Murder Most Holy (23 page)

‘Father! Father!’

Athelstan looked over to see Cecily the courtesan standing warily at the lychgate.

‘What is it, Cecily?’

‘Father, I was only having a cup of wine in the tavern.’

‘There’s no sin in that, Cecily.’

The girl moved towards him. She tried to walk demurely but Athelstan hid his smile at the way she flicked her flounced skirt and leaned forward, displaying her ample bosom in its tight bodice.

‘Father, I have been sent by the rest. We are really sorry about what happened and will all be at mass tomorrow. Benedicta has told us you have something very important to say.’

Athelstan smiled and touched her gently on the arm.

‘You are a good lass, Cecily. I’ll see you at mass tomorrow.’

The girl tripped away. Athelstan stared at the skies. Should he study the stars? The night would be cloud-free. Perhaps he might see one shooting through the heavens like Lucifer in his fall to hell. ‘There again,’ he murmured, ‘perhaps I’ll fall myself!’ He felt sleepy and tired, and remembering the attack of the previous night, stared round the deserted churchyard. He’d be glad when tomorrow’s mass was over and everything could return to normal, but until then it might be best if he kept within his own house. He went in, locking the doors and shutters firmly. ‘It’s a fine night,’ he said to himself, ‘and Bonaventure will be either courting or hunting.’ He realised there was no food in the kitchen so went and sat down, wondering if he would discover anything new when he returned to Blackfriars. His eyes grew heavy. He doused the candle and went upstairs to bed.

Everyone appeared for mass the next morning. Mugwort rang the bell like some demented demon. Ursula turned up, sow in tow, followed by Watkin, Pike, Huddle – the latter gazing appreciatively round the new sanctuary. Benedicta was more composed than the previous day. She whispered to Athelstan not to be too harsh, whilst Pike reminded him that he was to hear confessions that day. Athelstan concealed his dismay behind a bright smile. Of course, he had forgotten about that! The great feast of Corpus Christi would soon be upon them and all his parishioners liked to be shriven of their sins so, after mass, he announced he would be in church all day in the west transept; the curtain would be put up and he would hear their confessions.

Once all his parishioners were assembled, he quietly explained about the skeleton.

‘These are not the bones or remains of a saint,’ he began. ‘Dear children, you must trust me. Sir John and I have discovered the truth. They are the remains of a woman murdered many years ago.’ He shrugged. ‘That is all. Now, Watkin, do you accept what I say?’

The dung-collector, squatting amongst his innumerable brood, nodded solemnly.

‘Very well,’ Athelstan continued, ‘you will take some of the profit which you assuredly raised and buy a proper shroud of thick linen. Pike, you will dig a grave, and this evening I will bless this poor woman’s remains and commit them to the soil. That will be the end of the matter.’

‘What about the cost of all this?’ Pike shouted.

‘Don’t worry,’ Athelstan answered, ‘the monies will be repaid.’

‘And the miracle?’ Ursula screeched. ‘What about the miracle?’

‘Only God knows, Ursula, but if there were miracles, perhaps St Erconwald is responsible?’

A murmur of approval greeted his words.

‘Father.’ Watkin stood up, moving sheepishly from foot to foot. ‘We are sorry, truly sorry, for what has happened but we meant well.’ He produced a large leather purse from beneath his grimy jerkin. ‘These are the profits.’ He nervously weighed the purse in his hand. ‘We have had an idea, Father. Well, the sanctuary’s done so we thought paint should be bought and Huddle depict a scene, a truly large painting, of the visit of the Virgin Mary to her cousin Elizabeth after Jesus’s birth.’

‘Do you all agree?’ Athelstan asked.

A chorus of approval rang out.

‘Then Huddle can begin immediately. Crim, I want you to take a message to Sir John Cranston.’

‘You mean old Fatarse?’

Watkin’s wife gave the lad a slap across the back of his head.

‘Sir John Cranston,’ Athelstan continued. ‘You will tell him he should return to Blackfriars. I shall meet him there at first light tomorrow. Now,’ he began to disrobe in front of them, ‘Watkin, buy the shroud. Pike, you’d best start now because the soil is hard. For the rest, I shall take, as Sir John says, some refreshment and then hear confessions. Oh!’ He turned back to them. ‘And don’t be surprised – a mysterious donor wishes to give us a large statue of St Erconwald for the new sanctuary.’

CHAPTER 12

On that surprising note, the meeting broke up and the parishioners drifted out of the church while Athelstan went to finish divesting. He locked the sanctuary door but left the church open. Huddle was already standing in the sanctuary looking dreamily at a bare wall.

‘Think carefully,’ Athelstan called.

‘Don’t worry, Father. I’ve been mulling over this for months.’

Athelstan nodded and hurried down the alleyway to a cook-shop where he knew he could buy a fresh pie and a jug of ale. By the time he had returned, Watkin had cleared one of the transepts and cordoned off a corner with a long ash pole with a thick purple curtain hanging from it. He had also moved the sanctuary chair with its quilted seat and back to one side of the curtain for Athelstan to sit on whilst the church’s one and only prie-dieu was placed at the other side for the penitents. For a while Athelstan knelt at the foot of the altar steps and prayed for the grace to be a good confessor. He always heard confessions before the great liturgical feasts of the church: Christmas, Easter, Pentecost, and Corpus Christi in mid-summer. Those who wished to be shriven would kneel just inside the porch of the church and wait for their turn. Athelstan had insisted on this so no one could overhear what the penitent was saying. Mugwort came in and Athelstan assured him all was ready so the bell began to toll, inviting those who wished, to have their sins absolved.

Athelstan sat for the rest of the morning and early into the afternoon listening to his parishioners’ confessions. The usual litany of sins, not dissimilar to his own Athelstan quietly concluded: the use of bad language, obscene thoughts, theft from the market, sleeping during mass, and drunkenness. Occasionally Athelstan heard something new: a father lusting after a son’s wife; the use of faulty scales in trade. He sat back and listened to them all, now and again asking soft, gentle questions. At the end, he would lean forward and urge them to be more charitable, kinder, purer in mind and heart. He would set a small penance, usually some charitable task or the saying of prayers in church, pronounce absolution, and the penitent would depart.

The only relief were the confessions of children which Athelstan always loved for they made him laugh – squeaky little voices with their list of petty sins. One of Tab the tinker’s daughters made Athelstan laugh out loud for the poor girl had allowed one of Pike’s sons to kiss her, throwing her into agonies of guilt. So intent was she on blurting out this misdemeanour, she threw herself down on the prie-dieu and instead of saying, ‘Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,’ feverishly began, ‘Kiss me, Father, for I have sinned!’

Athelstan calmed her down, pointing out that a kiss on the lips, no matter for how long, was not a serious matter, and sent the girl away happy. He heard the trip of more footsteps and a reedy voice behind the curtain piped up: ‘Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.’

Athelstan smiled and put his face in his hands as he recognised the voice of Crim his altar boy.

‘Father,’ continued Crim in a hushed voice, ‘I have refused to eat my onions.’

Athelstan nodded gravely.

‘My mother had cooked them specially.’

Athelstan breathed deeply to stop himself laughing.

‘What else is there, lad?’

But Crim had fallen strangely silent. ‘Father,’ he stammered, ‘I have committed fornication six times.’

Athelstan’s jaw fell. He felt the hair on the nape of his neck curl. In the bishop’s precepts to confessors, the corruption of young children was not unknown and was considered a most grievous moral offence. Athelstan pulled the curtain back and stared at Crim’s dirty, startled face.

‘Crim,’ he whispered, ‘come round here!’

The boy tottered round.

‘Crim, what are you saying? Do you know what fornication is?’

The boy nodded.

‘And you have committed it six times?’

Again the nod.

‘What is fornication, Crim?’

Athelstan looked earnestly into the boy’s troubled eyes. Was this why the lad had been so quiet and rather withdrawn at times? Crim closed his eyes.

‘Fornication,’ he piped up, ‘is a filthy act!’

Athelstan let go of the boy’s hand and leaned back in the chair. ‘Tell me, lad, exactly what happened?’

‘Well, Father, as you know my mother sends me up to the market. I am the fastest runner and she always gives me a glass of water mixed with honey as a reward.’

Athelstan was now completely at sea. ‘What has this got to do with it, Crim?’

The lad blushed and looked down. ‘Coming back from the market, Father, I want to piss and I do it in the open.’

Athelstan laughed and seized the boy’s hand. ‘Is that all, Crim?’

The lad nodded.

‘And what makes you think that’s fornication?’

‘Well, Father, Mother always says that Cecily is guilty of fornication and other filthy acts.’

Athelstan shook his head. ‘But, Crim, you often go for a piss outside. What’s so special about this?’

The boy’s blush grew deeper.

‘Come on, lad!’

‘I do it on holy ground, Father.’

‘You mean, here in church?’

‘No, Father. I always want to go just as I pass your house so I go behind your wall and do it on the onion patch. I know it’s wrong, Father, to do it in a priest’s garden, but I can’t help it.’

Athelstan couldn’t contain himself any longer but, bowing his head, put his face in his hands and laughed till his shoulders shook.

‘Father, I am truly sorry.’

Athelstan looked up, wiped the tears from his eyes and grabbed the boy by the shoulder. ‘I absolve you from your sin.’ He pulled his face straight. ‘And this is your penance.’

‘Yes, Father.’

‘Next time your mother cooks onions, you eat every one. Now go and sin no more!’

Crim sped from the church as if he had just been released from the gravest of sins. Athelstan watched him go, still caught by gusts of laughter. He wa3 pleased the church was empty; if anyone had witnessed or overheard Crim, the lad would have been the laughing stock of the parish. Athelstan sat back and half-dozed for a while, thinking of possible solutions to Cranston’s mystery and wondering if he would find what he was looking for at Blackfriars. He suddenly sat up, chilled by a thought. What if the murderer at Blackfriars had already discovered what he was looking for? He readjusted the stole around his neck. He was about to get up when he heard the slither of footsteps. He sat down, suddenly tense, for the church was silent. Outside everything was quiet, as hawkers, traders and members of his parish rested during the hottest part of the day. Who was coming now? He heard someone kneel down on the prie-dieu.

‘Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.’

Athelstan froze as he recognised the voice of Benedicta. He closed his eyes, clenching his hands together. This was the first time Benedicta had ever come to him. Like others in the parish, perhaps too embarrassed to confess to their priest, she always went elsewhere. He relaxed a little at her litany of petty offences: uncharitable thoughts and words, being late for mass, sleeping through one of his sermons. When he heard this, Athelstan stuck out his tongue at the curtain. Then Benedicta stopped.

‘Is that all?’ he quietly asked.

‘Father, I am a widow. For a while I thought my husband might be alive. I was glad, yet I was also sad.’

Athelstan steeled himself.

‘I shouldn’t have been sad,’ Benedicta continued. ‘And, if I wished him dead, I confess to that.’

‘Then you are forgiven.’

‘Don’t you want to know, Father, why I was sad?’

‘You must confess according to your conscience and that is all.’

‘I was sad, Father, because, you see, I love another man. Sometimes I desire him.’

‘There is no sin in loving anyone.’ Athelstan was sure Benedicta was going to continue.

‘I see, Father,’ she softly answered. ‘In which case I am truly sorry for these and all other sins.’

Athelstan set her a small penance, almost gabbled the words of absolution and sat tense as a bowstring until Benedicta rose and slipped quietly out of the church, closing the door gently behind her.

He let out a loud gasp and slumped back in his chair. He knew what Benedicta had been going to say and was only too happy she had not continued. He rose and stretched, went through the rood screen and stood looking up at the crucifix on the altar. ‘Father Paul was right,’ he murmured. ‘Love is a terrible thing!’ For a few minutes he squarely faced his own conscience. He loved Benedicta! He stared at the twisted figure nailed to the wooden cross. Would Christ understand? Did he, who was supposed to love everyone, love anyone in particular? Athelstan rubbed his eyes. He remembered scripture, the women who followed Christ, the women who were with him when he died. Athelstan took off his stole. If he started following that line of thought, what conclusions would he reach? He genuflected hurriedly before the sanctuary and strode out of the church, locking the door behind him. He must concentrate on other things.

The business at Blackfriars was like a game of chess. So far his opponent, hidden in the darkness, controlled every move. Athelstan had to make sure that the initiative he had gained would not be lost.

Once back in the kitchen Athelstan sat down and hastily wrote a short letter, getting his wax and seal out of the large chest beside his bed. He studied the letter again, concluded it was appropriate, melted the wax and affixed a seal. An hour later Crim, who had now forgotten everything about onions, was running like a hare across London Bridge. He clutched Athelstan’s letter tightly in his hand, lips breathlessly repeating the instructions the friar had given him.