a liking to the prisoner at the bar.
'You do realise what you are saying?' Sir Henry asked, lowering the sprig of rosemary.
'It is a very grave matter,' one of the other justices now asserted, 'to go on oath and accuse another citizen of hideous murder.'
'I will go even further,' Brokestreet answered defiantly. 'The Paradise Tree is a busy place. People coming and going as they pleased. For all I know, my lord, there may be other corpses in that field.'
'A true Haceldama,' Sir Henry said, quoting from the scriptures. 'A Potter's Field, a Field of Blood. Well, Mistress Brokestreet, you have thrown yourself upon the mercy of the court but, of course, you are not released. You will be taken back to Newgate, though lodged in more comfortable surroundings in the gatehouse. The court will pay good monies for your sustenance and upkeep while these matters are investigated. Do you have anything to add, mistress?'
The prisoner shook her head, a smile of triumph on her face.
'If you are wrong,' the chief justice continued, 'you shall certainly hang! Sir John Cranston, would you please come before the court?'
Sir John gave a great sigh, handed his wineskin to Athelstan then stopped abruptly. The friar followed his gaze, which was fixed on a royal messenger on the other side of the court. The man had just entered, his boots splattered with mud. He carried a small leather bag containing missives, documents for the court.
'Satan's tits!' Sir John breathed. 'What is it, Sir John? What's the matter?' 'I know your man, one of the victims.' 'Sir John Cranston!' the tipstaff called. 'The court awaits!'
Sir John pushed by and went down to stand, feet apart, before the bar.
'Sir Jack, it is good to see you. You are the King's coroner in the city of London? It is the wish of this court that you take Mistress Kathryn Vestler and place her under house arrest. If she attempts to flee, she is liable to forfeiture of life, limb and property. You are then to proceed to this field known as Black Meadow which lies behind Mistress Vestler's tavern. You are to take bailiffs and beadles from the city and discover the truth behind the prisoner's allegations.'
'And if they are lies, as I am sure they are, I will come back and assist in her hanging!'
'And if they are not,' Sir Henry bellowed, 'you are to arrest Kathryn Vestler and bring her before this court!'
Chapter 3
Sir John Cranston sipped from the blackjack of ale and stared up at the side of pork, wrapped in a linen bag, hanging from one of the rafters to be cured. He smacked his lips and gazed appreciatively round the taproom of the Paradise Tree. The sun was still strong, turning the late afternoon a mellow golden colour, with only a tinge of early autumn. The taproom was fairly empty. Athelstan walked towards a window seat from where he gazed across the lush herb garden at the red-painted wicket gate.
'That must lead to Black Meadow,' he observed.
'It certainly does.' Sir John joined him. 'And, if you go through the meadow, it will take you down to the Thames.'
He took the friar through the door and into the gardens. To the far right were some apple trees, heavy with ripening fruit. Above these soared the great turrets of the Tower.
'Old Vestler was a canny soldier,' Sir John said. 'He fought in France and secured many ransoms. He came back after the Treaty of Bretigny, sold everything he had and bought this tavern. Even in lean times the Paradise Tree always prospered.'
Athelstan sniffed the air; he caught a tang of wood smoke and burning meat. That's not from the kitchens, he thought, I wonder where?
'Brother, look at this!'
Athelstan went over to where Sir John stood staring down at a gleaming sundial. The face, of burnished bronze with Roman lettering, was fixed into a thick stone cupola which rested on a squat column of ancient stone about a yard and a half high.
'A curiosity,' Athelstan said, noticing how the arm of the sundial rested between two numbers. 'I wonder how accurately it measures the passing of the sun?'
'I don't know,' Sir John growled. 'You're the student of the heavens!'
'Was Stephen Vestler?'
'No, he just loved collecting curiosities.'
'Ah yes, I noticed the old weapons fastened to the tavern walls.'
'Stephen bought them from the Tower garrison, a reminder of his warlike days.'
Athelstan walked back through the taproom, along a stone-paved corridor. The walls, clean and lime-washed to repel flies, were decorated with old maces, halberds and shields. A snowy white cat crouched on the bottom step of the stairs leading to the rooms above. Athelstan grasped the newel post carved in the shape of the tree of forbidden fruit in the garden of Eden. He tried not to rouse the cat as he listened to the sounds of weeping. Hengan had taken Mistress
Vestler up to her chamber. The poor widow woman was distraught, beside herself with fear and anger.
'God save and protect them!' Athelstan said to himself. 'But the serpent has entered paradise and our golden day is about to turn to night!'
He heard sounds further up the path: the gate being opened, the crunch of boots on gravel. Henry Flaxwith, red-faced, lips pursed in self-importance, strode into the tavern. Chief bailiff to Sir John Cranston, Flaxwith carried a cudgel in one hand and the lead to his dog Samson in the other. Athelstan, out of charity, always smiled at the dog. Privately, he'd never seen such an ugly animal, which was a squat bull mastiff with a wicked face, gleaming eyes, slavering jaws and indescribable personal habits.
'Good morrow, Brother.'
Flaxwith moved his cudgel to the other hand and grasped Athelstan's. Samson immediately cocked his leg against the door post. The white cat rose, back arched, tail up, hissing and spitting. Samson growled and the cat promptly fled up the stairs.
'You'd best come with me,' Athelstan told him and led him into the taproom.
The door to the kitchen buttery now thronged with chambermaids and potboys. They all stood anxious-faced watching this drama unfold. Flaxwith greeted Sir John while his burly bailiffs squatted on stools, their mattocks, hoes and spades piled in a corner.
'Right lads!' Sir John rubbed his hands together. 'This is the Paradise Tree, property of a friend of mine, Kathryn Vestler. So, keep your sticky fingers to yourselves. I want you to dig a hole.'
He led them out into the herb garden and down through the wicket gate. Black Meadow was inappropriately named, for it consisted of a peaceful, broad swath of green fringed by hedges on either side. It swept down to where the Thames glinted in the distance. Even from where he stood, Athelstan could see boats and wherries, barges and heavy-bellied cogs making ready for sea.
'Why is it called Black Meadow?'
'God knows,' Sir John replied. 'Mistress Vestler leases it out for grazing.' He pointed to a small flock of sheep. 'And, of course, makes a pretty profit.'
Athelstan gazed at the thick grass, weeds twisted in wheels of fresh lushness, various coloured flowers dotted as far as the eye could see.
'That,' Athelstan pointed to the great oak tree, its branches stretching out to create a broad pool of pleasant shade, 'must be what Brokestreet meant.'
The oak was huge, five to six feet in girth. Its broad leaves were already tinged with gold as summer turned to autumn. In this lazy, pleasant spot lovers could meet or families take bread and wine out on Holy Days to eat and drink, lie in the cool grass and stare up at the sky.
'It's hardly a place for murder,' Athelstan commented.
Sir John marched his bailiff across towards the oak tree. The friar sat down and plucked at some daisies, twirling them in his fingers, admiring their golden centre, their soft white petals.
