Field of Blood

'A miracle eh, Brother?'

'Everything's a miracle.' Athelstan grinned back. He offered the Salamander King a penny. 'I must hire you for St Erconwald's in Southwark, the children would love it.'

'I am always about the city, Brother. Just ask for the Salamander King.'

Athelstan thanked him. He was about to turn away when he noticed something glinting against the pony's neck. 'Excuse me.'

He walked over and grasped the St Christopher medal hanging down from the saddle horn, which was almost identical to the one Bridget Sholter had shown him. It had the same thickness, but the chain was not so bright and the locket itself was dented and splattered with mud.

'What's the matter, Brother?' The Salamander King drew closer.

'I am intrigued, sir. This is a St Christopher medal. You don't wear it because it interferes with your tricks?'

'Of course not, Brother. This is a St Christopher locket, but you don't wear it round your neck. Here, I'll show you.'

He took the chain off the saddle horn and looped it over Athelstan's head. The locket itself lay against his stomach. The chain, being so thick, was rather heavy. He could certainly feel its weight.

The Salamander King took it off and put it back over his saddle. 'The locket is supposed to hang down so, as you get on and off your horse, you see it.' He picked up the medal and kissed it. 'That's what I do during my journey. I also touch it whenever I have to cross a rickety-looking bridge or ford a river.'

Athelstan closed his eyes. 'I should have known that,' he murmured. 'Oh friar, as Sir John would say, your wits are fuddled.'

'Are you all right, Brother?'

Athelstan opened his eyes and slipped another coin into the Salamander King's hands.

'God works in wondrous ways, sir,' he said. 'Angels do come in many forms.'

And, leaving the bemused fire-eater, Athelstan returned to where Sir John had at last traced his chief bailiff.

Chapter 9

Sir John wouldn't listen to what Flaxwith had to say but marched from the Tower as if he were leading a triumphant procession. He strode ahead up Eastchepe, Gracechurch Street, Lombard Street and into the Poultry. When they reached Cheapside it was thronged with crowds flocking round the stalls and markets. The pillories were full of miscreants trapped by their necks, fingers, arms or legs. Others had been herded into the great cage perched on top of the conduit which distributed water to the city. Sir John waved at all his 'lovelies' as he passed: night-walkers, rifflers, roaring-boys, pickpockets and drunks. He was met with sullen stares or abusive ribaldry.

The coroner was well known in the area, and his towering figure and luxuriant moustache and beard only highlighted his rubicund face. Ladies of the night, 'my little Magdalenas' as Sir John described them, disappeared at his approach up dark alleyways and runnels. He stopped to throw a penny at a whistling man who could imitate the call of the birds and roared at the cheap Johns, their trays slung around their necks, to keep their distance. Flaxwith and two other bailiffs, plodding behind Athelstan, quietly laughed at some of the names Sir John was called. Abruptly the coroner stopped as if transfixed, blue eyes protuberant, mouth gaping. 'Oh Satan's tits!' he breathed.

Athelstan stood on tiptoe and saw heading for Sir John, Leif the one-legged beggarman.

'That bugger can move quicker than a grasshopper!'

Leif, together with his constant friend and companion, Raw Bum, always had an eye for Sir John. For some strange reason Lady Maude was much taken by this beggar who pleaded for alms and food outside kitchen doors and entertained the whole of Cheapside with his new found role as chanteur or carol-singer. Athelstan suspected that Lady Maude used Leif as a spy on Sir John's whereabouts, particularly his visits, fairly regular, to the Lamb of God.

'Ah, Sir John.'

Leif rested on the shoulder of Raw Bum, a rogue who'd suffered the misfortune of sitting down on a scalding pan of oil.

'Good morrow, Leif.' Sir John was already fishing into his purse for two pennies.

'The Lady Maude is well. She was much taken by my new caroclass="underline" "I am a robin" …!'

'You will be a dead robin if you don't get out of my way!' Sir John growled.

'The Lady Maude is in good fettle,' Leif prattled on. 'But your two hounds Gog and Magog were in your carp pond and the two poppets …'

'What's wrong with the lovely lads?'

'Oh nothing, Sir John, they are just soaked and wet.'

'And?'

'The Lady Maude asked me to keep an eye open to see if you returned to Cheapside …' He took the pennies offered. 'But, of course, Sir John, I haven't seen you.'

And Leif, helped by Raw Bum, hobbled away.

Sir John, muttering curses under his breath, swept into the taproom of the Lamb of God. The taverner's wife bustled up. Sir John was taken to his favourite seat by the window where he ordered tankards for Athelstan, Hengan, Flaxwith and his two bailiffs. Once these had been served, the coroner leaned back in his seat.

'Well, Flaxwith?'

'I've been across to the Merry Pig, sir.'

'A well-known brothel house. Go on.'

'Alice Brokestreet entered the service of the Merry Pig weeks ago. Not as a whore, though she may have granted her favours, but more as a chamber girl and wine maid. She killed a clerk in a quarrel and escaped but the hue and cry were raised.'

'And?' Sir John asked testily. 'The vicar of hell?'

'The tavern-keeper said he had no knowledge of such a man.'

'I am sure he did.'

'But, he said that if he came across him, he would present the compliments of my lord coroner and Brother Athelstan.'

'Do you hear that, friar?'

Athelstan, lost in a reverie, started and looked at Sir John.

'A brothel-keeper knows you.'

'We are all God's children, Sir John.'

'What are you thinking about, Brother?'

Athelstan picked up his writing bag, took out a scrap of parchment, seal, inkpot and quill. He wrote a few lines.

'I'm thinking about St Christopher medals, Sir John.'

Athelstan shook the piece of parchment to ensure the ink was dry. He took a penny out of his purse and handed the coin and scrap of parchment to Flaxwith.

'When you've finished your ale, Henry, would you and your lads go back to Petty Wales. Seek out a young woman called Hilda Smallwode in Shoe Lane: she's maid to Bridget Sholter.'

'Oh, the widow of the murdered messenger?'

'Ask her the question I've written out. Did she see her master's medal hanging from his saddle horn or did she notice it in the house after he had left? You are to tell her you are from Sir John Cranston and she's to keep the matter secret.'

Flaxwith, eager to be away, drained his tankard and got to his feet, gesturing at his companions to follow.

'By the way,' Athelstan asked, 'where's Samson?'

'I've left him at a horse leech in Bodkin Lane.'

'Ah!' Sir John breathed. 'Don't say the darling boy's ill?'

'Something he ate, Sir John. He stole a string of sausages from a butcher's stall last night and the little fellow hasn't been the same since.'

Sir John raised his tankard and toasted him.

'Do give Samson my love.'

Flaxwith stamped out, complaining under his breath about Sir John's attitude to his beloved dog. The coroner ordered more tankards.

'I've got some bad news. While you were away looking at that fire-eater, Athelstan, I asked Henry about the accounts of the Paradise Tree but they've already been taken. Odo Whittock has, in the name of the chief justice, seized them already' Sir John dug into the deep pocket in his cloak and drew out a tattered ledger. 'That's all he could find but it's five years old, the last year Stephen Vestler was alive. I was going to …'