Field of Blood

us say our clerk truly believed Gundulf's treasure was buried somewhere in or around the Paradise Tree and shared this knowledge with Mistress Vestler. What happens if they've already discovered it?'
    'You mean thieves falling out?' Athelstan asked.
    'Possibly. Whatever the case, as Master Hengan's said, if all these matters come to light, Sir Henry Brabazon and Master Whittock will make great play of them. Indeed…' He paused and spread out his fat fingers.
    'Indeed what?' Hengan asked.
    'I don't know how to say this, Master Hengan, but, as an officer of the Crown, I have the right to conduct a search.'
    'Into what?' Hengan coloured.
    'I think you know already,' Sir John said quietly. 'The accounts for the Paradise Tree. It's a very prosperous tavern. Perhaps too prosperous.'
    Hengan put his face in his hands.
    'I've asked my bailiff Master Flaxwith to seize the accounts books and take them to an old acquaintance of mine.'
    Hengan lowered his hands.
    'Kathryn is a shrewd businesswoman,' he replied. 'The Paradise Tree is very popular: clean, fragrant, well-swept while the food its kitchen serves is delicious. But, yes, Sir John, on a number of occasions I have questioned Kathryn about the large profits she makes.'
    'And what did she say?'
    'At the time she laughed.'
    'She won't laugh now,' Sir John observed. 'All of London will be agog with this. Did Mistress Vestler make a profit out of the customers she killed? Or has she already found Gundulf's treasure? The tavern owns a forge; gold can be smelted down. By the time Sir Henry Brabazon has finished with her, she'll not only be accused of murder and robbery but stealing treasure trove from the Crown and that's petty treason. A fine mess, master lawyer. Indeed, the more I find out about my old friend the less I like it.'
    'You can't desert her!' Hengan pleaded.
    'For the sake of Stephen I won't! But I think we are finished here. Master Flaxwith will be waiting.'
    'And afterwards?' Hengan asked.
    'I'm hungry and thirsty. I'm going to visit the Lamb of God in Cheapside. You, master lawyer, Brother Athelstan, are welcome to join me. We'll take physical and spiritual comfort before we visit our friends in Newgate.'
    Athelstan hurriedly took the manuscripts he had found and put them into his chancery bag, which now weighed heavy with the book the Venerable Veronica had given him. They went out on to the Tower green, thanked Colebrooke and walked down the narrow cobbled path which wound between the walls towards the Lion Gate.
    The entrance to the Tower was busy with carts and sumpter ponies being taken in and out. Members of the garrison on patrol along the quayside were now returning. Chapmen, tinkers and traders had opened their booths to do a brisk trade. Cranston climbed on to a stone plinth and looked over the sea of heads and faces.
    'Flaxwith!' he bellowed. 'Henry Flaxwith!'
    Athelstan's attention was caught by a small crowd which had gathered round a Salamander King: one of those fire-eaters who went round the city performing their tricks. The man was assisted by a small boy who held the reins of a sumpter pony. A small booth had been set up for tankards of ale and the fire-eater was drawing onlookers to him. He was dressed in a mock scale armour with a red lion on the breast, brown leggings and thick leather boots. On his head he wore a tawdry coronet over a rather shabby wig with bright bracelets on each wrist. He'd lit a rush light and, as the crowd uttered gasps of wonder, lifted this and put it in his mouth chewing as one would a morsel of food. When he withdrew the rush light, the flame had gone. As the crowd clapped, he extended his clap-dish for contributions. Athelstan, intrigued, walked over. The Salamander King had suffered no ill-effect: his sunburned face broke into a smile as he glimpsed the friar.
    'A miracle eh, Brother?'
    'Everything's a miracle.' Athelstan grinned back. He offered the Salamander King a penny. 'I must hire you for St Erconwald's in Southwark, the children would love it.'
    'I am always about the city, Brother. Just ask for the Salamander King.'
    Athelstan thanked him. He was about to turn away when he noticed something glinting against the pony's neck. 'Excuse me.'
    He walked over and grasped the St Christopher medal hanging down from the saddle horn, which was almost identical to the one Bridget Sholter had shown him. It had the same thickness, but the chain was not so bright and the locket itself was dented and splattered with