The Field of Blood by Paul Doherty

women. They all looked the same, with black, straggly hair and fat greasy faces. They seemed friendly enough and waved shyly at him.
    ‘This is the Second Gospel, the Third Gospel and the Fourth Gospel. We are the Book of the Gospels,’ the stranger concluded triumphantly.
    Athelstan chewed his lip. Sir John’s face was a picture to behold, lips parted, blue eyes popping.
    ‘Satan’s futtocks!’ he breathed. ‘If I hadn’t seen and heard myself, I wouldn’t have believed it!’
    First Gospel gestured to a log before the fire.
    ‘Be our guests. Would you like something to drink? We have a small hogshead of ale, some good wine and, in a short while, rabbit meat stuffed with herbs. It is good for a man to eat. The body may be a donkey but it must be strong enough to carry the soul, yes, Brother?’
    Athelstan took a seat beside the coroner and mentally beat his breast at his arrogance. This stranger seemed sharper-witted than he first thought. He watched as the Four Gospels bustled around. Such religious groups were now springing up all over the kingdom and beyond the Narrow Seas. The Illuminated, The Brides of Christ, The Flowers of Heaven, The Pillars of Jacob, The Tower of Angels. All filled with fanciful ideas that the end of time was nigh and that Christ would come again to mete out justice and establish a new Jerusalem.
    One of the women kept turning the spit and Athelstan found his mouth watering at the savoury odor. The women looked happy, content, not as fey-witted or mad as members of other groups Athelstan had encountered.
    ‘Who let you camp here?’ Sir John demanded, finding it difficult to sit on the log. He unhitched his cloak and placed it on the ground beside his beaver hat.
    ‘Oh, Widow Vestler,’ First Gospel replied.
    ‘She is a good woman,’ Three Gospels chorused as one. ‘We consider her to be one of the elect. In the new kingdom, when Michael comes, she will be given estates, palaces, full hordes for her tribute.’
    ‘And who is this Michael?’ Athelstan asked.
    ‘Why, Brother, St Michael the Archangel.’ The First Gospel pointed to a gap in the hedge. ‘We watch the river for him.’
    ‘I am sorry.’ Athelstan kept his face straight.
    ‘No, listen.’ First Gospel wagged a warning finger as his voice fell to a whisper. He leaned forward, a fanatical gleam in his eyes. ‘Brother, you will not believe this but, soon, St Michael will come up the Thames in a golden barge.’
    ‘By himself?’ Sir John interrupted. ‘Or will he have Moleskin rowing him?’
    First Gospel looked puzzled.
    ‘We’ve never heard of him, sir. No, no, St Michael will come with the other archangels, Gabriel and Raphael. The barge will be rowed by massed ranks of seraphim.’
    ‘I see,’ Sir John murmured. ‘I’m getting the full picture now. And so why should they come up the Thames?’
    ‘Why, sir, to take over the Tower. Its roofs will turn to gold, its walls to gleaming white ivory. The angels will set up camp there and prepare a worthy tabernacle for the return of
Le Bon Seigneur
Jesus.’
    At this surprising announcement all Four Gospels leaned forward, their brows touching the earth.
    ‘And who told you all this?’ Athelstan asked as they sat back on their heels.
    ‘I had a vision,’ First Gospel replied. ‘I was once a shoemaker in the town of Dover. I went up on the cliffs and I heard the voices. “Go,” they said, “go to the banks of the Thames, set up camp and await our return.”’
    ‘And these three ladies?’ Athelstan asked.
    ‘They are my wives. They, too, are included in the Great Secret.’
    ‘I wish I had visions like that,’ Sir John muttered out of the corner of his mouth. ‘Good ale, fresh meat and all three in bed at the same time.’
    ‘Hush, Jack!’ Athelstan warned him.
    ‘We came here four years ago,’ First Gospel went on sonorously. ‘At first Widow Vestler turned us away but then she thought otherwise. We set up camp. This cottage was already