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glanced at Gaston’s coat of arms, a kneeling stag, its antlers crowned, carved above the year of the Frenchman’s death, Anno Domini 1291. The priest whispered the requiem and walked back to kneel in front of the Pity, staring up at the serene face of the Virgin. He prayed an Ave, still
distracted about the bloody events of the past. He had hoped the painting would make the Free Brethren more acceptable. True, they entertained strange fancies about the Church’s teaching, and their views on marriage and the love act were bawdy and lecherous, but the flesh was always weak. Father Thomas beat his own breast, murmuring, ‘ Mea culpa, mea culpa — through my own fault, through my own fault.’ Had he not entertained strange fancies about Lady Hawisa, with her beautiful white face, full breasts and slim waist? And what about parishioners like Mayor Henry Claypole, who processed so solemnly into church on Sunday and holy days, faces all devout, hands clasped in prayer? Father Thomas smiled to himself. He had sat with all of them in the shriving pew and heard their litany of sorry sins, about the brothels and bawdy baskets they frequented when they journeyed to Chelmsford, Orwell or even Cheapside in London. Their wives were no better, hot and lecherous as sparrows at a smile from some young man. Ah, Father Thomas reflected, that was where the present tempest had been sown. Stories of dalliance between townsmen and female members of the Free Brethren and, even worse, the attention some of the young men amongst the Free Brethren had shown towards wives and sweethearts in Mistleham. Tales of pretty trysts in the autumn woods; even whispers of a village wench conceiving a love-child. Other allegations had floated about like dirt through clear water, of livestock being poached and property stolen.
    A sound down near the corpse door made the priest whirl round. He peered fearfully through the poor light. Nothing! He’d left the door off the latch in case the parents of Wilfred and Eadburga wished to come and pray. Guilty at his desertion of the dead, he walked back to the coffin trestles and pulled back the
funeral cloths. He stared at the waxen faces, the absolution of all their sins pinned to the white cotton shifts. He blessed both corpses and sniffed the smoke from the funeral candles, but even their fragrance could not hide the mustiness of the air. Father Thomas breathed in deeply. Lord Scrope, perhaps to win him over after the massacre, had promised to renovate the entire church. The priest took some comfort from that. After all, a few of the stone flags were sinking, the walls were mildewed, whilst the wood in the chancel screen was beginning to rot. Again that sound. Father Thomas turned slowly. There was someone hiding in the church, deep in the shadows. He was sure of that. The creak of the corpse door, that cold blast of air. He walked towards it, swallowing hard, trying to control his own fear.
    â€˜No further, priest, stand still.’
    Father Thomas obeyed. ‘Who are you?’ he called out.
    â€˜I am Nightshade,’ the voice replied.
    Father Thomas strained his hearing. The voice was cultured, melodious and soft; he couldn’t recognise it. ‘Why do you call yourself that at the dead of night?’
    No answer.
    â€˜Why come sneaking into our parish church and hide in the shadows? Why not step into God’s light? Why give yourself such a name?’
    â€˜Do you know what nightshade is, priest?’
    â€˜A poisonous plant, deadly in its potion, deadly in its effect. Is that you?’
    â€˜I am the other meaning of nightshade. Don’t you know it, priest? It is that time of the night when the darkness grows a little deeper and the demons lurk.’

    â€˜Are you a demon?’
    A soft laugh answered the priest’s question. ‘I am God’s judgement, priest.’
    â€˜On whose authority?’
    â€˜My own! Blood cries out. Vengeance is to be