by Paul Doherty
The following evening Fidelis, wife of Joscelyn the taverner, went into the lonely, cold parish church. Her husband’s body now lay in the parish coffin at the entrance to the sanctuary. Fidelis had not yet accepted that her husband had died so quickly. She knelt on the prie-dieu left out for anyone who wished to keep the corpse watch. Putting her face in her hands, Fidelis began to cry. Not so much for Joscelyn but for herself. Things had been going so well. The arrival of the clerk had increased their profits and village life was now centred round the tavern rather than this dirty, bleak church whose parson’s wits were always wandering. Fidelis also felt guilty. A small, buxom woman, she knew her neighbours described her as wet-lipped and hot-eyed but Rahere had been so handsome, his touch so smooth and soft, his words and kisses sweeter than honey. On many an occasion, in a chamber just under the eaves, she had given herself to him. Now she blushed with shame at how beseeching she had been. Was her husband’s death God’s punishment?
Fidelis heard a sound and looked up. She blinked. She couldn’t believe her eyes. At the top of the coffin a figure now stood, its back to her. Despite the gathering gloom, Fidelis knew it was her husband. She sprang to her feet and ran towards him. She wasn’t frightened, at least until he turned. Fidelis gave a gasp and stepped back, hand to her mouth. Joscelyn’s head was strangely twisted and, in the poor light, his ghastly colour and red-rimmed, staring eyes made him terrifying. The lips moved. ‘Adulteress!’ His hand went out towards her. Fidelis, realising the full horror of what was happening, staggered backwards. The vision, the phantasm followed: staring, popping eyes, the lips opening and shutting like those of a landed fish and those splayed fingers, stretching out, trying to catch the side of her face. Fidelis bumped into a pillar, her hand dropped away. She couldn’t stop shaking. The ghastly vision drew closer. She caught the reek, the stench of the grave.
‘You are dead!’ she whispered. ‘Oh Lord save us, you are dead!’
Her husband’s ice-cold hand brushed her cheek.
‘And so are you!’
Parson Osbert made a valiant effort to break free of the demons which seemed to haunt his soul. The deaths in the village, particularly that of Fidelis, made him realise that his parishioners, whom he was supposed to serve, were under deadly threat. He washed and shaved. He brought Blanche back into the house to clean and polish. One evening he did not drink but sat by the fire. He would love to walk down to the Hungry Man, embrace his son, tell him all would be well. He prayed quietly for the grace to do so but, in the end, he only reached the door of his house before his will failed and he returned morosely to sit before the fire.
Outside night was falling. He closed his eyes. Today was the Feast of the apostles Saints Simon and Jude. In three days it would be All-Hallows Eve when, as in former years, he good-naturedly allowed his villagers to partake in the pagan rites of Samhain. On 2 November was the Feast of All Souls, when the villagers would pray for their dead. He should pray for Christina. He should pray for himself and Matthias.
Parson Osbert got to his feet. He took his Ave beads out of their pouch and wrapped them round his fingers. He, by his drunkenness, by his arrogance, had sinned and, before he made his peace with his son, he really should make his peace with God.
Parson Osbert walked out of the house and across the graveyard. He unlocked the corpse door and went inside. God’s house had not been cleaned. The flagstones should be washed and scrubbed, the benches polished, cobwebs removed. He drew himself up and breathed in. He would clean God’s house. He would put matters right in his own soul. He would reconcile himself to his son and face the future, whatever happened. Parson Osbert went round the darkened church, lighting the candles in their iron holders. He came back and knelt before the rood screen but his mind was too distressed to pray. He kept drifting back into the past when Christina was alive, joyful, merry and winsome. Now? Parson Osbert bitterly regretted the Preacher. It had all begun here, when he had sat like a frightened rabbit, and allowed the Preacher to climb into his pulpit. Parson Osbert got to his feet and climbed the steps to the pulpit. He glanced at the stark crucifix fixed to the wall above him.
‘I’ll have a meeting tomorrow,’ he whispered. ‘I’ll gather all the people here. I’ll confess my wrong!’
He heard a sound and whirled round. People were standing in the shadows at the back of the church.
‘Who’s there? Come forward!’
Dark shapes shuffled towards him, slowly, stumblingly. Parson Osbert’s hand went to his throat. He stared in horror. Eight, nine persons all in their shrouds, all people buried in his graveyard: Edith, Simon the reeve, Joscelyn the taverner! Parson Osbert screamed and, running down the steps, fled out into the darkness.
The Eve of All-Hallows dawned gloomy and damp. Black, heavy rain clouds massed over Sutton Courteny and, by mid-morning, a heavy downpour had begun. Not even the oldest inhabitant of the village could recall such heavy rains. The water fell in drenching sheets. The small brook, already swollen, broke its banks. Trackways and paths were turned to a muddy morass and the village was effectively cut off. All hopes of any festivities planned for the evening died with the downpour. The bonfires and beacons which ringed the village were reduced to nothing more than a soggy pile of wood and kindling. No fires were lit to ward off the evil spirits. By noon the situation had become even worse. No work was done in the fields. Everyone was confined to their homes.
In the taproom of the Hungry Man, Matthias realised matters were coming to a climax. He could sense the tension. Rahere sat brooding in a corner, cloak wrapped about him, just staring out of the window. He’d hardly murmured a word since he had risen early that morning. Matthias tried to engage him in conversation but the clerk just shook his head and returned to staring at the sky.
Over the last few weeks, Rahere had distanced himself from the villagers. Once their leader, even their hero, the peasants now distrusted him. Rahere didn’t care. Matthias knew the clerk looked forward to this day but never understood the reason why. The boy himself had been kept busy. He’d heard about the strange deaths but any desire to return home had been quickly curbed by fresh reports of his father’s strange behaviour and drunken ways. Something was about to happen and Matthias realised all he could do was watch and wait.
As the day drew on, the occasional villager called in to buy some ale but the atmosphere remained bleak. Fulcher, who had taken over the running of the tavern, had none of the welcoming charm of Joscelyn. Indeed, the tavern was a stark reminder of the tragedies which had befallen the villagers over the last few days.
Rahere abruptly stood up. ‘The rain is going to get worse,’ he decided. ‘Fulcher, the covered wagon?’
The blacksmith came out of the scullery, wiping his hands on a dirty cloth.
‘It’s out in the yard,’ he retorted.
‘There’ll be no festivities tonight,’ Rahere declared. ‘But I have arranged with Baron Sanguis that the children will not be disappointed.’ He plucked a gold coin out of his purse. Fulcher’s surly face became more lively. ‘I want you to go round the village,’ Rahere told him, ‘before the trackway to the manor becomes too clogged. Collect all the children, take them to Baron Sanguis. He will give them a treat; mummers’ games, entertainment, apple juice and sweetmeats.’
He tossed the coin at Fulcher. The blacksmith caught it deftly.
‘Will the boy be going?’ Fulcher pointed across to where Matthias sat, wide-eyed in expectation.
Rahere smiled. ‘No, no, he won’t!’
Fulcher lumbered out of the room. Matthias heard voices out in the yard grumbling and complaining as grooms hitched the horses to the traces.
‘Do come back, Fulcher!’ Rahere called. ‘I have another surprise for you!’
‘Why can’t I go?’ Matthias walked across the taproom.
Rahere grasped his shoulders. The clerk’s eyes glittered.
‘Sleep, Matthias,’ he urged. ‘It’s best if you slept for a while.’
Rahere went to
the buttery and came back with a goblet.
‘It’s watered wine,’ he explained and, before Matthias could object, the clerk held it to his lips.
Matthias sipped. He wanted to sit before the fire and ask Rahere what was happening but his eyes grew very heavy. He clambered up the stairs, curled up like a puppy in the clerk’s chamber and fell fast asleep.
Whilst Matthias slept, Fulcher returned. The blacksmith was in a hurry. He had delivered the children to Baron Sanguis and had just about been able to urge the horses to pull the covered cart back into Sutton Courteny. The blacksmith was frightened. It was only mid-afternoon yet the clouds hung black and low. Daylight was fading and, as he unhitched the horses in the yard, he realised the wind was rising. Doors to the outhouses creaked; bits and pieces left in the yard tumbled about as if driven by some unseen hand. Within the hour the wind storm was driving full force. The villagers were terrified. The rain continued to fall in sheets whilst the wind, which had sprung from nowhere, rattled their houses, howling like a lost soul as it beat against the shutters.
Accidents began to happen. John the bailiff, going out to ensure the tiles of his roof were secure, was hit by a piece of flying masonry, the stone smashing like a crossbow bolt into the back of his head. In the ploughman’s house the wind fanned sparks from the fire, which caught the rushes. The crackling flames quickly spread, trapping Piers and his wife where they were hiding in their bedchamber. Fulcher saw an ostler, trying to run for shelter into one of the outhouses, sent flying by a piece of lead piping the wind had dragged loose. Similar scenes occurred throughout the village and, despite the rain and driving winds, the people braved the elements; some, the fortunate ones, made their way out to the manor. Others began to throng into the Hungry Man. They were soaked to the skin; clutching a few paltry possessions, they huddled like sheep in the taproom.
‘You can’t stay here,’ Fulcher declared. ‘I have an ostler seriously injured upstairs.’
The villagers gathered there trembled as they heard the wind. It howled round the tavern like some terrible beast which had hunted them and was now determined to break in. The clamour of the wind and the noise downstairs awoke Matthias from his deep slumber. He gazed heavy-eyed: the clerk sat at the foot of the bed watching him intently.
‘What’s the matter?’ the boy muttered, drawing his knees up.
‘It’s a storm,’ Rahere replied softly. ‘A wind storm. The villagers are fleeing. A few have stayed in their homes.’ He played with the ring on his finger, his eyes never leaving those of Matthias. ‘Some have gone to the manor house but the rest are downstairs.’
‘And what will happen?’ Matthias asked. He chewed at his lip. He felt as if he should be frightened but he was half-asleep and drowsy.
‘We are going to the church. Don’t worry, Matthias. Nothing is going to happen to you. Put your boots and cloak on.’
Matthias noticed the clerk had his cloak already wrapped around him, fastened by a chain at the neck. It covered him completely but, as he moved, the boy heard the clink of weapons and the jingle of the chain mail shirt beneath. The clerk helped him dress and they went down to the taproom. Rahere’s arrival stilled the clamour and the acrimonious dispute about to break out. The clerk clapped his hands and stood on a stool.
‘None of us can stay here,’ he declared.
He paused as the door was flung open and a dishevelled, wide-eyed Parson Osbert staggered into the taproom, wiping the rain from his unshaven face.
‘You should come to the church.’ Parson Osbert swayed on his feet. ‘I confess I have failed you. I have drunk too deeply.’ His eyes caught those of Matthias. ‘I have sinned before Heaven and before you but this storm is not the elements. It is God’s punishment and we should shelter in God’s house.’
‘The priest speaks the truth,’ Rahere said. ‘The church is built of stone. Fulcher, gather provisions from the buttery.’
The blacksmith hastened to obey, then Parson Osbert led them out into the high street. The journey to the church, taken so many times by all of them, proved to be a veritable calvary. The wind shrieked and howled, knocking and buffeting them. One of the tapsters from the Hungry Man was knocked senseless by a flying tile but no one went to assist him. An old woman was hit by a sign and she was left bloody-headed, crouching in a doorway, hands flapping. The others dare not stop. The wind made them turn their faces for it caught their breath. Parson Osbert, however, determined to do his duty, led them on.
Matthias was carried by the clerk. He then realised something quite terrible was about to happen. Now and again the clerk would look down at him. Matthias caught the same look he had seen in the hermit’s eyes: soft, tender, sad. He also noticed how the wind did not seem to trouble the clerk. Rahere walked as if it were a summer’s day, effortlessly, the wind scarcely touching him.
They entered the lych-gate, and the parishioners saw how the storm had flattened crosses and gravestones. Fulcher, despite the wind, stopped and stared across the rain-soaked cemetery. He opened his mouth to speak but the wind caught his words. The blacksmith staggered on, terrified by what he had seen. He was sure the black angel on top of old Pepperel’s tomb was now standing like some infernal imp, its wings spread. Fulcher cursed the wine he had drunk: like the rest, he threw himself through the main door of the church, into the shelter and sanctuary of the nave.
Parson Osbert locked and bolted the doors behind them. He then went round the church and, assisted by Rahere, pulled the shutters across and barred them, plunging the church into darkness. Parson Osbert, overcoming his fears, lit the candles in the nave, those in the Lady Chapel as well as the tall ones on the high altar. At first the villagers lay around the nave, gasping, recovering their breath and their wits as well as trying to dry their hair and clothes. They welcomed the candlelight until the wind seeped through cracks and vents and made the flames dance. The church became an eerie vault, filled with flickering light and dancing shadows.
Fulcher had brought wineskins and leather panniers full of bread, dried meat and cheese. The food was shared out, and gave some momentary cheer. The villagers congratulated each other on their safe arrival: how they were pleased their children were in Baron Sanguis’ manor and that the storm would soon abate. It did not. The wind now howled and lashed the church, rattling the door, buffeting the shutters. Even the bell in the steeple began to toll, driven backwards and forwards by the raucous gusts.
Outside darkness fell and then, abruptly, the storm subsided, the wind abated. The villagers helped themselves to more food and began to talk of returning to their homes.
Fulcher the blacksmith, full of wine and determined to relieve his bladder, opened the corpse door and went out into the cemetery. He undid the points of his breeches and gave a sigh of satisfaction. He heard a sound, glanced around, then staggered back, not caring that he was wetting his own boots and clothing: shadowy, cowled figures stood like statues around the cemetery. One under a yew tree, another on a fallen headstone. Fulcher rubbed his eyes but, when he looked again, the figures were still there, hidden in their crumbling cloths. The blacksmith, whimpering with terror, fled back to the church, locking and barring the door.
Parson Osbert saw the man’s fear and opened the door grille and looked out. He, too, saw the figures and realised that the villagers would never leave this church alive. He snapped the grille shut. He didn’t bother to comfort Fulcher, who crouched sobbing at the foot of a pillar. So far, the others had not noticed the blacksmith’s terror. Osbert went to kneel before the sanctuary screen. He looked over his shoulder and glimpsed Matthias further down the church. Rahere the clerk was giving him something to drink. Osbert closed his eyes and made the sign of the cross.
‘I confess,’ he began, ‘to Almighty God and to you, my brothers and sisters, that I have sinned most grievously in thought, word and deed.’
He paused as Rahere the clerk swept by him, crossing the sanctuary into the small sacristy. Osbert closed his eyes. He was ready. The work
he had done over the last three days he would give to his son. He made the sign of the cross, took out a piece of parchment from his pouch and went where his son now sat at the base of a pillar. The boy looked pale and sleepy-eyed but he didn’t flinch when his father knelt beside him.
‘Matthias.’
The boy looked up. He saw the softness in his father’s eyes but he was too tired, too drowsy.
‘Matthias, I love you.’
The boy smiled weakly.
‘I am sorry.’ The priest chose to ignore the tapping on the shutters outside. ‘I am sorry for what I have done but I love you and Christina loved you. I do not know what is going to happen now.’ He ignored the clamour of the people, who were exclaiming in horror at the tapping on the shutters. ‘You will survive,’ Parson Osbert continued. He thrust the piece of parchment into Matthias’ hand. ‘Keep that safe. No, don’t look at it now, put it in your pouch.’
Parson Osbert took his son’s face and kissed him on the forehead.
‘May the Lord keep you in His peace.’ He blessed his son, got to his feet and walked towards the sanctuary.
Fulcher came running up.
‘Can’t you hear it?’ he demanded.
Parson Osbert stopped. The tapping on the shutters had increased but he also heard the tinkling of the corpse bell fastened over old Maud Brasenose’s grave. Parson Osbert swallowed hard. He turned to face his parishioners. Even as he did so, the tapping grew louder, more insistent. Similar knocks and raps could be heard on the side door and the main door of the church. Peter the cobbler stared through the window. He shrieked and drew away, fingers to his mouth.