By Murder's bright Light

on! I will not discuss it. Some more wine?’
    Bernicia rose, took the sailor’s wine cup and went across to the small table to fill it. Bernicia was smiling, but turned in alarm at the sound of a footfall. The sailor was striding across the room, his dagger drawn. Bernicia screamed and ran to the door. The sailor caught the whore by the hair — and cursed as the wig came off. Bernicia reached the latch, sobbing and moaning; the whore tried to raise it, but her head was yanked back and the knife gouged her soft throat from ear to ear.

    Athelstan, refreshed after a good night’s sleep, had a larger than usual congregation at morning Mass. Ashby, who had been fast asleep on Athelstan’s return the night before, again helped Crim to serve. Shaved and washed, he looked more presentable. He had kept himself busy the previous day, helping the parishioners move the great cart into one of the transepts and, from the sanctuary steps, issuing directions about the erection of the great canvas backdrop.
    Athelstan smiled to himself as he pronounced the final words of the Mass, Ite, Missa est — Go, you are dismissed. He bowed, kissed the altar and quickly looked around at the group huddled inside the rood screen. Aveline was there, her face half-hidden behind a veil. She sat on a stool in the comer of the sanctuary, her eyes never leaving her beloved. Watkin the dung-collector crouched, glaring at Pike the ditcher. Athelstan groaned — their animosity had spread to their respective spouses, who also sat glaring narroweyed at each other. Huddle the painter leaned back on his heels, dreamily staring up at his ceiling. Mugwort, the demented hunch-backed bell clerk, fidgeted furiously, impatient to run down the nave and ring the bell as a sign Mass was over. Ursula the pig-woman was also there, her great pet sow sprawled out beside her. Athelstan tightened his lips — the animal had snored vigorously during his short sermon. Next to Ursula was Pernell the Fleming; she had tried to dye her hair and now it hung like black and orange flax, looking all the more hideous against the white paint on her face.
    Athelstan hid his disappointment. He had been distracted during Mass by the thought that Benedicta might come. He missed the widow with her smooth, olive skin, lovely eyes and jet-black hair. He often told her what he and Cranston were involved in, seeking her advice. Benedicta had a shrewd mind, acerbic wit and a sardonic sense of humour which proved to be an asset in placating the different factions amongst the parish council.
    Athelstan sighed and swept into the sacristy. Crim helped him to divest whilst the parishioners sped like arrows across to the great cart and carried on with their usual debate about who should be doing what, when, where and how. Athelstan returned to help Crim clear the altar, of book, bell and cruets, noticing how the Lady Aveline and Master Ashby were deep in conversation. He offered them breakfast but they politely refused, Ashby pointing to the pannier of provisions Lady Aveline had brought with her. Athelstan saw his parishioners were locked in verbal battle so he slipped out of the church and walked across to check on Philomel. Then he went into the priest’s house.
    He stared around in astonishment. The kitchen had been swept, fresh rushes laid and the fire built up. A bowl of steaming oat porridge, a horn spoon beside it, together with a trancher of bread, butter and cheese and a mug of ale, stood on the table. Athelstan heard a sound from the buttery and grinned as Benedicta came out.
    ‘Lady, I thought you hadn’t returned.’
    Athelstan grasped the widow’s warm hands and kissed her gently on the cheek. Benedicta blushed and stepped back, though her eyes danced with merriment.
    ‘I thought I’d surprise you, Father. Well, do you like it?’ She gestured around the kitchen, her face mock-serious. ‘The fire was ash, the rushes hadn’t been changed, the table hadn’t been washed and I don’t think you have bean eating properly.’
    ‘I’ve been with Jack Cranston,’ Athelstan muttered.
    However, before he could describe what had happened, Benedicta gently ushered him across the kitchen, telling him to eat before the sweetened oatmeal lost its warmth. Athelstan did, trying to hide his real pleasure at seeing his friend again. Bonaventure, who had been out hunting and courting the previous evening, slid through the open window to mew plaintively for his pitcher of milk. He lapped