The Field of Blood by Paul Doherty Read Free Book Online

Sir John whispered. ‘I remember Bartholomew Menster. He was quite a senior clerk in the Tower. People wondered what had happened to him.’
    Brabazon lifted the sprig of rosemary to his nose, sniffing at it carefully, eyes intent on Brokestreet. Sir John might be right, Athelstan reflected: the chief justice had a heart of flint but he was no man’s fool. He had not taken a liking to the prisoner at the bar.
    ‘You do realise what you are saying?’ Sir Henry asked, lowering the sprig of rosemary.
    ‘It is a very grave matter,’ one of the other justices now asserted, ‘to go on oath and accuse another citizen of hideous murder.’
    ‘I will go even further,’ Brokestreet answered defiantly. ‘The Paradise Tree is a busy place. People coming and going as they pleased. For all I know, my lord, there may be other corpses in that field.’
    ‘A true Haceldama,’ Sir Henry said, quoting from the scriptures. ‘A Potter’s Field, a Field of Blood. Well, Mistress Brokestreet, you have thrown yourself upon the mercy of the court but, of course, you are not released. You will be taken back to Newgate, though lodged in more comfortable surroundings in the gatehouse. The court will pay good monies for your sustenance and upkeep while these matters are investigated. Do you have anything to add, mistress?’
    The prisoner shook her head, a smile of triumph on her face.
    ‘If you are wrong,’ the chief justice continued, ‘you shall certainly hang! Sir John Cranston, would you please come before the court?’
    Sir John gave a great sigh, handed his wineskin to Athelstan then stopped abruptly. The friar followed his gaze, which was fixed on a royal messenger on the other side of the court. The man had just entered, his boots splattered with mud. He carried a small leather bag containing missives, documents for the court.
    ‘Satan’s tits!’ Sir John breathed.
    ‘What is it, Sir John? What’s the matter?’
    ‘I know your man, one of the victims.’
    ‘Sir John Cranston!’ the tipstaff called. ‘The court awaits!’
    Sir John pushed by and went down to stand, feet apart, before the bar.
    ‘Sir Jack, it is good to see you. You are the King’s coroner in the city of London? It is the wish of this court that you take Mistress Kathryn Vestler and place her under house arrest. If she attempts to flee, she is liable to forfeiture of life, limb and property. You are then to proceed to this field known as Black Meadow which lies behind Mistress Vestler’s tavern. You are to take bailiffs and beadles from the city and discover the truth behind the prisoner’s allegations.’
    ‘And if they are lies, as I am sure they are, I will come back and assist in her hanging!’
    ‘And if they are not,’ Sir Henry bellowed, ‘you are to arrest Kathryn Vestler and bring her before this court!’

Chapter 3
    Sir John Cranston sipped from the blackjack of ale and stared up at the side of pork, wrapped in a linen bag, hanging from one of the rafters to be cured. He smacked his lips and gazed appreciatively round the taproom of the Paradise Tree. The sun was still strong, turning the late afternoon a mellow golden colour, with only a tinge of early autumn. The taproom was fairly empty. Athelstan walked towards a window seat from where he gazed across the lush herb garden at the red-painted wicket gate.
    ‘That must lead to Black Meadow,’ he observed.
    ‘It certainly does.’ Sir John joined him. ‘And, if you go through the meadow, it will take you down to the Thames.’
    He took the friar through the door and into the gardens. To the far right were some apple trees, heavy with ripening fruit. Above these soared the great turrets of the Tower.
    ‘Old Vestler was a canny soldier,’ Sir John said. ‘He fought in France and secured many ransoms. He came back after the Treaty of Bretigny, sold everything he had and bought this tavern. Even in lean times the Paradise Tree always prospered.’
    Athelstan sniffed the air; he caught