Field of Blood

failed.
    'Brother, I think impure thoughts about Cecily the courtesan.'
    'Brother, I drink too much.'
    'Brother, I curse.'
    'Brother, I stole some bread from a stall.'
    Athelstan's responses were the same. 'God is merciful: His compassion will surprise us. Try to do good. Now I absolve you…'
    The morning wore on. Athelstan was pleased. Quite a number of parishioners had turned up. Some were honest, others fey-witted. Pernell the Flemish woman, who dyed her hair a range of garish colours, confessed how she had slept with this man and that.
    'Pernell! Pernell!' Athelstan broke in. 'You know that's not the truth. You dream.'
    'I get worried, Brother, just in case I have!'
    At last the church fell silent. Athelstan looked down at Bonaventure, glad that no hideous sin had been confessed: murder, sacrilege, dabbling in the black arts.
    The church door opened. Athelstan could tell from the cough and the quick, light footsteps that a young woman had entered the church. She knelt on the prie-dieu.
    'Bless me Brother for I have sinned.' The voice was low and sweet. 'I bless you.'
    'I was last shriven before the Feast of Corpus Christi. I have been unkind, in thought, word and deed.'
    'It is difficult to be charitable all the time,' Athelstan murmured. 'God knows I confess to the same sin.' 'Do you really, Brother?'
    'I am a sinner like you. A child of God. He knows the heart and soul. Do continue.'
    'Brother, I wish to commit murder!'
    Athelstan nearly fell off his chair.
    'I really do! I want to kill a woman, take a knife and drive it into her heart!'
    'That is just anger.'
    'No, I will do it! I swear by God I will do it!' 'Hush now!' Athelstan retorted. 'This is a sacrament in God's house. Can I pull back the curtains?' 'There's no need to, Brother.'
    The young woman came round the screen and knelt before him. 'Why, it's Eleanor!'
    Athelstan grasped her hands and gazed into the thin but very beautiful face of Basil the blacksmith's eldest daughter, a pale young woman with hair red as fire and the most magnificent green eyes Athelstan had ever seen. A shy girl but strong-willed, Eleanor always reminded Athelstan of what an angel must be: beautiful, modest with a dry sense of humour.
    'Eleanor,' he pleaded. 'What is the matter?'
    'Brother, I am in love.'
    'You wouldn't think it.'
    'No, Brother, I truly am. I deeply love…' She smiled.
    'This is a secret?' Athelstan asked.
    'Well, we've been very…' 'Discreet?'
    'What does that mean, Brother?' 'Well, secretive, but not sly,' Athelstan added hastily.
    A dreamy look came into the young woman's eyes. 'Its Oswald Fitz-Joscelyn.'
    Athelstan recalled the eldest son of the owner of the Piebald tavern, his parishioners' favourite drinking-place.
    'I truly love him, Brother.'
    'How old are you, Eleanor?'
    The young woman closed her eyes. 'This will be my eighteenth yuletide, or so Mother says.' 'And Oswald?'
    'He loves me too, Brother, more than anything in the world! He bought me,' she touched the locket on a bronze chain round her neck, 'he bought me this on the Feast of the Assumption: Oswald said when he was with me, he felt as if he had been taken up into heaven.'
    Athelstan hid his smile and nodded. Oswald was a personable young man. His father had already made him a partner in a very prosperous business. Joscelyn had plans to buy a tavern elsewhere, even apply for the membership of the Guild of Victuallers.
    'If this is so,' Athelstan asked, 'why do you plot murder?'
    'It's Imelda!'
    'Oh no!'
    Athelstan groaned and closed his eyes: Pike the ditcher's wife! The self-styled chronicler, herald and fount of all knowledge in the parish.
    'What has she got to do with this?'
    'She saw,' Eleanor blinked to hide her tears, 'Oswald and me in the fields beyond the ditch. She went and told Oswald's father.'
    'And?'
    'That harridan,' Eleanor spat the words out, 'maintains that my great-grandmother and Oswald's great-grandmother were sisters!' She glimpsed the look of anguish in the priest's face.
    'And what proof does she have?'
    'You know, Brother, what she is hinting at? She's never liked me and she blames Joscelyn for Pike's drinking, but the parish has no blood book.'
    Athelstan glanced across the church at Huddle's paintings on the far wall depicting Lot's wife being turned into a pillar of salt. He recalled the furious arguments when Huddle had given the woman the same features as Pike the ditcher's wife.
    'This is serious, isn't it, Brother?'
    'It is, Eleanor.' Athelstan stretched