on his way.
The church felt hot, but a moment later it was freezing. A fine sweat broke out upon his back, then chilled him to the core as all warmth fled. The candlelight flickered while the choir’s voices rose in song, praising God. Peter settled upon the
misericorde
and attempted to focus his attention on God.
He survived the first half hour, but then the changes in temperature began to accelerate, and he suddenly felt much worse. The choir appeared to move about him. Perspiration dewed his forehead and then he felt the surging rush in his belly and bowels. There was a final, terrible, clutching agony in his belly, squeezing again and again, while he closed his eyes trying to hold back his screams. The room began to spin faster; the fumes of the censer filled his lungs and made him retch.
No! He mustn’t be sick, not here in church. It would be obscene, an insult to God. Swallowing, he tried to keep the urge to vomit at bay, but then a spasm made him spew up a thin dribble. He felt it drip down his chin and he desperately tried again to swallow, but then the sharp pain ripped at his stomach. He bent over, vomit projecting from his mouth. While his fellow-clerics stared in shock, he fell to his knees, sobbing, coughing up bile which was bright with his blood.
He managed to croak out a single cry, a heartfelt plea to Holy Mother Mary for Her forgiveness, before collapsing in his stall, his body convulsing for a minute or two after the poison had stopped his heart.
Chapter Seven
The urgent summons reached Simon and Baldwin before they had risen from their beds. Baldwin’s eyes snapped open at the first sharp rap, and he listened as the landlord of Talbot’s Inn shuffled along the screens passage to the door. It sounded, from his grumbling, as if mine host didn’t like to be pulled so early from his bed.
A second loud knock echoed through the almost empty building to be answered with the host’s testy, ‘I’m on my way, you bastard, cool your bollocks! What’s the hurry?’ Confident it could be nothing to do with him, Baldwin swung around gently, so as not to wake his wife, and sat on the edge of his bed stretching. He was here as a guest of the Cathedral, not in any official capacity. It was probably an early customer wanting his morning whet.
Rising and pulling on a shirt to cover his nakedness and combat the cold. Baldwin went to the window. The shutter was held up by a thong looped over a nail, and overnight the string had become stiff and frozen. He had to struggle to unhook it and push the warped shutter down in its runners. Once it had fallen away, Baldwin found himself gazing upon a dark and grey view. Although it was not raining, the gloomy black clouds overhead were threatening. Baldwin snuffed the air. It was too early for most citizens to have lighted their fires, and he could taste a metallic tang in the air. It was too cold to rain; if anything, there would be snow and lots of it. The prospect made him give a fleeting frown at the thought of his manor so many miles away, but then he shrugged. There was nothing he could do from here and in any case, his staff knew their jobs well enough. The cattleman would have his beasts in the byre, the shepherd would be out in his hut, his fire lit. All the hay was stored, all the grain in the chests ready to be ground as it was needed. All the same, he would prefer to be there if the weather was going to deteriorate.
As the thought passed through his mind, he heard the door open and the angry voice of the host was cut off by the curt tones of another. Baldwin listened carefully. He could hear Edgar walking across the floor towards the door, and knew that his servant would have grabbed his sword and gone to listen, as always thinking of his master’s protection before anything else.
Christmas Eve, Baldwin thought to himself sourly. Thursday twenty-fourth December, and here he was, miles from home, not knowing what was happening at his manor and now
The church felt hot, but a moment later it was freezing. A fine sweat broke out upon his back, then chilled him to the core as all warmth fled. The candlelight flickered while the choir’s voices rose in song, praising God. Peter settled upon the
misericorde
and attempted to focus his attention on God.
He survived the first half hour, but then the changes in temperature began to accelerate, and he suddenly felt much worse. The choir appeared to move about him. Perspiration dewed his forehead and then he felt the surging rush in his belly and bowels. There was a final, terrible, clutching agony in his belly, squeezing again and again, while he closed his eyes trying to hold back his screams. The room began to spin faster; the fumes of the censer filled his lungs and made him retch.
No! He mustn’t be sick, not here in church. It would be obscene, an insult to God. Swallowing, he tried to keep the urge to vomit at bay, but then a spasm made him spew up a thin dribble. He felt it drip down his chin and he desperately tried again to swallow, but then the sharp pain ripped at his stomach. He bent over, vomit projecting from his mouth. While his fellow-clerics stared in shock, he fell to his knees, sobbing, coughing up bile which was bright with his blood.
He managed to croak out a single cry, a heartfelt plea to Holy Mother Mary for Her forgiveness, before collapsing in his stall, his body convulsing for a minute or two after the poison had stopped his heart.
Chapter Seven
The urgent summons reached Simon and Baldwin before they had risen from their beds. Baldwin’s eyes snapped open at the first sharp rap, and he listened as the landlord of Talbot’s Inn shuffled along the screens passage to the door. It sounded, from his grumbling, as if mine host didn’t like to be pulled so early from his bed.
A second loud knock echoed through the almost empty building to be answered with the host’s testy, ‘I’m on my way, you bastard, cool your bollocks! What’s the hurry?’ Confident it could be nothing to do with him, Baldwin swung around gently, so as not to wake his wife, and sat on the edge of his bed stretching. He was here as a guest of the Cathedral, not in any official capacity. It was probably an early customer wanting his morning whet.
Rising and pulling on a shirt to cover his nakedness and combat the cold. Baldwin went to the window. The shutter was held up by a thong looped over a nail, and overnight the string had become stiff and frozen. He had to struggle to unhook it and push the warped shutter down in its runners. Once it had fallen away, Baldwin found himself gazing upon a dark and grey view. Although it was not raining, the gloomy black clouds overhead were threatening. Baldwin snuffed the air. It was too early for most citizens to have lighted their fires, and he could taste a metallic tang in the air. It was too cold to rain; if anything, there would be snow and lots of it. The prospect made him give a fleeting frown at the thought of his manor so many miles away, but then he shrugged. There was nothing he could do from here and in any case, his staff knew their jobs well enough. The cattleman would have his beasts in the byre, the shepherd would be out in his hut, his fire lit. All the hay was stored, all the grain in the chests ready to be ground as it was needed. All the same, he would prefer to be there if the weather was going to deteriorate.
As the thought passed through his mind, he heard the door open and the angry voice of the host was cut off by the curt tones of another. Baldwin listened carefully. He could hear Edgar walking across the floor towards the door, and knew that his servant would have grabbed his sword and gone to listen, as always thinking of his master’s protection before anything else.
Christmas Eve, Baldwin thought to himself sourly. Thursday twenty-fourth December, and here he was, miles from home, not knowing what was happening at his manor and now
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