'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.

'Perfectly made. Not even Solomon in all his glory was as beautiful as you.' He smiled. 'Or so the good Lord said.'

He sat and watched as the harmony of this green pleasantness was shattered by shouts and oaths as the bailiffs began to dig.

'Brokestreet never said which side of the oak the corpses were buried. So dig a ditch lads, two foot wide and about a yard deep,' bawled Sir John.

They didn't get very far. Progress was hindered by the tough, far-reaching roots of the oak tree.

'They are not country people,' Athelstan noted.

The bailiffs had to pull back, a good two yards from the turn of the oak tree where they began again. Athelstan watched for a while but he was distracted by a plume of smoke at the far end of the field, rising above where the land dipped towards the river. He caught the smell of wood smoke and, once again, the fragrance of burning meat.