Field of Blood

Prologue
    'A place of ghosts! Soil soaked in blood! Houses and mansions built on the sweat of labourers! Graveyards full of corpses whose souls cry to God for vengeance! A pit of darkness with ground fertile enough to grow a thousand Judas trees!'
    This is how the preacher who'd swept into London in the autumn of 1380 described the city.
    'The whore of Babylon!' he had thundered from the steps of Cheapside. 'The place of the Great Dragon! Didn't its citizens see Satan, and all his fallen seraphs, rising like dark clouds, plumes of smoke from the spiritual battlefield, across the skies of London?'
    The preacher's mouth was full of such choice phrases. Nevertheless, his words had little effect upon the citizens; they had even less upon the King's good fleet, fresh from patrolling the Narrow Seas and berthed at the different quays along the Thames. The sailors had swarmed ashore, filling the taverns and the streets with their raucous sounds and revelry. The preacher, in disgust, took off his sandals, shaking the dust from them, a sign that his task was finished. He would have nothing more to do with the citizens of this new Babylon.
    Now he sat in the Lion Heart tavern across the Thames on the outskirts of Southwark.
    The preacher had gone down its narrow mean streets, the alleyways and runnels full of filth from the open sewers. He had seen the brothels and the whorehouses, the ale-shops and the taverns. Before dusk he had even stood in front of the pillory and watched a man, his ears pinned to the wood, have to pull those ears away leaving them torn and bloody: a sure sign that the King's justice had been done while the brand he'd carry all the days of his life.
    Ah well, life was full of pain! The preacher had done his task. He'd leave London and go to the Cinque Ports. Some good ladies in Cheapside had given him silver pieces. The preacher had snatched them up only to spit in their faces.
    'Women of London! Will ye not repent!'
    He had pointed at their painted faces, plucked eyebrows, ornate headdresses covered in wisps of lawn. He mocked their damask-covered gowns with their narrow waists and brocaded stomachers, cut low to reveal swelling, creamy flesh and fluted swanlike necks, their beauty greatly enhanced by silver and gold collars.
    The preacher leaned back against the taproom wall and licked his lips. He'd noticed one, youngish, big-bosomed and broad-hipped, with a naughty look in her eyes and a saucy pout to her lips. Would she be lively and enthusiastic in bed? He closed his eyes. He could just picture her, blonde hair falling down. Not like the common whore he had taken in that meadow near the mud flats.
    The preacher felt a flush of excitement and opened his eyes. The young whore sitting across the taproom was ever so pert and comely. In fact, she reminded him of a woman he had glimpsed earlier in the day on Cheapside. The preacher, truly a wicked hypocrite, rubbed his stomach. He had eaten and drunk well. He'd done the Lord's business. Was this the Lord's way of rewarding him? Had not King David taken comely young maids to his bed to warm his blood and render him more fitted for the Lord's work? He clawed back his oily black hair and smiled across at the whore, then lifted his tankard. The whore turned away, glancing flirtatiously at him from the corner of her eye. The preacher studied her intently. He would not be brooked. He noticed her smooth face, the rich brown hair, its tresses piled high. She now took off her threadbare cloak, stretching forward. The preacher glimpsed milk-white breasts, the laces of her bodice half undone, and quietly groaned with pleasure. He took a silver coin out, twirling it between his fingers. Was not every saint tempted, he thought? And how could he know the depths of such sin if he did not plumb them himself? He would repent. He would reflect but, for now, his belly was full and the ale made his blood sing like a harp. The whore came over, her high raised pattens slopping on the floor. She moved rather languidly, submissively, head slightly down, hands hanging by her side.
    'You want more ale, sir?' Her voice was like the purr of a cat, green eyes studying the preacher from head to toe. 'You are thirsty, tired and in need of comfort?'
    'I am in need of company,' the preacher replied.
    The young whore perched herself demurely on a stool on the other side of the table. She leaned forward, head tilted, eyes half-closed, affording the preacher a generous view of her bosom and