Field of Blood

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 amusement one bold fellow screaming above the rest that he had Herod's foreskin for sale, skinned by a demon and placed in the cave above the Dead Sea. There was a small stall, guarded by two burly assistants, selling books and manuscripts. Athelstan would have loved