Field of Blood

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 women. They all looked the same, with black, straggly hair and fat greasy faces. They seemed friendly enough and waved shyly at him.

'This is the Second Gospel, the Third Gospel and the Fourth Gospel. We are the Book of the Gospels,' the stranger concluded triumphantly.

Athelstan chewed his lip. Sir John's face was a picture to behold, lips parted, blue eyes popping.

'Satan's futtocks!' he breathed. 'If I hadn't seen and heard myself, I wouldn't have believed it!'

First Gospel gestured to a log before the fire.

'Be our guests. Would you like something to drink? We have a small hogshead of ale, some good wine and, in a short while, rabbit meat stuffed with herbs. It is good for a man to eat. The body may be a donkey but it must be strong enough to carry the soul, yes, Brother?'

Athelstan took a seat beside the coroner and mentally beat his breast at his arrogance. This stranger seemed sharper-witted than he first thought. He watched as the Four Gospels bustled around. Such religious groups were now springing up all over the kingdom and beyond the Narrow Seas. The Illuminated, The Brides of Christ, The Flowers of Heaven, The Pillars of Jacob, The Tower of Angels. All filled with fanciful ideas that the end of time was nigh and that Christ would come again to mete out justice and establish a new Jerusalem.

One of the women kept turning the spit and Athelstan found his mouth watering at the savoury odour. The women looked happy, content, not as fey-witted or mad as members of other groups Athelstan had encountered.

'Who let you camp here?' Sir John demanded, finding it difficult to sit on the log. He unhitched his cloak and placed it on the ground beside his beaver hat.

'Oh, Widow Vestler,' First Gospel replied.

'She is a good woman,' Three Gospels chorused as one. 'We consider her to be one of the elect. In the new kingdom, when Michael comes, she will be given estates, palaces, full hordes for her tribute.'

'And who is this Michael?' Athelstan asked.

'Why, Brother, St Michael the Archangel.' The First Gospel pointed to a gap in the hedge. 'We watch the river for him.'

'I am sorry.' Athelstan kept his face straight.

'No, listen.' First Gospel wagged a warning finger as his voice fell to a whisper. He leaned forward, a fanatical gleam in his eyes. 'Brother, you will not believe this but, soon, St Michael will come up the Thames in a golden barge.'

'By himself?' Sir John interrupted. 'Or will he have Moleskin rowing him?'

First Gospel looked puzzled.

'We've never heard of him, sir. No, no, St Michael will come with the other archangels, Gabriel and Raphael. The barge will be rowed by massed ranks of seraphim.'

'I see,' Sir John murmured. Tm getting the full picture now. And so why should they come up the Thames?'

'Why, sir, to take over the Tower. Its roofs will turn to gold, its walls to gleaming white ivory. The angels will set up camp there and prepare a worthy tabernacle for the return of Le Bon Seigneur Jesu.'

At this surprising announcement all Four Gospels leaned forward, their brows touching the earth.

'And who told you all this?' Athelstan asked as they sat back on their heels.

'I had a vision,' First Gospel replied. 'I was once a shoemaker in the town of Dover. I went up on the cliffs and I heard the voices. "Go," they said, "go to the banks of the Thames, set up camp and await our return." '

'And these three ladies?' Athelstan asked.

'They are my wives. They, too, are included in the Great Secret.'

'I wish I had visions like that,' Sir John muttered out of the corner of his mouth. 'Good ale, fresh meat and all three in bed at the same time.'

'Hush, Jack!' Athelstan warned him.

'We came here four years ago,' First Gospel went on sonorously. 'At first Widow Vestler turned us away but then she thought otherwise. We set up camp. This cottage was already standing.'

'And when will St Michael come?'

'Why sir, the year of Our Lord, thirteen eighty-one.'

'Why not thirteen eighty-two?' Athelstan asked.

'One, three, eight and one make thirteen!' came the sharp reply. 'If you count the figures together, they come to thirteen. Now one and three is four, and we are the Four Gospels preparing the way!'

Athelstan gaped in astonishment. Of all the theories he'd heard, both sublime and ridiculous, this was the most bizarre. Yet the Four Gospels seemed harmless enough, probably swinging between sanctity and madness. He smiled to himself. Prior Anselm always believed the line between the two was very thin.