The Nightingale Gallery

by Paul Doherty

  Athelstan was waiting for Father Prior when he and his party came up the lane and stopped outside the church. Athelstan took his superior’s horse by the bridle and looked up into the prior’s kindly face. He ignored Cranston’s glare.

  ‘Do I have your answer, Brother Athelstan?’

  ‘Yes, Father Prior,’ he replied. ‘I would like to stay here until I am as good a coroner’s clerk as I am a priest!’

  ‘You are sure, Brother?’

  ‘Yes, Father, I am sure.’

  The prior smiled.

  ‘So be it,’ he murmured. He sketched the sign of the cross in the air above Athelstan’s head, bade him adieu and urged his horse forward. Athelstan waited till the sound of the horses faded before staring at Cranston, who was surreptitiously wiping his eyes on the cuff of his jerkin.

  ‘God’s bones, Athelstan!’ he bellowed. ‘I have never been so sober for so long in my life! Now I am so hot, even my eyes are sweating.’

  He looked at Athelstan mischievously. ‘Perhaps a little refreshment?’

  ‘God save us all!’ Athelstan muttered, and walked back up the steps of his church, leaving Cranston bellowing after him.