Field of Blood

John went across and hammered on the door.
    The turnkey waiting on the other side opened it. They went down the steps and out into the cobbled yard. Athelstan plucked at the coroner's sleeve.
    'It does not look well, Sir John.'
    'No, Brother, it doesn't.' He paused at a scream which came from a darkened doorway. 'Hell's kitchen! That's what this place is: let's be gone!'
    Outside the main gate, Henry Flaxwith stood holding a slavering, smiling Samson in his arms.
    'You see, Sir Jack, he's well enough now.'
    The dog lunged at Sir John, teeth bared.
    '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.