The Field of Blood Read Online Free PDF

barges, flying blue, red and gold pennants, made their way up and down to the Tower or Westminster. Three gong barges, full of ordure stinking to high heaven, were now midstream, the masked dung-collectors tipping the waste they had collected into the fast flowing river.
    ‘You’ve seen all this before,’ Sir John barked.
    He took a quick sip from his wineskin and offered it to Moleskin. The boatman, resting on his oars, took a generous swig; he was about to take a second when the coroner snatched it back.
    ‘Three victims,’ Athelstan said. ‘Killed, either last night, or the night before, I’m not too sure which. The girl and the dark-faced stranger were a whore and her customer. I think they surprised the assassin who killed that young man you seemed to recognise.’
    ‘And the law says,’ the coroner declared pompously, ‘that they must lie on the steps of your church for a day and a night so they can be recognised. I hope it wasn’t the work of any of your beloved parishioners. Someone will hang for such bloody deeds.’
    ‘And where are you taking me, Sir John?’
    Sir John hypocritically put a finger to his lips.
    They berthed at Dowgate near the Steelyard, went up a busy alleyway along Walbrook and into Cheapside. The streets were busy, thronged with crowds. Shops and stalls were open, taverns and alehouses doing a roaring trade. A group of soldiers swung by, going down to the Tower. Debtors from the Marshalsea, manacled together, begged for alms on street corners for themselves and other inmates. A group of acrobats, three young women and a man, were tumbling and turning much to the merriment of a group of sailors who were throwing coins into a clack dish for the young women to turn on their heads and let their skirts fall down.
    Athelstan thought Sir John might be taking him to his house, or his second home, the spacious Lamb of God tavern. However, the coroner, shouting good-natured abuse at the riff-raff who recognised him, forced his way through the crowds into the courtyard of the great Guildhall. Archers wearing the royal livery stood on guard. Men-at-arms in steel helmets patrolled entrances and doorways, shields slung over their backs, spear and sword in hand. Gaudily coloured banners hung from the great balcony above the main doors. Five shields displaying gorgeous arms, black martens, silver gules, golden fess, ornate crowns and helmets, were tied to the wooden slats.
    ‘Of course,’ Athelstan said, ‘it’s the Assizes . . .!’
    ‘That’s right, Athelstan, the royal justices of Oyer and Terminer are now in session.’
    ‘Who are they?’ Athelstan asked.
    ‘The others don’t concern me,’ Sir John said briskly, ‘but the principal justice is the Chief Baron of the Exchequer, Sir Henry Brabazon. A man who has little compassion and knows nothing of mercy.’
    Sir John showed his seals of office and the guards let them through into the antechamber. The coroner plucked at Athelstan’s sleeve and made him sit down on a bench just inside the doorway.
    ‘Now listen, Athelstan, and I have this from a good authority: very shortly Mistress Alice Brokestreet, a tavern wench, possibly a prostitute, is to go on trial for killing a customer.’
    ‘And is she guilty?’
    ‘As Satan himself.’
    ‘So, why are we here, Sir John?’
    The coroner tapped his fleshy nose.
    ‘Have you ever heard of approving?’
    Athelstan nodded. ‘It’s a legal term?’
    ‘Well, that’s what the clever lawyers call it! Let me explain: Jack Cranston is put on trial for strangling Pike the ditcher.’
    ‘That’s possible,’ Athelstan agreed. ‘And, if you did, I’d probably help you.’
    ‘No, listen. I’m found guilty. Now, I can throw myself on the King’s mercy, be hanged by the purse, be exiled beyond the seas, imprisoned for life or, more usually, hanged by the neck. However, if I can successfully accuse, let us say, Watkin the dung-collector, of six other murders, I receive a pardon and old Watkin