"Field of Blood" - читать интересную книгу автора (Doherty Paul)

Chapter 11

'Ecce Agnus Dei. Ecce qui tollis peccata mundi: Behold the Lamb of God, behold Him who takes away the sins of the world!'

Athelstan stood with his back to the altar and lifted the host above the chalice. He was celebrating a late Mass and most of his parishioners were present, huddled in the entrance to the rood screen. Athelstan turned back to the altar. He ate the host and drank from the chalice.

'May the body and blood of Christ,' he whispered, 'be not to my damnation but a source of eternal life.' He closed his eyes. 'Help me Lord,' he prayed. 'Make me as innocent as a dove and as cunning as a serpent. Send Your spirit to guide me. I thank You for the great favour You have shown.'

Athelstan could have hugged himself. He'd fallen asleep in the chair and woken in the early hours of the morning to see the scrap of parchment Benedicta had kindly pushed under the door. Master Burdon had told the truth. Athelstan, for the first time, could see a path through the tangle of troubles besetting him.

He heard a commotion at the back of the church and looked round. The fisher of men had entered with his strange coven around him. This caused consternation among the parishioners. The fisher of men was much feared, regarded as an outcast, and the members of St Erconwald's hastened to move away. Athelstan, however, continued with the Mass. He brought the ciborium down and distributed the hosts. He then went out into the nave and held a host up before the fisher of men.

'Ecce Corpus Christi! Behold the Body of Christ!'

The fisher of men's eyes filled with tears.

'We are not worthy, Brother.'

'No man is,' Athelstan said. 'Ecce Corpus Christi!' 'Amen!'

The fisher of men closed his eyes and opened his mouth. Athelstan put the host on his tongue. He then moved round the other members of the coven. Some objected. Athelstan felt a deep compassion for these most wretched of people, their eyes and mouths ringed with sores. He walked back to the altar and finished the Mass. However, he did not return to the sacristy but stood on the top of the altar

'The fisher of men,' he told his congregation, 'is my guest.'

'Brother.' Watkin spoke up. 'They search for the dead and…'

'Do their job well, Watkin, just like you sweep the streets of Southwark.'

'They are ugly,' Pernell the Fleming woman objected.

Athelstan, looking at her garish hair, thought he had never seen such a clear case of the pot calling the pan black.

'God does not think they are ugly,' Athelstan replied. 'All He sees are His children.'

A murmur of dissent greeted his words.

'They are our guests,' Athelstan urged. 'Now go, the Mass is ended!'

He went into the nave of the church where the fisher of men sat with his back to one of the pillars, his motley crew around him.

'Would you like something to eat or drink?' Athelstan asked.

'No, Brother, what you did and what you said is good enough.' The fisher of men's skull-like face broke into a grin; he grasped the shoulder of young Icthus who stared, fish-like, his cod mouth protuberant. 'Go on boy,' the fisher of men said. 'Show what we found.'

The parishioners on the other side of the church watched anxiously. Icthus skipped down the nave and Athelstan saw a bundle just inside the doorway covered with a canvas sheet. It was still dripping wet. Icthus picked it up and placed it at Athelstan's feet. When the fisher of men triumphantly plucked the sheet away Athelstan gazed down at a dirty, mud-slimed saddle, beneath whose heavy leather horn was the royal escutcheon. He turned the saddle over, and saw burned on the leather beneath, the letters M. S.

'Miles Sholter!' he breathed. 'This is a royal messenger's saddle!'

'And, Brother, look in the pouch.'

The friar turned the saddle back over, his hands and cuffs now soaked with the dirty river water. The fisher of men tapped the small leather pouch tucked into the saddle.

'Go on, Brother!'

Athelstan dug his fingers in. He could have cried 'Alleluia! Alleluia!' at what he felt. He took out the large St Christopher medal and couldn't resist doing a small dance of joy. His parishioners flocked closer, now seriously concerned about their little priest's wits.

'Is everything all right, Brother?' Pike glared at the fisher of men.

'Pike!' Athelstan exclaimed. 'God forgive you, but sometimes you are a great fool! And the same goes for all of you!' He grasped the fisher of men's shoulder. 'I prayed for deliverance. Oh, it's true what scripture says: "Angels come in many forms. This man has delivered us. Yea!".' Athelstan quoted from the psalms. ' "From the pit others had dug for us!" We will not have to pay a fine!'

That was it for the parishioners. Led by Benedicta, they streamed across the nave, thronging around the fisher of men, clapping him on the shoulder. Merry Legs, the pie shop owner, loudly proclaimed that each of them should receive the freshest and sweetest of pastries. Joscelyn the taverner, not wishing to be outdone, said he'd broach a fresh cask of ale. Athelstan had never seen a church empty so quickly. The fisher of men and his coven were bundled through the door, the parishioners loudly singing their praises, though they were still in doubt as to what miracle these strange creatures had wrought. Crim came speeding out across the sanctuary but Athelstan caught him by the shoulder.

'Crim!' He fished under his robes and took a penny from his purse. 'Merry Legs will keep a pie for you. Benedicta, bring the fisher of men back here.'

The widow woman hurried out and returned with their unexpected visitor.

'Where did you find it?' Athelstan asked.

'There's nothing the river can hide from us, Brother. In the reeds opposite Botolph's Wharf. I would wager someone went into the mud and threw it as far as they could. However, the silt and the weeds at the bottom caught and held it fast. Whoever did it must have been in a hurry'

'Oh yes they were,' Athelstan agreed. 'And now they can hurry to the scaffold and answer to God. Benedicta, see to our guests. Crim, go to Sir John Cranston. He is to bring his bailiffs and meet me outside Mistress Sholter's house in Mincham Lane. Now go, boy! Benedicta will see that your portion of pie is kept.'

Athelstan disrobed, piling his vestments on a stool just inside the sanctuary. He gave Benedicta the keys of the church and asked her to clear up the sacred vessels, thanked the fisher of men again and hastened across to his house. Pike followed him over.

'Brother?'

'Yes, Pike?'

'The Community of the Realm.' The ditcher shuffled his feet. 'They had nothing to do with these murders.'

Athelstan smiled. 'Yes, Pike, I can see that now.'

An hour later, a slightly breathless, sweat-soaked Athelstan walked into Mincham Lane. The day was a fine one, the autumn sun strong and warm. Athelstan, however, had barely noticed the weather as he hurried out of Southwark and across London Bridge. He realised he hadn't broken his fast and stopped for a quick stoup of ale and some fresh bread in a cookshop. Now he looked down the lane, quietly groaned then jumped as Sir John Cranston appeared like the Angel Gabriel out of the mouth of an alleyway, his bailiffs behind him.

'You look in good fettle, Sir John.'

Cranston wore a flat grey cap over his tousled white hair, a white linen shirt beneath a burgundy-coloured doublet. His broad war belt was strapped around his ponderous girth, fingers tapping the hilt.

'And you, Brother, look as if you've been dragged through a hedge backwards. What's all this excitement?'

Athelstan took him aside and whispered his news.

'Oh by Queen Mab's tits!' Sir John exclaimed. 'Oh, Satan's futtocks! What a little terrier you are, Athelstan.' He brought two hands down on the friar's shoulders. 'Just look at you. The face of a maid and the heart of a lawyer. Oh, come, come! Mistress Sholter awaits us!'

Cranston didn't stand on ceremony but brushed by the apprentices and into the suspect's house. Mistress Sholter was in the parlour, sitting at a counting table, a row of coins stacked before her. On the window seat behind, Hilda the maid was examining a broken strap one of the apprentices had brought in.

'Is Master Eccleshall here?' Sir John boomed. 'Of course not.'

Mistress Sholter rose in alarm. She was still dressed in widow's weeds, her face pale. Athelstan abruptly realised how deep her voice could be.

'Well, you can get out for a start!' Sir John pointed to the maid.

Athelstan heard a dog yapping; Flaxwith and Samson had joined them. Sir John went to the door.

'Henry, keep everybody out of here! Brother Athelstan and I wish words with Mistress Sholter.'

The coroner slammed the door behind him and drew the bolts. Mistress Sholter had retaken her seat.

'What is this?' Her eyes had a guarded look. 'Why do you come here like this? I am a widow, my husband is not yet buried.'

'You are a murderess.' Cranston eased himself down into a chair and leaned against the wooden panelling.

Athelstan sat on a high stool before the counting desk. He felt like a bird perched on a branch. The widow kept her poise but her nervousness was apparent. She kept shifting the stacks of coins.

'Tell her, Brother.'

'Last Saturday,' Athelstan began. 'You do remember last Saturday, Mistress Sholter?' 'Of course!'

'Your lover and accomplice Eccleshall brought horses from the royal stables.' 'My lover!'

'Yes, yes, quite. I'll come to that later. Anyway, your husband left, spurred, sword belt about him. He kissed you goodbye and mounted his horse. As he was riding down the street, or even before, he took out the St Christopher medal he always kept with him and hung it, like many travellers do, over the horn of his saddle.'

'Impossible!' Mistress Sholter spat out. 'He left it here. It's still upstairs.'

'No, mistress, your husband had two medals. A common enough habit with something precious. I shall tell you what happened. He and Eccleshall left Mincham Lane and rode down towards London Bridge. As is customary, because they are royal messengers, they had officially to notify the gatekeeper, Robert Burdon. He remembers your husband, and I have a testified statement that Burdon distinctly remembers the St Christopher medal hanging from your husband's saddle horn.'

'It may have been something else,' she intervened.

'I don't think so. The riders continued through Southwark and then, for God knows what reason, Eccleshall managed to persuade your husband to leave the road and climb a hill to a derelict house once owned by an old miser. The house is a gaunt, sprawling affair, allegedly haunted, so a rather lonely place. If Eccleshall noticed anyone he would probably have chosen a different location. As I said, God knows what excuse was used. Perhaps Eccleshall feigned illness, something wrong with his horse? Or just a curiosity to visit the old ruin? Once inside the house, however, Eccleshall continued with the plan he'd hatched with you. He killed your husband. The poor man would never dream that such an attack would be launched.' Athelstan paused. 'You know what happened then, mistress. They had taken their time crossing the bridge which would provide enough time for you to clear away the stall, dispense with your maid and hurry down through Petty Wales. You'd go disguised, cowled and hooded: one among many on a busy Saturday evening. Once on Southwark side you hastened along the lanes. I wonder if you arrived before they did?'

Mistress Sholter was now breathing quickly, leaning back in her chair.

'You took your husband's corpse and hid it in the cellar of that house. Your husband was clean-shaven, with long black hair. You would be the same height, mistress. You dressed in his clothes, boots, cloak, and wore his insignia. You and Eccleshall then travelled on to the Silken Thomas.'

'Someone would have noticed,' she interrupted.

'Oh, but they didn't. Eccleshall did all the talking. A room was quickly hired and up to the chamber you go. I am sure, mistress, where necessary, you could lower your voice, make it sound like a man's. Why should anyone think differently? Why should they suspect you weren't a man? You were a stranger at the Silken Thomas, cowled and cloaked. Most people are wary of royal messengers. Not like the Paradise Tree, eh?'

'The Paradise Tree!' she exclaimed.

'Yes, the tavern in Petty Wales where Miles and his so-called friend Eccleshall often went to drink. Strange, isn't it? The taverner there said your husband was known for his bully-boy ways, shouting his orders. At the Silken Thomas he was, apparently, quiet as a mouse.'

'And then there's the medal,' Sir John put in.

'Yes, I always had grave doubts about that,' Athelstan continued. 'Here is a man who leaves his house. He has a devotion to St Christopher. He didn't wear the medal round his neck but kept it in a pouch on his saddle and hung it over the saddle horn. Are you saying he forgot to do that for a long journey to Canterbury? That nothing jolted his memory, even when he stopped at St Thomas a Becket's chapel on London Bridge to pray for safe passage?' Athelstan noticed the beads of sweat running down the woman's face. 'It was a clumsy ploy,' he went on. 'But you had to explain how your husband was killed well away from Eccleshall's company'

'I… I…'

'Hush now, mistress. Let me finish.' Athelstan cleared his throat. 'You left the Silken Thomas pretending to be your husband riding back to collect his medal. But we know the truth, don't we? Your husband had two medals. You reached a lonely spot on the riverside opposite Botolph's Wharf when darkness was falling. You put on the great cloak you probably carried in a bag. You unstrap the saddle and harness, wade into the weeds and throw it into the river. The mud is deep, the water fast flowing. In days it might be swept away or begin to rot. You then clamber back on the bank. The horse you leave grazing; it won't stay free for long, someone will take it. In the gathering dusk you hire a barge across to Petty Wales and return by stealth to your house where, once again, you assume your proper attire. You dispose of any incriminating evidence and prepare to act the role of the grieving widow.' Athelstan paused. 'You made one real mistake: in your haste you forgot to remove that St Christopher medal. If you had, any talk of your husband having two could be easily dismissed.'

'Meanwhile,' Sir John took up the story, 'your accomplice sleeps on at the Silken Thomas. He has proven witnesses who will swear he never left the tavern. On Sunday he acts the distraught friend, riding hither and thither. Of course, he was waiting for nightfall.' Sir John took a swig of wine. 'Only the good Lord knows what you truly intended. Set fire to the old ruin where your husband's corpse was hidden? Or take it out, under the cover of darkness, and bury it in some desolate spot never to be discovered?' He pulled a face. 'What do you care? No one will ever know the truth and the blame will be laid at the door of robbers or rebels.'

Cranston took another swig and offered Athelstan the wineskin but the friar shook his head. He did not like the look on Mistress Sholter's face: arrogant, slightly mocking.

'You didn't really care, did you,' the friar demanded, 'who took the blame? My innocent parishioners would have to pay. You and your friend would play the roles you assumed. Time would pass, memory would dim. Tell me, when did you first plot it? Days, weeks, months ago? For what? So you could lie in adulterous passion and play the two-backed beast?'

Mistress Sholter moved some of the stacks of coins.

'What a farrago of nonsense!' she snapped. 'How can you prove that I left Petty Wales and journeyed to the Silken Thomas disguised as my husband?

True, he had two medals. Maybe he had forgotten that? Perhaps he was riding back for something else? Did he have a mistress in the city? Anyway, he's ambushed on a lonely road. The saddle bears the royal insignia so it's thrown in the river and the horse is taken and sold elsewhere.' She paused. 'I really don't know what you are talking about!' She preened herself.

'You know full well!' Athelstan insisted. 'You were party to your husband's murder; Eccleshall killed those other two because their arrival hindered his plans. One corpse is easy to hide or burn. But three? Did he panic? Did he flee? I am sure Mistress Sholter that, if you had been present, those corpses would never have been discovered.'

'I don't know what you are talking about,' she repeated.

Sir John sprang to his feet as he heard raised voices outside and, before Athelstan could stop him, he grabbed the St Christopher medal from his hands and walked out of the door. Eccleshall was standing by the stall held back by Flaxwith. Sir John strode up to him, slamming the front door shut. He held up the St Christopher medal.

'Pinion his arms!' he ordered.

The bailiffs grabbed the royal messenger and, before he could protest, took cords from their belts and bound his wrists.

'What is this?' Eccleshall spluttered.

Cranston pushed him along past the stalls and down a narrow alleyway. The coroner quietly prayed that Athelstan would keep Mistress Sholter busy. He grasped Eccleshall by the chin and held up the medal.

'She's confessed all, you know. How she met you at the old miser's house, stripped Miles' body and then journeyed in disguise with you to the Silken Thomas.'

Eccleshall blinked and wetted his lips. 'Our little songbird wishes to save her neck, doesn't she, lads?'

The bemused bailiffs nodded.

'She's told us how she rode down to the Thames and threw the saddle into the river then cast the horse loose. How she used Miles' second medal to distract the maid: a pretext for his supposed journey from the Silken Thomas. How you waited until Sunday evening to dispose of the corpse but then had to kill those two others who surprised you. She has turned King's evidence in return for a pardon.'

'The bitch!' Spit bubbled on Eccleshall's lips. He lunged to the mouth of the alleyway but the bailiffs held him fast. 'She's as guilty as me! She may be cold as ice now but she's a whore in bed!'

'Are you saying that she's your accomplice?'

'More than that! She plotted it from the start.'

'And those two other corpses?'

Eccleshall sagged against his captors. 'I had no choice,' he mumbled. 'I heard them coming. I loaded the arbalest I carried. The man died immediately. The young whore was going to scream.'

'Thank you very much.' Sir John gestured with his head. 'Take him to Newgate! Keep him well away from his accomplice!'

Mistress Sholter's face, when Sir John confronted her, twisted into a grimace of hatred. She cast the coins about and would have run to the door but he seized her by the wrist, twisting her round and throwing her against the wall.

'You'll both hang,' he said quietly, 'for the deaths of three innocents.' He opened the door and gestured Athelstan out. 'Take one last look around your house, Mistress Sholter: it's Newgate for you.'

After Sir John left instructions with the bailiffs, he and Athelstan walked up Mincham Lane.

'You did very well, Brother. Very well indeed.'

'And that was quick of you, Sir John. If they had met, Mistress Sholter's guilt would have been hard to prove.' The friar nudged the coroner playfully in the ribs. 'So it's true what they say about you, Jack? Swift as a greyhound, more tenacious than a swooping hawk!'

Sir John stood in the middle of the street and took a quick gulp from his wineskin.

'You think I'm swift now, Brother. Let me tell you about the time before Poitiers. We were going along a country lane…'

Athelstan closed his eyes. He'd heard this story at least six times and jumped when he heard his name being shrieked.

'Brother Athelstan! Brother Athelstan!'

Crim the altar boy came speeding from an alleyway, his face covered in the remains of a meat pie, black hair sticking up. He stopped before the friar, grasping his robe.

'Brother!' he gasped. 'Brother, I've…!'

Athelstan patted him gently on the shoulder.

'Come over here.'

He led the little altar boy between two stalls and made him sit on a makeshift bench outside an alehouse.

'Has the church burned down?' Athelstan asked.

Crim shook his head.

'Are Watkin and Pike at daggers drawn?'

Again the shake of the head.

'It's Mistress Benedicta,' Crim gasped.

Athelstan went cold. 'What's happened to her?'

'Come on, lad!' Sir John sat beside the boy. He opened his wallet and took out a piece of marchpane. 'One of my poppets put that in my purse this morning. They don't like to think of Daddy being hungry. I only found it after I had left. Now, tell us what's happened.'

Athelstan found it difficult to breathe.

'Benedicta,' Crim gasped. 'Benedicta, grim…'

'I beg your pardon?'

'Benedicta, grim… No, grimoire!'

Athelstan recalled the book he had given to Benedicta.

'She's in our house, Brother. She's all excited. She says you've got to come now.' 'Well, in which case, we'll go.'

Together they strode down Eastchepe, fought their way through the fish stalls at Billingsgate and hired a barge, Sir John offering the rowers an extra penny. The wherrymen needed no further bidding but pulled at their oars. Crim, his mouth now full of marchpane, sat wedged between the coroner and Athelstan, who had to give up in despair at questioning him further.

The wherry turned midstream, gathering speed as it headed towards the arches under London Bridge.

Crim sat wide-eyed, looking up at the poles jutting out, bearing the severed heads of traitors and riVer pirates. They entered the shadows of the bridge, the wherrymen pulling their oars in as the river gathered speed, carrying them by its own force under the arch and out to the other side.

A short while later they reached the Southwark quayside and clambered out. Sir John strode along the lanes, shoving people aside, Athelstan and Crim bustling behind him. Athelstan expected to find the yard in front of St Erconwald's busy and thronging but it was deserted. Only Bonaventure slept like some lazy sentry on the top step of the church.

'She's in the house,' Crim explained. 'She said she hadn't told anyone. She wanted to show you first.'

'Jack, you needn't have come!' Athelstan said.

'Brother, if you find it exciting, so do I, Anyway, I like to see Benedicta.'

The widow woman opened the door and gave a gasp of surprise as Sir John embraced her, kissing her loudly on the cheeks.

'You are a lovely woman, Benedicta, and what's all this clamour about?'

Benedicta was certainly excited. She had taken her veil off, her raven-black hair tumbling down to her shoulders. She skipped away from Sir John, clapped her hands and pointed to the parchment littering Athelstan's table.

'It's the grimoire,' she explained, taking a seat at the top. 'Now, when William Fitzwolfe, the former priest, had this bound he used parts of the old blood book and different parish records to stiffen the binding.'

Athelstan sat down at the table. Benedicta had undone the red binding which held the grimoire together, loosened the pages and pulled these apart.

'It was when I looked at the cover I noticed how thick it was.'

Athelstan picked it up. It was nothing more than a strip of leather laid out flat and strongly reinforced with a thick wadge of parchment glued together at the edges and then placed against the leather to strengthen it. He leafed through the pages. He saw entries: 'Fulke, son of Thurston the labourer and Hawisia his wife…' Athelstan smiled: that was Watkin's father. Page after page was filled with these faded, scrawled ink entries made by successive priests over the years.

'Now, look at this!' Benedicta took the pages from him and pointed to one entry already marked with a piece of ash from the fireplace. 'If you check again, Brother, you will find that these two women are the great-grandmothers, respectively, of Joscelyn the tavern-keeper and Basil the blacksmith. They were apparently married on the same day.'

Athelstan read the entry on Agnes Fitz-Joscelyn and Ann, daughter of William the warrener.

'They definitely had different fathers,' Athelstan said. 'But they are described as "sorores", sisters, in the marriage entry.'

'Ah yes.'

Benedicta took the parchment from him. She leafed through and showed another entry. This time the page had a title, written neatly by a learned clerk: 'The Confraternity of St Erconwald'. The first column listed 'brothers of the Confraternity', the second a similar list of 'sisters'. Agnes Fitz-Joscelyn and Ann, daughter of William the warrener, were grouped together as 'sisters'.

Sir John, who had been looking over his shoulder, chuckled.

'You've told me about this problem, Brother.' He tapped the parchment. 'And there's your answer. In my treatise "On the Governance of this City", I have come across many such confraternities. At one time they were very strong in different parishes. The Confraternity of the Blessed Sacrament, the Confraternity of the Angels, the Confraternity of St Luke.'

Athelstan gazed wistfully at the piece of parchment.

'It's a very good idea,' he said. 'And there must have been one here: the Confraternity of St Erconwald's. What I suspect happened is this. Agnes and Ann were bosom friends: that's apparent from the fact that they married on the same day. They were also members, perhaps leading ones, of the parish confraternity. They called each other sister. When the blood book disappeared there was no explanation for why they did this. The Venerable Veronica was speaking the truth. These two women lived and died many years ago. All Veronica could remember is that they called each other sister, hence the mistake.'

'Benedicta!'

The widow woman backed away from Sir John who came, arms stretched out, towards her.

'You should have been a coroner. I mean, after all, you can't be a friar.'

'Benedicta,' Athelstan echoed. 'Your sharp eyes and keen wit have made two young lovers very, very happy'

'Will that mean there's going to be more feasting?' Crim spoke up from where he stood just within the doorway.

'Oh, yes,' Athelstan replied. 'Feasting and dancing, Crim. Now, haste away. Don't tell them what we've found but bring Eleanor and Oswald here!'