Paul Doherty - The House of Shadows

The Misericord’s eyes shifted, and Athelstan knew there was more meat to his admission than the few scraps he had thrown. The Dominican leaned down.

‘You think you’re safe,’ he warned, ‘but you are not. Those are very powerful men, warriors, land owners, who would see you swinging from a branch and not blink an eye. Are any of them your enemies?’

‘I had a dalliance with one of their daughters.’

‘And?’

‘Some of their womenfolk, but I forget who. It was some years ago. Brother, that is all I shall say.’

Athelstan sketched a blessing in his direction and walked down the church. He talked to Sister Catherine, a kindly, garrulous old soul, about her own girlhood, how she had been raised in Southwark and had often visited St Erconwald’s. Oh yes, she certainly remembered Fitzwolfe, the demon priest, and talked in a hushed whisper about his dabbling in the black arts. Athelstan, with his back to the sanctuary, half listened, ears strained. The echoes in the church were very good, a fact Athelstan always tried to remember when he listened to his parishioners’ confessions. Edith and her brother had begun their conversation in whispers, but their discussion had spilled into a quarrel, and their voices were raised. Athelstan was sure he heard the name Mother Veritable mentioned. Sister Catherine chatted on about how Fitzwolfe was supposed to have sacrificed a black hen at night and had committed other blasphemies in the darkness of the night. Athelstan smiled and nodded his head. The conversation at the top of the church had now returned to whispers, and eventually Edith, eyes sparkling, cheeks flushed, came tripping down the aisle, hands concealed in the voluminous sleeves of her gown. She stopped before the friar and bowed.

‘Brother Athelstan, I thank you for your kindness to my brother and myself. Now I must leave, as the night is drawing on. .’

Distracted, she stepped around him. Sister Catherine caught her by the arm, and when Athelstan unbarred the door, they both slipped through and down the steps. Athelstan closed and locked the door behind him. He returned to the rood screen, eager to question the Misericord, but the fugitive was now lying in the sanctuary fast asleep, or pretending to be. Athelstan crossed himself, left by the side door, locking it behind him, and walked into the night.

‘Who was that?’

Athelstan spun round. The Judas Man was standing almost behind him.

‘This is God’s Acre,’ Athelstan snapped, ‘church land. You should not be slipping about like a thief in the night.’

‘Who was that woman?’

‘None of your business,’ Athelstan replied, stepping closer. ‘You are truly determined to bring that man to justice, aren’t you?’

‘I’m being paid well.’

‘By whom?’

‘I don’t know,’ the Judas Man grinned. ‘If I did, I would certainly ask for more. By the way, where’s your cat?’

‘In the church,’ Athelstan gestured with his head, ‘hunting for mice. He can leave by the sacristy door.’

‘Your cat and I have a lot in common.’

‘No, sir, you do not,’ Athelstan replied. ‘My cat hunts to eat. You. .’ Athelstan played with the cord around his waist. ‘You, sir, you love it. It helps fill the dark void in your own soul, doesn’t it? A way of exorcising your demons. I bid you goodnight.’

Athelstan returned to his house, locking the door behind him. It had fallen cold. He built up the fire, plucked some of the charcoal from it, filled the warming pan and took this up to the bed loft. He pulled back the blankets and the linen sheets beneath. The straw mattress underneath felt cold, icy cold. Athelstan put the warming pan carefully under the blankets and went back down the ladder. He felt agitated and restless. He had spent the day dealing not only with hideous murder, but with people who hid their sins behind lies and conceits. The Misericord had been less than truthful, whilst the presence of the Judas Man was oppressive and menacing.

Athelstan went to the scullery and, from the small pantry, brought out a loaf, some cheese and a pot of butter. He half filled a cup of wine and sat in front of the fire, trying to make sense of the day’s happenings. He recalled the small coffer taken from Sir Stephen’s bedchamber. He unlocked this and emptied the contents on to the table, and was about to examine them when there was a knocking at the door.

‘By St Michael and all his angels,’ Athelstan whispered, ‘is there no peace?’

He drew back the bolts, half expecting to see the Judas Man; instead, a young woman, hood pulled over her head, stood just beyond the light, and beyond her another figure hidden by the darkness.

‘What is it?’ Athelstan kept the door only slightly open.

‘Brother, don’t you recognise me?’ The cloak was pulled back.

‘Why, it’s Donata!’ Athelstan greeted the young woman he had met at Mother Veritable’s.

‘Brother,’ she pleaded, ‘may I come in? I am freezing cold and frightened. I mean you no harm. Look.’ She turned to the person behind her, then came towards Athelstan carrying a small coffer. ‘I’ve brought you a present. I didn’t want to leave Beatrice’s and Clarice’s prized possessions with that old harridan.’

Athelstan took it. ‘And who is that with you?’

‘My name is Jocelyn.’

The young man stepped out of the darkness. He was tall and thin, but his face was open and kindly under unruly black hair. Athelstan caught the smell of sweaty leather.

‘I’m a journeyman from Colchester,’ Jocelyn explained. ‘I deal in leather goods.’ He pointed back into the darkness. ‘I have tethered my sumpter pony just outside the lych gate — one of your parishioners said he would guard it.’

Athelstan liked the look of the young man, whilst Donata was clearly agitated.

‘You had best come in.’

They stepped into the light. Athelstan barred the door behind them and ushered them to the table, where he served them some oatmeal, already prepared for the morning, and two small pots of beer drawn from the barrel in the scullery. They were both hungry. Athelstan sat at the top of the table between them. Bonaventure scratched at the door and was also let in to bask in front of the fire.

‘A busy night,’ Athelstan murmured, ‘but why are you here?’

‘I’m fleeing Mother Veritable’s,’ Donata splurted out. ‘Jocelyn loves me and I love him. We are going to Colchester. We shall be married in St Luke’s Church.’

‘No, you are not going to Colchester,’ Athelstan smiled, ‘you are fleeing to Colchester; you’re indentured to Mother Veritable. Though,’ he added hastily, ‘I agree with what you are doing. But why?’

Jocelyn stretched across the table and grasped his beloved’s hand.

‘I can see you are in love,’ Athelstan remarked, ‘and what you are doing is right.’ He stared at the journeyman. ‘I have your word that you will act honourably?’

‘On my soul, Brother. We shall be married before Advent. We will exchange vows at the church door.’

‘I want to go,’ Donata explained. ‘Mother Veritable is truly wicked. She takes our souls and sells our bodies. Oh, we live in comfort, but we are at the beck and call of any man with his belly full of ale and his heart full of lust.’

The young woman rubbed her eyes.

‘I’m tired of the violence,’ she whispered, ‘of the searching fingers and foul mouths.’

‘What made you decide now?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Beatrice and Clarice’s deaths — murders.’ She looked directly at him. ‘I love Jocelyn, Brother, I want children,’ she clutched her stomach, ‘here, in my womb. I don’t want to drink Mother Veritable’s potions and powders. I don’t want to grow old raddled with disease, or die in some hay barn, my throat slashed from ear to ear, or stabbed in some stinking alleyway. I don’t want the silk and the costly perfumes, or men looking at me as if I am a horse at Smithfield.’