Paul Doherty: Nightshade

‘Babylon has truly fallen,’ he whispered. In the painting the soaring towers and gateways of the City of the Great Whore were being consumed by a swirling storm of fire that swept backwards and forwards above a bubbling sea of boiling blood. Black rain pelted down. Flames belched from windows and doorways. Defenders stood along the crenellated battlements, stark against the blue-red sky dominated by a fire-breathing dragon with scaly green wings, black claws and a brilliant red tail. The malignant beast, that horror of hell, was now swallowing the souls of those who’d served the Great Whore, digesting them and excreting them as dung. Figures in swirling white cloaks, apparently angels, sent up a rain of arrows against the defenders of Babylon dressed in russet and green. In one of the castle chambers a man lay ona bed, a cup in his hand. The next scene, set in a large banqueting chamber, showed Judas, his neck adorned with the noose he’d used to hang himself, feasting with other sinners at a great banquet of toads, snails and reptiles cooked in burning sulphur, whilst drinking fiery liquid from flame-encrusted goblets. In the final picture Judas and his minions were fleeing up a Valley of the Dead, staring fearfully backwards, unaware that the path at the far end of the valley was blocked by a soaring cross bearing the crucified Christ, his wounds gleaming like beacon lights.

The entire tableau was decorated around the edges with strange symbols and leafy plants; it was about three yards long and stretched from just below the floor to the sill of the transept window. Father Thomas had been deeply impressed and so were members of his parish council. Visitors to the town flocked into the church to view the new painting. The entire company of the Free Brethren, with their strange biblical names – Seth, Cain, Abel, Joshua, Aaron, Esther and Miriam – also arrived to dance with joy. Dame Marguerite, Lady Abbess of St Frideswide, accompanied by her ambitious chaplain Benedict Le Sanglier, came to admire, as did Scrope with his escort of henchmen. The manor lord had studied the painting closely, then grunted his approval.

Father Thomas sighed. He replaced the sconce torch in its holder beneath the memorial plaque to the memory of Gaston de Bearn, then read the pious inscription to this kinsman of Scrope and Dame Marguerite’s killed at Acre. He glanced at Gaston’s coat of arms, a kneeling stag, its antlers crowned, carved above the year of the Frenchman’s death, Anno Domini 1291. The priest whispered the requiem and walked back to kneel in front of the Pity, staring up at the serene face of the Virgin. He prayed an Ave, stilldistracted about the bloody events of the past. He had hoped the painting would make the Free Brethren more acceptable. True, they entertained strange fancies about the Church’s teaching, and their views on marriage and the love act were bawdy and lecherous, but the flesh was always weak. Father Thomas beat his own breast, murmuring, ‘ Mea culpa, mea culpa – through my own fault, through my own fault.’ Had he not entertained strange fancies about Lady Hawisa, with her beautiful white face, full breasts and slim waist? And what about parishioners like Mayor Henry Claypole, who processed so solemnly into church on Sunday and holy days, faces all devout, hands clasped in prayer? Father Thomas smiled to himself. He had sat with all of them in the shriving pew and heard their litany of sorry sins, about the brothels and bawdy baskets they frequented when they journeyed to Chelmsford, Orwell or even Cheapside in London. Their wives were no better, hot and lecherous as sparrows at a smile from some young man. Ah, Father Thomas reflected, that was where the present tempest had been sown. Stories of dalliance between townsmen and female members of the Free Brethren and, even worse, the attention some of the young men amongst the Free Brethren had shown towards wives and sweethearts in Mistleham. Tales of pretty trysts in the autumn woods; even whispers of a village wench conceiving a love-child. Other allegations had floated about like dirt through clear water, of livestock being poached and property stolen.

A sound down near the corpse door made the priest whirl round. He peered fearfully through the poor light. Nothing! He’d left the door off the latch in case the parents of Wilfred and Eadburga wished to come and pray. Guilty at his desertion of the dead, he walked back to the coffin trestles and pulled back thefuneral cloths. He stared at the waxen faces, the absolution of all their sins pinned to the white cotton shifts. He blessed both corpses and sniffed the smoke from the funeral candles, but even their fragrance could not hide the mustiness of the air. Father Thomas breathed in deeply. Lord Scrope, perhaps to win him over after the massacre, had promised to renovate the entire church. The priest took some comfort from that. After all, a few of the stone flags were sinking, the walls were mildewed, whilst the wood in the chancel screen was beginning to rot. Again that sound. Father Thomas turned slowly. There was someone hiding in the church, deep in the shadows. He was sure of that. The creak of the corpse door, that cold blast of air. He walked towards it, swallowing hard, trying to control his own fear.

‘No further, priest, stand still.’

Father Thomas obeyed. ‘Who are you?’ he called out.

‘I am Nightshade,’ the voice replied.

Father Thomas strained his hearing. The voice was cultured, melodious and soft; he couldn’t recognise it. ‘Why do you call yourself that at the dead of night?’

No answer.

‘Why come sneaking into our parish church and hide in the shadows? Why not step into God’s light? Why give yourself such a name?’

‘Do you know what nightshade is, priest?’

‘A poisonous plant, deadly in its potion, deadly in its effect. Is that you?’

‘I am the other meaning of nightshade. Don’t you know it, priest? It is that time of the night when the darkness grows a little deeper and the demons lurk.’

‘Are you a demon?’

A soft laugh answered the priest’s question. ‘I am God’s judgement, priest.’

‘On whose authority?’

‘My own! Blood cries out. Vengeance is to be exacted. Retribution imposed.’

‘Are you the Sagittarius, the Bowman?’

‘Are you?’ came the mocking reply.

Father Thomas wiped the sweat on his hands along his gown.

‘Why not move into God’s light?’

‘I am in God’s light.’

‘So why are you here?’ the priest insisted. ‘Why come in the dead of night to threaten a priest keeping vigil over two dead innocents?’

‘No one is innocent, priest, you know that. You must deliver a message, a warning to Lord Scrope. Tell him that before the Feast of the Conversion of St Paul, he must stand beneath the market cross of Mistleham and make a full confession of his sins.’

‘He’ll never do that.’

‘At least he’ll be warned.’

‘Or what?’

‘Retribution for all his sins,’ hissed the reply.

‘Why not warn him yourself?’

‘Oh, don’t worry, priest, I will and I shall, but remember what I’ve said: all his sins.’

A few hours later, on the eve of the Feast of St Hilary, just as the night turned a dull grey, Lord Oliver Scrope knelt at his own prie-dieu in the reclusorium that he had built on the Island ofSwans at the heart of his manor demesne. His lips moved soundlessly as he stared at the diptych of Christ’s Passion and reflected fearfully on judgement and retribution.

‘ Jesu miserere ,’ he whispered. ‘ Jesu miserere – Jesus have mercy on me.’ He closed his eyes, then shook his head. His morning devotions were ended. He hitched the ermine-lined bed-robe of dark blue damask closer about him, crossed himself and rose. He stared round and drew practical comfort from this, his own hermitage and retreat. He had always been drawn to the Island of Swans, even as a child when he, Marguerite and cousin Gaston used to cross the water and play amongst the ruins. On his return from Acre, he had extended his estate and immediately built this retreat, round in shape, similar to a dovecote, fashioned out of heavy grey stone with a sloping roof of dark slate. In many ways it was reminiscent of the peel towers he had seen when fighting along the Scottish march or outside the Pale in Dublin. The interior, however, was much different from those grim strongholds. Lord Scrope had insisted on every luxury: polished wooden floors, an elevated recess for the bed with its goose-feather bolster and mattress, soft linen sheets and heavy gold-fringed hangings. In the far corner was a narrow ease chamber with a latrine, lavarium, and spice and soap stall. The gleaming floor of the retreat was covered in precious furs specially imported from Norway, whilst brilliantly embroidered Flemish tapestries decorated the walls. Sacred pictures and medallions hung between these, their gilt gleaming in the light from pure beeswax candles and shuttered lantern horns. Copper braziers, their caps perforated, added warmth and sweetness, as did the mantled hearth built into the wall with its own stack or flue for the smoke to escape. A phrasearound the base of one of the pictures caught Scrope’s eye; though executed in bright gold lettering, it now seemed like a summons of doom: ‘What profit a man if he gain the whole world but suffers the loss of his eternal soul …’