Field of Blood

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.'
    'And did he give any other clue?' Athelstan asked.
    'That's all he said, Brother.'
    'And did they talk of Widow Vestler?'
    'The clerk never did but the young woman often complained, said she was a hard task mistress though she could be kind.'
    'Brother.' One of the Four Gospels had taken a crude, silver-grey medallion from her purse. 'Take this, it will provide you comfort and protection. It depicts St Michael…'
    'No thank you!'
    Athelstan glanced across the field. The shadows were lengthening as the sun dipped in the west. He felt weary, slightly frightened, but he didn't know why. The meadow didn't look so pleasant now. He made his farewells and walked back towards the tavern.

Chapter 5
    At the end of the alleyway leading up to his parish church, Athelstan paused, closed his eyes and muttered a quick prayer. Sometimes he was a simple parish priest, more concerned with ensuring Huddle painted the gargoyle's face correctly or Bonaventure didn't drink from the holy water stoup. Or the children came on a Saturday so he could teach them divine truths and take them through the life of Christ, using the paintings on the church wall. He'd meet the parish council; now and again tempers were lost but there was also the bonhomie, the sheer comedy of parish life, truly a gift from God. Sometimes, however, in his dreams, Athelstan glimpsed murder come shuffling along this alleyway, a yellowing cadaver dressed in a red cloak and hood while behind him clustered dark shapes, carrying corpses, the bloody work of sudden death.
    'You are hungry, Athelstan,' he reminded himself. 'And you are tired. Don't let the mind play tricks on the soul.'
    He drew a deep breath and marched up the alleyway. Athelstan expected to see the enclosure in front of the church crowded with those three grisly cadavers laid out on a sled. He stopped in surprise. It was empty! No sled, no corpses! No one, except Benedicta sitting on the steps, Bonaventure beside her. The widow woman had taken off her veil and her hair, black as a