Field of Blood

Sir John snorted in surprise.

'Don't look at me like that, Sir John Cranston! You may be a King's officer but so am I. I am responsible for the gatehouse, and am constable and keeper of the bridge. I also have my heads!'

He led them down a narrow passageway and out into the garden beyond, a small plot of grass with flower beds stretching down to the high rail fence which overlooked the river. Just before this ranged six poles driven deep into the soil.

'Oh, Lord save us!' Athelstan whispered.

On three of the poles were severed heads, freshly cut, the blood flowing down the wooden posts. Thankfully they were turned the other way facing out towards the Tower.

'Must we stand here?' Sir John murmured, feeling slightly sick.

'The court says,' the mannikin replied, 'that these heads are to be displayed before sunset. River pirates, Sir John, caught in the estuary they were. Sentence was carried out on Tower Hill just after dawn this morning. I comb their hair, wash their faces.' He pointed further down where the long execution poles jutted out over the river. 'And then I'll place them there.'

Sir John took a swig from his wineskin then cursed as he realised the Venerable Veronica had already emptied it for him.

'Come on, Athelstan, get to the point!' he growled.

Burdon was gazing longingly at his heads.

'Do you know what, Robert?' Athelstan asked. 'You are one of the few adults smaller than me. Anyway, I have one question for you. On Saturday evening, about five o'clock, did two royal messengers ride across the bridge?'

'Of course they did. Cloaked and cowled, carrying their warrants and, according to custom, they showed me their commissions before they left the city.'

Athelstan clasped the little man round the shoulder.

'In which case, Robert, we won't keep you from your heads any longer.'

And, not waiting for the mannikin to lead them, they went back through the house and on to the bridge.

'I'd forgotten about that.' Cranston nudged Athelstan playfully. 'Of course, every royal messenger leaving the city by the bridge must, by regulation, show his commission to the gatekeeper. Why, what did you suspect?'

'Oh, that something had happened to Miles Sholter and perhaps only one of them left. I don't know.' Athelstan shook his head. 'Now, Sir John, before we go to the Tower, I must have words with Mistress Sholter in Mincham Lane.'

Sir John gazed dolefully up at the sky.

'Here we are, Brother, on London Bridge, between heaven and earth! My feet are sore, my wineskin's empty and everywhere we turn there's no door, just brick walls without even a crack to slip through.'

'We'll find one, Jack,' Athelstan replied. 'And the sooner the better.'

They crossed the bridge as quickly as they could. Athelstan tried not to look left or right between the gaps in the houses. He always found the drop to the river rather dizzying and disconcerting.

They left the bridge, went down Billingsgate and up Love Lane into Eastchepe. Sir John wanted to stop at an alehouse but Athelstan urged him on. At the entrance to Mincham Lane they found the way barred by a group of wandering troubadours who were playing a scene using mime. Athelstan stood fascinated. The troubadour leader was challenging the crowd to say which scene from the gospels they were copying. Athelstan watched.

'It's the sower sowing his seed!' he called out.

The troubadour's face became stern. Athelstan realised he had solved the riddle and should collect the reward. The rest of the troupe stopped. The troubadour picked up the little silver cup which was the prize. He looked down at it then at Athelstan.

'Run for it, lads!' he bawled.

And the whole group took off down an alleyway pursued by the jeers and cat-calls of their small audience.

'Very good, Brother.' Sir John grinned. 'I've never seen that trick before. They collect money from the audience and, if anyone solves the problem, they are off like the wind.'

They went further along into Mincham Lane, a broad thoroughfare with pink plaster houses on either side. Most of the lower stories served as shops with stalls in front displaying clothing, felts, shoes and caps. The sewer, unlike those in Southwark, was clean and smelt of the saltpetre placed over the night soil and other refuse.

Mistress Sholter's house was at the far end, a two-storied building with a pointed roof and jutting gables. A well-furnished stall stood outside the front door, the lintel of which was draped in mourning clothes.

'Is your mistress within?' Sir John asked the two apprentices manning it.

'Yes, sir, she's still grieving,' one of them replied lugubriously. 'She's there with her maid and Master Eccleshall.'

Sir John and Athelstan entered the house and waited in the hallway. It was clean and well furnished. Pieces of black lawn now covered the gleaming white plaster on either side. A young woman, her hair gathered up in a mob cap, came out of a room to their right.

'I beg your pardon, sirs?'

'Sir John Cranston, coroner, and his secretarius Brother Athelstan.'

'Oh, do come in,' a voice called.

The maid stepped aside. Cranston and Athelstan entered a well-furnished parlour where Mistress Sholter and Eccleshall were seated on either side of the hearth. A sewing-basket in the window seat showed where the maid had been sitting. The widow and her companion rose. Athelstan made the introductions and the coroner quickly accepted Mistress Sholter's offer of refreshment.

Sweet wine was served and a small tray of crusty, sweet marchpane. Athelstan refused this but Sir John took a number of pieces, murmured his condolences and slurped at the wine cup.

'I'm sorry to intrude on your mourning.'

Athelstan noted that most of the hangings on the walls were hidden by funeral cloths.

'However, I need to ask further questions.'

Bridget Sholter's face looked even paler, framed by her dark hair under a mourning veil which fell down beneath her shoulders.

'What questions, Brother? I've been sitting here with Philip wondering what had happened.'

'Tell me again?'

'I've told you,' Eccleshall said. 'Miles and I left here about four o'clock.'

'And you reached the Silken Thomas?'

'Oh, about six.'

'You travelled slowly?'

'What was the hurry? We'd decided to stay at the Silken Thomas and leave before dawn. We would be refreshed and so would our horses.' He shrugged. 'Measure out the distance yourself. It takes an age to get across the bridge; we stopped to pray at the chapel of St Thomas a Becket. Then, of course, we had to wait for that officious little gatekeeper.'

'True, true,' Sir John agreed. 'A leisurely ride from here to the Silken Thomas would take that long.'

'And you, Mistress Bridget?' Athelstan asked.

She made a face and gestured at her maid.

'Hilda here will attest to this: shortly after Miles went, I closed the stall, after all it was Saturday afternoon. I left the house and went down to the markets in Petty Wales.'

'Then you came back here?'

'Well, of course, Brother.' She laughed softly. 'Where else could I go?'

'It's true what my mistress says,' the maid said. 'The master left. As he did so, the apprentices were bringing the goods in. The mistress then dismissed me and she took her basket out.'

'You don't sleep here?'

'Oh no, Brother, I live with my own family in Shoe Lane.'

'Our house is very small,' Bridget Sholter explained. 'We have a parlour, kitchen and scullery while the upper rooms are used as bedchamber, a small chancery office and storerooms.'

'But I came back here later,' Hilda said.

'At what time?'

'Oh, it must have been just before curfew, between ten and eleven o'clock.' 'What is your name?'