The Field of Blood (18 page)

‘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?’

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 skull-like face bright with pleasure.

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

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

‘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 in.

‘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.’