Bloodstone

really here to seize it back? But that would be futile, surely? The bloodstone was securely held by Kilverby, who brought it to the abbey every Easter as well as on the feast of St Damasus. In fact, Kilverby, or his emissary, was due to arrive here tomorrow. He should bring the bloodstone for the Wyvern Company to view, as it had been agreed by solemn indenture, but Kilverby, although he still visited the abbey, now kept his distance from them. Wenlock claimed that was due to Richer’s influence. And yet, Hanep stamped his feet, Richer had proved very compassionate to old Chalk on his death bed. Had that old rogue confessed all his sins? Did Richer know the full truth? Mahant was certainly worried about that. Hanep stared up at the sky. Snow clouds were gathering. He heard a sound and whirled round.

‘Who’s there?’ Hanep peered anxiously through the murk, fingers stroking the steel coiled hilt of his long, stabbing dagger. He must move on. The sacristan would soon appear with his retinue of acolytes, candles burning, lanterns swaying, keys jangling. Hanep hurried on. He reached the cemetery lychgate, lifted the latch and slipped through the musty entrance into sprawling God’s Acre with its jumbled mounds, tumbled crosses and decaying tombstones. Here the silence was broken by the scurriers of the night. The hush-winged owl, rats scraping from beneath the stone-canopied tombs, as well as foxes foraging for any scraps amongst the thin layers of dirt which covered the dead. Hanep gazed around. Was this the thronging place of the ghostly dead, the stalking ground of the Custos Mortuorum, the Guardian of the Dead, the soul of the last person buried here? Hanep smiled grimly; that would be his boon companion, William Chalk. William, however, had been buried deep. He and Hanep had shared many a girl and a wassail-cup, and sung all the glee songs they knew, but that was in the past. Hanep put the lantern down and followed the pebbled path snaking around the crumbling monuments of the dead. He staggered and slipped over the occasional briar and trailing bramble. The breeze seemed to be stronger here, colder with a knife-edge cut. He pulled at his hood and tucked up the muffler of his cloak. He strained both eyes and ears. He had not forgotten that earlier sound, an alien one in the deserted silence of this place. Hanep, both sword and dagger now drawn, walked on. He passed the soaring cemetery cross with its stone figure of Christ in agony and continued on to Chalk’s grave, a freshly dug mound now glistening with hoar frost. The cross had slipped sideways. Hanep knelt, swiftly blessed himself, put down his weapons and made to straighten the cross. He heard a sound and whirled round, one hand going for the hilt of his sword — too late, too stupid! The hooded figure, black against the poor light, was already swinging back his great sword, a flash of shimmering light as it sliced deep into the side of Hanep’s neck. .

ONE

‘Mummer: an actor wearing a mask!’

‘For my sins, truly I know them,’ Athelstan breathed as he plunged the rough rag back in to the bucket and splashed the herb-drenched water on to the last grey flagstone which lay before the door to his priest house.

‘My sin is always before me,’ Athelstan continued, ‘against you and you alone have I sinned. .’ Once he’d finished washing the flagstone, Athelstan, Dominican friar and parish priest of St Erconwald’s in Southwark, proudly gazed round on what he’d achieved on this the Feast of St Damasus twenty days before the great celebration of the Nativity. He’d cleaned the house thoroughly. He had scrubbed and polished every nook and cranny. The small bed loft was all clean and sweet-smelling, its linen sheets, bolsters and blankets had been changed, and not a pewter dish or copper pot had been missed by him. After that Athelstan had turned his attention to what he mockingly called his solar, the great flagstone kitchen with its whitewashed walls and rough-stone hearth. Everything had been cleaned, from the tongs and pokers in the hearth to the large oaken table which served as both his supper bench and chancery desk.

‘What do you think, Bonaventure?’ Still kneeling Athelstan joined his hands in mock prayer and gazed fondly at the great, one-eyed tom cat sprawling before the crackling hearth like the Grand Cham of Tartary on his gold- encrusted divan. The cat, the prowling scourge of the needle-thin alleyways round St Erconwald’s, deigned to lift his head; he gazed sleepily at his strange master then flopped back as if the effort had proved all too much for him.

‘I know what you are waiting for, my friend.’ Athelstan scrambled to his feet. He emptied the pail of water, wrung out the cloth and walked back into the kitchen. He crouched before the hearth next to Bonaventure and stared hungrily at the blackened copper pot hanging by its chain above the darting flames. He closed his eyes and smelt the warm savouriness of the bubbling oatmeal, hot and sweet with the precious honey Athelstan had stirred in.

‘We’ll eat well, Bonaventure.’ Athelstan stroked the cat’s silky fur. ‘But not yet — God waits.’

Athelstan stripped, shaved, washed then dressed quickly in woollen leggings, drawers and the hair shirt he always wore beneath the black and white robes of a Dominican friar. He buckled the straps of his stout sandals. Going over to a corner he took out the polished dish, a gift from a parishioner, which also served as his mirror. Athelstan stared hard at the face which gazed back at him: the close-cropped black hair, the rather long, serious face with its furrowed cheeks, the wrinkles round both mouth and eyes. Did the face portray the soul, he wondered, or was it just the eyes? In which case Athelstan reflected ruefully, God help him, his eyes were dark and deep set. He practised that hard stare he often used on some of his parishioners.

‘Lord forgive me,’ he prayed, ‘I have to; otherwise they’d lead me an even merrier jig.’

The thought of his parishioners made Athelstan hurry around. He doused the few candles, banked the fire, gazed proudly around his ‘new swept kingdom’ and, grasping his psalter, left the priest house. He secured the door and began what he called his daily pilgrimage. He walked carefully; a hard frost shimmered on the path leading up to the dark mass of St Erconwald’s. All lay quiet. He crossed to the stables, pushed open the half-door and smiled at Philomel, his mount, sprawling on the thick bed of hay Pike the ditcher had so carefully turned the night before. The old war horse lifted his head, neighed and snatched at the fodder net. Athelstan sketched a blessing in the ancient destrier’s direction and continued on. He stopped by the newly refurbished gate to the cemetery, opened it and stepped into God’s Acre. He quietly thanked the Lord for winter because in summer this was a favourite trysting place for his parishioners and others so much so, as Athelstan had wryly remarked to Sir John Cranston, on a midsummer’s day more of the living lay there than the dead. Now it was murky, forbidding and frostbitten. Only a meagre light gleamed from the ancient death house where the keeper of the cemetery, the beggar Godbless, lived with his constant companion, Thaddeus the goat. Athelstan murmured a prayer of thanks for both of them. Young lovers lying down in the long grass of summer were not so troublesome as the warlocks, sorcerers and witches who plagued the cemeteries of London with their midnight rites to summon up the dark lords of the air. The ever- curious, garrulous Godbless, with his equally curious goat, would put any practitioner of such forbidden ceremonies to flight. Godbless, called so because of his constant use of that benediction, would talk them to death whilst the omnivorous Thaddeus would chew any grimoire of spells to shreds.

‘Benedicite,’ Athelstan called out, ‘Pax et bonum.’

‘God bless you too, Father,’ came the swift reply.

Athelstan passed on up to the church. He fumbled with the key ring, opened the battered corpse door and stepped inside. He wrinkled his nose: despite his best efforts to scrub the floor, the mildewed air of the old church caught his nose and mouth. Athelstan peered through the gloom; the charcoal braziers still glowed like welcome beacons fending off the cold mustiness. Athelstan took out a tinder from the pouch on his cord. He lit the candles paid for by the Brotherhood of Rood Light, a wealthy group of local merchants who used St Erconwald’s as their guild chapel. In return they generously supplied the church with tallow and beeswax tapers. Athelstan lit those in front of the Lady chapel as well as the candles before the statue of St Erconwald. He gazed up at the severe face of the Saxon bishop of London who’d founded the first church here. Huddle the painter had elegantly regilded the statue, delicately picking out the scarlets and whites of the bishop’s vestments. Athelstan, ignoring the scurry of mice in the far corner, lit some of the sconce torches. The friar noticed the tendrils of mist seeping under the corpse door as if they were pursuing him and shivered.

‘God bring us spring soon,’ he murmured, ‘for swarms of bees and beetles bringing in the soft music of the world, for heavy bowls of hazelnuts, sweet apples, plums and whortleberries.’ Athelstan turned to go up into the