The Field of Blood (7 page)

‘I follow your reasoning, my lord coroner,’ Athelstan intervened. ‘They’ll maintain this royal messenger was ambushed by rebels and murdered while these same traitors killed the whore and her customer.’

‘The fine would be great. In Shoreditch, two years ago, the parish of St Giles was fined four hundred pounds sterling and, because they couldn’t pay, the leaders of the parish council went to prison.’

‘But . . .?’

‘Sir John Cranston, my lord coroner!’

‘Henry Flaxwith stood at the top of the hill, gesturing at them to come.

‘Truly, we are launched upon a sea of trouble,’ Sir John remarked. ‘Brother, they must have found something.’

They hurriedly climbed back up the hill. Flaxwith, red face perspiring, leaned on his shovel.

‘Oh, Sir John, Brother Athelstan, you have to see this! Eh, come back!’

The bailiff shouted as Samson, a bone in his slavering jaws, raced by them down towards the Four Gospels. As they turned away, Athelstan heard the chaos breaking out behind them. Samson had a nose for food; he would probably have dropped the bone and headed straight for that cooking rabbit.

Athelstan followed Sir John’s quick stride to the great ditch dug around the oak tree. His heart sank at the sight of the two pathetic bundles lying on the grass. He glanced into the ditch and groaned. At least four other skeletons lay sprawled as if they had been killed, their cadavers bundled into a hastily prepared grave.

‘You found them like this?’ Sir John barked.

‘Four here, Sir John, and two more on the other side. Between each skeleton there’s at least half a yard. There may even be more.’

The skeletons lay in different positions: on their sides, backs or faces down in the dirt. Scraps of clothing, pieces of leather boots, rusting buckles were strewn around. One was apparently a female whose bony fingers still clutched a leather bag while the brooch which had pinned her hair lay in the mud beside her.

‘Can you say how they died?’ Sir John asked as he eased himself into the pit.

‘There’s no mark of violence on them, Sir John,’ Flaxwith replied.

Athelstan murmured a quick requiem and also climbed into the pit. He and Sir John moved the skeletons over but they could find no blow, no crack where sword or dagger had sliced bone or skull. Athelstan hastily sketched a blessing, clambered out and crossed to the two soiled bundles. Flaxwith pulled back the dirty canvas sheets. The corpses beneath were in the last stages of decay: the flesh had dried, shrivelled and peeled off. This made the skulls even more grisly with their sagging jaws and empty eye-sockets. One corpse had the remains of a cloak about it. The other, certainly a woman, shreds of her kirtle, yellow and blue in colour. A pair of pattens were still lashed to her feet while the boots the man wore, though cracked and grey with dirt, were of good Spanish leather. Sir John knelt down beside the cadavers. He slipped the ring off the dead man’s finger.

‘It bears the royal insignia,’ he declared, getting to his feet. ‘There is little doubt these are the cadavers of Bartholomew Menster and Margot Haden.’

Helped by Athelstan, he scrutinised the corpses further, turning them over. Now and again they had to rise and walk away gulping in the fresh air.

‘A pit of putrefaction,’ Sir John breathed. ‘They bear no mark of violence, no blow to the head or body!’ He faced the friar. ‘Satan’s bollocks! Alice Brokestreet is apparently telling the truth!’

They walked back to the pit, Sir John issuing orders and distributing largesse.

‘Henry, I want you and one of your burly lads to come with me. The rest are to sheet these corpses and take them to the Guildhall.’

‘There may be more,’ Flaxwith pointed out.

‘Aye, there may well be.’ Sir John wiped the sweat from his brow. He strode off, not even waiting for Athelstan who had to hurry to catch up.

‘What’s the matter, Sir John?’

The other man stopped, tears welling in his eyes.

‘Ten years ago, Brother, on the great north road leading to York, stood a hostelry, the Black Raven, a spacious, well-endowed tavern. It was managed by a taverner and his two sons. A lonely place out on the moors, though welcoming enough. Rumours sprang up, about travellers, pilgrims, chapmen disappearing. At first people shrugged these off. Travellers often became lost on the moors. The mists come swirling in, hiding paths and trackways and the unwary can blunder into a marsh or mire. However, the local sheriff investigated. He is a friend of mine, keen of wit and sharp of eye. To cut a long story short, Brother, the taverner was murdering solitary travellers and burying their bodies out on the moors.’

‘And you think Mistress Vestler did the same?’

‘Athelstan, corpses don’t appear under oak trees unless they are put there!’

‘But you said Mistress Vestler was a good woman?’

‘Oh, she and her husband were kind and friendly but they did have a partiality for gold and silver.’ He stamped his boot on the ground. ‘God knows what lies beneath here but I don’t think Kathryn will placate Sir Henry Brabazon with coy smiles and fluttering eyelids.’ He turned round.

Flaxwith and another bailiff were following. Behind them, triumphant as a knight returning from a tourney, waddled Samson, a half-roasted rabbit between his jaws.

‘Brother, I thought life had become too quiet and peaceful. Now we have Mistress Vestler, a murderess, perhaps many times over, while your parishioners are going to receive the shock of their lives.’

He marched back through the garden into the taproom.

Master Hengan appeared in the taproom but Sir John shook his head, gesturing at him to leave. He beckoned at the ale-master who was standing in the kitchen doorway, scullions and maids thronging behind him.

‘Come in here!’ Sir John ordered. ‘Go on, all of you, take a seat!’

The maids and scullions did. The potboys sat on the floor, the spit-turners took their place on either side of the fireplace.

‘Now, I have questions for you. Do any of you recall a clerk known as Bartholomew Menster who came here, sweet on a chambermaid, Margot Haden?’

‘Oh yes.’ The ale-master spoke up. ‘A tall man, Bartholomew, quiet and studious.’ He moved his body in imitation. ‘Shoulders rather hunched. He really liked our Margot. He often came here after he had finished work in the Tower.’ He pointed to the far corner near the garden door. ‘He’d always sit there and eat, wait for Margot to finish.’

‘And did Mistress Vestler encourage this?’ Athelstan asked.

‘She was welcoming enough,’ the ale-master replied. ‘But she often scolded Margot for wasting time. She was kind enough to Bartholomew because he paid well and brought other clerks here.’

Sir John sat down on a bench, Athelstan beside him. The friar touched his chancery bag but he was too tense, too anxious to write, he would remember all this later on when he returned to St Erconwald’s.

‘And what happened to Bartholomew and Margot?’

‘You know, my lord,’ one of the potboys piped up.

‘No lad, I don’t, remind me,’ Sir John asked sweetly.

‘About three months ago we’d all been out to the midsummer fair. Margot and Bartholomew disappeared soon afterwards. Officers came from the Tower to enquire about the whereabouts of Bartholomew but we couldn’t help them.’

‘And Margot disappeared at the same time?’

‘Of course.’ The boy rubbed his nose on the back of his hand. ‘Gone like a river mist they were.’

‘And what did Mistress Vestler say?’

‘She thought they had eloped.’

‘Aye that’s right,’ a maid intervened. ‘But the officer from the Tower, a tall beanpole of a man, he said that couldn’t be true, Master Bartholomew had not taken any of his property with him.’

‘You are sure of that?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Yes and we thought it strange because, just after they disappeared, Mistress Vestler said she had kept Margot’s belongings long enough. Nothing much, just a gown, a cloak, some trifles. She was in a fair temper. She burned them on the midden-heap in the yard.’

‘Why did she do that?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Mistress Vestler said her tavern had enough clutter. Margot was not coming back and she wouldn’t get a price for any of the goods.’ The maid shrugged.

‘Did you notice anything else untoward?’ Athelstan asked. ‘About their disappearance?’

A chorus of no’s greeted his question. Sir John got to his feet and pointed to the ale-master.

‘I’m appointing you as steward. You will answer to the Crown on what happens here.’

The ale-master’s face paled. ‘And Mistress Vestler?’

‘I have no choice,’ Sir John replied. ‘I must arrest her for murder and commit her for trial before the King’s justices!’

This declaration was met by horrified silence.

‘It’s impossible!’ the ale-master whispered.

‘I must tell you,’ Sir John replied, ‘that we have been out to Black Meadow. Aye, and it’s well named. We have discovered the corpses of both Margot and Bartholomew.’

One of the maids started to sob.

‘And worse yet,’ the coroner continued, ‘the skeletons of six others.’

One of the potboys began to shake; he crept like a little child to sit with one of the maids who put her arms around him. Athelstan studied them carefully. These were not hard men and women but good people, simple in their loves and hates, their work and lives. The evil Sir John was describing was well beyond their experience. If Kathryn Vestler was guilty of such hideous crimes, her servants were certainly innocent. Athelstan rose and walked into the centre of the taproom.

‘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!’