Three days later Joscelyn climbed up on to the roof of the Hungry Man tavern. He was angry. He could not believe that tiles, freshly laid the previous spring, had grown loose, allowing rainwater to seep into the garrets. Joscelyn was determined that he would not pay good silver for the tiler to make a second mistake: this time he would do it himself. He ignored his wife’s protests and climbed to the very top of the sloping roof. He edged along, looking for the loose tile. When he found it, he gave a shout of exclamation.
‘The bastard!’ he muttered.
The tiler had laid it wrongly and the slate had slipped, knocking others loose. Joscelyn stretched out, leaning precariously down. He heard a flutter of wings and looked up. A raven, black feathery wings extended, was gliding through the air towards him. Joscelyn raised his hand to fend off those cruel claws aiming straight for his face. He lost his balance, slid down the roof and fell from the tavern. He should have survived the fall but his head came down: it hit the sharp iron bar near the front door of his tavern where travellers scraped the mud off their boots. The iron sliced deep and Joscelyn died immediately.
The same day, late in the evening, Walter Mapp the scrivener was plotting lechery. The scrivener had not yet recovered from his previous injury but he now felt in good fettle. He’d promised himself that, before the weather changed and the roads became clogged, he would travel to Gloucester. He’d spend a few nights in the Merry Hog tavern which lay under the shadow of the great cathedral. Mapp was not too well known in Gloucester and he could play whatever part he liked. He would take his carefully guarded pile of silver coins and live the life of a lord, feasting and drinking and hiring the services of the flaxen-haired chambermaid there. Mapp scratched his stomach in pleasure, thinking what he would do with her this time. In his mind, he carefully undid the laces of her bodice, stripping her roughly of her dress and shift and then, in that little chamber, made merry and warm by a glowing charcoal brazier, he would take his heart’s delight. Still engrossed in such thoughts Mapp took a taper to the fire. His chamber had grown dark and more candles had to be lit. He caught a flame and lit the three-branched candelabra on his desk under the window.
At first Mapp did not know what was happening. He tried to blow the taper out but the flame grew stronger, eating away at the wax, racing towards his fingers. Mapp tried to drop it but found the wax was stuck to his fingers. For a while he just stood transfixed in terror, his wits numb. He could hear someone singing outside, close to the window, a song Mapp recalled, but now the flame of the taper was almost near his fingers. The scrivener remembered the small pitcher of water he kept in the buttery. He hastened across but his foot caught a saddlebag. He slipped, rolling on to the floor, screaming as the flames reached his fingers and caught at his woollen mittens. He tried to dash his hand against the floor but the flames caught the dried rushes and, before he even realised, the flames were dancing around him. His cloak was on fire and, within minutes, Mapp the scrivener, so intent on his pleasures, was turned into a blazing torch.
The following evening Fidelis, wife of Joscelyn the taverner, went into the lonely, cold parish church. Her husband’s body now lay in the parish coffin at the entrance to the sanctuary. Fidelis had not yet accepted that her husband had died so quickly. She knelt on the prie-dieu left out for anyone who wished to keep the corpse watch. Putting her face in her hands, Fidelis began to cry. Not so much for Joscelyn but for herself. Things had been going so well. The arrival of the clerk had increased their profits and village life was now centred round the tavern rather than this dirty, bleak church whose parson’s wits were always wandering. Fidelis also felt guilty. A small, buxom woman, she knew her neighbours described her as wet-lipped and hot-eyed but Rahere had been so handsome, his touch so smooth and soft, his words and kisses sweeter than honey. On many an occasion, in a chamber just under the eaves, she had given herself to him. Now she blushed with shame at how beseeching she had been. Was her husband’s death God’s punishment?
Fidelis heard a sound and looked up. She blinked. She couldn’t believe her eyes. At the top of the coffin a figure now stood, its back to her. Despite the gathering gloom, Fidelis knew it was her husband. She sprang to her feet and ran towards him. She wasn’t frightened, at least until he turned. Fidelis gave a gasp and stepped back, hand to her mouth. Joscelyn’s head was strangely twisted and, in the poor light, his ghastly colour and red-rimmed, staring eyes made him terrifying. The lips moved. ‘Adulteress!’ His hand went out towards her. Fidelis, realising the full horror of what was happening, staggered backwards. The vision, the phantasm followed: staring, popping eyes, the lips opening and shutting like those of a landed fish and those splayed fingers, stretching out, trying to catch the side of her face. Fidelis bumped into a pillar, her hand dropped away. She couldn’t stop shaking. The ghastly vision drew closer. She caught the reek, the stench of the grave.
‘You are dead!’ she whispered. ‘Oh Lord save us, you are dead!’
Her husband’s ice-cold hand brushed her cheek.
‘And so are you!’
Parson Osbert made a valiant effort to break free of the demons which seemed to haunt his soul. The deaths in the village, particularly that of Fidelis, made him realise that his parishioners, whom he was supposed to serve, were under deadly threat. He washed and shaved. He brought Blanche back into the house to clean and polish. One evening he did not drink but sat by the fire. He would love to walk down to the Hungry Man, embrace his son, tell him all would be well. He prayed quietly for the grace to do so but, in the end, he only reached the door of his house before his will failed and he returned morosely to sit before the fire.
Outside night was falling. He closed his eyes. Today was the Feast of the apostles Saints Simon and Jude. In three days it would be All-Hallows Eve when, as in former years, he good-naturedly allowed his villagers to partake in the pagan rites of Samhain. On 2 November was the Feast of All Souls, when the villagers would pray for their dead. He should pray for Christina. He should pray for himself and Matthias.
Parson Osbert got to his feet. He took his Ave beads out of their pouch and wrapped them round his fingers. He, by his drunkenness, by his arrogance, had sinned and, before he made his peace with his son, he really should make his peace with God.
Parson Osbert walked out of the house and across the graveyard. He unlocked the corpse door and went inside. God’s house had not been cleaned. The flagstones should be washed and scrubbed, the benches polished, cobwebs removed. He drew himself up and breathed in. He would clean God’s house. He would put matters right in his own soul. He would reconcile himself to his son and face the future, whatever happened. Parson Osbert went round the darkened church, lighting the candles in their iron holders. He came back and knelt before the rood screen but his mind was too distressed to pray. He kept drifting back into the past when Christina was alive, joyful, merry and winsome. Now? Parson Osbert bitterly regretted the Preacher. It had all begun here, when he had sat like a frightened rabbit, and allowed the Preacher to climb into his pulpit. Parson Osbert got to his feet and climbed the steps to the pulpit. He glanced at the stark crucifix fixed to the wall above him.
‘I’ll have a meeting tomorrow,’ he whispered. ‘I’ll gather all the people here. I’ll confess my wrong!’