'There shouldn't be anyone there,' he muttered.

He got up, clutching his chancery bag more securely, and walked through the field past the sweating bailiffs. Sir John told Flaxwith to keep an eye on them.

'And that bloody dog away from the sheep!'

These had already glimpsed Samson's slavering stare and moved as close as they could to the far hedge.

'Where are you going, Brother?'

Athelstan pointed to the smoke.

'If this is Mistress Vestler's land, what's that? Travellers? Moon People?'

They breasted the hill and looked down. The meadow was cut off from the mud flats along the Thames by a thick prickly hedge. In the far corner stood a wattle-daubed cottage with a thatched roof.

From a hole in the centre of the thatch rose a plume of black smoke and, before the open door, a group of figures crouched before a fire ringed with bricks over which a turnspit had been fixed. Athelstan narrowed his eyes.

'Do you know these, Sir Jack?'

The coroner, however, was helping himself to a generous swig of wine; Athelstan shook his head when Sir John offered to share it.

'No thanks, Sir John, that blackjack of ale was enough for me. Who are they? At first glance I thought they were Franciscans.'

'They are wearing brown gowns, cords round their waists, there must be four all together. One man and three women. The fellow's head shaved as bald as a pigeon's egg. I wonder if they know anything?'

Sir John strode off, cloak swirling behind him. Athelstan hurried to keep up. The four figures were not alarmed by their approach but continued with their cooking, more concerned with turning the rabbit on their makeshift spit. The women were young but their faces were greasy, marked with dirt. The man, thin as an ash pole, was scrawny-faced, his bald head glistening with sweat. He came forward, hands extended.