The Field of Blood (20 page)

‘
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?

‘
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 steps.

‘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 à 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.’