By Murder's bright light

CHAPTER 5

Athelstan celebrated his usual early morning Mass, surprised to see his sparse congregation graced by the presence of Aveline Ospring. She knelt by the rood screen, hands piously joined, but her eyes never left young Ashby, who was helping Crim the altar server during the ceremony. Once the Mass was finished, Athelstan hung up his vestments, cleared the altar and went out to find Aveline and Ashby sitting on the sanctuary steps quietly conversing.

‘Do you want some breakfast?’ Athelstan asked.

Ashby nodded. ‘I am starving, Father. Is it possible to have a razor and some soap? Lady Aveline’ – he patted the saddle bag – ‘has brought me other necessities.’

Athelstan went across to his house. He built up the fire and, after giving the ever-hungry Philomel his morning meal of hay, washed his hands and took a tray of bread, cheese and wine back into the church. Ashby ate hungrily. Now and again Aveline, who looked more composed and certainly more radiant than on the day before, sipped from Ashby’s cup or nibbled on the bread and cheese.

‘I came to see that all was well,’ she said shyly, looking at him from beneath long-lashed eyelids.

Athelstan nodded, then started as Bonaventure, who was sleeping by the pillars, suddenly stood up, back arching, tail high, as the door of the church opened. Marston entered and stood, arms crossed, staring down into the sanctuary. Athelstan ignored him and looked down at Aveline.

‘My lady,’ he said quietly, ‘you are in the House of God, so you must not lie.’

Ashby choked on a piece of bread. Athelstan patted him vigorously on the back.

‘It is barely dawn, my lady,’ Athelstan continued drily, ‘yet you, the daughter of the man Ashby has supposedly murdered, bring him supplies and whatever comforts he needs. Now you sit beside him on the altar steps sharing his food.’

Lady Aveline blushed crimson and glanced away.

‘Do you love him?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Yes,’ she whispered.

‘And you her, young Ashby?’

The young man nodded and wiped his eyes, still streaming after his fit of coughing.

‘Well, well, well!’ Athelstan said. ‘And I suppose you want to marry?’

‘Yes,’ they whispered in unison.

‘Good!’ Athelstan rubbed his hands together. ‘However, Holy Mother Church teaches that before you can take the sacrament of matrimony you must confess and be shriven. Now, I can hear your confessions separately or perhaps together?’

The two lovers stared at each other.

Athelstan fought hard to hide his amusement. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘You have no objections, so I’ll proceed. Nicholas, you stand accused of the sin of murder, of slaying Sir Henry Ospring.’ He spoke softly so that his words were not carried to where Marston stood at the back of the church. ‘You didn’t do it, did you?’

‘I am innocent!’ the young man whispered.

‘Which,’ Athelstan said, turning to Aveline, ‘cannot be said of you.’

She looked up, her eyes rounded in shocked surprise.

‘God forgive me,’ Athelstan continued. ‘But, Lady Aveline, I accuse you of your father’s murder.’

The young woman’s face turned white as chalk. She stood up, placing her fingers together in agitation.

That’s wrong!’ Ashby hissed, but Athelstan pressed his fingers against the young man’s lips. ‘Don’t lie in confession!’ he said. ‘Lady Aveline, please sit down.’

The young woman did so and Athelstan gripped her ice-cold hands.

‘You did murder your father?’

‘God forgive me, Father, yes I did. How did you know?’

Athelstan looked down the nave. Marston, who had apparently seen how agitated Aveline had become, now began to walk slowly forward. Athelstan rose and went to meet him.

‘Can I help you?’

‘I’m here to protect the lady Aveline from that murderer.’

‘Lady Aveline is safe in my hands,’ Athelstan replied.

‘I am also here to see that bastard doesn’t escape.’

‘Don’t swear,’ Athelstan replied. ‘Not in God’s house.’

The man stepped back, crestfallen.

‘Please wait outside,’ Athelstan said. ‘You may wait on the steps. Be assured no one will leave this church without you knowing.’

Marston was about to object.

‘Sir John Cranston would like that,’ Athelstan added sweetly.

Marston shrugged and left, closing the door behind him.

Athelstan went back into the sanctuary where Ashby and Aveline were sitting, heads together, talking conspiratorially. Athelstan unceremoniously sat down between them.

‘How, when, did you know?’ Ashby asked.

‘Oh, this morning during Mass,’ Athelstan replied. ‘It is a matter of logic. First, you were found with your hand on the dagger. Why? Because you were getting ready to pull it out. But why should you do that? It wasn’t yours, it was, as you claimed, Sir Henry’s. Yours is still in its sheath hanging on your belt. I noticed that yesterday morning. Secondly, if you didn’t kill Sir Henry, then who did? Who had the right to approach such a powerful lord whilst he was still dressed in his nightshirt? Certainly not Marston. He made that very clear. So, if it wasn’t you or Marston, who else? Now, when I arrived in Sir Henry’s room, I discovered the window had been locked until you used it to effect your escape. Accordingly, I doubted if anyone had broken into the room. Moreover, Sir Henry was a powerful man and there was no sign of a struggle. To conclude, the murderer must have been someone who had every right to be close to Sir Henry. And who does that leave but you, Aveline?’

‘Oh, my God, she’ll hang!’ Ashby whispered. ‘No one would ever believe her story.’

‘Let me try,’ Athelstan replied. ‘My lady?’

‘Yes, I killed my father,’ she replied. ‘To be precise, he was my stepfather. My mother’s first husband, my real father, was killed in the king’s wars in France. At first, all was well. I was an only child. I think my mother regretted her re-marriage, but she died eight years ago. In the main, Sir Henry left me alone. He looked after me. I was spoilt, even pampered. But’ – she began to play with the bracelet on her wrist – ‘as I grew older, he began to take more notice of me. Nothing much at first, just asking me to sit on his knee while he stroked my hair. Sometimes he would touch me in a privy place and say it was our secret.’ Aveline blinked to hold back her tears. ‘I had everything,’ she continued. ‘Or everything except a maid. He wanted it that way. As I grew older his attentions became more demanding. I avoided him, though there were times I could not. On the evening before he died, as he sat at table at the Abbot of Hyde inn, he told me to come to him at first light because he wanted to give me something precious that had belonged to my mother. I should have known.’ Aveline’s lower lip quivered and her eyes brimmed with tears. ‘He was filthy!’ she whispered. ‘Obscene! He tried to embrace me, place his hand on my breast. He claimed he had lain awake all night thinking about me. Then-’

Athelstan sensed Ashby’s growing tension. He patted the girl on the wrist.

‘Just tell me,’ he said gently

‘He said he hoped I was as good as my mother and tried to pull me across his lap. As he did so, I saw the hilt of his dagger sticking out from a pile of clothes on a chair. Everything moved so quickly. I grabbed the hilt, the next second the dagger was deep in his chest. He just stared at me as if he couldn’t believe what had happened, then he slumped to the floor. I must have stood for some time just staring down. I thought it was a dream. I kept pinching myself to wake up. It was so clean, so swift, not even a speck of blood on my hands or clothes. I heard a knock on the door-’

‘That was me,’ Ashby interposed quickly. ‘I was in the room next to Sir Henry’s. I heard Aveline go down the passageway and the sound of a faint disturbance, of something falling. I went into Sir Henry’s chamber. Only then did Lady Aveline tell me what had been happening.’

‘I daren’t say anything before,’ the young woman whispered. ‘Who would believe me? I knew Nicholas Ashby and I loved him but I kept everything a secret. Sir Henry would have killed us both.’

‘I just pushed her out of the room,’ Ashby continued. ‘Once she had gone, I tried to pull the knife out, but Marston came, banging on the door.’ Ashby nodded contemptuously down the church. ‘He’s all bluster. He could have stopped me but he just shouted "Murderer! Murderer!". I opened the window and fled.’

Athelstan rose. What Aveline had said did not really shock him. Time and again in confession he had heard the same sin in all its variations – brother and sister, father and daughter. It was the natural result of people living so close together. But who would believe Aveline? Sir Henry had been guilty of what the theologians called ‘the great and secret sin’, incest, much practised but never discussed. In a court of law it would look different. Some might even argue that both Aveline and Ashby were involved in killing Sir Henry for their own private ends. She must have known that Sir Henry would be against any such love match. Ashby had been found red-handed. If he kept quiet he would go to the gallows. If he tried to defend himself Aveline might well join him, pushed there by grasping relatives eager to get their share of Sir Henry’s wealth.

Athelstan stood at the foot of the sanctuary steps, staring at the two anxious, white-faced lovers.

‘Do you have any proof?’ he asked.

‘I thought you might ask that,’ Aveline replied.

Before Athelstan could stop her, she unbuttoned the top of her dress and pulled it down. ‘Only this,’ she said. ‘It came up later.’ And Athelstan glimpsed the purple bruise on her milky-white shoulder.

That’s where Sir Henry gripped me,’ she said, and, free of any embarrassment, pulled the dress back and re-tied the little thongs. ‘Am I guilty of a great sin, Father?’

Athelstan stared at her now-covered shoulder. That bruise could never have been self-inflicted. He believed both she and Ashby were telling the truth. He sketched a blessing in the air.

‘I absolve you,’ he said. ‘Though God knows what I am going to do now.’

‘You could speak for us,’ she said hopefully.

‘Who would believe me?’ Athelstan replied. ‘And what you have told me is bound by the seal of confession. No, no. What I must do is ponder carefully and coolly on a solution to all this. Look, let us leave that for the moment. I wish to question you on other matters. Sir Henry provided monies for Captain Roffel and the ship God’s Bright Light?

Ashby nodded.

‘And you joined the ship in September but left when it docked at Dover?’

‘Yes.’

‘During the voyage did anything happen?’

‘I have told you, Roffel was the same. Dour and secretive, except after taking that fishing smack.’

‘What else do you know about Roffel?’

‘He drank a great deal.’ Ashby smiled bleakly. ‘Not just wine or beer like the rest of us. He drank wine and beer, of course, but he also had a special flask containing a very fiery drink, usquebaugh he called it. Before every voyage he would go ashore and have his flask filled at the Crossed Keys tavern behind a warehouse at Queen’s hithe.’

‘He filled it himself?’

‘Oh, yes, Father. Where Roffel went so did that flask.’

Athelstan smiled as he thought of Cranston’s wineskin. ‘So, no one else was allowed to refill it?’

‘That’s what I said, Father. But we knew he drank from it. Well, not all the crew, but I did. His breath used to smell. He’d take it in very small doses. He once told me it was five times as powerful as any wine and kept him warm at night against the sea chill.’

‘And Roffel was in good spirits at the beginning of the voyage?’

‘Oh, yes. Sir Henry gave me a sealed package to hand to him, but I don’t know what it contained.’

‘Do you, Lady Aveline?’ Athelstan asked.

‘No, no, though my stepfather seemed very pleased with himself.’

Then what?’

She shook her head. ‘I don’t really know.’

‘I often took such packages,’ Ashby interrupted. ‘Roffel would read what was in them then toss them into the sea.’

‘Wait!’ Aveline leaned forward. ‘Yes, now I remember. When the God’s Bright Light began its voyage my stepfather was very, very pleased, but when Nicholas returned his temper changed. I heard him say that he didn’t trust Roffel. He claimed the captain was cheating him. He was coming to London to confront Roffel when . . .’ Her voice faded away.

‘Is there anything else?’ Athelstan asked.

She shook her head.

Athelstan crouched down and gripped her hand.

‘You are now your stepfather’s heir,’ he said. ‘Your secret is safe with me and I will think about what I can do. For the moment, however, you should return to the Abbot of Hyde inn. Go through your stepfather’s papers, everything and anything. See if you can find anything that will give some hint, however faint, of the secrets he may have shared with Roffel.’

‘How will that help us?’ she pleaded.

‘God knows!’ Athelstan said. ‘God only knows!’ He genuflected before the altar. ‘You may stay here for a while but, Master Ashby, on no account leave the sanctuary! I have your word on that?’

Ashby nodded just as the church door crashed open and Watkin the dung-collector rushed in.

‘Father! Father! The cart’s arrived!’

Athelstan, breathing heavily and slowly, prayed for patience.

‘Good man, Watkin. Have the other door opened and bring it up into the nave.’

The dung-collector trotted off. The doors opened and, after a great deal of crashing and banging, a huge, four-wheeled cart pulled by Watkin and other parishioners rolled up a makeshift ramp on the steps and into the nave. Athelstan went down to help. His anger at being so rudely disturbed was soon dispelled by the good humour and generosity of his parishioners, who had left their trades to ensure that this cart arrived in time for their mystery play. Panting, shouting, sweating and shouting instructions to each other, the parishioners heaved the cart until it stood in the centre of the nave.

‘There!’ Watkin wiped the sweat from his face. There you are, Father. And,’ he added quickly, his hairy nostrils quivering in the full fury of his self-righteousness, ‘in the play, I’m going to be God, aren’t I?’ He lowered his voice. ‘Pike can’t be God. I am leader of the parish council.’

Pike the ditcher came round the cart. Athelstan sensed that, despite the impending marriage between Pike’s son and Watkin’s daughter, the old animosity between these two men was beginning to reappear.

‘I heard that, Watkin!’ Pike snapped. ‘I’m to be God in the play!’

‘No, you’re not!’ Watkin shouted back childishly.

Both men looked at Athelstan to arbitrate. The priest groaned quietly to himself.

‘Well, Father?’ Pike demanded. ‘Who is God?’

Athelstan smiled. ‘We all are. We are all made in God’s image so, if we are like God, God must be something like us.’

‘But what about the play?’ Watkin insisted.

‘Yes, what about it?’ Hig the pig-man, square-jawed and narrow-eyed, came around the cart and stood beside Watkin. Hig worked in the fleshing yards and his brown gown was stained with offal and blood from the carcases he cleaned. He always wore the same gown and his thick hair was cut as if the barber had just thrust a bowl on his head and trimmed around it. Athelstan didn’t like him. Hig was a born troublemaker, very conscious of his rights and ever ready to shatter the peace of parish-council meetings by fishing in troubled waters.

‘Hig, you stay out of this!’ Athelstan warned.

The pig-man’s close-set eyes narrowed.

‘I know what we can do.’ Athelstan looked at Watkin and Pike. ‘As I said, we are like God. So, Watkin can be God the Father, I can play God the Son and you, Pike, dressed in a white gown with the wings of a dove attached to your back, can be God the Holy Ghost. Now, remember what Holy Mother Church teaches, there are three persons in God and all three are equal.’ He lowered his voice and looked darkly at them. ‘Unless you are going to contradict the teaching of Holy Mother Church?’

Watkin and Pike just stared open-mouthed, then glanced at each other.

‘Agreed,’ said Watkin. ‘But God the Father always does more than God the Holy Ghost.’

‘No, he doesn’t.’

They both stamped off, merrily discussing the finer points of theological dogma. Athelstan heaved a sigh of relief. The rest of the parishioners milled around the cart, loudly talking to each other but never bothering to listen. Athelstan slipped out of the church and across to his house.

‘Father, a word?’

Athelstan, his hand on the latch, spun around.

The two cloaked women must have walked over quietly. They stood, white-faced, staring at him.

‘Emma Roffel.’ She pulled back her hood. ‘You remember me, Father?’

Emma’s face was drawn and her grey hair was unruly, as if she had hardly bothered to finish her toilet. Tabitha Velour, standing just a pace behind her, looked similarly drawn and tired.

‘You’d best come in.’ Athelstan led them into the kitchen and sat them down. He offered some bread and wine but they declined. He sat at the head of the table, gently stroking a purring Bonaventure, who had jumped into his lap.

‘Why are you here?’ he asked Emma. ‘I thought your husband was to be buried this morning?’

‘He is to be, within the hour,’ Emma replied. ‘I’m here because of what happened at St Mary Magdalene church last night.’ Her eyes widened. ‘I had to ask you, Father. Have you found the culprit? Why should anyone do so disgusting a thing?’

‘You have come across the river to ask me that?’ Athelstan asked. ‘Sir John and I did intend to visit you today.’

‘I went to Sir John’s house,’ Emma said, ‘but he was not there. He had been summoned to the Guildhall. I just want to know who did it.’

‘Madam, we don’t know who or why but your husband had few friends and many enemies.’

Emma sighed heavily.

‘He was a hard man, Father.’

Athelstan peered at her. That’s not really why you came,’ he said. ‘There’s something else, isn’t there?’

‘I will speak for her.’ Tabitha Velour leaned forward. ‘When we went to St Mary Magdalene church this morning, Father Stephen was still very upset. He overheard you tell Sir John that Captain Roffel may have been poisoned. Is this true?’

‘I think so,’ Athelstan replied. ‘Probably white arsenic. It’s cheap and easy to obtain.’

‘But how?’ Emma Roffel asked. ‘My husband was very careful on board ship, only eating and drinking what the crew did.’

‘That’s not quite true,’ Athelstan said. ‘Your husband was Scottish. He had a special flask which he filled at a tavern near Queen’s hithe with a fiery Scottish drink called usquebaugh.’

Emma Roffel put her finger to her lips. ‘Of course,’ she whispered. ‘Where he went, so did that flask.’ She stared at Athelstan. ‘But he always filled it at that tavern! He took it there himself, because he paid the landlord to import a special cask from the port of Leith in Scotland.’

‘Did he always carry the flask around with him?’ Athelstan asked.

‘He never drank from it on land,’ Emma answered. ‘But at sea, always. He would never leave it in his cabin but carried it on his person.’

‘And at sea, of course, he could not refill it,’ Athelstan mused.

Emma suddenly stood up. ‘Father, you must excuse us. The funeral Mass is at ten o’clock. There will only be the two of us there. We must go.’

‘We may visit you afterwards?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Yes, yes,’ she said impatiently and, followed by her maid, hurried out of the house.

Athelstan banked the fire. He collected the leather bag containing his writing materials, filled Bonaventure’s bowl with milk and went out to saddle the protesting Philomel.

‘Come on, old man,’ he whispered as he gingerly heaved himself into the saddle. ‘Let’s go and see old Jack Cranston, eh?’

Philomel snickered in pleasure. The old destrier liked nothing better than butting the fat coroner’s protuberant stomach or expansive backside. As they passed the church door, Athelstan glimpsed Marston and two other of Sir Henry’s retainers lurking in the alley opposite. Athelstan did not stop. His parishioners had now spilled out on to the steps. Neatly divided into two groups, one led by Watkin and the other by Pike, they were fiercely debating whether God the Father was, in fact, superior to God the Holy Ghost.

Lord help us, Athelstan thought, perhaps I should be Three Persons in One and Watkin and Pike could be two of the archangels. He turned Philomel out of the church grounds and into the alleyway, smilingly sketching a blessing towards where Marston and his accomplices lurked. Then he forced his way through the smelly, noisy throngs in Southwark’s narrow alleyways. Outside the Piebald tavern, two of his parishioners, Tab the tinker and Roisia his wife, were engaged in a bitter verbal battle, much to the delight of a growing crowd of onlookers. Athelstan stopped to watch and listen.

‘We’ve been happily married for twenty years till this!’ Roisia, red in the face, shouted at her husband.

‘Yes,’ Tab retorted. ‘You’ve been happy and I’ve been married!’

This was too much for Roisia, who swung her tankard at Tab’s head. He ducked and she went sprawling in the mud.

‘Tab!’ Athelstan shouted. ‘Stop this nonsense! Pick Roisia up and go into the church! The cart for our pageant’s arrived.’

Roisia, kneeling in the mud, caught her husband’s arm.

‘You’re supposed to be St Peter!’ she shouted. ‘But Watkin will distribute the parts as he thinks fit.’

Husband and wife, now firm allies, headed off in the direction of St Erconwald’s. Athelstan continued on his way, past the priory of St Mary Overy to the approaches of London Bridge. At the roadside the beadles were busy meting out punishments. Two dyers, who had used dog turds to make a brown dye that washed out in the first shower, were standing, bare-arsed, with only a scrap of cloth covering their privy parts, tied hand and foot to each other. They would stand there until sunset. The stocks and pillories were also full with the usual malefactors – footpads and other petty villains who regarded capture and a day’s confinement as an occupational hazard. However, the death-cart had arrived and stood now beneath the high-beamed scaffold. A felon, the noose already around his neck, was proclaiming, to the utter indifference of the crowd, that he was an innocent man. The condemned man’s face, almost hidden by his ragged hair and beard, was sunburnt. When he saw Athelstan, he jumped up and down in the cart.

‘There’s a priest!’ he shouted. There’s a priest! I want to be shriven! I don’t want to go to hell!’

Athelstan groaned as Bladdersniff the bailiff came towards him, his vinegarish face looking even more sour than usual.

‘We haven’t been able to find a priest to hear his confession,’ Bladdersniff said. ‘He killed a whore in a tavern brawl, was caught red-handed and spent the night in the compter drunk as a pig.’ Bladdersniff clutched Philomel’s reins and swayed dangerously.

You’re none too sober yourself, Athelstan thought. He dismounted, threw the reins at Bladdersniff and climbed up into the death-cart. The condemned felon was pleased, whether at the postponement of his execution or at the appearance of spiritual comfort Athelstan could not decide. The black-masked hangman, Simon, who also worked as a scullion in Merrylegs’s pie shop, pulled the noose from the man’s neck, smiled through his executioner’s mask at Athelstan, jumped off the cart and walked out of earshot.

‘Sit down,’ Athelstan said. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Robard.’

‘And where do you come from?’

‘I was born in Norwich.’

‘And how have you lived? What have you done?’

‘Oh, I was a sailor, Father.’ He pulled back the rags of his jerkin to reveal a shrivelled arm. ‘That’s until someone poured boiling oil over me.’

‘Did you know Captain Roffel?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Captain Roffel!’ Robard replied, his whiskered face breaking into a gap-toothed grin. ‘Yes, I knew him, Father – the biggest pirate this side of Dover. A real killer, Father.’ Robard belched a gust of stale-ale fumes into Athelstan’s face. ‘He was also a bugger.’ Robard looked apologetic. ‘I mean in the real sense, Father. He liked little boys and pretty young men. Always touching them on the buttocks, he was. But he never touched mine, more’s the pity. If he liked you, good rations always came your way.’

‘Your confession,’ Athelstan reminded him.

‘Oh yes, Father.’ The felon sketched the sign of the cross. ‘Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s thirty years since I was shriven. I confess all.’

‘What do you mean?’ Athelstan asked.

‘I confess all,’ Robard declared. ‘You name it, Father, I’ve done it. I have shagged women, boys and, on one occasion, even a sheep. I have stolen men’s property, even their wives. I curse every hour I am awake. I have never been to church.’ The man’s eyes suddenly filled with tears. ‘You know, Father, I have done bugger-all in this life. I have not done one good thing!’ He blinked and looked at the friar. ‘I have never shown any love but, there again, I’ve been shown bugger-all myself! I don’t know my father. My mother dumped me on a church’s steps when I was two summers old.’ Robard licked his lips. ‘Now I am going to die, Father. I have been in hell on earth, why should I spend the rest of eternity there?’ His tears were coming freely now. ‘I wish I could go back,’ he whispered. ‘I wish I could. There was a girl once, Father. Her name was Anna. She was soft and warm. I think she loved me.’ He wiped the tears away from his face. ‘I am sorry, Father.’ The fellow licked dry lips. ‘I’ll never look at the sea again, or study the sky. Never feel a woman’s soft skin or drink red wine. I’ve drunk good wine, Father. Christ, I need some now!’

Athelstan looked over his shoulder at Simon. ‘Simon, get this man a drink, a good deep bowl of claret.’ Athelstan fished in his purse and tossed a coin, which the executioner expertly caught. Athelstan pointed at the executioner. ‘And one for yourself.’

Simon popped into the nearest ale house and returned with a two-handled hanaper brimming with strong Bordeaux. He handed it to Athelstan, who gave it to Robard, placing it carefully, for the man’s hands were bound at the wrists.

Robard pushed it gently back. ‘No, Father, you take a sip. Wish me well.’

Athelstan obeyed. ‘I wish you well, Robard.’

Robard held the wine.

‘Do you deserve to die?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Oh, yes, I killed the whore. She was laughing at my arm. Will I go to hell, Father?’

‘Do you want to go there?’ Athelstan replied.

‘Oh no, Father.’

Athelstan murmured the words of absolution and made the sign of the cross slowly. ‘You are absolved, Robard. The only people who are in hell are those who wish to be there.’ Athelstan got to his feet. ‘You may have lived a bad life but you will die a good death. Christ on the cross showed he was partial to penitent criminals. Now, drink the wine. Drink it fast. May God help you.’

Athelstan climbed off the cart and, as he passed Simon, the executioner, he gripped him by the arm.

‘For the love of Christ!’ Athelstan whispered. ‘Let him finish his wine, then make it quick!’

Simon nodded and Athelstan walked over to remount Philomel.

‘Father!’

Athelstan looked back towards the scaffold. He kicked his horse forward and reined in next to the cart. Robard drained the hanaper.

‘I said no one showed me any love. Bugger-all was the phrase I used.’ The felon smiled. ‘I was wrong. By what name are you called, Father?’

‘Athelstan.’

‘God be with you, Brother Athelstan.’

Athelstan turned Philomel away and urged him on. Behind him he heard the crack of Simon’s whip and the creaking of the wheels as the horses pulled the cart from underneath Robard. He thought he heard the crack of Robard’s neck as Simon pulled hard on the condemned man’s legs.

‘Oh, sweet Jesus,’ he whispered to himself, ‘have mercy on him and all of us!’ He stared across the busy approaches to the bridge. ‘But especially him! Especially him!’