The Book of Fires Read Free

and compassion of his parishioners, who, though certainly not wealthy, were prepared to share their food with strangers. He smiled to himself. Of course, there was profit to be made. Many parishioners had set up stalls and booths along the enclosure outside. They offered a range of petty goods and geegaws. Athelstan never asked for their origin, whilst Beadle Bladdersmith just looked the other way.
    Athelstan peeled off his mittens and walked up the nave. The Hangman of Rochester had left his anker-hold in the transept and already unlocked the door to the rood screen. Athelstan went through this and stared around the sanctuary – all was in order. Athelstan genuflected towards the pyx, a roundel of sparkling gold hanging from a thin silver-filigreed chain next to the fluttering sanctuary lamp in its red alabaster jar.
    ‘Father?’ Athelstan turned. The Hangman of Rochester, garbed in his usual night-black jerkin, hose and cloak, stood rather nervously, Athelstan thought, shuffling from foot to foot.
    ‘Giles of Sempringham.’ Athelstan used the hangman’s proper name, which he had set aside after outlaws had murdered his wife and child. A talented fresco painter, Giles had given up his chosen calling to assume the name and reputation of London’s most skilled hangman, his first victims being the wolfsheads who had slaughtered his family. Athelstan walked closer. The hangman’s long snow-white face, his hair matted and yellow as a tangle of straw, appeared tragic. Nevertheless, Athelstan recognized that the hangman had found peace here in St Erconwald’s. A disused chantry chapel had been converted into a comfortable anker-hold. Occasionally the hangman would leave the cell to carry out his duties as an executioner, but his real task was a series of brilliantly executed frescoes on the walls of the church which stirred the envy of other parish priests. ‘Giles,’ Athelstan repeated. ‘You seem lost in thought.’ He felt a mild panic. Were his parishioners plotting something? ‘Giles, what is it?’
    ‘Father, I wonder if we have the purveyance to feed all these?’ The hangman spread his hands. ‘Some of the infirm are very weak and a good few are filthy. They need to be washed.’
    ‘I thought the Fraternity of Free Love …’ Athelstan referred to an eccentric group of parishioners who openly espoused the idea that love could solve all problems. Athelstan allowed the brotherhood or fraternity to meet here on the strict understanding that their philosophy did not include sexual licence. They had assured him it did not, though Athelstan entertained his own deep suspicions.
    ‘The Brotherhood,’ Athelstan repeated, ‘remember, Giles, they promised to set up a great
lavarium
in God’s Acre next to the old death house. Godbless the keeper said he would assist.’
    ‘People are frightened of Thaddeus,’ the hangman grumbled. ‘Despite Godbless’ efforts, that goat will devour everything, including a wash cloth. Perhaps we can use the new death house? Praise the Lord we have no corpses.’
    Athelstan agreed and walked across the sanctuary. He knelt before the pyx, trying to cleanse his mind and heart of all sin, asking for God’s guidance to celebrate the Mass and Eucharist in a worthy fashion. He rose and entered the sacristy. He took off his cloak, washed his hands and face at the
lavarium
then vested swiftly assisted by Crim the altar boy, who scampered in and out as busy as a squirrel along a branch. Candles were lit in the chantry chapel. Cruets set out along with the wine and sacring bread. Athelstan unlocked the parish chest and took out the missal, the Book of the Gospels and a small pyx for the viaticum as he hoped to take the Eucharist to Merrylegs’ father, who lay mortally ill in a narrow chamber above his son’s pie shop. Mauger tolled the bell. Crim rang the Sanctus chimes in the chapel then returned to the sacristy. He grasped the candleholder and, at a nod from Athelstan, led the friar