'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?'