'God forbid!' Athelstan echoed.

'I'd remove the top layer followed by the rest of the soil, put his magnificent corpse in, cover it up, place the sods on top and stamp down. Then I'd go into the field.' He pointed to the long grass. 'I'd cut some of that and sprinkle it over the grave.'

'True, true,' Athelstan murmured. 'And this is a lonely place. Unless you made careful scrutiny.'

'While in full summer, Brother, the grass soon grows again…'

'And the secret's kept,' Athelstan finished the sentence for him.

He thanked the bailiff and walked across the field. The sheep scattered at his approach, bleating at this further disturbance to their grazing. Athelstan examined the thick privet hedge which divided the field from the common land which stretched down to the city ditch. In most places it was thick and prickly, in others there were gaps, probably forced over the years by travellers, lovers or people seeking a short cut between Petty Wales and the fortress. The same was true of the hedge on the other side. Athelstan heard shouts and turned; the bailiffs were finishing, the corpses sheeted. They were now taking them up to the tavern and the waiting cart. Athelstan waved farewell and walked down towards the Four Gospels. This time they were not so friendly; they were sitting by the fire eating cheese and sliced vegetables piled on makeshift platters.

'We lost our rabbit,' First Gospel moaned. 'That bloody dog has the mark of Cain upon it!'

Athelstan apologised, dug into his purse and handed over a coin. Their mood changed at the sight of the twinkling piece of silver.

'Thank you very much, Brother. Remember that!' First Gospel lifted a hand, fingers extended. 'When St Michael comes along the Thames, let Brother Athelstan's name be inscribed in the Book of Life. May he be taken by the angels into their camp.'

'Quite, quite,' the friar broke in. 'But I've come to ask you some more questions.'