'Why not thirteen eighty-two?' Athelstan asked.
'One, three, eight and one make thirteen!' came the sharp reply. 'If you count the figures together, they come to thirteen. Now one and three is four, and we are the Four Gospels preparing the way!'
Athelstan gaped in astonishment. Of all the theories he'd heard, both sublime and ridiculous, this was the most bizarre. Yet the Four Gospels seemed harmless enough, probably swinging between sanctity and madness. He smiled to himself. Prior Anselm always believed the line between the two was very thin.
Sir John pointed to the gap in the hedge. 'And you go out there on to the mud flats to watch and wait?'
'Oh, yes, even at night.'
First Gospel got to his feet and led them through the gap in the hawthorn hedge. Athelstan was immediately caught by the contrast. It was like moving from one country to another. The lush green meadow, the sweet smell of cooking, the perfume of the flowers, gave way to the mud flats along the Thames, which even in the sunlight looked bleak and forbidding. The ground fell away like a sea shore, the steep incline cut by a barrier wall, probably built to resist flooding though the stones were crumbling and mildewed. He and Sir John made their way carefully down and stood on that. Beyond it the broad mud flats were dotted with pools, the hunting ground of gulls and cormorants which rose in clusters and with loud shrieks. The tide was still ebbing, the river itself quite peaceful now. Only the occasional barge or wherry, bearing the royal arms, made its way along to the Tower quayside.
'What is this?' Athelstan tapped his sandalled foot on the wall.
'Widow Vestler said it was Roman but that sharp lawyer of hers, Hengan, he came down here once to make sure all was well. He said all these lands once belonged to Gundulf, the man who built the Tower.'
'And why did Widow Vestler let you stay here?' Athelstan asked.
'Oh, she's kind-hearted, very generous. She gives us food and drink, says we are harmless enough.'
Athelstan glanced at the base of the wall and noticed the ground was charred and burned. The embers looked fresh.
'What is this?' He pointed.
'Widow Vestler allows us to build a fire at night and put an oil lamp here. We asked her permission,' First Gospel added warningly.
'Of course,' Sir John agreed. 'Just in case St Michael comes by night and can't see his way.'
'Oh, Sir John, you are a wise man,' one of the female Gospels simpered, standing behind them.
'Flattery! Flattery!' Athelstan nudged the coroner in the ribs. 'Another admirer, eh, Sir Jack!'
He glimpsed one of the standards flying from a passing barge and recalled Sir John's outburst in the Guildhall. He climbed down from the wall, tugging at the coroner's sleeve.
'Sir Jack, you mentioned that you know one of the victims?'
Cranston tapped his forehead with the heel of his hand.
'Lord save us, friar, I did.' He led Athelstan away from the Four Gospels. 'I am sorry, in the excitement
I forgot but, look you Brother, I glimpsed that messenger wearing the royal livery in the Guildhall, yes?'
Athelstan nodded.
Sir John swallowed hard. 'I believe that young man, the victim who had no boots, he, too, was a royal messenger. And, unless my memory fails me, a principal one.'
Athelstan's face paled. 'Oh no!' he groaned.
Sir John himself looked worried, clicking his tongue.
'I think he was called Miles Sholter.' 'Heaven forfend!'
'According to the law,' Sir John continued, 'if a royal messenger is killed, the parish or village in which his corpse is found is liable to a heavy fine unless it produces the murderer.' He looked over his shoulder to where the Four Gospels were chattering excitedly among themselves. 'Southwark is known as a nest of sedition and rebellion. The peasants under their secret council, the Great Community of the Realm, have strong support in St Erconwald's parish and elsewhere.'
'I follow your reasoning, my lord coroner,' Athelstan intervened. 'They'll maintain this royal messenger was ambushed by rebels and murdered while these same traitors killed the whore and her customer.'
'The fine would be great. In Shoreditch, two years ago, the parish of St Giles was fined four hundred pounds sterling and, because they couldn't pay, the leaders of the parish council went to prison.'
'But…?'
'Sir John Cranston, my lord coroner!'
Henry Flaxwith stood at the top of the hill, gesturing at them to come.
'Truly, we are launched upon a sea of trouble,' Sir John remarked. 'Brother, they must have found something.'
They hurriedly climbed back up the hill. Flaxwith, red face perspiring, leaned on his shovel.
'Oh, Sir John, Brother Athelstan, you have to see this! Eh, come back!'
The bailiff shouted as Samson, a bone in his slavering jaws, raced by them down towards the Four Gospels. As they turned away, Athelstan heard the chaos breaking out behind them. Samson had a nose for food; he would probably have dropped the bone and headed straight for that cooking rabbit.
Athelstan followed Sir John's quick stride to the great ditch dug around the oak tree. His heart sank at the sight of the two pathetic bundles lying on the grass. He glanced into the ditch and groaned. At least four other skeletons lay sprawled as if they had been killed, their cadavers bundled into a hastily prepared grave.
'You found them like this?' Sir John barked.
'Four here, Sir John, and two more on the other side. Between each skeleton there's at least half a yard. There may even be more.'
The skeletons lay in different positions: on their sides, backs or faces down in the dirt. Scraps of clothing, pieces of leather boots, rusting buckles were strewn around. One was apparently a female whose bony fingers still clutched a leather bag while the brooch which had pinned her hair lay in the mud beside her.
'Can you say how they died?' Sir John asked as he eased himself into the pit.
'There's no mark of violence on them, Sir John,' Flaxwith replied.
Athelstan murmured a quick requiem and also climbed into the pit. He and Sir John moved the skeletons over but they could find no blow, no crack where sword or dagger had sliced bone or skull. Athelstan hastily sketched a blessing, clambered out and crossed to the two soiled bundles. Flaxwith pulled back the dirty canvas sheets. The corpses beneath were in the last stages of decay: the flesh had dried, shrivelled and peeled off. This made the skulls even more grisly with their sagging jaws and empty eye-sockets. One corpse had the remains of a cloak about it. The other, certainly a woman, shreds of her kirtle, yellow and blue in colour. A pair of pattens were still lashed to her feet while the boots the man wore, though cracked and grey with dirt, were of good Spanish leather. Sir John knelt down beside the cadavers. He slipped the ring off the dead man's finger.
'It bears the royal insignia,' he declared, getting to his feet. 'There is little doubt these are the cadavers of Bartholomew Menster and Margot Haden.'
Helped by Athelstan, he scrutinised the corpses further, turning them over. Now and again they had to rise and walk away gulping in the fresh air.
'A pit of putrefaction,' Sir John breathed. 'They bear no mark of violence, no blow to the head or body!' He faced the friar. 'Satan's bollocks! Alice Brokestreet is apparently telling the truth!'
They walked back to the pit, Sir John issuing orders and distributing largesse.
'Henry, I want you and one of your burly lads to come with me. The rest are to sheet these corpses and take them to the Guildhall.'
'There may be more,' Flaxwith pointed pout.
'Aye, there may well be.' Sir John wiped the sweat from his brow. He strode off, not even waiting for Athelstan who had to hurry to catch up.
'What's the matter, Sir John?'
The other man stopped, tears welling in his eyes.
'Ten years ago, Brother, on the great north road leading to York, stood a hostelry, the Black Raven, a spacious, well-endowed tavern. It was managed by a taverner and his two sons. A lonely place out on the moors, though welcoming enough. Rumours sprang up, about travellers, pilgrims, chapmen disappearing. At first people shrugged these off. Travellers often became lost on the moors. The mists come swirling in, hiding paths and trackways and the unwary can blunder into a marsh or mire. However, the local sheriff investigated. He is a friend of mine, keen of wit and sharp of eye. To cut a long story short, Brother, the taverner was murdering solitary travellers and burying
