‘Godbless,’ Athelstan shouted, ‘you are well?’
‘God bless you too, Brother,’ the beggar replied. ‘God bless your trousers and all you have in them. Thaddeus and I are warm and snug. Mistress Benedicta gave me a bowl of stewed pottage and a jug of ale. We are as merry as robins.’ Athelstan smiled and went up the path through the main door of the church. A strong flutter of torch light further up the northern transept showed only Huddle, ably assisted by the anchorite, busy in what both proclaimed to be their ‘Magnum Opus’, an eye-catching, vivid portrayal of the Seven Deadly Sins. Huddle had finished Greed and was now busy on Pride, ‘that great snare of the devil’, as Huddle had written in the scrolled tag at the bottom of the painting.
Both artists acknowledged Athelstan as he walked over to them, but they were really lost in their creation, almost impervious to his presence. Athelstan stopped to admire the work. Huddle had taken as his theme for Pride the fall of Lucifer from Paradise. The painting depicted fanged, clawed and cloven-hoofed demons as well as bat-winged, sooty hobgoblins, the usual citizens of Hell. Lucifer, however, was totally different. Still an archangel, he fell from Paradise in a thick ream of golden stars while the rebel angels he had seduced flowed after him like brilliant tongues of fire. Lucifer was no creature of the dark pit but a beautiful young man, blond curls framed a face of serious sweet youthfulness; his body glowed white and pure as the driven snow; his limbs were perfectly proportioned. Athelstan was tempted to ask how Huddle had devised such an original treatment but he and the anchorite were locked in deep discussion about the mixing of paints, so he left them to it and returned to the priest’s house. He first checked that Philomel the old war horse was, as Crim the altar boy declared, ‘still breathing’. He certainly was, chewing slowly on a bundle of sweetened hay. Athelstan patted and blessed him and crossed to the priest’s house. He found the secret place where Benedicta had left the key, unlocked the door and walked into the cold, stone-flagged kitchen.
Athelstan moved quickly, building up the fire so the flames flared up, licking the cauldron dangling from its hook; this soon exuded a delicious smell of onions, cooked meats and sprinkled herbs. Bonaventure appeared like a ghost to sit beside the fire before joining the Dominican at the great table. Athelstan took yesterday’s loaf and a pot of butter, filled a tankard of ale from a small barrel in the buttery, washed his hands at the lavarium and blessed both himself and Bonaventure; he sat at the table sipping from his horn spoon, every mouthful being carefully watched by Bonaventure, who always stayed to lick the bowl really clean. Athelstan ate slowly, reflecting on what he had seen, felt and heard. What should he do? Undoubtedly there was a very tangled tale behind the Roundhoop incident but that would take time to unravel. Or would it? Athelstan sensed an evil was gathering like poison in a wound, surging in a boil of pus and filthy matter. His stomach tingled with excitement. He should confess that and yet, he stared into the fire, God forgive him, he loved the tangled maze of mystery. Deep in his soul Athelstan sensed he had reached the meadows of murder; soon he would be through the gate walking that crooked path into the House of Cain. The pursuit would begin. One soul hunting another, like God did the first assassin. Only this would be different: Athelstan would have to wait for the murderer to strike. The friar pushed the bowl away and watched Bonaventure lick it clean. He climbed the steps to his neatly prepared bed loft and lay down on the palliasse, staring up into the darkness.
‘Who will you be?’ he murmured. ‘When will you come? How will you strike?’ Athelstan’s mind drifted back to the Roundhoop — the arrows slicing the air, the screams and yells, that young man bubbling his life blood, his mind all a wander. The orange-wigged whore. Master Simon lying with his throat cut. Thibault’s face, smirking. Bonaventure came up and decided to lie on the other side of him.
‘When it comes, I must act like you, my terror of the alleyways,’ Athelstan whispered. ‘Swift and deadly.’ He was promising to do that when he drifted into a deep sleep, only woken by Bonaventure scratching at the door to get out. Athelstan scrambled down the ladder, opened the door and watched the tom cat disappear into the freezing night. Rubbing his arms, Athelstan went to build up the fire. He peered across at the hour candle on its iron stand. Two rings had burnt — late afternoon, it was time he acted. He doused the candles and lanterns, swung his cloak around him and hurried up the lane to Merrylegs’ pastry shop to find its garrulous owner was absent on business.
‘Father said it was very important.’ Little Merrylegs piped up, serving the friar, handing over the linen-wrapped pies and pastries.
‘You mean he is at the Piebald tavern with the rest of his coven?’
‘Undoubtedly.’ Large Merrylegs, the eldest of the cook’s brood, agreed from where he knelt coaxing the ovens either side of the great hearth. Athelstan made to pay but Little Merrylegs pushed the coins back. ‘Father always tells us. .’
‘Thank you.’ Athelstan smiled, tapping a coin back. ‘But this father would like you to take a message to the Piebald. Tell those two worthies, Watkin and Pike, that I wish to see them within the hour at the priest’s house.’ Little Merrylegs solemnly promised he would. Athelstan walked back into the lane. The houses on either side lay silent and dark. Athelstan felt a tingling along the back of his neck and drew a deep breath against the gathering terrors. No candlelight peeped out between shutters. The lantern boxes which glowed when he came down here now hung empty. Athelstan continued on, his sandal-clad feet crunching on the frozen dirt, head bent against the nipping breeze. He walked slowly and, as he did, became aware of two shapes like shadows flitting either side of him. Athelstan stopped and so did they. He turned to his right and glimpsed a man, head cowled, face blackened. Athelstan glanced over his shoulder; others were merging out of the murk like hell-borne wraiths.
‘Benedicite?’ Athelstan whispered. ‘Blessings on you, brothers! What do you want with a poor friar?’
‘Vengeance.’
‘Haven’t you read, Brother?’ Athelstan replied. ‘“Vengeance is mine, says the Lord, I will repay”?’
‘The Roundhoop,’ the voice grated.
‘I was used, you know that?’
‘How do we know?’
‘On reflection,’ Athelstan retorted, ‘that Friar of the Sack was no more a friar than you are, Brother.’
The man laughed a merry sound which lessened the tension. ‘Why do you say that?’ he asked.
‘Because, allegedly, he belongs to a strict order dedicated to the dying, yet he was more interested in getting out of that tavern than I was. Men were dying violently; never once did he stay to offer the consolamentum. He must have been one of yours; he told you about what happened.’