The Field of Blood by Paul Doherty Read Free Book Online Page A

a tang of wood smoke and burning meat. That’s not from the kitchens, he thought, I wonder where?
    ‘Brother, look at this!’
    Athelstan went over to where Sir John stood staring down at a gleaming sundial. The face, of burnished bronze with Roman lettering, was fixed into a thick stone cupola which rested on a squat column of ancient stone about a yard and a half high.
    ‘A curiosity,’ Athelstan said, noticing how the arm of the sundial rested between two numbers. ‘I wonder how accurately it measures the passing of the sun?’
    ‘I don’t know,’ Sir John growled. ‘You’re the student of the heavens!’
    ‘Was Stephen Vestler?’
    ‘No, he just loved collecting curiosities.’
    ‘Ah yes, I noticed the old weapons fastened to the tavern walls.’
    ‘Stephen bought them from the Tower garrison, a reminder of his warlike days.’
    Athelstan walked back through the taproom, along a stone-paved corridor. The walls, clean and lime-washed to repel flies, were decorated with old maces, halberds and shields. A snowy white cat crouched on the bottom step of the stairs leading to the rooms above. Athelstan grasped the newel post carved in the shape of the tree of forbidden fruit in the garden of Eden. He tried not to rouse the cat as he listened to the sounds of weeping. Hengan had taken Mistress Vestler up to her chamber. The poor widow woman was distraught, beside herself with fear and anger.
    ‘God save and protect them!’ Athelstan said to himself. ‘But the serpent has entered paradise and our golden day is about to turn to night!’
    He heard sounds further up the path: the gate being opened, the crunch of boots on gravel. Henry Flaxwith, red-faced, lips pursed in self-importance, strode into the tavern. Chief bailiff to Sir John Cranston, Flaxwith carried a cudgel in one hand and the lead to his dog Samson in the other. Athelstan, out of charity, always smiled at the dog. Privately, he’d never seen such an ugly animal, which was a squat bull mastiff with a wicked face, gleaming eyes, slavering jaws and indescribable personal habits.
    ‘Good morrow, Brother.’
    Flaxwith moved his cudgel to the other hand and grasped Athelstan’s. Samson immediately cocked his leg against the door post. The white cat rose, back arched, tail up, hissing and spitting. Samson growled and the cat promptly fled up the stairs.
    ‘You’d best come with me,’ Athelstan told him and led him into the taproom.
    The door to the kitchen buttery now thronged with chambermaids and potboys. They all stood anxious-faced watching this drama unfold. Flaxwith greeted Sir John while his burly bailiffs squatted on stools, their mattocks, hoes and spades piled in a corner.
    ‘Right lads!’ Sir John rubbed his hands together. ‘This is the Paradise Tree, property of a friend of mine, Kathryn Vestler. So, keep your sticky fingers to yourselves. I want you to dig a hole.’
    He led them out into the herb garden and down through the wicket gate. Black Meadow was inappropriately named, for it consisted of a peaceful, broad swath of green fringed by hedges on either side. It swept down to where the Thames glinted in the distance. Even from where he stood, Athelstan could see boats and wherries, barges and heavy-bellied cogs making ready for sea.
    ‘Why is it called Black Meadow?’
    ‘God knows,’ Sir John replied. ‘Mistress Vestler leases it out for grazing.’ He pointed to a small flock of sheep. ‘And, of course, makes a pretty profit.’
    Athelstan gazed at the thick grass, weeds twisted in wheels of fresh lushness, various coloured flowers dotted as far as the eye could see.
    ‘That,’ Athelstan pointed to the great oak tree, its branches stretching out to create a broad pool of pleasant shade, ‘must be what Brokestreet meant.’
    The oak was huge, five to six feet in girth. Its broad leaves were already tinged with gold as summer turned to autumn. In this lazy, pleasant spot lovers could meet or families take bread and wine out