Prince of Darkness

man murmured his pleasure at something Father Reynard had pointed out, shook the priest's hand and quickly left. Father Reynard closed the leather-bound book and placed it reverently back inside a huge ironbound chest
    'The Blood Book,' he observed, straightening up. 'It says who marries whom in the village. The young man's betrothed is related to him but only in the seventh degree.' He smiled. I am glad I have made someone happy. Now, can I do the same for you?'
    'A powerful sermon, Father. The sisters were uncomfortable.'
    The priest frowned.
    'They need to be reminded,' he replied sharply. 'What will they say when Christ comes and shows his red, wounded body to them? We are Christ's wounds,' he continued, 'the poor and the dispossessed, while the rich luxuriate in their comfortable sties.'
    'Did you think Lady Eleanor was one of these rich?'
    I have told you already.'
    'You were a soldier, Father?'
    The priest sat down on the bench next to him.
    'Aye,' he replied wearily. 'A master bowman, a royal serjeant-at-arms. I have spilt my fair share of blood in Scotland, Wales and Gascony.' He looked up. 'I have pursued the King's enemies by land and sea but now I understand, killing's no answer.'
    'Surely, Father, sometimes it is?'
    The priest rested his elbows on his knees and looked down at the floor.
    'Perhaps,' he murmured. 'If God wills it, perhaps. He told David to kill the Philistines and raised up heroes to defend his people.'
    'Did you think the Lady Eleanor deserved to die?'
    'Perhaps. Her sins pursued her but I was not her judge.'
    'You were near Godstowe when she died. I understand, as a penance, you walk barefoot from your church here to the Galilee Gate, saying your beads and go back chanting the psalms. A strange practice, Father.'
    The priest rubbed his face.
    'My sins,' he murmured, 'are always before me. My lusts, my drinking, my killing. How shall I answer to Christ for that, Clerk?'
    He turned and stared at Corbett and the clerk glimpsed madness dancing in his eyes. A tormented man, Corbett concluded, struggling to break free from his own powerful emotions.
    'You were at Godstowe, Father? When on that Sunday?'
    'The nuns were in Compline.' Father Reynard edged closer and Corbett smelt his wine-drenched breath. 'But I did not go into the priory, if that is what you are asking, Clerk. I would not lay hands on the Lady Eleanor, even though my eyes…' His voice trailed off.
    'Even though your eyes what, Father? You, a priest, found the Lady Eleanor attractive?'
    The priest smiled, stretching out his great body and flexing his fingers.
    'Beautiful,' he murmured. 'Of all God's women…' He shook his head, lost in his own thoughts. 'One of the most comely I have seen.'
    Corbett watched those hands. Powerful, calloused, sunburnt, they could have twisted the white swan neck of Lady Eleanor as easily as a twig. The friar took a deep breath.
    'Do you know, Corbett, if you had insinuated what you are doing now before I became a friar, I would have killed you. I went as far as the Galilee Gate, I turned and came back to my church. I stayed in my house until Lady Arrogance, the Prioress, sent for me. I went to Godstowe, said a prayer for that poor woman's soul, gave her Christ's unction and left But come, you can ask your other questions elsewhere. I have business in church.'
    Corbett followed him out of the house. The friar's threats didn't unnerve him. Father Reynard was a man striving for sanctity, though he sensed the priest was hiding something, as if he wanted him out of the house before Corbett noticed anything amiss.
    The church was a hive of activity; some villagers had wheeled a huge cart into the nave. This was surmounted by a gilded griffin and bore a crudely painted canvas of hell's mouth. The other two sides were draped with coloured buckram to provide a makeshift stage for a miracle play. The villagers working there greeted Father Reynard warmly and Corbett recognised that they admired, even loved, their priest The clerk stared around the simple church which was freshly decorated. An artist was finishing a vigorous painting of the Angel in the Apocalypse coming from the rising sun. Some of the pews were new and both the chancery screen and the choir loft had been refurbished. Corbett waited until Father Reynard had finished his business with the villagers.
    'You admire our church, Clerk?' he asked proudly.
    'Yes, a great deal of work has been done. You must have a generous benefactor.' The priest