Paul Doherty: The House of Shadows

‘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.

‘It’s against canon law,’ Athelstan pointed at the sword, ‘to carry a naked weapon in church. I ask you, sir, to sheathe it and get out.’

Athelstan insisted that the Judas Man, the bailiff and all the parish council leave immediately. Pike made to protest; Benedicta intervened and gently shooed the ditcher and the rest out on to the church porch. Athelstan followed. The Judas Man was already in the forecourt, ordering the bully boys he had brought with him to guard all the doors of the church. Athelstan had met such bounty-hunters before and recognised their ruthlessness. An outlaw’s head could be worth fifteen pounds sterling, attached to its body; severed, the price was reduced to five. The Judas Man, skilled in the hunt and invoking the law, stared malevolently at Athelstan standing on the top step. He ordered Bladdersniff to include some of the parish council in the comitatus, or posse, he was forming.

‘What do you want me to do, Father?’ Benedicta pulled up the hood of her cloak.

‘Don’t be anxious, Benedicta. I would be grateful if you would serve Bonaventure a dish of milk.’ He gestured at the priest’s house. ‘Dampen the fire whilst I see what is happening.’

Athelstan strolled back into the church, slamming the door behind him. He walked up the nave. He was distracted by the gargoyle faces staring down at him from the top of the pillars as if they were the harbingers of ill news. Yet, Athelstan sighed, the day had looked so promising. He went under the rood screen and into the sanctuary, genuflected towards the sacrament lamp and then walked over to the Misericord, who was sitting on the top step, one hand on the high altar. He was tall and red-haired, his pallid, clean-shaven face, slightly pointed ears and slanted green eyes gave him an elfin look. He was dressed in dark blue matching jerkin and hose; his boots were of dark red Spanish leather. He had a knife pushed into the top of one of them and a war belt strapped across his shoulder which carried a Welsh stabbing dirk. Around his neck hung a silver misericord sheath on a black cord lanyard.

‘I claim-’ the Misericord began.

‘Shut up.’ Athelstan pulled across the altar boy’s stool and sat down, staring up at the Misericord. ‘I know the law,’ he continued evenly. ‘You are a fugitive. You have claimed sanctuary, you can stay here for forty days. I will supply you with food and drink.’