Field of Blood

'I'll have it, Sir John.'

Athelstan took the greasy-covered ledger, bound by pieces of red twine, and put it in his writing bag. Hengan was staring down at the table lost in his own thoughts.

'Master Ralph, you look sad.'

'Brother, I am more frightened.' Hengan sipped at the fresh tankard of ale. 'It does not augur well for Mistress Vestler. We know that the two corpses are those of Bartholomew the clerk and his sweetheart but there's also the question of the other skeletons.' He paused. 'Is it possible?'

'What?' Sir John demanded.

'Well, all the flesh and cloth had rotted away. Now around the city are numerous burial pits, relics of the great pestilence which swept through London thirty years ago. People were buried in gardens, any available piece of land.'

'And you think that's what happened in Black Meadow?' Athelstan asked.

'It's a possibility. I mean, if Mistress Vestler was a murderess, wouldn't we find or discover more corpses in the same state as Bartholomew?'

'There's one place I can look,' Athelstan added, 'my mother house in Blackfriars. When the pestilence swept through London the Dominican order did very good work. The brothers tended to the dead but they also made a careful list of burial grounds and, when the pestilence subsided, went out and blessed these.'

Sir John beamed from ear to ear.

'It's possible,' he whispered excitedly.

'But it makes little difference,' Hengan intervened. 'What does it matter if you hang for one or a dozen? Sir John, I think we should be going.'

They left the Lamb of God and made their way up through the milling crowds and into the open area before the grim doorway of Newgate. To one side ranged the fleshers' stalls and slaughterhouses. The cobbles ran with blood and ordure and the air was thick with the stench from the boiling cauldrons and vats.

Athelstan always hated the place. It stank of death, pain and punishment. The stocks in front of the prison were empty but a makeshift scaffold had been assembled. It was rarely used as an execution place but as a stark warning to the riff-raff who thronged about. In front of the massive gate swarmed beggars, grubby-faced clerks and scriveners eager to write messages for the unlettered. Turnkeys and gaolers moved about accepting bribes and gifts so people could be allowed through the metal-studded postern door into the yard beyond. Two prisoners had been released to beg for alms for those housed in the common cells. They wore nothing but loin cloths.

They were shackled together by long chains round their ankles and wrists, their emaciated, sore-covered bodies a pathetic reminder of the terrible conditions within. One of these pushed his clap-dish beneath Athelstan's chin.

'Some coins, Brother? Something for the poor within?'

Athelstan dropped a penny in but a sweaty-faced beadle was following the two prisoners so Athelstan wondered if the alms would go to those who needed them or the corrupt officials who regarded Newgate as their private fief. He followed Sir John up to the gate. The coroner had little time for the turnkeys. He simply showed his seal and thrust by them into the common yard. A gaoler took them across and up into the inner gatehouse.

Chambers stood on each floor. Athelstan glanced through an open door and recoiled in disgust: he was sure that a tray, lying within the doorway, held the severed ears of malefactors.

'Sir Jack,' he protested, 'I hate this place!'

They reached the fourth floor and the gaoler stopped before a heavy door set into the recess. When he unlocked the door Athelstan expected to see Mistress Brokestreet but it was flung open by a tall, black-haired man, thin-faced with a receding chin and a sharp-beaked nose which scythed the air. He was dressed from head to toe in a velvet gown of dark murrey trimmed with fur. The gaoler stepped hastily aside, almost knocking into Sir John in the narrow stairwell.

'Who are these people?' The man came out, closing the door behind him.

'Sir John Cranston, coroner of the city, and you, sir?'

'Master Odo Whittock, serjeant-at-law. Special emissary of Sir Henry Brabazon the chief justice.'

He looked over Sir John's shoulder, espied Hengan and his narrow eyes twinkled in amusement.

'I wager you've come to see Mistress Brokestreet. But the answer is no. Mistress Brokestreet is now a prisoner of the Crown and whatever you want to know can be learned in court.' He gestured with his finger. 'Above us lies Mistress Kathryn Vestler. I will not question her.' His lips parted in a smile. 'At least not now.'

And, without further ado, Whittock went back in, slamming the door behind him. The gaoler turned, his unshaven face creased into a smile.

'Sir John, I…'

'Oh bugger him!' Sir John growled. 'Let's see Mistress Vestler.'

The cell they were shown into was clean-swept, the shutters on the barred windows wide open; Mistress Vestler must have paid considerable amounts for a cell such as this. It contained a pallet bed, a bench, a table and two stools as well as a leather coffer with broken straps and buckles pushed against the wall. Clothes and blankets hung from pegs on the wall; on the table was an unfinished meal of bread, dried meat and some rather bruised apples. Mistress Vestler was staring out of the window and turned as they came in. If anything, Athelstan thought, she looked younger, more resolute than before. Her face was now hard set, no trace of any tears. She went and sat on the bed and watched as they came over. The gaoler locked the door behind them. She smiled up at Hengan.

'Have you come to take me home, Ralph?'

The lawyer coughed and shuffled his feet.

'Mistress, Sir John and I have questions for you.' She sighed, more concerned with straightening the dark-blue veil which covered her greying hair.

'I'm well looked after here,' she said. 'The place is clean. The gaoler says it's too high for the vermin.' She glanced at Athelstan who brought a stool across. 'It's good of you to come, Brother. I understand you have troubles of your own. A royal messenger killed in your parish?' She shook her head. 'It's so sad. I knew both Eccleshall and Sholter. Oh yes.' She saw the surprise in Athelstan's face. 'They often travelled from Westminster to the Tower and came striding into the Paradise Tree shouting for custom.'

'What were they like?' Athelstan asked as Sir John and Hengan brought across a bench.

'Oh, bully-boys both, especially Sholter; he would always swagger in roaring for a drink. Now he's gone! Life is truly a valley of shadows isn't it, Brother? But you have questions?' She didn't look at Sir John but at Athelstan. 'I also know your reputation: small and gentle with eyes which never miss anything.'

Athelstan smiled at the compliment. 'Mistress Kathryn, we are here to save you. I will be honest, that is going to be very hard.'

Mistress Vestler blinked, her lower lip quivered but she maintained her composure.

'Did you kill Bartholomew Menster and Margot Haden?'

'I did not.'

'Do you know how their corpses came to be buried in Black Meadow?' 'I do not.'

'Can you, Mistress Vestler,' Athelstan persisted, aware of how quiet this cell had fallen, 'remember the twenty-fifth June, the day after midsummer? That was the last day Bartholomew and Margot were seen alive.'

'I don't know, I can't remember.'

'What do you think happened?'

'Bartholomew must have come into the tavern to eat, drink and meet Margot.' She shook her head. 'But, apart from that …'