Field of Blood

persisted.
    'The Paradise Tree?' The fisher of men spoke up. 'I know your business, Brother. The good tavern-owner, Kathryn Vestler, stands trial for her life. I cannot believe the stories. A kindly woman who has shown us and others great charity. She has given the Four Gospels the right to pitch camp and await the coming of St Michael and his angels.'
    His words provoked laughter among his coven.
    'They'll have to wait long,' he continued. 'We often see the beacon fire they light upon the bank. On dark nights when the moon is hidden, it gives us bearings.'
    'I am not really interested in them,' Athelstan said. 'True, Brother, madcaps the lot of them. The sounds we hear from their camp site are strange to say the least.'
    'In your travels,' Athelstan chose his words carefully, 'especially at night, sir, you and your crew must see certain sights? Barges which have no lanterns, men masked, hooded and cowled?'
    The fisher of men stared coldly back.
    'Brother, I cannot tell you what happens along the Thames at night. We go unarmed. Oh, we carry an arbalest, a sword and a spear but we are left alone because we leave others alone.'
    Athelstan sighed and got to his feet. He handed over the silver coin.
    'But I can trust you on this matter?'
    The fisher of men shook Athelstan's hand. The friar was surprised at the strength of his grip.
    'You and Sir John are my friends. I have taken your silver. I have clasped your hand.'
    Athelstan thanked them and went down towards the riverside where he hired a barge to take him across the now choppy Thames.
    Athelstan dozed in the wherry then made his weary way along the valleys and runnels, passing the priory of St Mary Overy. All around him Southwark was coming to life at the approach of darkness. Taverns and ale-shops were opening; candles glowed in the windows. Dark shadows thronged at the mouths of alleyways or in doorways. Young bloods from the city, mice-eyed, heads held arrogantly, traipsed through their streets, thumbs stuck in their war belts: bully-boys looking for trouble, cheap ale and a fresh doxy.
    Athelstan hated such men. They came from the retinues of the nobles at Westminster to seek their pleasures. Fighting men, skilled with sword and dagger, they could challenge the like of Pike in his cups to a fight and, in the twinkling of an eye, stick him like a pig.
    He passed the Piebald and sketched a blessing in the direction of Cecily the courtesan, dressed in a low, revealing smock, her hair freshly crimped, a blue ribbon tied round her throat.
    'You'll get up to no mischief, Cecily?' Athelstan called out.
    'Oh no, Brother,' she answered sweetly. 'I'll be good all evening.'
    Athelstan smiled and made his way up the alleyway. The church forecourt was deserted and he sighed in relief. However, as he went down the side of the church towards his house, two figures came through the lych gate of the cemetery.
    'Oswald Fitz-Joscelyn! Eleanor! What are you doing here?'
    The young lovers looked rather dishevelled, bits of grass clung to Eleanor's dress and she had a daisy chain around her neck. The young man, sturdy and broad, with a good honest face, laughed and shook his head.
    'Brother, we may have been lying down in the grass but we were talking to Godbless.'
    Eleanor spoke up. 'Can we see you?'
    Athelstan hid his disappointment at not being able to go in and relax.
    'Of course! Of course!'
    He took them into the kitchen. The fire was unlit but everything was scrubbed and cleaned: the pie on the table looked freshly baked. Beside it stood a small bowl of vegetables.
    'Would you like to eat?' Athelstan offered.
    'No, Brother.'
    When the two young lovers sat down at the table Athelstan decided the pie could wait. The smiles had gone. Both looked troubled and Athelstan's heart went out to them. Oswald's hand covered Eleanor's; now and again he'd squeeze it.
    'Brother, what are we going to do?'
    'Trust in God, trust in me, say your prayers.'
    'I can't wait.' Tears brimmed in Eleanor's eyes. 'Pike the ditcher's wife, her tongue clacks. All the parish know about your visit to the Venerable Veronica.'
    'I'm sorry,' Oswald broke in. 'I know, Brother, you have troubles of your own: Mistress Vestler has been taken by the bailiffs.'
    'Do you know her?'
    'Oh yes. A generous woman, well-liked and respected among the victuallers. My father buys wine from her, the best claret of Bordeaux.'
    'But what about your troubles?' Athelstan asked.
    'What happens,' Eleanor enquired, 'if we do lie in