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exacted. Retribution imposed.’
    â€˜Are you the Sagittarius, the Bowman?’
    â€˜Are you?’ came the mocking reply.
    Father Thomas wiped the sweat on his hands along his gown.
    â€˜Why not move into God’s light?’
    â€˜I am in God’s light.’
    â€˜So why are you here?’ the priest insisted. ‘Why come in the dead of night to threaten a priest keeping vigil over two dead innocents?’
    â€˜No one is innocent, priest, you know that. You must deliver a message, a warning to Lord Scrope. Tell him that before the Feast of the Conversion of St Paul, he must stand beneath the market cross of Mistleham and make a full confession of his sins.’
    â€˜He’ll never do that.’
    â€˜At least he’ll be warned.’
    â€˜Or what?’
    â€˜Retribution for all his sins,’ hissed the reply.
    â€˜Why not warn him yourself?’
    â€˜Oh, don’t worry, priest, I will and I shall, but remember what I’ve said: all his sins.’
    A few hours later, on the eve of the Feast of St Hilary, just as the night turned a dull grey, Lord Oliver Scrope knelt at his own prie-dieu in the reclusorium that he had built on the Island of
Swans at the heart of his manor demesne. His lips moved soundlessly as he stared at the diptych of Christ’s Passion and reflected fearfully on judgement and retribution.
    â€˜ Jesu miserere ,’ he whispered. ‘ Jesu miserere — Jesus have mercy on me.’ He closed his eyes, then shook his head. His morning devotions were ended. He hitched the ermine-lined bed-robe of dark blue damask closer about him, crossed himself and rose. He stared round and drew practical comfort from this, his own hermitage and retreat. He had always been drawn to the Island of Swans, even as a child when he, Marguerite and cousin Gaston used to cross the water and play amongst the ruins. On his return from Acre, he had extended his estate and immediately built this retreat, round in shape, similar to a dovecote, fashioned out of heavy grey stone with a sloping roof of dark slate. In many ways it was reminiscent of the peel towers he had seen when fighting along the Scottish march or outside the Pale in Dublin. The interior, however, was much different from those grim strongholds. Lord Scrope had insisted on every luxury: polished wooden floors, an elevated recess for the bed with its goose-feather bolster and mattress, soft linen sheets and heavy gold-fringed hangings. In the far corner was a narrow ease chamber with a latrine, lavarium, and spice and soap stall. The gleaming floor of the retreat was covered in precious furs specially imported from Norway, whilst brilliantly embroidered Flemish tapestries decorated the walls. Sacred pictures and medallions hung between these, their gilt gleaming in the light from pure beeswax candles and shuttered lantern horns. Copper braziers, their caps perforated, added warmth and sweetness, as did the mantled hearth built into the wall with its own stack or flue for the smoke to escape. A phrase
around the base of one of the pictures caught Scrope’s eye; though executed in bright gold lettering, it now seemed like a summons of doom: ‘What profit a man if he gain the whole world but suffers the loss of his eternal soul …’
    Lord Scrope shivered and moved to the hearth to warm himself. He stared at the carved face of the woodwose at the centre of the mantle shelf; painted black with red eyes and gleaming white teeth, the entire head was crowned by a halo of forest greenery. On reflection Scrope did not like that face with its slightly sneering expression, and he vowed to have it changed as soon as he could. He picked up his finely carved wooden goblet of wine, leaned against the mantle shelf and stared down at the flames licking the dried bracken. Outside, a fresh fall of snow covered the ground. The lake had not yet frozen, though when he’d been rowed across the previous evening,