By Murder's Bright Light by Paul Doherty Page B

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!’

CHAPTER 6
    Athelstan knocked on the door of Cranston’s house. He was immediately greeted by a raucous noise – the poppets screaming and Cranston’s two great wolfhounds, Grog and Magog, barking furiously. The door opened and Cranston’s petite, pretty wife Maude came out, patches of flour on her cheeks and the sleeves of her dress. In each arm she held her beloved poppets Francis and Stephen, their little heads now covered in downy hair, their round, fat faces red and cheery. Behind her Boscombe the steward prevented the two great dogs from lunging at Athelstan and licking him to death.
    ‘Brother Athelstan,’ Lady Maude exclaimed, her face smiling in pleasure.
    The two poppets strained towards him, clapping their fat hands and gurgling with glee.
    ‘Come in, Brother.’ Lady Maude stepped back.
    Athelstan shook his head. ‘Sir John’s not at home?’
    ‘He could be in the Holy Lamb of God,’ Lady Maude replied sharply.
    ‘Dadda.’ One of the poppets strained forward, a fat, dirty finger pointing at Athelstan. ‘Dadda.’
    Athelstan