by Paul Doherty
‘Was that a fight?’ Beatrice asked, sitting down next to her sister.
‘I don’t know,’ came the slurred reply. ‘I feel so sleepy.’
‘I wonder who it is?’ Beatrice lay back and stared up at the rafters. She tensed as she heard a noise outside, a light footfall. The door swung open. A figure dressed like a monk stepped inside. The brown gown covered the new arrival from neck to toe, while the cowl was deep.
Beatrice climbed to her feet and swayed from side to side. She hoped the paint on her face hadn’t run, or the carmine round her lips become smudged. She heard the clink of coins and turned to help her sister up. As she did so, there was a sound like a whirr of wings, and her sister fell away as the crossbow bolt struck her full in the chest just beneath the neck. Beatrice turned, mouth opening to scream. The stranger hurried across, knife in hand, burying it deep into the young woman’s stomach, pulling her head forward and pressing it against that brown robe to stifle any screams.
Chapter 2
‘Hoc est corpus meum. This is my Body.’
Athelstan breathed the words of consecration over the host, then genuflected. Behind him his parish council, much the worse for wear after the previous night’s revelry, coughed and spluttered as they knelt just within the rood screen. Athelstan looked over his shoulder. Crim the altar boy, half asleep, suddenly started awake and shook the hand bell.
‘And taking this excellent chalice into his hand . . .’ Athelstan continued with the Mass, trying to concentrate on the mystery of the God who became man now becoming present under the appearances of bread and wine. From beyond the rood screen he heard Brother Malachi, celebrating the Eucharist in the Chantry Chapel, draw his Mass to a close. Athelstan turned and lifted the chalice with the host above it.
‘Behold the Lamb of God, behold Him who takes away the sins of the world.’
Athelstan always translated the Latin for the benefit of his parishioners, but this morning he was wasting his time. They all looked half asleep. Watkin the dung collector was actually dribbling, his head on Pike the ditcher’s shoulder. Pike’s sour-faced wife Imelda was pretending to pray but her head kept jerking backwards and forwards. Ursula the pig woman, who insisted on bringing her large fat sow into the sanc-tuary, was clearly snoring. That precious pig, which Athelstan had secretly vowed to slaughter because of the damage it wreaked in his vegetable patch, looked as sottish as its owner. The rest were there in all their dubious glory, Ranulf the rat-catcher with his wicker-work basket on the floor beside him. As Athelstan went down to give the Eucharist, both ferrets squealed and tried to push open the lid of the basket.
‘I think you should wake.’ Athelstan’s voice carried around the sanctuary. His parishioners all shook themselves awake, forcing their faces into expressions of false piety, clasping their hands as Athelstan distributed the Eucharist.
Athelstan was relieved when Mass was ended. He swept from the sanctuary into the sacristy and took off his vestments, the chasuble and stole, placing the sacred cloths back into the red oaken vestment chest. Crim came staggering in with the cruets bearing the remains of the water and wine.
‘God bless you, Crim!’
The altar boy blinked his red-rimmed eyes.
‘It’s not my fault, Father,’ the lad blurted out. ‘I did remind them that today was parish council day, but Ranulf –’
‘Yes, yes,’ Athelstan interrupted, ‘I know all about the great victory.’ He touched the lad gently on the head. ‘And you drank ale last night?’
The boy nodded.
‘So you won’t be stealing any altar wine?’
‘I never—’
‘Hush now.’ Athelstan pressed a finger against the boy’s lips. ‘The angels will hear your lie. Now clear the altar while I . . .’ Athelstan knelt down and tightened the thong on his sandal. ‘I will just wait awhile until my parish council wake up.’
Athelstan left by the side door. A sharp hoar frost still whitened the grass and gorse, the twisted yew trees in the cemetery; even the battered wooden crosses had a silver coating. Athelstan followed the narrow pebbled track up to the small death house. Outside it, the goat, Thaddeus, mournfully cropped at the grass. The animal lifted its head as Athelstan approached, chewing so lugubriously that Athelstan couldn’t help laughing. The goat trotted across, nuzzling Athelstan’s hand.
‘Mercenary,’ Athelstan whispered. ‘But I have no apples for you this morning.’
‘Come in, Brother.’
Athelstan stopped and went into the darkness. God-Bless, the beggar, squatted on the ground attempting to fan the fire he had built on the makeshift hearth. Athelstan joined in, sprinkling dry twigs and crushed charcoal over the flames, then helped the beggar man fashion a grille, laying out the fatty pieces of pork he had given God-Bless the previous evening. All the time the beggar man whispered, ‘God bless, God bless.’
‘You weren’t at Mass this morning?’ Athelstan asked.
‘God bless you, Father, I was at the Great Ratting.’
God-Bless blew once more on the flames and knelt, watching the pork sizzle on the wire grille.
‘Did you drink too much?’
‘God bless you, Father, I did, but there was a killing last night.’
‘A killing?’
‘At the Great Ratting, Father. A man was stabbed. But now I am hungry.’
Athelstan left the beggar and walked across to his own house. The fire in the hearth had burned low. He looked around; everything was in order. He would break his fast after the meeting. His feet brushed feathers. He stepped back and stared down at a mauled pigeon. Bonaventure must have brought it in.
‘For what we are about to receive . . .’ Athelstan picked up the carcass and took it out to the yard. Of the great one-eyed tom cat there was no sign. Athelstan smelt the roasting pork, God-Bless’s cooking, and knew where the cat had gone. He entered the stable built next to the house. Philomel, the old warhorse, was chewing slowly on its oats, and lifted its head as Athelstan came in. The Dominican sketched a blessing in the air and left, then walked round up the front steps and into the church.
His guests, the Falconers, were clustered around Brother Malachi, who warmly greeted Athelstan and introduced his companions: Sir Maurice Clinton, Sir Thomas Davenport, Sir Reginald Branson, Sir Laurence Broomhill and Sir Stephen Chandler. Athelstan had met them all before and welcomed them back to Southwark for their annual visit.
‘I thank you for the loan of your church.’ The Benedictine’s smooth, cherub-like face creased into a smile. He gestured down the nave at the wooden screens; Crispin the carpenter had erected these against the transept wall to form a small chapel with an altar beneath the window and a statue of St Erconwald on a plinth where the wooden screen met the wall. The Benedictine congratulated Athelstan on the carvings along the wooden screen as well as the beautiful sculptured statue of the church’s patron saint. Athelstan nodded in bemusement. He had met Brother Malachi on previous occasions and was both flattered and surprised at the Benedictine’s interest in this crumbling old church.
‘You have done wonders.’ Sir Maurice Clinton, the leader of the group, gestured at the vivid wall paintings depicting scenes from the Bible.
‘I recognise some of your parishioners.’ Sir Stephen Chandler, small and fat, mopped his face with the edge of his cloak.
‘Yes, yes.’ Athelstan stared at his parishioners gathered in a gaggle further up the nave. He wondered what they were discussing so heatedly. ‘Mind you,’ he added absent-mindedly, ‘I wish Huddle our painter wouldn’t use his fellow parishioners as models for his scenes.’
‘I don’t know.’ Sir Thomas Davenport spoke up. ‘Cecily the courtesan makes a lovely Mary Magdalene.’
‘I was thinking,’ Athelstan retorted, ‘of Pike the ditcher’s wife being cast in the role of Jezebel.’
His remark provoked laughter and the knights drifted away to look at the painting on the wall near the baptismal font. Brother Malachi began to explain the scene in d
etail. Athelstan adjusted the cord round his middle, fingering the three knots symbolising his vows of obedience, chastity and poverty. He studied the group of knights intently. Sir Maurice was tall, thin, and harsh-faced, Sir Stephen round and red as a ripe apple; the rest all looked like brothers, dressed as they were in their black and white cloaks with the golden falcon emblem embroidered on the shoulder. He reckoned most of them must have seen their fiftieth summer. They walked and looked like the warriors they were – men who had fought in Outremer, strong, muscular soldiers, bodies hardened, faces darkened by years of military service under the blazing sun of the Middle Sea.
Athelstan knew little about their background: knights from Kent, landowners who, some twenty years ago, had gathered in Southwark to join the great expedition of Peter of Cyprus against the Turks in North Africa. They had served under the Golden Falcon standard and every year gathered at the tavern, the Night in Jerusalem, to celebrate their achievements and talk of old times. Brother Malachi was their chaplain: the Benedictine had served with the crusading army, even had his fingers shorn in the fighting, and returned to England settling in a small monastery outside Aylesford. Each year was the same: they’d gather for Mass at St Erconwald’s, then return to their tavern to continue their celebrations. Athelstan hardly gave them a second thought, yet wasn’t there some mystery attached to it all? Hadn’t Sir John Cranston told him about a great robbery, some scandal, before the crusading fleet left the Thames? Athelstan felt immediately apprehensive. Whenever he thought of Sir John Cranston, the larger-than-life coroner always appeared. Athelstan quietly prayed that Sir John, Coroner of the City of London, would not need his services, that he would not arrive to drag him from his parish to investigate some gruesome murder. Yet hadn’t God-Bless mentioned a man being killed last night during the Great Ratting?
‘Brother Athelstan.’ Sir Maurice led the knights back from the painting. ‘Once again you have kindly allowed us to use your church for Mass and our devotions.’
He turned to the Benedictine.
‘Well,’ he barked, ‘give it to him!’
Malachi drew his hands from the voluminous sleeves of his habit and handed over a small velvet-covered box. Athelstan undid the silver clasp, pushed back the lid and carefully picked up the gold ring, very similar to what a man would use in swearing his troth. He could tell, by the thinness of the gold, that the ring was ancient.
‘Do you like it?’ Sir Stephen asked, his fat face laced with sweat.
‘Of course.’ Athelstan put the ring back.
‘It belonged to St Erconwald,’ Malachi explained. ‘It was his episcopal ring. I bought it from a merchant in Canterbury. I have had it tested, it is genuine. There are marks on the inside.’
Athelstan lifted the ring up against the light, studying it intently, and saw the small Celtic crosses etched on the inside of it. He put the ring back, closed the box and slipped it into the wallet which hung from his cord. He was only halfway through his speech of thanks when the door crashed open. For a moment Athelstan thought it was Cranston, but it was Benedicta the widow woman who slipped into the church, apologising profusely for giving the door such a vigorous push.
‘I am sorry, Brother.’
Athelstan smiled at her; even the knights forgot what he was saying as they stared at this beautiful woman, her pale face framed by hair black as midnight.
‘I am sorry, Brother,’ she repeated, ‘but I thought I would be late for the meeting.’
Athelstan squeezed her hand, and thanked the knights for their gift, saying that he and his parish council would have to reflect carefully about where it should be kept. He didn’t dare mention that most of his parishioners, given half a chance, be it holy relic or not, would steal the ring and sell it in the markets across the river.
Once Brother Malachi and the knights had left, Benedicta began to explain why she was late, only to be interrupted by Watkin the dung collector, leader of the council, who came striding down the church. Athelstan immediately called the meeting to order. Pike the ditcher brought out the stools and the priest’s chair from the sanctuary. Athelstan made the sign of the cross and the meeting began. Mugwort the bell clerk sat at his small desk taken from the bell tower, feather quill poised ready to take down what was decided. Athelstan showed them the ring; this was greeted with oohs and aahs. The Dominican despaired at the greed in some of their eyes and the twitch in their fingers.
‘We have to decide,’ he declared, ‘where such a precious relic should be kept.’
‘And?’ Ursula the pig woman asked.
‘Every altar,’ began Athelstan, kicking away the sow which came lumbering over to sniff at his sandals. Benedicta hid her smile behind her hand. ‘Every altar,’ he repeated, ‘has a relic stone. It can be taken out and cemented back in again. We’ll put the ring there. I’ll keep an imitation one to show any visitors.’
Athelstan’s smooth, olive-skinned face grew serious. He raised himself up in his chair.
‘It would be a most hideous sacrilege to steal such a ring. I would refuse absolution to any such thief.’
Most of the parish councillors stared down, shuffling their feet.
‘Anyway,’ Athelstan decided to move quickly to other matters, ‘Ranulf, I believe you are to be congratulated, your ferrets were victors of the game. Although I think it is a dreadful way for any of God’s creatures to die.’
‘I’ve seen rats attack babies in a house near Mary St Bethlehem,’ Ranulf retorted. ‘Four of them sucked the blood out of—’
‘Yes, yes,’ Athelstan agreed, ‘but your ferrets did well.’
‘Can they be baptised?’ Ranulf asked.
‘Father has already told you,’ Imelda screeched. ‘You can’t baptise animals.’
‘Ursula’s pig drank the holy water,’ Watkin pointed out.
‘There’ll be no baptisms of animals,’ Athelstan declared, ‘but I promise you, on the Feast of St Francis . . .’ Athelstan couldn’t stop himself, even though he recalled the confusion of last time, when one of Ranulf’s ferrets had attacked Ursula’s sow and sent it squealing around the church. He just hoped that Ranulf had kept the basket secure; the ferrets had smelt the sow and were becoming excited.
‘Yes, Father?’ Pernel asked.
‘On the Feast of St Francis I will bless all animals. Now, let’s move to other business.’
Mugwort picked up his quill, dipping it ceremoniously into the inkhorn as Athelstan led his parish council through the various items of business. There was the cleaning of the cemetery, the digging of a ditch, Huddle wanted to paint a new scene from the life of St John the Baptist which provoked a fierce discussion about whether the saint was crucified or beheaded. Athelstan suspected this was a warning of what was to come. Cecily the courtesan, in a light blue robe, sat next to Benedicta, smiling flirtatiously at Pike while making obscene gestures with her fingers at the ditcher’s wife. Athelstan hurried on. There was the business of church ales, the levying of tithes, the possibility of a small market in the cemetery and the greening of the church for Advent.
‘Now,’ Athelstan closed his eyes and offered up a silent prayer, ‘we come to our pageant for Christmas, the birth of Christ.’
He paused for breath.
‘Crispin,’ he pointed to the carpenter, ‘we have decided you will be Joseph, Watkin, you can be Herod . . .’ The roles were assigned; they even included Bonaventure the cat. Philomel would stand in for the donkey, whilst Athelstan ruefully conceded that Ursula’s sow could be the oxen.
‘Well,’ said Watkin, ‘who will be the Virgin Mary? I think it should be Benedicta.’
‘So do I,’ Imelda agreed, glaring at Cecily, who pushed her chest out and straightened herself up on the stool she was sitting on.
‘I disagree,’ Pike the ditcher responded, always ready to oppose Watkin.
‘We think it should be Cecily,’ Ranulf declared.
A bitter war of words broke out. Imelda, her face mottled with fury, fists beating the
air, would have attacked Cecily if Athelstan hadn’t intervened. The Dominican let the dispute continue, hoping their pent-up fury would soon exhaust itself. Instead it grew worse, so he had to gesture at Mauger to ring his hand bell. No sooner was silence imposed, with members of the parish council glowering at each other, when there was loud shouting outside, cries and yells of ‘Harrow! Harrow!’ followed by the sound of running feet. The door to the church burst open, and a man, cloak over one arm, a stick in the other, scampered around the stools and fled up the nave under the rood screen and into the sanctuary. He was followed by a man in black leather, spurs jangling on his boots, a drawn sword in one hand, a crossbow in the other. Athelstan sprang to his feet as he realised what had happened.
‘Go no further,’ he ordered.
The man carrying the crossbow paused, hands hanging as he fought for breath.
‘He’s the Judas Man,’ Pike shouted. ‘He was at the Great Ratting last night.’
‘He is also an officer of the law.’
Bladdersniff the bailiff came into the church, clearly out of breath, leaning on his staff of office, water dripping from eyes, nose and mouth.
‘He carries the King’s commission, he’s in pursuit of a felon.’
‘I demand,’ the Judas Man rasped, ‘that the felon who calls himself the Misericord be handed over to me.’
This proclamation was greeted by cries of derision from the parish council.
‘You know the law,’ Athelstan stepped in front of the Judas Man, ‘and so do you, Bladdersniff. Any man who reaches a church and grasps the altar may claim sanctuary.’
‘Which means,’ the Judas Man retorted, pointing up the church, ‘that the malefactor cannot leave this church for forty days, and when he does I will arrest him: that, too, is the law!’
Athelstan was repelled by the malice in the Judas Man’s eyes, the violence of his speech.