Paul Doherty: Nightshade

‘By what right, your grace?’

‘By my right, Master Ranulf. Keep this close, for you and you only.’ Edward pushed a sealed scroll into Ranulf’s hand and left.

The Principal Clerk in the Chancery of the Green Wax hadopened the scroll and read the message: ‘Edward the King to all officials of the Crown, sheriffs, bailiffs and mayor, know this, what the bearer of this letter has done he has done for the good of the King and the safety of the realm.’

Father Thomas knelt beneath the rood screen in the freezing darkness of his parish church. On trestles before him, draped in purple and surrounded by ghostly glowing funeral candles, lay the corpses of Wilfred and Eadburga, faces white as wax, their horrid wounds now dried, nothing more than purple stains, their limbs all washed and anointed. Tomorrow Father Thomas would sing their requiem mass and take the coffins out through the corpse door into God’s Acre for burial. He moved, trying to ease the cramp in his legs and thighs. How many had been killed now? Seven? Yes, seven. These two unfortunates, and then there was Edith and Hilda, slain while leaving their cottage, and Elwood the blacksmith’s son, cut down as he trotted out a horse for his father to inspect, Gwatkin the carter and Theobald the fuller. Father Thomas was distracted by the glittering sanctuary lamp. He stared into the darkness, glanced up at the tortured face of Christ on the cross then back at the pyx hanging on its thick silver chain above the high altar. Was all this the truth? he wondered. Did Christ die and rise again? Did the appearance of bread house the resurrected body of Christ? He adjusted the purple stole around his neck and shifted his bonyknees on the hard, cold paving stones. He gazed fearfully around. Blackness! Silence, except for the scurry of mice in shadowy corners. A freezing cold night! Father Thomas thought of his warm cot bed and the diced stewed meat bubbling in that heavy cauldron above the hearth fire, hot and spicy. He shook his head, grasped the ave beads wrapped round his fingers more tightly and intoned a verse from the psalm:

This was followed by the De Profundis: ‘Out of the depths have I cried to you, oh Lord …’

Father Thomas stopped and moved restlessly. He was distracted. Did the ghosts of Eadburga and Wilfred hover here? Did the departed souls of the other murder victims congregate around him beseeching God’s vengeance? Yet on whom? The Sagittarius, the Bowman? Who could it be? This mysterious, silent assassin had appeared in the New Year. Father Thomas glanced towards the lady altar to his left and the comforting light of candles glowing there. He would have to walk. He rose to his feet and, taking a cresset torch from a sconce in the wall, slowly paced out of the nave under the rood screen into the sanctuary and then back down the transepts, thinking all the time. The killer must be a master bowman, a skilled archer like himself. Was the Sagittarius imitating him, a parish priest who had also indulged in murderous thoughts towards Lord Scrope? Who had played the role of God’s avenger? Who had, in the past, seriously contemplated a violent end forthat evil manor lord who had led Father Thomas’ beloved brother to his death? Best not to think about that! He must concentrate on the present danger. Was the Sagittarius’ abrupt and brutal appearance linked to the deaths of those unfortunates at Mordern? Father Thomas paused and closed his eyes. He’d gone out there. The corpses still lay sprawled, covered in their shrouds of snow and ice. Bodies still dangled from the trees, necks twisted, heads askew. To kill was one thing, but to refuse to bury the dead … Was the Sagittarius a member of that company who had survived? Yet the priest had inspected each of those corpses, counted them carefully. There’d been fourteen members of the Free Brethren and fourteen had died. Yes, he was sure of that!

He walked on towards the north door of the church, now bolted and locked, and paused. He was tempted to open this as he did whenever he baptised a child, so that any demons could leave and cluster in that part of God’s Acre reserved for them. Ah well! He walked on absent-mindedly reciting his Aves and Paternosters, feeling the hard dried beads thread through his fingers. He tried to sooth the turmoil of his soul, to distract himself from the rage seething inside. Lord Scrope had a great deal to answer for! Now and again he glanced up the transept, eyes drawn by the candle burning before the Pity, a large statue of the Virgin Mary with the dead Christ resting in her lap. He paused near the baptismal font and stared at the painting of St Christopher, a huge figure bearing the infant Christ done in vivid hues, around it drawings of phoenixes, pelicans and mermaids. Father Thomas made the usual prayer whilst staring at the image of that saint, reciting a verse from the psalms that the Christbearer would save him from violent and sudden death that night.

Father Thomas continued on. He knew where he was going. He walked around up the other transept and paused before the painting that took up a great section of the wall from the floor to just above his head. Father Thomas closed his eyes. He recalled the day Adam and Eve, the leaders of the Free Brethren, had presented themselves at the door of his church. He could still recall the distinct image of two beautiful human beings. At the time he had wondered if in Eden the real Adam and Eve had looked like that: lovely faces framed by golden hair, blue eyes sparkling, full of laughter and innocent merriment. Father Thomas considered himself a hard man. He had fought in the King’s levies in Wales. He had wandered battlefields stinking with rotting corpses. He had examined his own conscience and found himself full of ancient sins and fresh lusts whilst working hard as a pastor to free others from Satan’s iron grip. He was not soft or sentimental, given to tearful emotions. He prided himself on not being … what was that French phrase? Faux et semblant – false and dissembling! Nonetheless, those two leaders of the Free Brethren had touched his heart with their winsome ways and merry smiles. They had arrived at St Alphege’s carrying heavy leather panniers, explaining how they were also itinerant painters and artists, skilled in wall frescoes and paintings as well as depictions on stretched canvas. They offered to render a similar service to St Alphege’s in return for food and other purveyance. When Father Thomas demurred, they promised heartily that if their work was not to his satisfaction they’d whitewash it over. Eventually he had agreed. The nave of the church was not in the gift of the manor lord but in his, and he had letters from the bishop confirming this.

Accordingly, on the Feast of St Mary Magdalene past, Adamand Eve, with two assistants from the Free Brethren, had moved into St Alphege’s, working in the clear light of day though helped by the occasional candle and lantern. At first Father Thomas had been a reluctant bystander, often wandering down to inspect their work after he’d celebrated the Jesus Mass or rung the Gabriel Bell reminding the townspeople to honour the Virgin. Some parishioners had objected to the work but many had been interested to see the grey walls of their parish church bloom with colour. Adam and Eve chose as their theme the Fall of Babylon from the Book of Revelation and other sources. Once the walls had been dressed and primed, they had brought the scene to vivid life with their brushwork in an eye-catching array of red, green, blue, gold, yellow and black against a white marbled background. Now the priest moved the cresset torch closer to study this scene once again, ignoring the dancing shadows and the strange eerie sounds from around the church.