Field of Blood

mistress,' the gaoler slurred.
    He stepped aside. A shadowy, dark-cowled figure stood behind him.
    'This good friar wishes to know if ye want to be shrived?'

Chapter 1
    In the parish church of St Erconwald's in Southwark, Brother Athelstan, Dominican, parish priest and secre-tarius to the noble Sir John Cranston, coroner of the city, knelt on the steps before the high altar. He was praying that the new week would be uneventful. He tried to concentrate but his mind teemed with all the different goings on: the parish council was soon to meet. Athelstan privately regarded that as an occasion of sin, particularly if Pike the ditcher's wife decided to hold forth on everything and everyone. Huddle the painter wanted to start a new fresco in the sanctuary but Athelstan was cautious. The projected scene was Noah leading the animals into the ark, yet Huddle couldn't resist poking fun at his enemies in the parish. Athelstan knew it would be civil war if the two apes bore even the slightest resemblance to Pike and his wife. The Dominican gazed up at the brass crucifix standing on the white linen altar cloth.
    'They are good people,' he prayed. 'Poor and dirty while the great ones consider them no more than worms in the earth. So, give me patience.' Athelstan paused. 'And good humour in dealing with them.'
    Athelstan reflected on the good being done. Watkin the dung-collector and Pike had cleaned the cemetery up; a new death house had been built and the old one was now occupied by the beggarman Godbless and his little pet goat Thaddeus. Athelstan remembered to have a word with Godbless. The beggarman got his nickname because he attended the Mass and, at the kiss of peace, used the occasion to pick pockets. Nothing had happened in St Erconwald's but other parish priests were reporting how their parishioners were losing coins during the osculum pacis.
    'I am too distracted.'
    Athelstan gazed down at his ever-faithful companion, the great, one-eyed tomcat Bonaventure. The cat adored this little friar who provided him with delicious dishes of milk and salted fish. However, if the truth be known, Bonaventure was not sitting so quietly by his master out of any liturgical reverence; Bonaventure, the scourge and terror of the vermin in the alleyways of Southwark, had discovered that a party of church mice had taken up residence. He was now intently watching a far corner of the sanctuary for any sudden movement.
    Athelstan rose and crossed himself. He genuflected towards the silver pyx hanging from a gold chain above the altar, put his stole about his neck and walked over to the small cubicle placed in one of the transepts. This was the shriving pew, fashioned out of oak by Crispin the new carpenter.
    Everyone had admired it. It was a simple piece of wood, six foot high and fixed on a wooden platform. There was a lattice grille in the centre covered by a purple cloth. On one side was a small prie-dieu for the penitent, on the other a chair for the priest to hear confessions. Athelstan had announced that, every morning this week, in preparation for the Feast of All Saints, he would be here between the hours of nine and midday to hear confessions, shrive penitents and give absolution. The parishioners had all agreed. Athelstan said a quick prayer as he settled in the shriving chair that Sir John Cranston would not come gusting in from the city with news of a hideous murder, some bloody affray which would require their attention.
    Bonaventure lay at his feet. Athelstan read his psalter, chanting to himself the divine office for the day. The door opened. He quickly peered round the screen. His parishioners were coming to confess, so Athelstan put the psalter down and rang a silver hand bell. The first penitent took his place.
    'Brother, I've done nothing wrong!'
    'Is that true, Crim?' Athelstan asked his altar boy. 'Then you are a most fortunate lad. You are good at home?'
    'Oh yes, Brother.'
    'And do you help your parents?'
    'Of course, Brother.'
    'And you've stopped making obscene gestures at Pike's wife?'
    'Only when her back's turned, Brother.'
    'And you never drink the altar wine?'
    Crim coughed. 'Only when I have a sore throat, Brother.'
    'Say a prayer for me,' Athelstan said as he smiled.
    He gave Crim absolution and other penitents followed. Athelstan felt a deep compassion for the litany of sins they confessed. Men and women struggling against terrible poverty and oppressive laws still strove to be good, anxious when they