the garrison of the Tower, then he went abroad with others to fight in Outremer.’
‘And his wife?’
Father Peter made a moue. ‘She was a quiet, sickly woman. They had one boy… what was his name? Ah, yes, Mark.’ Father Peter sighed. ‘Oh, they were well looked after. A steward administered the manor, and Bartholomew always sent gold. Then about — oh, some fourteen or fifteen years ago — news came of Bartholomew’s death. He had been killed on board a ship taken by the Moors in the Middle Seas. By that time Mark was a young man. He took his father’s death with little show of regret but the mother became ill and died within a year of her husband.’
‘And Mark Burghgesh?’
‘He was like his father, his head full of stories about Roland and Oliver and performing marvellous feats of arms. For a while he was Lord of the Manor. After the old King’s victories in France, he raised money from the bankers, bought a destrier, and armour, and formed a small retinue of archers of like-minded men from the village.’ The priest paused and stared into the flames. ‘I remember the morning they left,’ he continued dreamily. ‘A beautiful summer’s day. Sir Mark on his black warhorse, his dark red hair oiled and combed; before him went his squire carrying a banner with the Burghgesh arms, and marching behind were six archers with steel caps, quilted jerkins, long bows and quivers full of goose-quilled arrows. A brave sight.’ The priest rocked himself gently. ‘None of them came back,’ he murmured. ‘They all died in the blood and muck.’
Athelstan caught his breath. So like his own story. He and Francis had joined such a retinue. Athelstan had returned but his brother’s body still lay mouldering in some forgotten field in France.
‘None of them came back?’ Cranston repeated, fighting hard to control the excitement in his voice. ‘So Mark Burghgesh could still be alive?’
The priest stared at him and shook his head.
‘Oh, no, Sir John. I spoke wrongly. No one came back alive. Come, I’ll show you where Mark is.’
They rose. Father Peter handed them their cloaks, taking his own from a wooden peg, and they followed him out into the cold. The young boy still stood like a soldier, holding the reins of the horses, his eyes looking eagerly at the piles of steaming dung obligingly dropped by both Philomel and Cranston’s mount. Father Peter stopped.
‘Boy, take the horses round to the stable. You’ll find some oats there. Then go in and take some soup. Don’t worry, the horses won’t wander off.’
The urchin stared at Athelstan.
‘Go on, lad,’ the friar ordered. ‘You’ll freeze to death standing there. And, I promise, the horse dung’s yours.’
They reached the church door. Father Peter unlocked it and they entered the darkened nave. It was cold, the air icy. Athelstan gazed at the square, squat pillars decorated with greenery like his own in Southwark, though not as beautiful. He hasn’t got a painter, Athelstan thought. Father Peter caught his eye and Athelstan felt guilty at his petty pride.
‘A fine church, Father,’ he murmured.
Father Peter grinned. ‘We try, Brother. But I would give a king’s ransom for a good painter and craftsman.’
They went beneath the simple chancel screen, across the sanctuary into a small lady chapel which lay in the far corner of the church. A large wooden statue of the Virgin and Child stood on a stone plinth whilst around the walls were raised tombs, simple and square, lacking any effigy or ornamentation. Father Peter went across and gently tapped one.
‘Sir Mark Burghgesh lies here,’ he announced quietly. ‘His body was sent back for burial.’
Cranston stared in disappointment at the grey ragstone tomb. ‘Are you sure, Father Peter?’
‘Yes,’ the priest said. ‘The embalmers did their best to dress the corpse: before the coffin was lowered, I looked once more at the face. Sir Mark had received a terrible death wound on the side of his head, caused by a battle axe or mace, but I am certain it was he.’
Athelstan hid his disappointment and gazed despondently at Cranston. Their cold journey through the bitter Essex landscape had been fruitless.
‘Why do you want to know all this?’ Father Peter asked as he led them out of the church.
‘There’s been a murder, Father, in London,’ Cranston answered, chewing his lip. ‘We hoped our journey here would yield fresh evidence. Have you noticed anything untoward in the village?’
‘Such as?’
‘Anything,’ Athelstan pleaded. ‘Any news or gossip about the Burghgesh family?’
The priest shook his head. Athelstan and Cranston looked at each other despondently as they left the church and re-entered the priest’s house where the boy was lapping a second bowl of soup as hungrily as a starving dog. At their approach he scurried into a corner. Father Peter waved them back to their seats and went across and poured them generous stoups of ale from the jar just outside the small buttery door.
‘No,’ he repeated, sitting down on the stool and cradling the blackjack of ale in his hands, ‘Woodforde is a quiet place. Even quieter now the Burghgeshes have left.’
‘What happened to their manor house?’
‘The King’s Commissioners sealed it off. No one has been there since.’ The priest coughed. ‘I should know. The Sheriff of Essex pays me a small stipend to ensure the seals on the doors and windows are not broken.’ He looked at Cranston. ‘And they are still sealed. After all, there’s nothing there. All the moveables have been removed, the roof has fallen in, the surrounding meadows and ploughlands been sold off.’
‘There was no other heir?’
‘None that I know of.’ Father Peter suddenly took the tankard away from his lips. ‘In heaven’s name!’ he exclaimed. ‘There was something. Yes,’ he murmured excitedly, ‘about three or four years ago, something very strange. It was like a dream. Now, when was it? Yes, it was at the beginning of Advent I forget the actual year. I had said morning Mass, gone across to the house to break my fast then went back to clear the altar.’ Father Peter stared into the flames. ‘I went up the nave and was surprised to see a man, cowled and hooded, kneeling at the entrance to the Lady Chapel.’
‘Where Mark Burghgesh is buried?’
‘Yes, yes. Now I trod softly, and at first the man didn’t hear me. But when he did, he rose very quickly, pulled his cowl close about his head, and brushing by me, left the church, ignoring my salutation. All I glimpsed were a few strands of grey hair and a white, neatly barbered beard.’ Father Peter picked up his tankard and sipped from it. ‘Now, it had been years since I had seen Bartholomew Burghgesh and I considered him long dead, yet I am sure that man I glimpsed that cold December morning was Sir Bartholomew himself. He had his walk, the gait and stance of a professional soldier.’
Athelstan leaned forward excitedly. Was Sir Bartholomew alive? he wondered. Was he the bloody-handed slayer stalking his victims? ‘Continue, Father,’ he whispered.
‘Well, I didn’t mention it to anyone. The villagers would think I had been drinking or wandering in my wits.’ He grinned at Athelstan. ‘You can appreciate, Brother, how the sheep like to gossip about their shepherd.’
Athelstan smiled back and stole a sideways glance at Cranston who was sitting, open-mouthed, at Father Peter’s revelation.
‘A year later,’ the priest continued, ‘on the Feast of All Hallows, I was in the village ale-house. Autumn was here, the countryside was fading under the colder, harsher weather. We were talking about death and exchanging gruesome ghost stories. The landlord, God rest him — the fellow has since died — suddenly spoke up, declaring that he had seen the ghost of Sir Bartholomew Burghgesh. Of course, the others laughed at him but he insisted and said that at about the same time I thought I’d seen Sir Bartholomew, a stranger had arrived in the village late at night and stopped at the ale-house for food and drink. The man had been cloaked and hooded and hardly ever spoke except to buy his meal.’ Father Peter closed his eyes. ‘The landlord said the fellow made it obvious he wanted to be left to himself. After all, Woodforde’s on the highway into the city. We have many people who like to keep their business to themselves. Anyway, the stranger was about to leave when a slattern dropped a tankard. The man whirled round and for a few seconds the landlord saw his face. He swore it was Bartholomew Burghgesh.’
Father Peter sighed. ‘Of course, I kept quiet about what I had seen, but I was intrigued. I journeyed out to the old manor house near Buxfield. If it was Burghgesh, I thought, surely he would have returned to his former home? Yet I discovered that nothing had been disturbed.’ He shrugged and spread his hands. ‘That’s all I can tell you. Only God knows if the man I and the landlord glimpsed was Sir Bartholomew. I heard no other rumours about
