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

on Holy Days to eat and drink, lie in the cool grass and stare up at the sky.
    ‘It’s hardly a place for murder,’ Athelstan commented.
    Sir John marched his bailiff across towards the oak tree. The friar sat down and plucked at some daisies, twirling them in his fingers, admiring their golden centre, their soft white petals.
    ‘Perfectly made. Not even Solomon in all his glory was as beautiful as you.’ He smiled. ‘Or so the good Lord said.’
    He sat and watched as the harmony of this green pleasantness was shattered by shouts and oaths as the bailiffs began to dig.
    ‘Brokestreet never said which side of the oak the corpses were buried. So dig a ditch lads, two foot wide and about a yard deep,’ bawled Sir John.
    They didn’t get very far. Progress was hindered by the tough, far-reaching roots of the oak tree.
    ‘They are not country people,’ Athelstan noted.
    The bailiffs had to pull back, a good two yards from the turn of the oak tree where they began again. Athelstan watched for a while but he was distracted by a plume of smoke at the far end of the field, rising above where the land dipped towards the river. He caught the smell of wood smoke and, once again, the fragrance of burning meat.
    ‘There shouldn’t be anyone there,’ he muttered.
    He got up, clutching his chancery bag more securely, and walked through the field past the sweating bailiffs. Sir John told Flaxwith to keep an eye on them.
    ‘And that bloody dog away from the sheep!’
    These had already glimpsed Samson’s slavering stare and moved as close as they could to the far hedge.
    ‘Where are you going, Brother?’
    Athelstan pointed to the smoke.
    ‘If this is Mistress Vestler’s land, what’s that? Travellers? Moon People?’
    They breasted the hill and looked down. The meadow was cut off from the mud flats along the Thames by a thick prickly hedge. In the far corner stood a wattle-daubed cottage with a thatched roof. From a hole in the centre of the thatch rose a plume of black smoke and, before the open door, a group of figures crouched before a fire ringed with bricks over which a turnspit had been fixed. Athelstan narrowed his eyes.
    ‘Do you know these, Sir Jack?’
    The coroner, however, was helping himself to a generous swig of wine; Athelstan shook his head when Sir John offered to share it.
    ‘No thanks, Sir John, that blackjack of ale was enough for me. Who are they? At first glance I thought they were Franciscans.’
    ‘They are wearing brown gowns, cords round their waists, there must be four all together. One man and three women. The fellow’s head shaved as bald as a pigeon’s egg. I wonder if they know anything?’
    Sir John strode off, cloak swirling behind him. Athelstan hurried to keep up. The four figures were not alarmed by their approach but continued with their cooking, more concerned with turning the rabbit on their makeshift spit. The women were young but their faces were greasy, marked with dirt. The man, thin as an ash pole, was scrawny-faced, his bald head glistening with sweat. He came forward, hands extended.
    ‘
Pax et bonum,
Brothers!’
    Athelstan noticed the watery, constantly blinking eyes, the rather slack mouth. A man not in full possession of his wits, he reflected.
    ‘Pax et bonum,’
the stranger repeated as he grasped Sir John’s podgy hand and kissed it.
    ‘And a very good afternoon to you too,’ Sir John replied. ‘Who are you? What are you doing here?’
    ‘I am the First Gospel.’
    ‘I beg your pardon?’ Athelstan intervened.
    ‘Good afternoon.’ The First Gospel stepped closer, raising his hand in benediction.
    ‘I am Brother Athelstan, a Dominican from Southwark. This is Sir John Cranston, a coroner of the city. What are you doing here? What is your real name?’
    The man stared at him, lips parted, to reveal two white teeth hanging from red sore gums.
    ‘I am the First Gospel,’ he replied. ‘And these are my companions.’
    He stepped aside to introduce the three