The House of Shadows

her person the possible solution to their own mother’s disappearance? Athelstan recalled Edith’s tear-streaked face, and felt a pang of compassion and guilt. He must go and visit the poor woman. He had tried to talk to Malachi the previous night but the Benedictine was tired and, as he confessed, had drunk one pot of ale too many, so he had retired early. Athelstan had secured the church, made sure God-Bless had eaten and was warm enough in the death house before retiring himself. He had spent an uneasy night, a sleep plagued by dreams. For some strange reason he dreamed that he was celebrating Mass, and when he turned to lift the Host, a pack of weasels was kneeling before him. He didn’t like such dreams or thoughts.

Athelstan started at the knock on the door. Benedicta came in, her head and shoulders hidden by a thick woollen shawl, beautiful eyes glistening in the cold.

‘Brother, we are ready,’ she exclaimed.

‘Oh, God!’ Athelstan replied, quoting from the psalm, ‘“Come quickly to my aid, make haste to help me.” You are well, Benedicta? I saw you at Malachi’s Mass.’

‘I decided to go to the chantry chapel. I had to get away from Pernel and those gloves she’s bought.’

Athelstan put on his cloak. ‘The troubles of the day are only just beginning.’

He left the house, looked in on Philomel, and followed Benedicta round, up the steps and into the church, closing the door behind him. The parish council was ready in all its glory. Watkin had brought down the sanctuary chair, as well as a smaller one for himself, so that as leader of the council he could sit on Athelstan’s right. The rest perched on benches or stools. From their angry faces and stony silence it was obvious battle was about to begin. Watkin the dung collector was glowering at the floor, his fat, unshaven face mottled with fury. Pike the ditcher looked rather smug. Beside him, sharp-tongued Imelda leaned forward like a cat ready to pounce, eyes glaring at Cecily the courtesan, who looked fresh as a buttercup, her golden hair like a nimbus around her pretty face. She sat all coy and demure in a new dark blue smock with a white petticoat beneath. She had hoisted both up to give Pike a generous view of her delicate ankles. Ursula’s sow was stretched in the middle of it all, fat flanks quivering, fast asleep. Ranulf cradled his ferret box whilst Pernel, her hair freshly dyed, kept admiring the dark red gloves she’d bought, daggered and slashed: their backs, studded with pieces of glass, had little bells fastened to them. She kept shaking these and the tinkling was a further source of vexation to the parishioners. Only Moleskin was missing; Athelstan recalled his meeting with the boatman the previous afternoon.

‘Well, Father, are we to begin?’ Watkin rose.

‘Yes, we are. First bring down the hour candle.’

‘Oh no!’ Basil the blacksmith moaned. ‘Father, you’re not angry with us?’

‘No, I’m not,’ Athelstan replied, ‘but I can see you are angry with each other. The clouds are gathering, the anger will come, the lightning will flash!’

Watkin brought the hour candle and placed it next to Ursula’s sow, whilst Crim the altar boy scampered off to bring a taper from the Lady Chapel.

‘I’ve lit the candle,’ Athelstan said, taking his seat. ‘This meeting will certainly end when the flame reaches the next red circle.’

He nodded at Mugwort the bell clerk, who was sitting on his stool, his crude writing tray on his lap.

‘Only take down the important decisions; afterwards, put that ledger back in the sacristy. Right, the preparations for Advent. Watkin, you will have to take your cart and go out to the wasteland to collect as much greenery as possible…’

‘You haven’t said a prayer.’ Pernel lifted one gloved hand and shook it vigorously.

‘No, we haven’t,’ Athelstan confessed, ‘and I think we need one.’ He closed his eyes and, in a powerful, carrying voice, sang the first three verses of the Veni Creator Spiritus. The parish council sat transfixed. Brother Athelstan had a rich, vibrant voice, and when he sang with his eyes closed, they recognised that he was not in the best of humours. He had taught them the translation of these words and he always emphasised the same verses: ‘Oh come you Father of the poor, Oh come with riches which endure.’

‘You know what I’m talking about.’ Athelstan opened his eyes. ‘We’ve asked God to warm our hearts of snow and make us bend our stiff necks. Now, Watkin, the greenery…’

The parish council went through each item, but as soon as they reached the Christmas play, the Holy Spirit was forgotten as the intense bitter rivalry resurfaced. Athelstan shouted for silence but, as he quietly whispered to Benedicta, he was ‘a voice crying in the wilderness’. Nevertheless, he was given a sharp schooling in the language of the alleyways, as Imelda and the rest hurled abuse at each other. Athelstan decided to weather the storm out, keeping one eye on the greedy candle flame. He soon learned that coylums were testicles, a cokeny was a homosexual, a gong was a prostitute, a Jordan was a chamber pot whilst a mamzer was a bastard. For a while he let his parishioners shout themselves into exhaustion, and when they looked to him for direction, turned immediately to Huddle the painter.

‘What is glair?’ he asked. ‘You mentioned it a week ago when you proposed to paint the great Chain of Being in one of the transepts.’

The parishioners stared in disbelief at their priest. He hadn’t answered their question but simply moved on, and of course, once Huddle was asked about paint, there was no stopping him. He immediately began a lecture on how glair was beaten egg white used for binding paint but that it must be mixed with red arsenic to prevent a foul odour and corruption. Athelstan let him talk, and as soon as the red ring on the candle disappeared, he shot to