The friar looked up. The sky was still blue; the sun, growing in strength, promised a hot sweltering day. He sighed. He’d said his prayers and celebrated Mass, Benedicta just slipping in at the door and kneeling next to the baptismal font instead of coming further up the nave. Athelstan wondered if there was anything wrong. He moved down the side of his church to see if Crim was waiting on the steps but they were empty. He went back, took a hoe from inside the door of his house and stabbed furiously at the cabbage patch, trying to rearrange the furrows in neat order. Once Crim had arrived he would go and see Hob the grave-digger, dying they said after he had slipped and fallen under a cartwheel which had crushed his ribs.

Athelstan tired of his task. He threw the hoe to the ground, hoped that at least the pig had had a good meal, and went back inside his church. He looked around and felt happier. Simon the tiler had done a good job. The roof was secure against the coming winter rains. Huddle the painter had scraped the wall and begun a new fresco, his first church painting. Athelstan had requested that Huddle should first draw charcoal sketches, from these giving the gifted young man scriptural advice to the effect that there was no evidence whatsoever that Herod had eventually stabbed Pilate in the back! So the charcoaled drawings had been wiped out and Huddle had begun again, a lovely vigorous painting of the Annunciation and birth of Christ. The church floor was swept and washed clean, thanks to Cecily the courtesan who had earned her pennies honestly by scrubbing every inch.

‘Honestly, Father,’ she confessed, leaning on her broom of brittle twigs, ‘I’ve changed. I intend to change.’

Athelstan stared into her child-like eyes and wondered if the woman was a little simple. The friar was sure he had seen her lying in the graveyard amongst the tombs with Simon the tiler, and he a married man with three children.

‘So, Father,’ she had whispered, moving closer and swinging her hips suggestively, ‘can I play the part of the Virgin Mary in the parish masque for Corpus Christi?’

Athelstan had hidden his smile beneath a stern look and said he would discuss it with the church council.

‘Watkin the dung-collector,’ he advised, ‘takes his duties as church warden most seriously. He has his own thoughts in the matter.’

‘I don’t give a fig for what Watkin says!’ Cecily had snapped. I could tell you a lot about Watkin, Father!’

‘Thank you, Cecily,’ Athelstan had said. ‘Soon the church will look nicer.’

Cecily got on with her cleaning. Athelstan felt sorry. Perhaps he had been a little too harsh with her. Cecily was a good girl who meant to do well. He could see no objection to her playing the part of the Virgin. The only obstacle was Watkin the dung-collector whose own ample wife also had her eye on the role.