Field of Blood

Field of Blood

The Sorrowful Mysteries of

Brother Athelstan

Paul Harding

Prologue

'A place of ghosts! Soil soaked in blood! Houses and mansions built on the sweat of labourers! Graveyards full of corpses whose souls cry to God for vengeance! A pit of darkness with ground fertile enough to grow a thousand Judas trees!'

This is how the preacher who'd swept into London in the autumn of 1380 described the city.

'The whore of Babylon!' he had thundered from the steps of Cheapside. 'The place of the Great Dragon! Didn't its citizens see Satan, and all his fallen ser­aphs, rising like dark clouds, plumes of smoke from the spiritual battlefield, across the skies of London?'

The preacher's mouth was full of such choice phrases. Nevertheless, his words had little effect upon the citizens; they had even less upon the King's good fleet, fresh from patrolling the Narrow Seas and berthed at the different quays along the Thames. The sailors had swarmed ashore, filling the taverns and the streets with their raucous sounds and revelry. The preacher, in disgust, took off his sandals, shak­ing the dust from them, a sign that his task was finished. He would have nothing more to do with the citizens of this new Babylon.

Now he sat in the Lion Heart tavern across the Thames on the outskirts of Southwark.

The preacher had gone down its narrow mean streets, the alleyways and runnels full of filth from the open sewers. He had seen the brothels and the whorehouses, the ale-shops and the taverns. Before dusk he had even stood in front of the pillory and watched a man, his ears pinned to the wood, have to pull those ears away leaving them torn and bloody: a sure sign that the King's justice had been done while the brand he'd carry all the days of his life.

Ah well, life was full of pain! The preacher had done his task. He'd leave London and go to the Cinque Ports. Some good ladies in Cheapside had given him silver pieces. The preacher had snatched them up only to spit in their faces.

'Women of London! Will ye not repent!'

He had pointed at their painted faces, plucked eyebrows, ornate headdresses covered in wisps of lawn. He mocked their damask-covered gowns with their narrow waists and brocaded stomachers, cut low to reveal swelling, creamy flesh and fluted swan­like necks, their beauty greatly enhanced by silver and gold collars.

The preacher leaned back against the taproom wall and licked his lips. He'd noticed one, youngish, big-bosomed and broad-hipped, with a naughty look in her eyes and a saucy pout to her lips. Would she be lively and enthusiastic in bed? He closed his eyes. He could just picture her, blonde hair falling down. Not like the common whore he had taken in that meadow near the mud flats.

The preacher felt a flush of excitement and opened his eyes. The young whore sitting across the taproom was ever so pert and comely. In fact, she reminded him of a woman he had glimpsed earlier in the day on Cheapside. The preacher, truly a wicked hypo­crite, rubbed his stomach. He had eaten and drunk well. He'd done the Lord's business. Was this the Lord's way of rewarding him? Had not King David taken comely young maids to his bed to warm his blood and render him more fitted for the Lord's work? He clawed back his oily black hair and smiled across at the whore, then lifted his tankard. The whore turned away, glancing flirtatiously at him from the corner of her eye. The preacher studied her intently. He would not be brooked. He noticed her smooth face, the rich brown hair, its tresses piled high. She now took off her threadbare cloak, stretch­ing forward. The preacher glimpsed milk-white breasts, the laces of her bodice half undone, and quietly groaned with pleasure. He took a silver coin out, twirling it between his fingers. Was not every saint tempted, he thought? And how could he know the depths of such sin if he did not plumb them himself? He would repent. He would reflect but, for now, his belly was full and the ale made his blood sing like a harp. The whore came over, her high raised pattens slopping on the floor. She moved rather languidly, submissively, head slightly down, hands hanging by her side.

'You want more ale, sir?' Her voice was like the purr of a cat, green eyes studying the preacher from head to toe. 'You are thirsty, tired and in need of comfort?'

'I am in need of company,' the preacher replied.

The young whore perched herself demurely on a stool on the other side of the table. She leaned forward, head tilted, eyes half-closed, affording the preacher a generous view of her bosom and neck. He's a sailor, she thought, come across the Thames looking for fresh meat. And that silver piece in his hand? He'd be a generous customer, even though he looked rather wild and haggard.

'I'm thirsty' she announced.

The preacher raised his hands as he had seen the young bucks do in the taverns. Mine host, standing near the barrels and tuns, smiled and called for a potboy.

'It looks as if Prudence is going to be busy tonight,' he whispered.

The potboy hurried across with two slopping blackjacks of ale.

'What's your name?' The preacher toasted her.

'Prudence.'

'Are you a whore, Prudence?'

'I bear no mark or brand on me,' she quipped. 'I have not been whipped in the pillory.'

'But would you like to be whipped, Prudence?'

'A little,' she simpered back, though her hand fell to the small knife in her girdle.

Prudence was from the countryside but she knew the darkness in men's hearts and souls. She intended to rise, make her fortune in this city of gold; become the mistress of some merchant. She had seen old whores and drabs with their pitted faces, toothless, drooling mouths, scars and cuts covering their bod­ies. Prudence knew all the tricks, this man had better not mark her! He certainly liked his ale and, when their bellies were full, men were easier to handle. She emptied her blackjack quickly. The preacher did likewise and ordered some more. He asked about her life. She told the usual mixture of lies about flawed innocence, flirting with her eyes, promising much. The preacher drank on until he could tolerate the tension no longer. He slammed the tankard down and lurched to his feet. Prudence looked up in alarm.

'Are you leaving now, sir?'

'If you wish.'

Prudence took his hand and led him out of the door, ignoring the salacious whispers and muted laughter of the other customers. Outside darkness had fallen. The cold night air revived the preacher.

'Where to now?' she asked. 'Do you have a chamber?'

The preacher shook his head. His lust cooled. He did not wish to be caught in some tavern stable and carted back into the city for punishment.

'Let's go somewhere,' he declared thickly.

Prudence pointed down the street to the mouth of the alleyway.

'In the fields beyond, stands an old, ruined house.'

'What house?' the preacher slurred.

'Simon the miser's. Burned down it was, killed the old miser. They say it's haunted but,' Prudence peered up at him, 'it's not. I've been there.'

The preacher grasped her hand more tightly. 'Come on girl!'

Such a place suited him. It was beyond the city in a place where no sheriff's men, bailiffs or constables would patrol. Slipping and slithering they went down the alleyway; the line of raggle-taggle houses gave way to a stretch of common land. The preacher slipped an arm round Prudence's waist.

'It's black as hell's pit,' he hissed. He stopped and fumbled at her breasts. 'I want to see what I buy.'

'Oh, you shall,' she whispered coyly and snuggled closer, a wild scheme already forming in her mind. She recalled how the downstairs parlour of the old miser's house was littered with thick pieces of wood. A sharp blow to the head and she'd empty this gull's purse and be away. And what could he do? Report her to the bailiffs?

They went down a gritty trackway across a wooden bridge. The preacher's eyes had now grown accus­tomed to the gloom. In the moonlight, the dark, stark outline of a ruined house rose over the brow of a hill. He began to regret his purchase but Prudence was climbing ahead of him.

At last they stood outside the ruined building. Once a magnificent, two-storied mansion, the roof had now fallen in, the windows were empty sockets. She led him through the doorway along a cracked stone passageway. The preacher paused.

'I heard something! A footfall?'

'Nonsense!' Prudence whispered back.

She led him into the parlour and across to a corner where she froze and cursed her fuddled wits. The room was warm, smelling of smoke as if a fire had been lit. She let go of the preacher's hand and turned. A shadowy outline now blocked the doorway. She heard a tinder scrape, as a candle was lit. Prudence and the preacher stood transfixed. In the pool of light they glimpsed a corpse, eyes open, throat cut, lying on the floor with this hideous figure above it. The preacher was the first to recover. 'What?' He stumbled across.

The crossbow bolt struck him full in the chest while Prudence could only stare in terror as the dark figure strode across the room towards her.

If London was regarded as a foulsome place, Newgate Prison, built into the old Roman wall, was the very antechamber of hell, a warren of passageways, pits, filthy chambers and damp dungeons.

Alice Brokestreet surveyed the murky, mildewed cell. Every time she moved, the gyves on her wrists and ankles chafed her skin. The tallow candle she had bought was now burning low on the stone ledge in front of her. Alice, who had definitely seen better days, wrinkled her nose at the fetid smells from the rotting straw and contemplated the bowl of gruel, which consisted of nothing more than slops with pieces of greasy meat and hard rye bread floating on the top. She tried to eat but couldn't, being so full of terrors. She closed her eyes. If she could blot out the shadows? Close her ears to the squealing and scampering of the rats? All would be well.

She was back in that tavern-cum-brothel, the Merry Pig, which stood on the corner of the Ropery near Pulteneys Inn. She was in the taproom and the customer, a fat-bellied clerk, was lurching towards her, screaming abuse. Alice had grasped a firkin-opener and, before she could think, had plunged it, two hands on the hilt, deep into the clerk's fat chest. He'd collapsed, choking on the blood bubbling in his throat.

Alice had expected help from other customers. They just stared hard-eyed back so she fled, out of the tavern along the needle-thin alleyway. Behind her the cries of 'Harrow! Harrow! Harrow!' were bellowed as the hue and cry was raised. Alice, not a young woman, had run demented, crazed with fear. In her panic, she'd turned, going down a runnel only to find there was no way out. She had slipped in the sewer and, before she could even rise, hands were grasping at her, tearing at her clothes and hair; her face was pummelled, her body kicked and punched. She had been caught red-handed, guilty of murder, and the bailiffs of the ward had committed her to Newgate.

In two days' time she would be taken out of this hell, thrown into a cart and hauled before the justices now sitting in judgement at the Guildhall. But what could she plead? Self-defence? The clerk had been unarmed. She was a woman, so benefit of clergy was denied her.

Alice jumped and screamed as the rats scurried across her bare ankles. She stared pitifully at the grille in the door. The gaoler had offered to stay with her for the night. Alice had refused. She shook her head despairingly. What did it all matter? The jury would find her guilty, the justices condemn her to hang. If only she'd not left the Paradise Tree. Mistress Kathryn Vestler had been kindly enough. The tavern had been clean with spacious gardens and a meadow stretching down to the Thames. From her garret

Alice could glimpse the turrets and soaring walls of the Tower.

Oh, she had been happy there! Alice had come from Maidstone in Kent. She had kept herself clean, her appearance good, and been hired as a chamber­maid. Mistress Vestler had found her near the Si Quis door of St Paul's where men and women gathered to be hired. She had worked at the Paradise Tree for three months, cleaning rooms, sometimes helping Mistress Vestler, a widow, in her garden. At night, when the weather was good, she would stroll through Black Meadow, which stretched down to the river, a lonely haunted place. Alice had heard the rumours and gossip; how the tavern was supposedly built on the site of an ancient church, but Alice didn't know or care about such things. It was only scraps of gossip she had picked up. All had changed when a customer had told Alice how she could earn much more at the Merry Pig. She was comely enough. She could be a chambermaid and even save some coins. She could become a goodwoman. Per­haps a seamstress? In time buy her own alehouse or small tavern? Alice, guiled and tricked, had risen like a fish to the bait. The Merry Pig proved to be nothing more than a whore-shop. Perhaps that was why she had killed the clerk?

Alice closed her eyes as a spurt of anger coursed through her. She had tried to go back to the Paradise Tree but Mistress Vestler had been stony-faced and cold-eyed. Alice sighed. What secrets did she know about Mistress Vestler? Perhaps she could send a message? Ask for some help? The gaoler was uncouth but, in turn for a favour? She started as the key turned in the lock and the heavy door swung open. The gaoler lurched in. Alice's resolve weak­ened; he was such a shambling oaf of a man! 'Go away!' she hissed.

'Oh, it's not me, mistress,' the gaoler slurred.

He stepped aside. A shadowy, dark-cowled figure stood behind him.

'This good friar wishes to know if ye want to be shrived?'

Chapter 1

In the parish church of St Erconwald's in Southwark, Brother Athelstan, Dominican, parish priest and secre-tarius to the noble Sir John Cranston, coroner of the city, knelt on the steps before the high altar. He was praying that the new week would be uneventful. He tried to concentrate but his mind teemed with all the different goings on: the parish council was soon to meet. Athelstan privately regarded that as an occasion of sin, particularly if Pike the ditcher's wife decided to hold forth on everything and everyone. Huddle the painter wanted to start a new fresco in the sanctuary but Athelstan was cautious. The pro­jected scene was Noah leading the animals into the ark, yet Huddle couldn't resist poking fun at his enemies in the parish. Athelstan knew it would be civil war if the two apes bore even the slightest resemblance to Pike and his wife. The Dominican gazed up at the brass crucifix standing on the white linen altar cloth.

'They are good people,' he prayed. 'Poor and dirty while the great ones consider them no more than worms in the earth. So, give me patience.' Athelstan paused. 'And good humour in dealing with them.'

Athelstan reflected on the good being done. Watkin the dung-collector and Pike had cleaned the cemetery up; a new death house had been built and the old one was now occupied by the beggarman Godbless and his little pet goat Thaddeus. Athelstan remembered to have a word with Godbless. The beggarman got his nickname because he attended the Mass and, at the kiss of peace, used the occasion to pick pockets. Nothing had happened in St Erconwald's but other parish priests were reporting how their parishioners were losing coins during the osculum pacis.

'I am too distracted.'

Athelstan gazed down at his ever-faithful compan­ion, the great, one-eyed tomcat Bonaventure. The cat adored this little friar who provided him with deli­cious dishes of milk and salted fish. However, if the truth be known, Bonaventure was not sitting so quietly by his master out of any liturgical reverence; Bonaventure, the scourge and terror of the vermin in the alleyways of Southwark, had discovered that a party of church mice had taken up residence. He was now intently watching a far corner of the sanctuary for any sudden movement.

Athelstan rose and crossed himself. He genuflected towards the silver pyx hanging from a gold chain above the altar, put his stole about his neck and walked over to the small cubicle placed in one of the transepts. This was the shriving pew, fashioned out of oak by Crispin the new carpenter.

Everyone had admired it. It was a simple piece of wood, six foot high and fixed on a wooden platform. There was a lattice grille in the centre covered by a purple cloth. On one side was a small prie-dieu for the penitent, on the other a chair for the priest to hear confessions. Athelstan had announced that, every morning this week, in preparation for the Feast of All Saints, he would be here between the hours of nine and midday to hear confessions, shrive penitents and give absolution. The parishioners had all agreed. Athelstan said a quick prayer as he settled in the shriving chair that Sir John Cranston would not come gusting in from the city with news of a hideous murder, some bloody affray which would require their attention.

Bonaventure lay at his feet. Athelstan read his psal­ter, chanting to himself the divine office for the day. The door opened. He quickly peered round the screen. His parishioners were coming to confess, so Athelstan put the psalter down and rang a silver hand bell. The first penitent took his place.

'Brother, I've done nothing wrong!'

'Is that true, Crim?' Athelstan asked his altar boy. 'Then you are a most fortunate lad. You are good at home?'

'Oh yes, Brother.'

'And do you help your parents?'

'Of course, Brother.'

'And you've stopped making obscene gestures at Pike's wife?'

'Only when her back's turned, Brother.'

'And you never drink the altar wine?'

Crim coughed. 'Only when I have a sore throat, Brother.'

'Say a prayer for me,' Athelstan said as he smiled.

He gave Crim absolution and other penitents fol­lowed. Athelstan felt a deep compassion for the litany of sins they confessed. Men and women strug­gling against terrible poverty and oppressive laws still strove to be good, anxious when they failed.

'Brother, I think impure thoughts about Cecily the courtesan.'

'Brother, I drink too much.'

'Brother, I curse.'

'Brother, I stole some bread from a stall.'

Athelstan's responses were the same. 'God is merci­ful: His compassion will surprise us. Try to do good. Now I absolve you …'

The morning wore on. Athelstan was pleased. Quite a number of parishioners had turned up. Some were honest, others fey-witted. Pernell the Flemish woman, who dyed her hair a range of garish colours, confessed how she had slept with this man and that.

'Pernell! Pernell!' Athelstan broke in. 'You know that's not the truth. You dream.'

'I get worried, Brother, just in case I have!'

At last the church fell silent. Athelstan looked down at Bonaventure, glad that no hideous sin had been confessed: murder, sacrilege, dabbling in the black arts.

The church door opened. Athelstan could tell from the cough and the quick, light footsteps that a young woman had entered the church. She knelt on the prie-dieu.

'Bless me Brother for I have sinned.' The voice was low and sweet. 'I bless you.'

'I was last shriven before the Feast of Corpus Christi. I have been unkind, in thought, word and deed.'

'It is difficult to be charitable all the time,' Athelstan murmured. 'God knows I confess to the same sin.' 'Do you really, Brother?'

'I am a sinner like you. A child of God. He knows the heart and soul. Do continue.'

'Brother, I wish to commit murder!'

Athelstan nearly fell off his chair.

'I really do! I want to kill a woman, take a knife and drive it into her heart!'

'That is just anger.'

'No, I will do it! I swear by God I will do it!' 'Hush now!' Athelstan retorted. 'This is a sacra­ment in God's house. Can I pull back the curtains?' 'There's no need to, Brother.'

The young woman came round the screen and knelt before him. 'Why, it's Eleanor!'

Athelstan grasped her hands and gazed into the thin but very beautiful face of Basil the blacksmith's eldest daughter, a pale young woman with hair red as fire and the most magnificent green eyes Athelstan had ever seen. A shy girl but strong-willed, Eleanor always reminded Athelstan of what an angel must be: beautiful, modest with a dry sense of humour.

'Eleanor,' he pleaded. 'What is the matter?'

'Brother, I am in love.'

'You wouldn't think it.'

'No, Brother, I truly am. I deeply love …' She smiled.

'This is a secret?' Athelstan asked.

'Well, we've been very …' 'Discreet?'

'What does that mean, Brother?' 'Well, secretive, but not sly,' Athelstan added hastily.

A dreamy look came into the young woman's eyes. 'Its Oswald Fitz-Joscelyn.'

Athelstan recalled the eldest son of the owner of the Piebald tavern, his parishioners' favourite drinking-place.

'I truly love him, Brother.'

'How old are you, Eleanor?'

The young woman closed her eyes. 'This will be my eighteenth yuletide, or so Mother says.' 'And Oswald?'

'He loves me too, Brother, more than anything in the world! He bought me,' she touched the locket on a bronze chain round her neck, 'he bought me this on the Feast of the Assumption: Oswald said when he was with me, he felt as if he had been taken up into heaven.'

Athelstan hid his smile and nodded. Oswald was a personable young man. His father had already made him a partner in a very prosperous business. Joscelyn had plans to buy a tavern elsewhere, even apply for the membership of the Guild of Victuallers.

'If this is so,' Athelstan asked, 'why do you plot murder?'

'It's Imelda!'

'Oh no!'

Athelstan groaned and closed his eyes: Pike the ditcher's wife! The self-styled chronicler, herald and fount of all knowledge in the parish.

'What has she got to do with this?'

'She saw,' Eleanor blinked to hide her tears, 'Oswald and me in the fields beyond the ditch. She went and told Oswald's father.'

'And?'

'That harridan,' Eleanor spat the words out, 'maintains that my great-grandmother and Oswald's great-grandmother were sisters!' She glimpsed the look of anguish in the priest's face.

'And what proof does she have?'

'You know, Brother, what she is hinting at? She's never liked me and she blames Joscelyn for Pike's drinking, but the parish has no blood book.'

Athelstan glanced across the church at Huddle's paintings on the far wall depicting Lot's wife being turned into a pillar of salt. He recalled the furious arguments when Huddle had given the woman the same features as Pike the ditcher's wife.

'This is serious, isn't it, Brother?'

'It is, Eleanor.' Athelstan stretched a hand out and gently stroked her hair. 'We have no proper blood book. The last parish priest.' Athelstan shrugged. 'Well, you know what he was like?'

'He dabbled in the black arts, didn't he?'

'He not only did that,' Athelstan said. 'He either burned or stole every document the parish had. We have no records, Eleanor, but the Church strictly forbids marriage within the bounds of consanguinity.'

'I've heard of that, Brother. What does it mean?'

'That you and Oswald are related and that your children …'

'Now that I do know,' Eleanor interrupted heat­edly. 'Imelda said the same. How, in isolated villages, such marriages give birth to monsters!'

'Now, now. Such tales of terror will not help the present situation. The problem, Eleanor, is that we do have a blood book. I instituted one, using what records and evidence I could collect, but it certainly doesn't go that far back.' He sighed. 'And Pike the ditcher's wife is sure about what she says?'

'Brother, you would think she had come straight from the Archbishop of Canterbury.'

Athelstan made a sign of the cross above her.

'Eleanor, I absolve you from your sins. I am sure God understands your anger but you must not do anything.'

'I'd love to silence her, Brother! I'd love to shut that clacking tongue! If it wasn't for her we'd be married at Easter!' Eleanor put her face in her hands. 'I do so love him.' She glanced up. 'Do you under­stand that, Brother?'

'No, Eleanor.' Athelstan smiled. 'I don't. Love can never be understood because it can never be meas­ured, neither the length, the breadth, the height nor its depth.' Again he grasped her hands. 'In each of us God has breathed; that breath is our soul: without limit, without end. When we love, Eleanor, we are like God, and that includes Imelda.' He let go of her hands. 'Now you may do what you want, I cannot stop you. Or you can leave it to me. But, you must decide now.'

'Until the Feast of All Saints,' Eleanor replied tersely.

'Very well.' Athelstan sighed. 'Until the Feast of All Saints.'

Eleanor got to her feet. 'Thank you, Brother.'

'Smile!' Athelstan urged. 'I am sure, Eleanor, this can be resolved.' He pointed to the church door. 'And I'll meet you and Oswald there to witness your vows.'

He watched the young woman leave then put his face in his hands.

'Oh, Lord, what have I promised?'

He felt pressure on his leg and looked down. Bonaventure had lifted himself up, two forepaws on his knee; the cat's little pink tongue came out with a fine display of sharp white teeth.

'And how shall I forgive you, oh great killer of the alleyways?' Athelstan asked. 'Slaughterer on the midden-heap! Scourge of rats! Come on now!'

Bonaventure leapt into the friar's lap. Athelstan sat there stroking him, half-listening to the tomcat's deep purr as he reflected on Eleanor's problems. The new parish blood book didn't go back far so he would have to depend on verbal testimony. However, if Pike the ditcher's wife was bent on mischief, she might already have jogged memories in the direction she wanted. On the one hand Athelstan felt angry at such meddling but, on the other, if the ditcher's wife was correct, he would not sanctify Eleanor's and Oswald's marriage. So where could he start? What could he do?

The church door opened with a crash. Athelstan thought it was Sir John Cranston but Luke Bladder-sniff the beadle, his bulbous red nose glowing like a piece of fiery charcoal, stumbled into the church.

'Murder!' he screamed. 'Oh horrors! Murder most terrible!'

'In God's name Bladdersniff, what's the matter?' 'Murder!' the beadle shrieked. 'Come, Brother!'

Athelstan followed him out on to the porch. The day was fine, the sun shone strong. He could see nothing except Bladdersniff's large handcart in the mouth of the alleyway. Pike and Watkin were guard­ing it as if it held the royal treasure. Then Athelstan went cold as he glimpsed a bare foot, a hand sticking out from beneath the dirty sheet.

'In God's name!' he breathed. 'How many?'

'Three, Brother.'

Athelstan knew what Bladdersniff would say next.

'I brought them here because they were found in the parish. I do not recognise them, they are the corpses of strangers. According to the law, such relicts must be displayed outside the parish church for a day and a night.'

Athelstan inhaled deeply. 'Bring them forward, Bladdersniff!'

The beadle gestured. Watkin and Pike trundled the handcart across, Bladdersniff dramatically removed the canvas sheet and the friar flinched. He was used to death in all its forms, to gruesome murder, to stiff, ice-cold cadavers, hanged, hacked, stabbed, drowned, burned, crushed and mangled. These three corpses, however, had a pathos all of their own. The young girl looked as if she was asleep, except her face was blue-white and a terrible wound gaped in her throat. The dark-skinned, black-haired stranger looked like a sailor, his eyes still popping at the horror he must have experienced as the crossbow bolt took him deep in the heart. Athelstan inspected the feathers of the stout quarrel.

'This must have been loosed at close range,' he observed. 'No more than two yards.'

The third man was young, no older than his twenty-fourth or twenty-fifth summer, with close-cropped hair over a thin face rendered awful by death. Athelstan murmured a prayer and stepped back. The cart moved and the corpse of the young man rolled slightly so that his head fell back, showing the gaping wound in his throat, blue-black, ragged skin, half-closed red-rimmed eyes, his lips and nose laced with blood. Athelstan made a sign of the cross as he whispered the words of absolution. He felt his stom­ach pitch in disgust at such terrible deaths and the shock they caused. He had been in his church then murder, in all its hideous forms, had been thrust upon him. He sat down on the steps.

'God have mercy on them!' Athelstan prayed.

He tried to calm his racing mind. If only Sir Jack were here! He would know what to do. Athelstan prayed quietly for strength and glanced at his three companions. Only then did he notice that Bladdersniff must have vomited; his chin and jerkin were still stained. Watkin and Pike were burly fellows but their faces were pallid, and they were already distancing themselves from the cart's gruesome burdens.

'Where were they found?' Athelstan asked.

'In Simon the miser's house. I wager they had been there since at least last night.'

Athelstan studied the corpses.

'Where in the house? Who discovered them?'

'In the parlour downstairs,' Bladdersniff replied. 'Two children in the field nearby, chasing their dog. They went in and ran out screaming; their mother sent for me.'

'Do you recognise the corpses?'

Bladdersniff shook his head but Athelstan glimpsed the look of guilt which flitted across Pike's pallid face.

'Pike!' he shouted. 'Do you know anything?'

The ditcher shuffled his mud-caked boots, wiping the sweat from his hands on his shabby jerkin.

'I want to see you about a number of things, Pike, but, first, do you know anything about this young woman?'

'She may have been a whore, Brother. I am not too sure. I'll have to rack my memory' 'Rack it!' Athelstan snapped.

He felt stronger and got to his feet. He studied the corpses more closely. The black-haired, sunburned man looked like a sailor with his shaggy, matted hair and beard but he was dressed in a gown and cloak rather than tunic and leggings. On his feet were stout walking boots though the brown leather was scuffed and scratched. The young woman was definitely comely. She wore a linen smock with petticoats beneath, pattens of good leather on her bare feet. A cheap bracelet still dangled round her left wrist. Athelstan went and pulled back the cloak of the dark-skinned man and tapped the wallet. It was empty, as was the purse on the cheap brocaded belt the young woman wore. He held out his hand.

'The money, Bladdersniff?'

The beadle coloured.

'Bladdersniff, you are my friend as well as my parishioner. I do not know the hearts and souls of murderers but I believe these people were killed, not for gain but for some other, more subtle, evil.' He paused. 'To rob the dead is a grievous sin.'

'I didn't rob them, Brother, I was just holding it.'

Bladdersniff dug deep into his own purse. He took out a handful of bronze and silver coins and thrust these into Athelstan's hand.

'Anything else?' the friar demanded.

The beadle was about to refuse but three more coins appeared from his purse.

'If I march you up the church, master beadle, and put your hands on the sanctuary stone, would you say "That's all"?'

'I'll take the oath now, Brother.'

'Good!'

Athelstan sifted the coins of gold, silver and cop­per. He picked up a rather shabby medal on the side of which was a cross, on the reverse what looked like an angel with outstretched wings.

'Who had this?'

Bladdersniff pointed to the black-haired corpse. The Dominican slipped the coins into his own wallet.

'If I remember the law, the goods and chattels of such murdered victims belong to the parish until they are claimed. These will go into the common fund.'

Athelstan studied the corpse of the younger man. He was dressed only in chemise and leggings.

'The shirt is of good linen,' Athelstan remarked. 'Leggings of blue kersey but where's his jerkin, his cloak, his boots and belt?'

'Brother, I assure you,' Bladdersniff protested, 'and Pike and Watkin are my witnesses, that's how we found him.'

Athelstan sat down on the steps and brought his hands together in prayer.

'Oh my Lord!'

He looked sharply to the left. Benedicta had come out of the cemetery and now stopped, mouth gaping, hands half-raised at this terrible sight. She walked forward like a dream wanderer, her dark hair peeping out from beneath the blue veil, her olive-skinned face pale. The beautiful dark eyes of the widow woman studied the three corpses.

'You shouldn't be here, Benedicta,' Athelstan said.

'No, no.'

Benedicta came over and sat beside him on the steps. She pulled her brown cloak more firmly about her as if the sight of these corpses chilled her blood, blotted out the light and warmth of the sun. Athelstan caught a faint whiff of the perfume she wore, distilled herbs, sweet and light, a welcome contrast to the horrors before him. He felt her close beside him and drew strength from her warmth, her quiet support. He smiled to himself. For a moment he felt like a man being joined by his loving wife.

'You shouldn't be here,' he repeated.

'Brother, I feel the way you look.' She half-smiled.

'Three corpses,' Athelstan explained. 'Found in the old miser's house in the fields at the end of the parish.' He pointed to the man with the crossbow bolt buried deep in his chest. 'He looks like a sailor or some wandering minstrel. The young woman? Pike thinks she may be a whore but this young man troubles me.'

'Why?' Benedicta asked.

'The other two appear to have been killed imme­diately: first the man by the crossbow bolt, then the young woman's throat was probably slit soon afterwards. She's light, rather thin. If the assassin was a man, she would pose no real problem. However, this other one.'

Athelstan got up and crouched beside the cart. He carefully examined the young man's head and noticed how the hair was matted with blood, mask­ing a blow to the back of the head.

'Now, this victim was struck on the back of the head. He fell to the ground and his throat was cut: unlike the others, he's had his belt, jerkin, cloak and boots removed.'

'A thief?'

'But if it was a thief,' Athelstan continued, 'why didn't he steal the young woman's bracelet, or empty their purses?'

'So?'

'It's only a guess.'

Athelstan paused as Pike abruptly lurched back into the alleyway to be sick.

'He never did have much of a stomach,' Watkin growled. 'When Widow Trimplc's cat was crushed under a cart and its belly split …'

'Yes, yes,' Athelstan interrupted, 'there's no need to continue, Watkin: Bonaventure might hear you.'

'You were saying about the young man?' Bladdersniff asked.

He looked longingly over his shoulder at the alley­way. The beadle wanted to head like an arrow direct to the Piebald and down as many blackjacks of ale as his belly could take.

'I believe,' Athelstan continued, 'the assassin attacked this young man in that deserted house. He knocked him on the head, cut his throat and was busy stripping him of any identification when he was surprised by these two. The young woman was a whore, the other man was one of her customers. God forgive them, they both died in their sins.' He got to his feet, fished in his purse and thrust a coin into Bladdersniff's hands. 'The labourer is worthy of his hire, master bailiff. The bodies will stay here for twenty-four hours, yes?'

Bladdersniff nodded.

'Watkin! Pike!'

The ditcher wandered back.

'You will take turns guarding the corpse. Hig the pigman, Mugwort the bell clerk, can all stand vigil!' He thrust another silver piece into Bladdersniff's hand. 'Each man of the parish who stands guard will be bought two quarts of ale by our venerable bailiff.'

Bladdersniff's red, chapped face glowed with pleas­ure. He blinked his bleary, water-filled eyes.

'Why, Brother, that's very generous of you.'

'On one condition,' Athelstan added sharply. 'When you stand guard you are sober. Now, Bladdersniff, show me where the corpses were found.'

'I'll come with you,' Benedicta offered. She rose unsteadily to her feet.

'I'd love your company.' Athelstan smiled, grasping her fingers and rubbing them between his. 'But, if you could clear the shriving pew, put my stole back, feed Bonaventure. Oh, and Philomel will need more oats,' he added, referring to his old war horse who spent most of his life eating or sleeping.

'Heaven forfend!'

Athelstan turned as Godbless the beggarman, with little Thaddeus the goat in tow, came out of the cemetery rubbing his eyes.

'Benedicta, you deal with him! Bladdersniff.' Athelstan grasped the beadle by the arm. 'If we stay here much longer we'll have the entire parish around us.'

He marched Bladdersniff across the open space and along the alleyway leading down to the main thorough­fare. Although he was of short stature, Athelstan moved briskly, keeping his eye on the water-filled sewer down the centre while trying to avoid the gaze of many of his parishioners.

'God bless you Brother!' a girlish voice shouted.

Cecily the courtesan was standing in the entrance to the Piebald tavern. Athelstan glared at her. She had her arm round Ronald, elder son of Ranulf the rat-catcher. On a bench beside her, Ursula the pig woman was sharing a tankard of ale with her big, fat sow. The pig snorted with pleasure. Athelstan bared his teeth at this great plunderer of his vegetable patch. Tab the tinker, Huddle the painter, Manger the hangman and Moleskin the boatman stood fur­ther down the thoroughfare grouped round Tab's stall.

'Is anything wrong?' Huddle called, flicking his long hair back.

Athelstan stopped. 'I need your help at the church,' he said sweetly. 'Go back there. Watkin will tell you everything. There's a quart of ale for each of you.' He held up a warning hand so Bladdersniff wouldn't add any gory details. 'For all who help.'

The whole group set off like greyhounds from the slips, eager to see what work would earn such a bountiful reward

Athelstan pressed on. It was now early afternoon and the denizens of Southwark were out looking for mischief: pickpockets, foists, those shadowy inhabit­ants of the underworld eager for petty profit before darkness fell. Some avoided his eye; others raised their hands in salutation or shouted abuse about Bladdersniff and his fiery red nose.

At last they entered an alleyway which led down to the fields. They crossed the narrow wooden bridge which spanned the brook and went up the great meadow to the brow of the hill where the ruins of Simon the miser's house stood gaunt and open to the sky. Some children played at the far end of the meadow. A woman sat there keeping them busy plaiting garlands of grass. Athelstan raised his hand in benediction.

'Thank you!' he shouted across. 'Keep the children well away!'

Bladdersniff led him through the ruined front door, along a hollow passageway and into a dark, smelly parlour where the air reeked of animal urine and excrement. The walls were mildewed, the stone floor cracked and weeds now thrust themselves up through the gaps.

'A terrible place to die,' Athelstan noted. 'At night this place must be dark as …'

'Hell's window,' Bladdersniff offered hopefully.

'Aye, hell's window.'

At first Athelstan could see nothing untoward until he noticed the remains of a fire. He crouched down to examine it more carefully.

'A few twigs. But the nights aren't cold; this was lit to provide light rather than warmth.'

He crawled across the floor and noticed two pools of sticky blood.

'These belong to the young whore and her cus­tomer.' Athelstan pointed back to the doorway. 'Only God knows what happened but I believe this dreadful room witnessed hideous murder. The young man was either lured here and killed, or murdered elsewhere, and his corpse brought here to be stripped of any mark of recognition. The assassin lights a fire to provide some light as he carries out his grisly task.'

Athelstan went over and stood by the door.

'Suddenly,' he explained to the gaping Bladdersniff, 'the assassin hears voices: a young whore is bringing one of her customers in. He hurriedly stamps out the fire, takes an arbalest and allows his next victims into the room. He releases the catch, the man dies. The young woman stands terrified.' Athelstan strode across the room. 'She's like a rabbit before a stoat. Before she can recover, he's across, knife out, her throat is slashed and the assassin leaves.'

'By all that's holy!' Bladdersniff coughed. 'Brother, you must have the second sight.'

'No, I had Father Anselm.' Athelstan grinned. 'He owned a very hard ferrule.' He rubbed his fingers. 'Father Anselm believed in teaching logic through the knuckles. It's a marvellous way of concentrating the mind.'

'Athelstan! Athelstan!'

The friar lifted his head.

'All things conspire together,' he said to himself. He walked across to the doorway. 'Sir Jack, I'm in here!'

Bladdersniff cringed against the wall as Sir John Cranston, the most august coroner of the city of London, red face beaming, white moustache and beard bristling, strode like an angel come to judge­ment into this gloomy room of murder.

'Well! Well! Well!' Sir John stood, legs apart, thumb tucked into the belt from which hung the miraculous wineskin. 'Heaven bless my poppets! There's murder all around, Athelstan, and I need you in the city!'

Chapter 2

Athelstan dolefully followed Sir John down the steps and into the waiting barge to take them across the Thames. The coroner had almost dragged him out of the ruins and back to St Erconwald's to collect his cloak and chancery bag.

'You've got to come,' Sir John said heatedly.

He added how something evil was going to happen but, for the rest, he kept tight-lipped. Instead he rounded on the friar with a whole litany of questions.

'Three murder victims in St Erconwald's parish!' he exclaimed as they settled in the barge and Moleskin pulled away.

Athelstan winked at his burly friend and glanced quickly at Moleskin. Whenever the boatman pulled his hood up and bent over his oars as if absorbed in his task, that was the sign Moleskin was intently listening to what was happening.

'Old Moleskin won't tell anyone!' Sir John bawled for half the river to hear. 'I saw the three corpses and that good-for-nothing Pike. He told me where you had gone. Three victims!' he repeated. 'And you know, Athelstan, I took a good look at that young man, the one without the boots. I think I've seen him somewhere.'

Athelstan looked out across the river; the tide had not yet turned, the day was sunny and warm. Every­one who owned a wherry, barge or bum-boat seemed to be out on the Thames. Victuallers were now gathering around the great warships berthed at Queenshithe, trying to sell the crews their produce. A wherryful of prostitutes were busy displaying their charms to entice officers of the watch. Royal barges, flying blue, red and gold pennants, made their way up and down to the Tower or Westminster. Three gong barges, full of ordure stinking to high heaven, were now midstream, the masked dung-collectors tipping the waste they had collected into the fast flowing river.

'You've seen all this before,' Sir John barked.

He took a quick sip from his wineskin and offered it to Moleskin. The boatman, resting on his oars, took a generous swig; he was about to take a second when the coroner snatched it back.

'Three victims,' Athelstan said. 'Killed, either last night, or the night before, I'm not too sure which. The girl and the dark-faced stranger were a whore and her customer. I think they surprised the assassin who killed that young man you seemed to recognise.'

'And the law says,' the coroner declared pomp­ously, 'that they must lie on the steps of your church for a day and a night so they can be recognised. I hope it wasn't the work of any of your beloved parishioners. Someone will hang for such bloody deeds.'

'And where are you taking me, Sir John?'

Sir John hypocritically put a finger to his lips.

They berthed at Dowgate near the Steelyard, went up a busy alleyway along Walbrook and into Cheap-side. The streets were busy, thronged with crowds. Shops and stalls were open, taverns and alehouses doing a roaring trade. A group of soldiers swung by, going down to the Tower. Debtors from the Marshal-sea, manacled together, begged for alms on street corners for themselves and other inmates. A group of acrobats, three young women and a man, were tum­bling and turning much to the merriment of a group of sailors who were throwing coins into a clack dish for the young women to turn on their heads and let their skirts fall down.

Athelstan thought Sir John might be taking him to his house, or his second home, the spacious Lamb of God tavern. However, the coroner, shouting good-natured abuse at the riff-raff who recognised him, forced his way through the crowds into the courtyard of the great Guildhall. Archers wearing the royal livery stood on guard. Men-at-arms in steel helmets patrolled entrances and doorways, shields slung over their backs, spear and sword in hand. Gaudily col­oured banners hung from the great balcony above the main doors. Five shields displaying gorgeous arms, black martens, silver gules, golden fess, ornate crowns and helmets, were tied to the wooden slats.

'Of course,' Athelstan said, 'it's the Assizes …!'

'That's right, Athelstan, the royal justices of Oyer and Terminer are now in session.'

'Who are they?' Athelstan asked.

'The others don't concern me,' Sir John said briskly, 'but the principal justice is the Chief Baron of the Exchequer, Sir Henry Brabazon. A man who has little compassion and knows nothing of mercy.'

Sir John showed his seals of office and the guards let them through into the antechamber. The coroner plucked at Athelstan's sleeve and made him sit down on a bench just inside the doorway.

'Now listen, Athelstan, and I have this from a good authority: very shortly Mistress Alice Brokestreet, a tavern wench, possibly a prostitute, is to go on trial for killing a customer.'

'And is she guilty?'

'As Satan himself.'

'So, why are we here, Sir John?'

The coroner tapped his fleshy nose.

'Have you ever heard of approving?'

Athelstan nodded. 'It's a legal term?'

'Well, that's what the clever lawyers call it! Let me explain: Jack Cranston is put on trial for strangling Pike the ditcher.'

'That's possible,' Athelstan agreed. 'And, if you did, I'd probably help you.'

'No, listen. I'm found guilty. Now, I can throw myself on the King's mercy, be hanged by the purse, be exiled beyond the seas, imprisoned for life or, more usually, hanged by the neck. However, if I can successfully accuse, let us say, Watkin the dung-collector, of six other murders, I receive a pardon and old Watkin goes on trial. It's a rather clever and subtle method employed by the Crown's lawyers to resolve a whole series of crimes. Now, Watkin, being a man, could challenge me to a duel to prove his innocence. Or, I could challenge him.'

'Trial by combat?'

'That's right, my little monk.'

'Friar, Sir John, and what would happen if Watkin lost?'

'Oh, he'd hang.'

'And what would happen if you didn't accept the challenge?'

'Well, Watkin would go on trial. If found guilty, he'd hang and I'd go free.'

'And you think this will happen today with Alice Brokestreet? She will approve someone?'

'Just a rumour. As you know, Athelstan, I often speak to the bailiffs and gaolers of Newgate. Alice Brokestreet is as guilty as Herodias. You know, the one who killed St Peter?'

'No, Sir John, she killed John the Baptist.'

'Same thing! Anyway, Alice was once in the employ of Kathryn Vestler, a truly good woman, Brother. She has no children, she's a widow. Her husband, Stephen Vestler, was a squire at Poitiers. I've told you, haven't I, how we fought like swooping falcons?'

'Yes, yes, Sir John, you have.'

'Now Vestler is the owner of the Paradise Tree, a spacious hostelry in Petty Wales. You can see the Tower from its chambers. It has a lovely garden and a meadow at the back which stretches down to the river.'

'But surely, Sir John, you are not implying that this Brokestreet is going to accuse our good widow woman, an upright member of the parish, of being some secret, red-handed assassin?'

'I don't know, Brother. All I've been told, mere whispers and gossip, is that Alice Brokestreet exudes an arrogant confidence. She claims to have secrets to tell the justices: true, she may have done wrong, and this is where we come to the cutting edge; she says that she's not the only woman in London to have committed murder.'

'Oh come, Sir Jack.' Athelstan felt exasperated at being dragged away. 'Is that all?'

'No, it is not, Brother. Brokestreet is hinting that others she has worked for are guilty of more heinous crimes.'

'And where is Mistress Vestler now?' Sir John sighed and got to his feet. 'In we go, Brother.'

They entered the Guildhall proper, down a spa­cious gallery. Its paving stones were covered in fresh straw, sprinkled with herbs. Soldiers stood on guard but Sir John, his seal wrapped round his hand, was allowed through. They went up a small flight of stairs and into a whitewashed vestibule. The doors at the far end were flung open and Athelstan glimpsed the court. At the far end of the hall, on a wooden dais draped in blood-red cloth, ranged the justices dressed in ermine-edged scarlet robes, black skullcaps on their heads. They sat on five throne­like chairs. Further down clerks sat grouped around a long table covered in a green baize cloth littered with rolls of parchment, inkpots and quills. To the judges' right was the jury: twelve men drawn from the different wards of London and, to their left, in wooden stands, sat onlookers, visitors and friends. At the bottom of the dais a great wooden bar stretched across the hall from one end to the other. Chained to this were different malefactors guarded by tipstaffs, bailiffs and archers. The room was hushed, the clerks apparently taking down some­thing which had been said. Athelstan stood in the doorway fascinated by this process of justice.

'Brother, this is Kathryn Vestler.'

The friar turned. One glimpse of the widow wom­an's face and he felt a deep sense of unease. She was comely enough, her silver-grey hair hidden beneath a nun-like veil of dark green. A dress of the same colour was gathered by a white collar round her podgy neck. She possessed kindly grey eyes, a snub nose, a wide, generous mouth, but it was the almost tangible look of fear which caught his attention. He took her hand, soft, small and icy-cold.

'It was good of you to come, Brother and you, Sir Jack.' Kathryn Vestler dabbed at her eyes with a delicate kerchief sewn on to the cuff of her dress. 'I am so afeared! Alice Brokestreet had a nasty tongue and an evil mind.'

'She was in your employ?'

The woman closed her eyes. 'I do her an injustice, Brother. She was a good worker but she had her moods.'

Athelstan glanced behind her as a man came out of the shadows. He was tall, grey-haired, a white silken band around his throat. The shirt was of the whitest lawn while the dark-green leggings, tucked into soft polished boots, were of the purest wool. A fur-trimmed robe, slashed with red silk, hung round his shoulders. Athelstan recognised a lawyer from the Inns of Court. He was lean-faced, narrow-eyed, sallow-skinned with bloodless lips. A man who knows his rights, Athelstan reflected, a skilled adver­sary. He stood threading a silver chain through his fingers. Mistress Vestler caught Athelstan's gaze.

'Oh, this is Ralph Hengan, a lawyer and friend. He looks after my affairs.'

Apparently Sir John knew Hengan. He shook his hand and introduced Athelstan. The lawyer's severe face broke into a beaming smile. He firmly grasped Athelstan's hand.

'I apologise for being a lawyer, Brother. In the gospels we do not have the best reputation!'

'Well, it doesn't even mention monks and friars!' Sir John boomed then realised where he was and put his hand to his mouth. Hengan hitched the robe more firmly round his shoulders, a quick, delicate movement. He glanced into the courtroom.

'Mistress Vestler has fears,' he whispered. 'Perhaps we are wasting your time, Sir Jack, but I think we should go in. This case is drawing to a close. We can discuss matters afterwards. I am sure it's nothing but idle threats! We will soon be back in Mistress Vestler's tavern to broach its best cask of malmsey.'

Hengan had a word with the tipstaff at the door and, putting his finger to his lips as a warning to walk quietly, they went along the hallway, up some wooden steps and on to the hard, narrow benches. Athelstan quickly surveyed his surroundings. Above the justices a broad canopy displayed the arms of England; a great sheet at the back showed a mailed gauntlet clenching the sword of justice. At the tip of the sword rested a silver crown with the golden leopards of England on either side.

The five justices looked solemn: old men, they lounged in their chairs listening to the clerk read back some of the testimony given. The one in the centre was different. Athelstan guessed this was Sir Henry Brabazon, a large, florid-faced man, clean­shaven, his cheeks glistening with oil. Deep-set eyes were almost hidden by rolls of fat. He sat like a hunting dog, now and again lifting a sprig of rose­mary to sniff noisily as if he found the odour from the prisoners offensive. The accused, chained to the bar, looked most unfortunate. They were dressed in rags, their hair and beards dirty and matted. The clerk finished his testimony.

'That is all, my lord.' He bowed low as if he were before a tabernacle.

Sir Henry consulted his colleagues on either side.

'Members of the jury.' Brabazon raised his head, his voice rich and sonorous. 'Do you need to retire to consider the evidence?'

The leader of the jury jumped up so quickly, in any other circumstances Athelstan would have found it amusing.

'Er, no, my lord.'

'Good heavens,' Athelstan whispered. 'Brabazon is not going to waste much time with these.'

'Good!' Sir Henry's face broke into a smile. 'And what is your verdict?'

The leader of the jury took this as a sign to consult his fellows. There was a great deal of muttering and whispering. The three prisoners chained to the bar looked despondent. Sir Henry sat tapping his foot.

'Well?' he barked.

Up stood the weasel-faced leader of the jury.

'My lord, we have a verdict.'

'On all three counts of murder?'

'On all three counts of murder, my lord.'

A young attorney standing at the bar with the prisoners raised his hand. 'Yes, what is it, man?'

'My lord, one of the prisoners,' the lawyer tapped a young man, no more than sixteen summers, 'he was drunk as a judge when the crimes were executed.'

The lawyer realised what he had said and raised his hand to his mouth to hide his consternation as gig­gling broke out among both the jury and spectators.

Sir Henry leaned forward, gesturing with his hand for silence.

'Would you like to re-phrase that, sir?' he snarled.

'I, I… meant as drunk as a lord, er, my lord!'

Guffaws of laughter broke out in the court. Sir Henry banged the heel of his boot against the floor. Tipstaffs, waving white wands, moved threateningly towards both spectators and jury.

'We have heard the evidence,' Sir Henry bawled. 'Members of the jury, look upon the prisoners. Do you find them guilty or not guilty?'

'Guilty, my lord.'

'On all three counts?'

'All of them, my lord, on all three counts. But, my lord …'

'We recommend mercy for the youngest.'

'I'll show him mercy. Tipstaffs, bailiffs, take the prisoner named,' he pointed to the youngest, 'away from the bar. He is to be exiled from this kingdom within a week. He is not to return for seven years on pain of forefeiture of life and limb!'

The fortunate prisoner was unmanacled and pushed to one side of the court. The young lawyer was profuse in his thanks; hands clasped, he kept bowing in Brabazon's direction. Everyone found the proceedings amusing but, when one of the clerks brought out a black silk cloth for the judge to place over his skullcap, a deathly hush fell on the court. Athelstan repressed a shiver.

'Thomas Shawditch, Richard Hadfield, you have been found guilty of the most heinous crime of the murder of three men at the Malkin tavern in the Poultry. Do you have anything to say before sentence of death is passed?'

One of the prisoners extended his hand and made an obscene gesture in the direction of the judges.

'Thomas Shawditch, Richard Hadfield,' Sir Henry continued undeterred. 'It is the sentence of this court that you be taken back to your cells and, on a day fixed by this court, no later than the feast of St Edward the Confessor, you are to be taken to the common scaffold at Smithfield and hanged by your neck until dead! May the Lord have mercy on your souls! Bailiffs, take them down!'

The prisoners shouted obscenities and curses but the bailiffs secured them, assisted by a few royal archers, and they were bundled out of the hall. Sir Henry now removed the black silk cloth and scowled at both jury and spectators.

'I hope my court,' he bellowed, 'will not be dis­turbed by further mockery and merriment. Bailiff, bring in the next prisoner!'

Alice Brokestreet's name was called. There was a slight delay before Athelstan glimpsed a shadowy fig­ure come through the door escorted by two archers. She was brought to the bar of the court and manacled there by her wrists. She was dressed in a shabby grey gown, hair pulled back and tied by clasps in a tight knot. Athelstan's heart sank. He accepted the proverb 'Never judge a book by its cover' but Alice Brokestreet aptly summarised Sir John's whisper of 'trouble in petticoats'. She was sour-faced with high cheekbones, bold-eyed, her lower lip aggressively jutting out. She certainly seemed to nurse a secret and had no terror of the court or the charges levelled against her.

'Read out the indictment!' Sir Henry bellowed. 'And make it quick!'

The clerk jumped up as nimble as a grasshopper and fairly gabbled out the indictment, that Alice Brokestreet had killed Nicholas Tayilour in the Merry Pig tavern within the octave of the Feast of the Assumption.

'How do you plead?' the clerk asked Alice.

'I wish to go on oath,' came the tart reply.

A book of the gospels was brought, the oath hastily administered.

'Well?' Sir Henry leaned forward.

'My lord.' Brokestreet closed her eyes as if reciting lines. 'I wish to plead for mercy from God, the King and my peers.'

'On what count?'

Athelstan could see Sir Henry was deeply inter­ested in the unusual turn of the proceedings.

'I plead guilty,' Alice said. 'But I killed in self-defence. I wish to approve.'

'Do you know what that means?' 'Yes, my lord. I have committed a terrible crime but I know of another who has done worse.' 'Continue. But be specific'

'I accuse,' Brokestreet's voice rose, 'Kathryn Vestler, owner of the Paradise Tree, of the horrible murders of Margot Haden and Bartholomew Menster.'

Athelstan turned quickly. Mistress Vestler was sitting upright in shock.

'When did these murders occur?'

'Over two months ago, my lord.'

'And how do you know?'

'I helped bury their cadavers beneath an oak tree in Black Meadow which runs behind the tavern down to the Thames.'

'And how did these murders occur?'

'Margot was a chambermaid at the tavern. Bartholomew was a clerk of the records in the Tower. He was attracted to her and often visited the tavern. Mistress Vestler became jealous of their friendship. One night they stayed late, well after the chimes of midnight. I was roused from my sleep by Mistress Vestler.' She paused as her former employer began to weep noisily.

Sir Henry's head turned like a guard dog ready to attack.

'Silence in court!' he thundered. Master Hengan put his hand on Mistress Vestler's shoulder.

'Hush,' he whispered. 'This is nothing but trickery!' 'Continue.'

'I was brought down to the taproom. Barthol­omew …' Brokestreet's voice faded. And Margot were both slumped over the table. Mistress Vestler had administered a deadly potion.'

'No! No! No!' The accused woman jumped to her feet, eyes staring. She shook her hands. 'These are lies! This is not true!'

Sir Henry caught Sir John's eye and smiled thinly. His gaze shifted.

'Master Hengan, it is you, is it not?'

'Yes, my lord.'

'And this Mistress Vestler? Well, remove her from the court and compose her. But not too far: we may soon want words with her.'

Hengan, assisted by Sir John, helped the shaken, moaning woman to her feet, out of the makeshift gallery and down into the well of the court. Sir John returned to sit beside Athelstan.

'I am glad you are here. We may have need of your expertise,' Sir Henry cooed, as his pebble-black eyes moved to Athelstan. 'And your good secretarius. I saw you come, Sir Jack.'

Sir John leaned over to hide behind the man in front while he took a generous swig from the miracu­lous wineskin.

'If I wasn't so busy, Sir Jack,' Sir Henry called out without even glancing across, 'I'd ask for a drink from that myself!'

Before any eyebrows could be raised or questions asked, he gestured at Brokestreet to continue.

'The tavern was silent. The night was a black one, no moon, no stars.'

'Which month, Mistress Brokestreet?'

'I believe June, my lord: sudden storms had swept in.'

'You have a good memory?'

'My lord, Mistress Vestler said the rain would make the ground softer.' 'Proceed!'

'We brought a handcart into the taproom and placed the two corpses on. We took them out around the side of the tavern, through the herb gardens and into Black Meadow.'

'If it was so dark,' Sir Henry interrupted, 'how could you see?'

'Mistress Vestler lit lantern horns: two if I remem­ber correctly. One she placed at the entrance to the meadow, the other at the foot of the great oak tree.'

'And the corpses?'

'We wheeled them out together. Mistress Vestler had a mattock and hoe. We dug a shallow pit and threw the corpses in. My lord, I was afeared. Mistress Vestler is a cunning woman and she threatened me. I later left her service and she gave me good silver to keep my mouth closed.'

'Heavens above!' Sir John whispered. 'I remember Bartholomew Menster. He was quite a senior clerk in the Tower. People wondered what had happened to him.'

Brabazon lifted the sprig of rosemary to his nose, sniffing at it carefully, eyes intent on Brokestreet. Sir John might be right, Athelstan reflected: the chief justice had a heart of flint but he was no man's fool. He had not taken a liking to the prisoner at the bar.

'You do realise what you are saying?' Sir Henry asked, lowering the sprig of rosemary.

'It is a very grave matter,' one of the other justices now asserted, 'to go on oath and accuse another citizen of hideous murder.'

'I will go even further,' Brokestreet answered defi­antly. 'The Paradise Tree is a busy place. People coming and going as they pleased. For all I know, my lord, there may be other corpses in that field.'

'A true Haceldama,' Sir Henry said, quoting from the scriptures. 'A Potter's Field, a Field of Blood. Well, Mistress Brokestreet, you have thrown yourself upon the mercy of the court but, of course, you are not released. You will be taken back to Newgate, though lodged in more comfortable surroundings in the gatehouse. The court will pay good monies for your sustenance and upkeep while these matters are investigated. Do you have anything to add, mistress?'

The prisoner shook her head, a smile of triumph on her face.

'If you are wrong,' the chief justice continued, 'you shall certainly hang! Sir John Cranston, would you please come before the court?'

Sir John gave a great sigh, handed his wineskin to Athelstan then stopped abruptly. The friar followed his gaze, which was fixed on a royal messenger on the other side of the court. The man had just entered, his boots splattered with mud. He carried a small leather bag containing missives, documents for the court.

'Satan's tits!' Sir John breathed. 'What is it, Sir John? What's the matter?' 'I know your man, one of the victims.' 'Sir John Cranston!' the tipstaff called. 'The court awaits!'

Sir John pushed by and went down to stand, feet apart, before the bar.

'Sir Jack, it is good to see you. You are the King's coroner in the city of London? It is the wish of this court that you take Mistress Kathryn Vestler and place her under house arrest. If she attempts to flee, she is liable to forfeiture of life, limb and property. You are then to proceed to this field known as Black Meadow which lies behind Mistress Vestler's tavern. You are to take bailiffs and beadles from the city and discover the truth behind the prisoner's allegations.'

'And if they are lies, as I am sure they are, I will come back and assist in her hanging!'

'And if they are not,' Sir Henry bellowed, 'you are to arrest Kathryn Vestler and bring her before this court!'

Chapter 3

Sir John Cranston sipped from the blackjack of ale and stared up at the side of pork, wrapped in a linen bag, hanging from one of the rafters to be cured. He smacked his lips and gazed appreciatively round the taproom of the Paradise Tree. The sun was still strong, turning the late afternoon a mellow golden colour, with only a tinge of early autumn. The taproom was fairly empty. Athelstan walked towards a window seat from where he gazed across the lush herb garden at the red-painted wicket gate.

'That must lead to Black Meadow,' he observed.

'It certainly does.' Sir John joined him. 'And, if you go through the meadow, it will take you down to the Thames.'

He took the friar through the door and into the gardens. To the far right were some apple trees, heavy with ripening fruit. Above these soared the great turrets of the Tower.

'Old Vestler was a canny soldier,' Sir John said. 'He fought in France and secured many ransoms. He came back after the Treaty of Bretigny, sold every­thing he had and bought this tavern. Even in lean times the Paradise Tree always prospered.'

Athelstan sniffed the air; he caught a tang of wood smoke and burning meat. That's not from the kit­chens, he thought, I wonder where?

'Brother, look at this!'

Athelstan went over to where Sir John stood staring down at a gleaming sundial. The face, of burnished bronze with Roman lettering, was fixed into a thick stone cupola which rested on a squat column of ancient stone about a yard and a half high.

'A curiosity,' Athelstan said, noticing how the arm of the sundial rested between two numbers. 'I wonder how accurately it measures the passing of the sun?'

'I don't know,' Sir John growled. 'You're the student of the heavens!'

'Was Stephen Vestler?'

'No, he just loved collecting curiosities.'

'Ah yes, I noticed the old weapons fastened to the tavern walls.'

'Stephen bought them from the Tower garrison, a reminder of his warlike days.'

Athelstan walked back through the taproom, along a stone-paved corridor. The walls, clean and lime-washed to repel flies, were decorated with old maces, halberds and shields. A snowy white cat crouched on the bottom step of the stairs leading to the rooms above. Athelstan grasped the newel post carved in the shape of the tree of forbidden fruit in the garden of Eden. He tried not to rouse the cat as he listened to the sounds of weeping. Hengan had taken Mistress

Vestler up to her chamber. The poor widow woman was distraught, beside herself with fear and anger.

'God save and protect them!' Athelstan said to himself. 'But the serpent has entered paradise and our golden day is about to turn to night!'

He heard sounds further up the path: the gate being opened, the crunch of boots on gravel. Henry Flaxwith, red-faced, lips pursed in self-importance, strode into the tavern. Chief bailiff to Sir John Cranston, Flaxwith carried a cudgel in one hand and the lead to his dog Samson in the other. Athelstan, out of charity, always smiled at the dog. Privately, he'd never seen such an ugly animal, which was a squat bull mastiff with a wicked face, gleaming eyes, slavering jaws and indescribable personal habits.

'Good morrow, Brother.'

Flaxwith moved his cudgel to the other hand and grasped Athelstan's. Samson immediately cocked his leg against the door post. The white cat rose, back arched, tail up, hissing and spitting. Samson growled and the cat promptly fled up the stairs.

'You'd best come with me,' Athelstan told him and led him into the taproom.

The door to the kitchen buttery now thronged with chambermaids and potboys. They all stood anxious-faced watching this drama unfold. Flaxwith greeted Sir John while his burly bailiffs squatted on stools, their mattocks, hoes and spades piled in a corner.

'Right lads!' Sir John rubbed his hands together. 'This is the Paradise Tree, property of a friend of mine, Kathryn Vestler. So, keep your sticky fingers to yourselves. I want you to dig a hole.'

He led them out into the herb garden and down through the wicket gate. Black Meadow was inappro­priately named, for it consisted of a peaceful, broad swath of green fringed by hedges on either side. It swept down to where the Thames glinted in the distance. Even from where he stood, Athelstan could see boats and wherries, barges and heavy-bellied cogs making ready for sea.

'Why is it called Black Meadow?'

'God knows,' Sir John replied. 'Mistress Vestler leases it out for grazing.' He pointed to a small flock of sheep. 'And, of course, makes a pretty profit.'

Athelstan gazed at the thick grass, weeds twisted in wheels of fresh lushness, various coloured flowers dotted as far as the eye could see.

'That,' Athelstan pointed to the great oak tree, its branches stretching out to create a broad pool of pleasant shade, 'must be what Brokestreet meant.'

The oak was huge, five to six feet in girth. Its broad leaves were already tinged with gold as summer turned to autumn. In this lazy, pleasant spot lovers could meet or families take bread and wine out on Holy Days to eat and drink, lie in the cool grass and stare up at the sky.

'It's hardly a place for murder,' Athelstan com­mented.

Sir John marched his bailiff across towards the oak tree. The friar sat down and plucked at some daisies, twirling them in his fingers, admiring their golden centre, their soft white petals.

'Perfectly made. Not even Solomon in all his glory was as beautiful as you.' He smiled. 'Or so the good Lord said.'

He sat and watched as the harmony of this green pleasantness was shattered by shouts and oaths as the bailiffs began to dig.

'Brokestreet never said which side of the oak the corpses were buried. So dig a ditch lads, two foot wide and about a yard deep,' bawled Sir John.

They didn't get very far. Progress was hindered by the tough, far-reaching roots of the oak tree.

'They are not country people,' Athelstan noted.

The bailiffs had to pull back, a good two yards from the turn of the oak tree where they began again. Athelstan watched for a while but he was distracted by a plume of smoke at the far end of the field, rising above where the land dipped towards the river. He caught the smell of wood smoke and, once again, the fragrance of burning meat.

'There shouldn't be anyone there,' he muttered.

He got up, clutching his chancery bag more securely, and walked through the field past the sweating bailiffs. Sir John told Flaxwith to keep an eye on them.

'And that bloody dog away from the sheep!'

These had already glimpsed Samson's slavering stare and moved as close as they could to the far hedge.

'Where are you going, Brother?'

Athelstan pointed to the smoke.

'If this is Mistress Vestler's land, what's that? Travellers? Moon People?'

They breasted the hill and looked down. The meadow was cut off from the mud flats along the Thames by a thick prickly hedge. In the far corner stood a wattle-daubed cottage with a thatched roof.

From a hole in the centre of the thatch rose a plume of black smoke and, before the open door, a group of figures crouched before a fire ringed with bricks over which a turnspit had been fixed. Athelstan narrowed his eyes.

'Do you know these, Sir Jack?'

The coroner, however, was helping himself to a generous swig of wine; Athelstan shook his head when Sir John offered to share it.

'No thanks, Sir John, that blackjack of ale was enough for me. Who are they? At first glance I thought they were Franciscans.'

'They are wearing brown gowns, cords round their waists, there must be four all together. One man and three women. The fellow's head shaved as bald as a pigeon's egg. I wonder if they know anything?'

Sir John strode off, cloak swirling behind him. Athelstan hurried to keep up. The four figures were not alarmed by their approach but continued with their cooking, more concerned with turning the rab­bit on their makeshift spit. The women were young but their faces were greasy, marked with dirt. The man, thin as an ash pole, was scrawny-faced, his bald head glistening with sweat. He came forward, hands extended.

'Pax et bonum, Brothers!'

Athelstan noticed the watery, constantly blinking eyes, the rather slack mouth. A man not in full possession of his wits, he reflected.

'Pax et bonum,' the stranger repeated as he grasped Sir John's podgy hand and kissed it.

'And a very good afternoon to you too,' Sir John replied. 'Who are you? What are you doing here?'

'I am the First Gospel.'

'I beg your pardon?' Athelstan intervened.

'Good afternoon.' The First Gospel stepped closer, raising his hand in benediction.

'I am Brother Athelstan, a Dominican from Southwark. This is Sir John Cranston, a coroner of the city. What are you doing here? What is your real name?'

The man stared at him, lips parted, to reveal two white teeth hanging from red sore gums.

'I am the First Gospel,' he replied. 'And these are my companions.'

He stepped aside to introduce the three women. They all looked the same, with black, straggly hair and fat greasy faces. They seemed friendly enough and waved shyly at him.

'This is the Second Gospel, the Third Gospel and the Fourth Gospel. We are the Book of the Gospels,' the stranger concluded triumphantly.

Athelstan chewed his lip. Sir John's face was a picture to behold, lips parted, blue eyes popping.

'Satan's futtocks!' he breathed. 'If I hadn't seen and heard myself, I wouldn't have believed it!'

First Gospel gestured to a log before the fire.

'Be our guests. Would you like something to drink? We have a small hogshead of ale, some good wine and, in a short while, rabbit meat stuffed with herbs. It is good for a man to eat. The body may be a donkey but it must be strong enough to carry the soul, yes, Brother?'

Athelstan took a seat beside the coroner and mentally beat his breast at his arrogance. This stranger seemed sharper-witted than he first thought. He watched as the Four Gospels bustled around. Such religious groups were now springing up all over the kingdom and beyond the Narrow Seas. The Illuminated, The Brides of Christ, The Flowers of Heaven, The Pillars of Jacob, The Tower of Angels. All filled with fanciful ideas that the end of time was nigh and that Christ would come again to mete out justice and establish a new Jerusalem.

One of the women kept turning the spit and Athelstan found his mouth watering at the savoury odour. The women looked happy, content, not as fey-witted or mad as members of other groups Athelstan had encountered.

'Who let you camp here?' Sir John demanded, finding it difficult to sit on the log. He unhitched his cloak and placed it on the ground beside his beaver hat.

'Oh, Widow Vestler,' First Gospel replied.

'She is a good woman,' Three Gospels chorused as one. 'We consider her to be one of the elect. In the new kingdom, when Michael comes, she will be given estates, palaces, full hordes for her tribute.'

'And who is this Michael?' Athelstan asked.

'Why, Brother, St Michael the Archangel.' The First Gospel pointed to a gap in the hedge. 'We watch the river for him.'

'I am sorry.' Athelstan kept his face straight.

'No, listen.' First Gospel wagged a warning finger as his voice fell to a whisper. He leaned forward, a fanatical gleam in his eyes. 'Brother, you will not believe this but, soon, St Michael will come up the Thames in a golden barge.'

'By himself?' Sir John interrupted. 'Or will he have Moleskin rowing him?'

First Gospel looked puzzled.

'We've never heard of him, sir. No, no, St Michael will come with the other archangels, Gabriel and Raphael. The barge will be rowed by massed ranks of seraphim.'

'I see,' Sir John murmured. Tm getting the full picture now. And so why should they come up the Thames?'

'Why, sir, to take over the Tower. Its roofs will turn to gold, its walls to gleaming white ivory. The angels will set up camp there and prepare a worthy tabernacle for the return of Le Bon Seigneur Jesu.'

At this surprising announcement all Four Gospels leaned forward, their brows touching the earth.

'And who told you all this?' Athelstan asked as they sat back on their heels.

'I had a vision,' First Gospel replied. 'I was once a shoemaker in the town of Dover. I went up on the cliffs and I heard the voices. "Go," they said, "go to the banks of the Thames, set up camp and await our return." '

'And these three ladies?' Athelstan asked.

'They are my wives. They, too, are included in the Great Secret.'

'I wish I had visions like that,' Sir John muttered out of the corner of his mouth. 'Good ale, fresh meat and all three in bed at the same time.'

'Hush, Jack!' Athelstan warned him.

'We came here four years ago,' First Gospel went on sonorously. 'At first Widow Vestler turned us away but then she thought otherwise. We set up camp. This cottage was already standing.'

'And when will St Michael come?'

'Why sir, the year of Our Lord, thirteen eighty-one.'

'Why not thirteen eighty-two?' Athelstan asked.

'One, three, eight and one make thirteen!' came the sharp reply. 'If you count the figures together, they come to thirteen. Now one and three is four, and we are the Four Gospels preparing the way!'

Athelstan gaped in astonishment. Of all the theories he'd heard, both sublime and ridiculous, this was the most bizarre. Yet the Four Gospels seemed harmless enough, probably swinging between sanctity and mad­ness. He smiled to himself. Prior Anselm always believed the line between the two was very thin.

Sir John pointed to the gap in the hedge. 'And you go out there on to the mud flats to watch and wait?'

'Oh, yes, even at night.'

First Gospel got to his feet and led them through the gap in the hawthorn hedge. Athelstan was imme­diately caught by the contrast. It was like moving from one country to another. The lush green meadow, the sweet smell of cooking, the perfume of the flow­ers, gave way to the mud flats along the Thames, which even in the sunlight looked bleak and forbid­ding. The ground fell away like a sea shore, the steep incline cut by a barrier wall, probably built to resist flooding though the stones were crumbling and mil­dewed. He and Sir John made their way carefully down and stood on that. Beyond it the broad mud flats were dotted with pools, the hunting ground of gulls and cormorants which rose in clusters and with loud shrieks. The tide was still ebbing, the river itself quite peaceful now. Only the occasional barge or wherry, bearing the royal arms, made its way along to the Tower quayside.

'What is this?' Athelstan tapped his sandalled foot on the wall.

'Widow Vestler said it was Roman but that sharp lawyer of hers, Hengan, he came down here once to make sure all was well. He said all these lands once belonged to Gundulf, the man who built the Tower.'

'And why did Widow Vestler let you stay here?' Athelstan asked.

'Oh, she's kind-hearted, very generous. She gives us food and drink, says we are harmless enough.'

Athelstan glanced at the base of the wall and noticed the ground was charred and burned. The embers looked fresh.

'What is this?' He pointed.

'Widow Vestler allows us to build a fire at night and put an oil lamp here. We asked her permission,' First Gospel added warningly.

'Of course,' Sir John agreed. 'Just in case St Michael comes by night and can't see his way.'

'Oh, Sir John, you are a wise man,' one of the female Gospels simpered, standing behind them.

'Flattery! Flattery!' Athelstan nudged the coroner in the ribs. 'Another admirer, eh, Sir Jack!'

He glimpsed one of the standards flying from a passing barge and recalled Sir John's outburst in the Guildhall. He climbed down from the wall, tugging at the coroner's sleeve.

'Sir Jack, you mentioned that you know one of the victims?'

Cranston tapped his forehead with the heel of his hand.

'Lord save us, friar, I did.' He led Athelstan away from the Four Gospels. 'I am sorry, in the excitement

I forgot but, look you Brother, I glimpsed that mes­senger wearing the royal livery in the Guildhall, yes?'

Athelstan nodded.

Sir John swallowed hard. 'I believe that young man, the victim who had no boots, he, too, was a royal messenger. And, unless my memory fails me, a principal one.'

Athelstan's face paled. 'Oh no!' he groaned.

Sir John himself looked worried, clicking his tongue.

'I think he was called Miles Sholter.' 'Heaven forfend!'

'According to the law,' Sir John continued, 'if a royal messenger is killed, the parish or village in which his corpse is found is liable to a heavy fine unless it produces the murderer.' He looked over his shoulder to where the Four Gospels were chattering excitedly among themselves. 'Southwark is known as a nest of sedition and rebellion. The peasants under their secret council, the Great Community of the Realm, have strong support in St Erconwald's parish and elsewhere.'

'I follow your reasoning, my lord coroner,' Athelstan intervened. 'They'll maintain this royal messenger was ambushed by rebels and murdered while these same traitors killed the whore and her customer.'

'The fine would be great. In Shoreditch, two years ago, the parish of St Giles was fined four hundred pounds sterling and, because they couldn't pay, the leaders of the parish council went to prison.'

'But …?'

'Sir John Cranston, my lord coroner!'

Henry Flaxwith stood at the top of the hill, gestur­ing at them to come.

'Truly, we are launched upon a sea of trouble,' Sir John remarked. 'Brother, they must have found something.'

They hurriedly climbed back up the hill. Flaxwith, red face perspiring, leaned on his shovel.

'Oh, Sir John, Brother Athelstan, you have to see this! Eh, come back!'

The bailiff shouted as Samson, a bone in his slavering jaws, raced by them down towards the Four Gospels. As they turned away, Athelstan heard the chaos breaking out behind them. Samson had a nose for food; he would probably have dropped the bone and headed straight for that cooking rabbit.

Athelstan followed Sir John's quick stride to the great ditch dug around the oak tree. His heart sank at the sight of the two pathetic bundles lying on the grass. He glanced into the ditch and groaned. At least four other skeletons lay sprawled as if they had been killed, their cadavers bundled into a hastily prepared grave.

'You found them like this?' Sir John barked.

'Four here, Sir John, and two more on the other side. Between each skeleton there's at least half a yard. There may even be more.'

The skeletons lay in different positions: on their sides, backs or faces down in the dirt. Scraps of clothing, pieces of leather boots, rusting buckles were strewn around. One was apparently a female whose bony fingers still clutched a leather bag while the brooch which had pinned her hair lay in the mud beside her.

'Can you say how they died?' Sir John asked as he eased himself into the pit.

'There's no mark of violence on them, Sir John,' Flaxwith replied.

Athelstan murmured a quick requiem and also climbed into the pit. He and Sir John moved the skeletons over but they could find no blow, no crack where sword or dagger had sliced bone or skull. Athelstan hastily sketched a blessing, clambered out and crossed to the two soiled bundles. Flaxwith pulled back the dirty canvas sheets. The corpses beneath were in the last stages of decay: the flesh had dried, shrivelled and peeled off. This made the skulls even more grisly with their sagging jaws and empty eye-sockets. One corpse had the remains of a cloak about it. The other, certainly a woman, shreds of her kirtle, yellow and blue in colour. A pair of pattens were still lashed to her feet while the boots the man wore, though cracked and grey with dirt, were of good Spanish leather. Sir John knelt down beside the cadav­ers. He slipped the ring off the dead man's finger.

'It bears the royal insignia,' he declared, getting to his feet. 'There is little doubt these are the cadavers of Bartholomew Menster and Margot Haden.'

Helped by Athelstan, he scrutinised the corpses further, turning them over. Now and again they had to rise and walk away gulping in the fresh air.

'A pit of putrefaction,' Sir John breathed. 'They bear no mark of violence, no blow to the head or body!' He faced the friar. 'Satan's bollocks! Alice Brokestreet is apparently telling the truth!'

They walked back to the pit, Sir John issuing orders and distributing largesse.

'Henry, I want you and one of your burly lads to come with me. The rest are to sheet these corpses and take them to the Guildhall.'

'There may be more,' Flaxwith pointed pout.

'Aye, there may well be.' Sir John wiped the sweat from his brow. He strode off, not even waiting for Athelstan who had to hurry to catch up.

'What's the matter, Sir John?'

The other man stopped, tears welling in his eyes.

'Ten years ago, Brother, on the great north road leading to York, stood a hostelry, the Black Raven, a spacious, well-endowed tavern. It was managed by a taverner and his two sons. A lonely place out on the moors, though welcoming enough. Rumours sprang up, about travellers, pilgrims, chapmen disappearing. At first people shrugged these off. Travellers often became lost on the moors. The mists come swirling in, hiding paths and trackways and the unwary can blunder into a marsh or mire. However, the local sheriff investigated. He is a friend of mine, keen of wit and sharp of eye. To cut a long story short, Brother, the taverner was murdering solitary travel­lers and burying their bodies out on the moors.'

'And you think Mistress Vestler did the same?'

'Athelstan, corpses don't appear under oak trees unless they are put there!'

'But you said Mistress Vestler was a good woman?'

'Oh, she and her husband were kind and friendly but they did have a partiality for gold and silver.' He stamped his boot on the ground. 'God knows what lies beneath here but I don't think Kathryn will placate Sir Henry Brabazon with coy smiles and fluttering eyelids.' He turned round.

Flaxwith and another bailiff were following. Behind them, triumphant as a knight returning from a tourney, waddled Samson, a half-roasted rabbit between his jaws.

'Brother, I thought life had become too quiet and peaceful. Now we have Mistress Vestler, a murderess, perhaps many times over, while your parishioners are going to receive the shock of their lives.'

He marched back through the garden into the taproom.

Master Hengan appeared in the taproom but Sir John shook his head, gesturing at him to leave. He beckoned at the ale-master who was standing in the kitchen doorway, scullions and maids thronging behind him.

'Come in here!' Sir John ordered. 'Go on, all of you, take a seat!'

The maids and scullions did. The potboys sat on the floor, the spit-turners took their place on either side of the fireplace.

'Now, I have questions for you. Do any of you recall a clerk known as Bartholomew Menster who came here, sweet on a chambermaid, Margot Haden?'

'Oh yes.' The ale-master spoke up. 'A tall man, Bartholomew, quiet and studious.' He moved his body in imitation. 'Shoulders rather hunched. He really liked our Margot. He often came here after he had finished work in the Tower.' He pointed to the far corner near the garden door. 'He'd always sit there and eat, wait for Margot to finish.'

'And did Mistress Vestler encourage this?' Athelstan asked.

'She was welcoming enough,' the ale-master replied. 'But she often scolded Margot for wasting time. She was kind enough to Bartholomew because he paid well and brought other clerks here.'

Sir John sat down on a bench, Athelstan beside him. The friar touched his chancery bag but he was too tense, too anxious to write; he would remember all this later on when he returned to St Erconwald's.

'And what happened to Bartholomew and Margot?'

'You know, my lord,' one of the potboys piped up.

'No lad, I don't, remind me,' Sir John asked sweetly.

'About three months ago we'd all been out to the midsummer fair. Margot and Bartholomew disap­peared soon afterwards. Officers came from the Tower to enquire about the whereabouts of Bartholomew but we couldn't help them.'

'And Margot disappeared at the same time?'

'Of course.' The boy rubbed his nose on the back of his hand. 'Gone like a river mist they were.'

'And what did Mistress Vestler say?'

'She thought they had eloped.'

'Aye that's right,' a maid intervened. 'But the officer from the Tower, a tall beanpole of a man, he said that couldn't be true, Master Bartholomew had not taken any of his property with him.'

'You are sure of that?' Athelstan asked.

'Yes and we thought it strange because, just after they disappeared, Mistress Vestler said she had kept Margot's belongings long enough. Nothing much, just a gown, a cloak, some trifles. She was in a fair temper. She burned them on the midden-heap in the yard.'

'Why did she do that?' Athelstan asked.

'Mistress Vestler said her tavern had enough clutter. Margot was not coming back and she wouldn't get a price for any of the goods.' The maid shrugged.

'Did you notice anything else untoward?' Athelstan asked. 'About their disappearance?'

A chorus of no's greeted his question. Sir John got to his feet and pointed to the ale-master.

'I'm appointing you as steward. You will answer to the Crown on what happens here.'

The ale-master's face paled. 'And Mistress Vestler?'

'I have no choice,' Sir John replied. 'I must arrest her for murder and commit her for trial before the King's justices!'

Chapter 4

This declaration was met by horrified silence.

'It's impossible!' the ale-master whispered.

'I must tell you,' Sir John replied, 'that we have been out to Black Meadow. Aye, and it's well named. We have discovered the corpses of both Margot and Bartholomew.'

One of the maids started to sob.

'And worse yet,' the coroner continued, 'the skel­etons of six others.'

One of the potboys began to shake,- he crept like a little child to sit with one of the maids who put her arms around him. Athelstan studied them carefully. These were not hard men and women but good people, simple in their loves and hates, their work and lives. The evil Sir John was describing was well beyond their experience. If Kathryn Vestler was guilty of such hideous crimes, her servants were certainly innocent. Athelstan rose and walked into the centre of the taproom.

'In Christ's name,' he declared, 'and I ask you now, as you will answer for the truth before Christ and His court of angels, do any of you know anything about these deaths?'

The assembled company just looked at him.

'Then I have my answer. So, I ask you this, solemnly, on the Eucharist, the body and blood of Christ.' He paused. 'Over the last two years, has anyone ever come here, making enquiries about people who stayed at the Paradise Tree?'

The ale-master stepped forward and two of the chambermaids raised their hands.

'Brother, in the last few months to my recollec­tion, strangers have come asking, "Did so and so reside here? Did they hire a chamber? Did they eat and drink?" '

'I have heard the same.' One of the maids spoke up.

'Who were these people?' Sir John asked.

'Oh strangers, chapmen, pedlars, tinkers, people coming in and out of the city.'

'Aye and enquiries were made about Bartholomew and Margot,' another offered.

'There's more.' The potboy came forward, his little thin arms hanging by his side like sticks. 'I have seen Mistress Vestler burn possessions.'

Athelstan glanced at the coroner, who usually maintained his bonhomie, his fiery good humour, but his rubicund face had paled. He looked haggard, rather old.

'Oh, Sir John,' Athelstan sighed. 'What do we have here?'

'You'd best go about your duties,' Sir John told the tavern workers. 'Brother Athelstan, come with me.'

They went out up the wooden staircase. The Paradise Tree was well named. The floorboards were polished and cleaned. The windows on the stairwells were full of glass, some even painted with emblems. Bronze brackets for candles were fastened into the wooden panelling. Flowers and pots of herbs were tastefully arranged along shelves and sills. The first gallery even had woollen rugs to deaden the sound; small pictures in gilt frames decorated its walls. At the far end a door stood half-open. Inside Kathryn Vestler was sitting on a chair, Hengan beside her on a stool. The tavern-mistress's face had aged, pale, her eyes red-rimmed, her podgy cheeks soaked with tears. She had a piece of linen in her hands which she kept twisting round and round, staring at a point above their heads, lips moving wordlessly. Beside her on the floor was a half-filled goblet of wine. Hengan looked pitifully at them.

'Sir John, we have heard the rumours.'

'I am innocent!' Mistress Vestler protested. 'Before God and His angels, Sir John, I am innocent of any crime!'

Athelstan moved over to a small desk and stool while Sir John took a chair just inside the door and sat in front of the widow woman. He leaned forward and clutched her hand.

'Kathryn, I must tell you we have discovered a horrid sight.'

He then informed her in pithy phrases everything they had seen and learned since their arrival. Mistress Vestler grew more composed; Athelstan wondered if Hengan had slipped an opiate in the drink.

'I know nothing of the corpses. Margot Haden disappeared about midsummer, Bartholomew with her. True, officers came from the Tower but I could not tell them anything.'

'Why did you burn Margot's possessions?' Sir John asked.

'They were paltry,' she stammered. 'Nothing much. I, I … didn't think it was right to sell or give them to someone else, so I burned them. Bartholomew was a clerk, a fairly wealthy man. I thought Margot had left them here as tawdry rubbish. Her swain, her lover would buy her more.'

'Did you like Bartholomew?' Athelstan asked.

'He was a good, kindly man. But, Brother, I have suitors enough. Bartholomew was of little interest to me.'

'And the others?' Sir John asked. 'What others?' the woman snapped. 'Your own servants. Enquiries have been made here of people who visited the Paradise Tree.' 'That is nonsense!' Hengan spoke up heatedly. 'In what way, sir?'

'The Paradise Tree is a busy tavern. It stands near the Tower and the river. People often visit here. It is logical that enquiries were made. Did so and so come? Where have they gone?'

'But they also said you burned the possessions of people who stayed here?'

'Sir Jack,' Mistress Vestler replied. 'There are at least twenty chambers in this tavern. Guests come, they leave scraps of clothing, items of saddlery which are broken or disused. I keep a clean and tidy house. What crime is there in burning such paltry things?'

Sir John got to his feet and, in the time-honoured fashion, touched her shoulder.

'Mistress Kathryn Vestler, by the power granted to me by the King and his city council, I arrest you for the murder of Bartholomew Menster, Margot Haden and other unnamed victims!'

Mistress Vestler bowed her head and sobbed.

'You will be taken to Newgate and lodged there to answer these charges before the King's justices at the Guildhall.'

Hengan got to his feet.

'Sir John, may I have a word?'

The two left the chamber. Athelstan looked across at the weeping woman. He did not know what to think. In his time he'd discovered that murder could have the sweetest face and the kindliest smile.

'I shall pray for you, Mistress Vestler,' he murmured.

The woman's face came up, her eyes hard.

'Pray, Brother? What use is prayer now? Alice Brokestreet has had her way. Will you pray for me when they turn me off the ladder at Smithfield?'

'That has not yet happened. Put your trust in God and Sir John.'

Gathering up his chancery bag, Athelstan joined Sir John and Hengan out in the gallery. The lawyer was deeply agitated.

'Sir Jack! Sir Jack! What can we do?'

'Master Hengan, I've told-you the evidence. What other explanation could there be?'

'Is it possible that Alice Brokestreet and another murdered Bartholomew and Margot then buried their corpses in Black Meadow?'

'What proof is there of that?' Athelstan asked.

Hengan, anxious-eyed, stared back.

'Master Hengan, you are a lawyer,' Athelstan con­tinued. 'I merely ask what Chief Justice Brabazon will demand. Why should Alice Brokestreet and this mysterious accomplice kill these two people? Why should they take them out and bury them in Black Meadow where they could have been seen by anyone in the tavern or that motley crew, the Four Gospels, whom Fve just met?'

Hengan's face creased into a smile.

'Mistress Vestler let them stay here out of the kindness of her heart,' he countered. 'Perhaps they can be of assistance? They must have seen some­thing, surely? Corpses cannot be trundled out and buried in such a place without someone noticing!'

'Precisely,' Sir John confirmed, taking a swig from his wineskin. 'And the justices will ask the same question.' He looked up at the white plaster ceiling. 'Master Ralph, you will defend Mistress Vestler?'

'Of course!'

'Then let me speak to you privately.'

Sir John strode to the top of the stairs and bawled for Flaxwith, who came lumbering up. Sir John told him to guard Mistress Vestler then gestured at Hengan and Athelstan to follow him. They went down through the taproom and out into the garden. A small, flowery arbour built out of trellis wood stood at the far side, a cool, secretive place with a quilted bench round its curving sides. They took their seats, Sir John bawling for tankards of ale. While they waited till these were served, Athelstan studied the different plants and herbs: matted sea lavender, bog bean, pea flower, fairy flax; bees buzzed above them, butterflies, white and deep coloured, flitted from plant to plant. A mallard from the small stew pond at the other end of the garden strutted around. Swallows swooped across the grass and out over Black Meadow, somewhere a woodpecker rattled noisily against the bark of a tree. Athelstan could scarcely believe that this peaceful, pleasant place masked bloody murder and hasty burial.

'You'll represent Mistress Vestler?' Sir John asked again.

The lawyer stroked the tip of his sharp nose, lower lip coming up.

'I am not skilled in such legal matters, Sir John. I only advise Mistress Vestler on her business affairs. However, I will prove her innocence in this matter.'

'She has no children?' Athelstan asked.

'None whatsoever, nor kith or kin.'

'But she must have a will?'

Hengan sipped from the tankard and wiped the white foam from his lips.

'She brews the best ale on this side of the Thames,' he said. 'She's no murderess. Yes, she has drawn up a will and I am her executor. Mistress Vestler has laid down clear provision. On her death the tavern is to be sold for the best possible price and all proceeds are to be sent to the Knights Hospitallers at their Priory of St John's in Clerkenwell.'

'Of course,' Sir John trumpeted, his good humour returning. 'Stephen, her late husband, was a bit of a noddle-pate. He maintained that, if Kathryn died before him, he'd journey east and join the Hospitallers in their struggle against the Turks.'

'The will is very short and terse,' Hengan con­firmed. 'And cannot be denied. I even tease Mistress

Vestler that she hasn't left one penny to me.'

Athelstan looked at him sharply.

'A jest, Brother. I have sufficient riches.'

'She is a widow woman,' Athelstan pointed out. 'Comely and wealthy. Surely she had suitors? After all, Master Ralph, you are a lusty bachelor yourself.'

Hengan put his tankard down. 'Oh, suitors came and went: adventurers, profiteers, Kathryn would have none of them. There's a chamber in the tavern, Brother, used by her late husband, Stephen. She has turned it into a shrine to her husband's memory with his writing-desk, his sword, his shield and armour, the pennant he carried at Poitiers. Mistress Vestler is a comfortable woman, happy in what she does. She has vowed never to remarry.' He held the tankard up in a mock toast. 'And, as for me, Brother.' He sighed. 'I speak in confidence?'

'Of course, Master Ralph.'

'I am a man, Brother, how can I put it? The company of women is pleasing enough.' His kindly grey eyes held Athelstan's. 'But I have no desire to bed one.'

'And what will happen now?' Athelstan persisted. 'If Mistress Vestler is found guilty and sentenced? Because, in this secret place, Master Ralph, I speak the truth, unpalatable though it be. If the jury find her guilty there'll be no pardon for what she has done.'

'Brother, I take your warning. Mistress Vestler stands in great danger of being hanged. If that happens …'

'The tavern and all its moveables,' Sir John inter­rupted, 'are forfeit to the Crown,'

Athelstan cradled his tankard; his deep friendship with Sir John, whatever his troubles in Southwark, committed him to this matter. In conscience he must do all he could to prove Mistress Vestler's innocence.

'Has anything untoward occurred?' he asked. 'Is there anyone with a grievance against Mistress Vestler?'

The lawyer shook his head.

'Does anyone desire the tavern? Or its properties?'

'Mistress Vestler was very fortunate,' Hengan replied. 'She and Stephen bought this when prices throughout the city had fallen after the great pesti­lence. The tavern was not what it is now. These gardens, the carp pond, the chambers are all their doing. Mistress Vestler is a skilled cook. Her venison pies, baked in spices, are famous through the city. Now, to answer your question bluntly: about eight­een months ago a member of the Guild of Licensed Victuallers, Edmund Coddington, did offer a price for the tavern. Mistress Vestler refused.'

'And where is this Coddington now?' Sir John asked.

'Oh, Sir Jack, he died of some ailment or other. Apart from him, no one else.'

Athelstan recalled the Four Gospels and repressed a shiver. They looked and acted fey-witted but what if their smiles concealed some secret purpose? They would not be the first so-called witnesses to truth who masked their nefarious practices under the guise of religion. He finished his ale and got to his feet.

'Sir Jack!'

He gave the surprised coroner his empty tankard.

'I shall be with you shortly.'

Athelstan strode into Black Meadow. He paused at the pit where the bailiffs were now sheeting the skeletons and two corpses.

'Can I help you, Brother?' One of the bailiffs leaned on his mattock. 'Dark deeds, eh?'

'Dark deeds certainly. Tell me, sir, where did you find the two corpses? The man and the woman?'

The bailiff scratched a cut on his unshaven chin.

'Ah, that's right.' The fellow pointed. 'Over there, Brother.'

Athelstan went to the spot indicated and looked back towards the lych gate. The bailiff came over, his mattock resting against his shoulder like a spear.

'What's the problem, Brother?'

'Let's pretend I'm a murderer.' Athelstan smiled. 'Or we are both murderers. We have corpses to dispose of. So, when do we bury them?'

'Why, Brother,' the surprised bailiff replied, 'at the dead of night.'

'Now we can't be seen,' Athelstan said, 'from the bottom of the meadow.'

'Ah, you mean where that strange group live? Yes, you're right, Brother, the swell of the hill hides all view.'

'And if we dig this side of the oak tree?' Athelstan asked. 'We are hidden from any view of people in the tavern. Correct?'

'Agreed.' The fellow, now enjoying himself, was preening at being patronised by this friend of the powerful lord coroner.

'So, how would you bring the corpses here?' Athelstan continued. 'If they're taken from the tavern, chambermaids, servants might see us.'

'Ah yes, Brother, but, at the dead of night, every­one's asleep. And look.' He walked away, gesturing with his hand. 'We can see the tavern, its roofs and gables but, have you noticed, the trees hide the view from most of the windows?'

'Sharp-eyed.' Athelstan smiled, dug into his purse and gave the man a coin. The bailiff almost danced with embarrassed pride.

'So, it's possible the corpses were brought from the tavern at night, loaded on to a handcart, or barrow, its axles newly oiled, the wheels covered in straw?'

'Yes, that's what we do in the city, when we take a cart out at the dead of night. Otherwise, it's a complaint to the mayor.'

'But let's suppose that they didn't come from the tavern. It's too dangerous to bring them from the river because, as you say, those strange people are there, waiting for St Michael.' The bailiff looked mystified. 'Come on, Sharp Eyes,' Athelstan joked. 'Where else could the murderers have come from?'

'From the east.' The bailiff pointed to the hedge at the far end of the field. 'That leads to common land and the great city ditch. While to the west, what is there now?' He scratched his head. 'Yes, there's another field which stretches down to a hedgerow and, beyond that, Brother, lie the alleyways of Petty Wales.'

Athelstan dug with his sandalled foot at the earth beneath the oak tree.

'Wouldn't this be hard to dig?' he asked.

'Not really, Brother. My father was a peasant own­ing land in Woodford. As long as you avoid the roots, the ground under the branches of a tree like this is always softer. The leaves shade it from being baked by the sun while, when it rains, the branches collect the water and drench the ground beneath.'

'Of course.' Athelstan recalled his father's small farm. How he and his brother Francis would dig around the small pear trees in the orchard to strengthen the roots. 'But wouldn't someone notice?' Athelstan asked. 'Let's say we brought two corpses here at the dead of night, sometime in midsummer, so it must be well after midnight.'

'Don't forget, Brother, it was a very wet summer. The ground was truly soaked and the sod easy to break.'

'How deep was the pit in which they were found?'

'The two corpses?' The bailiff lowered his mattock and dug it into the ground. 'No more than half a yard.'

'And the two were thrown together?'

'Yes, lovers in life, lovers in death, if the gossips are to be believed.'

'So, we put the corpses in,' Athclstan continued. 'But, surely, next morning someone is going to notice.'

'Not really, Brother. First, if we were burying …' The bailiff grinned. 'My lord coroner, God forbid!'

'God forbid!' Athelstan echoed.

'I'd remove the top layer followed by the rest of the soil, put his magnificent corpse in, cover it up, place the sods on top and stamp down. Then I'd go into the field.' He pointed to the long grass. 'I'd cut some of that and sprinkle it over the grave.'

'True, true,' Athelstan murmured. 'And this is a lonely place. Unless you made careful scrutiny.'

'While in full summer, Brother, the grass soon grows again …'

'And the secret's kept,' Athelstan finished the sentence for him.

He thanked the bailiff and walked across the field. The sheep scattered at his approach, bleating at this further disturbance to their grazing. Athelstan exam­ined the thick privet hedge which divided the field from the common land which stretched down to the city ditch. In most places it was thick and prickly, in others there were gaps, probably forced over the years by travellers, lovers or people seeking a short cut between Petty Wales and the fortress. The same was true of the hedge on the other side. Athelstan heard shouts and turned; the bailiffs were finishing, the corpses sheeted. They were now taking them up to the tavern and the waiting cart. Athelstan waved farewell and walked down towards the Four Gospels. This time they were not so friendly; they were sitting by the fire eating cheese and sliced vegetables piled on makeshift platters.

'We lost our rabbit,' First Gospel moaned. 'That bloody dog has the mark of Cain upon it!'

Athelstan apologised, dug into his purse and handed over a coin. Their mood changed at the sight of the twinkling piece of silver.

'Thank you very much, Brother. Remember that!' First Gospel lifted a hand, fingers extended. 'When St Michael comes along the Thames, let Brother Athelstan's name be inscribed in the Book of Life. May he be taken by the angels into their camp.'

'Quite, quite,' the friar broke in. 'But I've come to ask you some more questions.'

'About the corpses found beneath the great oak tree?' First Gospel asked, his long face solemn. 'Oh yes, we've heard of bloody murder and hideous crime.'

He was about to launch into another paean of praise about what would happen when St Michael came but Athelstan cut him short.

'Have you seen anything untoward?'

'In Black Meadow?' First Gospel asked; he shook his head. 'We keep to ourselves, Brother. The doings of the world and the flesh are not our concern. Sometimes we hear lovers, poachers, men of the night.' He pointed to the open cottage door. 'But, until the angels come, we are well armed. I have a bill hook, a sword, a bow and six arrows.'

'Did you see anything?' Athelstan insisted. 'Some­one brought two corpses into this field, dug a grave and buried them.'

'We saw nothing, Brother.' One of the women spoke up. 'Eye does not see.' She broke into a chant. 'Nor does the ear hear while the heart is silent to the tribulations of this world.'

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 hag 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

'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.

Chapter 5

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

'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?'

Bcncdicta's face became grave. 'Thank God they've been recognised, 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.'

'And what happened then?'

'He never came home.' Mistress Sholter spoke up. 'But there again, Brother, I did not expect him. After Miles had left, I closed up the shop and went up to Petty Wales to buy some goods and provisions. I returned.' She fought back the tears. 'I thought Miles and Philip were safely on the road to Canterbury.'

'When he didn't return,' Eccleshall said, 'the next morning I travelled back into the city. I thought something had happened but, when I visited Mistress Bridget, she said she had not seen her husband. I then began my search. I heard rumours of corpses being found and came here.' He shrugged. 'I recognised Miles immediately but the other two I've never seen before.'

'And what was Miles wearing?' Athelstan asked. 'The same as me, Brother: a tabard, war belt, boots and cloak.'

'A strong man?'

'Oh yes, vigorous, a good swordsman.'

'So, if he was attacked, he would defend himself resolutely.'

'Brother, both Miles and I were soldiers.'

Athelstan paused and looked at the wall painting behind his visitors, depicting David killing Goliath.

'Let us say,' Athelstan began slowly, 'that Miles was attacked as he travelled back into Southwark. The first question is why?'

'He was a royal messenger, Brother. He wore the tabard and shield.'

'But why should someone attack him?'

Eccleshall shrugged. 'For any money he carried, his horse and weapons, not to mention the despatches.'

'But he wasn't carrying them that night, was he?'

'Oh no, Brother, I had them with me at the Silken Thomas.'

'Very well.' Athelstan played with the tassel on the cord round his waist. 'Had anyone a grudge against Miles? Was it possible that you were followed to the Silken Thomas and, when Miles left…?'

'No, Brother,' Bridget Sholter intervened. 'Miles was a merry soul. No one had a grudge or grievance against him.'

'So, it has to be put down to either robbery or treason?'

'It's possible. The Great Community of the Realm often attacks royal messengers.' 'And what happens then?' Eccleshall looked surprised.

'I mean,' Athelstan explained, 'are their bodies left in a hedgerow or a ditch?'

'No, Brother, they generally tend to disappear. So no one can take the blame.'

'I agree.' Athelstan moved on the bench. 'Now, Master Eccleshall, you are a soldier. I, too, have fought in the King's wars. Here we have a strong, well-armed young man riding his horse along the country lanes back into Southwark. You and I, Master Philip, are rebels. What do we do? We must get this man to stop and dismount.'

'One of us could lie down,' Eccleshall replied. 'Pretending to be injured.'

'But would you do that?' Athelstan asked.

'No, Brother, I wouldn't.'

'Of course not,' Athelstan retorted. 'It's a well-known trick and royal messengers, I understand, are under strict instructions to be wary of such guile and knavery. Miles Sholter was an experienced messenger, a soldier. Even if he was dismounted he would still be a powerful adversary. What I am saying, Master Eccleshall, is that Miles Sholter, if attacked by rebels or robbers, would first have been struck by an arrow.'

'It's possible, Brother, that his horse was brought down beneath him.'

'Yes, yes, I hadn't thought of that.'

'I understand your unease, Brother,' Eccleshall con­tinued. 'But bailiff Bladdersniff said that Miles's corpse was found in a derelict house, an old miser's home in the middle of a field.'

'Yes, and that's the mystery. How did Miles get there? Where is his horse, his tabard, his war belt? And you see, Master Philip, we know that the two others, the whore and her customer, were killed because they surprised the slayer.'

'In what way, Brother?'

Athelstan rubbed the side of his head.

'I don't know. Sholter was apparently killed the day before yesterday, his corpse taken to that derelict house. The following evening the killer returns to strip it completely but he's surprised, so he slays his unexpected visitors.'

Athelstan tapped his foot on the floor. Bonaventure took this as a sign to jump in his lap and sat there purring.

'I'm intrigued,' Athelstan continued. 'Would rob­bers or rebels go to such lengths? Surely they'd drag poor Sholter off his horse, kill him and flee?'

'I disagree, Brother. Rebels would certainly hide the corpse and show little mercy to anyone who disturbed them.'

'Them?' Athelstan asked.

'It must have been more than one to attack a man like Miles Sholter.'

Athelstan caught the note of pride in Eccleshall's voice.

'And then to kill two more people. I've seen the corpses: both the whore and the other man were young, vigorous. They would have resisted, wouldn't they?'

Athelstan stared at the royal messenger: what Eccleshall said made sense.

'But you know what will happen?' the friar said quietly. 'The corpse of a royal messenger has been discovered in my parish, at a time when the shires round London seethe with unrest.'

'I'm sorry, Brother: what the Regent does is not my concern. I know a fine will be levied but you could argue the murder didn't take place here.'

'That's not the law!' Athelstan snapped. 'Master Eccleshall, Mistress Sholter, I grieve for your loss, I truly do. I shall remember Miles and the other victims at Mass. However, hideous murders have taken place! Blood cries to God for vengeance and, if I know the Lord Regent, justice will be speedily done. It has not been unheard of for Gaunt to hang people out of hand as a warning to others. Whoever killed those three unfortunates could have more blood on their hands.' He rose to his feet. 'If you learn anything at all?'

Eccleshall promised that he would return immedi­ately. Athelstan gave them his blessing and they both left the church. Benedicta locked the door behind them.

'Is that safe?' Athelstan smiled. 'What if Pike the ditcher's wife comes? Benedicta the widow woman and the parish priest locked in the church?'

'Bonaventure's my escort,' Benedicta teased back.

Athelstan looked down at the cat; Bonaventure stretched, then padded over into the corner to search out the cause of certain sounds, only to return and stare up at his master.

'You are worse than a monk,' Athelstan teased. 'You know the hours and times for food.'

'What do you think?' Benedicta sat down on a bench.

'Benedicta, God forgive me, I am in God's house but what I say is the truth between the two of us. Miles Sholter, the preacher, and that pathetic young woman were murdered. I don't think Sholter was attacked by rebels or robbers. An arrow wound to the back or one loosed deep into the heart: that's the mark of the night people.'

'So what?' Benedicta asked.

'I don't know.' Athelstan shook his head. 'I sit in confession and listen to people's sins.' He paced up and down. 'I was taught by Prior Anselm to use logic and reason yet, at other times, it's good to forget these and listen to the heart.'

'Are you saying that Eccleshall and Mistress Sholter are assassins?'

Athelstan sat next to her on the bench.

'Listen Benedicta,' he said quietly. 'Here we have a young man, a royal messenger, happy and content. He leaves London and reaches a tavern. He finds he has forgotten his St Christopher medal and comes rushing back. On his way home he is brutally attacked and murdered, that would be Saturday evening. On Sunday his corpse is discovered in a derelict house by two people who are killed for their intrusion. All three corpses lie there until Luke Bladdersniff, our most industrious bailiff, finds them. Now, what's wrong with the theory that all three were killed by night-walkers?'

'Well. We know robbers or rebels do not act like that!'

'Good, Benedicta! Now we enter the realm of logic and evidence. Why should their corpses be kept? This is where the assassin, or assassins, made a mistake. I am sure Sholter's corpse would either have been destroyed by fire or hidden so it was never discovered. Matters, however, were complicated by the two intruders, so the assassin had to be careful. Hiding one corpse is relatively simple but three? The assassin, or assassins, returned on Sunday evening to finish their work with Sholter but the killing of the other two foiled that plan. Fire was the best solution but to burn a house requires oil and kindling. It's out in the countryside and such grisly preparations might be observed.'

'So, he was planning to return?'

'Possibly. When people were looking elsewhere for Sholter, the assassin, or assassins, would return, probably Monday evening, burning the house to the ground and consuming the corpses hidden inside. However, there's something more interesting. Tell me, Benedicta, when you leave your house what do you do?' He grasped her hand. 'Close your eyes. Tell me precisely what you do!'

'I put my cloak on. I make sure I am carrying my wallet, purse and belt. I check that there are no candles or fires left burning.'

'Good, honest woman.'

'I close the windows, lock the door and put the key in my wallet.'

'Go on!' Athelstan encouraged her.

'I am walking down the street. I am thinking about what I am going to buy. I am also worried about a certain meddlesome priest …' Benedicta rubbed her eyes. 'Who doesn't eat properly.'

'Terrible man,' Athelstan answered. 'But what else, Benedicta? What do you check?'

'That my key and any monies I carry are safe.' She laughed deep in her throat. 'The St Christopher medal!'

'Oh mulier foitis et audax, brave and bold woman,' Athelstan replied, quoting from the scriptures. 'You have said it, Benedicta! Here is a messenger leaving his young wife. He will stop at a tavern on Saturday evening and continue his journey on Sunday. He's riding through open countryside. He's well armed and protected: however, he's a young man who has a deep devotion to St Christopher and knows such journeys can be dangerous. Isn't it strange, Benedicta, that he never feels his neck for the chain, never realises it's missing until he reaches the Silken Thomas?' Athelstan held a finger to his lips. 'What he does next is both reasonable and logical. He hurries back but, surely, he wouldn't have forgotten it in the first place? And, even if he had, he must have noticed it was missing long before he reached the tavern?'

'There's only one flaw in your logic'

'I am sure there is. And it would take a woman to find it.'

'What if Eccleshall is telling the truth? What hap­pens if Sholter deliberately left the medal behind to provide a pretext for returning home?'

Athelstan raised his eyebrows. 'Prior Anselm would like you. It's possible! Sholter, for some reason unknown to us, distrusts his pretty young wife so he goes to the tavern and decides to return. He rides through the night, reaches Mincham Lane where his wife is entertaining someone else. A quarrel breaks out. Sholter is killed.' He glanced at Benedicta. 'And what next, mistress of logic?'

'The corpse is put into a cart, covered or hidden, and taken out to that derelict house.'

'Now, that is possible. But a cart would be seen, it would leave marks. It has to be trundled through busy streets and why go there? Why not take it out through Aldgate, hide it in the wild countryside north of the Tower?' He tapped Benedicta on the nose. 'But I accept your reasoning. Yet I am certain either one, or both, of that precious pair are impli­cated in Sholter's murder.' He fought back his anger. 'For which this parish is going to pay.'

'There are other difficulties,' Benedicta pointed out. 'What if we can prove that Mistress Sholter stayed in her house on Saturday evening and Master Eccleshall never left that tavern?'

Athelstan got to his feet and clapped his hands at Bonaventure.

'That, my dear Heloise, would pose a problem!'

'Who's she?'

'A beautiful woman who fell in love with a priest called Abelard.'

'I've never heard of him,' she replied tartly.

'Come.' Athelstan walked to the door, Bonaventure trotting behind him. 'Let's feed the inner man.'

They left the church. Outside the day was dying. Athelstan expected to see some of his parishioners but, apart from Ursula the pig woman disappearing down the alleyway, her great sow trotting after her, ears flapping, the church forecourt was empty. Philomel was leaning against his stall busily munching.

Athelstan found his small house swept and cleaned, a fire ready to be lit. On the scrubbed table stood two pies covered with linen cloths and an earthenware jug of ale. Bonaventure went and lay down in front of the empty grate. Athelstan brought traunchers and goblets from the kitchen, horn spoons from his small coffer. He was about to say grace when there was a knock on the door and Godbless, fol­lowed by his little goat, bustled into the house. The beggarman was small, his hair dishevelled, eyes gleaming in his whiskered weatherbeaten face. Athelstan noticed the horn spoon clutched in his hand. Thaddeus went across to sniff at Bonaventure but that great lord of the alleyways didn't even deign to life his head.

'I am hungry, Brother.'

'Godbless, you always are. When you die we'll say you were a saint.'

Godbless looked puzzled.

'You can read minds,' Athelstan explained.

'I've been in the death house.' Godbless rubbed his stomach and looked at the pies. 'I've had some cheese and bread but I knew about these pies, Brother.'

'It's not the death house,' Athelstan reminded him. 'Pike and Watkin have built a new one and, from now on, you are to call your little house the "porter's lodge". You are the guardian of God's acre. I don't want Pike and Watkin getting drunk there or Cecily the courtesan meeting her sweethearts in the long grass. If I've told that girl once, I've told her a thousand times: only the dead are supposed to lie there.'

Godbless solemnly nodded.

'And I'm going to offer you a reward.' Athelstan gestured at him to sit. 'I have this dream,' the friar continued, pushing a trauncher towards the little beggarman. 'To actually plant vegetables which I, not Ursula's sow, will eat.'

'I've driven that beast off before, Brother.'

'Beast is well named,' Athelstan quipped. 'That pig fears neither God nor man.'

'I'm glad I'm here.'

Godbless watched as Benedicta cut the pie and held his trauncher out. Athelstan filled the earthen­ware cups with ale.

'That young woman in the cemetery, she is such doleful company!'

The friar nearly dropped the jug. 'What young woman?'

'You know, Eleanor, Basil the blacksmith's daughter. She's just sitting under a yew tree muttering to herself.'

Athelstan was already striding towards the door. Godbless happily helped himself to another piece of pie and began to eat as fast as he could. The friar, followed by Benedicta, hurried through the enclosure along the side of the church and into the cemetery where Athelstan climbed on to an old stone plinth tomb. It supposedly contained the bones of a robber baron who had been hanged and gibbetted outside St Erconwald's many years ago.

'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?' foscelyn asked. He sat awkwardly, 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 …'

'I follow your reasoning, Sir John. If Vestler was a robber, as well as a murderess, she killed for gain. What would happen to the goods she stole?'

'Precisely. Now Vestler couldn't very well go into the markets with baskets full of plunder. People would become suspicious. It's my feeling that she would sell them to someone else who would take them to a different part of the city, even to another market beyond the walls, and sell them there.' Sir John's light-blue eyes caught Athelstan's change of expression. 'What is it, Brother?'

The friar told him how the Four Gospels had described dark shapes coming off a barge and slip­ping, either through Black Meadow or beyond.

'There's only one place they could be going,' Athelstan concluded. 'The Paradise Tree.'

'Oh, Lord save us!' Sir John put a hand to his mouth. 'I can see how this will go. Vestler was hand-in-glove with a band of robbers. She'd kill a traveller and sell the goods to others.' He sighed. 'In which case she's lying. I asked Kathryn if there was anything she knew. Had she been involved in any­thing against the law? Even when she replied, I suspected she was lying.'

'And there's more!' Athelstan told Sir John about the Wizard Gundulf and the treasure 'which lay under the sun'. 'It's a riddle,' he concluded. 'But what can it mean?'

'Bartholomew was a clerk in the Tower,' Sir John replied. 'Let us say, for sake of argument, and remember Brother, I am writing a treatise on the governance of the city, that Bartholomew was a historian. Now, there are supposed to be treasures buried all over London. Every year the Crown lays claim to treasure trove, either from the river or dug up in some field or cemetery. Bartholomew may have stumbled on such a story. Is it possible he was murdered for that?'

Athelstan closed the small cupboard fixed to the wall which contained the sacred species. He absent-mindedly took the key out and put it into his purse.

'And what if,' he continued Sir John's theory, 'Bartholomew believed the treasure was buried somewhere under the Paradise Tree? He goes to Mistress Vestler and shares the secret with her?'

'So she decides to kill him? I have a friend,' Sir John continued. 'Richard Philibert. He's an old clerk who once worked in the royal treasury. He sat at the Exchequer and audited the sheriff's accounts when they were presented at Westminster.'

'What has he got to do with this?' Athelstan asked.

'Well, Brother, yesterday as I sat sunning myself in the garden, I had a close look at the Paradise Tree. The garden is beautiful: the eaves, the roof, the furnishings within, everything is in a pristine state.'

'But Mistress Vestler does a good trade?'

'Aye, but Hengan said something interesting: how Kathryn had gold and silver salted away with the bankers.' Cranston got to his feet and patted his stomach. 'My friend Philibert will look at the accounts of the Paradise Tree. I'd wager a wineskin against a firkin of ale that Kathryn's income is excessive and Brabazon will swoop on that like a hawk. I've seen him before in court. A man for minutiae is Chief Justice Brabazon. He can pick at a prisoner like a raven does a corpse; he'll wonder whether she and Bartholomew found this treasure.'

'Will Hengan defend her?'

'Oh yes, but he's troubled. I called at his house this morning on my way here. He looked as if he hadn't slept. So, what shall we do, Brother?'

'First things first.' The friar rubbed his hands. 'Sir

John, we face an army of troubles, but it's not for the first time. If Mistress Vestler is a killer then there is little we can do to save her from the scaffold. What we must ask is, if she didn't kill Bartholomew or Margot, then who did?'

Sir John stared bleakly back.

'Think of it as a tapestry, Sir John,' Athelstan insisted, 'which tells a story. We have Mistress Vestler. We have the victims. Who else could have killed those people? Be responsible for the grisly remains in Black Meadow? Come on, Sir John, think! Because if you don't answer that question, Chief Justice Brabazon will make sure he hangs your friend on it!'

'We have Alice Brokestreet,' the coroner replied slowly. 'It's possible she could have killed them.'

'Perhaps.'

'I asked the gaoler at Newgate,' Sir John continued, 'if Alice Brokestreet had any visitors. He claimed a friar had visited to give her solace and shrive her. Now the priests come from many of the houses in London. There are more friars in London than there are flies upon …!'

'Thank you, Sir John! Your opinion of friars is well known!'

'Well, Newgate is near Greyfriars House so I went in to see Father Prior. They're Franciscans aren't they, not one of your coven?'

'Thank you, Sir John.'

'According to his records, the friars are responsible for the prisoners in Newgate. They provide comfort and consolation. However, not one of his brothers seemed to have any knowledge of Alice Brokestreet.'

Athelstan smiled. 'So, Brokestreet has an accom­plice?'

'It's possible.'

Athelstan was going to reply but paused as the bell began to toll for mid-morning prayer. He sighed and hid his exasperation. Sometimes Mugwort remem­bered his duty, other times he was too drunk to forget. Now, the way the bell was tolling it seemed as if Mugwort were summoning everyone in the city to prayer. He waited until the clanging had stopped.

'Who could this accomplice be?'

'I don't know, Brother but I've got old Flaxwith and that damnable dog sniffing away. Remember Brokestreet worked in a brothel.'

'Who are you looking for, Sir Jack?'

'An old acquaintance of ours, the vicar of hell.'

'Oh no!' Athelstan groaned. 'I remember that rap­scallion!'

'He may be able to help. Flaxwith will track him down. So, where to now, Brother? Hengan will meet us at the Tower …'

'Sir Jack.' Athelstan clapped him on the arm. 'You have problems, so have I. Let me tell you a story about our murderers here in Southwark. But first…'

Athelstan led him back into the church and out through the main door. Members of the council were still standing around. Athelstan walked over and thrust the scroll into Bladdersniff's hands.

'You are the parish bailiff aren't you, Luke? Nail that up and make sure it stays there.'

And, before anyone could ask questions, Athelstan walked round to the priest's house. Benedicta was in the kitchen washing the goblets and traunchers from the night before. Bonaventure was helping her. He'd jumped on to a barrel and was busy trying to lick one of the platters. Athelstan handed her the keys of the church and the widow woman, once she had freed herself from Sir John's bear-like embrace, agreed to look after the parish until he returned.

'You are welcome to them all,' Athelstan told her. 'At this moment in time, I feel like running into the countryside and hiding beneath a tree.'

'Strange,' Sir John mused, winking at Benedicta. 'I used to do the same when I was a little boy. And, if the truth be known,' he added in a mock whisper, 'I still do it when the Lady Maude is in one of her rages.'

Athelstan collected his cloak and chancery bag, absentmindedly made his farewells and, followed by a mystified Sir John, strode out of his house, taking the trackway down into Southwark. His parishioners shouted farewell but Athelstan walked on, lost in his own thoughts.

'What's the matter, monk?'

'Friar, Sir John, I'm a friar and a very angry one. We have the Vestler business in London, God knows what the truth behind that is; I have a young maid, daughter of Basil the blacksmith, who wants to marry a young man but there are rumours that they are related by blood. Now I have the mysterious death of Miles Sholter, not to mention a heavy fine!'

'You are not thinking of leaving, are you?' Sir John caught him by the shoulder. 'Oh, don't say that, Brother!'

Athelstan stared up at his sad-eyed friend and felt his temper cool.

'No, Jack, I'm not leaving you. I am just angry. Do you know what I think about evil, about the devil? He's not some great beast, some fallen angel shrouded in hideous majesty. Ah no! To me, Sir Jack, evil is like a malicious child who plays a trick and then hides in the shadows and giggles with glee at the damage done. You are the coroner, responsible for law and order. I am a friar, a priest, answerable to God for the care of souls. Now we're lost in a maze because people want to thwart God's will. So, I'll tell you: we're off to the Silken Thomas tavern and, as we go, my dear coroner, I'll tell you what happened last night and the reason for our visit.'

Sir John linked his arm through that of the friar.

'Then, Brother, let's proceed. I'll hear your con­fession.'

And the lord coroner and his secretarius walked on through the mean trackways and runnels of Southwark, totally unaware of the shadowy figure, trailing far behind, watching their every step.

Chapter 7

They crossed the brook and went up the hill to the derelict house.

'What was his name?' Sir John asked. 'The old meanthrift who lived here?'

'Simon the miser, but that wasn't his real name. They say he was a priest, a Benedictine who escaped from his monastery and took some of its treasure with him. He died just after I arrived here. The house and this field were seized by the Crown. If I remember rightly, there's some legal battle over whether it was common land or can be sold. Naturally the house has been stripped of lead, tiles, anything valuable.'

Sir John stopped, huffing and puffing, and mopped his brow. He looked up at the house; the walls were dingy, only battered gaps where there had once been windows. Of the roof only a few beams remained, sticking up like blackened fingers towards the sky.

'It's also haunted,' Athelstan said. 'They say by Simon's ghost. A good place to hide a corpse. The assassin must have known few people came here.'

The two went through the ruined doorway and into the parlour where the corpses had been found. Athelstan described how he thought the murders had taken place. Sir John agreed.

'But let's look around.'

'What for, Brother?'

'You'll know when you find it. Oh, be careful, the upper stories are not safe.'

Sir John looked up at the ceiling and noticed the rents.

'Aye, it would be a fool who went up there.'

'The stairs have long disappeared,' Athelstan said. 'Taken, no doubt, by some inhabitant of my parish for firewood.'

The lower rooms were the same. Anything of value had long disappeared. The floor was of stone but lintels, doors, window frames had all been plucked out. Athelstan came out of the scullery and noticed the steps leading down to what must have been a cellar. He went carefully down. The air was mildewed and smelt of coal and firewood.

'Simon must have used this as a storeroom,' he shouted, his voice sounding hollow. 'It's dark as …'

'Satan's armpit!' Sir John bellowed.

Athelstan undid his wallet and took out a thick candle and a tinder. He struck but no flame came. He tried again and, at last, the wick was lit creating a small circle of light. Athelstan gazed around. Noth­ing but cobwebbed walls and ceilings. The cellar was no more than a stone box, a pile of black coal dust gleaming in the corner. Athelstan waited until his companion came gingerly down the steps. 'Hush now!' the friar warned. 'What is it?'

Athelstan closed his eyes. He'd always been warned by Prior Anselm never to look for any spir­itual experiences. 'Resist such occurrences,' the prior had urged. 'God rarely moves through visions but the ordinary things of life. There are more miracles on a tree in spring than in many of our so-called vision­aries' dreams.'

Nevertheless, Athelstan felt tempted. He thought of the assassin cowled and hooded, face masked. Poor Miles had probably been killed on Saturday evening, just after he left the Silken Thomas. His corpse hidden here till Sunday when the other two had stumbled on the assassin.

'Brother! Brother!' Sir John urged him back to business.

'Hush!' Athelstan lifted a hand, eyes still closed. 'The assassins, Sir John, killed someone on Saturday but came back on Sunday to dispose of the corpse. So, where would they keep it? This cellar has been used to store coal: yet I can't remember any coal dust on the victim's clothing. Ergo, either the corpse was never placed here or the coal dust was on the upper garment and his boots which, as we know, were later removed. The leggings were dark green. They would hide such stains and moving the corpse would also loosen the dust.'

'Agreed!'

'So, what we are looking for, Sir John, is any stain or mark which shouldn't be here: that will be the deciding factor.'

Athelstan crouched down, holding the candle out, and moved slowly across the floor. He stopped at a clean patch against the wall and stared at the dark mark in the centre.

'A piece of sacking has been laid here. Look, Sir John. This stain.' He rubbed it with his fingers.

'It could be anything,' Sir John said. 'Spilt wine …'

'Or blood,' Athelstan added. 'Sholter's corpse was probably hidden here before being taken to the room above where the assassin was disturbed. Right, Sir John, now for the Silken Thomas.'

The tavern lay at a crossroads just outside Southwark where the common scaffold and stocks stood. These were empty but in the tavern yard swarmed chapmen with their pack ponies, pedlars and tinkers. Some Moon People in their motley-coloured rags had wandered in, two men and a woman; they were offering to tell fortunes and read palms but all they received were dark looks and muttered curses. The woman came across and tried to grasp Athelstan's hand.

'Will ye not let me see?' she asked in a harsh, strange accent. 'All of us have a future, pretty ladies perhaps.'

'I doubt it! But here, mistress.' He pressed a penny into her callused hand. 'That's not to read fortunes but to leave us alone!'

The Moon woman scurried off. Athelstan looked about him. The Silken Thomas was a three-storied building, its plaster and black beams hidden by creep­ing ivy which climbed up around the windows, giving it a pleasant serene appearance. A prosperous enough place but nothing like the Paradise Tree: the wooden sills were chipped, only some of the windows had glass. Others were covered by oiled paper or were simply boarded up with wooden shutters. Inside, the taproom was a large, ill-lit, sprawling place with benches and stools in different corners; a huge trestle table down the centre served as the common board. At the far end, just near the door leading to the kitchens, ranged the great tuns and vats above which ranged shelf after shelf of blackjacks and tankards, pewter mugs and cups. A tinker sat at a table, display­ing a white rat in a cage which would go round and round on a makeshift wheel like that of a water-mill. Others were laying bets as to how many times the rat would turn it before it wearied and climbed off. A pickpocket, recently released from the stocks outside, was loudly complaining about his stiff neck. A little boy stood on a table and tried to massage it for him. The tavern-keeper swept out of the kitchen wiping his hands on a bloody rag which he stuffed beneath his stained apron. He took one look at the coroner and bustled across.

'Good day, sir. Can I help you? Our ales are the best you'll find on the Canterbury Road. Indeed, anywhere in Southwark, if that's your direction.'

'Miles Sholter!' Sir John barked, showing his wax seal of office. 'And Philip Eccleshall. Two royal messengers, they arrived here last Saturday evening.'

'What was it sir, two quarts of ale? A piece of chicken pie? Or we have eel pastries? I am a busy man, sir.'

'And I am a King's officer!'

'Two quarts of ale and a chicken pie would do nicely.' Athelstan pulled out a silver piece. 'And we'll sit over in the corner.'

The taverner's oily face broke into a smile. Athelstan tried not to flinch at the blackened stumps and his yellowing teeth, jagged and broken. He looked at the man's dirty fingernails.

'On second thoughts,' he added, 'just two quarts of ale.' He pressed his sandalled foot on the toe of Sir John's boot. 'I do urge you, sir, to help us or Sir John Cranston here, who is coroner of the city, might come back with his merry boys.'

The taverner held his hands up as if in prayer.

'Sir Jack Cranston. I've heard of you, sir.' He hurried across and wiped two stools with his rag. 'Make yourselves comfortable. The ale is free, my gift.'

'No, it isn't.' Athelstan put the silver piece on the table. 'We pay for what we drink and for what we learn.'

Despite his ponderous girth the taverner moved quickly. He roared out the order and a slattern hurried across. The blackjacks were large and looked clean, the ale frothing at the top and running down the sides.

'Now, sir, how can I help you?' The taverner pulled a stool across.

'Miles Sholter and Philip Eccleshall,' Sir John repeated. He sipped from the tankard and smacked his lips in appreciation. 'Tell the truth and, bearing in mind the ale is fragrant, I'll forget your earlier rudeness.'

'They arrived here on Saturday evening. You know the way they are. They came bustling in, cloaks on, hoods up, spurs clinking, sword belts on. One, of medium height, had long dark hair, the other was taller.'

'And what happened?' Athelstan asked.

'They gave their names, Sholter and Eccleshall, and their office. Sholter was rather quiet but Eccleshall was full of his own importance.'

'Did they order food or drink?'

'No, they immediately hired a chamber. I took them up to one on the first floor, the best we have: two beds, a chest, coffer, table and a …'

'Thank you. Just tell us what happened.'

'They stayed there. One of the maids took some food up, about an hour after they arrived. One was lying on the bed, the other was mending a spur. Their saddle­bags were unpacked and they were talking about their journey. About seven or eight in the evening, one of them came clattering downstairs all in a hurry, the other behind him. The taller one, Eccleshall, was arguing with his companion. "Why not leave it?" he cried. But the other said no and demanded his horse be saddled. They had already paid for their chamber so I didn't object and off the other one went.'

'Did you know he was murdered?' Sir John asked.

The taverner shook his head and wiped his face with a rag.

'Who was murdered?'

'The one who left.'

'So, that's what happened.'

'What do you mean?' Sir John demanded, glaring across at the group of chapmen whose shouts and curses shattered the peace of the taproom. The ped­lars, who'd overheard that Cranston was a King's officer, immediately fell silent.

'Well, the taller one, Eccleshall, after his compan­ion left, he came down here.' He pointed to the inglenook. 'He just sat there looking into the flames.'

'And he never left?' Athelstan asked.

'Never.'

'You are sure of that?'

Athelstan felt a surge of disappointment.

'Well, you see, Brother …?'

'Athelstan. I am Sir John's secretarius. I am also parish priest of St Erconwald's.'

'Ah.' The taverner tapped the side of his fat nose. 'I've also heard of you. Look, I tell the truth. Eccleshall drank deeply that night. I could see he was worried. He had great difficulty climbing the stairs and that was long after closing. Now, like all taverners, I'm frightened of fire. I always go round and check that some drunken bugger has not left a candle alight. We deliberately do not put locks in our rooms because of that.' He grinned. 'If a man and his lady friend wish a little privacy, they can always put a stool against the door. Anyway, it must have been well after midnight. I opened the door to Eccleshall's chamber, the candle was out and he was snoring like a pig on the bed. We also have a groom guarding the stables. No one dis­turbed him.'

'And the next morning?' Athelstan asked.

'Eccleshall, rather heavy-eyed, came down to break his fast. He was very agitated, asking everyone had they seen his companion? Of course, we hadn't. He ordered his horse to be saddled and left. Oh, it must have been about nine in the morning.'

'And you are sure,' Athelstan insisted, 'that two came here?'

'Of course! Eccleshall and the other, Sholter, slightly shorter, dark-haired, fresh-faced.'

Athelstan thanked him and the taverner went back to the kitchen, chuckling at the easy silver he had earned.

'It seems you are wrong, Brother.' Sir John patted him gently on the shoulder. 'Sholter and Eccleshall came here. Sholter left but, if Eccleshall had anything to do with his murder, I can't see how he could be in two places at once!' He looked round the taproom. 'Brother,' he said quietly, leaning across the table. 'What happens if the Great Community of the Realm were here? One of their so-called officers? You heard the taverner. Eccleshall and Sholter swagger in, loudly proclaiming who they are, then one abruptly leaves just before darkness falls.'

'You mean he was followed out and killed?'

'It's possible.' Sir John licked his lips. 'That ale was nice.'

'No, Sir John, you've drunk enough.' Athelstan pushed his tankard across. 'Or, at least I have, you can finish mine then it's back to Southwark and across to the city!'

They left the Silken Thomas and made their way into Southwark. The streets were now busy, the small markets which stood on each street corner doing a busy trade in second-hand goods.

'Or what they've stolen from the other side of the river,' Sir John commented.

Many people recognised Athelstan and his burly companion. In the main, good-natured abuse was called but, on one occasion, the coroner had to draw his sword as some dried dog-turds struck the house wall beside him. The group of roaring boys gathered in an alehouse doorway quietly slunk back.

'Let's move on,' Athelstan urged. He went down an alleyway.

'Brother, I thought we were going to the bridge?'

'No, Sir John, just bear with me. I have a little parish business to do. The Venerable Veronica.'

They found Dog Tail Lane. The Venerable Veronica lived in a mean, shabby tenement thrust between an old warehouse on one side and a dingy cook shop on the other. Her chamber was at the top of rickety stairs which stank of urine. The walls were cracked and split, the flaking plaster covering the shabby, wooden steps like a coating of snow. The Venerable Veronica, however, was welcoming enough and her chamber was neat and tidy. She was sitting on a stool, hand over a small dish of glowing charcoal fixed on a tripod. In a far corner stood a cot bed screened off by a tawdry cloak which hung from hooks fixed into the ceiling.

Despite her great age, Sir John was surprised how striking the old woman was. She was small, narrow-faced; her skin looked lined and seamed but her eyes were sharp and bright as a sparrow's. She responded quickly enough, asking her visitors to bring across a bench so they could sit near her while she 'warmed her poor hands' over the charcoal.

'I should go to church more often, Brother,' she began. 'But my old knees and back hurt.'

'I could bring you the sacrament when I come,' Athelstan offered. 'It's easy enough done.'

'Would you really, Brother, and shrive me?'

'Of course, whenever I visit, just ask.'

The old woman peered up at him, moving her hands as if washing them above the charcoal.

'You are different from the other, Brother, the one who came before you. He was born in sin, he lived in sin and he died in sin. He took everything, he did: chalices, cups, breviary. William Fitzwolfe sold them all.'

'Including the blood book?' Athelstan asked.

The Venerable Veronica sighed and nodded.

'That's why I am here, Mother,' Athelstan contin­ued. 'We truly have a problem in the parish. Eleanor, daughter of Basil the blacksmith, wishes to marry Oswald, Joscelyn's son.'

'Ah yes, yes.' The old woman blinked her eyes, head up, mouth open. She rocked herself backwards and forwards. 'The harridan, that fishwife Imelda, the one who's married to the ditcher, the troublemaker. I met her in the lane below. She was all hot with the gossip, like a sparrow on a spring morning.' Veronica glanced at Athelstan. 'Perhaps I should have kept my words to myself, Brother, but I was so lonely and I wanted someone to talk to. I told them Eleanor's and Oswald's great-grandmothers were sisters. They shared the same womb and the same blood line.'

'And is that the truth?'

Sir John took his wineskin off its hook on his belt, and the old woman immediately got up and fetched three cups.

'Oh, you are kindly, sir.'

Athelstan winked at Sir John who had no choice but to fill three cups to the brim. The old woman drank hers in one gulp and held it out for the coroner to refill.

'I am afraid it is the truth, Brother.'

'You can remember such detail?'

'It's not so much that! They always called each other "sister", that's how I remember: it was "sister this" and "sister that".'

'You'd go on oath?' Sir John asked, quietly marvel­ling at how this old woman could quickly down two cups of claret and appear none the worse.

'If I had to, I'd swear it's the truth.' She extended her cup.

Athelstan took it and gave her his.

'In which case, Mother, I think we should leave.'

They were at the door when the old woman called out, 'Brother, I've got something for you!'

The Venerable Veronica got up, moaning and grumbling under her breath, and went across to a coffer from which she brought out a small calfskin tome with a glass jewel embedded in the centre. She hobbled across and thrust this into Athelstan's hands. He opened the covers and saw the strange symbols depicted there.

'It's a book of spells,' she explained. 'Left by that wicked priest, Fitzwolfe.'

'And how did you get hold of it?'

'When he left the church, Brother, he just fled: the King's officers were pursuing him. I used to tidy his house until I got tired of his games. Anyway, the morning he left, I went in and found this lying beneath his bed. He had apparently hidden it there and forgotten it.'

Athelstan leafed through the pages. It contained crude drawings of gargoyles, a dog depicted as a human, spells and incantations.

'It's a grimoire,' he explained. 'A sorcerer's book.'

'I thought I should throw it away, Brother, but I was frightened.'

Athelstan slipped it into his chancery bag and tapped her on the shoulder.

'Don't worry. I'll burn it for you.'

They went down the stairs and out into the street, Athelstan briskly informing Sir John of the latest crisis in the parish council.

'It's serious,' Sir John agreed, glaring across at two ragged boys who were standing beside a wall seeing who could pee the highest. 'I've heard of many a marriage that's been forbidden because of that.'

They left the lane and went down the main thorough­fare to London Bridge. A cart trundled by. Inside, their hands lashed to the rail, were a group of whores, heads bald as eggs, their wigs piled into a basket pulled at the tail of the cart. Behind this a beadle blew on a set of bagpipes, inviting all and sundry to come and mock these ladies of the night being taken down to the stocks and pillories near London Bridge. Most, however, ignored the invitation. The women were local girls and most of the abuse, both verbal and clods of mud, was directed at the hapless beadle.

Cranston and Athelstan waited a while to let the cart move on. They passed the Priory of St Mary Overy, pausing now and again to greet parishioners. They reached the bridge but, instead of making their way down the narrow thoroughfare between the houses, Athelstan knocked on the metal-studded door of the gatehouse. It was flung open and Robert Burdon, the mannikin keeper of London Bridge, poked his head out. His black hair was greased in spikes, his face half-shaved. In his hand he grasped a horse comb and brush.

'What is it you want, friar? You'd best come through!' The little mannikin jumped from foot to foot. 'The lady wife is out. She has taken all nine children down to the fair at Smithfield so I am doing my heads.'

Sir John snorted in surprise.

'Don't look at me like that, Sir John Cranston! You may be a King's officer but so am I. I am responsible for the gatehouse, and am constable and keeper of the bridge. I also have my heads!'

He led them down a narrow passageway and out into the garden beyond, a small plot of grass with flower beds stretching down to the high rail fence which overlooked the river. Just before this ranged six poles driven deep into the soil.

'Oh, Lord save us!' Athelstan whispered.

On three of the poles were severed heads, freshly cut, the blood flowing down the wooden posts. Thankfully they were turned the other way facing out towards the Tower.

'Must we stand here?' Sir John murmured, feeling slightly sick.

'The court says,' the mannikin replied, 'that these heads are to be displayed before sunset. River pirates, Sir John, caught in the estuary they were. Sentence was carried out on Tower Hill just after dawn this morning. I comb their hair, wash their faces.' He pointed further down where the long execution poles jutted out over the river. 'And then I'll place them there.'

Sir John took a swig from his wineskin then cursed as he realised the Venerable Veronica had already emptied it for him.

'Come on, Athelstan, get to the point!' he growled.

Burdon was gazing longingly at his heads.

'Do you know what, Robert?' Athelstan asked. 'You are one of the few adults smaller than me. Anyway, I have one question for you. On Saturday evening, about five o'clock, did two royal messengers ride across the bridge?'

'Of course they did. Cloaked and cowled, carrying their warrants and, according to custom, they showed me their commissions before they left the city.'

Athelstan clasped the little man round the shoulder.

'In which case, Robert, we won't keep you from your heads any longer.'

And, not waiting for the mannikin to lead them, they went back through the house and on to the bridge.

'I'd forgotten about that.' Cranston nudged Athel­stan playfully. 'Of course, every royal messenger leaving the city by the bridge must, by regulation, show his commission to the gatekeeper. Why, what did you suspect?'

'Oh, that something had happened to Miles Sholter and perhaps only one of them left. I don't know.' Athelstan shook his head. 'Now, Sir John, before we go to the Tower, I must have words with Mistress Sholter in Mincham Lane.'

Sir John gazed dolefully up at the sky.

'Here we are, Brother, on London Bridge, between heaven and earth! My feet are sore, my wineskin's empty and everywhere we turn there's no door, just brick walls without even a crack to slip through.'

'We'll find one, Jack,' Athelstan replied. 'And the sooner the better.'

They crossed the bridge as quickly as they could. Athelstan tried not to look left or right between the gaps in the houses. He always found the drop to the river rather dizzying and disconcerting.

They left the bridge, went down Billingsgate and up Love Lane into Eastchepe. Sir John wanted to stop at an alehouse but Athelstan urged him on. At the entrance to Mincham Lane they found the way barred by a group of wandering troubadours who were playing a scene using mime. Athelstan stood fascinated. The troubadour leader was challenging the crowd to say which scene from the gospels they were copying. Athelstan watched.

'It's the sower sowing his seed!' he called out.

The troubadour's face became stern. Athelstan realised he had solved the riddle and should collect the reward. The rest of the troupe stopped. The troubadour picked up the little silver cup which was the prize. He looked down at it then at Athelstan.