The House of Shadows

buttery.
    ‘I’ll send Crim down,’ Athelstan offered. ‘I’ll tell him to wait for you. He’s skilled with a wheelbarrow and you can pile your possessions on that.’
    ‘One final favour, Brother.’ Malachi put his horn spoon down. ‘I told you last night how I had come to St Erconwald’s to pray; I also came to see the ring I had given you, just once more, before it is sealed under the relic stone.’
    ‘Of course!’
    Athelstan went across to the parish chest, unlocked it and took the ring from its small coffer. He handed it to Malachi, who took it over to the window and, still examining it, brought it back to Athelstan.
    ‘I’m glad we brought this ring here. It’s the least we could do for the trouble and inconvenience caused.’
    Athelstan turned the ring over, looking at those strange crosses carved on the inside.
    ‘It’s rather small,’ the Dominican declared. ‘More like a woman’s ring. The good bishop must have worn it on his little finger, as we would a friendship ring.’
    ‘Athelstan,’ Malachi rose, ‘I must go.’
    He collected his cloak and left. The Dominican heard him greet the parishioners already congregating outside for another meeting of the parish council. Athelstan put his face in his hands and groaned; as if he didn’t already face a sea of troubles. Bonaventure came through the half-open shutters, dropping softly to the floor. As usual, he went round the table and then sprawled in front of the fire. When Athelstan didn’t bring his bowl of milk, he lifted his head, staring fiercely with his one good eye.
    ‘ Concedo, concedo ,’ Athelstan said. ‘You remind me of Cranston when he is eager for claret!’
    He gave the great tomcat his drink and sat hunched on the stool by the fire. Last night he and Malachi had chanted both vespers and compline, standing in that shadowy church, their voices ringing out, Exsurge Domine, Exsurge Domine. Athelstan recalled the words of that psalm: ‘Arise O Lord, Arise and Judge my Cause, for a band of wicked men have beset me and wish to take my soul as low as Hell.’ The problem was, Athelstan mused, who were the wicked men? Who had killed the Misericord and launched that vicious attack on a poor unarmed Benedictine monk? What did the Misericord mean by those strange markings on the wall? Or those two dead women, Beatrice and Clarice, by their veiled references to the Misericord’s sister Edith having upon her person the possible solution to their own mother’s disappearance? Athelstan recalled Edith’s tear-streaked face, and felt a pang of compassion and guilt. He must go and visit the poor woman. He had tried to talk to Malachi the previous night but the Benedictine was tired and, as he confessed, had drunk one pot of ale too many, so he had retired early. Athelstan had secured the church, made sure God-Bless had eaten and was warm enough in the death house before retiring himself. He had spent an uneasy night, a sleep plagued by dreams. For some strange reason he dreamed that he was celebrating Mass, and when he turned to lift the Host, a pack of weasels was kneeling before him. He didn’t like such dreams or thoughts.
    Athelstan started at the knock on the door. Benedicta came in, her head and shoulders hidden by a thick woollen shawl, beautiful eyes glistening in the cold.
    ‘Brother, we are ready,’ she exclaimed.
    ‘Oh, God!’ Athelstan replied, quoting from the psalm, ‘“Come quickly to my aid, make haste to help me.“ You are well, Benedicta? I saw you at Malachi’s Mass.’
    ‘I decided to go to the chantry chapel. I had to get away from Pernel and those gloves she’s bought.’
    Athelstan put on his cloak. ‘The troubles of the day are only just beginning.’
    He left the house, looked in on Philomel, and followed Benedicta round, up the steps and into the church, closing the door behind him. The parish council was ready in all its glory. Watkin had brought down the sanctuary chair, as well as a smaller one for himself, so that as leader of the council he could sit on Athelstan’s right. The rest perched on benches or stools. From their angry faces and stony silence it was obvious battle was about to begin. Watkin the dung collector was glowering at the floor, his fat, unshaven face mottled with fury. Pike the ditcher looked rather smug. Beside him, sharp-tongued Imelda leaned forward like a cat ready to pounce, eyes glaring at Cecily the courtesan, who looked fresh as a buttercup, her golden hair like