Paul Doherty: The House of Shadows

The bully boys stepped back, gesturing for everyone to stay out of this confrontation. Red-Hair’s two companions also faded into the crowd, leaving their comrade, much the worse for drink, swaying backwards and forwards on his feet, knife still out.

‘I. . I. . don’t know,’ he stammered, ‘the reason. .’ He cleared his throat. ‘I’ve only stolen petty things.’

As the man spoke, the Judas Man noticed how his teeth were blackened, his gums sore. He looked closer, a prick of doubt. This man looked unwell; his face was pockmarked, eyes red-rimmed — was this the Misericord? The subtle, cunning man? He lowered his sword, eyes fixed on that silver sheath.

‘You are the one known as the Misericord?’ he asked.

Red-Hair shook his head.

‘You are under arrest,’ the Judas Man said gently, taking a step forward.

The other man panicked, a mix of ale and fear. He lunged drunkenly, his knife speeding for his opponent’s face, but the Judas Man just stepped aside and drove his own sword in, thrusting deep into the man’s stomach. .

The two whores, Beatrice and Clarice, had left the tap room a short while before the Judas Man appeared. They heard the first clamour and outcry but they had other business. Beatrice and Clarice were sisters and served in one of the most luxurious brothels amongst the stews near the Bishop of Winchester’s inn. They had won their reputation by beauty and skill and been given a special invitation to attend the Great Ratting. They had arrived in all their gorgeous finery, gowns of red sarcanet over milk-white kirtles, stockings of pure wool and ankle-high leather boots with silver buckles. They had combed their blonde hair carefully and arranged their jewellery around neck, wrists and fingers. They’d bathed carefully, anointing themselves with perfumed oil, and had delicately painted their faces. They were twins, the daughters of the famous Guinevere the Golden, one of the greatest courtesans of Southwark until she had mysteriously disappeared some twenty years ago. They had been raised by Mother Veritable, one of the most notorious brothel-keepers south of the river. They had been taught how to read and write, and every other skill a courtesan should acquire. They were proficient on the rebec and the lute and could sing the sweetest carol as well as understand Norman French. They had been given places of honour that night and, after the Great Ratting had finished, been told to go to the hay barn which lay at the far side of the stable yard. Beatrice and Clarice had drunk deeply of the coolest, sweetest wines from the Rhine. Master Rolles had been quite insistent.

‘I have been given orders,’ he murmured to them, ‘to look after you well. When the Ratting is over you will have a customer,’ he winked lecherously, ‘in the barn.’

‘And where will we go?’ Beatrice had asked, light blue eyes all innocent.

‘I don’t know.’ The taverner had pressed silver coins into their hands. ‘Perhaps a bishop’s palace, or the silken-hung chambers of some Lord of the Soil.’

The two sisters now clung to each other, laughing as they walked across the yard. They pulled open the door and stepped inside. A lantern horn had been lit, carefully hooded and placed on top of a barrel, well away from the straw and hay. Clarice wished the band round the veil on her head wasn’t so tight.

‘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.

‘ 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.