Field of Blood

'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

'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?'

Bcncdicta's face became grave. 'Thank God they've been recognised, 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.

'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?'