The Field of Blood Read Free

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 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