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from the church – we will return to White Friars.’
    They stepped out of the yew trees and paused. The corpse door swung open. Parson Smollat and Isolda came out. Isolda was about to walk away, then abruptly strode back and kissed the parson full on the mouth.
    â€˜Lord, save us,’ Anselm whispered. ‘So our good parson, like us all, is moved by the lusts of the flesh. Quick, Stephen, collect our baggage and away we go.’
    Thankfully Parson Smollat was in the sacristy and didn’t see Stephen enter the church. He collected the panniers he had left in the Galilee porch and hurried to join Anselm, who was standing under the cavernous lychgate.
    â€˜Should we not bid farewell to Sir William or Sir Miles?’
    â€˜We’ll return soon enough,’ Anselm replied. ‘While Sir Miles, believe me, will seek us out.’
    They left the precincts of the church, going past All Hallows and into the trading area of Eastcheap. Stephen, lost in his own thoughts, felt his sleeve being plucked. He turned, stared at the young woman brazenly walking beside him and was immediately struck by her: soft and feminine, yet a truly determined young woman. Her skin had a golden, healthy hue; her thick, auburn hair, bound in two plaits, was almost covered by a blue veil. This trailed from a small cap on top of her head, then wrapped around her soft throat like a wimple. She wore a woollen fur coat decorated with silver leaves over a dark clean kirtle, with stout leather shoes on her feet. One of these was loose so she gripped Stephen’s arm to steady herself as she put this right.
    â€˜Mistress?’
    Anselm, a little further ahead, turned and came back.
    â€˜Mistress?’ Stephen flustered, staring into the young woman’s beautiful grey eyes. ‘What business do you have with me?’
    â€˜None, Brother.’ She smiled cheekily. ‘I am sorry. I’m Alice Palmer. My father owns the tavern The Unicorn on the corner of Eel-Pie Lane close to Saint Michael’s church.’
    â€˜I know it,’ Anselm replied above the noise of the crowd around him. ‘What is that to us?’
    â€˜A scullion, one of our maids, Margotta Sumerhull, has been missing for weeks. Sometimes she’d go to pray before the Lady altar at Saint Michael’s. I’ve asked Parson Smollat.’ She smiled, moving a wisp of hair from her face. ‘My father has also petitioned Sir William but neither can help. Margotta could be wild. Anyway,’ she shrugged, ‘we’ve heard of you, about the strange happenings at Saint Michael’s, as well as the presence of a King’s man – Sir Miles Beauchamp. We know him. He lives nearby. Sometimes he visits our tavern. Perhaps you would be kind enough to support our petition?’
    â€˜We shall do what we can.’ Stephen stood fascinated by that beautiful smile. The young woman grabbed his arm, kissed him full on the lips and fled into the crowd. Stephen’s fingers slowly went to his mouth. Anselm, smiling, shook him gently.
    â€˜A woman’s kiss,’ the exorcist murmured, ‘one of God’s great gifts. Count yourself lucky, Stephen, and let’s move on.’ They hastened through the crowds. ‘The world and its retinue,’ Anselm murmured, ‘have gathered to buy and sell.’ Stephen kept close to his master. The busy, frenetic atmosphere of the city, hungry for trade, was overwhelming. Carts and sumpter ponies laden with Italian spices, Gascon wine, Spanish leather, Hainault linen and lace as well as timber, iron and rope from the frozen northern kingdoms, forced their way through. The clatter of all these competed with the constant din of chickens, pigs, cows, oxen and geese loaded on, or pulling, heavy wheeled carts and tumbrils. The air was riven by the crack of the whip, the neighing of horses and constant yapping of alleyway dogs. From the cramped alleyways and runnels leading on to the broad