Field of Blood

neck. He's a sailor, she thought, come across the Thames looking for fresh meat. And that silver piece in his hand? He'd be a generous customer, even though he looked rather wild and haggard.
    'I'm thirsty' she announced.
    The preacher raised his hands as he had seen the young bucks do in the taverns. Mine host, standing near the barrels and tuns, smiled and called for a potboy.
    'It looks as if Prudence is going to be busy tonight,' he whispered.
    The potboy hurried across with two slopping blackjacks of ale.
    'What's your name?' The preacher toasted her.
    'Prudence.'
    'Are you a whore, Prudence?'
    'I bear no mark or brand on me,' she quipped. 'I have not been whipped in the pillory.'
    'But would you like to be whipped, Prudence?'
    'A little,' she simpered back, though her hand fell to the small knife in her girdle.
    Prudence was from the countryside but she knew the darkness in men's hearts and souls. She intended to rise, make her fortune in this city of gold; become the mistress of some merchant. She had seen old whores and drabs with their pitted faces, toothless, drooling mouths, scars and cuts covering their bodies. Prudence knew all the tricks, this man had better not mark her! He certainly liked his ale and, when their bellies were full, men were easier to handle. She emptied her blackjack quickly. The preacher did likewise and ordered some more. He asked about her life. She told the usual mixture of lies about flawed innocence, flirting with her eyes, promising much. The preacher drank on until he could tolerate the tension no longer. He slammed the tankard down and lurched to his feet. Prudence looked up in alarm.
    'Are you leaving now, sir?'
    'If you wish.'
    Prudence took his hand and led him out of the door, ignoring the salacious whispers and muted laughter of the other customers. Outside darkness had fallen. The cold night air revived the preacher.
    'Where to now?' she asked. 'Do you have a chamber?'
    The preacher shook his head. His lust cooled. He did not wish to be caught in some tavern stable and carted back into the city for punishment.
    'Let's go somewhere,' he declared thickly.
    Prudence pointed down the street to the mouth of the alleyway.
    'In the fields beyond, stands an old, ruined house.'
    'What house?' the preacher slurred.
    'Simon the miser's. Burned down it was, killed the old miser. They say it's haunted but,' Prudence peered up at him, 'it's not. I've been there.'
    The preacher grasped her hand more tightly. 'Come on girl!'
    Such a place suited him. It was beyond the city in a place where no sheriff's men, bailiffs or constables would patrol. Slipping and slithering they went down the alleyway; the line of raggle-taggle houses gave way to a stretch of common land. The preacher slipped an arm round Prudence's waist.
    'It's black as hell's pit,' he hissed. He stopped and fumbled at her breasts. 'I want to see what I buy.'
    'Oh, you shall,' she whispered coyly and snuggled closer, a wild scheme already forming in her mind. She recalled how the downstairs parlour of the old miser's house was littered with thick pieces of wood. A sharp blow to the head and she'd empty this gull's purse and be away. And what could he do? Report her to the bailiffs?
    They went down a gritty trackway across a wooden bridge. The preacher's eyes had now grown accustomed to the gloom. In the moonlight, the dark, stark outline of a ruined house rose over the brow of a hill. He began to regret his purchase but Prudence was climbing ahead of him.
    At last they stood outside the ruined building. Once a magnificent, two-storied mansion, the roof had now fallen in, the windows were empty sockets. She led him through the doorway along a cracked stone passageway. The preacher paused.
    'I heard something! A footfall?'
    'Nonsense!' Prudence whispered back.
    She led him into the parlour and across to a corner where she froze and cursed her fuddled wits. The room was warm, smelling of smoke as if a fire had been lit. She let go of the preacher's hand and turned. A shadowy outline now blocked the doorway. She heard a tinder scrape, as a candle was lit. Prudence and the preacher stood transfixed. In the pool of light they glimpsed a corpse, eyes open, throat cut, lying on the floor with this hideous figure above it. The preacher was the first to recover. 'What?' He stumbled across.
    The crossbow bolt struck him full in the chest while Prudence could only stare in terror as the dark figure strode across the room towards