He managed to keep on going until he reached a gate. Sobbing with the effort, he yanked it wide, and stumbled into the street. There before him was the huge tower of the church. He threw a fearful glance all about him — in the last resort he could claim sanctuary inside that, but he didn’t want to. Better by far to find a horse or some hiding place. Panting, his eye turned this way and that, desperate for a decision, but he could see nothing. It was then that he heard a scream.
Edith almost fell to the floor when she recognised him. She had seen the monk hurrying through the vill, and then the clear notes of the horn had shivered on the air and she had rushed back indoors with Ant and Agnes, hiding as the sound of hoofs came and passed by. If there was a felon in the vill, it was no time for her or the others to be out on the street. Too many people were knocked down by fools galloping their beasts in the middle of towns. And she had no desire to be killed by a felon trying to escape the law.
‘It’s quiet now,’ Agnes had said after they had been hiding inside for a while. She had been quite still as they waited, as though utterly petrified, holding the Ant close to her, his head at her throat, her hand over the fragile skull as though to protect it against any harm. It made Edith realise just how much she would suffer were she to lose her own husband. She couldn’t — to lose Peter would be to lose herself, she knew. It would remove the first structural plank on which her life depended. Especially now that she had the beginnings of new life in her womb. The idea that she should — that she could — lose her husband before he had even seen their child was so devastating that she had felt the room to grow stuffy, hot, unbearable. She rose and pulled a shawl over her shoulders, walking outside cautiously.
The sound of riders had faded to nothing now, but still she peered about the open area carefully before stepping out into the cool air. It would be an irony of some poignancy, she thought, were she to be slain now in the road, when only the day before she had been saved from death by her father and Sir Baldwin.
She was standing and smiling to herself at the singular nature of fate when a figure appeared around a corner. It was the monk, but he must be in pain, for he was bent almost double, as though nursing a terrible wound in his belly, and for an instant, that was her sole thought: that a felon had stabbed him, or he had fallen prey to the horses of the hue and cry, and was soon to collapse.
That was why she began to move towards him, but then he looked up and saw her, and she recognised him instantly.
He realised who she was at the same moment, and he felt his face twist with rage. The bitch was here! There was no chance he’d escape the bastards now. She knew him, that much was clear. Her face crumpled, and there was a blanched horror in her eyes that he couldn’t miss. But now there was the sound of men approaching.
Shit! Shit! All his plans were going awry as he stood here dithering. There was a need to get away, to be miles from here as quickly as he could, but he couldn’t just run, not with this box. And now that bitch had seen him, he was sure to be followed. They would know exactly where he had gone. He had to kill her, if he wanted any possibility of escape.
‘No!’ she cried, and her face was contorted with fear. But he knew what he must do.
He accordingly took a pace forward, and set the chest on the ground, as though exhausted, before drawing his knife and approaching her.
There was a scream, and a baby began to cry, and he saw that there was another slut behind her, this one with a pup at her tit. Another one to remove. But then, when he looked back at the blonde, he saw that there was something else in her eyes: a wildness, such as a cornered cat might show. She was scared, yes, but she’d made a decision to sell her life as dearly as she could. Even as he stepped over the dirt and mud, she darted back, pushing the other maid before her, and then reappeared in the doorway with a long knife. And she held it like she knew what to do with it.
‘Ach, shite,’ he muttered to himself.
Because just then he heard the hoofs returning. They had learned his little trick and were coming back. If they saw him here, he would have no choice but to surrender. They were too close already. Shite! If they caught him here in the open, they’d cut him to pieces.
He turned and fled back to his chest. Hefting it, he felt his belly muscles start to tear, his shoulders begin to sing with the agony of strain and tension. There was only one place he could go. Ahead of him was the gate, and he hurled himself towards it, aware all the while of the sounds coming closer and closer, the hoofs, the horn blowing, the roars and bellows. With a convulsive effort, he hefted the box on to the gate, then with a heave that made him see spots before his eyes, he hoisted it up and over, to fall with a rattle and crash at the other side. The gate had a thong holding it. He lifted it, slipped inside and shut the gate. Then, with the last strength he could summon, he picked up the chest again, and covered the last twenty yards to the church door. There he shoved the door wide and made his way with faltering steps to the altar, where at last he could drop the chest and fall to the floor, gripping the altar cloth with trembling hands. He bent down over the cloth and kissed it.
‘I claim sanctuary!’
Brother Mark was in the vestry, a small shed that would have collapsed under its own weight had the church’s walls not been so close that it could lean like an old horse against a tree. The priest here was an accommodating fellow by the name of Father James, and he had made the monk most welcome, especially when he heard that he was sent by the cardinal to learn all he could about the murders at Abbeyford.
They had been chatting in a desultory fashion, as monks and priests were wont to do, neither trusting the other entirely, for the monk thought the priest a little too worldly, and the priest thought him an arrogant fool, but they had begun to notice some mutual interests, and after some little while their conversation had grown a great deal more amiable. By the time of the shouting from within the church, both had drunk a goodly portion of wine, and their friendship had been sealed.
‘What on earth is that?’ the priest demanded as the clamour began.
‘My heavens, I think I recognise that voice,’ Mark declared as he heard the coroner’s bellow. No one could have missed his shout.
The two rose hurriedly, James spilling his wine, and both hurried out into the cold air, running about the church to the door at the north and rushing in.
‘What is the meaning of this?’ Father James demanded as he saw the men ranged about the altar, his altar. His rage was entirely unfeigned. He was unused to seeing people brawling in his church, and he would be answerable before God if he was going to permit it now. ‘You, sir — yes, you! Leave hold of that fellow at once!’
Sir Richard glanced up guiltily. ‘Ah, I know that this looks bad, Father, and I apologise … Oh, that you there, Brother? Could you explain about this fellow?’
Mark shook his head. ‘That disreputable-looking figure is actually the coroner for Lifton or somewhere. The man he has grabbed is one of Sir Robert de Traci’s retinue, and responsible for much of the trouble about here. He was the fellow who led all those travellers to Abbeyford and saw them slain.’
‘And what is he doing here?’ Father James asked of Osbert, ignoring Sir Richard’s expostulations at his description.
‘I claim sanctuary, Father. I demand it. If these men take me, they’ll see me dead. I must be protected.’
‘Release him,’ Father James said.
‘This man has killed, Father,’ Baldwin said. ‘He led those travellers to their doom, he oversaw the torture of a monk, brother to your friend Mark there, and killed that man, Pietro de Torrino, and also Brother Anselm from Tavistock. We found the brother’s body earlier, I’m afraid, Mark. He has killed another man today, a fellow called Hoppon, and he has robbed the king of a hundred pounds. It’s in the casket beside him. Do you mean to tell me that a known, unrepentant felon like this can demand sanctuary?’