Field of Blood

opportunity to look around, to search, to make careful enquiries. It was very clever because now you were party to all documents, household accounts and memoranda. You could watch for anything untoward. Poor Stephen died and you became counsellor to his widow. It was only a matter of time, wasn't it?'
    'You are sharp of eye, friar,' Hengan answered. 'Sharper than I thought.'
    'I don't think so. I pray a lot, Master Hengan. Prayer sharpens the mind and hones the wit. Perhaps God wanted justice done and an innocent woman saved from hanging?'
    Hengan pulled his chancery bag towards him.
    'It's a beautiful day,' he observed, staring up at the branches. 'I always thought it would be like this, with the gold before me.'
    'It's not yours,' Athelstan told him. 'Never has been and never will. You are going to hang.'
    'On what evidence?' the lawyer retorted sharply. 'You attended Mistress Vestler's trial.'
    'It's true what they say' Sir John spoke up. '"Cacullus non facit monachum: the cowl doesn't make the monk." You are two men aren't you, Master Ralph? The kindly lawyer, but that's only a shroud for the rottenness beneath.'
    'Now, now, Sir John, are you envious of me? Do you secretly lust after Mistress Vestler's sweetness?'
    Sir John would have lunged at him but Athelstan held his hand out.
    'Let me speak,' he ordered. 'Everything in your garden, master lawyer, was grass and roses until Master Bartholomew Menster appeared: a studious clerk from the Tower who becomes sweet on a tavern wench at the Paradise Tree. To your horror you realise that he is a learned man with access to manuscripts and who has the same determination to discover Gundulf's treasure as yourself. Nevertheless, you kept up the pretence. I wager you never talked with Bartholomew in the presence of Mistress Vestler but away, in some other place. It wouldn't have taken you long to realise how close this interfering clerk was to the truth, so you decided to kill him.'
    'And Margot?' Sir John asked.
    'Margot was just as dangerous,' Athelstan said. 'You heard the evidence in court. Margot was schooled and sharp-witted, determined to make a good marriage. She was prepared to hitch her fortunes to a well-paid clerk who, one day, might discover secret treasure. What did you do, Hengan? Offer to share information? Act the kindly lawyer, willing to help?'
    Hengan seemed more intent on the gold than Athelstan's words.
    'You pretended to go to Canterbury,' Athelstan continued. 'You left the city but made a hasty journey back up the Thames to where you could hide away in many a tavern or alehouse suitably disguised. What you did do, however, was lure Bartholomew and Margot to a meeting. You'd send no letter, nothing which could be traced; perhaps just a hushed, excited whisper that you had discovered where the gold was, how you would meet Bartholomew and Margot at a certain time here, beneath the oak tree in Black Meadow.'
    'Are you sure your evidence is sound?' Hengan taunted. 'Wouldn't Bartholomew or Margot chatter?'
    'Why should they?' Athelstan retorted. 'Mention gold, mention treasure and people lick their lips and narrow their eyes, their fingers itch as yours did. And why should Bartholomew and Margot distrust a respected man such as yourself? On the evening of the twenty-fifth they left the Paradise Tree and came here. You, like Satan, slid out of the shadows. In this deserted place, hooded and cowled, who'd notice you? I doubt if you stayed long. You gave them a present of wine, a token of your friendship. Perhaps you claimed you'd left a manuscript or document somewhere and away you'd go. Bartholomew and Margot are happy, joyous, in love with each other. They would be only too eager to share your flask of wine, something which could not later be traced. Cups are filled, thirsts slaked: death would have followed soon after.' Athelstan pointed across the meadow. 'Were you hiding somewhere over there? Did you come back just for a short while, as the shadows lengthened, to ensure they were truly dead? Pick up the flask of wine and any documents Bartholomew may have been carrying? You are in the countryside near the Thames. The deed done, you hurry back towards the river, hire a wherry and then continue your journey to Canterbury.' 'But I was there, friar.'
    'Oh, I am sure you were. You'd travel fast and, in the confusion, who'd remember you coming and going?'
    'And Mistress Vestler?' Hengan asked.
    'I don't know what you planned for the future. Who would be