The peasants under their secret council, the Great Community of the Realm, have strong support in St Erconwald’s parish and elsewhere.’
‘I follow your reasoning, my lord coroner,’ Athelstan intervened. ‘They’ll maintain this royal messenger was ambushed by rebels and murdered while these same traitors killed the whore and her customer.’
‘The fine would be great. In Shoreditch, two years ago, the parish of St Giles was fined four hundred pounds sterling and, because they couldn’t pay, the leaders of the parish council went to prison.’
‘But . . .?’
‘Sir John Cranston, my lord coroner!’
‘Henry Flaxwith stood at the top of the hill, gesturing at them to come.
‘Truly, we are launched upon a sea of trouble,’ Sir John remarked. ‘Brother, they must have found something.’
They hurriedly climbed back up the hill. Flaxwith, red face perspiring, leaned on his shovel.
‘Oh, Sir John, Brother Athelstan, you have to see this! Eh, come back!’
The bailiff shouted as Samson, a bone in his slavering jaws, raced by them down towards the Four Gospels. As they turned away, Athelstan heard the chaos breaking out behind them. Samson had a nose for food; he would probably have dropped the bone and headed straight for that cooking rabbit.
Athelstan followed Sir John’s quick stride to the great ditch dug around the oak tree. His heart sank at the sight of the two pathetic bundles lying on the grass. He glanced into the ditch and groaned. At least four other skeletons lay sprawled as if they had been killed, their cadavers bundled into a hastily prepared grave.
‘You found them like this?’ Sir John barked.
‘Four here, Sir John, and two more on the other side. Between each skeleton there’s at least half a yard. There may even be more.’
The skeletons lay in different positions: on their sides, backs or faces down in the dirt. Scraps of clothing, pieces of leather boots, rusting buckles were strewn around. One was apparently a female whose bony fingers still clutched a leather bag while the brooch which had pinned her hair lay in the mud beside her.
‘Can you say how they died?’ Sir John asked as he eased himself into the pit.
‘There’s no mark of violence on them, Sir John,’ Flaxwith replied.
Athelstan murmured a quick requiem and also climbed into the pit. He and Sir John moved the skeletons over but they could find no blow, no crack where sword or dagger had sliced bone or skull. Athelstan hastily sketched a blessing, clambered out and crossed to the two soiled bundles. Flaxwith pulled back the dirty canvas sheets. The corpses beneath were in the last stages of decay: the flesh had dried, shrivelled and peeled off. This made the skulls even more grisly with their sagging jaws and empty eye-sockets. One corpse had the remains of a cloak about it. The other, certainly a woman, shreds of her kirtle, yellow and blue in colour. A pair of pattens were still lashed to her feet while the boots the man wore, though cracked and grey with dirt, were of good Spanish leather. Sir John knelt down beside the cadavers. He slipped the ring off the dead man’s finger.
‘It bears the royal insignia,’ he declared, getting to his feet. ‘There is little doubt these are the cadavers of Bartholomew Menster and Margot Haden.’
Helped by Athelstan, he scrutinised the corpses further, turning them over. Now and again they had to rise and walk away gulping in the fresh air.
‘A pit of putrefaction,’ Sir John breathed. ‘They bear no mark of violence, no blow to the head or body!’ He faced the friar. ‘Satan’s bollocks! Alice Brokestreet is apparently telling the truth!’
They walked back to the pit, Sir John issuing orders and distributing largesse.
‘Henry, I want you and one of your burly lads to come with me. The rest are to sheet these corpses and take them to the Guildhall.’
‘There may be more,’ Flaxwith pointed out.
‘Aye, there may well be.’ Sir John wiped the sweat
‘I follow your reasoning, my lord coroner,’ Athelstan intervened. ‘They’ll maintain this royal messenger was ambushed by rebels and murdered while these same traitors killed the whore and her customer.’
‘The fine would be great. In Shoreditch, two years ago, the parish of St Giles was fined four hundred pounds sterling and, because they couldn’t pay, the leaders of the parish council went to prison.’
‘But . . .?’
‘Sir John Cranston, my lord coroner!’
‘Henry Flaxwith stood at the top of the hill, gesturing at them to come.
‘Truly, we are launched upon a sea of trouble,’ Sir John remarked. ‘Brother, they must have found something.’
They hurriedly climbed back up the hill. Flaxwith, red face perspiring, leaned on his shovel.
‘Oh, Sir John, Brother Athelstan, you have to see this! Eh, come back!’
The bailiff shouted as Samson, a bone in his slavering jaws, raced by them down towards the Four Gospels. As they turned away, Athelstan heard the chaos breaking out behind them. Samson had a nose for food; he would probably have dropped the bone and headed straight for that cooking rabbit.
Athelstan followed Sir John’s quick stride to the great ditch dug around the oak tree. His heart sank at the sight of the two pathetic bundles lying on the grass. He glanced into the ditch and groaned. At least four other skeletons lay sprawled as if they had been killed, their cadavers bundled into a hastily prepared grave.
‘You found them like this?’ Sir John barked.
‘Four here, Sir John, and two more on the other side. Between each skeleton there’s at least half a yard. There may even be more.’
The skeletons lay in different positions: on their sides, backs or faces down in the dirt. Scraps of clothing, pieces of leather boots, rusting buckles were strewn around. One was apparently a female whose bony fingers still clutched a leather bag while the brooch which had pinned her hair lay in the mud beside her.
‘Can you say how they died?’ Sir John asked as he eased himself into the pit.
‘There’s no mark of violence on them, Sir John,’ Flaxwith replied.
Athelstan murmured a quick requiem and also climbed into the pit. He and Sir John moved the skeletons over but they could find no blow, no crack where sword or dagger had sliced bone or skull. Athelstan hastily sketched a blessing, clambered out and crossed to the two soiled bundles. Flaxwith pulled back the dirty canvas sheets. The corpses beneath were in the last stages of decay: the flesh had dried, shrivelled and peeled off. This made the skulls even more grisly with their sagging jaws and empty eye-sockets. One corpse had the remains of a cloak about it. The other, certainly a woman, shreds of her kirtle, yellow and blue in colour. A pair of pattens were still lashed to her feet while the boots the man wore, though cracked and grey with dirt, were of good Spanish leather. Sir John knelt down beside the cadavers. He slipped the ring off the dead man’s finger.
‘It bears the royal insignia,’ he declared, getting to his feet. ‘There is little doubt these are the cadavers of Bartholomew Menster and Margot Haden.’
Helped by Athelstan, he scrutinised the corpses further, turning them over. Now and again they had to rise and walk away gulping in the fresh air.
‘A pit of putrefaction,’ Sir John breathed. ‘They bear no mark of violence, no blow to the head or body!’ He faced the friar. ‘Satan’s bollocks! Alice Brokestreet is apparently telling the truth!’
They walked back to the pit, Sir John issuing orders and distributing largesse.
‘Henry, I want you and one of your burly lads to come with me. The rest are to sheet these corpses and take them to the Guildhall.’
‘There may be more,’ Flaxwith pointed out.
‘Aye, there may well be.’ Sir John wiped the sweat
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