The Field of Blood Read Free Page B

back.’ He sighed. ‘And Pike the ditcher’s wife is sure about what she says?’
    ‘Brother, you would think she had come straight from the Archbishop of Canterbury.’
    Athelstan made a sign of the cross above her.
    ‘Eleanor, I absolve you from your sins. I am sure God understands your anger but you must not do anything.’
    ‘I’d love to silence her, Brother! I’d love to shut that clacking tongue! If it wasn’t for her we’d be married at Easter!’ Eleanor put her face in her hands. ‘I do so love him.’ She glanced up. ‘Do you understand that, Brother?’
    ‘No, Eleanor.’ Athelstan smiled. ‘I don’t. Love can never be understood because it can never be measured, neither the length, the breadth, the height nor its depth.’ Again he grasped her hands. ‘In each of us God has breathed; that breath is our soul: without limit, without end. When we love, Eleanor, we are like God, and that includes Imelda.’ He let go of her hands. ‘Now you may do what you want, I cannot stop you. Or you can leave it to me. But, you must decide now.’
    ‘Until the Feast of All Saints,’ Eleanor replied tersely.
    ‘Very well.’ Athelstan sighed. ‘Until the Feast of All Saints.’
    Eleanor got to her feet. ‘Thank you, Brother.’
    ‘Smile!’ Athelstan urged. ‘I am sure, Eleanor, this can be resolved.’ He pointed to the church door. ‘And I’ll meet you and Oswald there to witness your vows.’
    He watched the young woman leave then put his face in his hands.
    ‘Oh, Lord, what have I promised?’
    He felt pressure on his leg and looked down. Bonaventure had lifted himself up, two forepaws on his knee; the cat’s little pink tongue came out with a fine display of sharp white teeth.
    ‘And how shall I forgive you, oh great killer of the alleyways?’ Athelstan asked. ‘Slaughterer on the midden-heap! Scourge of rats! Come on now!’
    Bonaventure leapt into the friar’s lap. Athelstan sat there stroking him, half-listening to the tomcat’s deep purr as he reflected on Eleanor’s problems. The new parish blood book didn’t go back far so he would have to depend on verbal testimony. However, if Pike the ditcher’s wife was bent on mischief, she might already have jogged memories in the direction she wanted. On the one hand Athelstan felt angry at such meddling but, on the other, if the ditcher’s wife was correct, he would not sanctify Eleanor’s and Oswald’s marriage. So where could he start? What could he do?
    The church door opened with a crash. Athelstan thought it was Sir John Cranston but Luke Bladdersniff the beadle, his bulbous red nose glowing like a piece of fiery charcoal, stumbled into the church.
    ‘Murder!’ he screamed. ‘Oh horrors! Murder most terrible!’
    ‘In God’s name Bladdersniff, what’s the matter?’
    ‘Murder!’ the beadle shrieked. ‘Come, Brother!’
    Athelstan followed him out on to the porch. The day was fine, the sun shone strong. He could see nothing except Bladdersniff’s large handcart in the mouth of the alleyway. Pike and Watkin were guarding it as if it held the royal treasure. Then Athelstan went cold as he glimpsed a bare foot, a hand sticking out from beneath the dirty sheet.
    ‘In God’s name!’ he breathed. ‘How many?’
    ‘Three, Brother.’
    Athelstan knew what Bladdersniff would say next.
    ‘I brought them here because they were found in the parish. I do not recognise them, they are the corpses of strangers. According to the law, such relicts must be displayed outside the parish church for a day and a night.’
    Athelstan inhaled deeply. ‘Bring them forward, Bladdersniff!’
    The beadle gestured. Watkin and Pike trundled the handcart across, Bladdersniff dramatically removed the canvas sheet and the friar flinched. He was used to death in all its forms, to gruesome murder, to stiff, ice-cold cadavers, hanged, hacked, stabbed, drowned, burned, crushed and mangled. These three corpses, however, had a pathos all of their own. The