Field of Blood

'True, true,' Athelstan murmured. 'And this is a lonely place. Unless you made careful scrutiny.'

'While in full summer, Brother, the grass soon grows again …'

'And the secret's kept,' Athelstan finished the sentence for him.

He thanked the bailiff and walked across the field. The sheep scattered at his approach, bleating at this further disturbance to their grazing. Athelstan examined the thick privet hedge which divided the field from the common land which stretched down to the city ditch. In most places it was thick and prickly, in others there were gaps, probably forced over the years by travellers, lovers or people seeking a short cut between Petty Wales and the fortress. The same was true of the hedge on the other side. Athelstan heard shouts and turned; the bailiffs were finishing, the corpses sheeted. They were now taking them up to the tavern and the waiting cart. Athelstan waved farewell and walked down towards the Four Gospels. This time they were not so friendly; they were sitting by the fire eating cheese and sliced vegetables piled on makeshift platters.

'We lost our rabbit,' First Gospel moaned. 'That bloody dog has the mark of Cain upon it!'

Athelstan apologised, dug into his purse and handed over a coin. Their mood changed at the sight of the twinkling piece of silver.

'Thank you very much, Brother. Remember that!' First Gospel lifted a hand, fingers extended. 'When St Michael comes along the Thames, let Brother Athelstan's name be inscribed in the Book of Life. May he be taken by the angels into their camp.'

'Quite, quite,' the friar broke in. 'But I've come to ask you some more questions.'

'About the corpses found beneath the great oak tree?' First Gospel asked, his long face solemn. 'Oh yes, we've heard of bloody murder and hideous crime.'

He was about to launch into another paean of praise about what would happen when St Michael came but Athelstan cut him short.

'Have you seen anything untoward?'

'In Black Meadow?' First Gospel asked; he shook his head. 'We keep to ourselves, Brother. The doings of the world and the flesh are not our concern. Sometimes we hear lovers, poachers, men of the night.' He pointed to the open cottage door. 'But, until the angels come, we are well armed. I have a bill hook, a sword, a bow and six arrows.'

'Did you see anything?' Athelstan insisted. 'Someone brought two corpses into this field, dug a grave and buried them.'

'We saw nothing, Brother.' One of the women spoke up. 'Eye does not see.' She broke into a chant. 'Nor does the ear hear while the heart is silent to the tribulations of this world.'

Athelstan decided it was time to take another coin out of his purse.

'But the river is another matter,' First Gospel declared in a red-gummed smile.

'In what way?'

'Oh yes,' the women chorused, eager now to earn another coin.

Athelstan quietly prayed that the Lord would understand his distribution of coins taken from the corpses earlier that day.

'What happens on the river?' he asked.

'Well, we light our fire and maintain our vigil,' First Gospel declared. He leaned closer, eyes staring. 'But we've seen shapes at night, Brother: boats coming in from the river, men cowled and hooded.'

'You are not just saying that for the silver coin?'

'Brother, would we lie? Here, I'll show you.'

He sprang to his feet and led Athelstan out through the gap in the hedge, down over the old crumbling wall which overlooked the mud flats. He pointed to his right towards the Tower.

'There, you see the gallows?'

Athelstan glimpsed the high-branched gibbet. He could just make out the bound and tarred figure of a river pirate hanging from the post jutting out over the river.

'Just there, near the gibbet! Barges come in. We've glimpsed lanterns, figures, shapes moving in the night.'

'You are sure they are not soldiers, men going to the Tower?'

'No, Brother, why should they stop there? It's only mud and what are they doing?'

'How often do they come?' Athelstan asked.

First Gospel blew his cheeks out. 'About once a month. They don't mean well, Brother. If it wasn't for the glint of a lantern, we'd hardly know they were here.'

'And where do they go?'

'I watch them. But this is all I know. They go into the common lands beyond Black Meadow.' He turned, gripping Athelstan by the elbow, his eyes gleaming with expectation. 'At first we thought it might be the angels,' he whispered. 'But, surely,

Brother, they'll come with fiery lights, banners unfurled and trumpets braying?'

'I suspect they will. I thank you, sir.' Athelstan followed the First Gospel back to the rest grouped around the fire. 'I want to ask you another question.' He handed the coin over.

First Gospel took it and smiled triumphantly at his women.

'A good day's work, sisters! Proceed, Brother: your visit proves that the Lord giveth as well as taketh away'

'Or rather that Samson the dog does,' Athelstan replied. 'You are correct! Two corpses have been dug up beneath the great oak tree. We know who they are.'

First Gospel's face flinched. He blinked and licked nervously at a sore on his lip.

'You probably know,' Athelstan continued, 'the man is Bartholomew Menster, a senior clerk from the muniment rooms in the Tower. The other was a young chambermaid, Margot Haden. They were sweet on each other, that's what the gossips say. Bartholomew often visited the Paradise Tree. Around midsummer they both disappeared. You did know them, didn't you?'

Athelstan sensed a shift of mood in the group: no more fawning smiles or air of innocence. He studied their close-set faces: you may not be what I think you are, he thought. The friar now understood why the group had not been troubled as they quickly hid behind an air of surly aggressiveness.

'Brother, we travel here and there.'

'That wasn't my question.' Athelstan shifted on the log, picked up his chancery hag and placed it in his lap. 'I only seek information. It's good to do it on a sunny autumn afternoon. However, I can petition Sir John Cranston and continue my questioning at another time and in a place much less congenial.' 'There's no need to threaten.'

'I'm not threatening. I'm giving you my solemn promise. Horrendous murders have taken place. Justice must be done for Margot and Bartholomew.'

'We knew them.' One of the women spoke up, ignoring First Gospel's angry glance. 'They often came into Black Meadow and walked down towards the river, hand in hand, cheek to cheek.'

'They were pleasant people?' Athelstan asked. 'They must have stopped and talked to you?'

'Oh, they did.' First Gospel spoke up. 'Usually about the river but the clerk, Bartholomew, he was full of tales about the Tower: about its history and the gruesome deeds it had witnessed.'

'And?'

'He talked of Gundulf the Wizard.' First Gospel closed his eyes. 'That's right, the sorcerer who built the Tower for the Great Conqueror. He said that in or around the Tower …'

'Go on!' Athelstan insisted.

'Gundulf had buried a great treasure.'

Athelstan's heart quickened. 'And where was this treasure buried?'

First Gospel smiled slyly and tapped the side of his head.

'Many people think our wits wander, Brother, so they talk to us as if we were children.' 'What did he say?'

'Go on!' the woman urged. 'Tell him. It was an interesting tale.'

'Bartholomew was a scholar,' First Gospel added slowly. 'I am not sure, Brother, but sometimes I got the impression that he knew where that treasure

'Did he say as much?'

'I asked him once. He and his sweetheart, I am not too sure whether she understood. Bartholomew said: "It shines like the sun, lies under the sun, so we have to find the sun." I laughed at the riddle for the sun we see but Bartholomew shook his head and would say no more.'