The Nightingale Gallery Read Free Page B

earlier. Then Athelstan’s own parents and his brother Francis . . . the friar closed his eyes against the hot tears welling there as the faces of his family appeared, clear and distinct in his mind’s eye.
    ‘God grant them eternal rest,’ he whispered.
    He stood swaying against the altar, wondering for the hundredth time why he felt like an assassin. Oh, in France he had killed men whilst fighting for the Black Prince, the old king’s eldest son, who wanted to unite the crowns of France and Castille with that of England. Athelstan had shot arrows as good and true as the rest. He remembered the corpse of a young French knight, his cornflower blue eyes gazing sightlessly up at the sky, his blond hair framing his face like a halo, Athelstan’s barbed arrow embedded deeply in his throat between helmet and gorget. The friar prayed for this unknown knight yet he felt no guilt. This was war and the Church taught that war was part of man’s sinful condition, the legacy of Adam’s revolt.
    ‘Oh, God, am I a murderer?’ he whispered to himself.
    Athelstan thought once again how, as a novice in Black-friars, near the western wall of the city, he had broken his vows and fled back to his father’s farm in Sussex. His mind had been filled with dreams of war and he had encouraged his younger brother in similar fantasies. They had joined one of those merry bands of archers who swung along the sunny, dusty lanes of Sussex down to Dover and across a shimmering sea, to reap glory in the green fields of France. His brother had been killed and Athelstan had brought the grim news back to the red-tiled Sussex farm. His parents had died of sheer grief. Athelstan had returned to Black-friars to lie on the cold flagstoned floor of the Chapter House. He had confessed his sin, begged for absolution, and dedicated his life to God as reparation for the grievous sins he had committed.
    ‘A guilt greater than Cain’s,’ Father Prior had declared to the brothers assembled in the Chapter House. ‘Cain killed his brother. Athelstan is responsible for breaking his vows, and, in doing so, bringing about the deaths of his entire family!’
    ‘Father!’
    Athelstan opened his eyes quickly. The woman kneeling on the steps was staring up at him, her beautiful face drawn with concern.
    ‘Father, is there anything wrong?’
    ‘No, Benedicta, I am sorry.’
    The Mass continued, the Agnus Dei followed by Communion. Athelstan took a host down to the waiting woman who tilted back her head, eyes closed, full red lips open and tongue out, waiting for Athelstan to place Christ’s body there. For a second he paused, admiring the flawless beauty: the soft golden-hued skin now stretched across the high cheekbones; the long eye-lashes like dark butterfly wings, quiveringly closed; the parted lips showing white, perfectly formed teeth.
    ‘Even if you lust in your mind’s eye . . .’ Athelstan reminded himself. He placed the host gently in the woman’s mouth and returned to the altar. The chalice was drained, the final benediction given and Mass was ended.
    Godric, in his little alcove, belched, snorted and stirred in his sleep. Bonaventure stretched, miaowing softly. But the widow Benedicta still knelt, head bowed.
    Athelstan cleared the altar. On his return from the sacristy, his heart skipped when he saw Benedicta still kneeling there. The friar went and sat next to her on the altar steps.
    ‘You are well, Benedicta?’
    The dark eyes were full of silent mocking laughter.
    ‘I am well, Father.’
    She turned, stroking Bonaventure gently on the side of the neck so the cat purred with pleasure. She glanced mischievously at Athelstan.
    ‘A widow and a cat, Father. The parish of St Erconwald will never become rich!’ Her face grew solemn. ‘In Mass you were distracted. What was wrong?’
    Athelstan looked away. ‘Nothing,’ he muttered. ‘I am just tired.’
    ‘Your astrology?’ He grinned. They had had this conversation before. He edged