Field of Blood

execution, a pardon? Who knows, they may even agree to Kathryn being hanged by the purse and leave it at that.'
    'But you don't think so, do you?' Athelstan asked. Sir John shook his head. 'The murder was malice aforethought. Mistress Vestler refused to plead guilty, while Bartholomew was a royal clerk. The Crown will not listen to pleas of mitigation.'
    'How did Whittock know all that?' Athelstan asked.
    Hengan was staring into his tankard. 'Ralph?'
    'I'm sorry. I was thinking how the Crown must be pleased that Brokestreet is dead. After all, she was a condemned felon who killed a man with a firkin opener. Rumour will now place her death at Mistress Vestler's door. The gossips will argue that it was in her interests for Mistress Brokestreet to be killed; Kathryn had relationships with outlaws or smugglers and they did the bloody deed. I am sorry, Brother, I am confused. What I am really saying is any real plea for pardon will be turned down; Mistress Vestler will be regarded as a murderess on many counts. I must find that treasure.' He paused. 'Thesaurus in ecclesia prope turrem: I wonder what that means?' He smiled at Athelstan. 'I'm sorry, Brother, you asked a question?'
    'How did Master Whittock know to call all those witnesses?'
    'Oh, quite easy,' Sir John said. 'I've been thinking of that myself. The accounts books, eh Master Ralph?'
    The lawyer nodded. 'The accounts books, Sir Jack, have a great deal to answer for. They'll show all the monies spent by Kathryn Vestler on Margot Haden, including pennies given to chapmen to deliver messages to her sister. The same will be true of the tree pruner and Master Biddlecombe. Whittock's clerks searched all these out.' He finished his tankard and got to his feet. 'Sir Jack, Brother Athelstan, today is Thursday: in three days' time Mistress Vestler hangs. I will see what I can do.'
    Athelstan watched him go then became distracted by a beggarman who brought in a weasel for sale. Sir John threw the fellow a coin and told him to go away.
    'There's little we can do, is there, Brother?'
    'Sir Jack.' Athelstan got to his feet. 'You can pray and we can think.'
    And, giving the most absentminded of farewells, Athelstan left. Sir John was so bemused, he had to call for a further blackjack of ale to clear his wits.
    Meanwhile the little friar trudged down Cheapside. As he went he pulled his cowl over his head, pushing his hands up his sleeves.
    'Isn't it strange?' he asked himself. 'Sir Jack and I.' He paused. Yes, that's why he was confused! He and the coroner hunted murderers down, sent assassins to their just deserts. Now he was desperately trying to free one.
    Athelstan crossed London Bridge. He stopped halfway and went into the chapel of St Thomas a Becket where he sat in the cool darkness staring up at the sanctuary lamp. He found it hard to pray. His mind was all a-jumble: scenes from the court, the witnesses being called, raising their hands; Whittock's persistent questions; Brabazon's smile; the lowering looks of the jury men; Mistress Vestler standing poised but defiant. Athelstan crossed himself and left.
    When he reached St Erconwald's the churchyard was empty but the door was open so Athelstan slipped inside. Huddle the painter was sitting dreamily on a stool. This self-appointed artist of the parish was determined, given Brother Athelstan's patronage, to cover every bare expanse of wall in the church.
    'What's on your mind, Huddle?'
    'The marriage feast at Cana. I have Eleanor and Oswald. Joscelyn can be the wine-taster. Benedicta can be Our Lady, Sir Jack would be one of the guests. Just think of it, Brother.'
    'And what will Pike the ditcher's wife be?'
    'Why, she will be Herod's wife.'
    'Herod's wife didn't attend the marriage feast at Cana.'
    'How do we know, Brother?'
    Athelstan patted him on the shoulder.
    'You have the key to the church?'
    'Benedicta left it with me. She gave me a pot of the rabbit stew she made for you. It's in the kitchen. I also took some of the ale.'
    'We are a truly sharing community,' Athelstan remarked.
    He went and checked on Philomel. The horse lay so silently Athelstan wondered if it had died but it was only sleeping. In the cemetery Godbless was lying on one of the tombstones sunning himself, Thaddeus quietly cropping the grass beside him.
    Athelstan tiptoed back. He found the house in order. Bonaventure was out and Athelstan sat in his chair next to the empty grate. Something troubled him. Something he had seen and heard this