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 odour. 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. Tm getting the full picture now. And so why should they come up the Thames?'