Field of Blood

long after closing. Now, like all taverners, I'm frightened of fire. I always go round and check that some drunken bugger has not left a candle alight. We deliberately do not put locks in our rooms because of that.' He grinned. 'If a man and his lady friend wish a little privacy, they can always put a stool against the door. Anyway, it must have been well after midnight. I opened the door to Eccleshall's chamber, the candle was out and he was snoring like a pig on the bed. We also have a groom guarding the stables. No one disturbed him.'
    'And the next morning?' Athelstan asked.
    'Eccleshall, rather heavy-eyed, came down to break his fast. He was very agitated, asking everyone had they seen his companion? Of course, we hadn't. He ordered his horse to be saddled and left. Oh, it must have been about nine in the morning.'
    'And you are sure,' Athelstan insisted, 'that two came here?'
    'Of course! Eccleshall and the other, Sholter, slightly shorter, dark-haired, fresh-faced.'
    Athelstan thanked him and the taverner went back to the kitchen, chuckling at the easy silver he had earned.
    'It seems you are wrong, Brother.' Sir John patted him gently on the shoulder. 'Sholter and Eccleshall came here. Sholter left but, if Eccleshall had anything to do with his murder, I can't see how he could be in two places at once!' He looked round the taproom. 'Brother,' he said quietly, leaning across the table. 'What happens if the Great Community of the Realm were here? One of their so-called officers? You heard the taverner. Eccleshall and Sholter swagger in, loudly proclaiming who they are, then one abruptly leaves just before darkness falls.'
    'You mean he was followed out and killed?'
    'It's possible.' Sir John licked his lips. 'That ale was nice.'
    'No, Sir John, you've drunk enough.' Athelstan pushed his tankard across. 'Or, at least I have, you can finish mine then it's back to Southwark and across to the city!'
    They left the Silken Thomas and made their way into Southwark. The streets were now busy, the small markets which stood on each street corner doing a busy trade in second-hand goods.
    'Or what they've stolen from the other side of the river,' Sir John commented.
    Many people recognised Athelstan and his burly companion. In the main, good-natured abuse was called but, on one occasion, the coroner had to draw his sword as some dried dog-turds struck the house wall beside him. The group of roaring boys gathered in an alehouse doorway quietly slunk back.
    'Let's move on,' Athelstan urged. He went down an alleyway.
    'Brother, I thought we were going to the bridge?'
    'No, Sir John, just bear with me. I have a little parish business to do. The Venerable Veronica.'
    They found Dog Tail Lane. The Venerable Veronica lived in a mean, shabby tenement thrust between an old warehouse on one side and a dingy cook shop on the other. Her chamber was at the top of rickety stairs which stank of urine. The walls were cracked and split, the flaking plaster covering the shabby, wooden steps like a coating of snow. The Venerable Veronica, however, was welcoming enough and her chamber was neat and tidy. She was sitting on a stool, hand over a small dish of glowing charcoal fixed on a tripod. In a far corner stood a cot bed screened off by a tawdry cloak which hung from hooks fixed into the ceiling.
    Despite her great age, Sir John was surprised how striking the old woman was. She was small, narrow-faced; her skin looked lined and seamed but her eyes were sharp and bright as a sparrow's. She responded quickly enough, asking her visitors to bring across a bench so they could sit near her while she 'warmed her poor hands' over the charcoal.
    'I should go to church more often, Brother,' she began. 'But my old knees and back hurt.'
    'I could bring you the sacrament when I come,' Athelstan offered. 'It's easy enough done.'
    'Would you really, Brother, and shrive me?'
    'Of course, whenever I visit, just ask.'
    The old woman peered up at him, moving her hands as if washing them above the charcoal.
    'You are different from the other, Brother, the one who came before you. He was born in sin, he lived in sin and he died in sin. He took everything, he did: chalices, cups, breviary. William Fitzwolfe sold them all.'
    'Including the blood book?' Athelstan asked.
    The Venerable Veronica sighed and nodded.
    'That's why I am here, Mother,' Athelstan continued. 'We truly have a problem in the parish. Eleanor, daughter of Basil the blacksmith, wishes to marry