Paul Doherty: Field of Blood

'If I remember the law, the goods and chattels of such murdered victims belong to the parish until they are claimed. These will go into the common fund.'

Athelstan studied the corpse of the younger man. He was dressed only in chemise and leggings.

'The shirt is of good linen,' Athelstan remarked. 'Leggings of blue kersey but where's his jerkin, his cloak, his boots and belt?'

'Brother, I assure you,' Bladdersniff protested, 'and Pike and Watkin are my witnesses, that's how we found him.'

Athelstan sat down on the steps and brought his hands together in prayer.

'Oh my Lord!'

He looked sharply to the left. Benedicta had come out of the cemetery and now stopped, mouth gaping, hands half-raised at this terrible sight. She walked forward like a dream wanderer, her dark hair peeping out from beneath the blue veil, her olive-skinned face pale. The beautiful dark eyes of the widow woman studied the three corpses.

'You shouldn't be here, Benedicta,' Athelstan said.

'No, no.'

Benedicta came over and sat beside him on the steps. She pulled her brown cloak more firmly about her as if the sight of these corpses chilled her blood, blotted out the light and warmth of the sun. Athelstan caught a faint whiff of the perfume she wore, distilled herbs, sweet and light, a welcome contrast to the horrors before him. He felt her close beside him and drew strength from her warmth, her quiet support. He smiled to himself. For a moment he felt like a man being joined by his loving wife.

'You shouldn't be here,' he repeated.

'Brother, I feel the way you look.' She half-smiled.

'Three corpses,' Athelstan explained. 'Found in the old miser's house in the fields at the end of the parish.' He pointed to the man with the crossbow bolt buried deep in his chest. 'He looks like a sailor or some wandering minstrel. The young woman? Pike thinks she may be a whore but this young man troubles me.'

'Why?' Benedicta asked.

'The other two appear to have been killed immediately: first the man by the crossbow bolt, then the young woman's throat was probably slit soon afterwards. She's light, rather thin. If the assassin was a man, she would pose no real problem. However, this other one.'

Athelstan got up and crouched beside the cart. He carefully examined the young man's head and noticed how the hair was matted with blood, masking a blow to the back of the head.

'Now, this victim was struck on the back of the head. He fell to the ground and his throat was cut: unlike the others, he's had his belt, jerkin, cloak and boots removed.'

'A thief?'

'But if it was a thief,' Athelstan continued, 'why didn't he steal the young woman's bracelet, or empty their purses?'

'So?'

'It's only a guess.'

Athelstan paused as Pike abruptly lurched back into the alleyway to be sick.

'He never did have much of a stomach,' Watkin growled. 'When Widow Trimplc's cat was crushed under a cart and its belly split…'

'Yes, yes,' Athelstan interrupted, 'there's no need to continue, Watkin: Bonaventure might hear you.'

'You were saying about the young man?' Bladdersniff asked.

He looked longingly over his shoulder at the alleyway. The beadle wanted to head like an arrow direct to the Piebald and down as many blackjacks of ale as his belly could take.

'I believe,' Athelstan continued, 'the assassin attacked this young man in that deserted house. He knocked him on the head, cut his throat and was busy stripping him of any identification when he was surprised by these two. The young woman was a whore, the other man was one of her customers. God forgive them, they both died in their sins.' He got to his feet, fished in his purse and thrust a coin into Bladdersniff's hands. 'The labourer is worthy of his hire, master bailiff. The bodies will stay here for twenty-four hours, yes?'

Bladdersniff nodded.

'Watkin! Pike!'

The ditcher wandered back.

'You will take turns guarding the corpse. Hig the pigman, Mugwort the bell clerk, can all stand vigil!' He thrust another silver piece into Bladdersniff's hand. 'Each man of the parish who stands guard will be bought two quarts of ale by our venerable bailiff.'

Bladdersniff's red, chapped face glowed with pleasure. He blinked his bleary, water-filled eyes.

'Why, Brother, that's very generous of you.'

'On one condition,' Athelstan added sharply. 'When you stand guard you are sober. Now, Bladdersniff, show me where the corpses were found.'

'I'll come with you,' Benedicta offered. She rose unsteadily to her feet.

'I'd love your company.' Athelstan smiled, grasping her fingers and rubbing them between his. 'But, if you could clear the shriving pew, put my stole back, feed Bonaventure. Oh, and Philomel will need more oats,' he added, referring to his old war horse who spent most of his life eating or sleeping.

'Heaven forfend!'

Athelstan turned as Godbless the beggarman, with little Thaddeus the goat in tow, came out of the cemetery rubbing his eyes.

'Benedicta, you deal with him! Bladdersniff.' Athelstan grasped the beadle by the arm. 'If we stay here much longer we'll have the entire parish around us.'

He marched Bladdersniff across the open space and along the alleyway leading down to the main thoroughfare. Although he was of short stature, Athelstan moved briskly, keeping his eye on the water-filled sewer down the centre while trying to avoid the gaze of many of his parishioners.

'God bless you Brother!' a girlish voice shouted.

Cecily the courtesan was standing in the entrance to the Piebald tavern. Athelstan glared at her. She had her arm round Ronald, elder son of Ranulf the rat-catcher. On a bench beside her, Ursula the pig woman was sharing a tankard of ale with her big, fat sow. The pig snorted with pleasure. Athelstan bared his teeth at this great plunderer of his vegetable patch. Tab the tinker, Huddle the painter, Manger the hangman and Moleskin the boatman stood further down the thoroughfare grouped round Tab's stall.

'Is anything wrong?' Huddle called, flicking his long hair back.

Athelstan stopped. 'I need your help at the church,' he said sweetly. 'Go back there. Watkin will tell you everything. There's a quart of ale for each of you.' He held up a warning hand so Bladdersniff wouldn't add any gory details. 'For all who help.'

The whole group set off like greyhounds from the slips, eager to see what work would earn such a bountiful reward

Athelstan pressed on. It was now early afternoon and the denizens of Southwark were out looking for mischief: pickpockets, foists, those shadowy inhabitants of the underworld eager for petty profit before darkness fell. Some avoided his eye; others raised their hands in salutation or shouted abuse about Bladdersniff and his fiery red nose.

At last they entered an alleyway which led down to the fields. They crossed the narrow wooden bridge which spanned the brook and went up the great meadow to the brow of the hill where the ruins of Simon the miser's house stood gaunt and open to the sky. Some children played at the far end of the meadow. A woman sat there keeping them busy plaiting garlands of grass. Athelstan raised his hand in benediction.

'Thank you!' he shouted across. 'Keep the children well away!'

Bladdersniff led him through the ruined front door, along a hollow passageway and into a dark, smelly parlour where the air reeked of animal urine and excrement. The walls were mildewed, the stone floor cracked and weeds now thrust themselves up through the gaps.

'A terrible place to die,' Athelstan noted. 'At night this place must be dark as…'

'Hell's window,' Bladdersniff offered hopefully.

'Aye, hell's window.'

At first Athelstan could see nothing untoward until he noticed the remains of a fire. He crouched down to examine it more carefully.