Paul Doherty - The House of Shadows

Athelstan went inside to make sure everything was safe. He unlocked the mortuary chest; the parish pall, pickaxe and shovel were still there, as was the rammer used to press corpses down into the soil. He relocked the chest and patted each of the three parish coffins stacked on the three-wheel trestle. God-Bless was keeping everything tidy. As he left the death house, Athelstan noticed two chickens busy pecking at the earth and wondered if God-Bless had stolen them or if they had just wandered in. He went across, unlocked the coffin door and entered the church. The usual smell of ancient walls, incense and candle wax greeted him. In the sanctuary a candle glowed, as did tapers before the small Lady Chapel. Athelstan walked carefully round. The scurrying of mice echoed from shadowy corners.

‘You shouldn’t be here, little ones,’ Athelstan murmured. ‘Bonaventure the killer will find you!’

‘Who is it?’ the Misericord called, all alarmed. ‘Who’s there?’

‘Pax et bonum,’ Athelstan called back. ‘Do not concern yourself, it’s only Brother Athelstan.’

He walked back up the nave through the rood screen, and paused. The wood smelt freshly polished and he remembered how the previous day five of his parishioners, who called themselves the ‘Brotherhood of the Rood Light’, had cleaned and polished the oaken screen. The sanctuary lay in darkness, except for the candle on the high altar and the red lamp which showed where the pyx containing the Sacred Host hung from its silver chain. A shadow moved beside the altar.

‘You can come out, sir.’

The Misericord stepped into the light and sat on the top step.

‘I’m hungry, Brother, I thought you would never return.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Athelstan replied. ‘I was longer than I thought. Murder is a vexing business. So stay there, sir, and I shall come back with food, a good jug of wine, some meat and bread, not to mention a piece of cheese. Afterwards we shall talk about what part, if any, you played in these terrible killings.’

‘Brother. .!’

‘Oh!’ Athelstan came back. ‘I believe a coffer was brought here from the Night in Jerusalem?’

‘What’s happening?’ the Misericord pleaded. ‘I heard rumours. When I went out to relieve myself, Pike the ditcher said there’d been hideous murders.’

‘Did he now? But where’s the coffer?’

‘Watkin put it over there. He and Ranulf brought it in.’

Athelstan walked across the sanctuary. The coffer was under the offertory table. He drew it out and, ignoring the Misericord’s demands for his food to be brought quickly, walked back down the nave and out through the open door, where he put the coffer down. The Judas Man was sitting on the bottom step. He turned and pointed at the chest.

‘That was brought earlier. I hoped it would be safe in there.’

‘It has three locks,’ Athelstan replied, ‘and the Misericord is no fool, and neither are you. If a sanctuary man steals from the Church, or interferes with anything, the law says he can be handed over to the sheriff’s men.’

The Judas Man bit at the quick on his thumb. ‘I’ll have him soon enough.’

‘Are you always so zealous in hunting men down?’

‘You preach, I hunt,’ came the tart reply.

Athelstan pointed to the gold ring on the chain around the Judas Man’s neck.

‘The keepsake of a lady?’

‘My betrothed.’

‘She died?’

‘No, I found her with another man. I killed them both.’ The Judas Man drew his head back, staring at Athelstan from under heavy-lidded eyes. ‘She meant everything to me. I found them out in the woods. He drew a knife, I claimed self-defence.’

‘And since then you have been a hunter? And your soul, Judas Man?’

‘I leave such things to the likes of you and God. Now, you have not come to question me about a ring.’

‘Are you sure you know nothing about those two women murdered at the Night in Jerusalem?’

The Judas Man shook his head. ‘I know nothing about that. I was fighting for my own life.’

Athelstan stared across the cemetery. He noticed how the Judas Man had divided the comitatus to keep the entire outside of the church under view; his own parishioners were now clustered around a makeshift brazier, enjoying the meat and ale.

‘Will you join us, Father?’ the Judas Man asked.

Athelstan picked up the coffer and shook his head. ‘Will you pray, Judas Man?’

The hunter of men made to turn away, then paused and glanced over his shoulder.

‘I’ll talk to God, priest, when He talks to me.’

Sir Laurence Broomhill was half asleep. He was drowsy yet aware of being in his chamber at the Night in Jerusalem. He heartily wished he was back in his comfortable manor house on the road to Gravesend, but then again, none of them could have anticipated what had happened. Sir Laurence, like the rest, had drunk deeply that afternoon and lurched back to his chamber, La Morte D’Arthur, with its coloured tapestries exuberantly depicting the Great Hero’s struggle with the black-armoured Mordred. The picture of knights helmeted and visored, swords and shields raised, provoked vivid memories of the battles in Outremer, outside Alexandria.

For a while Sir Laurence recalled those arrows, wrapped in flaming cotton, shooting through the air. Scaling ladders all ablaze, the men on them, small black figures trapped by the inferno, dropping like pieces of soot to the ground below. The hideous song of the mangonels, catapults, the ominous battering of the rams, the creak of siege towers and that chilling climb to the parapets. . Sir Laurence had been there, one of the first, eager to seek the absolution promised, in the heart of the fight, all around him the hiss of the sword, the clang of the axe and the dire music of those arrows let loose against the fiery sky before dropping like a deadly rain. On either side of Sir Laurence men went down as they fought to advance the great white banner with its red cross further along the battlements. They were all maddened, the noise of battle pulsing fiercely through their blood, made worse by the fever brought on by the pitiless heat and myriad flies. Their opponents, men in turbans and billowing cloaks, fell like scythed corn before them, blood splattering out.

Sir Laurence opened his eyes. Even now he could recall their snarling faces as well as those of the innocent, cut down as the Crusaders advanced deeper into the city: the young, the women, left broken with sightless eyes and blood-dripping mouths. Sir Laurence would never forget the exquisite beauty of those fountain courts, all awash with red water. Gardens, heavy with scent, turned into battlefields, the blood-chilling screams, and afterwards? Sitting on ebony-inlaid chairs, sleeping on low-cushioned divans, drinking sherbet and wine, stuffing his mouth with dried dates, and clothing himself in the soft fabrics found in the chests of the treasure houses of their enemies. Sir Laurence sighed deeply. Whatever the bloodshed, he, and the other Knights of the Golden Falcon, had taken that victory as a sign of God’s favour. They had all survived, returned home to enjoy the fruits of their endeavours.

Sir Laurence stiffened at the knock on the door. He pulled himself up and swung himself off the bed. He walked across the room. He was about to draw the bolts when he glimpsed the scrap of parchment pushed beneath the door. He snatched it up, read it quickly and paled at what was written. He strode across and swiftly pushed the small scroll deep into the brazier, losing it amongst the burning coals. For a while he paced up and down, wondering whether to rouse the rest, only to reject this idea. The note had been quite explicit, promising to reveal the truth behind Chandler’s death and warning him to come alone. Sir Laurence pulled on his boots, fastened on his war belt, took his cloak and went out down the stairs. The passageways were fairly deserted. The tap room had yet to fill for the evening revelry, whilst it would be some time before he and the rest of the knights gathered in the solar for a feast of roast swan and whatever other delicacies the taverner could offer.