‘You know, Bonaventure,’ he murmured, ‘and I say this in the spirit of obedience, so don’t repeat my words if he ever comes, but Father Prior’s remarks about my past cut like barbs.’

He folded the parchment neatly into a perfect square and slipped it into the battered leather wallet on his belt.

‘I daily atone for my sins,’ he continued. ‘I observe most strictly the rule of St Dominic and, as you know, I spend both day and night in the care of souls.’

God knows, Athelstan thought, tapping the flagstones with his feet, the harvest of souls was great; the filthy alleyways, the piss-soaked runnels and poor hovels of his parish sheltered broken people whose minds and souls had been bruised and poisoned by grinding poverty. The great, fat ones of the land did not care a fig but hid behind empty words, false promises and a lack of compassion which even Herod would have blushed at. Athelstan stared around the empty church, noting the dirty walls, peeling pillars, and the fresco of St John the Baptist. Athelstan grinned. He knew the Baptist had been beheaded but not whilst he was preaching! Someone had scrubbed the painting, removing St John’s head as well as those of his attentive listeners.

‘You have seen my house, Bonaventure? It’s no more than a white-washed shed with two rooms, a wooden door and a window which does not fit. My horse, Philomel, may be an aged destrier, but it eats as if there is no tomorrow and can go no faster than a shuffling cat.’ He smiled. ‘I mean no offence to present company, but he drains my purse. Now, I am not moaning, I am just mentioning these matters to remind ourselves of our present state, so I can advise my prior that his paternal strictures are not necessary.’ Athelstan sighed and went over into the small carrel built into the wall near the Lady Chapel where he had been penning his reply to the Father Prior. He picked up his quill, thought for a while and began writing.

As I have said, Reverend Father, my purse is empty, shrivelled up and tight as a usurer’s soul. My collection boxes have been stolen and the chancery screen is in disrepair. The altar is marked and stained, the nave of the church is often covered with huge pools of water for our roof serves as more of a colander than a covering. God knows I atone for my sins. I seem to be steeped in murder, bloody and awful. It taxes my mind and reminds me of my own great crime. I have served the people here six months now and I have also assumed those duties assigned by you, to be clerk and scrivener to Sir John Cranston, coroner in the city of London.