Field of Blood

'Run for it, lads!' he bawled.

And the whole group took off down an alleyway pursued by the jeers and cat-calls of their small audience.

'Very good, Brother.' Sir John grinned. 'I've never seen that trick before. They collect money from the audience and, if anyone solves the problem, they are off like the wind.'

They went further along into Mincham Lane, a broad thoroughfare with pink plaster houses on either side. Most of the lower stories served as shops with stalls in front displaying clothing, felts, shoes and caps. The sewer, unlike those in Southwark, was clean and smelt of the saltpetre placed over the night soil and other refuse.

Mistress Sholter's house was at the far end, a two-storied building with a pointed roof and jutting gables. A well-furnished stall stood outside the front door, the lintel of which was draped in mourning clothes.

'Is your mistress within?' Sir John asked the two apprentices manning it.

'Yes, sir, she's still grieving,' one of them replied lugubriously. 'She's there with her maid and Master Eccleshall.'

Sir John and Athelstan entered the house and waited in the hallway. It was clean and well furnished. Pieces of black lawn now covered the gleaming white plaster on either side. A young woman, her hair gath­ered up in a mob cap, came out of a room to their right.

'I beg your pardon, sirs?'

'Sir John Cranston, coroner, and his secretarius Brother Athelstan.'

'Oh, do come in,' a voice called.

The maid stepped aside. Cranston and Athelstan entered a well-furnished parlour where Mistress Sholter and Eccleshall were seated on either side of the hearth. A sewing-basket in the window seat showed where the maid had been sitting. The widow and her companion rose. Athelstan made the intro­ductions and the coroner quickly accepted Mistress Sholter's offer of refreshment.

Sweet wine was served and a small tray of crusty, sweet marchpane. Athelstan refused this but Sir John took a number of pieces, murmured his condolences and slurped at the wine cup.

'I'm sorry to intrude on your mourning.'

Athelstan noted that most of the hangings on the walls were hidden by funeral cloths.

'However, I need to ask further questions.'

Bridget Sholter's face looked even paler, framed by her dark hair under a mourning veil which fell down beneath her shoulders.

'What questions, Brother? I've been sitting here with Philip wondering what had happened.'

'Tell me again?'

'I've told you,' Eccleshall said. 'Miles and I left here about four o'clock.'

'And you reached the Silken Thomas?'

'Oh, about six.'

'You travelled slowly?'

'What was the hurry? We'd decided to stay at the Silken Thomas and leave before dawn. We would be refreshed and so would our horses.' He shrugged. 'Measure out the distance yourself. It takes an age to get across the bridge; we stopped to pray at the chapel of St Thomas a Becket. Then, of course, we had to wait for that officious little gatekeeper.'

'True, true,' Sir John agreed. 'A leisurely ride from here to the Silken Thomas would take that long.'

'And you, Mistress Bridget?' Athelstan asked.

She made a face and gestured at her maid.

'Hilda here will attest to this: shortly after Miles went, I closed the stall, after all it was Saturday afternoon. I left the house and went down to the markets in Petty Wales.'

'Then you came back here?'

'Well, of course, Brother.' She laughed softly. 'Where else could I go?'

'It's true what my mistress says,' the maid said. 'The master left. As he did so, the apprentices were bringing the goods in. The mistress then dismissed me and she took her basket out.'

'You don't sleep here?'

'Oh no, Brother, I live with my own family in Shoe Lane.'

'Our house is very small,' Bridget Sholter explained. 'We have a parlour, kitchen and scullery while the upper rooms are used as bedchamber, a small chancery office and storerooms.'

'But I came back here later,' Hilda said.

'At what time?'

'Oh, it must have been just before curfew, between ten and eleven o'clock.' 'What is your name?'

'Hilda Smallwode: when the Master's away, I always come and see that all is well.'

'Why these questions?' Bridget Sholter asked, get­ting to her feet. 'What are you implying?'

'I am implying nothing, madam.' Athelstan also rose. 'We are investigating the dreadful murder, not only of your husband, but of two other souls. My parish faces a heavy fine and the people I serve are poor. I need to know every detail if I am to lodge an appeal.'

Eccleshall spread his legs out, stretching them until the muscles cracked.

'Well, Brother, now you have it: Miles and I left shortly after four o'clock. We crossed London Bridge. We stopped to say a prayer at the chapel of St

Thomas a Becket. The gatekeeper, after some delay, let us through. We must have arrived at the Silken Thomas just before six o'clock. At some time before eight Miles decided to return for his St Christopher medal.'

'Yes, can I see that?' Athelstan asked. Bridget Sholter, looking narrow-eyed, made to refuse but Sir John coughed and shuffled his feet. 'I'll get it for you.'

She left and came back. The medal was really a large locket, gold gilt on a silver chain. Athelstan prised the clasp open to reveal on one side a picture of Christ, on the other a St Christopher bearing the Infant Jesus. Athelstan snapped it shut and handed it back.

'I thank you mistress, Master Eccleshall.' They made their farewells and went out into Eastchepe.

'What was all that about?' Sir John asked. Athelstan led him through a porchway. 'Sir John, Miles Sholter was murdered. I am sure, as God made little apples, those two are responsible!'

Chapter 8

Athelstan stared up at the great keep of the Tower. On the green around him the women of the garrison were washing their clothes in great iron-hooped vats. Children also played in these, splashing water, jump­ing out and chasing each other. Soldiers lounged in the shadows drinking ale and playing dice. A lazy, pleasant place. The autumn sun was now warm and the grounds of the Tower seemed more like the setting for a midsummer fair than a formidable for­tress. The mangonels, catapults and battering rams were all covered with tarred sheets. A horseman rode in, the hooves of his mount clattering on the cobbles. Grooms shouted and ran out to help take off the harness and lead the horse away. Cooking smells drifted from the kitchens and, from the royal menag­erie, came the powerful roar of the lion sent as a gift by the Prince of Barbary to John of Gaunt.

The great hall, which lay next to the Chapel of St Peter ad Vincula, had its door flung open. Servants and retainers were bringing out the greasy laden trestle tables to be scraped and washed once the women had finished with the vats of water. Two great hunting dogs snarled and fought over blood-spattered bones. Athelstan's gaze travelled to the parapets where archers, supposedly on guard, sought shade against the autumn sun.

Athelstan eased his writing bag off his shoulders and sat down on the grass. One of the great hunting dogs came over, chased by a child; it would have licked his face but the little boy grabbed the dog and pulled it away. Athelstan turned back to study the keep which soared up into the sky six or seven storeys high, built of dressed stone. Athelstan won­dered at the ingenuity of the builder, Gundulf.

'He was a Bishop of Rochester,' he said to himself. 'He may not have been much of a churchman but, as a mason, he had a real gift.'

Athelstan glanced across at the Chapel of St Peter ad Vincula which lay to his left. The old church was being refurbished and Athelstan noted how the dere­lict cemetery had been turned into a pleasant green yard; the old tombstones and other monuments had been removed then the ground grassed over.

Athelstan loosened the cord round his waist and made himself comfortable. Sir John had met Flaxwith at the Tower gates and despatched him on certain errands. He had then gone to report to the constable, Sir Marmaduke Mount joy. However, this newly appointed official was out hunting on the marshes so Sir John had to do business with the surly-faced lieutenant, Colebrooke. The coroner now sauntered back out of the hall whistling under his breath. One of the great dogs ran up. Athelstan was always amused how animals loved Sir John. The coroner skipped away.

'Nice dog! Nice dog!' he said. 'Now go and eat someone else!'

'What are we waiting for, Sir John?'

Athelstan saw Colebrooke, dressed in a brown leather jerkin, green leggings and battered boots, come out on to the steps of the half-timbered great hall, thumbs stuck into his war belt. Sir John crouched down on the grass and indicated with his head.

'Old Merry Eyes over there,' he declared sardoni­cally, 'will take us up into the chamber where Bartholomew Menster worked and kept his posses­sions. Thank God the place has not been cleared. They are still looking for a replacement. When I called this morning, I told Master Hengan to meet us here around noon. Look, Brother.' The coroner made himself comfortable. 'You really believe that pre­cious pair we've just visited are guilty of murder? But how could it be done? Sholter was definitely seen leaving the city, crossing the bridge and arriving at the Silken Thomas.'

'I don't know, Sir John, but, as you often say, I feel it in my water.' Athelstan plucked at a piece of grass and chewed on it.

'Are you hungry, priest?' Sir John unstoppered the wineskin. 'Old Merry Eyes over there filled it.' He took a swig, pulled a face and spat it out. 'Satan's futtocks! It's vinegar!'

'It will clean the wineskin,' Athelstan replied, his mind going back to Mistress Sholter and Master

Eccleshall. Two killers, posturing in mock innocence. She, the grieving widow, he the understanding friend. You played the two-backed beast together, he thought. You've committed adultery and, in some subtle way, you killed that poor man. My parishion­ers will now pay for your wickedness. Time will pass and, by Easter, you will be married, adding blasphemy and sacrilege to your sins.

'Be of good cheer, Brother. Here comes Master Hengan.'

They got to their feet as the lawyer strode across the grass towards them. He clasped their hands; despite the smile, Hengan looked worried.

'I've been to see Mistress Kathryn at Newgate.' He scratched his thinning hair. 'She's in good spirits, but she just sits and keeps her own counsel.'

'Master Colebrooke!' Sir John bawled.

The lieutenant came down the steps and walked as slowly as possible across the grass.

'Look at that sour face,' Sir John whispered. 'It would turn piss sour.'

'Sir John.' The lieutenant forced a smile, his eyes watchful.

Athelstan had done business before with Cole­brooke. A red-haired, testy-tempered young man full of his own importance, constantly bemoaning the fact that he was always lieutenant and never constable.

'Ah, Master Colebrooke, if you could show us to Bartholomew Menster's chamber?'

Colebrooke sighed, jingled the keys on a ring on his belt, and led them across the green into the Wakefield Tower. They tramped up the spiral stone staircase passing different chambers, their doors open. Some were empty, others housed clerks poring over rolls of vellum. Near the top Colebrooke stopped outside a nail-studded door, unlocked it and threw it open. The chamber was large and circular. It smelt musty and stale. Colebrooke hastened to open the shutters, allowing in bursts of sunlight and fresh air. The bed had been stripped; only a straw-filled mattress remained and two dark-stained bolsters. A cloak hung from a peg on the wall, other garments from hooks on the inside of the door. There were tables and stools, a tray of pewter cups and a cracked flagon. A wooden lavarium, bearing a bowl and jug, stood in the corner. Some saddlebags lay piled next to coffers and chests beneath a crucifix.

'He never took anything with him,' Athelstan remarked. 'I mean, at first it was thought Bar­tholomew had eloped with the young tavern wench.'

Colebrooke rubbed his nose on the back of his hand.

'I never believed that: Bartholomew was a quiet, studious man. He loved working in the Tower, con­stantly chattering about its history, searching among the records and old manuscripts.'

Athelstan walked over to the table and touched the rolls of vellum, the well-thumbed ledgers sewn together with black twine.

'God have mercy on him,' Colebrooke continued. 'Fancy a man like Bartholomew being killed by a woman, eh?'

'When was his last day of work?' Athelstan asked.

'We had the midsummer fair on the Feast of St John, the twenty-fourth of June, that was a Thursday. I remember seeing him the following day.'

'That would be the twenty-fifth?' 'Yes, then he disappeared.'

'Did he say or do anything untoward?' Sir John asked.

He had taken off his wineskin and ostentatiously poured the wine into a chamber pot he had pulled from underneath the bed. Colebrooke smirked.

'You don't like our wine, Sir John?'

'No, I don't. But answer my question!'

'When he went missing, I made careful search.' Colebrooke shook his head. 'I could discover noth­ing. A close, secretive man, Bartholomew. All we knew was that he was sweet on a tavern wench.'

'Did he have friends?' Athelstan asked.

'No family to talk of. Bartholomew lived and slept here, until he took up with the wench.' Colebrooke walked to the door. 'If you want, I shall have refresh­ments sent up.' With another smirk he left.

Sir John went and kicked the door shut with his boot.

'Right, gentlemen.' The coroner rubbed his hands. 'I'm hungry, but nothing that a pot of ale and a meat pie wouldn't cure. So, let's begin.'

They soon listed Miles's paltry possessions: some robes, clothing, belts, a sword and rusty dagger; two skullcaps, a felt hat, wallets and empty purses.

'I wager any money he had soon disappeared,' Sir John said. 'Colebrooke's got the eyes of a jackdaw.'

Athelstan, seated at the desk, was piling all the manuscripts together. These he divided out and asked his companions to go through them.

The day wore on; now and again broken by the sound of a bell or the blowing of a horn as the hunters returned to the Tower from the moorlands to the north. Most of the manuscripts were old accounts and ledger books which provoked nothing of interest. Two or three were letters written by Bartholomew to different people in the city. Athelstan was determined to find something and, after a while, he pushed these aside, going quickly through the pile until he brought out a yellowing piece of parchment sewn together with twine. As he thumbed through this, the pages crackling, the ink slightly faded, he noticed a fresh piece of parchment had been inserted. He studied the entry most carefully.

'This is an extract from a chronicle,' he exclaimed. 'An account of the building of the Tower.' Athelstan sifted quickly among the manuscripts. 'And here's a map, crudely drawn.'

The parchment was stiff, blackened at the edges. Athelstan studied the map, aware of the other two standing behind him. He pulled the small candle closer.

'It's a mason's drawing, done in black ink, though this is faded. Look, there's the keep. Here are the Tower walls.' Athelstan moved his finger to the left. 'And there's Petty Wales, beneath it the river. And look at this.' He pointed to the faded words ecclesia Romana, 'the Roman Church.' 'This chronicle was written two hundred years ago by a very old man who was one of Bishop Gundulf's scribes. He describes how the Tower was constructed. He also comments on the Roman ruins. Apparently, the Paradise Tree is built on the ruins of an old Roman church.' He turned over the pages and noticed the fresh marks in the margin. 'That's Bartholomew's writing. The chronicler is telling of Gundulf's treas­ure. Apparently the old bishop had it melted down and fashioned into a great ingot. A foot in diameter and, listen to this, nine inches thick!'

'Satan's futtocks!' Sir John breathed.

'The chronicle then goes on to say that before he died, "Gundulfus celavit hunc thesaurum, quod fulgebat sicut sol, in ecclesia prope turrem." Gundulf hid this gold,' Athelstan translated, 'which glowed like the sun, in the church next to the Tower.' He paused. 'In my view the church next to the Tower is a reference to the old Roman ruins.'

'The site of the Paradise Tree?' Sir John exclaimed.

'Bartholomew must have believed that Gundulf hid his treasure somewhere in the vicinity of the tavern.' Athelstan turned his stool round. 'Did Bartholomew ever discuss this matter with you or Mistress Vestler?'

Hengan shook his head. 'Never to my knowledge, Brother.' He tapped the map. 'If any treasure were buried beneath that tavern, I doubt if it's there now.'

'Why is that?'

'Brother, I deal in property: bills of sales, searches and scrutiny. If the old Roman church was destroyed and a tavern built, the treasure must be under it.'

'Of course,' Athelstan replied. 'It's near the river and the ground becomes water-logged.'

'This was written over two hundred years ago,' Hengan pointed out. 'The Thames often breaks its banks. It's a common occurrence every autumn: the soil crumbles, the river swells and floods the mud-banks.'

'So it could have been swept away?'

'Perhaps but, there again, if the treasure were hidden and protected by the old foundations …'

Athelstan recalled the Four Gospels.

'I wonder,' he mused, 'if our little religious group chose that spot to await St Michael or to continue their own searches? Master Hengan, they told me a story about barges which come up the Thames late at night carrying dark figures which, if the Four Gospels are to be believed, disembark and steal towards the Paradise Tree.'

'Oh, Lord save us!' The lawyer rubbed his eyes. 'I hope Whittock doesn't get hold of that.'

Athelstan looked across the chamber to where Sir John stood half-listening while going through other pieces of manuscript. At the mention of Whittock, the coroner strode across.

'Odo Whittock, the serjeant-at-law?'

'The same,' Hengan replied.

Sir John glimpsed the puzzlement in Athelstan's

eyes.

'Odo Whittock,' he explained, 'is a young, ambi­tious serjeant-at-law: a veritable limner, a sniffer-out of crime. He works for the Barons of the Exchequer but, now and again, he does pleas for the Crown.'

'In other words a prosecutor?'

'Yes, Brother, a prosecutor,' Hengan said. 'I have heard good rumour that Sir Henry Brabazon has appointed Whittock to investigate this matter. Let me put it this way. Brabazon will loose the arrows.'

'But Whittock will be by his side,' Athelstan fin­ished, 'holding the quiver?'

'Precisely, Brother. If Whittock gets hold of that sort of story, of which I know nothing, it will go badly for Mistress Kathryn.'

'I remember Odo,' Sir John intervened. 'Tall, thin-faced, nose like a falcon's beak. Eyes which never miss a trick. Prisoners at the bar are more frightened of him than they are of torturers in the Tower. A good friend but a bad enemy.'

'Did Bartholomew ever try and buy the Paradise Tree?' Athelstan asked, returning to the matter in hand.

'Not to my knowledge. But, as I have said, Mistress Vestler might sing a different tune.' 'Oh, look at this.'

Sir John, who had gone back to his searches, came and threw a scrap of parchment into Athelstan's lap. Athelstan picked it up and quickly translated the Latin.

'Who is Geoffrey Bapaume? Oh yes, I see, a gold­smith! Good heavens!' Athelstan exclaimed. 'It's a list of monies, five hundred pounds sterling, lodged by the said Bartholomew Menster in Bapaume's cof­fers. Bartholomew must have been careful with his monies: this was dated the sixth of June of this year. It would seem our dead clerk was collecting all his monies together.'

'I'll visit Bapaume before the scrutineers from the Exchequer do,' Sir John said. 'Now Bartholomew is declared officially dead, they'll search out every penny he owned. If there were no heirs, the royal treasury will sweep in the lot.'

'So, what do we have here?' Athelstan got up and paced the floor. 'Firstly, we know that Bartholomew was a careful clerk, sweet on the tavern wench, Margot Haden. He held a post here in the Tower which he used to search out the lost treasure of Gundulf, Bishop of Rochester. Secondly, we know Bartholomew found an old chronicle, written some years after Gundulf died. The writer was probably repeating a legend, or one that he may have learned from his old master, that Gundulf melted his gold down and hid it in a church near the Tower. Thirdly, we know that Bartholomew was deeply interested in this secret. This probably accounts for his visits to the Paradise Tree and his relationship with the young chambermaid. He made a cryptic reference to the Four Gospels about the treasure glowing like the sun and being hidden beneath the sun; that was an allusion to the line from the chronicle. Fourthly, we know that Bartholomew's last day on this earth was probably the twenty-fifth of June, but that's as far as we go. What else, Sir Jack?'

'Bartholomew would work here until just before sunset. In summer time that would be seven or eight o'clock in the evening, so he and Margot must have been murdered after that on the evening in question. That's some time ago. Memories dim. We know there was no mark of violence on the corpses, no blows to the skull or the ribcage of either. Therefore, we can safely deduce that death was by poison which must have been concealed in something they ate or drank.'

'Excellent, my lord coroner.' Athelstan smiled. 'Sharp as a cutting sword; ruthless as a swooping hawk.'

Sir John beamed with pleasure. 'Master Hengan, would you agree with this?'

The lawyer scratched his chin and nodded.

'Bartholomew was a clerk.' The lawyer picked up the story. 'But he had seen military service. Margot was a young woman, vigorous and strong; their deaths must have been by stealth …'

'Which leads us to two conclusions,' Athelstan interrupted. 'They were either killed at the Paradise Tree and their bodies taken out in the dead of night … He stopped as he recalled that great oak tree with its overhanging branches, the shade it would provide on a hot summer's evening. A good place to sit and take the cool breezes from the river.

'Or what?' Sir John asked crossly.

'Maybe their bodies didn't have to be taken out? Maybe they were sitting under the oak tree and the assassin, like a serpent, entered their Eden. Was there a third, or even fourth, person there? Or did the Four Gospels invite them down to their cottage? After all, Bartholomew had referred to treasure in their pres­ence. Just because that precious group are waiting for the return of Michael and all his angels doesn't mean they are averse to taking a little gold.'

'I have another theory.' Sir John spoke up. 'What about those dark shapes? The shadow men who come up the Thames at the dead of night? They could have stumbled on our clerk and his sweetheart, or even been involved in this hunt for Gundulf's treasure.'

'I know what Whittock will say of all this,' Hengan broke in mournfully. 'Kathryn Vestler had the best opportunity for murdering Bartholomew and Margot.' He pulled a face. 'As well as the means. Kathryn does keep poison in the Paradise Tree, as all taverners do, to destroy rats and vermin.'

'But what about the motive?' Athelstan asked.

'Master Hengan, was there any hint of a relationship between Mistress Vestler and Bartholomew?'

'None that I knew of. Bartholomew was an ami­able man. Kathryn was nice enough to him but nothing singular.'

'I have another theory,' Sir John proudly declared. 'Let us say our clerk truly believed Gundulf's treas­ure was buried somewhere in or around the Paradise Tree and shared this knowledge with Mistress Vestler. What happens if they've already discovered it?'

'You mean thieves falling out?' Athelstan asked.

'Possibly. Whatever the case, as Master Hengan's said, if all these matters come to light, Sir Henry Brabazon and Master Whittock will make great play of them. Indeed …' He paused and spread out his fat fingers.

'Indeed what?' Hengan asked.

'I don't know how to say this, Master Hengan, but, as an officer of the Crown, I have the right to conduct a search.'

'Into what?' Hengan coloured.

'I think you know already,' Sir John said quietly. 'The accounts for the Paradise Tree. It's a very prosperous tavern. Perhaps too prosperous.'

Hengan put his face in his hands.

'I've asked my bailiff Master Flaxwith to seize the accounts books and take them to an old acquaint­ance of mine.'

Hengan lowered his hands.

'Kathryn is a shrewd businesswoman,' he replied. 'The Paradise Tree is very popular: clean, fragrant, well-swept while the food its kitchen serves is delicious. But, yes, Sir John, on a number of occa­sions I have questioned Kathryn about the large profits she makes.'

'And what did she say?'

'At the time she laughed.'

'She won't laugh now,' Sir John observed. 'All of London will be agog with this. Did Mistress Vestler make a profit out of the customers she killed? Or has she already found Gundulf's treasure? The tavern owns a forge; gold can be smelted down. By the time Sir Henry Brabazon has finished with her, she'll not only be accused of murder and robbery but stealing treasure trove from the Crown and that's petty trea­son. A fine mess, master lawyer. Indeed, the more I find out about my old friend the less I like it.'

'You can't desert her!' Hengan pleaded.

'For the sake of Stephen I won't! But I think we are finished here. Master Flaxwith will be waiting.'

'And afterwards?' Hengan asked.

'I'm hungry and thirsty. I'm going to visit the Lamb of God in Cheapside. You, master lawyer, Brother Athelstan, are welcome to join me. We'll take physical and spiritual comfort before we visit our friends in Newgate.'

Athelstan hurriedly took the manuscripts he had found and put them into his chancery bag, which now weighed heavy with the book the Venerable Veronica had given him. They went out on to the Tower green, thanked Colebrooke and walked down the narrow cobbled path which wound between the walls towards the Lion Gate.

The entrance to the Tower was busy with carts and sumpter ponies being taken in and out. Members of the garrison on patrol along the quayside were now returning. Chapmen, tinkers and traders had opened their booths to do a brisk trade. Cranston climbed on to a stone plinth and looked over the sea of heads and faces.

'Flaxwith!' he bellowed. 'Henry Flaxwith!'

Athelstan's attention was caught by a small crowd which had gathered round a Salamander King: one of those fire-eaters who went round the city performing their tricks. The man was assisted by a small boy who held the reins of a sumpter pony. A small booth had been set up for tankards of ale and the fire-eater was drawing onlookers to him. He was dressed in a mock scale armour with a red lion on the breast, brown leggings and thick leather boots. On his head he wore a tawdry coronet over a rather shabby wig with bright bracelets on each wrist. He'd lit a rush light and, as the crowd uttered gasps of wonder, lifted this and put it in his mouth chewing as one would a morsel of food. When he withdrew the rush light, the flame had gone. As the crowd clapped, he extended his clap-dish for contributions. Athelstan, intrigued, walked over. The Salamander King had suffered no ill-effect: his sunburned face broke into a smile as he glimpsed the friar.

'A miracle eh, Brother?'

'Everything's a miracle.' Athelstan grinned back. He offered the Salamander King a penny. 'I must hire you for St Erconwald's in Southwark, the children would love it.'

'I am always about the city, Brother. Just ask for the Salamander King.'

Athelstan thanked him. He was about to turn away when he noticed something glinting against the pony's neck. 'Excuse me.'

He walked over and grasped the St Christopher medal hanging down from the saddle horn, which was almost identical to the one Bridget Sholter had shown him. It had the same thickness, but the chain was not so bright and the locket itself was dented and splattered with mud.

'What's the matter, Brother?' The Salamander King drew closer.

'I am intrigued, sir. This is a St Christopher medal. You don't wear it because it interferes with your tricks?'

'Of course not, Brother. This is a St Christopher locket, but you don't wear it round your neck. Here, I'll show you.'

He took the chain off the saddle horn and looped it over Athelstan's head. The locket itself lay against his stomach. The chain, being so thick, was rather heavy. He could certainly feel its weight.

The Salamander King took it off and put it back over his saddle. 'The locket is supposed to hang down so, as you get on and off your horse, you see it.' He picked up the medal and kissed it. 'That's what I do during my journey. I also touch it whenever I have to cross a rickety-looking bridge or ford a river.'

Athelstan closed his eyes. 'I should have known that,' he murmured. 'Oh friar, as Sir John would say, your wits are fuddled.'

'Are you all right, Brother?'

Athelstan opened his eyes and slipped another coin into the Salamander King's hands.

'God works in wondrous ways, sir,' he said. 'Angels do come in many forms.'

And, leaving the bemused fire-eater, Athelstan returned to where Sir John had at last traced his chief bailiff.

Chapter 9

Sir John wouldn't listen to what Flaxwith had to say but marched from the Tower as if he were leading a triumphant procession. He strode ahead up Eastchepe, Gracechurch Street, Lombard Street and into the Poultry. When they reached Cheapside it was thronged with crowds flocking round the stalls and markets. The pillories were full of miscreants trapped by their necks, fingers, arms or legs. Others had been herded into the great cage perched on top of the conduit which distributed water to the city. Sir John waved at all his 'lovelies' as he passed: night-walkers, rifflers, roaring-boys, pickpockets and drunks. He was met with sullen stares or abusive ribaldry.

The coroner was well known in the area, and his towering figure and luxuriant moustache and beard only highlighted his rubicund face. Ladies of the night, 'my little Magdalenas' as Sir John described them, disappeared at his approach up dark alleyways and runnels. He stopped to throw a penny at a whistling man who could imitate the call of the birds and roared at the cheap Johns, their trays slung around their necks, to keep their distance. Flaxwith and two other bailiffs, plodding behind Athelstan, quietly laughed at some of the names Sir John was called. Abruptly the coroner stopped as if transfixed, blue eyes protuberant, mouth gaping. 'Oh Satan's tits!' he breathed.

Athelstan stood on tiptoe and saw heading for Sir John, Leif the one-legged beggarman.

'That bugger can move quicker than a grasshopper!'

Leif, together with his constant friend and compan­ion, Raw Bum, always had an eye for Sir John. For some strange reason Lady Maude was much taken by this beggar who pleaded for alms and food outside kitchen doors and entertained the whole of Cheapside with his new found role as chanteur or carol-singer. Athelstan suspected that Lady Maude used Leif as a spy on Sir John's whereabouts, particularly his visits, fairly regular, to the Lamb of God.

'Ah, Sir John.'

Leif rested on the shoulder of Raw Bum, a rogue who'd suffered the misfortune of sitting down on a scalding pan of oil.

'Good morrow, Leif.' Sir John was already fishing into his purse for two pennies.

'The Lady Maude is well. She was much taken by my new carol: "I am a robin" …!'

'You will be a dead robin if you don't get out of my way!' Sir John growled.

'The Lady Maude is in good fettle,' Leif prattled on. 'But your two hounds Gog and Magog were in your carp pond and the two poppets …'

'What's wrong with the lovely lads?'

'Oh nothing, Sir John, they are just soaked and wet.'

'And?'

'The Lady Maude asked me to keep an eye open to see if you returned to Cheapside …' He took the pennies offered. 'But, of course, Sir John, I haven't seen you.'

And Leif, helped by Raw Bum, hobbled away.

Sir John, muttering curses under his breath, swept into the taproom of the Lamb of God. The taverner's wife bustled up. Sir John was taken to his favourite seat by the window where he ordered tankards for Athelstan, Hengan, Flaxwith and his two bailiffs. Once these had been served, the coroner leaned back in his seat.

'Well, Flaxwith?'

'I've been across to the Merry Pig, sir.'

'A well-known brothel house. Go on.'

'Alice Brokestreet entered the service of the Merry Pig weeks ago. Not as a whore, though she may have granted her favours, but more as a chamber girl and wine maid. She killed a clerk in a quarrel and escaped but the hue and cry were raised.'

'And?' Sir John asked testily. 'The vicar of hell?'

'The tavern-keeper said he had no knowledge of such a man.'

'I am sure he did.'

'But, he said that if he came across him, he would present the compliments of my lord coroner and Brother Athelstan.'

'Do you hear that, friar?'

Athelstan, lost in a reverie, started and looked at Sir John.

'A brothel-keeper knows you.'

'We are all God's children, Sir John.'

'What are you thinking about, Brother?'

Athelstan picked up his writing bag, took out a scrap of parchment, seal, inkpot and quill. He wrote a few lines.

'I'm thinking about St Christopher medals, Sir John.'

Athelstan shook the piece of parchment to ensure the ink was dry. He took a penny out of his purse and handed the coin and scrap of parchment to Flaxwith.

'When you've finished your ale, Henry, would you and your lads go back to Petty Wales. Seek out a young woman called Hilda Smallwode in Shoe Lane: she's maid to Bridget Sholter.'

'Oh, the widow of the murdered messenger?'

'Ask her the question I've written out. Did she see her master's medal hanging from his saddle horn or did she notice it in the house after he had left? You are to tell her you are from Sir John Cranston and she's to keep the matter secret.'

Flaxwith, eager to be away, drained his tankard and got to his feet, gesturing at his companions to follow.

'By the way,' Athelstan asked, 'where's Samson?'

'I've left him at a horse leech in Bodkin Lane.'

'Ah!' Sir John breathed. 'Don't say the darling boy's ill?'

'Something he ate, Sir John. He stole a string of sausages from a butcher's stall last night and the little fellow hasn't been the same since.'

Sir John raised his tankard and toasted him.

'Do give Samson my love.'

Flaxwith stamped out, complaining under his breath about Sir John's attitude to his beloved dog. The coroner ordered more tankards.

'I've got some bad news. While you were away looking at that fire-eater, Athelstan, I asked Henry about the accounts of the Paradise Tree but they've already been taken. Odo Whittock has, in the name of the chief justice, seized them already' Sir John dug into the deep pocket in his cloak and drew out a tattered ledger. 'That's all he could find but it's five years old, the last year Stephen Vestler was alive. I was going to …'

'I'll have it, Sir John.'

Athelstan took the greasy-covered ledger, bound by pieces of red twine, and put it in his writing bag. Hengan was staring down at the table lost in his own thoughts.

'Master Ralph, you look sad.'

'Brother, I am more frightened.' Hengan sipped at the fresh tankard of ale. 'It does not augur well for Mistress Vestler. We know that the two corpses are those of Bartholomew the clerk and his sweetheart but there's also the question of the other skeletons.' He paused. 'Is it possible?'

'What?' Sir John demanded.

'Well, all the flesh and cloth had rotted away. Now around the city are numerous burial pits, relics of the great pestilence which swept through London thirty years ago. People were buried in gardens, any avail­able piece of land.'

'And you think that's what happened in Black Meadow?' Athelstan asked.

'It's a possibility. I mean, if Mistress Vestler was a murderess, wouldn't we find or discover more corpses in the same state as Bartholomew?'

'There's one place I can look,' Athelstan added, 'my mother house in Blackfriars. When the pesti­lence swept through London the Dominican order did very good work. The brothers tended to the dead but they also made a careful list of burial grounds and, when the pestilence subsided, went out and blessed these.'

Sir John beamed from ear to ear.

'It's possible,' he whispered excitedly.

'But it makes little difference,' Hengan intervened. 'What does it matter if you hang for one or a dozen? Sir John, I think we should be going.'

They left the Lamb of God and made their way up through the milling crowds and into the open area before the grim doorway of Newgate. To one side ranged the fleshers' stalls and slaughterhouses. The cobbles ran with blood and ordure and the air was thick with the stench from the boiling cauldrons and vats.

Athelstan always hated the place. It stank of death, pain and punishment. The stocks in front of the prison were empty but a makeshift scaffold had been assembled. It was rarely used as an execution place but as a stark warning to the riff-raff who thronged about. In front of the massive gate swarmed beggars, grubby-faced clerks and scriveners eager to write messages for the unlettered. Turnkeys and gaolers moved about accepting bribes and gifts so people could be allowed through the metal-studded postern door into the yard beyond. Two prisoners had been released to beg for alms for those housed in the common cells. They wore nothing but loin cloths.

They were shackled together by long chains round their ankles and wrists, their emaciated, sore-covered bodies a pathetic reminder of the terrible conditions within. One of these pushed his clap-dish beneath Athelstan's chin.

'Some coins, Brother? Something for the poor within?'

Athelstan dropped a penny in but a sweaty-faced beadle was following the two prisoners so Athelstan wondered if the alms would go to those who needed them or the corrupt officials who regarded Newgate as their private fief. He followed Sir John up to the gate. The coroner had little time for the turnkeys. He simply showed his seal and thrust by them into the common yard. A gaoler took them across and up into the inner gatehouse.

Chambers stood on each floor. Athelstan glanced through an open door and recoiled in disgust: he was sure that a tray, lying within the doorway, held the severed ears of malefactors.

'Sir Jack,' he protested, 'I hate this place!'

They reached the fourth floor and the gaoler stopped before a heavy door set into the recess. When he unlocked the door Athelstan expected to see Mistress Brokestreet but it was flung open by a tall, black-haired man, thin-faced with a receding chin and a sharp-beaked nose which scythed the air. He was dressed from head to toe in a velvet gown of dark murrey trimmed with fur. The gaoler stepped hastily aside, almost knocking into Sir John in the narrow stairwell.

'Who are these people?' The man came out, closing the door behind him.

'Sir John Cranston, coroner of the city, and you, sir?'

'Master Odo Whittock, serjeant-at-law. Special emissary of Sir Henry Brabazon the chief justice.'

He looked over Sir John's shoulder, espied Hengan and his narrow eyes twinkled in amusement.

'I wager you've come to see Mistress Brokestreet. But the answer is no. Mistress Brokestreet is now a prisoner of the Crown and whatever you want to know can be learned in court.' He gestured with his finger. 'Above us lies Mistress Kathryn Vestler. I will not question her.' His lips parted in a smile. 'At least not now.'

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

'Sir John, I…'

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

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

'Have you come to take me home, Ralph?'

The lawyer coughed and shuffled his feet.

'Mistress, Sir John and I have questions for you.' She sighed, more concerned with straightening the dark-blue veil which covered her greying hair.

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

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

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

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

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

'Did you kill Bartholomew Menster and Margot Haden?'

'I did not.'

'Do you know how their corpses came to be buried in Black Meadow?' 'I do not.'

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

'I don't know, I can't remember.'

'What do you think happened?'

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

'Why did you burn Margot Haden's property?'

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

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

'Did Bartholomew Menster ever offer to marry you?'

'Of course not!'

'Were you jealous of his affection for Margot?'

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

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

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

Kathryn was now agitated, rubbing her hands together.

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

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

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

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

Kathryn was about to deny that.

'He did, didn't he?' Athelstan persisted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'But where do they go to?' Athelstan asked.

'Petty Wales is a den of thieves.'

Athelstan fought to control his temper.

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

'It's the only response they will get, Brother.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sir John went across and hammered on the door.

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

'It does not look well, Sir John.'

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

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

'You see, Sir Jack, he's well enough now.'

The dog lunged at Sir John, teeth bared.

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

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

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

'And my errand?' Athelstan asked. 'To Hilda Smallwode?'

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

Athelstan closed his eyes and quietly cursed.

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

Athelstan just rubbed the side of his face. 'Sir John, I must think while you must see your poppets.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'It's Brother Eustace, isn't it?'

'Abbot Eustace to you,' the lay brother replied.

Athelstan squeezed the old man's shoulder.

'And I am the Cardinal Bishop of Ostia,' he hissed. 'I've come to make a secret visitation, so don't tell anyone I'm here.'

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

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

'Everyone knows my story.' Athelstan grinned. 'But, Brother, I am in a hurry. Is it possible to have a history of the Tower and the Book of the Dead?'

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

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

'I'll have a look.'

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

'Brother Athelstan?'

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

'So, it was a hospital,' Athelstan murmured.

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

'Have you found what you wanted, Brother?'

Athelstan smiled. 'Yes thank you.'

He should have felt elated but he was tired and hungry. Certainly the entry proved that at least

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

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

'How did they do it?' he asked himself.

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

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

Chapter 10

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

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

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

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

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

Accidents 3d. Suicides 4d. Murders 6d. The mad and the insane 9d.

The fisher of men rose as Athelstan approached.

'You have business with me, Brother?'

The fisher of men pulled back his cowl, his skull­like face bright with pleasure.

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

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

'It's good to see you sir,' Athelstan replied. 'And may Christ smile on you and your endeavours. Sir John and I are involved in certain mysteries.'

'And you need my help?'

'Yes sir, we need your help.'

The thin, bony hands spread out. Athelstan noticed how long and clean the nails were, more like talons than human limbs.

'We have costs, Brother. I have a family to keep; pleasures to make.'

'What pleasures?' Athelstan asked curiously.

The fisher of men leaned forward. 'I visit Old Mother Harrowtooth on London Bridge. She offers me relief.'

'Yes, yes, quite.' Athelstan opened his purse and took out a silver coin, one of those Bladdersniff had handed over.

The fisher of men's eyes gleamed but Athelstan held on to the coin.

'I want to tell you a story,' the friar continued.

'When you are holding a piece of silver, Brother, I don't care how long it is.'

'I am an assassin,' Athelstan began.

The fisher of men started rocking backwards and forwards with laughter. The rest of his crew joined

'I am an assassin,' Athelstan repeated. 'I am riding back through the fields of Southwark. I do not cross the bridge. Instead, I dismount somewhere opposite Billingsgate or even the Wool Quay, a fairly deserted spot. I am disguised and intend to cross the river by barge.'

'So, it's useless making enquiries among the boat­men?' the fisher of men broke in.

'Precisely. I cross hidden by the cloak and cowl I have brought with me.'

'But you have to get rid of the horse?' The fisher of men's thin lips parted in a smile. 'In Southwark, that would be easy enough. A horse left wandering by itself is soon taken. What else, Brother?'

'I don't really care if the horse is taken or not,' Athelstan explained. 'But its harness and housings?'

'Ah, I see.' The fisher of men smiled. 'That must not be discovered. Very difficult to hide eh, Brother? So, if I were an assassin, I would go out somewhere along the mud flats and throw it into the river. If I understand you correctly, you wish us to search for it? A heavy saddle would sink and lie in the mud. However, it might take months before it was com­pletely covered over.'

'Can you do it?'

'Before darkness falls: Brother, our barge awaits.'

'There is one other matter,' Athelstan persisted.

'The Paradise Tree?' The fisher of men spoke up. 'I know your business, Brother. The good tavern-owner, Kathryn Vestler, stands trial for her life. I cannot believe the stories. A kindly woman who has shown us and others great charity. She has given the Four Gospels the right to pitch camp and await the coming of St Michael and his angels.'

His words provoked laughter among his coven.

'They'll have to wait long,' he continued. 'We often see the beacon fire they light upon the bank. On dark nights when the moon is hidden, it gives us bearings.'

'I am not really interested in them,' Athelstan said. 'True, Brother, madcaps the lot of them. The sounds we hear from their camp site are strange to say the least.'

'In your travels,' Athelstan chose his words care­fully, 'especially at night, sir, you and your crew must see certain sights? Barges which have no lanterns, men masked, hooded and cowled?'

The fisher of men stared coldly back.

'Brother, I cannot tell you what happens along the Thames at night. We go unarmed. Oh, we carry an arbalest, a sword and a spear but we are left alone because we leave others alone.'

Athelstan sighed and got to his feet. He handed over the silver coin.

'But I can trust you on this matter?'

The fisher of men shook Athelstan's hand. The friar was surprised at the strength of his grip.

'You and Sir John are my friends. I have taken your silver. I have clasped your hand.'

Athelstan thanked them and went down towards the riverside where he hired a barge to take him across the now choppy Thames.

Athelstan dozed in the wherry then made his weary way along the valleys and runnels, passing the priory of St Mary Overy. All around him Southwark was coming to life at the approach of darkness. Taverns and ale-shops were opening; candles glowed in the windows. Dark shadows thronged at the mouths of alleyways or in doorways. Young bloods from the city, mice-eyed, heads held arrogantly, traipsed through their streets, thumbs stuck in their war belts: bully-boys looking for trouble, cheap ale and a fresh doxy.

Athelstan hated such men. They came from the retinues of the nobles at Westminster to seek their pleasures. Fighting men, skilled with sword and dagger, they could challenge the like of Pike in his cups to a fight and, in the twinkling of an eye, stick him like a pig.

He passed the Piebald and sketched a blessing in the direction of Cecily the courtesan, dressed in a low, revealing smock, her hair freshly crimped, a blue ribbon tied round her throat.

'You'll get up to no mischief, Cecily?' Athelstan called out.

'Oh no, Brother,' she answered sweetly. 'I'll be good all evening.'

Athelstan smiled and made his way up the alley­way. The church forecourt was deserted and he sighed in relief. However, as he went down the side of the church towards his house, two figures came through the lych gate of the cemetery.

'Oswald Fitz-Joscelyn! Eleanor! What are you doing here?'

The young lovers looked rather dishevelled, bits of grass clung to Eleanor's dress and she had a daisy chain around her neck. The young man, sturdy and broad, with a good honest face, laughed and shook his head.

'Brother, we may have been lying down in the grass but we were talking to Godbless.'

Eleanor spoke up. 'Can we see you?'

Athelstan hid his disappointment at not being able to go in and relax.

'Of course! Of course!'

He took them into the kitchen. The fire was unlit but everything was scrubbed and cleaned: the pie on the table looked freshly baked. Beside it stood a small bowl of vegetables.

'Would you like to eat?' Athelstan offered.

'No, Brother.'

When the two young lovers sat down at the table Athelstan decided the pie could wait. The smiles had gone. Both looked troubled and Athelstan's heart went out to them. Oswald's hand covered Eleanor's; now and again he'd squeeze it.

'Brother, what are we going to do?'

'Trust in God, trust in me, say your prayers.'

'I can't wait.' Tears brimmed in Eleanor's eyes. 'Pike the ditcher's wife, her tongue clacks. All the parish know about your visit to the Venerable Veronica.'

'I'm sorry,' Oswald broke in. 'I know, Brother, you have troubles of your own: Mistress Vestler has been taken by the bailiffs.'

'Do you know her?'

'Oh yes. A generous woman, well-liked and respected among the victuallers. My father buys wine from her, the best claret of Bordeaux.'

'But what about your troubles?' Athelstan asked.

'What happens,' Eleanor enquired, 'if we do lie in the grass and become one? What happens if I become pregnant?'

'I cannot stop you doing that,' Athelstan replied coolly.

'They couldn't do anything about it then.' 'No, they couldn't.'

'Why do we have to be churched to be married?' she insisted.

'When a man and woman become one, they imi­tate the life of the Godhead. God is present. Such a sacred occasion must, in the eyes of the Church, be blessed, and witnessed, by Christ Himself.' 'But Christ will be with us?'

'Christ is always with you,' Athelstan assured her. 'But will you be with Him?'

'Brother!' Eleanor lowered her head.

'Listen.' Athelstan stretched across the table and touched both of them. 'Just trust me. Wait a while, don't do anything stupid, something you'll regret. Love is a marvellous thing, it will always find a way. You may not believe this but God smiles on you, help will come.'

Eleanor's face softened.

'Please!' Athelstan pleaded. 'For my sake!'

The two young lovers promised they would.

'Now, go straight home!' Athelstan warned as they opened the door. 'You will go straight home, won't you?'

'Brother, we have given our word.'

They closed the door behind them. Athelstan put his face in his hands.

'Oh friar,' he murmured. 'What happens if they can't trust you? What happens if they shouldn't?'

'Evening, Brother. Talking to yourself? You must want company?'

The friar took his hands away. 'Come in Godbless, there is enough pie for two.'

After the meal was finished, Athelstan left Godbless to clear up the kitchen. He took the keys and went across to the church intent on going up the tower, sitting there and studying stars. He'd revel in their glory, let their sheer vastness and majesty clear his mind. He had the key in the church door when he heard the scrape of steel and whirled round. There were five in all, masked and cowled, the leader standing slightly forward from the rest. He wore a red hood and a blue mask with slits for his eyes, nose and mouth.

'Well, good evening, Brother Athelstan.' The voice was taunting. He gave the most mocking bow. 'Off to study the stars, are we? Perhaps I should join you, it's the nearest I'll get to heaven.'

Athelstan felt behind him and turned the key in the lock. If necessary, he would flee into the church then lock and bar the door behind him.

'You know me?' Athelstan tried to control his fear.

'I understand your good friend the coroner, Sir John Cranston, wishes words with the vicar of hell?'

Athelstan relaxed. He had met this reprobate before and knew he posed no danger.

'Why do you come with swords and clubs?' Athelstan asked. 'I walk your streets daily.'

'So you do, Brother.' The vicar of hell resheathed his sword. 'Whether it be a visit to an alehouse or those strange creatures at the Barque of St Peter.'

He took off his mask and pushed back his hood, revealing a tanned, sardonic face and oiled black hair, tied in a queue behind. A pearl dangled from one ear lobe, his clean-shaven face had soft, even girlish features, except for the wry twist to the mouth and those ever-shifting eyes.

'We always have to be so careful with Sir Jack. I mean, here I am, Brother, a former priest, a sometime Jack-the-lad at whose feet all the crimes in London are laid.'

'Cranston's a man of honour,' Athelstan retorted. 'One day, sir, he'll catch you and you'll hang.'

'Oh no, I won't, Brother: that's why I brought my boys along, just in case old Jack stands hidden in the shadows with some archers from the Tower. I under­stand you've been there.' He turned and looked over his shoulder. 'Guard the alleyway,' he ordered softly. 'Let anyone come and go. But, if there's any sign of danger, give the usual signal. Brother Athelstan, shall we go into church?'

The shadowy figures behind the vicar melted into the darkness. Athelstan turned the key and went in. He led his unexpected visitor up the nave and into the sanctuary where he lit every available candle. The vicar of hell made him open the sacristy and the narrow coffin door which led into the cemetery.

'Just in case,' the rogue grinned, clapping Athelstan on the shoulder, 'I have to leave a little more speedily than I came.'

He sat down on the altar boys' bench but kept his head back, hidden in the dancing shadows.

'I was a priest once, Athelstan.' The vicar picked up the little hand bell. 'How does it go?' He rang the bell. 'Three times for the sanctus.' He rang it again. 'One to warn the faithful that the consecration is near.' Once more he shook the bell. 'Three times for the host; three times for the chalice and finally for communion: Agnus Dei, Qui tollis peccata mundi …'

'Don't blaspheme!' Athelstan protested.

'I am not blaspheming, Brother. Just remembering. I would have been a good priest. Like you. Ah, but the lure of the flesh, the world and the devil. Anyway, I like your church. You certainly have built a parish here, Brother. I remember the previous incumbent, William Fitzwolfe. Now, he was a wicked bastard!'

'Why have you come?' Athelstan sat on the altar steps facing him.

'Sir John wants to see me.'

'Then go and visit him yourself.'

The vicar of hell laughed. 'What is it you want, Brother? And I'll be gone.' He opened his purse and shook out some coins.

'I don't want your money.'

'Take it as an offering and tell me what you want.'

'Alice Brokestreet,' Athelstan began. 'She worked in a tavern, the Merry Pig, which is also a brothel.'

'I know it well. She stabbed a clerk with a firkin-opener, pierced him dead. A foul-tempered woman! Now I understand she'll see Mistress Vestler hang.'

'You know of the incident?'

'I was there when it happened, it was murder.'

'And Mistress Vestler?'

'A secretive one, our tavern-mistress: keeps herself to herself. I approached her on one occasion.' 'For what?'

'To see if we could do business together, moving goods around London. Perhaps hire one or two of my girls for her house but she refused.'

'And you know nothing of a barge which comes down the Thames at night and moors on the mud flats near the Paradise Tree?'

The vicar of hell laughed softly.

'The river is not my concern, Brother Athelstan: it belongs to people like the fisher of men. In my new vocation, friar, you have to be careful you do not tread on other people's toes. It's the only way you keep alive. However, I'll tell you one thing, I give it to you free: the corpses found in Black Meadow? Bartholomew Menster?' The vicar of hell clicked his tongue. 'Now, Bartholomew was a clerk, a royal official, yet he approached one of my associates. He asked what price would he pay if a large chunk of solid gold came into his possession!'

'What?' Athelstan leaned forward.

'Oh, it's common enough, Brother. Stealing a cup, a jewelled plate, a chalice or a pyx. You can't very well go down to a goldsmith and hand it over. The same goes for a slab of pure gold. Questions will be asked! It's treason to take treasure trove and not declare it to the Crown.'

'And Bartholomew Menster asked this? When?'

'Oh, at the beginning of June.'

'But the gold was never produced?'

'We were very interested but there's an eternity of difference between talk of gold and actually owning it.'

Suddenly, on the night air, came a sharp, piercing whistle. Athelstan jumped to his feet and went to the mouth of the rood screen.

'Pax et bonum, Brother,' came the whisper.

Athelstan turned but the vicar of hell had gone.

'Pax et bonum,' Athelstan replied. 'May Christ smile on you.'

He went and locked the coffin door and the sac­risty and walked down the church. Godbless and Thaddeus were sitting on the steps. The beggarman stared up at him.

'I thought I heard a commotion, Brother, so I came out.'

'Nothing,' Athelstan replied. 'Nothing but shad­ows in the night, Godbless.' 'Are you well, Brother?'

Athelstan started. Benedicta came out of the alleyway, a lantern in one hand, in the other a linen parcel wrapped in twine.

'I've baked some bread,' she said.

'You shouldn't be out,' Athelstan replied.

'I was restless.' She pulled back her cloak. Athelstan glimpsed the Welsh stabbing dirk in her belt. 'I have friends in Southwark, no one would lift a hand against me.'

Athelstan went across to his house. He had given up any idea of studying the stars. Godbless had cleared the kitchen table and the lord of the alley­ways was now stretched out before the fire-grate. Athelstan put the bread in the small buttery. He filled three cups of ale and shared them out.

'Why are you restless?' he asked.

'For poor Eleanor's sake.' Benedicta chewed her lip. 'It's so sad to see someone so young, so deeply in love.' She smiled. 'I understand you went to see Veronica the Venerable?'

'Ah yes.' Athelstan went to fetch the grimoire from his chancery bag. 'She had this, a relic from William Fitzwolfe, our former priest.'

Benedicta leafed through the pages.

'You can have it,' Athelstan told her. 'Take it over to the parchment sellers in St Paul's and you'll get a good price for the cover. In the meantime, Godbless, Benedicta, I want you to do a job for me.' He emptied the contents of the bag out on to the table, opened an inkpot and scratched a short message on a piece of parchment. 'Go down to London Bridge. If you can, collect Bladdersniff on the way, I want you to go to the gatekeeper.'

'The mannikin Robert Burdon?'

'Yes, that's the one. Give him this message. Ask him to think carefully then come back to me. He must tell the truth.'

Benedicta looked at the scrap of parchment, shrugged and, with Godbless and Thaddeus escorting her, left the house. Athelstan watched them go then closed and locked the door behind them. He went and sat back at the table.

'Right, friar.' He sighed. 'There's no rest for the wicked and that includes you.'

Bonaventure lifted his head then flopped down again. Athelstan wrote down his conclusions on the murder of Miles Sholter and the two other unfortunates.

'Very clever,' he said to himself. 'It's true that the sons and daughters of Cain are more cunning in their ways than the children of the light. But, saying it is one thing, proving it another.'

He wrote a title on a scrap of parchment: the Paradise Tree. Bonaventure jumped on to the table.

'You've come to listen, have you? We have a tavern-owner, Bonaventure.'

The cat nudged his hand and Athelstan stroked Bonaventure's good ear.

'We know she is a good victualler and what else? A widow. She allows those Four Gospels to camp on her land. She is undoubtedly innocent of the deaths of those other remains. They are simply the skele­tons of poor people who died in the great pestilence. But!' He spoke the word so loudly Bonaventure started. 'We have Bartholomew Menster and Margot Haden! They were undoubtedly killed on her land, either in the tavern itself or in Black Meadow. Their corpses were hurriedly buried. Why?' Athelstan closed his eyes. Gold! He thought: Bartholomew believed Gundulf's treasure was hidden in the church or chapel beside the Tower. It was a treasure which shone like gold. Bartholomew also made a reference, which I can't trace, something to do with the treas­ure shining like the sun buried beneath the sun. So, that means there's a scrap of parchment, some piece of evidence missing, probably destroyed. Athelstan wrote down other conclusions.

Item - How could Bartholomew and Margot enter Black Meadow without Kathryn Vestler knowing?

Item - Was Kathryn Vestler jealous of Margot Haden?

Item - Bartholomew had offered to buy the Paradise Tree. Why? To search for gold? Or had Mistress Vestler already found it and decided to silence Bartholomew and his paramour? After all, if Bartholomew knew the gold had been found, he could blackmail Mistress Vestler over not revealing treasure trove to the Barons of the Exchequer.

Item - Why had she burned Margot Haden's possessions?

Athelstan lifted his head. 'We know nothing about the dead girl,' he said. 'But I wager Master Whittock does.'

Athelstan returned to his writing. What were those black shapes and shadows glimpsed by the Four Gospels? What had they to do with Mistress Vestler? Athelstan paused.

'I am missing something,' he whispered. 'Master Cat, I am missing something but I can't remember what.'

Bonaventure yawned and stretched. Athelstan went into the buttery and brought back a small dish of milk and the remains of the pie. He put these down near the hearth and watched as Bonaventure delicately sipped and ate. The friar sat in the chair and closed his eyes. What was missing? Something he had learned? Athelstan rubbed his arms. If mat­ters don't improve, he thought, Mistress Vestler will hang and that will be the end of the matter.

'It's this gold!' Athelstan declared loudly. 'These legends about Gundulf's treasure!'

He remembered the accounts book Flaxwith had taken from the Paradise Tree. He took a candle from the table and sat, going through the dirty, well-thumbed ledger. The accounts were a few years old. He could tell from the different entries that they marked the year Kathryn Vestler became a widow. There were Mass offerings made to a local church for her husband's requiem as well as regular payments to a chantry priest to say Mass for the repose of the soul of Stephen Vestler. Items bought and sold. Athelstan turned to the front of the ledger and noted the date 1374 to 1375. He studied the last page and whistled softly at the profits the Paradise Tree made, hundreds of pounds sterling.

'I am sure Master Whittock's found the same,'

Athelstan mused. 'And how can Kathryn explain such profits?'

He went through the items bought. A number of entries chilled his blood. Margot Haden was appar­ently a favourite of Mistress Kathryn. A list of expenses showed cloaks, caps, gowns and petticoats, shoes, belts and embroidered purses bought for the young chambermaid. At one item Athelstan closed his eyes.

'O Jesu miserere!' he prayed.

He picked up the ledger, holding it close to the candlelight, and read the item aloud.

'For a Book of Hours, bought for the said Margot Haden, so she could recite her prayers and make her own entries.'

Athelstan threw the ledger down on the floor. He was sure the documents Whittock had seized would show similar entries. How could Kathryn Vestler explain why she had burned what she described as 'paltry items'? A Book of Hours? Hadn't Kathryn Vestler really destroyed important evidence which, in any court, would surely send her to the scaffold?

Chapter 11

'Ecce Agnus Dei. Ecce qui tollis peccata mundi: Behold the Lamb of God, behold Him who takes away the sins of the world!'

Athelstan stood with his back to the altar and lifted the host above the chalice. He was celebrating a late Mass and most of his parishioners were present, huddled in the entrance to the rood screen. Athelstan turned back to the altar. He ate the host and drank from the chalice.

'May the body and blood of Christ,' he whispered, 'be not to my damnation but a source of eternal life.' He closed his eyes. 'Help me Lord,' he prayed. 'Make me as innocent as a dove and as cunning as a serpent. Send Your spirit to guide me. I thank You for the great favour You have shown.'

Athelstan could have hugged himself. He'd fallen asleep in the chair and woken in the early hours of the morning to see the scrap of parchment Benedicta had kindly pushed under the door. Master Burdon had told the truth. Athelstan, for the first time, could see a path through the tangle of troubles besetting him.

He heard a commotion at the back of the church and looked round. The fisher of men had entered with his strange coven around him. This caused consternation among the parishioners. The fisher of men was much feared, regarded as an outcast, and the members of St Erconwald's hastened to move away. Athelstan, however, continued with the Mass. He brought the ciborium down and distributed the hosts. He then went out into the nave and held a host up before the fisher of men.

'Ecce Corpus Christi! Behold the Body of Christ!'

The fisher of men's eyes filled with tears.

'We are not worthy, Brother.'

'No man is,' Athelstan said. 'Ecce Corpus Christi!' 'Amen!'

The fisher of men closed his eyes and opened his mouth. Athelstan put the host on his tongue. He then moved round the other members of the coven. Some objected. Athelstan felt a deep compassion for these most wretched of people, their eyes and mouths ringed with sores. He walked back to the altar and finished the Mass. However, he did not return to the sacristy but stood on the top of the altar

'The fisher of men,' he told his congregation, 'is my guest.'

'Brother.' Watkin spoke up. 'They search for the dead and …'

'Do their job well, Watkin, just like you sweep the streets of Southwark.'

'They are ugly,' Pernell the Fleming woman objected.

Athelstan, looking at her garish hair, thought he had never seen such a clear case of the pot calling the pan black.

'God does not think they are ugly,' Athelstan replied. 'All He sees are His children.'

A murmur of dissent greeted his words.

'They are our guests,' Athelstan urged. 'Now go, the Mass is ended!'

He went into the nave of the church where the fisher of men sat with his back to one of the pillars, his motley crew around him.

'Would you like something to eat or drink?' Athelstan asked.

'No, Brother, what you did and what you said is good enough.' The fisher of men's skull-like face broke into a grin; he grasped the shoulder of young Icthus who stared, fish-like, his cod mouth protuber­ant. 'Go on boy,' the fisher of men said. 'Show what we found.'

The parishioners on the other side of the church watched anxiously. Icthus skipped down the nave and Athelstan saw a bundle just inside the doorway covered with a canvas sheet. It was still dripping wet. Icthus picked it up and placed it at Athelstan's feet. When the fisher of men triumphantly plucked the sheet away Athelstan gazed down at a dirty, mud-slimed saddle, beneath whose heavy leather horn was the royal escutcheon. He turned the saddle over, and saw burned on the leather beneath, the letters M. S.

'Miles Sholter!' he breathed. 'This is a royal mes­senger's saddle!'

'And, Brother, look in the pouch.'

The friar turned the saddle back over, his hands and cuffs now soaked with the dirty river water. The fisher of men tapped the small leather pouch tucked into the saddle.

'Go on, Brother!'

Athelstan dug his fingers in. He could have cried 'Alleluia! Alleluia!' at what he felt. He took out the large St Christopher medal and couldn't resist doing a small dance of joy. His parishioners flocked closer, now seriously concerned about their little priest's wits.

'Is everything all right, Brother?' Pike glared at the fisher of men.

'Pike!' Athelstan exclaimed. 'God forgive you, but sometimes you are a great fool! And the same goes for all of you!' He grasped the fisher of men's shoul­der. 'I prayed for deliverance. Oh, it's true what scripture says: "Angels come in many forms. This man has delivered us. Yea!".' Athelstan quoted from the psalms. ' "From the pit others had dug for us!" We will not have to pay a fine!'

That was it for the parishioners. Led by Benedicta, they streamed across the nave, thronging around the fisher of men, clapping him on the shoulder. Merry Legs, the pie shop owner, loudly proclaimed that each of them should receive the freshest and sweet­est of pastries. Joscelyn the taverner, not wishing to be outdone, said he'd broach a fresh cask of ale. Athelstan had never seen a church empty so quickly. The fisher of men and his coven were bundled through the door, the parishioners loudly singing their praises, though they were still in doubt as to what miracle these strange creatures had wrought. Crim came speeding out across the sanctuary but Athelstan caught him by the shoulder.

'Crim!' He fished under his robes and took a penny from his purse. 'Merry Legs will keep a pie for you. Benedicta, bring the fisher of men back here.'

The widow woman hurried out and returned with their unexpected visitor.

'Where did you find it?' Athelstan asked.

'There's nothing the river can hide from us, Brother. In the reeds opposite Botolph's Wharf. I would wager someone went into the mud and threw it as far as they could. However, the silt and the weeds at the bottom caught and held it fast. Whoever did it must have been in a hurry'

'Oh yes they were,' Athelstan agreed. 'And now they can hurry to the scaffold and answer to God. Benedicta, see to our guests. Crim, go to Sir John Cranston. He is to bring his bailiffs and meet me outside Mistress Sholter's house in Mincham Lane. Now go, boy! Benedicta will see that your portion of pie is kept.'

Athelstan disrobed, piling his vestments on a stool just inside the sanctuary. He gave Benedicta the keys of the church and asked her to clear up the sacred vessels, thanked the fisher of men again and hastened across to his house. Pike followed him over.

'Brother?'

'Yes, Pike?'

'The Community of the Realm.' The ditcher shuf­fled his feet. 'They had nothing to do with these murders.'

Athelstan smiled. 'Yes, Pike, I can see that now.'

An hour later, a slightly breathless, sweat-soaked Athelstan walked into Mincham Lane. The day was a fine one, the autumn sun strong and warm. Athelstan, however, had barely noticed the weather as he hurried out of Southwark and across London Bridge. He realised he hadn't broken his fast and stopped for a quick stoup of ale and some fresh bread in a cookshop. Now he looked down the lane, quietly groaned then jumped as Sir John Cranston appeared like the Angel Gabriel out of the mouth of an alleyway, his bailiffs behind him.

'You look in good fettle, Sir John.'

Cranston wore a flat grey cap over his tousled white hair, a white linen shirt beneath a burgundy-coloured doublet. His broad war belt was strapped around his ponderous girth, fingers tapping the hilt.

'And you, Brother, look as if you've been dragged through a hedge backwards. What's all this excite­ment?'

Athelstan took him aside and whispered his news.

'Oh by Queen Mab's tits!' Sir John exclaimed. 'Oh, Satan's futtocks! What a little terrier you are, Athelstan.' He brought two hands down on the friar's shoulders. 'Just look at you. The face of a maid and the heart of a lawyer. Oh, come, come! Mistress Sholter awaits us!'

Cranston didn't stand on ceremony but brushed by the apprentices and into the suspect's house. Mistress Sholter was in the parlour, sitting at a counting table, a row of coins stacked before her. On the window seat behind, Hilda the maid was exam­ining a broken strap one of the apprentices had brought in.

'Is Master Eccleshall here?' Sir John boomed. 'Of course not.'

Mistress Sholter rose in alarm. She was still dressed in widow's weeds, her face pale. Athelstan abruptly realised how deep her voice could be.

'Well, you can get out for a start!' Sir John pointed to the maid.

Athelstan heard a dog yapping; Flaxwith and Samson had joined them. Sir John went to the door.

'Henry, keep everybody out of here! Brother Athelstan and I wish words with Mistress Sholter.'

The coroner slammed the door behind him and drew the bolts. Mistress Sholter had retaken her seat.

'What is this?' Her eyes had a guarded look. 'Why do you come here like this? I am a widow, my husband is not yet buried.'

'You are a murderess.' Cranston eased himself down into a chair and leaned against the wooden panelling.

Athelstan sat on a high stool before the counting desk. He felt like a bird perched on a branch. The widow kept her poise but her nervousness was appar­ent. She kept shifting the stacks of coins.

'Tell her, Brother.'

'Last Saturday,' Athelstan began. 'You do remem­ber last Saturday, Mistress Sholter?' 'Of course!'

'Your lover and accomplice Eccleshall brought horses from the royal stables.' 'My lover!'

'Yes, yes, quite. I'll come to that later. Anyway, your husband left, spurred, sword belt about him. He kissed you goodbye and mounted his horse. As he was riding down the street, or even before, he took out the St Christopher medal he always kept with him and hung it, like many travellers do, over the horn of his saddle.'

'Impossible!' Mistress Sholter spat out. 'He left it here. It's still upstairs.'

'No, mistress, your husband had two medals. A common enough habit with something precious. I shall tell you what happened. He and Eccleshall left Mincham Lane and rode down towards London Bridge. As is customary, because they are royal mes­sengers, they had officially to notify the gatekeeper, Robert Burdon. He remembers your husband, and I have a testified statement that Burdon distinctly remembers the St Christopher medal hanging from your husband's saddle horn.'

'It may have been something else,' she intervened.

'I don't think so. The riders continued through Southwark and then, for God knows what reason, Eccleshall managed to persuade your husband to leave the road and climb a hill to a derelict house once owned by an old miser. The house is a gaunt, sprawling affair, allegedly haunted, so a rather lonely place. If Eccleshall noticed anyone he would prob­ably have chosen a different location. As I said, God knows what excuse was used. Perhaps Eccleshall feigned illness, something wrong with his horse? Or just a curiosity to visit the old ruin? Once inside the house, however, Eccleshall continued with the plan he'd hatched with you. He killed your husband. The poor man would never dream that such an attack would be launched.' Athelstan paused. 'You know what happened then, mistress. They had taken their time crossing the bridge which would provide enough time for you to clear away the stall, dispense with your maid and hurry down through Petty Wales. You'd go disguised, cowled and hooded: one among many on a busy Saturday evening. Once on Southwark side you hastened along the lanes. I won­der if you arrived before they did?'

Mistress Sholter was now breathing quickly, lean­ing back in her chair.

'You took your husband's corpse and hid it in the cellar of that house. Your husband was clean-shaven, with long black hair. You would be the same height, mistress. You dressed in his clothes, boots, cloak, and wore his insignia. You and Eccleshall then trav­elled on to the Silken Thomas.'

'Someone would have noticed,' she interrupted.

'Oh, but they didn't. Eccleshall did all the talking. A room was quickly hired and up to the chamber you go. I am sure, mistress, where necessary, you could lower your voice, make it sound like a man's. Why should anyone think differently? Why should they suspect you weren't a man? You were a stranger at the Silken Thomas, cowled and cloaked. Most people are wary of royal messengers. Not like the Paradise Tree, eh?'

'The Paradise Tree!' she exclaimed.

'Yes, the tavern in Petty Wales where Miles and his so-called friend Eccleshall often went to drink. Strange, isn't it? The taverner there said your hus­band was known for his bully-boy ways, shouting his orders. At the Silken Thomas he was, apparently, quiet as a mouse.'

'And then there's the medal,' Sir John put in.

'Yes, I always had grave doubts about that,' Athelstan continued. 'Here is a man who leaves his house. He has a devotion to St Christopher. He didn't wear the medal round his neck but kept it in a pouch on his saddle and hung it over the saddle horn. Are you saying he forgot to do that for a long journey to Canterbury? That nothing jolted his memory, even when he stopped at St Thomas a Becket's chapel on London Bridge to pray for safe passage?' Athelstan noticed the beads of sweat running down the wom­an's face. 'It was a clumsy ploy,' he went on. 'But you had to explain how your husband was killed well away from Eccleshall's company'

'I … I …'

'Hush now, mistress. Let me finish.' Athelstan cleared his throat. 'You left the Silken Thomas pre­tending to be your husband riding back to collect his medal. But we know the truth, don't we? Your husband had two medals. You reached a lonely spot on the riverside opposite Botolph's Wharf when dark­ness was falling. You put on the great cloak you probably carried in a bag. You unstrap the saddle and harness, wade into the weeds and throw it into the river. The mud is deep, the water fast flowing. In days it might be swept away or begin to rot. You then clamber back on the bank. The horse you leave grazing; it won't stay free for long, someone will take it. In the gathering dusk you hire a barge across to Petty Wales and return by stealth to your house where, once again, you assume your proper attire. You dispose of any incriminating evidence and pre­pare to act the role of the grieving widow.' Athelstan paused. 'You made one real mistake: in your haste you forgot to remove that St Christopher medal. If you had, any talk of your husband having two could be easily dismissed.'

'Meanwhile,' Sir John took up the story, 'your accomplice sleeps on at the Silken Thomas. He has proven witnesses who will swear he never left the tavern. On Sunday he acts the distraught friend, riding hither and thither. Of course, he was waiting for nightfall.' Sir John took a swig of wine. 'Only the good Lord knows what you truly intended. Set fire to the old ruin where your husband's corpse was hid­den? Or take it out, under the cover of darkness, and bury it in some desolate spot never to be discovered?' He pulled a face. 'What do you care? No one will ever know the truth and the blame will be laid at the door of robbers or rebels.'

Cranston took another swig and offered Athelstan the wineskin but the friar shook his head. He did not like the look on Mistress Sholter's face: arrogant, slightly mocking.

'You didn't really care, did you,' the friar demanded, 'who took the blame? My innocent parishioners would have to pay. You and your friend would play the roles you assumed. Time would pass, memory would dim. Tell me, when did you first plot it? Days, weeks, months ago? For what? So you could lie in adulterous passion and play the two-backed beast?'

Mistress Sholter moved some of the stacks of coins.

'What a farrago of nonsense!' she snapped. 'How can you prove that I left Petty Wales and journeyed to the Silken Thomas disguised as my husband?

True, he had two medals. Maybe he had forgotten that? Perhaps he was riding back for something else? Did he have a mistress in the city? Anyway, he's ambushed on a lonely road. The saddle bears the royal insignia so it's thrown in the river and the horse is taken and sold elsewhere.' She paused. 'I really don't know what you are talking about!' She preened herself.

'You know full well!' Athelstan insisted. 'You were party to your husband's murder; Eccleshall killed those other two because their arrival hindered his plans. One corpse is easy to hide or burn. But three? Did he panic? Did he flee? I am sure Mistress Sholter that, if you had been present, those corpses would never have been discovered.'

'I don't know what you are talking about,' she repeated.

Sir John sprang to his feet as he heard raised voices outside and, before Athelstan could stop him, he grabbed the St Christopher medal from his hands and walked out of the door. Eccleshall was standing by the stall held back by Flaxwith. Sir John strode up to him, slamming the front door shut. He held up the St Christopher medal.

'Pinion his arms!' he ordered.

The bailiffs grabbed the royal messenger and, before he could protest, took cords from their belts and bound his wrists.

'What is this?' Eccleshall spluttered.

Cranston pushed him along past the stalls and down a narrow alleyway. The coroner quietly prayed that Athelstan would keep Mistress Sholter busy. He grasped Eccleshall by the chin and held up the medal.

'She's confessed all, you know. How she met you at the old miser's house, stripped Miles' body and then journeyed in disguise with you to the Silken Thomas.'

Eccleshall blinked and wetted his lips. 'Our little songbird wishes to save her neck, doesn't she, lads?'

The bemused bailiffs nodded.

'She's told us how she rode down to the Thames and threw the saddle into the river then cast the horse loose. How she used Miles' second medal to distract the maid: a pretext for his supposed jour­ney from the Silken Thomas. How you waited until Sunday evening to dispose of the corpse but then had to kill those two others who surprised you. She has turned King's evidence in return for a pardon.'

'The bitch!' Spit bubbled on Eccleshall's lips. He lunged to the mouth of the alleyway but the bailiffs held him fast. 'She's as guilty as me! She may be cold as ice now but she's a whore in bed!'

'Are you saying that she's your accomplice?'

'More than that! She plotted it from the start.'

'And those two other corpses?'

Eccleshall sagged against his captors. 'I had no choice,' he mumbled. 'I heard them coming. I loaded the arbalest I carried. The man died immediately. The young whore was going to scream.'

'Thank you very much.' Sir John gestured with his head. 'Take him to Newgate! Keep him well away from his accomplice!'

Mistress Sholter's face, when Sir John confronted her, twisted into a grimace of hatred. She cast the coins about and would have run to the door but he seized her by the wrist, twisting her round and throwing her against the wall.

'You'll both hang,' he said quietly, 'for the deaths of three innocents.' He opened the door and gestured Athelstan out. 'Take one last look around your house, Mistress Sholter: it's Newgate for you.'

After Sir John left instructions with the bailiffs, he and Athelstan walked up Mincham Lane.

'You did very well, Brother. Very well indeed.'

'And that was quick of you, Sir John. If they had met, Mistress Sholter's guilt would have been hard to prove.' The friar nudged the coroner playfully in the ribs. 'So it's true what they say about you, Jack? Swift as a greyhound, more tenacious than a swoop­ing hawk!'

Sir John stood in the middle of the street and took a quick gulp from his wineskin.

'You think I'm swift now, Brother. Let me tell you about the time before Poitiers. We were going along a country lane …'

Athelstan closed his eyes. He'd heard this story at least six times and jumped when he heard his name being shrieked.

'Brother Athelstan! Brother Athelstan!'

Crim the altar boy came speeding from an alley­way, his face covered in the remains of a meat pie, black hair sticking up. He stopped before the friar, grasping his robe.

'Brother!' he gasped. 'Brother, I've …!'

Athelstan patted him gently on the shoulder.

'Come over here.'

He led the little altar boy between two stalls and made him sit on a makeshift bench outside an alehouse.

'Has the church burned down?' Athelstan asked.

Crim shook his head.

'Are Watkin and Pike at daggers drawn?'

Again the shake of the head.

'It's Mistress Benedicta,' Crim gasped.

Athelstan went cold. 'What's happened to her?'

'Come on, lad!' Sir John sat beside the boy. He opened his wallet and took out a piece of marchpane. 'One of my poppets put that in my purse this morn­ing. They don't like to think of Daddy being hungry. I only found it after I had left. Now, tell us what's happened.'

Athelstan found it difficult to breathe.

'Benedicta,' Crim gasped. 'Benedicta, grim …'

'I beg your pardon?'

'Benedicta, grim … No, grimoire!'

Athelstan recalled the book he had given to Benedicta.

'She's in our house, Brother. She's all excited. She says you've got to come now.' 'Well, in which case, we'll go.'

Together they strode down Eastchepe, fought their way through the fish stalls at Billingsgate and hired a barge, Sir John offering the rowers an extra penny. The wherrymen needed no further bidding but pulled at their oars. Crim, his mouth now full of march­pane, sat wedged between the coroner and Athelstan, who had to give up in despair at questioning him further.

The wherry turned midstream, gathering speed as it headed towards the arches under London Bridge.

Crim sat wide-eyed, looking up at the poles jutting out, bearing the severed heads of traitors and riVer pirates. They entered the shadows of the bridge, the wherrymen pulling their oars in as the river gathered speed, carrying them by its own force under the arch and out to the other side.

A short while later they reached the Southwark quayside and clambered out. Sir John strode along the lanes, shoving people aside, Athelstan and Crim bustling behind him. Athelstan expected to find the yard in front of St Erconwald's busy and thronging but it was deserted. Only Bonaventure slept like some lazy sentry on the top step of the church.

'She's in the house,' Crim explained. 'She said she hadn't told anyone. She wanted to show you first.'

'Jack, you needn't have come!' Athelstan said.

'Brother, if you find it exciting, so do I, Anyway, I like to see Benedicta.'

The widow woman opened the door and gave a gasp of surprise as Sir John embraced her, kissing her loudly on the cheeks.

'You are a lovely woman, Benedicta, and what's all this clamour about?'

Benedicta was certainly excited. She had taken her veil off, her raven-black hair tumbling down to her shoulders. She skipped away from Sir John, clapped her hands and pointed to the parchment littering Athelstan's table.

'It's the grimoire,' she explained, taking a seat at the top. 'Now, when William Fitzwolfe, the former priest, had this bound he used parts of the old blood book and different parish records to stiffen the binding.'

Athelstan sat down at the table. Benedicta had undone the red binding which held the grimoire together, loosened the pages and pulled these apart.

'It was when I looked at the cover I noticed how thick it was.'

Athelstan picked it up. It was nothing more than a strip of leather laid out flat and strongly reinforced with a thick wadge of parchment glued together at the edges and then placed against the leather to strengthen it. He leafed through the pages. He saw entries: 'Fulke, son of Thurston the labourer and Hawisia his wife …' Athelstan smiled: that was Watkin's father. Page after page was filled with these faded, scrawled ink entries made by successive priests over the years.

'Now, look at this!' Benedicta took the pages from him and pointed to one entry already marked with a piece of ash from the fireplace. 'If you check again, Brother, you will find that these two women are the great-grandmothers, respectively, of Joscelyn the tavern-keeper and Basil the blacksmith. They were apparently married on the same day.'

Athelstan read the entry on Agnes Fitz-Joscelyn and Ann, daughter of William the warrener.

'They definitely had different fathers,' Athelstan said. 'But they are described as "sorores", sisters, in the marriage entry.'

'Ah yes.'

Benedicta took the parchment from him. She leafed through and showed another entry. This time the page had a title, written neatly by a learned clerk: 'The Confraternity of St Erconwald'. The first column listed 'brothers of the Confraternity', the second a similar list of 'sisters'. Agnes Fitz-Joscelyn and Ann, daughter of William the warrener, were grouped together as 'sisters'.

Sir John, who had been looking over his shoulder, chuckled.

'You've told me about this problem, Brother.' He tapped the parchment. 'And there's your answer. In my treatise "On the Governance of this City", I have come across many such confraternities. At one time they were very strong in different parishes. The Confraternity of the Blessed Sacrament, the Confraternity of the Angels, the Confraternity of St Luke.'

Athelstan gazed wistfully at the piece of parchment.

'It's a very good idea,' he said. 'And there must have been one here: the Confraternity of St Erconwald's. What I suspect happened is this. Agnes and Ann were bosom friends: that's apparent from the fact that they married on the same day. They were also members, perhaps leading ones, of the parish confraternity. They called each other sister. When the blood book dis­appeared there was no explanation for why they did this. The Venerable Veronica was speaking the truth. These two women lived and died many years ago. All Veronica could remember is that they called each other sister, hence the mistake.'

'Benedicta!'

The widow woman backed away from Sir John who came, arms stretched out, towards her.

'You should have been a coroner. I mean, after all, you can't be a friar.'

'Benedicta,' Athelstan echoed. 'Your sharp eyes and keen wit have made two young lovers very, very happy'

'Will that mean there's going to be more feasting?' Crim spoke up from where he stood just within the doorway.

'Oh, yes,' Athelstan replied. 'Feasting and dancing, Crim. Now, haste away. Don't tell them what we've found but bring Eleanor and Oswald here!'

Chapter 12

Alice Brokestreet was unaware that she was only minutes away from the death she thought she had so cleverly cheated. She sat in her cell of the gatehouse at Newgate and contemplated the table bearing a pewter jug, cup and a trauncher covered with a linen cloth: gifts, the gaoler had said, from a benefactor. Deciding these could wait, she got up and went to the window to look down into the yard. Fowls and pigs roamed freely about; fierce-looking dogs preyed on the garbage heaps, competing with marauding crows. These scattered as huge vats of water, used for washing, were emptied out to cleanse the yard.

Alice was about to turn away when she noticed two bailiffs drag a cunning man out from the dun­geons on the far side. The man was to be branded as a forger, the letter 'F' burned into his cheek. The executioners trailed out after him, their branding-irons already red-hot. One of the bailiffs hastily read out how 'Richard Bracklett, forger, perjurer, had sold false relics, including a piece of Elijah's mantle, two legs of one of the Holy Innocents, a skull of one of the Eleven Thousand Virgins from Cologne.'

'Yet,' the bailiff bawled across the yard, 'the said Richard knew that these were nothing but items of rubbish and the certificates he bore were forged.'

Alice turned away as the executioner advanced on the pinioned man, closing her ears to the terrible screams which rang up from the yard. She sat down on the bed. She was nervous. Tomorrow morning she would be taken into court and the case against Kathryn Vestler would be presented.

'All I have to do,' she murmured, 'is tell the truth.' She smiled to herself. 'Well, as I see it!'

She would repeat her story. How Kathryn Vestler, full of frustrated passion, poisoned the clerk Bartholomew Menster and the tavern wench, Margot Haden, and forced her, Alice, to help her bury them out in Black Meadow.

She breathed in. She felt safe with Master Whittock, that hawk-eyed man with his searching eyes and harsh, guttural voice. He had learned a surprising amount about the Paradise Tree and its owner: stories of hidden treasure, of visitors at night. Time and again he'd refer to other evidence. Time and again he would make her repeat her story. Alice chewed her lip. She had been promised a pardon but was there something else? Whittock had been deeply interested in the stories about the hidden treasure of Gundulf. She had seen Whittock wet his lips and noticed the gleam in his eyes. If Mistress Vestler hanged, she wondered, would the serjeant-at-law buy the tavern and continue the search?

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

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

'We'll have a celebration!' Pike shouted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Which she is.'

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

'So?'

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

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

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

'So Brokestreet will know the identity of the assassin?'

'Not necessarily, Sir John. She could have been informed by letter, or by a mysterious visitor to Newgate or even before she committed her own murder. Brokestreet is not the problem. She is only the cat's-paw. She was informed by the assassin who,

I suspect, will take care of Mistress Brokestreet in his own way and at his own time. Now Vestler is a widow. If she's found guilty of a felony and hanged, the Crown will seize the Paradise Tree and sell it to the highest bidder.'

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

Sir John whistled under his breath.

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

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

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

He started at a knock on the door.

'Come in!' Athelstan shouted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Sir Jack?' Athelstan asked. 'Is there a problem?'

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

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

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

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

'Sir John, Brother, I brought it as a gift. Such casks are common among the victuallers and tavern-masters of London.'

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

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

Joscelyn swallowed hard.

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

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

'Don't lie to your priest!' Athelstan stood over the tavern-keeper.

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

'Enough said.' Athelstan patted him on the shoul­der. 'Go on, Joscelyn, thank you for the wine. Join the revellers, your secret's safe with us.'

Joscelyn, all sobered up, sped out the door.

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

'Is it a sin to drink it, monk?'

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

Sir John closed his eyes, smacked his lips and sighed. 'Oh this is truly a gift from heaven.'

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

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

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

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

Athelstan turned as the door opened.

'Yes, Benedicta?'

'Brother, you have a visitor.'

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

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

The lawyer sat down, unhitched his cloak and tossed it on the floor. He put his face in his hands. 'Master Ralph, what's the matter?' 'Alice Brokestreet's been murdered!' 'What!' Sir John exclaimed.

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

'Does that mean her testimony will collapse?' Athelstan asked.

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

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

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

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

'Aye, and it will get worse,' the coroner growled.

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

'You know nothing of this, sir?'

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

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

'Precisely, Brother.'

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

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

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

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

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

'What!' Athelstan exclaimed.

'Well.' Hengan raised his hand. 'We know Bartholomew visited the tavern and they both left.' 'And Mistress Vestler?' 'Oh, she was definitely there.' 'How do we know that?'

'From the servants …' Hengan rubbed his chin. 'I wish I had been there.'

'Where were you, Master Ralph?'

'Well, the Feast of St John the Baptist is a holy day. The day before, the twenty-fourth, I went on a pil­grimage to Canterbury, the regular pilgrimage by the Inns of Court.' He shrugged. 'I stayed at the Chequer Board tavern. I even had the pleasure of meeting Master Whittock there as well. We both prayed at the tomb of St Thomas a Becket. I came home on the feast of St Peter and St Paul, the twenty-ninth of June. Kathryn mentioned that Margot and Bartholomew had eloped, but I thought nothing of it.'

Athelstan took a stool to the top of the table and sat down, cupping his face in his hand.

'So, we have Bartholomew and Margot leaving the tavern late on the twenty-fifth of June. No one knew where they were going. Some months later their corpses are discovered in Black Meadow. I can see the line Master Whittock will follow. Bartholomew and the tavern wench went down to Black Meadow. Somebody met them there, gave them poisoned wine and buried their corpses.' Athelstan shook his head.

'Even the dimmest member of the jury will draw one conclusion: Kathryn Vestler killed them!'

'Hear ye! Hear ye! All ye who have business before the King's justices of Oyer and Terminer seated in the Guildhall of the King's own city of London, draw close and witness the King's justice being done!'

The herald standing before the bar of the court proclaimed the message twice again. In a blare of trumpets, the justices sat down on their cushioned seats beneath the great scarlet canopy. Athelstan, next to Sir John on the witness benches, closed his eyes, bowed his head and prayed. Brabazon looked in fine fettle, florid face beaming round the court. He was the King's justice and the other judges, who flanked him on either side, mere appendages to his own majesty. On the red and gold steps below, Master Whittock, dressed in a russet robe lined with lambswool, sat like the chief justice's hunting dog. The serjeant-at-law leaned slightly forward, keen eyes studying members of the jury as they took their seats and swore the oath. At the far end of the hall, men-at-arms in the royal livery held back the crowds. The news had spread throughout the city and many had flocked to the Guildhall to witness the unfolding drama.

The witnesses' and spectators' benches were full, so that Sir John had had to use all his authority to gain admission. Now he sat in his blue and gold doublet, cloak thrown across his green hose, legs slightly parted, tapping his high-heeled boots on the wooden platform. He kept glaring at the chief justice. Athelstan, who felt slightly tired after the previous day's revelry, looked down at Mistress Vestler. She had been brought up in chains and now stood at the bar flanked by two tipstaffs carrying their white wands of office. Behind her stood a line of archers, arbalests hooked to their war belts.

'May the good Lord and St Antony help her!' Athelstan prayed.

Mistress Vestler looked pale in mourning weeds, black gown and a veil of the same colour.

'You'd think she was dead already,' Sir John whis­pered. 'But she holds herself well. Pleas for mercy will find no echo here.'

Beside Mistress Vestler, Ralph Hengan sat and shuffled among certain papers. The small gate to the bar was open; two clerks carried forward a lectern which bore a book of the gospels. This was where the witnesses would stand, take the oath and give their testimony. Chief Justice Brabazon made a cutting movement with his hand. The two heralds stepped forward and gave a shrill blast on their silver-plated trumpets. The clerks seated at the foot of the steps rose, turned and bowed to Sir Henry. He nodded.

'The court is in session!' the chief clerk pro­claimed. 'Let the charges be read!'

Confusion immediately followed. Whittock sprang to his feet and walked down to stand at the other side of the bar from Mistress Vestler.

'You are?' Sir Henry Brabazon asked.

'Odo Whittock, scrjcant-at-law. My lord, before the charges are read, I must inform the court that its principal witnesses Alice Brokestreet has been found poisoned.'

'In which case,' Hengan interrupted, 'the case should be dismissed.'

'Not so! Not so!' Whittock retorted. He held up a sheaf of parchments. 'Mistress Brokestreet had made a statement under oath; her testimony has been accepted by the court.'

'Are you implying,' Master Hengan snapped, 'that Mistress Brokestreet's murder must be laid at the door of Kathryn Vestler?'

'What does it matter?' Whittock replied languidly. 'Hang for one, hang for ten, you are still hanged!'

Sir Henry smiled.

'In which case,' Hengan said, leaning against the bar, 'I would also like the other matters to be discussed.'

'What other matters?' Sir Henry asked.

'My lord, the corpses of Bartholomew Menster and Margot Haden were discovered in Black Meadow, which belongs to my client. However, my lord,' Hengan pointed to Athelstan, 'I can produce good witnesses and sound testimony that Black Meadow was used as a burial ground for victims of the pesti­lence. These human remains, pathetic though they may be, are not a matter for this court to consider.'

Sir Henry played with his scarlet skullcap and conferred quickly with colleagues on either side.

'All this,' he replied, 'is wasting the court's time. Hanged for one is the same as being hanged for ten.

The murder of Alice Brokestreet is beyond the power of this court. As regards the other matter, there is no need to call Brother Athelstan.' The chief justice beamed in Sir John's direction. 'I will accept what you say, Master Hengan. Clerk, read out the indictment!'

Athelstan relaxed. He was glad he wasn't called as a witness. He listened to the charge, grim and stark that, 'Kathryn Vestler did, on or around the twenty-fifth of June thirteen-eighty, feloniously slay by poison Bartholomew Menster and Margot Haden.'

'My lord.' Hengan rose, grasping the bar. 'My client goes on oath and pleads not guilty to this and all other specified charges which may be levelled against her.'

'Of course. Of course.' Sir Henry smiled. 'Master clerk, read out the sworn statement of Alice Brokestreet.'

The statement produced nothing new. Master Whittock had been very careful not to introduce any other charge which could be challenged. It stated that Mistress Vestler had slain Bartholomew and Margot by an infusion of poison, that Brokestreet had helped take the corpses out in a handcart and bury them under the great oak tree in Black Meadow. How the felonious deed was Mistress Vestler's doing and she, Brokestreet, had no choice but to co-operate. The clerk sat down.

'My lord,' Hengan began. 'Mistress Vestler is a good woman, a respected member of the parish. She keeps a dole cupboard for the poor, gives alms gener­ously and observes the King's peace.'

'Does she now? Does she now?' Whittock came down the steps. 'Mistress Vestler, you put yourself on oath in Newgate, when you denied these charges?' 'I did.'

'And you say you are a woman of good reputation?' 'I am,' came the calm reply. 'Even though you smuggle?'

Mistress Vestler, warned by Hengan about what Sir John had discovered, remained silent.

'We have found in the cellars of the Paradise Tree,' Whittock continued, 'small casks of Bordeaux, and even some from Alsace, which bear no customs mark.'

'My lord,' Hengan interrupted. 'My client has been charged with murder, not with smuggling. She need not incriminate herself on charges she has had little time to reflect on.'

'True, true,' Whittock replied in a mock whisper. 'I concede that, but you started this hare, Master Hengan, so I think my observation is relevant.'

'My lord.' Hengan desperately tried to move away from the matter. 'The indictment claims that Mistress Brokestreet knew that Kathryn Vestler poisoned her two alleged victims. However, we have it on good report that Margot Haden and Bartholomew Menster left the Paradise Tree on the evening of the twenty-fifth of June."

Yes, yes,' Whittock interrupted. 'But, my lord, Mistress Brokestreet has sworn that the crime was committed that night. In other words, Bartholomew and Margot may well have returned to the Paradise Tree and the crime been committed when the tav­ern was empty, no witnesses being around. I will also demonstrate that Mistress Vestler had a great deal to hide on that evening. It's best, my lord, if we listen to all the witnesses before we start proclaim­ing the truth.' Sir Henry agreed.

'In which case,' Whittock went on, 'I call Master Tapler, ale-taster at the Paradise Tree.'

The clerks of the court shouted the witness's name. From a small chamber at the other side of the hall, hidden in one of the transepts, Mistress Vestler's ale-taster shuffled out. The man was nervous and, as he took the oath, hand on the book of the gospels, the judge bellowed at him to speak up.

'Well, well, sir.' Whittock smiled across at him. 'We know who you are. We know where you work.'

Master Tapler looked decidedly agitated.

'I want you, sir,' Whittock's voice was almost a purr, 'to recall what happened on the twenty-fifth of June of this year. You had all returned to work after the Holy Day, hadn't you?'

'Yes, sir, we had.'

'And the tavern was busy?'

'No, sir.'

'Oh, so what time did you close?'

'Well, sir, because it was summer, the curfew didn't toll till about an hour before midnight.'

'What happened that evening? Anything extraordi­nary? Come, come, sir,' Whittock continued sharply. 'You know why you are here. Did Master Bartholomew come to the tavern?'

'Yes, sir, between the hours of nine and ten. It was a beautiful summer's day, the sun hadn't set.'

'And what happened?'

'He stayed for a stoup of ale; rather excited he was. Then he and Margot left.'

'Do you know where to?' 'No, sir.'

'And was Mistress Vestler around?' 'She always is, sir.'

'That particular night, what did Mistress Vestler do?'

'Sir, she was most insistent that the cooks and scullions, tapboys and slatterns, myself included, all had to leave early.'

'She was decidedly nervous, Master Tapler?'

'Yes, sir, she was.'

Athelstan glanced at Sir John.

'Oh, forgive me,' the friar whispered. 'Lost in my own troubles I should have questioned those people myself.'

Whittock, apparently distracted by the whisper, glanced across and smiled.

'And what happened then, Master Tapler?'

'Mistress Vestler urged us to leave, customers included.'

'Why?'

'I had the distinct impression,' Tapler's voice fell to a mumble, 'that she was expecting someone.' Whittock smiled from ear to ear. 'Master Tapler, I thank you.'

Chapter 13

Hengan did his best with the ale-taster but it was a losing battle. In fact, the more he questioned the more damaging it became.

'It was very rare for Mistress Vestler to urge us to leave the tavern early, so why that night?'

Hengan realised the harm he was doing, stopped his questioning and Tapler was dismissed.

'She'll hang,' Sir John murmured. 'God save us, Athelstan, but I think she's guilty myself.'

'The court calls Isobel Haden!' the clerk shouted.

Athelstan's head came up. A young woman came out of the adjoining chamber into the well of the court. The clerk escorted her to the witness stand and again the oath was taken. Whittock was now thoroughly enjoying himself.

'We have your name and occupation,' he began. 'You are a seamstress in the parish of St Mary Bethlehem near Holywell. And your sister Margot was a tavern wench at the Paradise Tree?'

'Yes, sir.'

Sir Henry was now leaning forward. 'Did your sister enjoy her work?' 'Yes, sir, she did.'

'How do you know that? Come on, girl, tell the court.'

'My sister wrote me letters.'

'My lord.' Whittock glanced at Sir Henry. 'If neces­sary, I can produce these letters.'

The chief justice looked at Hengan who shook his head despairingly.

'So, your sister, even though only a tavern wench, was lettered?' Whittock asked.

'Oh yes, sir, our father was a wool merchant. We attended the parish school and learned our horn books. He was very proud of Margot.' Her voice trembled. 'She could read and write.'

'So she was more than just a tavern wench?' Whittock insisted. 'A young woman who might well attract the likes of Bartholomew Menster?'

'Yes, sir. Margot only entered service because she wanted to leave the parish. A good lass, Margot,' Isobel continued defiantly, looking balefully down at Mistress Vestler. 'She would have made a fine marriage.'

'And your sister wrote to you about her work?'

'To be honest, sir, she liked the Paradise Tree. Miss Vestler was kind: she gave her money, clothes, as well as a Book of Hours.'

'Did she now?' Whittock purred. 'My lord, a mat­ter we will return to in the very near future. Mistress Isobel, in those letters, your sister told you how she had met Bartholomew Menster, a clerk of the Tower, that he was sweet on her but Mistress Vestler did not like it?'

'Indeed, on one occasion, Master Bartholomew had sharp words with her.'

'Over what?' Whittock persisted.

'According to the letter, Mistress Vestler had snapped: "I wish you'd leave the matter alone. You have my thoughts on it." '

'And you think Mistress Vestler was talking about your sister?'

'Yes, sir, and Margot did as well.'

'Did Bartholomew propose to your sister?'

'Yes, sir, he did. Margot had high hopes that they would exchange vows at the church door.'

'Did your sister talk about anything else?'

'Oh yes, sir.' Isobel paused and dabbed at her eyes with the cuff of her brown smock.

Athelstan could see Isobel had been well prepared for this. She was undoubtedly telling the truth but Whittock's questions were extracting this piece by piece so the jury could follow and understand the way he was leading.

'Tell us,' Whittock said softly.

'My sister wrote that Master Bartholomew had high hopes of tracing certain lost treasures.'

Her words created murmurs in the court. Sir Henry tapped his knee excitedly.

'My lord.' Whittock walked back to the foot of the steps and glanced up at the justices. 'There seems to be good evidence that Gundulf, Bishop of Rochester, who built the Tower, may have buried his treasure somewhere in the grounds of the Paradise Tree.'

'And have you looked for this treasure?' Sir Henry asked.

'My lord, I have conducted a careful search of the gardens and cellars.' Whittock smiled. 'That's how we found the casks of wine which had not passed through customs.'

'My lord.' Hengan sprang to his feet. 'Is this rel­evant? Is Mistress Vestler being accused of seizing treasure trove and hiding it from the Crown? She is on trial for murder, not for petty treason!'

Sir Henry pursed his lips. 'True, true, Master Hen­gan. Master Whittock, this questioning?'

'My lord, my lord.' Whittock spread his hands. 'I simply wish to demonstrate to the court that Mistress Vestler may have had a number of grudges against Master Bartholomew. Not only young Margot but the possible whereabouts of this treasure.' He bowed. 'However, if it's your wish, I shall let the matter rest.' Whittock turned back to the witness. 'Your sister, how long did she serve at the Paradise Tree?'

'About three years.'

'And she spent her money well on clothes, gowns, robes?'

'Yes, she told me she kept careful accounts at the back of her Book of Hours.'

'Ah yes, yes.' Whittock rubbed his chin and tapped the end of his pointed nose. 'Would you say that your sister was a sober young woman, industrious, of sharp wit?'

'Of course!'

'She was not the sort,' Whittock said, then paused, 'to elope in the dead of night, leaving all her posses­sions behind her?'

'No, sir, she would not.'

'But, that is the story Mistress Vestler gave you when you made enquiries at the Paradise Tree?' 'It was.'

'And then you went there yourself?'

'At the end of July, I stayed three days.'

'And you were shown Margot's chamber?'

'A garret, sir, at the top of the house. It was stripped bare.'

'And your sister's possessions?'

'Mistress Vestler said that's how it had been left. Nothing of what remained could be sold or kept so she had burned it.'

'And what did you think of that?'

'At the time I thought it strange but, perhaps, Margot had taken her possessions with her. Now …' Her voice faltered. 'I cannot understand why Mistress Vestler burned everything.'

'No, no,' Whittock replied, 'and, to tell you the truth, mistress, neither can I.'

Whittock finished with a flourish and Hengan went to the bar where he stared across at Isobel Haden.

'You are on oath, madam.'

'I know I am.'

'And have you told the truth?' 'As God is my witness.'

'But, at the time, you really did think your sister had eloped with Master Menster?' 'Yes, sir, I did.'

'And, when you went to the Paradise Tree, you believed Mistress Vestler?'

'Of course. She seemed a kindly woman. Margot had talked highly of her.'

'And now?'

The young woman became confused. 'She said my sister had eloped but she hadn't. All the time, her corpse lay beneath that oak tree.' Her voice trembled.

'Do you find it hard to accept that Mistress Vestler would do your sister such mortal injury?' 'Yes …'

'Remember, you are on oath!'

'Yes, yes, sir, I do. But why should she burn my poor sister's possessions?'

Hengan thanked the young woman. Her departure was followed by hushed conversation, both among the jury and the spectators.

'I can't understand this,' Athelstan whispered. 'Whittock's had only a few days yet he's ferreted out one thing after another.'

'He is good,' Sir John replied. 'They intend Kathryn to hang and the Crown will put the Paradise Tree under the most careful scrutiny.'

Athelstan glanced up as the clerk called the next witness, a thin, spindle-shanked fellow, his greasy hair tied at the back by a red ribbon. He wore a soiled leather jacket, darned hose and scuffed boots. A chapman or tinker, Athelstan thought: he was proved correct when Matthew Biddlecombe, chap­man and trader, took the oath.

'Now, sir,' Whittock began. 'On the twenty-fifth of June last I was travelling to Canterbury to pray before the shrine of blessed Thomas a Becket.' He pointed to Hengan. 'My learned colleague over there was also on pilgrimage. Sir Henry Brabazon, our noble judge, was holding Commissions of the Peace in Middlesex. Mistress Vestler was in the Paradise Tree. So, sir, where were you?'

The chapman shuffled his feet.

'She's very kind,' he muttered.

'Where were you?' Whittock almost shouted.

'I travel the city, sir.' Biddlecombe looked up at the chief justice. 'From Clerkenwell down to Westmin­ster. I sell ribbons and laces, needles, gew-gaws …'

'And very good ones too, I'm sure,' Sir Henry broke in sardonically. 'Pray, Master Matthew, do continue.'

'I do not earn enough to hire a chamber,' the fellow declared. 'But Mistress Vestler lets me sleep in one of her outhouses. She gives me ale and cold pie …'

'Yes, yes, quite,' Whittock intervened. 'Your belly, sir, does not concern us: your words do.' He sniffed noisily. 'I was talking about Midsummer's Day ear­lier this year. You are on oath, sir; for perjury you can be pressed.'

'I, I know,' Biddlecombe stammered, refusing to glance at Mistress Vestler. 'I arrived at the Paradise Tree on Midsummer's Eve. I intended to stay three days. On the Holy Day itself I went to the fair held outside the Tower.'

'And the day after?'

'I went to London Bridge and returned late. I fell asleep in the outhouse. It was a beautiful night. I woke because I felt strange. The tavern was quiet, then I heard a sound in the yard. When I opened the door and peered out, Mistress Vestler was there.'

'And what was she doing?' Whittock asked quietly.

'She had a mattock, hoe and spade in a small barrow. I remember seeing her clearly; she had taken her shoes off and was wearing a pair of boots.'

'And what time was that, sir?'

'I don't know. Darkness had fallen though the night sky was clear.'

'So,' Whittock insisted. 'Was she going somewhere or coming back?'

'Oh, coming back. She put the mattock and the other implements up against one of the doors, wheeled the barrow away and went into the scullery.'

'You must have thought it was strange? I mean, why should a tavern-keeper, so prosperous and with so many servants, be gardening or digging at such a late hour? That's what you thought, wasn't it, Master Biddlecombe?'

'Yes, sir.'

'And what else?' Whittock leaned back like a reproving schoolmaster.

'Well, sir, she was quiet, as if she didn't want anyone to see or hear what she was doing.'

'I am sure she did not.' Master Whittock spread his hands and looked at Hengan.

Hengan didn't bother to rise from his stool.

'Master Biddlecombe, how did you know it was Mistress Vestler?'

'She held a lantern horn.'

'Thank you.' Hengan rubbed his face in his hands, a despairing gesture.

Whittock, however, had not finished. A tree-feller was called; he took the oath glibly and loudly pro­claimed that, on the morning of the 27th of June, Mistress Vestler had hired him to go out and lop the branches on the oak tree in Black Meadow.

'That was early, wasn't it?' Whittock asked.

'Yes, sir. Pruning of trees is not usually done till autumn and, to be honest, I really couldn't see why she wanted to cut such a great tree. I mean, it stands by itself in Black Meadow.'

'What's the relevance of this?' Hengan rose, his face suffused with anger.

Sir Henry chose to overlook his discourtesy.

'Master Whittock?' he asked.

'Why, my lord, the relevance is quite clear. The corpses of the two victims were found beneath the oak tree. If you have a labourer moving around cutting branches, the grass and soil are disturbed, branches and twigs fall down.'

'In other words,' Sir Henry observed, 'Mistress Vestler didn't want the oak tree pruned but rather the ground which covered the graves to be disguised.'

Whittock bowed. 'My lord, you are, as ever, most perceptive.'

Whittock's last witness caused a stir. Athelstan didn't recognise the name, Walter Trumpington, until First Gospel came striding out of the chamber and across to take the oath. He had the sense not to play his games here, but took the oath, gave his name and claimed he belonged to an order called the Four Gospels who had the use of a small plot of land in Black Meadow.

'You recall the morning of the twenty-sixth of June last?' Whittock demanded.

'Yes.'

'Why?'

'Mistress Vestler came down to see us. She asked if, the previous day, we had seen anyone we knew in Black Meadow.'

'And had you?'

'No, sir, we had not.'

'Did Mistress Vestler often make such a request of you?'

First Gospel, careful not to look at Mistress Vestler, shook his head.

'She was good and kind to us but I thought it was strange at the time.'

Hengan rose to question but First Gospel would not be shaken: he and his community remembered the incident quite clearly.

Brabazon then called Kathryn Vestler to the stand.

Hengan made careful play of her pious works, her good reputation and character but he could elicit nothing to shake the testimony of so many witnesses. Whittock closed like a weasel would on a rabbit, biting and tearing. Once again Mistress Vestler refused to discuss Gundulf's treasure or the allegation of smuggling. She confessed to burning Margot Haden's clothing and property. She admitted to hiring the woodcutter and, when confronted with the chap­man's testimony, did not even bother to make an excuse.

'What I do on my own property and when I do it,' she declared defiantly, 'is my own concern!'

Nor did she deny approaching First Gospel and asking the question.

Athelstan didn't really listen to the interrogation. He studied Mistress Vestler closely. She stood resolute and pale-faced, drained of all bonhomie. Athelstan recognised that logic, every item of evi­dence, spoke against her yet there was something dreadfully wrong. He sensed she was lying, but why?

The clerks gathered to ask Chief Justice Brabazon whether there would be a recess but he waved his sprig of rosemary: he had scented blood, the hunt would continue until the quarry was brought down. Whittock summarised the evidence. Hengan fol­lowed with an impassioned and eloquent plea on behalf of his client but his desperation was apparent. At one time he even hinted that, if Mistress Vestler produced Gundulf's treasure, the Crown might con­sider a pardon for all past offences. Sir Henry chose to ignore this. He conferred with his fellow justices then gave a pithy but damning summation of the case against Mistress Vestler. An hour candle was lit. The jury withdrew but the candle was scarcely burn­ing before the foreman came back and announced that they had reached their verdict. The jury filed back into their pews. The clerk reread the indict­ment and tolled a hand bell.

'Members of the jury!' he intoned. 'Look upon the prisoner. Do you find her guilty or not guilty as charged?'

'Guilty with no recommendation for mercy!' came the foreman's stark reply.

Kathryn Vestler swayed a little. Hengan hid his face in his hands. Sir John was wiping at his eyes but Athelstan, hands clasped, watched the piece of black silk being placed over Chief Justice Brabazon's skullcap.

'Kathryn Vestler,' he began. 'You have been found guilty of the hideous crime alleged against you. A jury of your peers has decided that you, maliciously and heinously, murdered Bartholomew Menster and Margot Haden. You claim you are a woman of good repute. The court does not believe this. We know of no reason why you should not suffer the full rigours of the law.' He paused. 'Kathryn Vestler, it is the sentence of this court that you be taken to the place from whence you came and confined in chains. On Monday next, at the hour before noon, you shall be taken to the lawful place of execution at Smithfield and hanged by your neck until dead, your corpse interred in the common grave. May the Lord,' Sir Henry concluded, 'have mercy on your soul! Bailiffs, take her down! Members of the jury, you are thanked and discharged!'

Kathryn Vestler was immediately hustled away. Athelstan heard the cat-calls and cries from outside as she was led to the execution cart. Sir Henry and all the retinue of the court formally processed out. Sir John sat, legs apart, hands on his knees, staring down at the floor.

'I am sorry, Stephen,' he muttered as if his dead friend could hear him. 'I am sorry but I could do no more.'

Hengan still sat on the lawyer's stool, pale-faced and sweating.

'Come on man!' Sir John called over. 'This is no time and place for tears!'

They left the Guildhall by a side entrance. A quack doctor came running up, offering a sure remedy for rotting of the gums.

'It's a distillation of sage water.'

But he saw the look on the coroner's face and, grasping his tray, scuttled away.

Sir John marched up Cheapside, Athelstan walking beside Hengan. Now and again he glanced sideways;

the lawyer looked truly stricken, lips moving word­lessly, dabbing at his sweaty face with a rag. He seemed unaware of the crowds, of the gentlemen and their ladies, the apprentices screaming for custom, the criers shouting for every household to keep a vat of water near the doorway in case of fire.

Sir John, also, was in no mood for distractions. Leif the beggarman came hopping over but Sir John raised a clenched fist and the beggarman hobbled away as if he, too, knew this was not the time for his importu­nate pleas.

Once inside the Holy Lamb of God Sir John sat down on the window seat and crossly demanded a meat pie and three blackjacks of ale. Athelstan found his throat and mouth dry. He could not believe what had happened. He leaned over and grasped Hengan's hand, which was cold as ice.

'You did your best, Master Ralph.'

'I wish I could do more,' the lawyer grated. 'I tell you this, Brother, I am Mistress Vestler's executor. Once I have refreshed myself, I am going to the Paradise Tree to search it from top to bottom. I'll find Gundulf's gold for you, Sir Jack, for old friendship's sake.'

'If you find it,' Sir John replied, lowering the blackjack, 'I'll seek an immediate audience with my Lord of Gaunt. I'll do that anyway. A stay of execu­tion, a pardon? Who knows, they may even agree to Kathryn being hanged by the purse and leave it at that.'

'But you don't think so, do you?' Athelstan asked. Sir John shook his head. 'The murder was malice aforethought. Mistress Vestler refused to plead

guilty, while Bartholomew was a royal clerk. The Crown will not listen to pleas of mitigation.'

'How did Whittock know all that?' Athelstan asked.

Hengan was staring into his tankard. 'Ralph?'

'I'm sorry. I was thinking how the Crown must be pleased that Brokestreet is dead. After all, she was a condemned felon who killed a man with a firkin opener. Rumour will now place her death at Mistress Vestler's door. The gossips will argue that it was in her interests for Mistress Brokestreet to be killed; Kathryn had relationships with outlaws or smugglers and they did the bloody deed. I am sorry, Brother, I am confused. What I am really saying is any real plea for pardon will be turned down; Mistress Vestler will be regarded as a murderess on many counts. I must find that treasure.' He paused. 'Thesaurus in ecclesia prope turrem: I wonder what that means?' He smiled at Athelstan. 'I'm sorry, Brother, you asked a question?'

'How did Master Whittock know to call all those witnesses?'

'Oh, quite easy,' Sir John said. 'I've been thinking of that myself. The accounts books, eh Master Ralph?'

The lawyer nodded. 'The accounts books, Sir Jack, have a great deal to answer for. They'll show all the monies spent by Kathryn Vestler on Margot Haden, including pennies given to chapmen to deliver mes­sages to her sister. The same will be true of the tree pruner and Master Biddlecombe. Whittock's clerks searched all these out.' He finished his tankard and got to his feet. 'Sir Jack, Brother Athelstan, today is Thursday: in three days' time Mistress Vestler hangs. I will see what I can do.'

Athelstan watched him go then became distracted by a beggarman who brought in a weasel for sale. Sir John threw the fellow a coin and told him to go away.

'There's little we can do, is there, Brother?'

'Sir Jack.' Athelstan got to his feet. 'You can pray and we can think.'

And, giving the most absentminded of farewells, Athelstan left. Sir John was so bemused, he had to call for a further blackjack of ale to clear his wits.

Meanwhile the little friar trudged down Cheapside. As he went he pulled his cowl over his head, pushing his hands up his sleeves.

'Isn't it strange?' he asked himself. 'Sir Jack and I.' He paused. Yes, that's why he was confused! He and the coroner hunted murderers down, sent assassins to their just deserts. Now he was desperately trying to free one.

Athelstan crossed London Bridge. He stopped half­way and went into the chapel of St Thomas a Becket where he sat in the cool darkness staring up at the sanctuary lamp. He found it hard to pray. His mind was all a-jumble: scenes from the court, the wit­nesses being called, raising their hands; Whittock's persistent questions; Brabazon's smile; the lowering looks of the jury men; Mistress Vestler standing poised but defiant. Athelstan crossed himself and left.

When he reached St Erconwald's the churchyard was empty but the door was open so Athelstan slipped inside. Huddle the painter was sitting dream­ily on a stool. This self-appointed artist of the parish was determined, given Brother Athelstan's patron­age, to cover every bare expanse of wall in the church.

'What's on your mind, Huddle?'

'The marriage feast at Cana. I have Eleanor and Oswald. Joscelyn can be the wine-taster. Benedicta can be Our Lady, Sir Jack would be one of the guests. Just think of it, Brother.'

'And what will Pike the ditcher's wife be?'

'Why, she will be Herod's wife.'

'Herod's wife didn't attend the marriage feast at Cana.'

'How do we know, Brother?'

Athelstan patted him on the shoulder.

'You have the key to the church?'

'Benedicta left it with me. She gave me a pot of the rabbit stew she made for you. It's in the kitchen. I also took some of the ale.'

'We are a truly sharing community,' Athelstan remarked.

He went and checked on Philomel. The horse lay so silently Athelstan wondered if it had died but it was only sleeping. In the cemetery Godbless was lying on one of the tombstones sunning himself, Thaddeus quietly cropping the grass beside him.

Athelstan tiptoed back. He found the house in order. Bonaventure was out and Athelstan sat in his chair next to the empty grate. Something troubled him. Something he had seen and heard this morn­ing, but he kept it to one side. He recalled Master Whittock's questions, the line of witnesses he had summoned. Athelstan searched out the old accounts book. He sat at the table and leafed through the pages. Yes, it all made sense. Mistress Vestler was a good householder. She and her husband had kept meticulous accounts. Items purchased; guests who had called; alms given to beggars. He noticed the name of Biddlecombe the chapman, a regular visitor, often given a fresh bed of straw in the outhouse. Athelstan's eyes grew heavy and he was about to turn the page when one entry, a purchase by Kathryn's husband, caught his eye.

Chapter 14

Athelstan went through the ledger very carefully noting that there were other entries beside the two he had already discovered. He secretly admired their detail. No wonder the serjeant-at-law had been able to present such a compelling case. The suspicions which had nagged his mind now grew and took shape. Athelstan sadly reflected on the power of love: the damage, as well as the good, it could do. Time and again he went through the journal, only wishing he had the others to inspect. As the evening drew on Bonaventure came back and pestered him for food and milk.

'You are a riffler. Do you know that?' Athelstan lectured him. 'You prowl the alleyways and you come back in a bad temper.' He got to his feet. 'Bad-tempered cats, Bonaventure, will never enter the kingdom of heaven. If you are not a Jesus cat what hope is there for you?'

Bonaventure just rubbed himself against the friar's legs, arching his back, persisting in his demands until Athelstan fetched him a dish of milk. Huddle brought the key across and Athelstan went out to check that all was well. He was too tired to study the stars but retired early and fell asleep thinking about Kathryn Vestler manacled in the condemned cell and said a quick prayer for her.

The next morning Athelstan surprised Crim by taking out the special red vestments reserved for the feast of Pentecost: a beautiful chasuble with gold and silver crosses sewn on the back and front.

'We need God's help,' he told the heavy-eyed altar boy. 'I doubt if many of my parishioners are here this morning. It will take some time for the effects of all that revelry to wear off.'

Athelstan celebrated his Mass, praying that God would make him as innocent as a dove and as cunning as a serpent.

'Because, Lord,' he concluded, 'today justice must be done.'

Athelstan finished his Mass, hastily broke his fast then locked up the house and church. He hurried through the streets down to the riverside. Although he passed the occasional parishioner he kept his eyes lowered, unwilling to be distracted or drawn into conversation. The river mist still hung heavy but a taciturn Moleskin soon rowed him across the other side. The fish market was preparing to open as Athelstan landed on the quayside and hastened up through Petty Wales to the Paradise Tree.

The ale-master came out to meet him; he looked rather sheepish and rubbed his hands.

'I am sorry, Brother,' he mumbled as he led the friar into the taproom still not yet cleaned from the previous evening. 'But I had no choice. Master Whittock was most insistent.'

Athelstan took a seat near the window and looked out across the garden, savouring the early morning freshness. Sparrows squabbled in the trees; house martins dived and swooped over the flower beds, still covered with a crystal-white morning frost. Then he turned to the ale-master.

'Please bring me a cup of watered wine and some bread and cheese.'

The man hurried away. Now and again servants popped their heads round the door of the kitchen to study this little friar who had become so immersed in their mistress's affairs. Athelstan hoped Sir John would not be late. Before he had celebrated Mass, he'd despatched Godbless with an urgent message for the coroner to meet him here.

'The tavern will be closed on Monday,' the ale-master mournfully informed him. 'And what will happen then, eh, Brother?'

'I don't know. Was Master Hengan here yesterday?'

'Oh yes, sir, conducting the most scrupulous of searches.'

Athelstan thanked him and turned away. He heard a dog bark and Sir John's bell-like voice.

'For the love of God, Henry, keep that bloody dog away from me!'

Sir John, followed by Flaxwith and the ever-slavering Samson, walked into the taproom. The coroner clapped his hands and beamed around, but Athelstan could see he was pretending: he looked heavy-eyed, haggard-faced. He had not even bothered to change his shirt or doublet. He slumped down on the stool opposite Athelstan and threw his beaver hat on to the table.

'I don't know about you, Brother, but I will not be in London on Monday. Flaxwith!' He turned to his ever-patient chief bailiff. 'Join the rest and take Samson with you!'

'No, Henry.' Athelstan beckoned him over. 'I want you to do more than that. Take your lovely dog for a walk through Black Meadow. Tell the Four Gospels, those strange creatures who dwell in the cottage down near the river, that the lord coroner and Brother Athelstan wish words with them beneath the oak tree.'

Flaxwith went out. Sir John looked narrow-eyed at his companion.

'What's this, Brother?'

'Just drink your ale,' Athelstan replied.

The coroner obeyed but his impatience was apparent.

'Right!' Athelstan got to his feet. 'Come on, Sir John! I've got a few surprises for you.'

The garden was beautiful. Athelstan passed the sundial and noticed how its bronze face glittered in the early morning sunlight.

'First things first,' he whispered.

Cranston stopped at the lych gate leading to Black Meadow.

'What's this all about, Brother?'

'Walter Trumpington.'

Cranston furrowed his brow.

'Walter Trumpington,' Athelstan repeated. 'Doesn't the name ring a bell?'

'Well, yes, it does, that rogue, the First Gospel.' 'And Kathryn Vestler?' 'What about her, Brother?' 'What's her maiden name?'

'Oh, I don't know. She came from a village outside Cambridge. She and Stephen were married years …' Sir John's jaw sagged. 'It's not Trumpington, is it?'

'Yes, Sir John, it is. Our First Gospel, I suspect, is Kathryn's younger brother.'

'But she never said!'

'No one ever asked her. He's no more waiting the return of St Michael and his angels than Flaxwith's dog. Come on, Sir John, let me prove it!'

The Four Gospels were gathered beneath the out­stretched branches of the oak tree. There were the usual greetings and mumblings of apology.

'We had no choice,' First Gospel wailed. 'Master Whittock was most insistent.'

'Let me see one of those medals,' Athelstan demanded. 'You offered me one when I first met you.'

The fellow took one from his wallet. 'It's specially blessed …'

'Oh, shut up!' Athelstan went up and stared into the man's face. 'Do you know something, Walter Trumpington? I've yet to meet one of your kind who's got a spark of religion in him.'

First Gospel looked both hurt and puzzled.

'Are you going to act for me now? Why didn't you tell the court? Why didn't you tell me or Master Whittock that you are Kathryn Vestler's younger brother? I found an entry in the accounts book from years ago. You've tried everything, haven't you,

Walter? Chapman, tinker, mountebank, soldier? But, when times are hard, it's always back to sister Kathryn for help. She's soft-hearted, isn't she? Now, you can stand here with your three sisters and act the innocent. So I'll tell you the truth. You are a pimp, Walter, and these three ladies are whores.'

'How dare you!' one of them screeched.

'Shut up!' Sir John growled. He was as surprised as any of them but was enjoying Athelstan's fiery tem­per. 'If any of you make another sound,' the coroner continued, pointing across to where Flaxwith was walking up and down, Samson trotting behind him, 'I'll order my bailiff across here: he'll put you across his knee and whip your buttocks! Now, sir.' He poked First Gospel in the chest. 'Either you answer my secretarius' questions or I'll have you driven from the city!'

'Now, I don't know how you did it, how you persuaded her,' Athelstan continued, 'but Walter Trumpington decided to return to the Paradise Tree when he learned that Stephen Vestler was dead. When he was alive, the taverner kept some control over his wife's generosity to her wayward brother but, once he was gone, back you came. She's a lovely woman, isn't she, Walter?'

Athelstan paused and looked up at the tree where a blackbird had begun to sing.

'She loves you completely, doesn't she? You are the family rascal. I wager you could act the prodigal son or, in this case, the prodigal brother. In truth you are a cunning man. Anyway, Kathryn gives you a cottage on the edge of Black Meadow. You pretend to be one of our latter-day prophets. However, you are involved in quite a lucrative business: buying smuggled wine from ships, then selling it on to the likes of Kathryn, who can refuse you nothing. I wonder how much gold and silver you have hidden beneath the floor of that cottage?'

'May I sit down?' Walter's face became pleading. 'I don't feel very well, Brother.'

'Of course!'

First Gospel and his three sisters slumped to their knees. Athelstan crouched down to face them.

'In fact it was a subtle, clever ploy,' he went on. 'On one side of your cottage snakes a river where roguery thrives like weeds in rich soil. On the other side stands a deserted meadow and a prosperous tavern owned by a loving sister. No wonder you lit a fire every night - smugglers must have a beacon light to draw them in.'

'I told you about those,' First Gospel mumbled.

'Rubbish! There were no barges full of shadowy, cowled men, that was to distract us. When I and Sir Jack, coroner of the city, arrived in Black Meadow surrounded by bailiffs, you must have had the fright of your life. But that's not all you are involved in, is it, sir? The King's warships, the wool cogs and wine barges throng the Thames. Sailors are sometimes not given shore leave: so, what better for sailors, starved of female kind, than to drop the ship's bum-boat and sail up river for a tryst with one of our ladies here? And what a place to make love, particularly in summertime, along the hedges of Black Meadow? No wonder the fisher of men heard strange sounds and cries at night.'

'Do you know the sentence?' Sir John asked. 'For keeping a brothel? You can be whipped at the tail of a cart from one end of the city to the other.'

'And the gold?' Athelstan asked. 'Gundulf's treasure?'

'Oh no.' First Gospel waved his hand. 'Mistress Vestler was very firm on that: I was not to enter the tavern. Kathryn can be a strict woman. She gave me the cottage and the use of the land provided I left her and her tavern alone.'

'Is that why you did business with Master Whittock?' Athelstan asked. 'Do you have a soul? Do you have a heart? Do you realise your sister could hang? Is that why you decided to flatter the King's lawyer? To keep your place here?'

'I'm a villain!' First Gospel's face turned ugly. 'And true, Brother, I have wandered the face of the earth.' He paused. 'How did you know about the ladies?'

'Oh, something the fisher of men said. You've seen him combing the river for corpses, as well as some­one else.' Athelstan smiled. 'Dead men do tell tales. Do you remember a strange character called the preacher? Tall, black hair, face burned by the sun?'

'He may have come here.'

'He took one of your cheap little medals depicting St Michael. He hired some poor whore in Southwark and got both himself and her killed. The medal was found on his corpse. However, we were talking about your sister: you gave that information to Whittock?'

First Gospel ran his tongue round his sharp, white teeth, reminding Athelstan of a hungry dog.

'He came down here.' One of the women spoke up. 'He asked if we had seen anything untoward.'

'But what you told him,' Sir John persisted, 'was not the truth.'

'No, my lord coroner, it wasn't,' First Gospel snarled, getting to his feet, standing legs apart.

He paused and looked across the field. Flaxwith had now sat down near the hedge, one arm round his beloved mastiff.

'The lawyer came down here. He asked questions. I could see he would stay until he got an answer. I told him the truth, or at least half of it. Kathryn did come down here on the morning of the twenty-sixth. She asked if I had seen anyone I knew in Black Meadow. I replied I hadn't.'

'You said it was half the truth?'

'Well, the night before, my girls were busy down behind the hedgerow. It was a balmy, soft night. I thought I would walk.' He shot a glance at Athelstan. 'I didn't tell Whittock this. I saw lantern-light, just a pinprick, so I crept up the hill.'

'And what did you see?'

'My beloved sister Kathryn. She was digging. Or rather she was finishing what she had dug. She was piling in the earth.'

'And weren't you curious?'

'Brother, I survive by keeping my nose out of other people's business. Yes, I wondered what she could be burying at the dead of night. I was tempted to search there myself.'

'You did, didn't you?' Athelstan asked. 'Don't tell lies!'

'Yes, Brother, I did, a few days later. I came across a stinking corpse so I pushed the earth back and left it alone.'

Athelstan looked at the horror-stricken coroner.

'So you see, if I wished to do my sister real damage, I could have taken the oath and told them that.'

'And you never approached your sister?'

'I've already answered that, Brother. Kathryn is kind. She showed me great charity. If I had my way I'd have dug the corpses up and slung them in the river. Anyway, I've smuggled a little wine and allowed my girls to pleasure some sailors. What are you going to do, my lord coroner, arrest me?'

'No, sir, I'm not.' Sir John turned away. 'Today is Friday. I shall return on Tuesday. And you must be gone.'

'There will be no trouble,' Athelstan added, as he undid his pouch and pulled out a piece of parch­ment. 'Provided you answer one question.' The friar felt a tingle of excitement as he approached the main reason for this meeting. 'When you were on oath, Master Whittock asked you about your sister's question on the morning of the twenty-sixth of June last?'

'Did I see anyone I knew here in Black Meadow?'

'Look at that list,' Athelstan said. 'You are lettered?'

'Of course, Brother.' The First Gospel grinned. 'Father always said schooling was the beginning of my downfall.'

'This is a list of names of all those who use the Paradise Tree. Which of them do you recognise?'

First Gospel studied the list carefully. Athelstan winked at Sir John. He had drawn up the names this morning in bald, round letters.

'This one,' First Gospel said, jabbing his finger.

'And, of course, this one and this one, but those two are dead.'

'Anyone else?' Athelstan asked. 'Anyone I have missed out?'

First Gospel shook his head and handed the piece of parchment back.

'Is there anything else, Brother?'

'No, sir, there isn't.' The friar turned. 'Angels might not come on time,' he declared, 'but, some­times, God does work in wondrous ways. Master Trumpington, ladies, I will not trouble you again.'

Athelstan, followed by a bemused Sir John, walked back to the Paradise Tree.

They sat in the garden and were joined by Flaxwith. Cranston hurriedly brought the mastiff a large, cooked sausage from the kitchen. The dog seized it, grinning evilly at his benefactor.

'Just keep him away, Henry!'

A sullen tapster brought tankards of ale.

'Master Flaxwith,' Athelstan said. 'When you have finished your ale, I would be grateful if you would go for Master Ralph Hengan. You know where he lives?'

Flaxwith nodded.

'Bring him here. Tell him we'll meet him under the great oak tree in Black Meadow.' 'And if he's busy?'

'Oh, he'll come. Tell him we have found Gundulf's treasure.'

Flaxwith choked on his ale. Cranston nearly dropped his blackjack; even Samson stopped chewing the sausage.

'Brother, are you witless?'

'No, Sir John, I am not. The treasure is not very far from us. Master Flaxwith, I beg you to go.'

Flaxwith finished his ale and hurried off, Samson loping behind him.

'Where's the treasure, Brother?' Sir John whispered.

'Here in the garden.'

'Friar, don't play games. If we find the treasure, God knows we could turn Gaunt's mind to mercy'

'Oh, I'll do more than that, Sir John. Now, do you remember when we went to the Tower?' Athelstan asked. 'We do know Bartholomew read manuscripts we never saw. However, there was an entry in that chronicle about the treasure glowing like the sun. What was it now? "In ecclesia prope turrem"?'

'That's right. Which we translated as "in the chapel or church near the tower": the site of the Paradise Tree.'

'I don't think so.' Athelstan smiled. 'You see, Sir John, Gundulf was a bishop. He held the See of Rochester. I read a book at Blackfriars. His real interest wasn't theology but mathematics: he loved buildings and measurements. He was fascinated by anything which could calculate, weight or measure. Because he was William the Conqueror's favourite stone mason, Gundulf also amassed a treasure. Before his death he had it all smelted down, fash­ioned into one great block.'

'Yes, yes, we all know that,' Sir John interrupted.

'He was a churchman,' Athelstan continued. 'And, before he died, he used his status to hide the treasure away.'

'Where?' Sir John almost bawled. 'Why, Sir John, he had it smelted down and then covered with a brass face.'

'What?'

Athelstan pointed to the sundial. 'I think it's in there.'

Sir John stared open-mouthed at the sundial. The stone pillar which held it was covered in lichen and chipped. It reminded him of a long-stemmed chalice with the cup holding the sundial at the top. The coroner went across and tapped it with his finger.

'But it's only a sundial, Brother. Look, it has an arm.' He peered down. 'And it's divided into Roman numerals.'

Athelstan joined the coroner.

'When Gundulf talked of his treasure being in "ecclesia prope turrem" we thought he was referring to the Paradise Tree but he wasn't, Sir John. You see, since his day, the Tower has been extended and strengthened. However, when Gundulf built the great keep, that was his "turris". The church he was referring to …'

'Of course!' Sir John exclaimed. 'St Peter ad Vincula! The little chapel in the Tower grounds which stands next to the keep.'

'That,' Athelstan agreed, 'is what Gundulf was referring to. He had his treasure melted down, cov­ered with a brass sundial and placed in the stone pillar outside the chapel of St Peter ad Vincula. The years passed. People found references to the treasure being hidden but they forgot that, in Gundulf's day, the word "tower" referred to the keep, not to the walls and fortifications we know now.'

'So how did you know it was here?'

He placed his hands around the edge of the sundial and tried to move it but couldn't.

'It was in that accounts book. Do you remember, Sir John, when we first came here? Someone told us how Stephen Vestler loved curiosities? How he'd brought shields and swords from the Tower to hang on the wall.'

'Yes!' Sir John breathed. 'And Stephen had a love of ancient things.'

'Apparently, Sir John, Stephen Vestler bought the sundial from the new Constable of the Tower. There's a reference to a cart being hired, labourers being paid for this sundial to be brought here.'

'Satan's tits!'

'And when I was in the Tower last week,' Athelstan continued, 'I could see that the small churchyard outside the Tower had been refurbished. Some of the old tombstones had disappeared. When I read that entry, I began to think.' Athelstan sighed. 'Ah well, Sir John, you are coroner, an official of the city. This tavern will soon be in the hands of the Crown.'

Sir John took his dagger out and tried to slide it between the rim dividing the sundial from the grey-stone which held it.

'I doubt if you can move it,' Athelstan said.

The coroner went back to the Paradise Tree and returned carrying a heavy hammer. The ale-master came out protesting.

'Oh, shut up!' Sir John bellowed. 'And stand well

He threw his cloak over his shoulder and began to smash the stone cup which held the sundial. At first all he raised were small chips of flying stone. Time and again he brought the hammer down. The stone split, crashed and rolled on to the grass. Even before the dust cleared Athelstan knew he was correct. The stone cup had broken; on the grass, covered in a grey film of dirt, was a circle of glowing yellow about a foot across and at least nine inches thick. It lay like the cup of a chalice without the stem, beside the thin bronze face of the old sundial. Sir John and Athelstan crouched down, the rest of the servants clustered round. Athelstan took the hem of his robe and rubbed the yellow metal until it glowed, catching the rays of the sun.

'Fulgens sicut sol!' Athelstan said. 'Glowing like the sun and hidden under the sun!'

The gold, because of the way if tapered at the end, tipped and turned. Everyone's face, including Sir John's, had a strange look, eyes fixed, mouths open.

'I've never seen so much!' the coroner said wist­fully. 'Not even the booty of war piled high on a cart.'

'As the preacher says,' Athelstan remarked, 'the love of wealth is the root of all evil. This was Gundulf's secret as well as his little joke. He was dying, probably a sickly man, and he thought he'd used his treasure for something useful. So he left the riddle for those who wished to search for it. Time passed and people made mistakes.' Athelstan tapped the gold with his finger. 'This has been the cause of all our troubles. Sir John, you'd best tell people here to keep a still tongue.'

Sir John got to his feet and drew his sword.

'This is the King's treasure!' he bellowed. 'To take it, to even think of stealing it, is high treason!' He pointed to the ale-master. 'You, sir, bring a barrow!'

The man didn't move, his eyes still on the gold. Sir

John lifted his sword and pricked him under the chin.

'Bring a barrow and a piece of cloth. Brother, we are going to need a company of archers to take this to the Tower.'

'We are not taking it there, Sir John, but into Black Meadow,' Athelstan said quietly. 'Go on, man!' he ordered the ale-master. 'Do what the coroner says!'

The fellow hurried away. A short while later he returned trundling a wheelbarrow, a dirty canvas sheet folded inside it. They tried to lift the gold in but it was too difficult and slippery so the handcart was laid on its side, the gold was eased in and covered with the sheet. With the help of the ale-master Sir John trundled it out of the garden and down under the shade of the great oak tree.

'Good man.' Athelstan smiled. 'Now, fetch Sir John and me two blackjacks of ale. When Master Hengan arrives bring him here!'

The fellow obeyed. Athelstan sat with his back to the oak tree. He sipped at the ale which was brought, cool and tangy; through the trees he could make out the turrets and crenellations of the Tower.

'Where is all this leading to?'

The friar turned and glimpsed Hengan coming through the lych gate.

'To the truth, Sir John, but here is Master Ralph.'

The lawyer came over, cloak flapping, his face flushed with excitement.

'You've found the treasure!' he exclaimed.

Athelstan pulled the sheet back. Hengan slumped to his knees, like a knight before the Holy Grail. His sallow, sharp face softened, all severity gone. He stretched out his hand and touched it, caressing it like a mother would a favourite child.

'It's so beautiful,' he whispered. 'Gundulf's gold!'

He eased his leather chancery bag off his shoulder, Athelstan noticing how heavy it was, and put it on the ground. Hengan pressed his face against the gold.

'Where did you find it?'

In sharp, pithy phrases Athelstan explained how he had unlocked the secret cipher. All the time he watched the lawyer's eyes and saw the resentment flare.

'So easy,' Hengan said. 'So very, very easy' Athelstan made to cover the gold up. 'No! No!'

Sir John was staring at him curiously.

'Master Ralph, this should be taken to the Tower. Couriers should be sent to my Lord of Gaunt at the Savoy.'

'Yes, yes, quite.' Hengan was still stroking the gold. 'Was it worth it?' Athelstan asked sharply. 'Oh, yes.'

'For that,' Athelstan snapped, 'you are quite pre­pared to see Mistress Vestler hang!'

The lawyer lifted his face. 'What do you mean?'

'You know full well,' Athelstan replied. 'Here we are, Master Hengan, under the oak tree in Black Meadow. A place you know well. After all, wasn't it here that you killed Bartholomew Menster and Margot Haden?'

Hengan sat back on his heels. 'Me? I was …'

'You are an assassin,' Athelstan said quietly. 'You killed Bartholomew, Margot and that miserable unfortunate Alice Brokestreet, and you were quite prepared to see Mistress Vestler hang!'

Chapter 15

Hengan reminded Athelstan of a cat about to spring. He sat back on his heels but his body was quivering, lean face slightly turned.

'This is preposterous!' he stammered. 'A mistake!'

'Nothing of the sort,' Athelstan replied. 'Here under this oak tree I'll present the case against you. It's only fitting. After all, this is where you killed Bartholomew and Margot on a beautiful summer's evening.'

'I was in Canterbury.'

'You were no more in Canterbury than I was!'

Athelstan glanced at Sir John, who was nodding as if he understood the full case against Hengan but, later on, Athelstan would have to explain and apolo­gise. He also quietly cursed his own arrogance. He'd thought it was appropriate to confront Hengan here but, now they were moving towards the truth, Hengan had changed. It was as if seeing and touch­ing the gold had brought about a subtle shift. He seemed stronger, more resolute.

'You dreamed of this, didn't you?' Athelstan began. 'I wonder where the root of your greed lies? A lawyer who had everything. Were you born in Petty Wales, Master Ralph?'

Hengan waved a finger. 'Very good, Brother. Yes I was, in the shadow of the Tower. I know every part of that fortress, its story, its legends! As far back as I can remember, I knew about Gundulf's treasure. But it was only when I entered the Inns of Court that the dream became a reality. I began to collect manu­scripts, documents, old chronicles and histories. I came across references to gold shining like the sun, being hidden in a chapel near the Tower. I also discovered the history of the Paradise Tree.' He paused. 'All the stories about it once being the site of an old chapel or church.'

'Did you know Black Meadow had been used as the burial ground for the pestilence?' Athelstan asked.

'Oh yes, but that didn't concern me.'

'Stephen and Kathryn Vestler did, didn't they?' Athelstan asked. 'You became their friend and eventu­ally, as you intended, their family lawyer. You could visit the Paradise Tree whenever you wished. Months passed into years; you still held fast to your greed. You wouldn't discuss it with the Vestlers but used every opportunity to look around, to search, to make careful enquiries. It was very clever because now you were party to all documents, household accounts and memoranda. You could watch for anything untoward. Poor Stephen died and you became counsellor to his widow. It was only a matter of time, wasn't it?'

'You are sharp of eye, friar,' Hengan answered. 'Sharper than I thought.'

'I don't think so. I pray a lot, Master Hengan. Prayer sharpens the mind and hones the wit. Perhaps God wanted justice done and an innocent woman saved from hanging?'

Hengan pulled his chancery bag towards him.

'It's a beautiful day,' he observed, staring up at the branches. 'I always thought it would be like this, with the gold before me.'

'It's not yours,' Athelstan told him. 'Never has been and never will. You are going to hang.'

'On what evidence?' the lawyer retorted sharply. 'You attended Mistress Vestler's trial.'

'It's true what they say' Sir John spoke up. '"Cacullus non facit monachum: the cowl doesn't make the monk." You are two men aren't you, Master Ralph? The kindly lawyer, but that's only a shroud for the rottenness beneath.'

'Now, now, Sir John, are you envious of me? Do you secretly lust after Mistress Vestler's sweetness?'

Sir John would have lunged at him but Athelstan held his hand out.

'Let me speak,' he ordered. 'Everything in your garden, master lawyer, was grass and roses until Master Bartholomew Menster appeared: a studious clerk from the Tower who becomes sweet on a tavern wench at the Paradise Tree. To your horror you realise that he is a learned man with access to manuscripts and who has the same determination to discover Gundulf's treasure as yourself. Never­theless, you kept up the pretence. I wager you never talked with Bartholomew in the presence of Mistress Vestler but away, in some other place. It wouldn't have taken you long to realise how close this interfering clerk was to the truth, so you decided to kill him.'

'And Margot?' Sir John asked.

'Margot was just as dangerous,' Athelstan said. 'You heard the evidence in court. Margot was schooled and sharp-witted, determined to make a good marriage. She was prepared to hitch her fortunes to a well-paid clerk who, one day, might discover secret treasure. What did you do, Hengan? Offer to share information? Act the kindly lawyer, willing to help?'

Hengan seemed more intent on the gold than Athelstan's words.

'You pretended to go to Canterbury,' Athelstan continued. 'You left the city but made a hasty journey back up the Thames to where you could hide away in many a tavern or alehouse suitably disguised. What you did do, however, was lure Bartholomew and Margot to a meeting. You'd send no letter, nothing which could be traced; perhaps just a hushed, excited whisper that you had discovered where the gold was, how you would meet Bartholomew and Margot at a certain time here, beneath the oak tree in Black Meadow.'

'Are you sure your evidence is sound?' Hengan taunted. 'Wouldn't Bartholomew or Margot chatter?'

'Why should they?' Athelstan retorted. 'Mention gold, mention treasure and people lick their lips and narrow their eyes, their fingers itch as yours did. And why should Bartholomew and Margot distrust a respected man such as yourself? On the evening of the twenty-fifth they left the Paradise Tree and came here. You, like Satan, slid out of the shadows. In this deserted place, hooded and cowled, who'd notice you? I doubt if you stayed long. You gave them a present of wine, a token of your friendship. Perhaps you claimed you'd left a manuscript or document somewhere and away you'd go. Bartholomew and Margot are happy, joyous, in love with each other. They would be only too eager to share your flask of wine, something which could not later be traced. Cups are filled, thirsts slaked: death would have followed soon after.' Athelstan pointed across the meadow. 'Were you hiding somewhere over there? Did you come back just for a short while, as the shadows lengthened, to ensure they were truly dead? Pick up the flask of wine and any documents Bartholomew may have been carrying? You are in the countryside near the Thames. The deed done, you hurry back towards the river, hire a wherry and then continue your journey to Canterbury.' 'But I was there, friar.'

'Oh, I am sure you were. You'd travel fast and, in the confusion, who'd remember you coming and going?'

'And Mistress Vestler?' Hengan asked.

'I don't know what you planned for the future. Who would be blamed? Certainly Mistress Vestler would not escape scrutiny but then she implicated herself, didn't she? Darkness falls and Margot doesn't return. Did Bartholomew and Margot often come here? Anyway, when Mistress Vestler came looking she discovered two corpses lying beneath an oak tree in her own meadow. Did she suspect? Did she won­der? She could not hide the corpses away so she hurried back for mattock and hoe and hastily buried them here.

'The next day, to cover the disturbance, she hired a tree-cutter to come and cut the branches, cover the ground in leaves and twigs so no one would notice.'

Athelstan watched Hengan. The lawyer was lean­ing forward, clutching the chancery bag tightly. Sir John, too, was nervous, hand on the hilt of his dagger.

'Mistress Vestler's thoughts are her own,' Athelstan continued. 'But she was in a fair panic. She searched the Paradise Tree and did something rather stupid. She collected Margot's possessions and promptly burned them. Why, I don't yet know. Later, when Bartholomew's absence becomes noted, a search is made but nothing can be found. Other enquirers are turned away, forced to accept the unlikely story that Bartholomew and the tavern wench had eloped.'

'And Alice Brokestreet?' Hengan asked. 'She was the one who laid allegations against Mistress Vestler, not myself.'

'Brokestreet was a harlot at heart, with no real love for Mistress Vestler. You knew that. Anyway, master lawyer, you were committed. You'd killed two peo­ple for Gundulf's treasure. But, what if someone else took Bartholomew's place? There was only one thing to do. Mistress Vestler also had to be removed, as quickly as possible.'

'Why should I do that?' Hengan asked abruptly. 'Mistress Vestler was sweet and kind to me.'

'For two reasons,' Athelstan snapped. 'First, like all gold hunters, Hengan, you couldn't share with anyone.'

'And secondly?' Hengan asked quietly. 'There is a further reason, friar?'

'Yes there is, lawyer. On your return from Canter­bury you must have been surprised to see nothing had changed. Mistress Vestler still managed the Paradise Tree. Bartholomew and Margot had disappeared into thin air; I wager you suspected what had happened. Of course, you must have reflected on the possibility that Mistress Vestler may have entertained suspi­cions about you. In other words, Hengan, she had to be silenced. You couldn't poison her like you had Bartholomew and Margot. After all, you were one of the closest persons to her. So you'd sit and wait. News arrives that Alice Brokestreet was taken for killing a man in the Merry Pig. Did she know you, Master Hengan?'