The House of the Red Slayer

skirted the dark mass of Epping Forest and into Woodforde just as the church bell tolled for Nones. The village was an unprepossessing one: a few villagers, hooded and cloaked against the cold, scurried about, shooing scrawny chickens away from the horses. Some boys were bringing battered wooden buckets up from the well and the occasional housewife emptied the slops from the night jars out into the middle of the street. Even the ale-house was still shuttered and locked.
    ‘Like a village of the dead,’ Athelstan murmured.
    ‘Aye, it might as well be, Brother,’ Cranston replied through his muffler. ‘The cold will stop all work in the fields.’
    A young urchin, his face pinched white by the cold, suddenly appeared and walked solemnly alongside them, a dirty canvas bag clutched in one bony hand. Athelstan reined in Philomel.
    ‘What’s the matter, boy?’
    The urchin just stared, round-eyed, at Philomel’s tail.
    ‘Come on, lad, what do you want?’
    ‘Mother told me to follow. Told me to wait for the horse to lift its tail.’
    Cranston chuckled. ‘He is waiting for our horses to shit!‘ he exclaimed. ‘It’s good manure and, if dried, burns well and cheerily.‘
    Athelstan grinned, pulled back his hood, dug into his purse and threw the boy a penny. ‘You can have everything our horses will drop, boy,’ he announced solemnly. ‘And there’s a penny for your trouble. You know the Burghgesh family? They have a manor house here.‘
    ‘Oh, all gone,’ the lad replied, his eyes still fixed on Philomel’s tail. ‘The house lies beyond the village near Buxfield but it is deserted and closed up. Father Peter will tell you that.’ He pointed to where the tiled-roofed church with its grey, ragstone tower peeped above the tree tops.
    ‘Then,’ Athelstan said, kicking Philomel into a trot, ‘that’s where we’ll stop!’
    They rode through the wicket gate of the church, following the pathway which snaked between the trees and overgrown graves to the Norman church which stood on the brow of a small hillock. Beside it was a modest, two-storeyed house, its roof made of yellowing thatch, the windows nothing more than wooden shutters. Athelstan looked back. The young boy still stood behind him, one hand gripping the bag, the other balled into a tight fist, guarding Athelstan’s penny as if it was the key to heaven itself.
    ‘Father Peter’s in?’
    ‘He will be there,’ the boy replied. ‘And, for another penny, I’ll look after your horses.‘
    Athelstan nodded and another coin was tossed in the air.
    ‘That young man will advance far,’ Cranston murmured as they dismounted and knocked on the door. They heard bolts being pulled back, the door swung open and a cleanshaven, cheery-faced Father Peter peered out.
    ‘Travellers in this weather?’ His voice was burred by a thick country accent but, despite the snow-white hair and slight stoop of the shoulders, Father Peter was an active, cheerful man. He hardly waited for their introductions but ushered them into the warm, sweet-smelling room, chattering and asking questions like a magpie. He took their cloaks and told them to sit on a bench which he pushed towards the heat of the fire.
    ‘A coroner and a Dominican come to visit me,’ he announced in mock wonderment, and squatted down beside them on a stool. Father Peter took three earthenware bowls from a small cupboard near the inglenook and served them generous portions of soup from a black bowl which hung perilously from an iron hook above the flames. ‘Bits of fish, some herbs, what’s left of my vegetables.’ The priest screwed up his eyes. ‘Ah, yes, and some onions.’
    Both Athelstan and Cranston gripped the warm bowls and sipped at the rich stew which scalded their mouths and lips but put some warmth into their frozen belhes. Father Peter watched, even as he sipped from his own bowl. Athelstan smiled back and put his bowl down.
    ‘At the moment it’s too hot to eat, Father,’ he murmured apologetically. ‘Even to hold.’
    Cranston, however, had no such difficulty. He slurped as noisily as a ravenous dog, mopping up what was left with hard crusts of bread which Father Peter shoved before him on a wooden platter. At last Cranston burped, smacked his lips and handed the bowl back.
    ‘The best meal in many a day, Father. We thank you for your hospitality.’ The coroner stretched his great hands out towards the flames. ‘We will not keep you long. You know the Burghgesh