from his brow. He strode off, not even waiting for Athelstan who had to hurry to catch up.
‘What’s the matter, Sir John?’
The other man stopped, tears welling in his eyes.
‘Ten years ago, Brother, on the great north road leading to York, stood a hostelry, the Black Raven, a spacious, well-endowed tavern. It was managed by a taverner and his two sons. A lonely place out on the moors, though welcoming enough. Rumours sprang up, about travellers, pilgrims, chapmen disappearing. At first people shrugged these off. Travellers often became lost on the moors. The mists come swirling in, hiding paths and trackways and the unwary can blunder into a marsh or mire. However, the local sheriff investigated. He is a friend of mine, keen of wit and sharp of eye. To cut a long story short, Brother, the taverner was murdering solitary travellers and burying their bodies out on the moors.’
‘And you think Mistress Vestler did the same?’
‘Athelstan, corpses don’t appear under oak trees unless they are put there!’
‘But you said Mistress Vestler was a good woman?’
‘Oh, she and her husband were kind and friendly but they did have a partiality for gold and silver.’ He stamped his boot on the ground. ‘God knows what lies beneath here but I don’t think Kathryn will placate Sir Henry Brabazon with coy smiles and fluttering eyelids.’ He turned round.
Flaxwith and another bailiff were following. Behind them, triumphant as a knight returning from a tourney, waddled Samson, a half-roasted rabbit between his jaws.
‘Brother, I thought life had become too quiet and peaceful. Now we have Mistress Vestler, a murderess, perhaps many times over, while your parishioners are going to receive the shock of their lives.’
He marched back through the garden into the taproom.
Master Hengan appeared in the taproom but Sir John shook his head, gesturing at him to leave. He beckoned at the ale-master who was standing in the kitchen doorway, scullions and maids thronging behind him.
‘Come in here!’ Sir John ordered. ‘Go on, all of you, take a seat!’
The maids and scullions did. The potboys sat on the floor, the spit-turners took their place on either side of the fireplace.
‘Now, I have questions for you. Do any of you recall a clerk known as Bartholomew Menster who came here, sweet on a chambermaid, Margot Haden?’
‘Oh yes.’ The ale-master spoke up. ‘A tall man, Bartholomew, quiet and studious.’ He moved his body in imitation. ‘Shoulders rather hunched. He really liked our Margot. He often came here after he had finished work in the Tower.’ He pointed to the far corner near the garden door. ‘He’d always sit there and eat, wait for Margot to finish.’
‘And did Mistress Vestler encourage this?’ Athelstan asked.
‘She was welcoming enough,’ the ale-master replied. ‘But she often scolded Margot for wasting time. She was kind enough to Bartholomew because he paid well and brought other clerks here.’
Sir John sat down on a bench, Athelstan beside him. The friar touched his chancery bag but he was too tense, too anxious to write, he would remember all this later on when he returned to St Erconwald’s.
‘And what happened to Bartholomew and Margot?’
‘You know, my lord,’ one of the potboys piped up.
‘No lad, I don’t, remind me,’ Sir John asked sweetly.
‘About three months ago we’d all been out to the midsummer fair. Margot and Bartholomew disappeared soon afterwards. Officers came from the Tower to enquire about the whereabouts of Bartholomew but we couldn’t help them.’
‘And Margot disappeared at the same time?’
‘Of course.’ The boy rubbed his nose on the back of his hand. ‘Gone like a river mist they were.’
‘And what did Mistress Vestler say?’
‘She thought they had eloped.’
‘Aye that’s right,’ a maid intervened. ‘But the officer from the Tower, a tall beanpole of a man, he said that couldn’t be true, Master Bartholomew had not
‘What’s the matter, Sir John?’
The other man stopped, tears welling in his eyes.
‘Ten years ago, Brother, on the great north road leading to York, stood a hostelry, the Black Raven, a spacious, well-endowed tavern. It was managed by a taverner and his two sons. A lonely place out on the moors, though welcoming enough. Rumours sprang up, about travellers, pilgrims, chapmen disappearing. At first people shrugged these off. Travellers often became lost on the moors. The mists come swirling in, hiding paths and trackways and the unwary can blunder into a marsh or mire. However, the local sheriff investigated. He is a friend of mine, keen of wit and sharp of eye. To cut a long story short, Brother, the taverner was murdering solitary travellers and burying their bodies out on the moors.’
‘And you think Mistress Vestler did the same?’
‘Athelstan, corpses don’t appear under oak trees unless they are put there!’
‘But you said Mistress Vestler was a good woman?’
‘Oh, she and her husband were kind and friendly but they did have a partiality for gold and silver.’ He stamped his boot on the ground. ‘God knows what lies beneath here but I don’t think Kathryn will placate Sir Henry Brabazon with coy smiles and fluttering eyelids.’ He turned round.
Flaxwith and another bailiff were following. Behind them, triumphant as a knight returning from a tourney, waddled Samson, a half-roasted rabbit between his jaws.
‘Brother, I thought life had become too quiet and peaceful. Now we have Mistress Vestler, a murderess, perhaps many times over, while your parishioners are going to receive the shock of their lives.’
He marched back through the garden into the taproom.
Master Hengan appeared in the taproom but Sir John shook his head, gesturing at him to leave. He beckoned at the ale-master who was standing in the kitchen doorway, scullions and maids thronging behind him.
‘Come in here!’ Sir John ordered. ‘Go on, all of you, take a seat!’
The maids and scullions did. The potboys sat on the floor, the spit-turners took their place on either side of the fireplace.
‘Now, I have questions for you. Do any of you recall a clerk known as Bartholomew Menster who came here, sweet on a chambermaid, Margot Haden?’
‘Oh yes.’ The ale-master spoke up. ‘A tall man, Bartholomew, quiet and studious.’ He moved his body in imitation. ‘Shoulders rather hunched. He really liked our Margot. He often came here after he had finished work in the Tower.’ He pointed to the far corner near the garden door. ‘He’d always sit there and eat, wait for Margot to finish.’
‘And did Mistress Vestler encourage this?’ Athelstan asked.
‘She was welcoming enough,’ the ale-master replied. ‘But she often scolded Margot for wasting time. She was kind enough to Bartholomew because he paid well and brought other clerks here.’
Sir John sat down on a bench, Athelstan beside him. The friar touched his chancery bag but he was too tense, too anxious to write, he would remember all this later on when he returned to St Erconwald’s.
‘And what happened to Bartholomew and Margot?’
‘You know, my lord,’ one of the potboys piped up.
‘No lad, I don’t, remind me,’ Sir John asked sweetly.
‘About three months ago we’d all been out to the midsummer fair. Margot and Bartholomew disappeared soon afterwards. Officers came from the Tower to enquire about the whereabouts of Bartholomew but we couldn’t help them.’
‘And Margot disappeared at the same time?’
‘Of course.’ The boy rubbed his nose on the back of his hand. ‘Gone like a river mist they were.’
‘And what did Mistress Vestler say?’
‘She thought they had eloped.’
‘Aye that’s right,’ a maid intervened. ‘But the officer from the Tower, a tall beanpole of a man, he said that couldn’t be true, Master Bartholomew had not
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