by Paul Doherty
‘You’d best come with me,’ Athelstan told him and led him into the taproom.
The door to the kitchen buttery now thronged with chambermaids and potboys. They all stood anxious-faced watching this drama unfold. Flaxwith greeted Sir John while his burly bailiffs squatted on stools, their mattocks, hoes and spades piled in a corner.
‘Right lads!’ Sir John rubbed his hands together. ‘This is the Paradise Tree, property of a friend of mine, Kathryn Vestler. So, keep your sticky fingers to yourselves. I want you to dig a hole.’
He led them out into the herb garden and down through the wicket gate. Black Meadow was inappropriately named, for it consisted of a peaceful, broad swath of green fringed by hedges on either side. It swept down to where the Thames glinted in the distance. Even from where he stood, Athelstan could see boats and wherries, barges and heavy-bellied cogs making ready for sea.
‘Why is it called Black Meadow?’
‘God knows,’ Sir John replied. ‘Mistress Vestler leases it out for grazing.’ He pointed to a small flock of sheep. ‘And, of course, makes a pretty profit.’
Athelstan gazed at the thick grass, weeds twisted in wheels of fresh lushness, various coloured flowers dotted as far as the eye could see.
‘That,’ Athelstan pointed to the great oak tree, its branches stretching out to create a broad pool of pleasant shade, ‘must be what Brokestreet meant.’
The oak was huge, five to six feet in girth. Its broad leaves were already tinged with gold as summer turned to autumn. In this lazy, pleasant spot lovers could meet or families take bread and wine out on Holy Days to eat and drink, lie in the cool grass and stare up at the sky.
‘It’s hardly a place for murder,’ Athelstan commented.
Sir John marched his bailiff across towards the oak tree. The friar sat down and plucked at some daisies, twirling them in his fingers, admiring their golden centre, their soft white petals.
‘Perfectly made. Not even Solomon in all his glory was as beautiful as you.’ He smiled. ‘Or so the good Lord said.’
He sat and watched as the harmony of this green pleasantness was shattered by shouts and oaths as the bailiffs began to dig.
‘Brokestreet never said which side of the oak the corpses were buried. So dig a ditch lads, two foot wide and about a yard deep,’ bawled Sir John.
They didn’t get very far. Progress was hindered by the tough, far-reaching roots of the oak tree.
‘They are not country people,’ Athelstan noted.
The bailiffs had to pull back, a good two yards from the turn of the oak tree where they began again. Athelstan watched for a while but he was distracted by a plume of smoke at the far end of the field, rising above where the land dipped towards the river. He caught the smell of wood smoke and, once again, the fragrance of burning meat.
‘There shouldn’t be anyone there,’ he muttered.
He got up, clutching his chancery bag more securely, and walked through the field past the sweating bailiffs. Sir John told Flaxwith to keep an eye on them.
‘And that bloody dog away from the sheep!’
These had already glimpsed Samson’s slavering stare and moved as close as they could to the far hedge.
‘Where are you going, Brother?’
Athelstan pointed to the smoke.
‘If this is Mistress Vestler’s land, what’s that? Travellers? Moon People?’
They breasted the hill and looked down. The meadow was cut off from the mud flats along the Thames by a thick prickly hedge. In the far corner stood a wattle-daubed cottage with a thatched roof. From a hole in the centre of the thatch rose a plume of black smoke and, before the open door, a group of figures crouched before a fire ringed with bricks over which a turnspit had been fixed. Athelstan narrowed his eyes.
‘Do you know these, Sir Jack?’
The coroner, however, was helping himself to a generous swig of wine; Athelstan shook his head when Sir John offered to share it.
‘No thanks, Sir John, that blackjack of ale was enough for me. Who are they? At first glance I thought they were Franciscans.’
‘They are wearing brown gowns, cords round their waists, there must be four all together. One man and three women. The fellow’s head shaved as bald as a pigeon’s egg. I wonder if they know anything?’
Sir John strode off, cloak swirling behind him. Athelstan hurried to keep up. The four figures were not alarmed by their approach but continued with their cooking, more concerned with turning the rabbit on their makeshift spit. The women were young but their faces were greasy, marked with dirt. The man, thin as an ash pole, was scrawny-faced, his bald head glistening with sweat. He came forward, hands extended.
‘Pax et bonum, Brothers!’
Athelstan noticed the watery, constantly blinking eyes, the rather slack mouth. A man not in full possession of his wits, he reflected.
‘Pax et bonum,’ the stranger repeated as he grasped Sir John’s podgy hand and kissed it.
‘And a very good afternoon to you too,’ Sir John replied. ‘Who are you? What are you doing here?’
‘I am the First Gospel.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ Athelstan intervened.
‘Good afternoon.’ The First Gospel stepped closer, raising his hand in benediction.
‘I am Brother Athelstan, a Dominican from Southwark. This is Sir John Cranston, a coroner of the city. What are you doing here? What is your real name?’
The man stared at him, lips parted, to reveal two white teeth hanging from red sore gums.
‘I am the First Gospel,’ he replied. ‘And these are my companions.’
He stepped aside to introduce the three women. They all looked the same, with black, straggly hair and fat greasy faces. They seemed friendly enough and waved shyly at him.
‘This is the Second Gospel, the Third Gospel and the Fourth Gospel. We are the Book of the Gospels,’ the stranger concluded triumphantly.
Athelstan chewed his lip. Sir John’s face was a picture to behold, lips parted, blue eyes popping.
‘Satan’s futtocks!’ he breathed. ‘If I hadn’t seen and heard myself, I wouldn’t have believed it!’
First Gospel gestured to a log before the fire.
‘Be our guests. Would you like something to drink? We have a small hogshead of ale, some good wine and, in a short while, rabbit meat stuffed with herbs. It is good for a man to eat. The body may be a donkey but it must be strong enough to carry the soul, yes, Brother?’
Athelstan took a seat beside the coroner and mentally beat his breast at his arrogance. This stranger seemed sharper-witted than he first thought. He watched as the Four Gospels bustled around. Such religious groups were now springing up all over the kingdom and beyond the Narrow Seas. The Illuminated, The Brides of Christ, The Flowers of Heaven, The Pillars of Jacob, The Tower of Angels. All filled with fanciful ideas that the end of time was nigh and that Christ would come again to mete out justice and establish a new Jerusalem.
One of the women kept turning the spit and Athelstan found his mouth watering at the savoury odor. The women looked happy, content, not as fey-witted or mad as members of other groups Athelstan had encountered.
‘Who let you camp here?’ Sir John demanded, finding it difficult to sit on the log. He unhitched his cloak and placed it on the ground beside his beaver hat.
‘Oh, Widow Vestler,’ First Gospel replied.
‘She is a good woman,’ Three Gospels chorused as one. ‘We consider her to be one of the elect. In the new kingdom, when Michael comes, she will be given estates, palaces, full hordes for her tribute.’
‘And who is this Michael?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Why, Brother, St Michael the Archangel.’ The First Gospel pointed to a gap in the hedge. ‘We watch the river for him.’
‘I am sorry.’ Athelstan kept his face straight.
‘No, listen.’ First Gospel wagged a warning finger as his voice fell to a whisper. He leaned forward, a fanatical gleam in his eyes. ‘Brother, you will
not believe this but, soon, St Michael will come up the Thames in a golden barge.’
‘By himself?’ Sir John interrupted. ‘Or will he have Moleskin rowing him?’
First Gospel looked puzzled.
‘We’ve never heard of him, sir. No, no, St Michael will come with the other archangels, Gabriel and Raphael. The barge will be rowed by massed ranks of seraphim.’
‘I see,’ Sir John murmured. ‘I’m getting the full picture now. And so why should they come up the Thames?’
‘Why, sir, to take over the Tower. Its roofs will turn to gold, its walls to gleaming white ivory. The angels will set up camp there and prepare a worthy tabernacle for the return of Le Bon Seigneur Jesus.’
At this surprising announcement all Four Gospels leaned forward, their brows touching the earth.
‘And who told you all this?’ Athelstan asked as they sat back on their heels.
‘I had a vision,’ First Gospel replied. ‘I was once a shoemaker in the town of Dover. I went up on the cliffs and I heard the voices. “Go,” they said, “go to the banks of the Thames, set up camp and await our return.”’
‘And these three ladies?’ Athelstan asked.
‘They are my wives. They, too, are included in the Great Secret.’
‘I wish I had visions like that,’ Sir John muttered out of the corner of his mouth. ‘Good ale, fresh meat and all three in bed at the same time.’
‘Hush, Jack!’ Athelstan warned him.
‘We came here four years ago,’ First Gospel went on sonorously. ‘At first Widow Vestler turned us away but then she thought otherwise. We set up camp. This cottage was already standing.’
‘And when will St Michael come?’
‘Why sir, the year of Our Lord, thirteen eighty-one.’
‘Why not thirteen eighty-two?’ Athelstan asked.
‘One, three, eight and one make thirteen!’ came the sharp reply. ‘If you count the figures together, they come to thirteen. Now one and three is four, and we are the Four Gospels preparing the way!’
Athelstan gaped in astonishment. Of all the theories he’d heard, both sublime and ridiculous, this was the most bizarre. Yet the Four Gospels seemed harmless enough, probably swinging between sanctity and madness. He smiled to himself. Prior Anselm always believed the line between the two was very thin.
Sir John pointed to the gap in the hedge. ‘And you go out there on to the mud flats to watch and wait?’
‘Oh, yes, even at night.’
First Gospel got to his feet and led them through the gap in the hawthorn hedge. Athelstan was immediately caught by the contrast. It was like moving from one country to another. The lush green meadow, the sweet smell of cooking, the perfume of the flowers, gave way to the mud flats along the Thames, which even in the sunlight looked bleak and forbidding. The ground fell away like a sea shore, the steep incline cut by a barrier wall, probably built to resist flooding though the stones were crumbling and mildewed. He and Sir John made their way carefully down and stood on that. Beyond it the broad mud flats were dotted with pools, the hunting ground of gulls and cormorants which rose in clusters and with loud shrieks. The tide was still ebbing, the river itself quite peaceful now. Only the occasional barge or wherry, bearing the royal arms, made its way along to the Tower quayside.
‘What is this?’ Athelstan tapped his sandalled foot on the wall.
‘Widow Vestler said it was Roman but that sharp lawyer of hers, Hengan, he came down here once to make sure all was well. He said all these lands once belonged to Gundulf, the man who built the Tower.’
‘And why did Widow Vestler let you stay here?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Oh, she’s kind-hearted, very generous. She gives us food and drink, says we are harmless enough.’
Athelstan glanced at the base of the wall and noticed the ground was charred and burned. The embers looked fresh.
‘What is this?’ He pointed.
‘Widow Vestler allows us to build a fire at night and put an oil lamp here. We asked her permission,’ First Gospel added warningly.
‘Of course,’ Sir John agreed. ‘Just in case St Michael comes by night and can’t see his way.’
‘Oh, Sir John, you are a wise man,’ one of the female Gospels simpered, standing behind them.
‘Flattery! Flattery!’ Athelstan nudged the coroner in the ribs. ‘Another admirer, eh, Sir Jack!’
He glimpsed one of the standards flying from a passing barge and recalled Sir John’s outburst in the Guildhall. He climbed down from the wall, tugging at the coroner’s sleeve.
‘Sir Jack, you mentioned that you know one of the victims?’
Cranston tapped his forehead with the heel of his hand.
‘Lord save us, friar, I did.’ He led Athelstan away from the Four Gospels. ‘I am sorry, in the excitement I forgot but, look you Brother, I glimpsed that messenger wearing the royal livery in the Guildhall, yes?’
Athelstan nodded.
Sir John swallowed hard. ‘I believe that young man, the victim who had no boots, he, too, was a royal messenger. And, unless my memory fails me, a principal one.’
Athelstan’s face paled. ‘Oh no!’ he groaned.
Sir John himself looked worried, clicking his tongue.
‘I think he was called Miles Sholter.’
‘Heaven forfend!’
‘According to the law,’ Sir John continued, ‘if a royal messenger is killed, the parish or village in which his corpse is found is liable to a heavy fine unless it produces the murderer.’ He looked over his shoulder to where the Four Gospels were chattering excitedly among themselves. ‘Southwark is known as a nest of sedition and rebellion. The peasants under their secret council, the Great Community of the Realm, have strong support in St Erconwald’s parish and elsewhere.’
‘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 p
it. 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.’
