The Field of Blood (3 page)

‘And how shall I forgive you, oh great killer of the alleyways?’ Athelstan asked. ‘Slaughterer on the midden-heap! Scourge of rats! Come on now!’

Bonaventure leapt into the friar’s lap. Athelstan sat there stroking him, half-listening to the tomcat’s deep purr as he reflected on Eleanor’s problems. The new parish blood book didn’t go back far so he would have to depend on verbal testimony. However, if Pike the ditcher’s wife was bent on mischief, she might already have jogged memories in the direction she wanted. On the one hand Athelstan felt angry at such meddling but, on the other, if the ditcher’s wife was correct, he would not sanctify Eleanor’s and Oswald’s marriage. So where could he start? What could he do?

The church door opened with a crash. Athelstan thought it was Sir John Cranston but Luke Bladdersniff the beadle, his bulbous red nose glowing like a piece of fiery charcoal, stumbled into the church.

‘Murder!’ he screamed. ‘Oh horrors! Murder most terrible!’

‘In God’s name Bladdersniff, what’s the matter?’

‘Murder!’ the beadle shrieked. ‘Come, Brother!’

Athelstan followed him out on to the porch. The day was fine, the sun shone strong. He could see nothing except Bladdersniff’s large handcart in the mouth of the alleyway. Pike and Watkin were guarding it as if it held the royal treasure. Then Athelstan went cold as he glimpsed a bare foot, a hand sticking out from beneath the dirty sheet.

‘In God’s name!’ he breathed. ‘How many?’

‘Three, Brother.’

Athelstan knew what Bladdersniff would say next.

‘I brought them here because they were found in the parish. I do not recognise them, they are the corpses of strangers. According to the law, such relicts must be displayed outside the parish church for a day and a night.’

Athelstan inhaled deeply. ‘Bring them forward, Bladdersniff!’

The beadle gestured. Watkin and Pike trundled the handcart across, Bladdersniff dramatically removed the canvas sheet and the friar flinched. He was used to death in all its forms, to gruesome murder, to stiff, ice-cold cadavers, hanged, hacked, stabbed, drowned, burned, crushed and mangled. These three corpses, however, had a pathos all of their own. The young girl looked as if she was asleep, except her face was blue-white and a terrible wound gaped in her throat. The dark-skinned, black-haired stranger looked like a sailor, his eyes still popping at the horror he must have experienced as the crossbow bolt took him deep in the heart. Athelstan inspected the feathers of the stout quarrel.

‘This must have been loosed at close range,’ he observed. ‘No more than two yards.’

The third man was young, no older than his twenty-fourth or twenty-fifth summer, with close-cropped hair over a thin face rendered awful by death. Athelstan murmured a prayer and stepped back. The cart moved and the corpse of the young man rolled slightly so that his head fell back, showing the gaping wound in his throat, blue-black, ragged skin, half-closed red-rimmed eyes, his lips and nose laced with blood. Athelstan made a sign of the cross as he whispered the words of absolution. He felt his stomach pitch in disgust at such terrible deaths and the shock they caused. He had been in his church then murder, in all its hideous forms, had been thrust upon him. He sat down on the steps.

‘God have mercy on them!’ Athelstan prayed.

He tried to calm his racing mind. If only Sir Jack were here! He would know what to do. Athelstan prayed quietly for strength and glanced at his three companions. Only then did he notice that Bladdersniff must have vomited; his chin and jerkin were still stained. Watkin and Pike were burly fellows but their faces were pallid, and they were already distancing themselves from the cart’s gruesome burdens.

‘Where were they found?’ Athelstan asked.

‘In Simon the miser’s house. I wager they had been there since at least last night.’

Athelstan studied the corpses.

‘Where in the house? Who discovered them?’

‘In the parlour downstairs,’ Bladdersniff replied. ‘Two children in the field nearby, chasing their dog. They went in and ran out screaming; their mother sent for me’.

‘Do you recognise the corpses?’

Bladdersniff shook his head but Athelstan glimpsed the look of guilt which flitted across Pike’s pallid face.

‘Pike!’ he shouted. ‘Do you know anything?’

The ditcher shuffled his mud-caked boots, wiping the sweat from his hands on his shabby jerkin.

‘I want to see you about a number of things, Pike, but, first, do you know anything about this young woman?’

‘She may have been a whore, Brother. I am not too sure. I’ll have to rack my memory.’

‘Rack it!’ Athelstan snapped.

He felt stronger and got to his feet. He studied the corpses more closely. The black-haired, sunburned man looked like a sailor with his shaggy, matted hair and beard but he was dressed in a gown and cloak rather than tunic and leggings. On his feet were stout walking boots though the brown leather was scuffed and scratched. The young woman was definitely comely. She wore a linen smock with petticoats beneath, pattens of good leather on her bare feet. A cheap bracelet still dangled round her left wrist. Athelstan went and pulled back the cloak of the dark-skinned man and tapped the wallet. It was empty, as was the purse on the cheap brocaded belt the young woman wore. He held out his hand.

‘The money, Bladdersniff?’

The beadle coloured.

‘Bladdersniff, you are my friend as well as my parishioner. I do not know the hearts and souls of murderers but I believe these people were killed, not for gain but for some other, more subtle, evil.’ He paused. ‘To rob the dead is a grievous sin.’

‘I didn’t rob them, Brother, I was just holding it.’

Bladdersniff dug deep into his own purse. He took out a handful of bronze and silver coins and thrust these into Athelstan’s hand.

‘Anything else?’ the friar demanded.

The beadle was about to refuse but three more coins appeared from his purse.

‘If I march you up the church, master beadle, and put your hands on the sanctuary stone, would you say, “That’s all”?’

‘I’ll take the oath now, Brother.’

‘Good!’

Athelstan sifted the coins of gold, silver and copper. He picked up a rather shabby medal on the side of which was a cross, on the reverse what looked like an angel with outstretched wings.

‘Who had this?’

Bladdersniff pointed to the black-haired corpse.

The Dominican slipped the coins into his own wallet.

‘If I remember the law, the goods and chattels of such murdered victims belong to the parish until they are claimed. These will go into the common fund.’

Athelstan studied the corpse of the younger man. He was dressed only in chemise and leggings.

‘The shirt is of good linen,’ Athelstan remarked. ‘Leggings of blue kersey but where’s his jerkin, his cloak, his boots and belt?’

‘Brother, I assure you,’ Bladdersniff protested, ‘and Pike and Watkin are my witnesses, that’s how we found him.’

Athelstan sat down on the steps and brought his hands together in prayer.

‘Oh my Lord!’

He looked sharply to the left. Benedicta had come out of the cemetery and now stopped, mouth gaping, hands half-raised at this terrible sight. She walked forward like a dream wanderer, her dark hair peeping out from beneath the blue veil, her olive-skinned face pale. The beautiful dark eyes of the widow woman studied the three corpses.

‘You shouldn’t be here, Benedicta,’ Athelstan said.

‘No, no.’

Benedicta came over and sat beside him on the steps. She pulled her brown cloak more firmly about her as if the sight of these corpses chilled her blood, blotted out the light and warmth of the sun. Athelstan caught a faint whiff of the perfume she wore, distilled herbs, sweet and light, a welcome contrast to the horrors before him. He felt her close beside him and drew strength from her warmth, her quiet support. He smiled to himself. For a moment he felt like a man being joined by his loving wife.

‘You shouldn’t be here,’ he repeated.

‘Brother, I feel the way you look.’ She half-smiled.

‘Three corpses,’ Athelstan explained. ‘Found in the old miser’s house in the fields at the end of the parish.’ He pointed to the man with the crossbow bolt buried deep in his chest. ‘He looks like a sailor or some wandering minstrel. The young woman? Pike thinks she may be a whore but this young man troubles me.’

‘Why?’ Benedicta asked.

‘The other two appear to have been killed immediately: first the man by the crossbow bolt, then the young woman’s throat was probably slit soon afterwards. She’s light, rather thin. If the assassin was a man, she would pose no real problem. However, this other one.’

Athelstan got up and crouched beside the cart. He carefully examined the young man’s head and noticed how the hair was matted with blood, masking a blow to the back of the head.

‘Now, this victim was struck on the back of the head. He fell to the ground and his throat was cut: unlike the others, he’s had his belt, jerkin, cloak and boots removed.’

‘A thief?’

‘But if it was a thief,’ Athelstan continued, ‘why didn’t he steal the young woman’s bracelet, or empty their purses?’

‘So?’

‘It’s only a guess.’

Athelstan paused as Pike abruptly lurched back into the alleyway to be sick.

‘He never did have much of a stomach,’ Watkin growled. ‘When Widow Trimple’s cat was crushed under a cart and its belly split . . .’

‘Yes, yes,’ Athelstan interrupted, ‘there’s no need to continue, Watkin: Bonaventure might hear you.’

‘You were saying about the young man?’ Bladdersniff asked.

He looked longingly over his shoulder at the alleyway. The beadle wanted to head like an arrow direct to the Piebald and down as many blackjacks of ale as his belly could take.

‘I believe,’ Athelstan continued, ‘the assassin attacked this young man in that deserted house. He knocked him on the head, cut his throat and was busy stripping him of any identification when he was surprised by these two. The young woman was a whore, the other man was one of her customers. God forgive them, they both died in their sins.’ He got to his feet, fished in his purse and thrust a coin into Bladdersniff’s hands. ‘The labourer is worthy of his hire, master bailiff. The bodies will stay here for twenty-four hours, yes?’

Bladdersniff nodded.

‘Watkin! Pike!’

The ditcher wandered back.

‘You will take turns guarding the corpse. Hig the pigman, Mugwort the bell clerk, can all stand vigil!’ He thrust another silver piece into Bladdersniff’s hand. ‘Each man of the parish who stands guard will be bought two quarts of ale by our venerable bailiff.’

Bladdersniff’s red, chapped face glowed with pleasure. He blinked his bleary, water-filled eyes.

‘Why, Brother, that’s very generous of you.’

‘On one condition,’ Athelstan added sharply. ‘When you stand guard you are sober. Now, Bladdersniff, show me where the corpses were found.’

‘I’ll come with you,’ Benedicta offered. She rose unsteadily to her feet.

‘I’d love your company.’ Athelstan smiled, grasping her fingers and rubbing them between his. ‘But, if you could clear the shriving pew, put my stole back, feed Bonaventure. Oh, and Philomel will need more oats,’ he added, referring to his old war horse who spent most of his life eating or sleeping.

‘Heaven forfend!’

Athelstan turned as Godbless the beggarman, with little Thaddeus the goat in tow, came out of the cemetery rubbing his eyes.

‘Benedicta, you deal with him! Bladdersniff.’ Athelstan grasped the beadle by the arm. ‘If we stay here much longer we’ll have the entire parish around us.’

He marched Bladdersniff across the open space and along the alleyway leading down to the main thoroughfare. Although he was of short stature, Athelstan moved briskly, keeping his eye on the water-filled sewer down the centre while trying to avoid the gaze of many of his parishioners.

‘God bless you Brother!’ a girlish voice shouted.

Cecily the courtesan was standing in the entrance to the Piebald tavern. Athelstan glared at her. She had her arm round Ronald, elder son of Ranulf the rat-catcher. On a bench beside her, Ursula the pig woman was sharing a tankard of ale with her big, fat sow. The pig snorted with pleasure. Athelstan bared his teeth at this great plunderer of his vegetable patch. Tab the tinker, Huddle the painter, Manger the hangman and Moleskin the boatman stood further down the thoroughfare grouped round Tab’s stall.

‘Is anything wrong?’ Huddle called, flicking his long hair back.

Athelstan stopped. ‘I need your help at the church,’ he said sweetly. ‘Go back there. Watkin will tell you everything. There’s a quart of ale for each of you.’ He held up a warning hand so Bladdersniff wouldn’t add any gory details. ‘For all who help.’

The whole group set off like greyhounds from the slips, eager to see what work would earn such a bountiful reward.

Athelstan pressed on. It was now early afternoon and the denizens of Southwark were out looking for mischief: pickpockets, foists, those shadowy inhabitants of the underworld eager for petty profit before darkness fell. Some avoided his eye; others raised their hands in salutation or shouted abuse about Bladdersniff and his fiery red nose.

At last they entered an alleyway which led down to the fields. They crossed the narrow wooden bridge which spanned the brook and went up the great meadow to the brow of the hill where the ruins of Simon the miser’s house stood gaunt and open to the sky. Some children played at the far end of the meadow. A woman sat there keeping them busy plaiting garlands of grass. Athelstan raised his hand in benediction.

‘Thank you!’ he shouted across. ‘Keep the children well away!’

Bladdersniff led him through the ruined front door, along a hollow passageway and into a dark, smelly parlour where the air reeked of animal urine and excrement. The walls were mildewed, the stone floor cracked and weeds now thrust themselves up through the gaps.

‘A terrible place to die,’ Athelstan noted. ‘At night this place must be dark as . . .’

‘Hell’s window,’ Bladdersniff offered hopefully.

‘Aye, hell’s window.’