by Paul Doherty
‘What’s the problem, Brother?’
‘Let’s pretend I’m a murderer.’ Athelstan smiled.
‘Or we are both murderers. We have corpses to dispose of. So, when do we bury them?’
‘Why, Brother,’ the surprised bailiff replied, ‘at the dead of night.’
‘Now we can’t be seen,’ Athelstan said, ‘from the bottom of the meadow.’
‘Ah, you mean where that strange group live? Yes, you’re right, Brother, the swell of the hill hides all view.’
‘And if we dig this side of the oak tree?’ Athelstan asked. ‘We are hidden from any view of people in the tavern. Correct?’
‘Agreed.’ The fellow, now enjoying himself, was preening at being patronised by this friend of the powerful lord coroner.
‘So, how would you bring the corpses here?’ Athelstan continued. ‘If they’re taken from the tavern, chambermaids, servants might see us.’
‘Ah yes, Brother, but, at the dead of night, everyone’s asleep. And look.’ He walked way, gesturing with his hand. ‘We can see the tavern, its roofs and gables but, have you noticed, the trees hide the view from most of the windows?’
‘Sharp-eyed.’ Athelstan smiled, dug into his purse and gave the man a coin. The bailiff almost danced with embarrassed pride.
‘So, it’s possible the corpses were brought from the tavern at night, loaded on to a handcart, or barrow, its axles newly oiled, the wheels covered in straw?’
‘Yes, that’s what we do in the city, when we take a cart out at the dead of night. Otherwise, it’s a complaint to the mayor.’
‘But let’s suppose that they didn’t come from the tavern. It’s too dangerous to bring them from the river because, as you say, those strange people are there, waiting for St Michael.’ The bailiff looked mystified. ‘Come on, Sharp Eyes,’ Athelstan joked. ‘Where else could the murderers have come from?’
‘From the east.’ The bailiff pointed to the hedge at the far end of the field. ‘That leads to common land and the great city ditch. While to the west, what is there now?’ He scratched his head. ‘Yes, there’s another field which stretches down to a hedgerow and, beyond that, Brother, lie the alleyways of Petty Wales.’
Athelstan dug with his sandalled foot at the earth beneath the oak tree.
‘Wouldn’t this be hard to dig?’ he asked.
‘Not really, Brother. My father was a peasant owning land in Woodford. As long as you avoid the roots the ground under the branches of a tree like this is always softer. The leaves shade it from being baked by the sun while, when it rains, the branches collect the water and drench the ground beneath.’
‘Of course.’ Athelstan recalled his father’s small farm. How he and his brother Francis would dig around the small pear trees in the orchard to strengthen the roots. ‘But wouldn’t someone notice?’ Athelstan asked. ‘Let’s say we brought two corpses here at the dead of night, sometime in midsummer, so it must be well after midnight.’
‘Don’t forget, Brother, it was a very wet summer. The ground was truly soaked and the sod easy to break.’
‘How deep was the pit in which they were found?’
‘The two corpses?’ The bailiff lowered his mattock and dug it into the ground. ‘No more than half a yard.’
‘And the two were thrown together?’
‘Yes, lovers in life, lovers in death, if the gossips are to be believed.’
‘So, we put the corpses in,’ Athelstan continued.
‘But, surely, next morning someone is going to notice.’
‘Not really, Brother. First, if we were burying . . .’ The bailiff grinned. ‘My lord coroner, God forbid!’
‘God forbid!’ Athelstan echoed.
‘I’d remove the top layer followed by the rest of the soil, put his magnificent corpse in, cover it up, place the sods on top and stamp down. Then I’d go into the field.’ He pointed to the long grass. ‘I’d cut some of that and sprinkle it over the grave.’
‘True, true,’ Athelstan murmured. ‘And this is a lonely place. Unless you made careful scrutiny.’
‘While in full summer, Brother, the grass soon grows again . . .’
‘And the secret’s kept,’ Athelstan finished the sentence for him.
He thanked the bailiff and walked across the field. The sheep scattered at his approach, bleating at this further disturbance to their grazing. Athelstan examined the thick privet hedge which divided the field from the common land which stretched down to the city ditch. In most places it was thick and prickly, in others there were gaps, probably forced over the years by travellers, lovers or people seeking a short cut between Petty Wales and the fortress. The same was true of the hedge on the other side. Athelstan heard shouts and turned; the bailiffs were finishing, the corpses sheeted. They were now taking them up to the tavern and the waiting cart. Athelstan waved farewell and walked down towards the Four Gospels. This time they were not so friendly; they were sitting by the fire eating cheese and sliced vegetables piled on makeshift platters.
‘We lost our rabbit,’ First Gospel moaned. ‘That bloody dog has the mark of Cain upon it!’
Athelstan apologised, dug into his purse and handed over a coin. Their mood changed at the sight of the twinkling piece of silver.
‘Thank you very much, Brother. Remember that!’ First Gospel lifted a hand, fingers extended. ‘When St Michael comes along the Thames, let Brother Athelstan’s name be inscribed in the Book of Life. May he be taken by the angels into their camp.’
‘Quite, quite,’ the friar broke in. ‘But I’ve come to ask you some more questions.’
‘About the corpses found beneath the great oak tree?’ First Gospel asked, his long face solemn. ‘Oh yes, we’ve heard of bloody murder and hideous crime.’
He was about to launch into another paean of praise about what would happen when St Michael came but Athelstan cut him short.
‘Have you seen anything untoward?’
‘In Black Meadow?’ First Gospel asked; he shook his head. ‘We keep to ourselves, Brother. The doings of the world and the flesh are not our concern. Sometimes we hear lovers, poachers, men of the night.’ He pointed to the open cottage door. ‘But, until the angels come, we are well armed. I have a bill hook, a sword, a bow and six arrows.’
‘Did you see anything?’ Athelstan insisted. ‘Someone brought two corpses into this field, dug a grave and buried them.’
‘We saw nothing, Brother.’ One of the women spoke up. ‘Eye does not see.’ She broke into a chant. ‘Nor does the ear hear while the heart is silent to the tribulations of this world.’
Athelstan decided it was time to take another coin out of his purse.
‘But the river is another matter,’ First Gospel declared in a red-gummed smile.
‘In what way?’
‘Oh yes,’ the women chorused, eager now to earn another coin.
Athelstan quietly prayed that the Lord would understand his distribution of coins taken from the corpses earlier that day.
‘What happens on the river?’ he asked.
‘Well, we light our fire and maintain our vigil,’ First Gospel declared. He leaned closer, eyes staring. ‘But we?ve seen shapes at night, Brother: boats coming in from the river, men cowled and hooded.’
‘You are not just saying that for the silver coin?’
‘Brother, would we lie? Here, I’ll show you.’
He sprang to his feet and led Athelstan out through the gap in the hedge, down over the old crumbling wall which overlooked the mud flats. He pointed to his right towards the Tower.
‘There, you see the gallows?’
Athelstan glimpsed the high-branched gibbet. He could just make out the bound and tarred figure of a river pirate hanging from the post jutting out over the river.
‘Just there, near the gibbet! Barges come in. We’ve glimpsed lanterns, figures, shapes moving in the night.’
‘You are sure they are not soldiers, men going to the Tower?’
‘No, Brot
her, why should they stop there? It’s only mud and what are they doing?’
‘How often do they come?’ Athelstan asked.
First Gospel blew his cheeks out. ‘About once a month. They don’t mean well, Brother. If it wasn’t for the glint of a lantern, we’d hardly know they were here.’
‘And where do they go?’
‘I watch them. But this is all I know. They go into the common lands beyond Black Meadow.’ He turned, gripping Athelstan by the elbow, his eyes gleaming with expectation. ‘At first we thought it might be the angels,’ he whispered. ‘But, surely, Brother, they’ll come with fiery lights, banners unfurled and trumpets braying?’
‘I suspect they will. I thank you, sir.’ Athelstan followed the First Gospel back to the rest grouped around the fire. ‘I want to ask you another question.’ He handed the coin over.
First Gospel took it and smiled triumphantly at his women.
‘A good day’s work, sisters! Proceed, Brother: your visit proves that the Lord giveth as well as taketh away.’
‘Or rather that Samson the dog does,’ Athelstan replied. ‘You are correct! Two corpses have been dug up beneath the great oak tree. We know who they are.’
First Gospel’s face flinched. He blinked and licked nervously at a sore on his lip.
‘You probably know,’ Athelstan continued, ‘the man is Bartholomew Menster, a senior clerk from the muniment rooms in the Tower. The other was a young chambermaid, Margot Haden. They were sweet on each other, that’s what the gossips say. Bartholomew often visited the Paradise Tree. Around midsummer they both disappeared. You did know them, didn’t you?’
Athelstan sensed a shift of mood in the group: no more fawning smiles or air of innocence. He studied their close-set faces: you may not be what I think you are, he thought. The friar now understood why the group had not been troubled as they quickly hid behind an air of surly aggressiveness.
‘Brother, we travel here and there.’
‘That wasn’t my question.’ Athelstan shifted on the log, picked up his chancery bag and placed it in his lap. ‘I only seek information. It’s good to do it on a sunny autumn afternoon. However, I can petition Sir John Cranston and continue my questioning at another time and in a place much less congenial.’
‘There’s no need to threaten.’
‘I’m not threatening. I’m giving you my solemn promise. Horrendous murders have taken place. Justice must be done for Margot and Bartholomew.’
‘We knew them.’ One of the women spoke up, ignoring First Gospel’s angry glance. ‘They often came into Black Meadow and walked down towards the river, hand in hand, cheek to cheek.’
‘They were pleasant people?’ Athelstan asked. ‘They must have stopped and talked to you?’
‘Oh, they did.’ First Gospel spoke up. ‘Usually about the river but the clerk, Bartholomew, he was full of tales about the Tower: about its history and the gruesome deeds it had witnessed.’
‘And?’
‘He talked of Gundulf the Wizard.’ First Gospel closed his eyes. ‘That’s right, the sorcerer who built the Tower for the Great Conqueror. He said that in or around the Tower . . .’
‘Go on!’ Athelstan insisted.
‘Gundulf had buried a great treasure.’
Athelstan’s heart quickened. ‘And where was this treasure buried?’
First Gospel smiled slyly and tapped the side of his head.
‘Many people think our wits wander, Brother, so they talk to us as if we were children.’
‘What did he say?’
‘Go on!’ the woman urged. ‘Tell him. It was an interesting tale.’
‘Bartholomew was a scholar,’ First Gospel added slowly. ‘I am not sure, Brother, but sometimes I got the impression that he knew where that treasure was.’
‘Did he say as much?’
‘I asked him once. He and his sweetheart, I am not too sure whether she understood. Bartholomew said: “It shines like the sun, lies under the sun, so we have to find the sun.” I laughed at the riddle for the sun we see but Bartholomew shook his head and would say no more.’
‘And did he give any other clue?’ Athelstan asked.
‘That’s all he said, Brother.’
‘And did they talk of Widow Vestler?’
‘The clerk never did but the young woman often complained, said she was a hard task mistress though she could be kind.’
‘Brother.’ One of the Four Gospels had taken a crude, silver-grey medallion from her purse. ‘Take this, it will provide you comfort and protection. It depicts St Michael . . .’
‘No thank you!’
Athelstan glanced across the field. The shadows were lengthening as the sun dipped in the west. He felt weary, slightly frightened, but he didn’t know why. The meadow didn’t look so pleasant now. He made his farewells and walked back towards the tavern.
Chapter 5
At the end of the alleyway leading up to his parish church, Athelstan paused, closed his eyes and muttered a quick prayer. Sometimes he was a simple parish priest, more concerned with ensuring Huddle painted the gargoyle’s face correctly or Bonaventure didn’t drink from the holy water stoup. Or the children came on a Saturday so he could teach them divine truths and take them through the life of Christ, using the paintings on the church wall. He’d meet the parish council; now and again tempers were lost but there was also the bonhomie, the sheer comedy of parish life, truly a gift from God. Sometimes, however, in his dreams, Athelstan glimpsed murder come shuffling along this alleyway, a yellowing cadaver dressed in a red cloak and hood while behind him clustered dark shapes, carrying corpses, the bloody work of sudden death.
‘You are hungry, Athelstan,’ he reminded himself.
‘And you are tired. Don’t let the mind play tricks on the soul.’
He drew a deep breath and marched up the alleyway. Athelstan expected to see the enclosure in front of the church crowded with those three grisly cadavers laid out on a sled. He stopped in surprise. It was empty! No sled, no corpses! No one, except Benedicta sitting on the steps, Bonaventure beside her. The widow woman had taken off her veil and her hair, black as a raven’s wing, fell uncombed down to her shoulders. She was talking to Bonaventure, sharing a piece of cheese with him.
‘A true mercenary,’ Athelstan said to himself. He stood in the shadows and watched this beautiful woman with her perfect face and those kindly eyes, always full of merriment. Athelstan never knew whether he loved Benedicta or not. He’d admitted to this attraction in confession.
‘You do love her,’ Prior Anselm had replied. ‘Being a friar, Athelstan, does not build a defence round the heart but you must remember your vows. You are a priest dedicated to God. You do not have time for those relationships which are so important to others: there can be no distraction to your work as a priest.’
Bonaventure suddenly espied him. Athelstan, embarrassed, stepped out of the shadows and walked across. Benedicta clapped her hands and got to her feet.
‘I thought you were never returning.’ She caught the friar’s hand, eyes dancing with laughter. ‘I am so pleased to see you. The house is swept. Philomel has eaten and Merry Legs was kind enough to send two pies. He solemnly swore he’d baked them today.’
‘But the corpses?’
Benedicta’s face became grave. ‘Thank God they’ve been recognized, Brother. The young woman was a whore, Prudence. She plied her trade at the Lion Heart tavern. The swarthy man was one of her customers.’ She gave a half-smile. ‘Apparently a preacher who warned against the lusts of the flesh. I suppose,’ she added tartly. ‘he wanted to find out whether they are as delicious as they sound. Bladdersniff took the cadavers away.’
‘Where will they be buried?’
‘The common grave at St Oswald’s. Bladdersniff declared that God’s acre in St Erconwald’s had its fair share of strange corpses, which nearly led to a fight between him and Watkin?’
‘And the young man?’
Benedicta’s lips tightened. ‘
He’s been recognised too: Miles Sholter.’ Benedicta indicated with her head. ‘His widow and friend are in the church.’ She moved closer. ‘Brother, is the rumour correct? Was Miles Sholter a royal messenger? They say he and his companion, Philip Eccleshall, were taking messages from the Regent John of Gaunt to the Earl of Arundel, who is on pilgrimage to Canterbury. Is it true, Brother,’ she insisted, ‘that if a royal messenger is murdered, the parish where his corpse is found is held responsible until the killer is found?’
‘All things are possible,’ Athelstan told her. ‘But let me see them.’
Now he was back in his parish, Athelstan did not feel so tired or weary. Inside the church the young widow, Eccleshall beside her, was sitting in the far corner near the steps to the tower. They rose as Athelstan entered and came out of the shadows. Eccleshall was tall, blond-haired, podgy-faced. He was dressed in a dark-brown jerkin with slashed, coloured sleeves; a war belt strapped round his waist carried sword, dagger and leather gauntlets. His leggings were bottle-green, tucked into high-heeled riding-boots in which spurs still clinked. He carried a cloak over his arm; on his chest were emblazoned the royal arms and he carried a small wrist shield which bore the same insignia. A soldier, Athelstan thought, a man used to camp and warfare. Mistress Sholter was tall, dark-haired, with an imperious face, high cheekbones and slanted eyes. Her painted cheeks were now stained with tears. Like Benedicta, she was dressed in a gown of dark-brown wool with a cloak fastened over her shoulder by a silver brooch. Around her neck hung a silver harp on a gold chain.
‘This is Brother Athelstan, our parish priest,’ Benedicta said.
‘I’m Philip Eccleshall, Brother, royal messenger and this,’ Eccleshall flicked his fingers as if his companion were beneath him, ‘is Bridget Sholter.’
The young woman started to cry, shoulders shaking, and went towards Athelstan, hands out. The friar caught her cold fingers and gripped them.
‘I’ve heard the news, Brother,’ Eccleshall informed him.
Athelstan waved them to the bench.
‘Sit down! Sit down!’
His guests did so. Athelstan and Benedicta lifted across another bench to sit opposite them.
