Текст книги "Field of Blood"

Автор книги: Paul Harding

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

The assembled company just looked at him.

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

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

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

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

'Who were these people?' Sir John asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Sir John, we have heard the rumours.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Did you like Bartholomew?' Athelstan asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mistress Vestler bowed her head and sobbed.

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

Hengan got to his feet.

'Sir John, may I have a word?'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hengan, anxious-eyed, stared back.

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

Hengan's face creased into a smile.

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

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

'Of course!'

'Then let me speak to you privately.'

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

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

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

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

'She has no children?' Athelstan asked.

'None whatsoever, nor kith or kin.'

'But she must have a will?'

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

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

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

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

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

Athelstan looked at him sharply.

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

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

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

'Of course, Master Ralph.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

The lawyer shook his head.

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

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

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

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

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

'Sir Jack!'

He gave the surprised coroner his empty tankard.

'I shall be with you shortly.'

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

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

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

The bailiff scratched a cut on his unshaven chin.

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

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

'What's the problem, Brother?'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'And the two were thrown together?'

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

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

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

'God forbid!' Athelstan echoed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Have you seen anything untoward?'

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

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

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

Athelstan decided it was time to take another coin out of his purse.

'But the river is another matter,' First Gospel declared in a red-gummed smile.

'In what way?'

'Oh yes,' the women chorused, eager now to earn another coin.

Athelstan quietly prayed that the Lord would understand his distribution of coins taken from the corpses earlier that day.

'What happens on the river?' he asked.

'Well, we light our fire and maintain our vigil,' First Gospel declared. He leaned closer, eyes staring. 'But we've seen shapes at night, Brother: boats coming in from the river, men cowled and hooded.'

'You are not just saying that for the silver coin?'

'Brother, would we lie? Here, I'll show you.'

He sprang to his feet and led Athelstan out through the gap in the hedge, down over the old crumbling wall which overlooked the mud flats. He pointed to his right towards the Tower.

'There, you see the gallows?'

Athelstan glimpsed the high-branched gibbet. He could just make out the bound and tarred figure of a river pirate hanging from the post jutting out over the river.

'Just there, near the gibbet! Barges come in. We've glimpsed lanterns, figures, shapes moving in the night.'

'You are sure they are not soldiers, men going to the Tower?'

'No, Brother, why should they stop there? It's only mud and what are they doing?'

'How often do they come?' Athelstan asked.

First Gospel blew his cheeks out. 'About once a month. They don't mean well, Brother. If it wasn't for the glint of a lantern, we'd hardly know they were here.'

'And where do they go?'

'I watch them. But this is all I know. They go into the common lands beyond Black Meadow.' He turned, gripping Athelstan by the elbow, his eyes gleaming with expectation. 'At first we thought it might be the angels,' he whispered. 'But, surely,

Brother, they'll come with fiery lights, banners unfurled and trumpets braying?'

'I suspect they will. I thank you, sir.' Athelstan followed the First Gospel back to the rest grouped around the fire. 'I want to ask you another question.' He handed the coin over.

First Gospel took it and smiled triumphantly at his women.

'A good day's work, sisters! Proceed, Brother: your visit proves that the Lord giveth as well as taketh away'

'Or rather that Samson the dog does,' Athelstan replied. 'You are correct! Two corpses have been dug up beneath the great oak tree. We know who they are.'

First Gospel's face flinched. He blinked and licked nervously at a sore on his lip.

'You probably know,' Athelstan continued, 'the man is Bartholomew Menster, a senior clerk from the muniment rooms in the Tower. The other was a young chambermaid, Margot Haden. They were sweet on each other, that's what the gossips say. Bartholomew often visited the Paradise Tree. Around midsummer they both disappeared. You did know them, didn't you?'

Athelstan sensed a shift of mood in the group: no more fawning smiles or air of innocence. He studied their close-set faces: you may not be what I think you are, he thought. The friar now understood why the group had not been troubled as they quickly hid behind an air of surly aggressiveness.

'Brother, we travel here and there.'

'That wasn't my question.' Athelstan shifted on the log, picked up his chancery hag and placed it in his lap. 'I only seek information. It's good to do it on a sunny autumn afternoon. However, I can petition Sir John Cranston and continue my questioning at another time and in a place much less congenial.' 'There's no need to threaten.'

'I'm not threatening. I'm giving you my solemn promise. Horrendous murders have taken place. Justice must be done for Margot and Bartholomew.'

'We knew them.' One of the women spoke up, ignoring First Gospel's angry glance. 'They often came into Black Meadow and walked down towards the river, hand in hand, cheek to cheek.'

'They were pleasant people?' Athelstan asked. 'They must have stopped and talked to you?'

'Oh, they did.' First Gospel spoke up. 'Usually about the river but the clerk, Bartholomew, he was full of tales about the Tower: about its history and the gruesome deeds it had witnessed.'

'And?'

'He talked of Gundulf the Wizard.' First Gospel closed his eyes. 'That's right, the sorcerer who built the Tower for the Great Conqueror. He said that in or around the Tower …'

'Go on!' Athelstan insisted.

'Gundulf had buried a great treasure.'

Athelstan's heart quickened. 'And where was this treasure buried?'

First Gospel smiled slyly and tapped the side of his head.

'Many people think our wits wander, Brother, so they talk to us as if we were children.' 'What did he say?'

'Go on!' the woman urged. 'Tell him. It was an interesting tale.'

'Bartholomew was a scholar,' First Gospel added slowly. 'I am not sure, Brother, but sometimes I got the impression that he knew where that treasure

'Did he say as much?'

'I asked him once. He and his sweetheart, I am not too sure whether she understood. Bartholomew said: "It shines like the sun, lies under the sun, so we have to find the sun." I laughed at the riddle for the sun we see but Bartholomew shook his head and would say no more.'

'And did he give any other clue?' Athelstan asked.

'That's all he said, Brother.'

'And did they talk of Widow Vestler?'

'The clerk never did but the young woman often complained, said she was a hard task mistress though she could be kind.'

'Brother.' One of the Four Gospels had taken a crude, silver-grey medallion from her purse. 'Take this, it will provide you comfort and protection. It depicts St Michael …'

'No thank you!'

Athelstan glanced across the field. The shadows were lengthening as the sun dipped in the west. He felt weary, slightly frightened, but he didn't know why. The meadow didn't look so pleasant now. He made his farewells and walked back towards the tavern.

Chapter 5

At the end of the alleyway leading up to his parish church, Athelstan paused, closed his eyes and muttered a quick prayer. Sometimes he was a simple parish priest, more concerned with ensuring Huddle painted the gargoyle's face correctly or Bonaventure didn't drink from the holy water stoup. Or the children came on a Saturday so he could teach them divine truths and take them through the life of Christ, using the paintings on the church wall. He'd meet the parish council; now and again tempers were lost but there was also the bonhomie, the sheer comedy of parish life, truly a gift from God. Sometimes, however, in his dreams, Athelstan glimpsed murder come shuffling along this alleyway, a yellowing cadaver dressed in a red cloak and hood while behind him clustered dark shapes, carrying corpses, the bloody work of sudden death.

'You are hungry, Athelstan,' he reminded himself. 'And you are tired. Don't let the mind play tricks on the soul.'

He drew a deep breath and marched up the alleyway. Athelstan expected to see the enclosure in front of the church crowded with those three grisly cadavers laid out on a sled. He stopped in surprise. It was empty! No sled, no corpses! No one, except Benedicta sitting on the steps, Bonaventure beside her. The widow woman had taken off her veil and her hair, black as a raven's wing, fell uncombed down to her shoulders. She was talking to Bonaventure, sharing a piece of cheese with him.

'A true mercenary' Athelstan said to himself. He stood in the shadows and watched this beautiful woman with her perfect face and those kindly eyes, always full of merriment. Athelstan never knew whether he loved Benedicta or not. He'd admitted to this attraction in confession.

'You do love her,' Prior Anselm had replied. 'Being a friar, Athelstan, does not build a defence round the heart but you must remember your vows. You are a priest dedicated to God. You do not have time for those relationships which are so important to others: there can be no distraction to your work as a priest.'

Bonaventure suddenly espied him. Athelstan, embarrassed, stepped out of the shadows and walked across. Benedicta clapped her hands and got to her

'I thought you were never returning.' She caught the friar's hand, eyes dancing with laughter. 'I am so pleased to see you. The house is swept. Philomel has eaten and Merry Legs was kind enough to send two pies. He solemnly swore he'd baked them today.'

'But the corpses?'

Bcncdicta's face became grave. 'Thank God they've been recognised, Brother. The young woman was a whore, Prudence. She plied her trade at the Lion Heart tavern. The swarthy man was one of her customers.' She gave a half-smile. 'Apparently a preacher who warned against the lusts of the flesh. I suppose,' she added tartly, 'he wanted to find out whether they are as delicious as they sound. Bladdersniff took the cadavers away'

'Where will they be buried?'

'The common grave at St Oswald's. Bladdersniff declared that God's acre in St Erconwald's had its fair share of strange corpses, which nearly led to a fight between him and Watkin.'

'And the young man?'

Benedicta's lips tightened. 'He's been recognised too: Miles Sholter.' Benedicta indicated with her head. 'His widow and friend are in the church.' She moved closer. 'Brother, is the rumour correct? Was Miles Sholter a royal messenger? They say he and his companion, Philip Eccleshall, were taking messages from the Regent John of Gaunt to the Earl of Arundel, who is on pilgrimage to Canterbury. Is it true, Brother,' she insisted, 'that if a royal messenger is murdered, the parish where his corpse is found is held responsible until the killer is found?'

'All things are possible,' Athelstan told her. 'But let me see them.'

Now he was back in his parish, Athelstan did not feel so tired or weary. Inside the church the young widow, Eccleshall beside her, was sitting in the far corner near the steps to the tower. They rose as Athelstan entered and came out of the shadows. Eccleshall was tall, blond-haired, podgy-faced. He was dressed in a dark-brown jerkin with slashed, coloured sleeves; a war belt strapped round his waist carried sword, dagger and leather gauntlets. His leggings were bottle-green, tucked into high-heeled riding-boots in which spurs still clinked. He carried a cloak over his arm; on his chest were emblazoned the royal arms and he carried a small wrist shield which bore the same insignia. A soldier, Athelstan thought, a man used to camp and warfare. Mistress Sholter was tall, dark-haired, with an imperious face, high cheekbones and slanted eyes. Her painted cheeks were now stained with tears. Like Benedicta, she was dressed in a gown of dark-brown wool with a cloak fastened over her shoulder by a silver brooch. Around her neck hung a silver harp on a gold chain.

'This is Brother Athelstan, our parish priest,' Benedicta said.

'I'm Philip Eccleshall, Brother, royal messenger and this,' Eccleshall flicked his fingers as if his companion were beneath him, 'is Bridget Sholter.'

The young woman started to cry, shoulders shaking, and went towards Athelstan, hands out. The friar caught her cold fingers and gripped them.

'I've heard the news, Brother,' Eccleshall informed him.

Athelstan waved them to the bench. 'Sit down! Sit down!'

His guests did so. Athelstan and Benedicta lifted across another bench to sit opposite them.

'Can I offer you something to eat or drink?' the friar enquired.

The woman shook her head. Eccleshall, too, refused.

'We must be gone soon, Brother. Miles's corpse has been taken to Greyfriars near St Paul's. I have paid the good brothers to dress it for burial.'