The Nightingale Gallery Read online

  As I have said, Reverend Father, my purse is empty, shrivelled up and tight as a usurer’s soul. My collection boxes have been stolen and the chancery screen is in disrepair. The altar is marked and stained, the nave of the church is often covered with huge pools of water for our roof serves as more of a colander than a covering. God knows I atone for my sins. I seem to be steeped in murder, bloody and awful. It taxes my mind and reminds me of my own great crime. I have served the people here six months now and I have also assumed those duties assigned by you, to be clerk and scrivener to Sir John Cranston, coroner in the city of London.

  Time and again he takes me with him to sit over the body of some man, woman or child pitifully slain. ‘Is it murder, suicide or an accident?’ he asks and so the dreadful stories begin. Often death results from stupidity: a woman forgets how dangerous it is for a child to play out in the cobbled streets, dancing between the hooves of iron-shod horses or the creaking wheels of huge carts as they bring their produce up from the river; still a child is slain, the little body crushed, bruised and marked, while the young soul goes out to meet its Christ. But, Reverend Father, there are more dreadful deaths. Men drunk in taverns, their bellies awash with cheap ale, their souls dead and black as the deepest night as they lurch at each other with sword, dagger or club. I always keep a faithful record.

  Yet, every word I hear, every sentence I write, every time I visit the scene of the murder, I go back to that bloody field fighting for Edward the Black Prince. I, a novice monk, who broke his vows to God and took his younger brother off to war. Every night I dream of that battle, the press of steel-clad men, the lowered pikes, the screams and shouts. Each time the nightmare goes like a mist clearing above the river, leaving only me kneeling beside the corpse of my dead brother, screaming into the darkness for his soul to return. I know, Reverend Father, it never will.

  Athelstan scrutinised the words he had written, replaced the quill beside his letter and walked back to the chancel screen. He looked across as Bonaventure rose and stretched elegantly.

  ‘I intend no offence, Bonaventure,’ he said. ‘I mean, Sir John, despite his portly frame, that plum-red face, balding pate and watery eye, is, you will agree, at heart a good man. An honest official, a rare fellow indeed who does not take bribes but searches for the truth, ever patient in declaring the real cause of death. But why must I always be with him?’

  Athelstan went back to sit before the rood screen. What use was it to list the terrible murders and scenes of violence he had witnessed? What would Father Prior know of them? Souls sent out into the dark before their time, unprepared and unshriven. Men with their eyes gouged out, their throats cut, their genitals ripped off. Women crushed beneath scaffolding or horribly murdered in some stinking alleyway. If Christ came to London, Athelstan thought, he would surely cross to Southwark, where poverty and crime sat like two ugly brothers or wandered the streets hand-in-hand spreading their stench. Bonaventure rose and padded gently over to him. Athelstan stared down at the cat.

  ‘Perhaps I should tell Father Prior about you, Bonaventure,’ he said, admiring the sleek black body of the alley cat which he had adopted, noting the white mask and paws, the tattered ear, the half-closed eye.

  ‘You’re a mercenary,’ he continued, stroking the cat gently on the top of its head. ‘But my most faithful parishioner. For a dish of milk and a few scraps of fish you will sit patiently whilst I talk to you, and be most attentive during Mass.’

  Athelstan jumped as he heard a sound behind him. He looked round the chancel screen and realised how dark it was in the church, the only light being that from a taper lit before the statue of the Madonna. He yawned. He had not slept the previous evening. He did not like to close his eyes on dreams where he saw his brother’s marble-white and glassy face, the eyes always staring at him. So, instead, he had climbed to the top of the church tower to observe the stars, for the movements of the heavens had fascinated him ever since he had begun studying them in Prior Bacon’s observatory on Folly Bridge at Oxford. He had been tired and slightly fearful as well, for Godric, a well-known murderer and assassin, had begged for sanctuary in the church. Since his arrival Godric had lain curled up like a dog in the corner of the sanctuary, sleeping off his exhaustion. He had eaten Athelstan’s supper, pronounced himself well and settled down to a good night’s sleep. ‘How is it?’ Athelstan murmured, ‘that such men can sleep so well?’ Godric had slain a man, struck him down in the market place, taken his purse and fled. He had hoped to escape but had had the misfortune to encounter a group of city officials and their retainers who had raised the ‘Hue and Cry’ and pursued him to St Erconwald’s. Athelstan had been trying to repair the chancel screen and let him in after he hammered on the door. Godric had brushed past him, gasping, waving the dagger still bloody from his crime, and ran up the nave, shouting: ‘Sanctuary! Sanctuary!’ The pursuing officials had not come into the church though they expected Athelstan, as clerk to Sir John Cranston, to hand Godric over. Athelstan had refused.

  ‘This is God’s house!’ he’d shouted. ‘Protected by Holy Mother Church and the King’s decree!’

  So they had left him and Godric alone although they had placed a guard on the door and swore they would kill the murderer if he attempted to escape. Athelstan peered through the darkness. Godric still lay sleeping.

  Athelstan prepared the altar for Mass, laying out the rather tattered missal and two candlesticks so bent they could hardly stand straight. A chipped, silver-gilt chalice, paten and small glass cruets, containing water and wine, were placed on the spotless altar cloth. Athelstan went into the dank sacristy, put on the alb and scarlet cope, crossed himself and went out to begin the magic of the Mass, priest before God, offering Christ to the Father under the appearances of bread and wine. Athelstan blessed himself as he intoned the introductory psalm.

  ‘I will go into the altar of God, unto God who gives joy to my youth.’

  Godric snored on, oblivious to the drama being enacted a few yards away. Bonaventure sidled up to the foot of the altar steps. The cat licked its lips, swishing its long tail in anticipation of a deep bowl of creamy milk as his reward for attention and patience. Athelstan, now caught up by the music of the words of the Mass, swept through the readings of the Epistle and the Gospel, reaching the Offertory where he mingled the water and wine. At the far end of the church a door opened and a hooded figure slipped in, moving soundlessly up the darkened nave to kneel beside Bonaventure at the foot of the steps. Athelstan forced himself to keep his eyes down on the white circle of bread over which he had breathed the words of consecration, transforming it into the body of Christ. The consecration over, he intoned the Lord’s Prayer: ‘Pater Noster, quiest in caelis.’

  His voice rang loud and clear through the hollow nave. He paused, as the canon of the Mass dictated, to pray for the dead. He remembered Fulke the warrener, a member of his parish killed in a tavern brawl four nights 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, nea
r 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 closer.

  ‘Astrology, Benedicta,’ he began with mock pomposity, ‘is the belief that the stars and the planets affect men’s moods and actions. The great Aristotle accepted the theory of the ancient Chaldeans that man is a microcosm of all there is in the universe. Accordingly, there is a bond between each of us and the stars above.’

  Benedicta’s eyes rounded in sham admiration of his scholarship.

  ‘Now astronomy,’ Athelstan continued, ‘is the study of the planets and stars themselves.’ He stretched out his hands. ‘There are two schools of thought.’ He thrust forward his left hand. ‘The Egyptians and some of the Ancients believe the earth is a flat disc with heaven above and hell below.’ Athelstan now stretched out his right arm, his hand rigid like a claw. ‘However, Ptolemy, Aristotle and the Classics believe the earth is a sphere within a spherical universe. Each star, each planet, is a world in itself.’

  Benedicta leaned back on her heels.

  ‘My father,’ she answered tartly, ‘said the stars were God’s lights in the firmament, put there by the angels at the beginning of time.’

  Athelstan knew she was teasing him.

  ‘Your father was correct.’ He shrugged sheepishly. ‘At Exeter Hall in Oxford I studied the greatest minds. In the end their explanations pale beside the creative wonder of God.’

  Benedicta nodded, her eyes serious now, her teasing over.

  ‘So why do you spend so many hours there, Father? On top of the church tower at night? We see your lantern.’

  Athelstan shook his head.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he murmured. ‘But on a clear summer’s night, if you stare at the velvet blackness and watch the movements of the planets, the shimmering light of the evening star, you become lost in their vastness.’ He looked sharply at her. ‘It’s the nearest man comes to eternity without going through the door of death. When I am there, I am no longer Athelstan, priest and friar. I am just a man, stripped free of cares.’

  Benedicta stared down, gently touching the crumbling altar step with the tips of her fingers.

  ‘Tonight,’ she murmured, ‘I will do that, Father. Stare up at the sky, see what it is like to die without dying.’

  She rose quickly, genuflected before the winking sanctuary lamp and walked quietly out of the church.

  Athelstan saw the door close behind her and turned to where Bonaventure awaited his reward. The friar went into the sacristy and brought out the expected bowl of milk. He sat and watched the cat greedily lick the lacy white froth with its pink, narrow-edged tongue.

  ‘Do you know, Bonaventure,’ he muttered, ‘every time she goes, I want to call her back. She comes here to pray for her husband’s soul, another casualty of the king’s war, but sometimes I deceive myself and believe she comes to talk to me.’

  The cat raised its battered head, yawned and went back to the milk.

  ‘The Master was right,’ Athelstan continued. The friar suddenly remembered his old novice master, Father Bernard, who had been responsible for Athelstan’s spiritual education in the novitiate at Blackfriars.

  ‘A priest’s life, Athelstan,’ Father Bernard once began, ‘has three great terrors. The first are the lusts of the flesh! These will plague your dreams with visions of soft bodies, satin-silk limbs, full sensuous lips and hair which gleams like burnished gold. Yet these will pass. Prayer, fasting and the onset of old age will drive this enemy from the field of battle.’ The old novice master had leaned forward and grasped Athelstan by the wrist. ‘Then comes the second terror, the sheer soul-destroying loneliness of a priest: no wife, no children, never the clasp of small warm bodies and clinging arms round your neck. But,’ Father Bernard muttered, ‘that, too, will pass. The third terror is more dreadful.’ And Athelstan remembered the old priest’s eyes brimming with tears. ‘There’s a belief,’ the novice master whispered, ‘that each person is born destined to love another. Now sometimes we priests are lucky - in our early pilgrimage we never meet this person. But, if you do, then you truly will experience the horrors of the dark night of the soul.’ The novice master had paused. ‘Can you imagine, Athelstan, to meet, to love, but be bound by God’s law never to express it? If you do, you break your vows as a priest and are condemned by the Church to be buried in hell. If you remain faithful to your priestly vows, you bury yourself in a hell of your own making for you will never forget her. You search for her face in crowds, you see her eyes in those of every woman you meet. She plagues your dreams. Not a day passes without her appearing in your thoughts.’

  Athelstan thought of Benedicta and knew what the novice master had meant.

  ‘Oh, sweet Christ!’ he murmured.

  He rose and dusted down his robe. Bonaventure, his milk finished, padded across and stared up.

  ‘Catholic or Catolic, Bonaventure?’ Athelstan laughed at his feeble jest. ‘Is Father Prior playing a joke on me?’ he murmured. ‘I am past my twenty-eighth summer and I go from pillar to post.’ Perhaps his superiors were testing him, sending him from the rigours of the novitiate to the academic glories of Exeter Hall, then pulling him back to menial duties at Blackfriars and finally to work as the Lord Coroner’s clerk and parish priest of St Erconwald.

 
The friar knelt, crossed himself, and began softly to recite a psalm when he heard a disturbance at the back of the church. He rose in alarm, thinking that perhaps the city authorities had sent retainers to take Godric. Even in the slums of Southwark, Athelstan realised he lived in turbulent times. Edward III was dead; his heir, Richard II, a mere boy. The powerful, noble hawks still had their way in most matters. Athelstan took a taper, lit it from the candle burning before the Madonna and hurried down the church, splashing through the puddles left by the violent rain storm a few days before. He opened the door, thrust his head out and smiled. The city guards, roused from their sleep, were now locked in fierce argument with Sir John Cranston who boomed as soon as he saw his clerk: ‘For God’s sake, Brother, tell these oafs who I am!’ Cranston patted the neck of his huge horse and glared around. ‘We have work to do, Brother, another death, murder in Cheapside! One of the great ones of the land. Come on, ignore these dolts!’

  ‘They do not know you, Sir John,’ Athelstan replied. ‘You go round muffled in cloak and hood, worse than any monk.’

  The coroner blew his great cheeks out, pulled back his hood and roared at his tormentors, ‘I am Sir John Cranston, coroner in the city, and you, sirs, are disturbing the king’s peace! Now back off!’

  The men retreated like beaten mastiffs, their dark faces glowering with a mixture of anger and fear.

  ‘Come on, Athelstan,’ Cranston bellowed. He looked down at the friar’s feet. ‘And put that bloody cat away! I hate it.’

  Bonaventure, however, seemed to regard Cranston as its long lost friend. The cat skipped friskily down the steps to sit beneath the coroner’s horse, staring up at the big man affectionately as if he was the bearer of a pail of thick creamy milk or a platter of the tastiest fish. Cranston just turned his head away and spat.

  ‘Leave Godric be,’ Athelstan warned the city guards.