The Field of Blood

by Paul Doherty

  And, without further ado, Whittock went back in, slamming the door behind him. The gaoler turned, his unshaven face creased into a smile.

  ‘Sir John, I . . .’

  ‘Oh bugger him!’ Sir John growled. ‘Let’s see Mistress Vestler.’

  The cell they were shown into was clean-swept, the shutters on the barred windows wide open; Mistress Vestler must have paid considerable amounts for a cell such as this. It contained a pallet bed, a bench, a table and two stools as well as a leather coffer with broken straps and buckles pushed against the wall. Clothes and blankets hung from pegs on the wall; on the table was an unfinished meal of bread, dried meat and some rather bruised apples. Mistress Vestler was staring out of the window and turned as they came in. If anything, Athelstan thought, she looked younger, more resolute than before. Her face was now hard set, no trace of any tears. She went and sat on the bed and watched as they came over. The gaoler locked the door behind them. She smiled up at Hengan.

  ‘Have you come to take me home, Ralph?’

  The lawyer coughed and shuffled his feet.

  ‘Mistress, Sir John and I have questions for you.’

  She sighed, more concerned with straightening the dark-blue veil which covered her greying hair.

  ‘I’m well looked after here,’ she said. ‘The place is clean. The gaoler says it’s too high for the vermin.’ She glanced at Athelstan who brought a stool across. ‘It’s good of you to come, Brother. I understand you have troubles of your own. A royal messenger killed in your parish?’ She shook her head. ‘It’s so sad. I knew both Eccleshall and Sholter. Oh yes.’ She saw the surprise in Athelstan’s face.’ They often travelled from Westminster to the Tower and came striding into the Paradise Tree shouting for custom.’

  ‘What were they like?’ Athelstan asked as Sir John and Hengan brought across a bench.

  ‘Oh, bully-boys both, especially Sholter; he would always swagger in roaring for a drink. Now he’s gone! Life is truly a valley of shadows isn’t it, Brother? But you have questions?’ She didn’t look at Sir John but at Athelstan. ‘I also know your reputation: small and gentle with eyes which never miss anything.’

  Athelstan smiled at the compliment. ‘Mistress Kathryn, we are here to save you. I will be honest, that is going to be very hard.’

  Mistress Vestler blinked, her lower lip quivered but she maintained her composure.

  ‘Did you kill Bartholomew Menster and Margot Haden?’

  ‘I did not.’

  ‘Do you know how their corpses came to be buried in Black Meadow?’

  ‘I do not.’

  ‘Can you, Mistress Vestler,’ Athelstan persisted, aware of how quiet this cell had fallen, ‘remember the twenty-fifth June, the day after midsummer? That was the last day Bartholomew and Margot were seen alive.’

  ‘I don’t know, I can’t remember.’

  ‘What do you think happened?’

  ‘Bartholomew must have come into the tavern to eat, drink and meet Margot.’ She shook her head. ‘But, apart from that . . .’

  ‘Why did you burn Margot Haden’s property?’

  ‘I’ve told you that, it was tawdry, only cheap items. I thought she had eloped and wouldn’t need them any more.’

  Athelstan’s heart sank: just a flicker of the eye but he was sure she was lying.

  ‘Did Bartholomew Menster ever offer to marry you?’

  ‘Of course not!’

  ‘Were you jealous of his affection for Margot?’

  She shook her head, and Athelstan sensed she was telling the truth.

  ‘Did Bartholomew Menster ever discuss with you the legends of Bishop Gundulf’s treasure, about it being like the sun?’ He paused. ‘And hidden beneath the sun.’

  Athelstan abruptly recalled that no reference to the latter half of this cryptic riddle had been found in the manuscripts he had taken from the Tower.

  Kathryn was now agitated, rubbing her hands together.

  ‘The Tower is full of such legends,’ she replied. ‘Hidden gems, lost jewels, Gundulf’s treasure hoard, Roman silver.’

  ‘Did you and your late husband Stephen know about these lost treasures of the Tower?’

  ‘Of course. We lived within bowshot of the Tower. Stephen was always buying artefacts from the garrison: shields, disused weapons and other curiosities. You’ve seen most of them yourself! True, Bartholomew discussed the legends with me but I just laughed.’

  ‘Did he ever offer to buy the Paradise Tree?’ Sir John broke in.

  Kathryn was about to deny that.

  ‘He did, didn’t he?’ Athelstan persisted.

  ‘On two occasions,’ she replied slowly, ‘he made an offer but I refused.’

  ‘And you never thought it strange,’ Athelstan asked, ‘that a clerk, a scribe from the Tower, was interested in the tavern? Didn’t you think his interest in the treasure was, perhaps, more than a passing mood?’

  ‘He made offers. I refused and that’s the end of the matter.’

  ‘Well, perhaps we have some good news,’ Athelstan said. ‘The other skeletons were probably victims of the plague: Black Meadow may have been a burial pit when the great pestilence raged.’

  Kathryn smiled. ‘It’s possible. Perhaps that’s why it was called Black Meadow.’ She wiped her mouth on the back of her hand. ‘Stephen always talked about ghosts being seen there.’

  ‘More than ghosts, mistress. The Four Gospels, that strange little company whom you so generously allowed to stay in Black Meadow, have reported barges coming in on the mud flats. Of dark shapes and shadows entering Black Meadow in the direction of the Paradise Tree.’

  ‘I know nothing of that,’ she retorted sharply. ‘The Thames is like any highway, both good and bad travel there.’

  ‘But where do they go to?’ Athelstan asked.

  ‘Petty Wales is a den of thieves.’

  Athelstan fought to control his temper.

  ‘Mistress Vestler, in this gatehouse is a serjeant-at-law, Master Odo Whittock. He and Sir Henry Brabazon are, to use Sir John’s term, “two cheeks of the same face”. They will dig and dig deeply. They will not be satisfied by your answers in court.’

  ‘It’s the only response they will get, Brother.’

  ‘Mistress Vestler, I am trying to help. I have been to the Paradise Tree and it’s a fine, prosperous tavern. Questions will be asked about your profits.’

  ‘I am a good businesswoman,’ she insisted. ‘Brother, if I could have a cup of water?’

  Athelstan rose, filled a cracked pewter cup and passed it over.

  ‘My profits are what they are.’ She sipped at the water. ‘I can say no more.’

  Athelstan saw his despair mirrored in Sir John’s eyes.

  ‘In which case, Mistress Vestler, I will pray for you and do what I can.’

  ‘I will stay,’ Hengan said. ‘I need to talk about further matters.’

  Sir John went across and hammered on the door.

  The turnkey waiting on the other side opened it. They went down the steps and out into the cobbled yard. Athelstan plucked at the coroner’s sleeve.

  ‘It does not look well, Sir John.’

  ‘No, Brother, it doesn’t.’ He paused at a scream which came from a darkened doorway. ‘Hell’s kitchen! That’s what this place is: let’s be gone!’

  Outside the main gate, Henry Flaxwith stood holding a slavering, smiling Samson in his arms

  ‘You see, Sir Jack, he’s well enough now.

  The dog lunged at Sir John, teeth bared.

  ‘Samson is so pleased to see you, Sir John. You know he loves you.’

  ‘Master Flaxwith, I’ll take your word for it. Now, put the bloody thing down!’

  Flaxwith lowered Samson gently down on to the cobbles and the ugly mastiff pounced on a scrap of meat from the fleshers’ yard.

  ‘And my errand?’ Athelstan asked. ‘To Hilda Smallwode?’

  Flaxwith pulled a face. ‘I am not too sure whether you will like this. The maid, who
is honest enough, said she did not see Master Sholter actually leave, she was in the house. Her mistress stayed for a while but she did send Hilda upstairs to the bedchamber. The maid remembers seeing the St Christopher on a stool but didn’t think anything of it. She certainly saw it again on Sunday morning when she called round to see if her mistress was well.’

  Athelstan closed his eyes and quietly cursed.

  ‘Well, well, Brother.’ Sir John patted him on the shoulder. ‘It would seem your theory will not hold up. Master Sholter did forget his St Christopher’

  Athelstan just rubbed the side of his face.

  ‘Sir John, I must think while you must see your poppets.’

  And, hitching his chancery bag over his shoulder, Athelstan despondently walked away, leaving a bemused coroner behind him.

  Athelstan trudged on, oblivious to the crowds around him, to the constant shouts of the apprentices: ‘What do you lack? What do you lack?’ Tradesmen plucking at his sleeve, trying to attract his attention; whores flouncing out of doorways. All the little friar could think of was Mistress Vestler sitting there, telling lies while, across the city, two assassins hugged themselves in glee at the terrible crimes they had committed.

  Athelstan paused, breathed in and coughed; the friar was suddenly aware that he had gone through the old city gates. He was now near the great Fleet Ditch which stank to high heaven of the saltpetre which covered the mounds of rubbish. Two urchins ran up, saying they would sing him a song for a penny. Athelstan tossed them a coin and sketched a blessing in the air.

  ‘I’ll give you that for silence,’ he told them. ‘Blackfriars!’ he announced. ‘I’ll go to Blackfriars!’

  ‘And then to heaven?’ a chapman who had overheard him called out.

  Athelstan smiled and walked on, lost in his thoughts and what he had learned.

  At last he arrived at the mother house. A lay brother let him through the postern door. Athelstan seized him by the shoulders and stared into the man’s vacant eyes, the saliva drooling from slack jaws.

  ‘It’s Brother Eustace, isn’t it?’

  ‘Abbot Eustace to you,’ the lay brother replied.

  Athelstan squeezed the old man’s shoulder.

  ‘And I am the Cardinal Bishop of Ostia,’ he hissed.

  ‘I’ve come to make a secret visitation, so don’t tell anyone I’m here.’

  The lay brother chortled with glee. Athelstan moved on across the cloister garth and into the heavy oak scriptorium and library. The old librarian was not there. Athelstan quietly thanked God, otherwise it would have been at least an hour of gossip and chatter. The assistant, a young friar who introduced himself as Brother Sylvester, welcomed him with the kiss of peace.

  ‘I’ve heard of you, Brother Athelstan. They say when you were a novice you ran away to war.’ The words came out in a rush. ‘And your brother was killed and you came back and so they made you parish priest in Southwark.’

  ‘Everyone knows my story.’ Athelstan grinned.

  ‘But, Brother, I am in a hurry. Is it possible to have a history of the Tower and the Book of the Dead?’

  ‘I know the former,’ Brother Sylvester replied. ‘But the other?’

  ‘It was written about twenty years ago,’ Athelstan explained. ‘It lists all the burial pits left from the pestilence.’

  ‘I’ll have a look.’

  Athelstan sat down at one of the tables. The chair was cushioned and comfortable. He noted the oaken book shelves, the lectern with its precious calfskin tomes chained to the stand; racks of parchments and vellum. Books on scripture, theology, history and science. Athelstan closed his eyes. It brought back memories of his novitiate, the smell of polish mingled with that of beeswax, dried leather and fresh parchment.

  ‘Brother Athelstan?’

  The assistant librarian had two tomes in his hand. He put these down in front then opened the window behind to provide more light. Athelstan begged a scrap of parchment and a quill before opening the tome with the title Liber Mortuorum engraved on the front. The pages were thin, yellowing with age, but the clerkly hand was still distinct. It listed the graveyards of London, even at St Erconwald’s. Athelstan scanned this entry quickly: two or three pages full of those buried there. He quietly promised himself that, one day, he would return and study it more closely. At the back the entries became more haphazard but, at last, he found the place: Ager niger Prope Turrem, Black Meadow near the Tower. ‘In hoc loco,’ the entry began, ‘In this place, many were buried in the autumn of the year of Our Lord 1349. The field was blessed and consecrated by Brother Reyward who tended to those,’ here Athelstan had difficulty with the doggerel Latin, ‘who had fallen sick and been placed in the tavern near the river, now used,’ and Athelstan noticed the word ‘hospicium’.

  ‘So, it was a hospital,’ Athelstan murmured.

  He took down the title of a book and the entry on a scrap of parchment.

  ‘Have you found what you wanted, Brother?’

  Athelstan smiled. ‘Yes thank you.’

  He should have felt elated but he was tired and hungry. Certainly the entry proved that at least Mistress Vestler had not murdered indiscriminately. He sighed and opened the other book, A History of the Tower and its Environs by a chronicler who had lived fifty years earlier. It was not really a history but more a general description and chronicle of outstanding events, such as the legend that Julius Caesar built the Tower. Crudely drawn maps described the different buildings: the curtain wall, towers and chapel but nothing significant. Athelstan closed the book, thanked Brother Sylvester and left.

  Once he was through the postern gate, Athelstan regretted not visiting the refectory or kitchen. Instead, he went into a tavern, the Mailed Gauntlet, a stone-built alehouse with a small rose garden beyond. The kindly tavern-keeper took him out to a turf seat and served him a pot of ale and a freshly baked meat pie. Athelstan sat and basked in the late afternoon sun. He would have liked to visit Sir John but what would he say? He should really be helping the coroner but, in truth, he felt a terrible anger against those two assassins playing ‘lovers’ cradle’ in Mincham Lane.

  ‘How did they do it?’ he asked himself.

  He thought of Sholter and Eccleshall riding across the bridge and, later that evening, a rider hurrying back.

  ‘Of course!’ Athelstan exclaimed. ‘A horse is easy to get rid of but what about a saddle?’

  Chapter 10

  Athelstan left the alehouse determined to visit the Barque of St Peter, the rather eccentric name that eerie figure, the fisher of men, gave to his chapel or deathhouse. It was late afternoon and the crowds still thronged, particularly around the food stalls; they eagerly bought produce, reduced in price, before the market horn sounded for the end of the day’s trading.

  Athelstan, refreshed, made his way quickly along the streets. Above and around him three-storied houses, pinched and narrow, blocked out the sunlight, forcing people to knock and push each other in the busy lanes below. The friar threaded his way past the booths piled high with brightly coloured linen from Brussels, broad cloths from the West Country, drapes and wall sheets from Louvain and Dordrecht. Athelstan then entered Trinity where the traders sold more exotic goods, brought by the low-slung Venetian galleys now docked in the Thames: chests of spices; bags of saffron; gingers and aniseed; casks full of dried figs; oranges and lemons from the islands of Spain; crates full of almonds and mace; sacks of ground sugar, pepper and salt.

  At last Athelstan glimpsed the sails of ships and smelled the fresh tangy air of the river. He was now in La Reole where the quacks, fortune-sellers and relic-sellers swarmed like the plagues of Egypt. He noticed with amusement one bold fellow screaming above the rest that he had Herod’s foreskin for sale, skinned by a demon and placed in the cave above the Dead Sea. There was a small stall, guarded by two burly assistants, selling books and manuscripts. Athelstan would have loved to stop there. Such merchandise was very rare and Athelstan, who was determined to study the night sky befor
e winter set in, was always keen on discovering some book on astronomy or astrology. Such manuscripts were now flooding into the country, brought by travellers from the East and hastily copied by scribes and scriveners. Nevertheless, he had to press on. Once darkness fell, the fisher of men would set sail on his barge.

  Athelstan heaved a sigh of relief when he rounded a corner and saw the fisher of men sitting on a bench outside his chapel. He was surrounded by his strange crew, outcasts and lepers, their faces and hands bound in dirty linen bandages. Only one was different, a young boy called Icthus. He had no hair, eyebrows or eyelids and, with his protuberant eyes, pouting lips and thin-ribbed body, he looked like a fish and, indeed, could swim like one.

  Very few people approached these men who combed the waters of the Thames for corpses. Outside the chapel was a proclamation bearing the charges for bodies recovered:

  Accidents 3d. Suicides 4d.

  Murders 6d. The mad and the insane 9d.

  The fisher of men rose as Athelstan approached.

  ‘You have business with me, Brother?’

  The fisher of men pulled back his cowl, his skull-like face bright with pleasure.

  No one knew his origins. Some whispered that he was a sailor who had found his wife and children killed by marauders. He had lost his wits, wandered in the wastelands north of the city, before coming back to take up this most grisly position as an official of the City Corporation. He clapped his hands and a stool was produced from inside the chapel. The friar sat down.

  ‘You wish to view a corpse?’ the fisher of men asked. ‘We have a fine array of goods today, Brother. A young man, deep in his cups, who tried to swim the Thames last night; a woman who threw herself off a bridge; a soldier from the Tower, as well as the usual collection of animals: five dogs, three cats, a sow and a pet weasel.’ He grasped the skeletal arm of Icthus, his chief assistant. ‘All plucked from the river by this child of God. And where is Sir John?’ the fisher of men prattled on. ‘The lord coroner does not visit me? I saw him today, coming out of Master Bapaume’s, the goldsmith’s.’