Field of Blood

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