Paul Doherty: Field of Blood

'A few twigs. But the nights aren't cold; this was lit to provide light rather than warmth.'

He crawled across the floor and noticed two pools of sticky blood.

'These belong to the young whore and her customer.' Athelstan pointed back to the doorway. 'Only God knows what happened but I believe this dreadful room witnessed hideous murder. The young man was either lured here and killed, or murdered elsewhere, and his corpse brought here to be stripped of any mark of recognition. The assassin lights a fire to provide some light as he carries out his grisly task.'

Athelstan went over and stood by the door.

'Suddenly,' he explained to the gaping Bladdersniff, 'the assassin hears voices: a young whore is bringing one of her customers in. He hurriedly stamps out the fire, takes an arbalest and allows his next victims into the room. He releases the catch, the man dies. The young woman stands terrified.' Athelstan strode across the room. 'She's like a rabbit before a stoat. Before she can recover, he's across, knife out, her throat is slashed and the assassin leaves.'

'By all that's holy!' Bladdersniff coughed. 'Brother, you must have the second sight.'

'No, I had Father Anselm.' Athelstan grinned. 'He owned a very hard ferrule.' He rubbed his fingers. 'Father Anselm believed in teaching logic through the knuckles. It's a marvellous way of concentrating the mind.'

'Athelstan! Athelstan!'

The friar lifted his head.

'All things conspire together,' he said to himself. He walked across to the doorway. 'Sir Jack, I'm in here!'

Bladdersniff cringed against the wall as Sir John Cranston, the most august coroner of the city of London, red face beaming, white moustache and beard bristling, strode like an angel come to judgement into this gloomy room of murder.

'Well! Well! Well!' Sir John stood, legs apart, thumb tucked into the belt from which hung the miraculous wineskin. 'Heaven bless my poppets! There's murder all around, Athelstan, and I need you in the city!'

Athelstan dolefully followed Sir John down the steps and into the waiting barge to take them across the Thames. The coroner had almost dragged him out of the ruins and back to St Erconwald's to collect his cloak and chancery bag.

'You've got to come,' Sir John said heatedly.

He added how something evil was going to happen but, for the rest, he kept tight-lipped. Instead he rounded on the friar with a whole litany of questions.

'Three murder victims in St Erconwald's parish!' he exclaimed as they settled in the barge and Moleskin pulled away.

Athelstan winked at his burly friend and glanced quickly at Moleskin. Whenever the boatman pulled his hood up and bent over his oars as if absorbed in his task, that was the sign Moleskin was intently listening to what was happening.

'Old Moleskin won't tell anyone!' Sir John bawled for half the river to hear. 'I saw the three corpses and that good-for-nothing Pike. He told me where you had gone. Three victims!' he repeated. 'And you know, Athelstan, I took a good look at that young man, the one without the boots. I think I've seen him somewhere.'

Athelstan looked out across the river; the tide had not yet turned, the day was sunny and warm. Everyone who owned a wherry, barge or bum-boat seemed to be out on the Thames. Victuallers were now gathering around the great warships berthed at Queenshithe, trying to sell the crews their produce. A wherryful of prostitutes were busy displaying their charms to entice officers of the watch. Royal barges, flying blue, red and gold pennants, made their way up and down to the Tower or Westminster. Three gong barges, full of ordure stinking to high heaven, were now midstream, the masked dung-collectors tipping the waste they had collected into the fast flowing river.

'You've seen all this before,' Sir John barked.

He took a quick sip from his wineskin and offered it to Moleskin. The boatman, resting on his oars, took a generous swig; he was about to take a second when the coroner snatched it back.

'Three victims,' Athelstan said. 'Killed, either last night, or the night before, I'm not too sure which. The girl and the dark-faced stranger were a whore and her customer. I think they surprised the assassin who killed that young man you seemed to recognise.'

'And the law says,' the coroner declared pompously, 'that they must lie on the steps of your church for a day and a night so they can be recognised. I hope it wasn't the work of any of your beloved parishioners. Someone will hang for such bloody deeds.'

'And where are you taking me, Sir John?'

Sir John hypocritically put a finger to his lips.

They berthed at Dowgate near the Steelyard, went up a busy alleyway along Walbrook and into Cheap-side. The streets were busy, thronged with crowds. Shops and stalls were open, taverns and alehouses doing a roaring trade. A group of soldiers swung by, going down to the Tower. Debtors from the Marshal-sea, manacled together, begged for alms on street corners for themselves and other inmates. A group of acrobats, three young women and a man, were tumbling and turning much to the merriment of a group of sailors who were throwing coins into a clack dish for the young women to turn on their heads and let their skirts fall down.

Athelstan thought Sir John might be taking him to his house, or his second home, the spacious Lamb of God tavern. However, the coroner, shouting good-natured abuse at the riff-raff who recognised him, forced his way through the crowds into the courtyard of the great Guildhall. Archers wearing the royal livery stood on guard. Men-at-arms in steel helmets patrolled entrances and doorways, shields slung over their backs, spear and sword in hand. Gaudily coloured banners hung from the great balcony above the main doors. Five shields displaying gorgeous arms, black martens, silver gules, golden fess, ornate crowns and helmets, were tied to the wooden slats.

'Of course,' Athelstan said, 'it's the Assizes…!'

'That's right, Athelstan, the royal justices of Oyer and Terminer are now in session.'

'Who are they?' Athelstan asked.

'The others don't concern me,' Sir John said briskly, 'but the principal justice is the Chief Baron of the Exchequer, Sir Henry Brabazon. A man who has little compassion and knows nothing of mercy.'

Sir John showed his seals of office and the guards let them through into the antechamber. The coroner plucked at Athelstan's sleeve and made him sit down on a bench just inside the doorway.

'Now listen, Athelstan, and I have this from a good authority: very shortly Mistress Alice Brokestreet, a tavern wench, possibly a prostitute, is to go on trial for killing a customer.'

'And is she guilty?'

'As Satan himself.'

'So, why are we here, Sir John?'

The coroner tapped his fleshy nose.

'Have you ever heard of approving?'

Athelstan nodded. 'It's a legal term?'

'Well, that's what the clever lawyers call it! Let me explain: Jack Cranston is put on trial for strangling Pike the ditcher.'

'That's possible,' Athelstan agreed. 'And, if you did, I'd probably help you.'

'No, listen. I'm found guilty. Now, I can throw myself on the King's mercy, be hanged by the purse, be exiled beyond the seas, imprisoned for life or, more usually, hanged by the neck. However, if I can successfully accuse, let us say, Watkin the dung-collector, of six other murders, I receive a pardon and old Watkin goes on trial. It's a rather clever and subtle method employed by the Crown's lawyers to resolve a whole series of crimes. Now, Watkin, being a man, could challenge me to a duel to prove his innocence. Or, I could challenge him.'

'Trial by combat?'

'That's right, my little monk.'

'Friar, Sir John, and what would happen if Watkin lost?'

'Oh, he'd hang.'