The Field of Blood by Paul Doherty Page B

and it’s all due to that wicked vixen’s tongue.’
    ‘You’ll die soon enough. And then you’ll go to heaven. In the meantime you’ve got to live your life. God has put you here for a purpose and that purpose must be fulfilled.’
    ‘I feel like hanging myself.’
    Benedicta put her arm round the young girl’s shoulder and stared in puzzlement at the friar.
    ‘She loves Oswald deeply,’ Athelstan explained. ‘But, according to the blood book, a copy of which we haven’t got, they are related.’
    ‘Ah!’ Benedicta hugged the young woman close.
    ‘Come back with me,’ Athelstan suggested. ‘Have some pie and ale. A trouble shared is a trouble halved.’
    They returned to the kitchen. Godbless sat, his chin smeared with the meat and gravy, a beatific smile on his face.
    ‘You are worse than the locusts of Egypt,’ Athelstan complained. ‘But, come, sit down.’ He sketched a hasty blessing. ‘Lord, thank You for the lovely meal and let’s eat it before Godbless does!’ Athelstan raised his cup and toasted Eleanor. ‘Now, let me tell you what happened today because it will be common knowledge soon enough in the city.’
    Athelstan half closed his eyes, his mind going back to Black Meadow: the Four Gospels, those shadowy shapes slipping in from the river at night and, above all, that dreadful pit and the skeletons and corpses it housed.
    ‘Brother?’
    Athelstan glanced at Benedicta.
    ‘It’s a tale of murder,’ he replied. ‘And, I’m afraid, before God’s will is known, more blood will be shed!’

Chapter 6
    Athelstan was up early the next morning. He celebrated a dawn Mass with Bonaventure as his only congregation. He tidied the kitchen, checked on Philomel, Godbless and Thaddeus while trying to make sense of what had happened the day before.
    The business of Kathryn Vestler he put to one side. It was too shadowy, too insubstantial, but he still held to the conclusion he had drawn about the murder of Sholter and the other two. However, his real concern was Eleanor, Basil’s daughter, and, when Crim appeared to serve as altar boy for his second Mass, he sent him round to members of the parish council. Afterwards Athelstan hastily broke his fast, went back to his bed loft and knelt by a chair to recite the Divine Office. He kept the window open and eventually heard the sounds of his parishioners arriving. He flinched at Pike’s wife screeching at the top of her voice. He closed his eyes.
    ‘Oh Lord, please look after me today as I would look after You, if Athelstan was God and God was Athelstan.’
    He crossed himself. He often recited that prayer, particularly when he was troubled or anxious. Then he put away his psalter, climbed down from the bed loft and went out across to the church.
    Athelstan always marvelled how his parishioners sensed some impending crisis. The whole council had turned up, eager to learn any tidbits of scandal and gossip. They all now sat in a semi-circle at the back of the church where he and Benedicta had met their two visitors the previous evening. The benches were neatly arranged, the sanctuary chair had been brought down for himself.
    Of course there had been the usual struggle for positions of authority. Athelstan groaned at the way Pike’s wife was glaring at Watkin’s bulbous-faced spouse, for her expression suggested civil war must be imminent. Watkin, as leader of the council, sat holding the box which contained the blood book and seals of the parish. These were the symbols of his authority; the way Watkin gripped them and looked warningly at the rest from under lowered bushy brows reminded Athelstan of a bull about to charge. Pike sat next to him. Hig the pigman, his stubby face glowering, looked ready to pick a quarrel with the world and not give an inch. Pernell the Fleming woman had tried to change the dye in her hair from orange to yellow. Athelstan tried not to laugh. The result was truly frightening. Pernell’s hair now stuck up in the most lurid