We are not here for singers.’ He continued, ‘You know the reason why. Eleanor, Basil’s daughter, is deeply in love with Oswald, Joscelyn’s son. They are both good young people. I hope to witness their vows here at the church door. We will have dancing, singing, church ales . . .’
‘Aye and a lot of fun in the long grass in the cemetery!’ Pike’s wife snapped, glaring at Cecily.
‘Why, is that what you do?’ the courtesan answered in mocking innocence.
‘However,’ Athelstan continued remorselessly, ‘we have a problem. The Church’s law is very clear on this matter. You cannot marry within certain blood lines. It would appear that Basil and Joscelyn’s great-grandmothers were sisters. Now, you know that, although we have a blood book, it does not go back to those years.’
‘What years?’ someone asked.
Everyone looked at the blacksmith.
Basil flapped his leather apron and folded his great muscular arms. ‘I don’t know.’
‘It must have been in the time of the young King’s great-grandfather, Edward II,’ Athelstan put in.
‘Wasn’t he the bum-boy?’ Mugwort asked, eager to show his knowledge. ‘Didn’t they kill him by sticking a hot poker up his fundament?’
‘That’s disgusting!’ Watkin’s wife exclaimed. ‘Anyway, how could they put a poker . . .?’
‘Listen,’ Athelstan continued. ‘We have a blood book but it doesn’t go back that far. What we are missing . . .’ He waved his hand. ‘Well, you know the previous incumbent?’
‘He was a bad bastard, Brother,’ Pike said darkly. ‘Dabbled in the black arts, out at the crossroads in the dead of night.’
‘He was sinful and he was wicked,’ Huddle added. ‘He didn’t like painting. He kept the church locked.’
‘He also stole things,’ Athelstan continued. ‘And probably sold them for whatever he could, including our blood book.’
‘Yet, what’s the harm in all this?’ Joscelyn asked. He sat awkwar
dly, the empty sleeve, where he had lost an arm at sea, thrown over his shoulder, his other hand stretched out to balance himself. ‘I mean, Brother, if they marry? Our great-grandmothers lived years ago, the blood line must be pure.’
‘Not necessarily,’ Pike’s wife retorted. ‘Things can still go wrong. We don’t want monsters in the parish.’
‘True, true,’ Ranulf murmured. ‘We have enough of those already.’
‘How do we know they were sisters?’ Athelstan asked. ‘That’s the reason for this meeting. Who will speak against me proclaiming the banns? You know what they are. I ask you formally. Who, here, can object to such a marriage taking place? It is a very grave matter. You must answer, as you will to Christ Himself.’
All eyes turned to Pike’s wife.
‘There is a blood tie,’ she declared, adopting the role of the wise woman of the parish. Her voice became deeper, relishing the importance this proclamation gave her. Pike looked down and shuffled his feet.
‘And what proof do you have of this?’
Athelstan’s heart sank at the spiteful smile on the woman’s face.
‘Proof, Brother? No less a person than Veronica the Venerable.’
‘Oh no!’ Basil groaned.
‘And you are sure of this?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Go and see her yourself, Brother. She may well be four score years and ten but her mind is still sharp and her memory good. I know the rules. If two witnesses speak out against a marriage, it cannot take place.’
Athelstan lowered his head. Veronica the Venerable was an ancient crone who lived in a tenement on Dog Tail Alley just behind the Piebald tavern. She claimed to be too old to come to church so Athelstan sometimes visited her. She was old, frail, but her mind was sharp. A cantankerous woman who had a nose for gossip and a memory for scandal, she had lived in Southwark for years and claimed she even watched Queen Isabella’s lover Roger Mortimer being hanged, drawn and quartered at Tyburn some fifty years earlier.
‘Why are you so hostile against the marriage?’ Benedicta asked.
‘Widow woman, I am not, I simply tell the truth!’
Aye, Athelstan thought, and you love the pain it causes. He saw the pleading look in Basil’s eyes while Joscelyn just sat shaking his head.
‘I will visit Veronica.’ Athelstan tried to sound hopeful. ‘I will make careful scrutiny of all this and perhaps seek advice from the Bishop’s office. Now, there’s another matter.’
Bladdersniff raised his head. His cheeks were pale but his nose glowed like a firebrand.
‘The corpses?’ he asked.
‘I’ll be swift and to the point,’ Athelstan said. ‘Three people were murdered in the old miser’s house beyond the brook. God’s justice will be done but, unfortunately for us, so will the King’s. One of the victims was a royal messenger.’ He paused at the outcry. ‘You know the law,’ Athelstan continued. ‘Unless this parish can produce the murderer, everyone here will pay a fine on half their moveables. The King’s justices,’ he stilled the growing clamour with his hand, ‘are sitting at the Guildhall. I have no doubt a proclamation will be issued. The fine would be very heavy.’
Athelstan felt sorry for the stricken look on their faces.
‘It could be hundreds of pounds!’
All dissension, all rivalry disappeared at this common threat.
‘You know what I am talking about. The justices will rule that the royal messenger was killed by the Great Community of the Realm. By those who secretly plot rebellion and treason against our King.’
‘It’s not against the King!’ Pike protested. ‘But against his councillors!’
‘Now is not the time for politicking,’ Athelstan warned him, ‘but for cool heads. We will not take the blame for these terrible deaths so keep your eyes and ears open. Sir John Cranston is our friend, he will help and we’ll put our trust in God.’
Athelstan rose as a sign that the meeting was ended. He was angry at Pike’s outburst but determined to use it.
‘The day has begun,’ he added softly, ‘and I have kept you long enough. Thank you. Pike, I want a word with you.’
Athelstan walked up the nave and under the rood screen, Pike came behind shuffling his feet. He knew his outburst had angered his parish priest and he was fearful of the short and pithy sermon he might receive. Athelstan knelt on the altar steps.
‘Kneel beside me, Pike.’
The ditcher did and stared fearfully up at the silver pyx hanging above the altar.
‘Pike,’ Athelstan began. ‘We are in the presence of Christ and His angels.’
‘Yes, Brother.’
‘I know you are a member of the Great Community of the Realm but, if you ever make an outburst like that again, I’ll box your ears, small as I am!’ Athelstan glanced wearily at the ditcher. ‘Don’t you realise,’ he whispered, ‘if one of John of Gaunt’s spies heard that, they could have you arrested.’
‘I, I didn’t mean . . .’
‘You implied you knew the rebels, that’s good enough.’
‘I’m sorry, Brother.’
‘Don’t be sorry. Just keep your mouth shut and the same goes for Imelda. Young Eleanor is very angry. She spent last night crying.’
‘Father, she . . .’
‘Never mind,’ Athelstan cut him off. ‘I want you to do something for me, Pike, and I don’t want any objections. You are a member of the Great Community of the Realm.’ He held up his finger just beneath Pike’s nose. ‘Don’t lie to me. For all I know you may even be a member of its secret council. I want you to do one favour. Ask your fellow councillors: do they know anything, and I mean anything, about the death of that royal messenger?’
‘Brother, I really can’t.’ Pike’s voice faltered at the look in Athelstan’s eyes. ‘I’ll do what I can, but I’m not the only one.’
‘I’ll wager you are not. I wouldn’t be surprised if Ursula’s sow also attends the meetings though she’s too busy in my cabbage patch to do me that favour. Now, cross yourself and go!’
Pike did so and Athelstan closed his eyes.
‘I’m sorry, Lord,’ he prayed. ‘I really am but, one of these days, Pike is going to get his neck stretched.’
He heard the door crash open behind him.
‘Good morning, Sir John.’
‘How did you know it was me, Brother?’
‘Only one person opens that door as if he were the Angel Gabriel.’
‘Oh, don’t talk about angels. It brings back memories of those madcaps in Black Meadow.’ Sir John knelt beside Athelstan and made a quick sign of the cross.
‘And what brings you here?’ Athelstan got to his feet and genuflected.
Sir John followed him into the small sacristy.
‘Mistress Vestler is committed at Newgate. What is today, Tuesday? On Thursday she is to appear before Justice Brabazon in the Guildhall.’
Athelstan studied his friend. Sir John’s bonhomie was forced, the coroner looked deeply worried.
‘What is it, Jack?’
Sir John drew out a small scroll of parchment. He tapped Athelstan on the shoulder with it. The friar felt a shiver of cold run up his back.
‘You know what it is, Athelstan. Don’t ask stupid questions!’
Athelstan undid the scroll: the seals at the bottom were of the chief justices, the mayor and justices sitting in session at the Guildhall. They proclaimed, in the name of the King, that Miles Sholter, ‘piteously slain by person or persons unknown in the parish of St Erconwald’s Southwark, was a royal messenger carrying the King’s insignia and coat-of-arms. An attack upon him was an attack upon the Crown. Accordingly, the parish of St Erconwald’s and all its inhabitants must, within forty days, surrender the person, or persons unknown, into the hands of the King’s officers or suffer a fine of two hundred pounds sterling.’
‘I am sorry,’ Sir John said. ‘It’s the best I could do. I personally went to see John of Gaunt. If Brabazon had his way it would have been six hundred pounds.’
> Athelstan found he couldn’t stop trembling.
‘It’s still onerous, Jack. We are a poor parish!’
‘There are ways and means. There are ways and means.’
Sir John took a sip from his wineskin. ‘We’ll catch the killer, Brother, while I know merchants in the city. We’ll raise the monies. Meanwhile, that must be nailed to the door of the church, and I mean securely, Brother.’
‘It will be.’
Athelstan regained his composure and wrapped the roll up. He stared at the crude wooden crucifix fastened to the wall above the vestry table.
Please, he prayed silently. Please do not let this happen.
The coroner was still looking woebegone.
‘And there’s something else, isn’t there, Sir John?’
Cranston shook his head and sat down on a stool.
‘I stride around, Brother, bellowing good mornings, quaffing ale, laughing and joking but, as God knows, I am deeply worried.’
‘Kathryn Vestler?’
‘It goes from bad to worse. Kathryn is now in Newgate gatehouse. She’s stopped weeping, I find her stronger than I thought and she’s become hard-eyed, evasive. Last night I questioned her again regarding the enquiries about Margot Haden, and others who visited the Paradise Tree, but she shrugged them off. She can find no explanation. Brabazon is now threatening to dig the whole meadow up.’ Sir John clutched his beaver hat in his hands. ‘I loved her husband Stephen like a brother. I owed him my life. I know, I know, I talk about Poitiers but there were other occasions. What happens if Stephen and Kathryn were killers? Murdering poor travellers, looting their possessions and burying them in that field of blood?’
‘Alice Brokestreet is the key,’ Athelstan countered.
‘She is a murderess, desperate to save her neck. I’ve been to see her as well. She’s obdurate in her story, hinting at other things, other crimes.’
‘Such as?’ Athelstan asked.
‘What I thought.’ Sir John scratched his chin. ‘Let us say Kathryn Vestler is a murderess and she does plunder her victims. Now I can accept that she destroyed the goods of a poor chambermaid . . .’