Текст книги "The Nightingale Gallery"

Автор книги: Paul Doherty

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Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 14 страниц)

Cecily the courtesan brushed and scrubbed the porch, while Watkin did his best to clean some of the dirt from the nave and refilled the holy water stoups which the children always drank from. Athelstan had just preached a sermon on how men and women were all God's flowers, some being roses, others bluebells. He'd hoped to convince his parishioners that God loved their differences and that a garden full of roses might be very pleasant but also very boring. The sermon was difficult to give as Benedicta persisted in kneeling in front of him, staring up with those beautiful eyes. She would have resembled the holy Agatha had it not been for the laughter lines round her mouth.

At last Father Prior arrived with his clerks, secretarius, sacristan and other officials. Cranston was stone sober, sitting on his horse like a Solomon come to judgement. Athelstan's parishioners thronged round; Orme, one of the many sons of Watkin, thought Father Prior was the Pope but Cecily the courtesan loudly proclaimed he was the bishop. Athelstan shooed them away and brought his guests into the church whilst Crim and Dyke guarded the horses. Father Prior's retainers amused themselves by looking round. It didn't take them long and Athelstan saw the snotty-nosed sacristan laughing at his pathetic attempts to turn this church into a house of God. But who cared for his opinion? thought Athelstan. Perhaps someone should remind him that it all began in a manger, and the stable in Bethlehem had no fine paintings. Father Prior, however, was kind; he sat opposite Athelstan on the other of the church's two benches and gently questioned him on his doings over the last few months. Cranston sat beside him, staring up at the ceiling. Father Prior heard the friar out before taking him by the hand.

'Brother Athelstan,' he said, 'if you wish, you may come back to the Mother House. Your work and your penance are over.' He turned to the coroner. 'What do you think, Sir John?'

Granston smiled and shrugged. 'He's a better priest,' he quipped, than he is a coroner's clerk! I think it best he should return.'

His eyes refused to meet Athelstan's.

The prior nodded, rose, and patted Athelstan on the shoulder.

'I have to go somewhere else,' he said. 'Sir John has kindly agreed to escort me. It's only a short distance. We shall return within the hour and receive your answer then.'

He walked out of the church, his black and white robe billowing behind him. Cranston did not spare Athelstan a second glance as he waddled out. A moment later Athelstan heard him roaring to Cecily the courtesan that he didn't care how pretty her arse was, she was to get out of his saddle! Father Prior's retainers, eager to leave, needed no second invitation. Athelstan heard their horses clatter off and told Watkin to guard the church door and leave him alone.

'Are you leaving us, Father?' the man asked anxiously.

Athelstan couldn't answer. He shut the door, barred it, and went to sit on the sanctuary steps. What should he do? On the one hand, he was glad Father Prior had come to take him back, but on the other what would happen to his parishioners? Watkin's bevy of children? The youngest, Edmund, seemed a clever boy. If schooled properly, he might become a clerk. And Cecily the courtesan? What would happen if he no longer gave her pennies for cleaning the church? And Benedicta? He shut his eyes and tried to expunge her face from his mind. He prayed for a sign. The good Lord would surely guide him. He opened his eyes, got up and noticed the candle, the one Benedicta always lit in front of the Madonna. Athelstan went across and stared down at it. Only then did he notice the rose, a small white one, placed at the foot of the statue. He had his answer.

Athelstan was waiting for Father Prior when he and his party came up the lane and stopped outside the church. Athelstan took his superior's horse by the bridle and looked up into the prior's kindly face. He ignored Cranston's glare.

'Do I have your answer, Brother Athelstan?'

'Yes, Father Prior,' he replied. 'I would like to stay here until I am as good a coroner's clerk as I am a priest!'

'You are sure, Brother?'

'Yes, Father, I am sure.'

The prior smiled.

'So be it,' he murmured. He sketched the sign of the cross in the air above Athelstan's head, bade him adieu and urged his horse forward. Athelstan waited till the sound of the horses faded before staring at Cranston, who was surreptitiously wiping his eyes on the cuff of his jerkin.

'God's bones, Athelstan!' he bellowed. 'I have never been so sober for so long in my life! Now I am so hot, even my eyes are sweating.'

He looked at Athelstan mischievously. 'Perhaps a little refreshment?'

'God save us all!' Athelstan muttered, and walked back up the steps of his church, leaving Cranston bellowing after him.