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All around him rose great, majestic buildings: Westminster Hall where the King’s court sat, St Margaret’s Church and, dominating them all, the Confessor’s Abbey, its huge towers soaring up into the sky. Westminster was always busy. Pedlars, hucksters, journeymen and traders all made a living from those who flocked there: plaintiffs, defendants, lawyers, sheriffs and, more importantly, members of Parliament.
    Cranston told the friar to wait by a huge stone cross and went into the abbey through a side door. He was gone some time, so Athelstan sat down on the stone steps leading up to the cross and watched the red-capped judges in their ermine-lined black gowns sweep by: the serjeants-at-law in their white hoods strutting, arm in arm, heads together, discussing the finer points of some statue or legal quibble. Athelstan smiled as a huckster barged between them, shouting at the top of his voice how he had, ‘Oysters! Fresh oysters for sale!’
    Two bailiffs came next, a string of prisoners in tow. Athelstan stared compassionately at the captives. All were in tatters, their faces unshaven; their boots and shoes had already been stolen by the gaolers of the Fleet or Newgate Prisons. The bailiffs stopped to refresh themselves at a water tippler’s. Athelstan rose, slipped the boy a coin and, taking his bucket and ladle, went along the line of prisoners offering each a stoup of water. Thankfully, the bailiffs did not protest, and Athelstan had just handed the bucket back, murmuring his thanks, when he glimpsed a face he recognised.
    ‘Cecily!’ he shouted.
    The young blonde-haired girl, dressed in a long yellow taffeta gown, looked round, startled. Athelstan noticed the black kohl around her eyes, and saw how her cheeks and lips were heavily rouged.
    ‘Cecily!’ he shouted. ‘Come here!’
    The young girl tripped across, face as innocent as an angel’s.
    ‘Father, what a surprise. What are you doing here?’
    Athelstan fought to keep his face severe. ‘More importantly, Cecily, what are you doing here?’
    The young girl opened her pert little mouth.
    ‘And don’t lie,’ Athelstan warned. ‘I missed you at Mass this morning and we had an important parish council.’ He grasped her hand and thrust one of his precious pennies between her fingers. ‘Now go back,’ he ordered. ‘Go to King’s Steps. You’ll find Moleskin there. I need you, Cecily.’ He leaned closer. ‘There’s been a demon seen near St Erconwald’s.’ He gripped her warm hand and tried not to flinch at the cheap Perfume the girl had covered herself in. ‘Now go back there and help Benedicta! Stay away from here!’
    Cecily, biting her lips, nodded. Athelstan pushed her gently away. ‘Go straight home!’ he ordered. ‘I’ll ask Benedicta when you arrived.’
    Cecily was already running, and Athelstan gave small thanks that Cecily’s curiosity about a demon would, perhaps, outweigh any reason for her to stay here. He sat back on the steps and glared around, noticing how the young women flocked here, as noisy as starlings.
    ‘This is God’s house,’ he muttered. He glanced at a pair of girls flirting with an overdressed lawyer. ‘Sir John’s right! It is a “House of Crows”.’
    Athelstan recognised the attractions of such a place for people like Cecily. Men from all over England came here: free of their wives and families, they would take full advantage of their short-lived freedom to indulge their every whim. Athelstan glanced towards the abbey. Perhaps the Parliament would change things for the better. Even his parishioners had talked about it.
    Pike the ditcher, however, had been as cynical as ever. ‘Only the lawyers get to Parliament,’ he had declared, ‘and we know what liars they are!’ Pike had lowered his voice. ‘But when it comes, when the great Change comes, we’ll hang all the lawyers!’
    ‘Dreaming, Brother?’
    Athelstan looked up sharply. Cranston was just popping the cork-stopper back into his miraculous