Elias gave a loud yawn. ‘I never thought about it that way.’
‘Neither did I until now.’
‘What’s the reason behind it, Nick?’
‘That’s obvious,’ said his friend quietly. ‘He’s watching us.’
Another yawn from Elias signalled the end of the conversation. After wishing each other good night, they snuggled under the warm sheets. Elias was the first to fall asleep, marking the event with a series of gentle snores. Nicholas lay awake for a while, thinking about Davy Stratton’s sudden departure in the forest and speculating on where the boy had really gone. When his eyelids grew heavy, he surrendered to fatigue and dozed off. How long he slept he did not know but it was still dark when a creaking sound brought his awake. He thought at first that it was Elias, making his way to the chamber pot but the Welshman was still snoring happily in the next bed. Nicholas sat up in bed and peered into the gloom through bleary eyes.
‘Is that you, Davy?’ he asked.
The creaking stopped instantly but there was no reply to his question. Nicholas grew suspicious. Hauling himself out of bed, he groped his way to the truckle bed and put out an exploratory hand. Davy was not there yet Nicholas was certain he was still in the room. He was fully awake now. Nicholas sensed that the boy was standing by the door and he moved across to reach out for him. Holding his breath and flattened against the door, Davy let out a yelp as strong fingers closed on his arm. Nicholas put both hands on the boy and was shocked with what he found.
‘You’re fully dressed,’ he said.
‘I was … going for a walk,’ bleated Davy.
‘In the middle of the night? You were running away again, weren’t you?’
‘No!’
‘You were,’ said Nicholas with subdued anger. ‘Why? Where were you going?’
‘Nowhere.’
Nicholas shook him. ‘Don’t lie to me, Davy. You put on your clothes to sneak out. I heard you trying to open the door, didn’t I?’
The boy capitulated. ‘Yes,’ he admitted, sobbing quietly. ‘I was creeping out and I’d have got away with it if you hadn’t locked the door.’
‘But I didn’t,’ said Nicholas. ‘I don’t have a key.’
He reached for the handle himself and twisted it. Though he pulled hard, the door did not move an inch. All three of them were securely locked in the room.
Jared Tuke did not seem to feel the bitter cold. A burly man of middle years, he walked through the churchyard as if it were a summer’s afternoon rather than an early morning in winter. His only concession to the weather was to wear his largest cap but even that was set back on his head to reveal the gnarled face. He paused beside a gravestone to offer up a silent prayer. Tuke had inherited the position of churchwarden from his father and he carried out his duties with the same plodding reliability. Reuben Tuke lay six feet beneath the earth now but his son was carrying on the family tradition and, in doing so, he was able to pay his respects daily to the old man whose name was chiselled on the stone slab in front of him. He brushed a layer of frost from the gravestone then strolled on up to the church. No light showed through the stained glass window in the west front. Tuke gave a grunt of satisfaction. He always liked to be the first there.
The parish church of St Christopher stood in a hamlet on the extreme edge of the Silvermere estate, serving two other hamlets, a village and a number of scattered farmsteads. It was a small, squat, undistinguished building that had been kept in good repair throughout the two hundred years of its existence and it had survived intact the religious crises that had afflicted the country for so long. Seating in the nave could accommodate over a hundred parishioners without undue discomfort though long sermons drew attention to the roughness of some of the benches. The chancel was large enough to house double rows of choir stalls that faced each other with wooden solidity. Three wide stone steps led up to the altar rail, three more to the altar itself. Since the tower rose out of the middle of the church, the solitary bell was rung by means of the rope that dangled below the chancel arch and which was secured, at other times, to a hook set into the side of the oak pulpit.
Having let himself into the church, Jared Tuke lit a few candles then started with the preparations. By the time he heard the latch on the vestry click, he had all but finished his work. He was still appraising the altar when the vicar came into the chancel.
‘Good morning, Jared,’ said the newcomer.
‘Good morning,’ replied the churchwarden.
‘One of these days, I may actually get here before you but I haven’t managed it yet. Do you never sleep, man?’
‘I’ve always been an early riser.’
‘If only I could say the same!’
Reverend Anthony Dyment was a short, wiry man in his thirties with a pleasant face and an agreeable manner. Wrapped in a thick black cloak, he was still shivering visibly. He blew on his hands then rubbed them hard together. As if realising for the first time where he was, Dyment removed his hat and gave a reverential nod in the direction of the altar. Tuke had not only discarded his hat, he had also taken off his buff jerkin. It made the vicar shiver afresh just to look at him.
‘Is everything ready, Jared?’ he enquired.
‘I think so.’
‘Nothing at all left for me to do?’
‘Only to perform the ceremony.’
Dyment smiled. ‘We’ll have you doing that before long. You do everything else.’
‘It’s my duty,’ said Tuke with leaden sincerity.
‘No man in the parish is more cognisant of his duty than you.’
Tuke had arrived not long after dawn but the sky had now brightened appreciably and light came in through the windows to supplement the candle flames and to dapple the flagstones. Dyment walked down the aisle to the rear of the nave to stand beside the stone font. Carved into it was a representation of the Lamb of God, curled up beside a cross. The vicar ran a reflective hand around the circumference of the font.
‘I hope that the water doesn’t freeze in here,’ he sighed.
‘No chance of that,’ said Tuke.
‘There’s one sure way to make sure that it doesn’t.’
He took off his cloak and walked back to the chancel to kneel at the altar rail. Without even thinking, Jared Tuke joined him in prayer. They remained there for several minutes before they were interrupted by the sound of the door being thrown open. Both of them got to their feet at once and swung round to look at the intruder. When the vicar saw who it was, he quailed. The last person he wanted to confront was Reginald Orr. The unexpected visitor was a tall, rugged, clean-shaven man in his forties, dressed in black and glowering with resentment. His voice was like the crack of a whip.
‘What’s that I see?’ he demanded, pointing an accusatory finger.
‘Where?’ asked the vicar.
‘There, man. On the altar behind you. That gold plate.’
‘That was a gift from Sir Michael,’ explained Dyment, glancing over his shoulder at the large plate that was propped up on the altar. ‘His generosity knows no end.’
‘Nor do his Popish inclination. That plate smacks too much of Rome.’
‘No, it doesn’t,’ said Tuke, stung by the claim.
‘There’s none of the Old Religion here,’ added Dyment, vainly attempting to put some firmness into his voice. ‘As you’d know, Reginald, if you showed us the courtesy of joining us in worship here.’
‘I refuse to take part in Catholic celebrations,’ said Orr defiantly.
‘We abide by the law of the land and hold only Protestant services here.’
‘Then why deck your church out as if you’re expecting a visit from the Pope himself? Look at it. Gold plate. A silver crucifix. Gold ornaments. A silk altar cloth embroidered with gold thread and a vestry full of other abominations just waiting to be brought in.’ Orr strode purposefully down the aisle. ‘The Pope is Antichrist! Spurn him!’
‘We do,’ said Dyment.