guilds, fraternities and brotherhoods. The sacristy and sanctuary had been tidied – Benedicta and Crim had seen to that. Nevertheless, Athelstan had walked every inch of his church to ensure all was as it should be; it was not unknown for Watkin and Pike to set up shop in the nave to sell certain goods they’d found ‘lying about’. Athelstan stared across God’s Acre at the old death house now converted into a comfortable dwelling for the beggar Godbless, who had adopted Thaddeus, the omnivorous parish goat. ‘At least you control Thaddeus,’ Athelstan whispered, watching the candlelight dance at the shuttered window. Other animal keepers were not so successful. Ursula the pig woman’s extraordinary fat sow, which accompanied her everywhere, even to Mass, was the bane of Athelstan’s life, or rather that of his small garden. Athelstan felt a spurt of pleasure. The garden was now coming into its own. The friar wondered if Crispin the carpenter had finished the ‘Hermitage’ as Athelstan called it, a comfortable box for the large hedgehog which had taken up residence in Athelstan’s herb plot and been given the name of Hubert the Monk. Athelstan pulled his cloak tighter about him.
‘Are you well, Godbless,’ he called out, ‘on this freezing cold night?’
‘Godbless you too, Father,’ came the reply. ‘Thaddeus and I are as warm and crisp as a Christmas pie. Not even the ghosts who swarm like buzzing bees around us disturb our humours. Cream-faced they are, black-eyed, but they are wary of Thaddeus.’
Athelstan smiled. Godbless was as mad as a box of frogs; he claimed to be related to Oberon, king of the fairies; even so, Athelstan had insisted that he take up residence as Guardian of God’s Acre. Godbless had proved to be a sure defence against the warlocks and wizards who prowled city cemeteries at the dead of night to practise their abominable rites. Athelstan had recently heard of such an incident at the nearby Church of St Mary Overy, where a coven of witches and warlocks had assembled to sacrifice black cockerels to the demon lords of the air. They had fashioned oils and salves from their sacrifices, mixing them with worms, dead men’s teeth, the garments of suicides and many other heinous ingredients, all boiled together over an oak fire in the severed skull of a beheaded felon. Athelstan recalled the Inquisitor Brother Marcel and smiled grimly. If his fellow friar looked hard enough, Southwark would provide him with a glut of heresies and a veritable litany of evil practices. Something about Marcel deeply disturbed him, something not quite right. To calm himself Athelstan went and checked on the old warhorse Philomel sleeping in his stable before moving across into the priest’s house. Athelstan had scrubbed it clean the previous day and he was proud of what he had achieved. The flagstone kitchen floor gleamed, the bed loft was neatly ordered, whilst all the cooking utensils and platters shimmered in the light of the banked hearth fire. He busily lit candles and the lantern on the table, which served both for eating and study. Once satisfied Athelstan stoked up the fire, used the bellows on the braziers then locked and bolted the door for the night. Benedicta had left one of Merryleg’s pies in the small oven built next to the hearth. Athelstan poured a stoup of ale, polished his horn-spoon on a napkin, blessed himself and Bonaventure and began to eat, his every mouthful being watched by Bonaventure, who had lapped his milk in the twinkling of his one good eye.
‘This is excellent!’ Athelstan murmured. ‘I will leave you some juicy venison, Bonaventure. I do wonder how Merrylegs obtained such good meat in the depth of winter.’ He leaned over and stroked the cat’s head. ‘On second thoughts, perhaps it’s best not to ask.’ Athelstan put the platter down near the fire beside Bonaventure. He opened his chancery casket and took out sheets of vellum, a clasped ink horn and fresh quill
‘Are you well, Godbless,’ he called out, ‘on this freezing cold night?’
‘Godbless you too, Father,’ came the reply. ‘Thaddeus and I are as warm and crisp as a Christmas pie. Not even the ghosts who swarm like buzzing bees around us disturb our humours. Cream-faced they are, black-eyed, but they are wary of Thaddeus.’
Athelstan smiled. Godbless was as mad as a box of frogs; he claimed to be related to Oberon, king of the fairies; even so, Athelstan had insisted that he take up residence as Guardian of God’s Acre. Godbless had proved to be a sure defence against the warlocks and wizards who prowled city cemeteries at the dead of night to practise their abominable rites. Athelstan had recently heard of such an incident at the nearby Church of St Mary Overy, where a coven of witches and warlocks had assembled to sacrifice black cockerels to the demon lords of the air. They had fashioned oils and salves from their sacrifices, mixing them with worms, dead men’s teeth, the garments of suicides and many other heinous ingredients, all boiled together over an oak fire in the severed skull of a beheaded felon. Athelstan recalled the Inquisitor Brother Marcel and smiled grimly. If his fellow friar looked hard enough, Southwark would provide him with a glut of heresies and a veritable litany of evil practices. Something about Marcel deeply disturbed him, something not quite right. To calm himself Athelstan went and checked on the old warhorse Philomel sleeping in his stable before moving across into the priest’s house. Athelstan had scrubbed it clean the previous day and he was proud of what he had achieved. The flagstone kitchen floor gleamed, the bed loft was neatly ordered, whilst all the cooking utensils and platters shimmered in the light of the banked hearth fire. He busily lit candles and the lantern on the table, which served both for eating and study. Once satisfied Athelstan stoked up the fire, used the bellows on the braziers then locked and bolted the door for the night. Benedicta had left one of Merryleg’s pies in the small oven built next to the hearth. Athelstan poured a stoup of ale, polished his horn-spoon on a napkin, blessed himself and Bonaventure and began to eat, his every mouthful being watched by Bonaventure, who had lapped his milk in the twinkling of his one good eye.
‘This is excellent!’ Athelstan murmured. ‘I will leave you some juicy venison, Bonaventure. I do wonder how Merrylegs obtained such good meat in the depth of winter.’ He leaned over and stroked the cat’s head. ‘On second thoughts, perhaps it’s best not to ask.’ Athelstan put the platter down near the fire beside Bonaventure. He opened his chancery casket and took out sheets of vellum, a clasped ink horn and fresh quill
Similar Books
