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across his shoulder which carried a Welsh stabbing dirk. Around his neck hung a silver misericord sheath on a black cord lanyard.
    ‘I claim—’ the Misericord began.
    ‘Shut up.’ Athelstan pulled across the altar boy’s stool and sat down, staring up at the Misericord. ‘I know the law,’ he continued evenly. ‘You are a fugitive. You have claimed sanctuary, you can stay here for forty days. I will supply you with food and drink.’
    He pointed across the sanctuary to the sacristy door.
    ‘Go through there,- outside is a makeshift latrine near a butt of water. You can relieve yourself there, but make sure you leave it clean. Oh, by the way,’ Athelstan stretched out his hands, ‘I’ll take your weapons, which, as you know, must be kept near the Lady Altar.’
    He pointed to his left. The Misericord cleaned his teeth with his tongue whilst he swept the sweat from his face.
    ‘Stay there.’ Athelstan left the church by the corpse door. Benedicta was still in the kitchen, busy brushing the floor. Bonaventure had sipped his milk and was staring at the steaming cauldron where the freshly cooked oatmeal still bubbled hot. Athelstan explained he was in a hurry. He filled a maplewood bowl full of oatmeal, added some honey, took a pewter spoon from the buttery and drew a tankard of ale. He put these on a wooden board and took them back to the church.
    The Misericord ate and drank, gulping the food down, using his fingers to clean the bowl whilst draining the tankard in one swig. Athelstan collected the fugitive’s weapons, including the misericord dagger, and placed them behind the Lady Altar.
    ‘Very good, very good.’ The Misericord wiped his fingers on his jerkin.
    ‘I’ll have the bowl back and the spoon. The tankard you can keep, for a while.’
    ‘Did you brew it yourself?’
    ‘No, Benedicta did.’
    ‘Ah yes, the widow woman, with hair as black as night and the face of an angel. Do you love her, Father? I thought you were a priest and friar?’ The Misericord’s green eyes glinted with mischief.
    ‘Benedicta is an honourable widow, her husband was lost at sea. She brews ale, cooks me some bread and, not at my bidding, keeps my house clean.’
    ‘But not your bed warm?’
    Athelstan half rose threateningly. The Misericord held up both hands in a sign of peace, his pale, mischievous face all solemn.
    ‘Pax et bonum, peace and goodwill, Father. I was only joking.’
    The Misericord scrutinised the priest. Whenever he moved into an area, be it a village or one of the wards of London , he always discovered which was the quickest way out, where he could hide, who was to be trusted and which men or women exercised power. He had learnt a great deal about this slim, dark-faced friar with his soulful eyes and wary manner. He had also laid a great wager on Ranulf the rat-catcher, though now he regretted coming to Southwark.
    ‘What is your real name?’ Athelstan asked.
    ‘John Travisa, former clerk from the halls of Oxford , a troubadour, a poet, a chanteur, a lady’s squire...’
    ‘And a thief and a boaster,’ Athelstan finished for him.
    The Misericord shrugged.
    ‘Hard times, Father. Outside in the shires, the harvests fail and what’s left is pecked up by the tax collectors. There’s no work for an honest man.’ He pulled a face. ‘I apologise: even for a dishonest man.’
    ‘What have you done?’ Athelstan asked.
    ‘Well,’ the Misericord crossed his arms and leaned back against the altar, ‘I have been a relic-seller. Do you want to buy a piece of the True Cross, a portion of the baby Jesus’ nappy, some hairs from Joseph’s beard, one of the Virgin Mary’s shoes?’ He cleaned his teeth with his fingers. ‘I can supply it. I even took a severed head from one of the pikes on London Bridge . I cleaned it up, dried it in spices and sold it to a merchant in Norwich as the head of St John the Baptist.’
    Athelstan kept his face straight.
    ‘And why does the Judas Man pursue