Nightshade

2

Father Thomas knelt beneath the rood screen in the freezing darkness of his parish church. On trestles before him, draped in purple and surrounded by ghostly glowing funeral candles, lay the corpses of Wilfred and Eadburga, faces white as wax, their horrid wounds now dried, nothing more than purple stains, their limbs all washed and anointed. Tomorrow Father Thomas would sing their requiem mass and take the coffins out through the corpse door into God’s Acre for burial. He moved, trying to ease the cramp in his legs and thighs. How many had been killed now? Seven? Yes, seven. These two unfortunates, and then there was Edith and Hilda, slain while leaving their cottage, and Elwood the blacksmith’s son, cut down as he trotted out a horse for his father to inspect, Gwatkin the carter and Theobald the fuller. Father Thomas was distracted by the glittering sanctuary lamp. He stared into the darkness, glanced up at the tortured face of Christ on the cross then back at the pyx hanging on its thick silver chain above the high altar. Was all this the truth? he wondered. Did Christ die and rise again? Did the appearance of bread house the resurrected body of Christ? He adjusted the purple stole around his neck and shifted his bonyknees on the hard, cold paving stones. He gazed fearfully around. Blackness! Silence, except for the scurry of mice in shadowy corners. A freezing cold night! Father Thomas thought of his warm cot bed and the diced stewed meat bubbling in that heavy cauldron above the hearth fire, hot and spicy. He shook his head, grasped the ave beads wrapped round his fingers more tightly and intoned a verse from the psalm:

This was followed by the De Profundis: ‘Out of the depths have I cried to you, oh Lord …’

Father Thomas stopped and moved restlessly. He was distracted. Did the ghosts of Eadburga and Wilfred hover here? Did the departed souls of the other murder victims congregate around him beseeching God’s vengeance? Yet on whom? The Sagittarius, the Bowman? Who could it be? This mysterious, silent assassin had appeared in the New Year. Father Thomas glanced towards the lady altar to his left and the comforting light of candles glowing there. He would have to walk. He rose to his feet and, taking a cresset torch from a sconce in the wall, slowly paced out of the nave under the rood screen into the sanctuary and then back down the transepts, thinking all the time. The killer must be a master bowman, a skilled archer like himself. Was the Sagittarius imitating him, a parish priest who had also indulged in murderous thoughts towards Lord Scrope? Who had played the role of God’s avenger? Who had, in the past, seriously contemplated a violent end forthat evil manor lord who had led Father Thomas’ beloved brother to his death? Best not to think about that! He must concentrate on the present danger. Was the Sagittarius’ abrupt and brutal appearance linked to the deaths of those unfortunates at Mordern? Father Thomas paused and closed his eyes. He’d gone out there. The corpses still lay sprawled, covered in their shrouds of snow and ice. Bodies still dangled from the trees, necks twisted, heads askew. To kill was one thing, but to refuse to bury the dead … Was the Sagittarius a member of that company who had survived? Yet the priest had inspected each of those corpses, counted them carefully. There’d been fourteen members of the Free Brethren and fourteen had died. Yes, he was sure of that!

He walked on towards the north door of the church, now bolted and locked, and paused. He was tempted to open this as he did whenever he baptised a child, so that any demons could leave and cluster in that part of God’s Acre reserved for them. Ah well! He walked on absent-mindedly reciting his Aves and Paternosters, feeling the hard dried beads thread through his fingers. He tried to sooth the turmoil of his soul, to distract himself from the rage seething inside. Lord Scrope had a great deal to answer for! Now and again he glanced up the transept, eyes drawn by the candle burning before the Pity, a large statue of the Virgin Mary with the dead Christ resting in her lap. He paused near the baptismal font and stared at the painting of St Christopher, a huge figure bearing the infant Christ done in vivid hues, around it drawings of phoenixes, pelicans and mermaids. Father Thomas made the usual prayer whilst staring at the image of that saint, reciting a verse from the psalms that the Christbearer would save him from violent and sudden death that night.

Father Thomas continued on. He knew where he was going. He walked around up the other transept and paused before the painting that took up a great section of the wall from the floor to just above his head. Father Thomas closed his eyes. He recalled the day Adam and Eve, the leaders of the Free Brethren, had presented themselves at the door of his church. He could still recall the distinct image of two beautiful human beings. At the time he had wondered if in Eden the real Adam and Eve had looked like that: lovely faces framed by golden hair, blue eyes sparkling, full of laughter and innocent merriment. Father Thomas considered himself a hard man. He had fought in the King’s levies in Wales. He had wandered battlefields stinking with rotting corpses. He had examined his own conscience and found himself full of ancient sins and fresh lusts whilst working hard as a pastor to free others from Satan’s iron grip. He was not soft or sentimental, given to tearful emotions. He prided himself on not being … what was that French phrase? Faux et semblant – false and dissembling! Nonetheless, those two leaders of the Free Brethren had touched his heart with their winsome ways and merry smiles. They had arrived at St Alphege’s carrying heavy leather panniers, explaining how they were also itinerant painters and artists, skilled in wall frescoes and paintings as well as depictions on stretched canvas. They offered to render a similar service to St Alphege’s in return for food and other purveyance. When Father Thomas demurred, they promised heartily that if their work was not to his satisfaction they’d whitewash it over. Eventually he had agreed. The nave of the church was not in the gift of the manor lord but in his, and he had letters from the bishop confirming this.

Accordingly, on the Feast of St Mary Magdalene past, Adamand Eve, with two assistants from the Free Brethren, had moved into St Alphege’s, working in the clear light of day though helped by the occasional candle and lantern. At first Father Thomas had been a reluctant bystander, often wandering down to inspect their work after he’d celebrated the Jesus Mass or rung the Gabriel Bell reminding the townspeople to honour the Virgin. Some parishioners had objected to the work but many had been interested to see the grey walls of their parish church bloom with colour. Adam and Eve chose as their theme the Fall of Babylon from the Book of Revelation and other sources. Once the walls had been dressed and primed, they had brought the scene to vivid life with their brushwork in an eye-catching array of red, green, blue, gold, yellow and black against a white marbled background. Now the priest moved the cresset torch closer to study this scene once again, ignoring the dancing shadows and the strange eerie sounds from around the church.

‘Babylon has truly fallen,’ he whispered. In the painting the soaring towers and gateways of the City of the Great Whore were being consumed by a swirling storm of fire that swept backwards and forwards above a bubbling sea of boiling blood. Black rain pelted down. Flames belched from windows and doorways. Defenders stood along the crenellated battlements, stark against the blue-red sky dominated by a fire-breathing dragon with scaly green wings, black claws and a brilliant red tail. The malignant beast, that horror of hell, was now swallowing the souls of those who’d served the Great Whore, digesting them and excreting them as dung. Figures in swirling white cloaks, apparently angels, sent up a rain of arrows against the defenders of Babylon dressed in russet and green. In one of the castle chambers a man lay ona bed, a cup in his hand. The next scene, set in a large banqueting chamber, showed Judas, his neck adorned with the noose he’d used to hang himself, feasting with other sinners at a great banquet of toads, snails and reptiles cooked in burning sulphur, whilst drinking fiery liquid from flame-encrusted goblets. In the final picture Judas and his minions were fleeing up a Valley of the Dead, staring fearfully backwards, unaware that the path at the far end of the valley was blocked by a soaring cross bearing the crucified Christ, his wounds gleaming like beacon lights.

The entire tableau was decorated around the edges with strange symbols and leafy plants; it was about three yards long and stretched from just below the floor to the sill of the transept window. Father Thomas had been deeply impressed and so were members of his parish council. Visitors to the town flocked into the church to view the new painting. The entire company of the Free Brethren, with their strange biblical names – Seth, Cain, Abel, Joshua, Aaron, Esther and Miriam – also arrived to dance with joy. Dame Marguerite, Lady Abbess of St Frideswide, accompanied by her ambitious chaplain Benedict Le Sanglier, came to admire, as did Scrope with his escort of henchmen. The manor lord had studied the painting closely, then grunted his approval.

Father Thomas sighed. He replaced the sconce torch in its holder beneath the memorial plaque to the memory of Gaston de Bearn, then read the pious inscription to this kinsman of Scrope and Dame Marguerite’s killed at Acre. He glanced at Gaston’s coat of arms, a kneeling stag, its antlers crowned, carved above the year of the Frenchman’s death, Anno Domini 1291. The priest whispered the requiem and walked back to kneel in front of the Pity, staring up at the serene face of the Virgin. He prayed an Ave, stilldistracted about the bloody events of the past. He had hoped the painting would make the Free Brethren more acceptable. True, they entertained strange fancies about the Church’s teaching, and their views on marriage and the love act were bawdy and lecherous, but the flesh was always weak. Father Thomas beat his own breast, murmuring, ‘Mea culpa, mea culpa – through my own fault, through my own fault.’ Had he not entertained strange fancies about Lady Hawisa, with her beautiful white face, full breasts and slim waist? And what about parishioners like Mayor Henry Claypole, who processed so solemnly into church on Sunday and holy days, faces all devout, hands clasped in prayer? Father Thomas smiled to himself. He had sat with all of them in the shriving pew and heard their litany of sorry sins, about the brothels and bawdy baskets they frequented when they journeyed to Chelmsford, Orwell or even Cheapside in London. Their wives were no better, hot and lecherous as sparrows at a smile from some young man. Ah, Father Thomas reflected, that was where the present tempest had been sown. Stories of dalliance between townsmen and female members of the Free Brethren and, even worse, the attention some of the young men amongst the Free Brethren had shown towards wives and sweethearts in Mistleham. Tales of pretty trysts in the autumn woods; even whispers of a village wench conceiving a love-child. Other allegations had floated about like dirt through clear water, of livestock being poached and property stolen.

A sound down near the corpse door made the priest whirl round. He peered fearfully through the poor light. Nothing! He’d left the door off the latch in case the parents of Wilfred and Eadburga wished to come and pray. Guilty at his desertion of the dead, he walked back to the coffin trestles and pulled back thefuneral cloths. He stared at the waxen faces, the absolution of all their sins pinned to the white cotton shifts. He blessed both corpses and sniffed the smoke from the funeral candles, but even their fragrance could not hide the mustiness of the air. Father Thomas breathed in deeply. Lord Scrope, perhaps to win him over after the massacre, had promised to renovate the entire church. The priest took some comfort from that. After all, a few of the stone flags were sinking, the walls were mildewed, whilst the wood in the chancel screen was beginning to rot. Again that sound. Father Thomas turned slowly. There was someone hiding in the church, deep in the shadows. He was sure of that. The creak of the corpse door, that cold blast of air. He walked towards it, swallowing hard, trying to control his own fear.

‘No further, priest, stand still.’

Father Thomas obeyed. ‘Who are you?’ he called out.

‘I am Nightshade,’ the voice replied.

Father Thomas strained his hearing. The voice was cultured, melodious and soft; he couldn’t recognise it. ‘Why do you call yourself that at the dead of night?’

No answer.

‘Why come sneaking into our parish church and hide in the shadows? Why not step into God’s light? Why give yourself such a name?’

‘Do you know what nightshade is, priest?’

‘A poisonous plant, deadly in its potion, deadly in its effect. Is that you?’

‘I am the other meaning of nightshade. Don’t you know it, priest? It is that time of the night when the darkness grows a little deeper and the demons lurk.’

‘Are you a demon?’

A soft laugh answered the priest’s question. ‘I am God’s judgement, priest.’

‘On whose authority?’

‘My own! Blood cries out. Vengeance is to be exacted. Retribution imposed.’

‘Are you the Sagittarius, the Bowman?’

‘Are you?’ came the mocking reply.

Father Thomas wiped the sweat on his hands along his gown.

‘Why not move into God’s light?’

‘I am in God’s light.’

‘So why are you here?’ the priest insisted. ‘Why come in the dead of night to threaten a priest keeping vigil over two dead innocents?’

‘No one is innocent, priest, you know that. You must deliver a message, a warning to Lord Scrope. Tell him that before the Feast of the Conversion of St Paul, he must stand beneath the market cross of Mistleham and make a full confession of his sins.’

‘He’ll never do that.’

‘At least he’ll be warned.’

‘Or what?’

‘Retribution for all his sins,’ hissed the reply.

‘Why not warn him yourself?’

‘Oh, don’t worry, priest, I will and I shall, but remember what I’ve said: all his sins.’

A few hours later, on the eve of the Feast of St Hilary, just as the night turned a dull grey, Lord Oliver Scrope knelt at his own prie-dieu in the reclusorium that he had built on the Island ofSwans at the heart of his manor demesne. His lips moved soundlessly as he stared at the diptych of Christ’s Passion and reflected fearfully on judgement and retribution.

‘Jesu miserere,’ he whispered. ‘Jesu miserere – Jesus have mercy on me.’ He closed his eyes, then shook his head. His morning devotions were ended. He hitched the ermine-lined bed-robe of dark blue damask closer about him, crossed himself and rose. He stared round and drew practical comfort from this, his own hermitage and retreat. He had always been drawn to the Island of Swans, even as a child when he, Marguerite and cousin Gaston used to cross the water and play amongst the ruins. On his return from Acre, he had extended his estate and immediately built this retreat, round in shape, similar to a dovecote, fashioned out of heavy grey stone with a sloping roof of dark slate. In many ways it was reminiscent of the peel towers he had seen when fighting along the Scottish march or outside the Pale in Dublin. The interior, however, was much different from those grim strongholds. Lord Scrope had insisted on every luxury: polished wooden floors, an elevated recess for the bed with its goose-feather bolster and mattress, soft linen sheets and heavy gold-fringed hangings. In the far corner was a narrow ease chamber with a latrine, lavarium, and spice and soap stall. The gleaming floor of the retreat was covered in precious furs specially imported from Norway, whilst brilliantly embroidered Flemish tapestries decorated the walls. Sacred pictures and medallions hung between these, their gilt gleaming in the light from pure beeswax candles and shuttered lantern horns. Copper braziers, their caps perforated, added warmth and sweetness, as did the mantled hearth built into the wall with its own stack or flue for the smoke to escape. A phrasearound the base of one of the pictures caught Scrope’s eye; though executed in bright gold lettering, it now seemed like a summons of doom: ‘What profit a man if he gain the whole world but suffers the loss of his eternal soul …’

Lord Scrope shivered and moved to the hearth to warm himself. He stared at the carved face of the woodwose at the centre of the mantle shelf; painted black with red eyes and gleaming white teeth, the entire head was crowned by a halo of forest greenery. On reflection Scrope did not like that face with its slightly sneering expression, and he vowed to have it changed as soon as he could. He picked up his finely carved wooden goblet of wine, leaned against the mantle shelf and stared down at the flames licking the dried bracken. Outside, a fresh fall of snow covered the ground. The lake had not yet frozen, though when he’d been rowed across the previous evening, the water had been bitingly cold, flecks and splashes stinging his face. Scrope sipped the mulled wine; of course it was warm in here. The six window openings were firmly shuttered and protected by leather hangings and thick blue woollen drapes.

Scrope had tried to sleep but been unable to. His soul was agitated by memories of the past, his heart rattled about recent worries. He absent-mindedly muttered a prayer. He reflected on the words of the psalm, how unabsolved sins from the past stretched out like a trap to seize the guilty. His night had been racked by the usual nightmares: the screaming and whirling missiles over Acre; Gaston, face all bloodied, staggering along that path; the furious hand-to-hand fighting across the courtyards where the fountains turned crimson with blood; the heart-stopping terror as they struggled to reach the donjon. And afterwards? The Templetreasure-hold, that serjeant arguing with him … Lord Scrope scratched his head and hid his own guilt beneath a seething rage. The arrogant impunity of those Free Brethren! How dare they display such mockery! How could they know his dark secret? Some survivor from Acre, but who? It did not matter. They had provoked their own downfall! Now Edward the King was interfering, reminding Scrope of his promise about the Sanguis Christi, how the attack on the Free Brethren had not been according to statutory law or ordinance of the council. Scrope’s powerful friends in church and state at Westminster had protected him; they had also dispatched messages that the King was sending no less a person than Sir Hugh Corbett, Keeper of the Secret Seal, into the shire with full power to investigate what was happening at Mistleham. Corbett! Scrope knew him, lean of face, dark-eyed and sharp-witted, a clerk who could not be threatened or bribed.

Scrope gripped the goblet more tightly, listening to sounds from outside. He promised himself that he would go and check on Romulus and Remus, the great mastiffs who protected the edges of the lake. He eased himself down into the chair and stretched one hand out towards the fire. So much danger! The Sagittarius, an assassin sent by the Temple? Or a survivor of the massacre at Mordern? Yet surely they had all been killed? Brother Gratian had assured him of that, whilst the Dominican had also affirmed that Scrope had only done God’s will, so why be afraid? He must deal with all his problems. Father Thomas could be persuaded. Marguerite would, as always, be the loving, supportive sister. He must escape from all these troubles and spend more time enjoying the delicious body of his wife. Of course the Sanguis Christi and the assassin’s dagger would have to be returned.

Scrope put down the goblet, took the silver chain from round his neck and moved to the great chest at the foot of the bed. He knelt down, undid the intricate locks on the chest, pushed back the lid and drew out the black coffer with its silver bands and three more locks, each with its own special key. He opened this and stared greedily at the treasures within. The Sanguis Christi, pure gold, those great red rubies glinting even in the dim light of the reclusorium; beside it other precious items looted from the Temple’s treasure hoard in Acre. They’d never get those back! The Sanguis Christi he’d hand to the King as a gift, a bribe, a reminder of how loyal Lord Scrope was. He’d also send the King a letter recalling those great days when they’d served shoulder to shoulder in Ireland, Wales or pursuing Scottish rebels through the mist and heather north of the border. He’d entertain Corbett. He’d use Brother Gratian to explain how the Free Brethren were a menace, a threat to the King’s peace as well as the teaching of the Church.

Lord Scrope delved deep into the chest, took out a velvet bag, undid the cord and shook out the assassin’s dagger. He held it up, the curved steel blade with its wicked point, the bronze handle carved to give a firm grip, the red ribbon of the assassins, the personal emblem of the Old Man of the Mountains, faded and worn, still tied around it. The precious dagger looted from the King’s treasury in the crypt of Westminster Abbey! Scrope had read the writ dispatched under close seal by the Chancery office, detailing the items stolen as well as a list of those involved. He’d openly alerted his own henchmen, including Master Claypole the mayor, to keep a watching eye on strangers who entered Mistleham to barter or sell precious goods. Claypole, a goldsmith, had donewell in the secret negotiations over such precious items. One of Puddlicott’s lieutenants had appeared and boldly approached the good mayor with this dagger and the offer of other valuable items: the robber, John Le Riche, had been seized and easily silenced. The dagger, of course, could not be concealed. Scrope and Claypole had searched for the rest of the treasure but – Scrope ground his teeth – had not found it. Another example of malicious meddling by the Free Brethren! He’d duly informed the King about the dagger. Edward had been so grateful; he should remember that! As for Le Riche, a leading member of Puddlicott’s gang, Scrope had decided the dead did not gossip. He’d summarily tried the thief and hanged him on the gibbet at the crossroads leading into Mistleham.

Scrope put the items back, securing the locks of both coffer and chest. He felt better. He walked to the great heavy oaken door, pulled back the grille and peered out. The grey light was now brightening. It was time he returned. He undid the lock, drew back the bolts at top and bottom, opened the door and stood at the top of the steps, bracing himself against the piercing breeze. He stared down at the small jetty where his boat was moored, the approaches to it lit by fires still burning merrily in their great pitch casks. The fresh snow that now carpeted everything had not extinguished them. He stared across the lake, searching for Romulus and Remus. He peered at the cluster of great oaks; the fire built to warm the dogs had burnt low. He glimpsed the dark shapes lying against the whiteness. Something was wrong! His heart skipped a beat; he whistled, but there was no sound, nothing but the cries of rooks and crows. He glanced across the lake: those two poles on the far bank should not bethere. Forgetting even to close the door behind him, Scrope hastened down the steps; his slippered feet made this precarious, so he kicked them off, hastening along the jetty and almost threw himself into the boat. Cursing loudly, he pushed away, powerful arms pulling at the oars as he glanced fearfully over his shoulder.

Scrope reached the small mooring place, clambered out and stared in horror at the severed heads of his mastiffs, their snarling faces now frozen masks, necks still bright with blood, one impaled on each side of the jetty, nothing more than hunks of meat. Despite the snow freezing his feet, Scrope was only aware of the fear that sent his heart racing, his stomach churning. He clambered up the hill towards the fire where the dogs should have sheltered: their cadavers now lay next to it, the snow around drenched dark with blood. Scrope crouched down and stared at the long shafts that pierced their carcasses, two in each, death-dealing blows. He clambered to his feet and staggered back, and it was then that he heard it, cutting through the chilling air: the braying sound of a hunting horn.