The Field of Blood

by Paul Doherty

  ‘Can I offer you something to eat or drink?’ the friar enquired.

  The woman shook her head. Eccleshall, too, refused.

  ‘We must be gone soon, Brother. Miles’s corpse has been taken to Greyfriars near St Paul’s. I have paid the good brothers to dress it for burial.’

  ‘Tell me what happened,’ Athelstan began.

  ‘Miles and Mistress Bridget live in Mincham Lane.’

  ‘That’s off Eastchepe?’ Benedicta asked.

  ‘We have a house there.’ The young woman lifted her head. ‘I am a seamstress, an embroiderer. I buy in cloth and sell it from a small shop below.’ Her lower lip quivered. ‘Miles and I had been married four years. He was well thought of. Why should anyone . . .?’

  ‘Tell me what happened,’ Athelstan repeated. He leaned across and patted the young woman on her hands.

  ‘The day before yesterday,’ Eccleshall replied, ‘I went down to Westminster and received the Regent’s letters for the Earl of Arundel. I then journeyed back to the royal stables in Candlewick Street where, by the Chancellor’s writ, two horses and a pack pony were ready.’

  ‘What time was this?’ Athelstan asked.

  ‘After three o’clock in the afternoon. I then journeyed on to Mincham Lane. Miles was already waiting. He made his farewells and we travelled down Bridge Street across the Thames and through Southwark. A pleasant journey, Brother, no trouble. We decided to lodge for the night at the Silken Thomas.’

  ‘Wouldn’t you travel further?’

  ‘No, once you get beyond Southwark the highway becomes lonely, rather deserted. Miles and I had decided to rest overnight and leave before dawn. By riding fast and changing horses, we could be in Canterbury by nightfall.’

  ‘And nothing happened?’

  ‘We arrived at the Silken Thomas. I hired a chamber while Miles took our saddlebags up. A simple, narrow room, two cot beds, the promise of a meal with bread and ale before we left in the morning. We must have stayed there about two hours. The sun was setting. I was dozing on the bed when Miles shook me awake. “Philip,” he hissed. “I’ve forgotten my silver Christopher.” Show him, Bridget.’

  The young woman undid her purse and took out a silver chain with a medal of St Christopher hanging on it. The medal was large, about two inches across. Athelstan took it and studied it carefully. It weighed heavily, probably copper-gilt with silver.

  ‘Miles had always been a royal messenger,’ she explained. ‘And, whatever the journey, he always took this with him. But, before he set off, he changed and left this on a stool in our bedchamber.’

  ‘And he went back for it?’ Athelstan asked.

  ‘He wouldn’t listen to me.’ Eccleshall shook his head. “I’m going back,” Miles said. “It won’t take long.” He put on his cloak and hood and went downstairs. I followed and said that I would wait for his return, he replied he wouldn’t be long and galloped away.’

  ‘And what happened then?’

  ‘He never came home.’ Mistress Sholter spoke up. ‘But there again, Brother, I did not expect him. After Miles had left, I closed up the shop and went up to Petty Wales to buy some goods and provisions. I returned.’ She fought back the tears. ‘I thought Miles and Philip were safely on the road to Canterbury.’

  ‘When he didn’t return,’ Eccleshall said, ‘the next morning I travelled back into the city. I thought something had happened but, when I visited Mistress Bridget, she said she had not seen her husband. I then began my search. I heard rumours of corpses being found and came here.’ He shrugged. ‘I recognised Miles immediately but the other two I’ve never seen before.’

  ‘And what was Miles wearing?’ Athelstan asked.

  ‘The same as me, Brother: a tabard, war belt, boots and cloak.’

  ‘A strong man?’

  ‘Oh yes, vigorous, a good swordsman.’

  ‘So, if he was attacked, he would defend himself resolutely.’

  ‘Brother, both Miles and I were soldiers.’

  Athelstan paused and looked at the wall painting behind his visitors, depicting David killing Goliath.

  ‘Let us say,’ Athelstan began slowly, ‘that Miles was attacked as he travelled back into Southwark. The first question is why?’

  ‘He was a royal messenger, Brother. He wore the tabard and shield.’

  ‘But why should someone attack him?’

  Eccleshall shrugged. ‘For any money he carried, his horse and weapons, not to mention the despatches.’

  ‘But he wasn’t carrying them that night, was he?’

  ‘Oh no, Brother, I had them with me at the Silken Thomas.’

  ‘Very well.’ Athelstan played with the tassel on the cord round his waist. ‘Had anyone a grudge against Miles? Was it possible that you were followed to the Silken Thomas and, when Miles left . . .?’

  ‘No, Brother,’ Bridget Sholter intervened. ‘Miles was a merry soul. No one had a grudge or grievance against him.’

  ‘So, it has to be put down to either robbery or treason?’

  ‘It’s possible. The Great Community of the Realm often attacks royal messengers.’

  ‘And what happens then?’

  Eccleshall looked surprised.

  ‘I mean,’ Athelstan explained, ‘are their bodies left in a hedgerow or a ditch?’

  ‘No, Brother, they generally tend to disappear. So no one can take the blame.’

  ‘I agree.’ Athelstan moved on the bench. ‘Now, Master Eccleshall, you are a soldier. I, too, have fought in the King’s wars. Here we have a strong, well-armed young man riding his horse along the country lanes back into Southwark. You and I, Master Philip, are rebels. What do we do? We must get this man to stop and dismount.’

  ‘One of us could lie down,’ Eccleshall replied. ‘Pretending to be injured.’

  ‘But would you do that?’ Athelstan asked.

  ‘No, Brother, I wouldn’t.’

  ‘Of course not,’ Athelstan retorted. ‘It’s a well-known trick and royal messengers, I understand, are under strict instructions to be wary of such guile and knavery. Miles Sholter was an experienced messenger, a soldier. Even if he was dismounted he would still be a powerful adversary. What I am saying, Master Eccleshall, is that Miles Sholter, if attacked by rebels or robbers, would first have been struck by an arrow.’

  ‘It’s possible, Brother, that his horse was brought down beneath him.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I hadn’t thought of that.’

  ‘I understand your unease, Brother,’ Eccleshall continued. ‘But bailiff Bladdersniff said that Miles’s corpse was found in a derelict house, an old miser’s home in the middle of a field.’

  ‘Yes, and that’s the mystery. How did Miles get there? Where is his horse, his tabard, his war belt? And you see, Master Philip, we know that the two others, the whore and her customer, were killed because they surprised the slayer.’

  ‘In what way, Brother?’

  Athelstan rubbed the side of his head.

  ‘I don’t know. Sholter was apparently killed the day before yesterday, his corpse taken to that derelict house. The following evening the killer returns to strip it completely but he’s surprised, so he slays his unexpected visitors.’

  Athelstan tapped his foot on the floor. Bonaventure took this as a sign to jump in his lap and sat there purring.

  ‘I’m intrigued,’ Athelstan continued. ‘Would robbers or rebels go to such lengths? Surely they’d drag poor Sholter off his horse, kill him and flee?’

  ‘I disagree, Brother. Rebels would certainly hide the corpse and show little mercy to anyone who disturbed them.’

  ‘Them?’ Athelstan asked.

  ‘It must have been more than one to attack a man like Miles Sholter.’

  Athelstan caught the note of pride in Eccleshall’s voice.

  ‘And then to kill two more people. I’ve seen the corpses: both the whore and the other man were young, vigorous. They would have resisted, wouldn’t they?’

  Athelstan stared at the royal mess
enger: what Eccleshall said made sense.

  ‘But you know what will happen?’ the friar said quietly. ‘The corpse of a royal messenger has been discovered in my parish, at a time when the shires round London seethe with unrest.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Brother: what the Regent does is not my concern. I know a fine will be levied but you could argue the murder didn’t take place here.’

  ‘That’s not the law!’ Athelstan snapped. ‘Master Eccleshall, Mistress Sholter, I grieve for your loss, I truly do. I shall remember Miles and the other victims at Mass. However, hideous murders have taken place! Blood cries to God for vengeance and, if I know the Lord Regent, justice will be speedily done. It has not been unheard of for Gaunt to hang people out of hand as a warning to others. Whoever killed those three unfortunates could have more blood on their hands.’ He rose to his feet. ‘If you learn anything at all?’

  Eccleshall promised that he would return immediately. Athelstan gave them his blessing and they both left the church. Benedicta locked the door behind them.

  ‘Is that safe?’ Athelstan smiled. ‘What if Pike the ditcher’s wife comes? Benedicta the widow woman and the parish priest locked in the church?’

  ‘Bonaventure’s my escort,’ Benedicta teased back.

  Athelstan looked down at the cat; Bonaventure stretched, then padded over into the corner to search out the cause of certain sounds, only to return and stare up at his master.

  ‘You are worse than a monk,’ Athelstan teased. ‘You know the hours and times for food.’

  ‘What do you think?’ Benedicta sat down on a bench.

  ‘Benedicta, God forgive me, I am in God’s house but what I say is the truth between the two of us. Miles Sholter, the preacher, and that pathetic young woman were murdered. I don’t think Sholter was attacked by rebels or robbers. An arrow wound to the back or one loosed deep into the heart: that’s the mark of the night people.’

  ‘So what?’ Benedicta asked.

  ‘I don’t know.’ Athelstan shook his head. ‘I sit in confession and listen to people’s sins.’ He paced up and down. ‘I was taught by Prior Anselm to use logic and reason yet, at other times, it’s good to forget these and listen to the heart.’

  ‘Are you saying that Eccleshall and Mistress Sholter are assassins?’

  Athelstan sat next to her on the bench.

  ‘Listen Benedicta,’ he said quietly. ‘Here we have a young man, a royal messenger, happy and content. He leaves London and reaches a tavern. He finds he has forgotten his St Christopher medal and comes rushing back. On his way home he is brutally attacked and murdered, that would be Saturday evening. On Sunday his corpse is discovered in a derelict house by two people who are killed for their intrusion. All three corpses lie there until Luke Bladdersniff, our most industrious bailiff, finds them. Now, what’s wrong with the theory that all three were killed by night-walkers?’

  ‘Well. We know robbers or rebels do not act like that!’

  ‘Good, Benedicta! Now we enter the realm of logic and evidence. Why should their corpses be kept? This is where the assassin, or assassins, made a mistake. I am sure Sholter’s corpse would either have been destroyed by fire or hidden so it was never discovered. Matters, however, were complicated by the two intruders, so the assassin had to be careful. Hiding one corpse is relatively simple but three? The assassin, or assassins, returned on Sunday evening to finish their work with Sholter but the killing of the other two foiled that plan. Fire was the best solution but to burn a house requires oil and kindling. It’s out in the countryside and such grisly preparations might be observed.’

  ‘So, he was planning to return?’

  ‘Possibly. When people were looking elsewhere for Sholter, the assassin, or assassins, would return, probably Monday evening, burning the house to the ground and consuming the corpses hidden inside. However, there’s something more interesting. Tell me, Benedicta, when you leave your house what do you do?’ He grasped her hand. ‘Close your eyes. Tell me precisely what you do!’

  ‘I put my cloak on. I make sure I am carrying my wallet, purse and belt. I check that there are no candles or fires left burning.’

  ‘Good, honest woman.’

  ‘I close the windows, lock the door and put the key in my wallet.’

  ‘Go on!’ Athelstan encouraged her.

  ‘I am walking down the street. I am thinking about what I am going to buy. I am also worried about a certain meddlesome priest . . .’ Benedicta rubbed her eyes. ‘Who doesn’t eat properly.’

  ‘Terrible man,’ Athelstan answered. ‘But what else, Benedicta? What do you check?’

  ‘That my key and any monies I carry are safe.’ She laughed deep in her throat. ‘The St Christopher medal!’

  ‘Oh mulier fortis et audax, brave and bold woman,’ Athelstan replied, quoting from the scriptures. ‘You have said it, Benedicta! Here is a messenger leaving his young wife. He will stop at a tavern on Saturday evening and continue his journey on Sunday. He’s riding through open countryside. He’s well armed and protected: however, he’s a young man who has a deep devotion to St Christopher and knows such journeys can be dangerous. Isn’t it strange, Benedicta, that he never feels his neck for the chain, never realises it’s missing until he reaches the Silken Thomas?’ Athelstan held a finger to his lips. ‘What he does next is both reasonable and logical. He hurries back but, surely, he wouldn’t have forgotten it in the first place? And, even if he had, he must have noticed it was missing long before he reached the tavern?’

  ‘There’s only one flaw in your logic.’

  ‘I am sure there is. And it would take a woman to find it.’

  ‘What if Eccleshall is telling the truth? What happens if Sholter deliberately left the medal behind to provide a pretext for returning home?’

  Athelstan raised his eyebrows. ‘Prior Anselm would like you. It’s possible! Sholter, for some reason unknown to us, distrusts his pretty young wife so he goes to the tavern and decides to return. He rides through the night, reaches Mincham Lane where his wife is entertaining someone else. A quarrel breaks out. Sholter is killed.’ He glanced at Benedicta. ‘And what next, mistress of logic?’

  ‘The corpse is put into a cart, covered or hidden, and taken out to that derelict house.’

  ‘Now, that is possible. But a cart would be seen, it would leave marks. It has to be trundled through busy streets and why go there? Why not take it out through Aldgate, hide it in the wild countryside north of the Tower?’ He tapped Benedicta on the nose. ‘But I accept your reasoning. Yet I am certain either one, or both, of that precious pair are implicated in Sholter’s murder.’ He fought back his anger. ‘For which this parish is going to pay.’

  ‘There are other difficulties,’ Benedicta pointed out. ‘What if we can prove that Mistress Sholter stayed in her house on Saturday evening and Master Eccleshall never left that tavern?’

  Athelstan got to his feet and clapped his hands at Bonaventure.

  ‘That, my dear Heloise, would pose a problem!’

  ‘Who’s she?’

  ‘A beautiful woman who fell in love with a priest called Abelard.’

  ‘I’ve never heard of him,’ she replied tartly.

  ‘Come.’ Athelstan walked to the door, Bonaventure trotting behind him. ‘Let’s feed the inner man.’

  They left the church. Outside the day was dying. Athelstan expected to see some of his parishioners but, apart from Ursula the pig woman disappearing down the alleyway, her great sow trotting after her, ears flapping, the church forecourt was empty. Philomel was leaning against his stall busily munching.

  Athelstan found his small house swept and cleaned, a fire ready to be lit. On the scrubbed table stood two pies covered with linen cloths and an earthenware jug of ale. Bonaventure went and lay down in front of the empty grate. Athelstan brought traunchers and goblets from the kitchen, horn spoons from his small coffer. He was about to say grace when there was a knock on the door and Godbless, followed by his little goat, bustled into
the house. The beggarman was small, his hair dishevelled, eyes gleaming in his whiskered weatherbeaten face. Athelstan noticed the horn spoon clutched in his hand. Thaddeus went across to sniff at Bonaventure but that great lord of the alleyways didn’t even deign to life his head.

  ‘I am hungry, Brother.’

  ‘Godbless, you always are. When you die we’ll say you were a saint.’

  Godbless looked puzzled.

  ‘You can read minds,’ Athelstan explained.

  ‘I’ve been in the death house.’ Godbless rubbed his stomach and looked at the pies. ‘I’ve had some cheese and bread but I knew about these pies, Brother.’

  ‘It’s not the death house,’ Athelstan reminded him. ‘Pike and Watkin have built a new one and, from now on, you are to call your little house the “porter’s lodge”. You are the guardian of God’s acre. I don’t want Pike and Watkin getting drunk there or Cecily the courtesan meeting her sweethearts in the long grass. If I’ve told that girl once, I’ve told her a thousand times: only the dead are supposed to lie there.’

  Godbless solemnly nodded.

  ‘And I’m going to offer you a reward.’ Athelstan gestured at him to sit. ‘I have this dream,’ the friar continued, pushing a trauncher towards the little beggarman. ‘To actually plant vegetables which I, not Ursula’s sow, will eat.’

  ‘I’ve driven that beast off before, Brother.’

  ‘Beast is well named,’ Athelstan quipped. ‘That pig fears neither God nor man.’

  ‘I’m glad I’m here.’

  Godbless watched as Benedicta cut the pie and held his trauncher out. Athelstan filled the earthenware cups with ale.

  ‘That young woman in the cemetery, she is such doleful company!’

  The friar nearly dropped the jug. ‘What young woman?’

  ‘You know, Eleanor, Basil the blacksmith’s daughter. She’s just sitting under a yew tree muttering to herself.’

  Athelstan was already striding towards the door. Godbless happily helped himself to another piece of pie and began to eat as fast as he could. The friar, followed by Benedicta, hurried through the enclosure along the side of the church and into the cemetery where Athelstan climbed on to an old stone plinth tomb. It supposedly contained the bones of a robber baron who had been hanged and gibbetted outside St Erconwald’s many years ago.