Paul Doherty - House of the Red Slayer

‘Yes. So?’

The rat-catcher looked up pleadingly.

‘Go on, Ranulf, what do you want?’

‘Well, Father, I and the other rat-catchers wondered whether St Erconwald’s could be the church for our guild fraternity?’

Athelstan hid a smile, glanced at Cranston’s glowering face and bunched the reins in his hands.

‘A guild of rat-catchers, Ranulf? With St Erconwald’s as your chancery church and I your chaplain?’

‘Yes, Father.’

Athelstan dismounted. ‘Of course.’

‘We would pay our tithes.’

‘In what?’ Cranston bellowed. ‘A tenth of the rats you catch!’

Ranulf flashed the coroner a dagger glance but Cranston was already rocking to and fro in the saddle, laughing uproariously at his own joke.

‘I think it an excellent idea,’ Athelstan murmured. ‘And we shall talk about it again. You have my agreement in principle, Ranulf, but for the moment Sir John and I are both busily engaged on other matters. If you could stable our horses, give them some hay?’

The rat-catcher nodded vigorously and, gathering the reins of Sir John’s horse, trotted into the darkness. Philomel followed, moving a little faster as he sensed feeding-time was very close. Athelstan led Cranston round the church, stopped, and told the coroner to wait until he fetched a sconce torch. He hurried back to the priest’s house, plucked one from the wall, lit it with a tinder and ran back before Cranston’s litany of curses became too audible.

They crossed into the cemetery. Even in summer time it was a sombre place. Now, under a carpet of white snow, the branches of the yew trees spread like huge white claws over the forlorn mounds of earth, crude crosses and decaying headstones. Athelstan felt a deep sense of isolation. An eerie stillness hung like a cloud and even the breeze seemed softer. The trees were motionless. No night bird sounded. In places, the shadows seemed oppressively dark, sinister hiding-places where some demon or evil sprite might lurk. Athelstan held up his torch and Cranston looked around this most benighted of God’s acres.

‘By the sod, Athelstan!’ he whispered. ‘Who would come here in the dead of night, never mind pluck corpses from their final resting place? Where are the graves?’

Athelstan showed him the forlorn, shallow holes in the ground, the mud piled high on either side as if some demented creature had clawed the corpses out. Cranston knelt down next to them and whistled softly through his teeth. He looked up, fat face distorted by the torchlight.

‘Brother, you said that only the corpses of beggars and strangers have been stolen?’

‘Yes, Sir John.’

‘And how were they buried?’

‘The corpse, wrapped in canvas, is placed on a piece of wicker-work in the parish coffin. During the funeral ceremony this is covered by a purple canopy and removed when the body is lowered into the soil.’

‘And you found no trace of the grave robbers?’

‘None whatsoever.’

Cranston stood up, wiping the slushy mud from his hands. ‘We have three possibilities, Brother. First, it could be a macabre joke. Some of our idle rich young fops think it funny to place such a corpse in the bed of a friend, but there’s no rumour of such an evil prank recently. Secondly, it could be animals, either four-footed or human. Oh, yes,’ he murmured at Athelstan’s shocked expression. ‘When I served in France I witnessed such abominations outside Poitou. However,’ he stamped his feet and looked up at the darkened mass of the church, ‘no one, not even in Southwark can be that degenerate. Finally, mere are Satanists, the Astrasoi, those born under an evil star.’ He shrugged. ‘You know more about such people than I do, Brother. The corpse may be used as an altar or the blood drained to raise a demon or they may need one of the limbs. You have heard of the hand of glory?’

Athelstan shook his head.

‘The hand of the corpse is hacked off; the name of the person whom the witch or warlock wishes to hurt is placed between its fingers and then it’s buried at the foot of a gibbet on the first stroke of midnight.’

Athelstan rubbed his face. ‘But how can I stop such desecration, Sir John? The ward bailiffs and beadles are not interested. No citizen will guard our cemetery.’

‘I will see what I can do,’ Cranston murmured. He turned quickly. ‘There’s someone here.’ He pointed to two dark shapes over near the charnel house at the far side of the cemetery. ‘Look there!’ He strode across the snow-covered grass like a charging bullock, Athelstan hurrying behind him.

‘Stop!’ Sir John bellowed. ‘In the King’s name, stop!’

Two cloaked figures turned and slowly walked towards them. At the sound of the clatter of wooden sticks and the soft tinkle of a bell, Cranston hurriedly stepped back.

‘Lepers!’ he whispered, and grabbing Athelstan’s torch, held it up before him. ‘By the sod!’ Cranston breathed, and stared pityingly at the white-hooded faces. He looked round at Athelstan. ‘You let them stay here?’

He nodded. ‘During the day. At night it is easier for them to wander unmolested.’

‘Have they seen anything?’

Athelstan shook his head. ‘They are mutes but I doubt if they would become involved. It would be a brave man, Sir John, never mind a healthy one, who would confront grave robbers.’

‘You are sure they are lepers?’ Cranston whispered.

Athelstan grinned in the darkness. ‘They have letters from the bishops. Look at their wrists and hands. However, if you wish to examine them…?’

Cranston cursed and tossed a coin at one of the creatures then strode back to the house, bellowing that he had seen enough. Ranulf the rat-catcher had apparently disappeared, as indeed did any of Athelstan’s parishioners when the coroner appeared.

‘You will stay for a bowl of soup, Sir John? I have some fine claret.’

Cranston, huffing and puffing, checked the saddle girths of his horse. ‘I would like to, Brother,’ he replied over his shoulder, ‘but I must return.’

Cranston did not wish Athelstan to probe his anxieties about the Lady Maude. ‘I need to reflect upon what we saw at the Tower.’ He pointed to the graveyard. ‘I’ll see what I can do to help you there.’ He swung himself on to his horse, and with an airy wave clattered into the darkness.

Athelstan sighed and went round to unlock the church. It was cold inside but the friar was pleased that it had lost its musty smell. He revelled in the fragrance of the green boughs so lovingly placed along the nave and sanctuary steps. He remembered the chapel of St John and wondered what lies he had been told there. Athelstan was sure the murderer was in the Tower and equally certain that some evil deed from the past had finally caught up with Sir Ralph.

He took a tinder from his pouch, lit two sconce torches in the nave and collected his battered prayer book from the sacristy. He knelt on the sanctuary steps and began the Divine Office. He reached the line in the psalm ‘My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?’ and stopped. He stared into the flickering light of the candle, leaning back on his heels. Had God forsaken him? Why did things such as the desecration of the cemetery happen, Sir Ralph’s murder or Cranston’s sadness? Oh, Athelstan knew about the problem of evil but sometimes he wondered, especially when he stared into the darkness, was there really anyone listening to him? What if there was not? What if Christ had not risen from the dead, and religion was mere hocus-pocus?

Painfully, Athelstan drew back from the precipice of doubt and depression. He finished his prayers, made the sign of the cross, and crouched with his back against the chancel screen. He took deep breaths, trying to calm his mind and soul so he could concentrate on the recent events in the Tower.