The Field of Blood (26 page)

‘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?’ Athelestan asked.’ Do you have a soul? Do you have a heart? Do you realize 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 faces 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 it 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, Gundulff 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 back!’

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 it 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.