Field of Blood

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.
    Sir John pointed to the gap in the hedge. 'And you go out there on to the mud flats to watch and wait?'
    'Oh, yes, even at night.'
    First Gospel got to his feet and led them through the gap in the hawthorn hedge. Athelstan was immediately caught by the contrast. It was like moving from one country to another. The lush green meadow, the sweet smell of cooking, the perfume of the flowers, gave way to the mud flats along the Thames, which even in the sunlight looked bleak and forbidding. The ground fell away like a sea shore, the steep incline cut by a barrier wall, probably built to resist flooding though the stones were crumbling and mildewed. He and Sir John made their way carefully down and stood on that. Beyond it the broad mud flats were dotted with pools, the hunting ground of gulls and cormorants which rose in clusters and with loud shrieks. The tide was still ebbing, the river itself quite peaceful now. Only the occasional barge or wherry, bearing the royal arms, made its way along to the Tower quayside.
    'What is this?' Athelstan tapped his sandalled foot on the wall.
    'Widow Vestler said it was Roman but that sharp lawyer of hers, Hengan, he came down here once to make sure all was well. He said all these lands once belonged to Gundulf, the man who built the Tower.'
    'And why did Widow Vestler let you stay here?' Athelstan asked.
    'Oh, she's kind-hearted, very generous. She gives us food and drink, says we are harmless enough.'
    Athelstan glanced at the base of the wall and noticed the ground was charred and burned. The embers looked fresh.
    'What is this?' He pointed.
    'Widow Vestler allows us to build a fire at night and put an oil lamp here. We asked her permission,' First Gospel added warningly.
    'Of course,' Sir John agreed. 'Just in case St Michael comes by night and can't see his way.'
    'Oh, Sir John, you are a wise man,' one of the female Gospels simpered, standing behind them.
    'Flattery! Flattery!' Athelstan nudged the coroner in the ribs. 'Another admirer, eh, Sir Jack!'
    He glimpsed one of the standards flying from a passing barge and recalled Sir John's outburst in the Guildhall. He climbed down from the wall, tugging at the coroner's sleeve.
    'Sir Jack, you mentioned that you know one of the victims?'
    Cranston tapped his forehead with the heel of his hand.
    'Lord save us, friar, I did.' He led Athelstan away from the Four Gospels. 'I am sorry, in the excitement
    I forgot but, look you Brother, I glimpsed that messenger wearing the royal livery in the Guildhall, yes?'
    Athelstan nodded.
    Sir John swallowed hard. 'I believe that young man, the victim who had no boots, he, too, was a royal messenger. And, unless my memory fails me, a principal one.'
    Athelstan's face paled. 'Oh