the warm cloak they have given him. He pulls it up over his mouth and nose, trying to breathe through the wool, for the air is as cold and damp as if he was leaning over a deep well. Mighel, the boy with the amulet, is coughing and wheezing. He scratches frantically at the raw red patches on his arms. Father John frowns at him. He desists until he thinks Father John isn’t looking, then surreptitiously rubs his arm against the wall, like a pig with an itch.
There is a sound at the great door behind them. Some of the boys crane their necks, but Father John clicks his fingers and they spin their heads back to face the altar as he motions to them to kneel on the hard stone flags.
The great door opens, but though Regulus turns, he can see no one, for a broad panel of wood at the end of the aisle shields the doorway, and it is as well it does for the candles on the altar gutter wildly as if the flames are trying to tear themselves loose and fly up into the air.
Ten white-robed men emerge from behind the panel and process up the centre of the church two by two, their hoods pulled low over their faces. They are singing a psalm in Latin, though to Regulus, who has seldom been inside a church, it means less than the twittering of birds. He is unnerved by these faceless men. He had not realised there were so many men like Father John in this place. They have multiplied like maggots on a dead rabbit.
But by the time the incomprehensible service finally crawls to the end, Regulus has had to be shaken awake twice by Felix. The child is so sleepy, he can barely put one foot in front of the other. Felix propels him back to the chamber in which they ate, and pulls a straw pallet from the stack for him. He lays it neatly beside the row of others and tosses a blanket from the pile on top.
‘I’m only doing this once, mind,’ Felix warns. ‘Tomorrow you fetch your own bed, else you’ll sleep on the hard stones.’
Regulus isn’t listening. He is desperate to lie down. Felix drags him over to the corner. ‘That’s the pot you piss in. That’s the one you shit in. Don’t forget. We’ll all get punished if you get it wrong.’
Even half asleep, Regulus knows he has heard this warning before and panic wells in him again. What will the punishment be if he makes a mistake? Is it as bad a crime as poaching deer? He once saw a boy sewn into the hide of the deer he’d killed and sent running through the forest to be hunted down by the pack of hounds. He can still remember the baying of the excited dogs and the screams of the boy as their snapping jaws brought him crashing to the ground. Regulus shudders.
Father John glides silently in, and when all the boys are lying on their pallets, he blows out the candle. They hear the door close behind him. Regulus, exhausted, falls asleep as quickly as a new-born puppy, but not so the other children. They lie tense, waiting.
The bell tolls, echoing through the silent passages, like a stone dropped down a great well shaft. Huddled beneath the thin blankets, the boys silently count –
eight, nine, ten
. Still they lie awake. It is not safe to sleep yet.
As the air trembles with the last chime, the door swings open. Half roused by the bell, the sudden gust of chill air on his cheek makes Regulus open his eyes. A monstrous white bird hovers in the doorway. The boy tries to scream, but no sound escapes him. He pulls the blanket over his head, holding his breath, but the dust and fear make him choke and he stifles a cough. Has it heard him? Is it the lantern-man come to carry him off?
He hears a faint scraping, like a bird’s claws, across the stone flags. The scaly feet are pattering nearer and nearer. He can hear them. Almost rigid with terror he presses himself down into the straw of his pallet, but that makes the straw rustle. There is a tiny shriek, like the cry of a mouse when the silent owl pounces, but Regulus is not the boy who cries out.
He pulls the blanket down just enough to peep
There is a sound at the great door behind them. Some of the boys crane their necks, but Father John clicks his fingers and they spin their heads back to face the altar as he motions to them to kneel on the hard stone flags.
The great door opens, but though Regulus turns, he can see no one, for a broad panel of wood at the end of the aisle shields the doorway, and it is as well it does for the candles on the altar gutter wildly as if the flames are trying to tear themselves loose and fly up into the air.
Ten white-robed men emerge from behind the panel and process up the centre of the church two by two, their hoods pulled low over their faces. They are singing a psalm in Latin, though to Regulus, who has seldom been inside a church, it means less than the twittering of birds. He is unnerved by these faceless men. He had not realised there were so many men like Father John in this place. They have multiplied like maggots on a dead rabbit.
But by the time the incomprehensible service finally crawls to the end, Regulus has had to be shaken awake twice by Felix. The child is so sleepy, he can barely put one foot in front of the other. Felix propels him back to the chamber in which they ate, and pulls a straw pallet from the stack for him. He lays it neatly beside the row of others and tosses a blanket from the pile on top.
‘I’m only doing this once, mind,’ Felix warns. ‘Tomorrow you fetch your own bed, else you’ll sleep on the hard stones.’
Regulus isn’t listening. He is desperate to lie down. Felix drags him over to the corner. ‘That’s the pot you piss in. That’s the one you shit in. Don’t forget. We’ll all get punished if you get it wrong.’
Even half asleep, Regulus knows he has heard this warning before and panic wells in him again. What will the punishment be if he makes a mistake? Is it as bad a crime as poaching deer? He once saw a boy sewn into the hide of the deer he’d killed and sent running through the forest to be hunted down by the pack of hounds. He can still remember the baying of the excited dogs and the screams of the boy as their snapping jaws brought him crashing to the ground. Regulus shudders.
Father John glides silently in, and when all the boys are lying on their pallets, he blows out the candle. They hear the door close behind him. Regulus, exhausted, falls asleep as quickly as a new-born puppy, but not so the other children. They lie tense, waiting.
The bell tolls, echoing through the silent passages, like a stone dropped down a great well shaft. Huddled beneath the thin blankets, the boys silently count –
eight, nine, ten
. Still they lie awake. It is not safe to sleep yet.
As the air trembles with the last chime, the door swings open. Half roused by the bell, the sudden gust of chill air on his cheek makes Regulus open his eyes. A monstrous white bird hovers in the doorway. The boy tries to scream, but no sound escapes him. He pulls the blanket over his head, holding his breath, but the dust and fear make him choke and he stifles a cough. Has it heard him? Is it the lantern-man come to carry him off?
He hears a faint scraping, like a bird’s claws, across the stone flags. The scaly feet are pattering nearer and nearer. He can hear them. Almost rigid with terror he presses himself down into the straw of his pallet, but that makes the straw rustle. There is a tiny shriek, like the cry of a mouse when the silent owl pounces, but Regulus is not the boy who cries out.
He pulls the blanket down just enough to peep
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