'Samson is so pleased to see you, Sir John. You know he loves you.'
'Master Flaxwith, I'll take your word for it. Now, put the bloody thing down!'
Flaxwith lowered Samson gently down on to the cobbles and the ugly mastiff pounced on a scrap of meat from the fleshers' yard.
'And my errand?' Athelstan asked. 'To Hilda Smallwode?'
Flaxwith pulled a face. 'I am not too sure whether you will like this. The maid, who is honest enough, said she did not see Master Sholter actually leave, she was in the house. Her mistress stayed for a while but she did send Hilda upstairs to the bedchamber. The maid remembers seeing the St Christopher on a stool but didn't think anything of it. She certainly saw it again on Sunday morning when she called round to see if her mistress was well.'
Athelstan closed his eyes and quietly cursed.
'Well, well, Brother.' Sir John patted him on the shoulder. 'It would seem your theory will not hold up. Master Sholter did forget his St Christopher.'
Athelstan just rubbed the side of his face. 'Sir John, I must think while you must see your poppets.'
And, hitching his chancery bag over his shoulder, Athelstan despondently walked away, leaving a bemused coroner behind him.
Athelstan trudged on, oblivious to the crowds around him, to the constant shouts of the apprentices: 'What do you lack? What do you lack?' Tradesmen plucking at his sleeve, trying to attract his attention; whores flouncing out of doorways. All the little friar could think of was Mistress Vestler sitting there, telling lies while, across the city, two assassins hugged themselves in glee at the terrible crimes they had committed.
Athelstan paused, breathed in and coughed; the friar was suddenly aware that he had gone through the old city gates. He was now near the great Fleet Ditch which stank to high heaven of the saltpetre which covered the mounds of rubbish. Two urchins ran up, saying they would sing him a song for a penny. Athelstan tossed them a coin and sketched a blessing in the air.
'I'll give you that for silence,' he told them. 'Blackfriars!' he announced. 'I'll go to Blackfriars!'
'And then to heaven?' a chapman who had overheard him called out.
Athelstan smiled and walked on, lost in his thoughts and what he had learned.
At last he arrived at the mother house. A lay brother let him through the postern door. Athelstan seized him by the shoulders and stared into the man's vacant eyes, the saliva drooling from slack jaws.
'It's Brother Eustace, isn't it?'
'Abbot Eustace to you,' the lay brother replied.
Athelstan squeezed the old man's shoulder.
'And I am the Cardinal Bishop of Ostia,' he hissed. 'I've come to make a secret visitation, so don't tell anyone I'm here.'
The lay brother chortled with glee. Athelstan moved on across the cloister garth and into the heavy oak scriptorium and library. The old librarian was not there. Athelstan quietly thanked God, otherwise it would have been at least an hour of gossip and chatter. The assistant, a young friar who introduced himself as Brother Sylvester, welcomed him with the kiss of peace.
'I've heard of you, Brother Athelstan. They say when you were a novice you ran away to war.' The words came out in a rush. 'And your brother was killed and you came back and so they made you parish priest in Southwark.'
'Everyone knows my story.' Athelstan grinned. 'But, Brother, I am in a hurry. Is it possible to have a history of the Tower and the Book of the Dead?'
'I know the former,' Brother Sylvester replied. 'But the other?'
'It was written about twenty years ago,' Athelstan explained. 'It lists all the burial pits left from the pestilence.'
'I'll have a look.'
Athelstan sat down at one of the tables. The chair was cushioned and comfortable. He noted the oaken book shelves, the lectern with its precious calfskin tomes chained to the stand; racks of parchments and vellum. Books on scripture, theology, history and science. Athelstan closed his eyes. It brought back memories of his novitiate, the smell of polish mingled with that of beeswax, dried leather and fresh parchment.
'Brother Athelstan?'
The assistant librarian had two tomes in his hand. He put these down in front then opened the window behind to provide more light. Athelstan begged a scrap of parchment and a quill before opening the tome with the title Liber Mortuorum engraved on the front. The pages were thin, yellowing with age, but the clerkly hand was still distinct. It listed the graveyards of London, even at St Erconwald's. Athelstan scanned this entry quickly: two or three pages full of those buried there. He quietly promised himself that, one day, he would return and study it more closely. At the back the entries became more haphazard but, at last, he found the place: Ager niger Prope Turrem, Black Meadow near the Tower. 'In hoc loco,' the entry began, 'In this place, many were buried in the autumn of the year of Our Lord 1349. The field was blessed and consecrated by Brother Reyward who tended to those,' here Athelstan had difficulty with the doggerel Latin, 'who had fallen sick and been placed in the tavern near the river, now used,' and Athelstan noticed the word 'hospicium'.
'So, it was a hospital,' Athelstan murmured.
He took down the title of a book and the entry on a scrap of parchment.
'Have you found what you wanted, Brother?'
Athelstan smiled. 'Yes thank you.'
He should have felt elated but he was tired and hungry. Certainly the entry proved that at least
Mistress Vestler had not murdered indiscriminately. He sighed and opened the other book, A History of the Tower and its Environs by a chronicler who had lived fifty years earlier. It was not really a history but more a general description and chronicle of outstanding events, such as the legend that Julius Caesar built the Tower. Crudely drawn maps described the different buildings: the curtain wall, towers and chapel but nothing significant. Athelstan closed the book, thanked Brother Sylvester and left.
Once he was through the postern gate, Athelstan regretted not visiting the refectory or kitchen. Instead, he went into a tavern, the Mailed Gauntlet, a stone-built alehouse with a small rose garden beyond. The kindly tavern- keeper took him out to a turf seat and served him a pot of ale and a freshly baked meat pie. Athelstan sat and basked in the late afternoon sun. He would have liked to visit Sir John but what would he say? He should really be helping the coroner but, in truth, he felt a terrible anger against those two assassins playing 'lovers' cradle' in Mincham Lane.
'How did they do it?' he asked himself.
He thought of Sholter and Eccleshall riding across the bridge and, later that evening, a rider hurrying back.
'Of course!' Athelstan exclaimed. 'A horse is easy to get rid of but what about a saddle?'
Chapter 10
Athelstan left the alehouse determined to visit the Barque of St Peter, the rather eccentric name that eerie figure, the fisher of men, gave to his chapel or deathhouse. It was late afternoon and the crowds still thronged, particularly around the food stalls; they eagerly bought produce, reduced in price, before the market horn sounded for the end of the day's trading.
Athelstan, refreshed, made his way quickly along the streets. Above and around him three-storied houses, pinched and narrow, blocked out the sunlight, forcing people to knock and push each other in the busy lanes below. The friar threaded his way past the booths piled high with brightly coloured linen from Brussels, broad cloths from the West Country, drapes and wall sheets from Louvain and Dordrecht. Athelstan then entered Trinity where the traders sold more exotic goods, brought by the low-slung Venetian galleys now docked in the Thames: chests of spices; bags of saffron; gingers and aniseed; casks full of dried figs; oranges and lemons from the islands of Spain; crates full of almonds and mace; sacks of ground sugar, pepper and salt.
At last Athelstan glimpsed the sails of ships and smelled the fresh tangy air of the river. He was now in La Reole where the quacks, fortune-sellers and relic-sellers swarmed like the plagues of Egypt. He noticed with
