The House of the Red Slayer

Confession.‘
    ‘I know!’ Fitzormonde hissed. ‘But my soul is steeped in the blackest sin.‘
    Athelstan shook his head and made to rise. ‘I cannot,’ the friar repeated. ‘Whatever you tell me, I can only reveal on the orders of the Holy Father, the Pope in Avignon. Sir Brian, you are most unfair. Why this trickery?’
    Fitzormonde glanced up, his eyes gleaming. ‘No mummery,’ he said. ‘Father, I wish to confess. You must shrive me. I am a sinner inpericuto mortis !’
    Athelstan sighed. Sir Brian was right. Canon Law was most strict on this: a priest was bound to hear the confession of any man who believed he was in danger of death. To refuse would be a terrible sin. ‘I agree,’ Athelstan whispered.
    Sir Brian made the sign of the cross again.
    ‘Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It is many years since my last confession and I confess in the face of God and in the hope of his divine mercy at the imminent approach of death.’
    Athelstan closed his eyes and leaned back. He listened to the litany of sins: impure thoughts and actions, the lusts of the flesh, avarice, bad temper, foul language, as well as the petty bickerings which take place in any community. Sir Brian confessed about his fight against sin, his will to do good and his constant failures to carry this through. Athelstan, a skilled confessor, perceived Sir Brian was a good but deeply troubled man. At last the hospitaller finished and leaned back on his heels though he kept his head bowed.
    ‘I am a sinner, Father,’ he whispered.
    ‘God knows,’ Athelstan replied, ‘we are all sinners, Sir Brian. There are those who know they are sinners, confess and try to pursue the good. You are one of these. There are others like the Pharisees who cannot be forgiven, for they believe they never do wrong!‘ Athelstan leaned closer. ‘Now you wish absolution?’ The friar raised his hand. ‘ Absolvo te ,’ he intoned. ‘I absolve you.’
    ‘Stop!’ Sir Brian lifted his head and Athelstan saw the tears on the white, haggard cheeks.
    ‘Sir Brian, there is more?’ he asked gently.
    ‘Of course there is!’ Fitzormonde hissed. ‘I am a murderer, Father. An assassin. I took my friend’s life. No! No!‘ He shook his head as if talking to himself. ‘I was party to a murder. I turned my face the other way.’
    Athelstan tensed, trying to hide that inner tingle of excitement, the deep curiosity aroused in a priest who, in confession, has the unique opportunity to see a soul bare itself.
    ‘Whose murder?’ he asked softly.
    Sir Brian shook his head, sobbing like a child.
    ‘Sir Brian.’ Athelstan tapped him gently on the shoulder. ‘Sit down, man! Come, sit down!‘
    Sir Brian slumped on the bench. Athelstan looked round the chamber and saw the wine jug and goblets on the chest. He got up, filled one of these and thrust it into Fitzormonde’s hand.
    ‘There’s nothing in Canon Law,’ Athelstan smiled, ‘which says a man cannot have a drink during confession.’ He wiped his sweat-stained hands on his robe. ‘Or,’ he continued, ‘as St Paul says, “Take a little wine for the stomach’s sake.”’
    Sir Brian sipped from the goblet and smiled. ‘Aye, Father,’ he replied. ‘And, as the Romans put it, “In vino veritas ”. In wine there is truth.’
    Athelstan nodded, pushed the stool nearer and sat down. ‘Tell me, Sir Brian, in your own words and at your own time, the truth about this murder.’
    ‘Many years ago,’ Fitzormonde began, ‘I was a wild, young man, a knight with visions of becoming a crusader. My friends were of a similar disposition. We all served in London or hereabouts: Ralph Whitton, Gerard Mowbray, Adam Horne, and...’ The man’s voice trailed off.
    ‘And who?’
    ‘Our leader, Bartholomew Burghgesh, of Woodforde in Essex.’ Fitzormonde took a deep breath. ‘The war in France was finished. Du Guesclin was reorganising the French armies, our old king was doddering and there was no need for English swords in France, so we sailed for Outremer. We offered our swords to the King of Cyprus. We spent two years there, becoming steeped in blood. Eventually, the Cypriot king dispensed with our services and we had nothing to show for it but our clothes, horses, armour, and the wounds of battle. So we became mercenaries in the armies of the Caliph of Egypt.’
    ‘All of you?’ Athelstan asked.
    ‘Yes, yes. We were still a band of brothers. David and Jonathan to each other.’ Fitzormonde smiled to