Field of Blood

haggard-faced. He had not even bothered to change his shirt or doublet. He slumped down on the stool opposite Athelstan and threw his beaver hat on to the table.
    'I don't know about you, Brother, but I will not be in London on Monday. Flaxwith!' He turned to his ever-patient chief bailiff. 'Join the rest and take Samson with you!'
    'No, Henry.' Athelstan beckoned him over. 'I want you to do more than that. Take your lovely dog for a walk through Black Meadow. Tell the Four Gospels, those strange creatures who dwell in the cottage down near the river, that the lord coroner and Brother Athelstan wish words with them beneath the oak tree.'
    Flaxwith went out. Sir John looked narrow-eyed at his companion.
    'What's this, Brother?'
    'Just drink your ale,' Athelstan replied.
    The coroner obeyed but his impatience was apparent.
    'Right!' Athelstan got to his feet. 'Come on, Sir John! I've got a few surprises for you.'
    The garden was beautiful. Athelstan passed the sundial and noticed how its bronze face glittered in the early morning sunlight.
    'First things first,' he whispered.
    Cranston stopped at the lych gate leading to Black Meadow.
    'What's this all about, Brother?'
    'Walter Trumpington.'
    Cranston furrowed his brow.
    'Walter Trumpington,' Athelstan repeated. 'Doesn't the name ring a bell?'
    'Well, yes, it does, that rogue, the First Gospel.' 'And Kathryn Vestler?' 'What about her, Brother?' 'What's her maiden name?'
    'Oh, I don't know. She came from a village outside Cambridge. She and Stephen were married years…' Sir John's jaw sagged. 'It's not Trumpington, is it?'
    'Yes, Sir John, it is. Our First Gospel, I suspect, is Kathryn's younger brother.'
    'But she never said!'
    'No one ever asked her. He's no more waiting the return of St Michael and his angels than Flaxwith's dog. Come on, Sir John, let me prove it!'
    The Four Gospels were gathered beneath the outstretched branches of the oak tree. There were the usual greetings and mumblings of apology.
    'We had no choice,' First Gospel wailed. 'Master Whittock was most insistent.'
    'Let me see one of those medals,' Athelstan demanded. 'You offered me one when I first met you.'
    The fellow took one from his wallet. 'It's specially blessed…'
    'Oh, shut up!' Athelstan went up and stared into the man's face. 'Do you know something, Walter Trumpington? I've yet to meet one of your kind who's got a spark of religion in him.'
    First Gospel looked both hurt and puzzled.
    'Are you going to act for me now? Why didn't you tell the court? Why didn't you tell me or Master Whittock that you are Kathryn Vestler's younger brother? I found an entry in the accounts book from years ago. You've tried everything, haven't you,
    Walter? Chapman, tinker, mountebank, soldier? But, when times are hard, it's always back to sister Kathryn for help. She's soft-hearted, isn't she? Now, you can stand here with your three sisters and act the innocent. So I'll tell you the truth. You are a pimp, Walter, and these three ladies are whores.'
    'How dare you!' one of them screeched.
    'Shut up!' Sir John growled. He was as surprised as any of them but was enjoying Athelstan's fiery temper. 'If any of you make another sound,' the coroner continued, pointing across to where Flaxwith was walking up and down, Samson trotting behind him, 'I'll order my bailiff across here: he'll put you across his knee and whip your buttocks! Now, sir.' He poked First Gospel in the chest. 'Either you answer my secretarius' questions or I'll have you driven from the city!'
    'Now, I don't know how you did it, how you persuaded her,' Athelstan continued, 'but Walter Trumpington decided to return to the Paradise Tree when he learned that Stephen Vestler was dead. When he was alive, the taverner kept some control over his wife's generosity to her wayward brother but, once he was gone, back you came. She's a lovely woman, isn't she, Walter?'
    Athelstan paused and looked up at the tree where a blackbird had begun to sing.
    'She loves you completely, doesn't she? You are the family rascal. I wager you could act the prodigal son or, in this case, the prodigal brother. In truth you are a cunning man. Anyway, Kathryn gives you a cottage on the edge of Black Meadow. You pretend to be one of our latter-day prophets. However, you are involved in quite a lucrative business: buying smuggled wine from ships, then selling it on to the likes of Kathryn, who can refuse you nothing. I wonder how much gold and silver you have hidden beneath the