The Nightingale Gallery

Nothing was resolved and Athelstan felt he had failed to take a decisive role. The meeting ended with all his parishioners glaring up at him accusingly. He apologised, said he felt tired, and promised they would meet again when some decisions could be made. They all trooped out, mumbling and muttering, except Benedicta. She remained sitting on the end of one bench, her cloak wrapped about her.
    Athelstan went to close the door behind his parishioners. When he returned he thought Benedicta was crying, her shoulders were shaking so. But when she looked up, he realised she was laughing, the tears streaming down her face.
    'You find our parish meetings amusing, Benedicta?'
    'Yes.' He noticed how low and cultured her voice was. 'Yes, Father, I do. I mean – ' She spread her hands and giggled again.
    Athelstan just glared at her but still she could not control her mirth. Her shoulders shook with laughter, her alabaster cheeks flushed with warmth. Athelstan could not prevent his smile.
    'I mean,' she said, 'Cecily the courtesan's ambition to act the role of the Virgin Mary! And the face of Watkin's wife!' She laughed so infectiously that Athelstan joined in and, for the first time since he had arrived at St Erconwald's, the nave of his church rang with laughter. At last Benedicta composed herself.
    'Not seemly,' she observed, her eyes dancing with merriment, 'for a widow and her parish priest to be laughing so loudly in church at the expense of his parishioners! But I must say, never in my short life have I witnessed anything so funny. You must regard us as a cross to bear.'
    'No,' Athelstan replied and sat down beside her. 'No cross.'
    'Then what is it, Father? Why are you so sad?'
    Athelstan stared across at the blue, red and gold painting now being formed on the wall. What is my cross? he thought. A large burden, a veritable mortal sin of the flesh, with balding head, shrewd brown eyes, and a face as red as a bloody rag. Sir John Cranston, lord of the great, fat stomach, master of the sturdy legs and an arse so huge that Athelstan secretly called it 'Horsecrusher'. But how could he explain Cranston to Benedicta?
    'No crosses, Benedicta. Nothing, perhaps, except loneliness.'
    He suddenly realised how close he was to her. She stared calmly back, her jet black hair escaping from underneath the wimple. Her face was so smooth. He was fascinated by her generous mouth and her eyes, beautiful and dark as the night. He coughed abruptly and got up.
    'You stayed back, Benedicta! Do you wish to talk to me?'
    'No.' She, too, rose as if sensing the sudden chill between them. 'But you should know that Hob has died. I visited his house before I came here and saw his widow.'
    'God save him!' whispered Athelstan. 'God save us all, Benedicta! God save us all!' The next day Athelstan refused to think about Sir John and the terrible murders in the Springall household. Instead, he busied himself about his parish duties. The new poor box was replaced and padlocked near the baptismal font. He tried to settle matters between Cecily and Watkin the dung- collector's wife and achieved some accord: Cecily would be the Madonna provided Watkin's wife could be the Virgin's cousin, Saint Elizabeth. Watkin would have pride of place as St George while Ranulf the rat-catcher eagerly agreed to put on a costume and act the role of the dragon.
    There were other more serious matters. Hob the grave- digger was buried late in the afternoon and Athelstan organised a collection, giving what he could to the poor widow and promising her more as soon as circumstances allowed. He slept well that night, getting up early to climb the wet, mildewed stairs to the top of the church tower where he saw the stars clear in the skies, studying their alignment before they faded with the dawn.
    Later in the morning he was down in the church preparing the corpse of Meg of Four Lanes for burial. Meg of the flowing, black hair, white face and nose hooked like an eagle's beak. In life she had been no beauty, in death she looked ugly, her greasy locks falling in wisps to her dirty shoulders. Her face was mere bone over which the skin had been stretched tight and transparent like a piece of cloth. Her pale sea green eyes were now dull and sunken deep in their sockets.
    Her mouth sagged open and her body, dirty white like the underbelly of a landed fish, was covered in marks and bruises. The corpse had been brought in just after the morning mass by members of the parish. Athelstan had