hub between them all.
A strange design, this, which had always intrigued him. He wondered who the mason was, and what had urged him to make these patterns. Father Luke would have expected simpler devices, perhaps an angel’s face, rather than these long-forgotten symbols that had been here for perhaps two hundred years.
The sound of hooves pulled him back from his reverie, and he walked to his door and peered out, watching as two men reined in weary-looking beasts. The men were sodden, from their hoods and cowls to their booted feet. One wore a russet woollen cloak drawn about him, but the fabric was so soaked that the water dripped steadily from the dangling corner. The other had a leather cloak that had once been waxed, but this too had given up under the rain’s assault.
They wore no armour, but both had the stolid appearance of fighting men. Luke had to fight the compulsion to step away from them – there were too many stories of churches broken into and their priests knocked down for him to be entirely at his ease. For all that, he did not get the impression that they were dangerous, only desperate.
‘God be with you,’ he said firmly, making the sign of the cross.
‘Father, God bless you and your vill,’ said the taller one as they swung stiffly from their saddles.
‘You look exhausted, my sons. Would you stop a while and take a little refreshment? Wherever you are going, you will be more likely to reach it with a full belly and rested head.’
The two men exchanged a glance. In both faces there was a desire to ease tired limbs, if only for a short while.
‘Gentles, those brutes are as tired as you. They should be rested. Come, I have spiced cider and oatcakes.’
At the mention of hot cider both wavered, but oatcakes as well was too much temptation for men drenched by rain and mud. Before long they were sitting at Father Luke’s little fire, while the horses were rubbed down and fed by Peter, the smith’s son. Luke saw Jen, Ham and Agatha’s girl, and asked her to fetch her mother. Agatha often cooked for Luke. It got her out of her house and that was always a relief to her, Luke knew. She was unhappy in her marriage to Ham.
‘You’ve ridden far?’ Luke asked as Agatha bustled about preparing drinks and tearing at a plump, cooked pigeon.
The taller man nodded. He was named Paul of Bircheston, he said. He had a well–featured face, although his dark eyes met Father Luke’s unwillingly, as if he harboured a secret shame. The other, John of Shulton, was more confident, and more warlike, from the way that he settled and immediately drew his sword to dry it and smear grease over it to protect it from the rain.
He gave a grin and lifted an eyebrow as he glanced at the priest. ‘News is slow around here, eh? It must be good to see strangers ride past.’
‘Better to see them stop and talk,’ Father Luke chuckled, leaning aside to allow Agatha to reach the fire.
Aye, we’ve ridden far. And there are evil tidings and to spare,’ Paul said, staring into the fire gloomily.
‘Why, my friend?’
‘The King is captured. That whining cur Lancaster has him, and is taking King Edward to Kenilworth.’
‘Good God!’ Father Luke exclaimed, clutching at the cross about his neck. ‘But how? There was no news . . . Are you sure, my friend? Surely God would not see His crowned King brought so low?’
‘We were there,’ Paul stated baldly. ‘The King was captured near Caerphilly with all those who remained loyal to him. There were few enough of them.’
‘What will become of him?’
‘He’ll be at the mercy of Mortimer and the Queen. What they will do . . .’ He broke off, clenching his jaw.
‘Come, Paul,’ John said. ‘There’s no need to torment yourself. We’ve done our duty.’
‘You shock me,’ Father Luke muttered. ‘This is dreadful news. If a man raises his hand against God’s anointed, He must punish the kingdom, surely.’
‘Our King must be freed.’
It was John of
A strange design, this, which had always intrigued him. He wondered who the mason was, and what had urged him to make these patterns. Father Luke would have expected simpler devices, perhaps an angel’s face, rather than these long-forgotten symbols that had been here for perhaps two hundred years.
The sound of hooves pulled him back from his reverie, and he walked to his door and peered out, watching as two men reined in weary-looking beasts. The men were sodden, from their hoods and cowls to their booted feet. One wore a russet woollen cloak drawn about him, but the fabric was so soaked that the water dripped steadily from the dangling corner. The other had a leather cloak that had once been waxed, but this too had given up under the rain’s assault.
They wore no armour, but both had the stolid appearance of fighting men. Luke had to fight the compulsion to step away from them – there were too many stories of churches broken into and their priests knocked down for him to be entirely at his ease. For all that, he did not get the impression that they were dangerous, only desperate.
‘God be with you,’ he said firmly, making the sign of the cross.
‘Father, God bless you and your vill,’ said the taller one as they swung stiffly from their saddles.
‘You look exhausted, my sons. Would you stop a while and take a little refreshment? Wherever you are going, you will be more likely to reach it with a full belly and rested head.’
The two men exchanged a glance. In both faces there was a desire to ease tired limbs, if only for a short while.
‘Gentles, those brutes are as tired as you. They should be rested. Come, I have spiced cider and oatcakes.’
At the mention of hot cider both wavered, but oatcakes as well was too much temptation for men drenched by rain and mud. Before long they were sitting at Father Luke’s little fire, while the horses were rubbed down and fed by Peter, the smith’s son. Luke saw Jen, Ham and Agatha’s girl, and asked her to fetch her mother. Agatha often cooked for Luke. It got her out of her house and that was always a relief to her, Luke knew. She was unhappy in her marriage to Ham.
‘You’ve ridden far?’ Luke asked as Agatha bustled about preparing drinks and tearing at a plump, cooked pigeon.
The taller man nodded. He was named Paul of Bircheston, he said. He had a well–featured face, although his dark eyes met Father Luke’s unwillingly, as if he harboured a secret shame. The other, John of Shulton, was more confident, and more warlike, from the way that he settled and immediately drew his sword to dry it and smear grease over it to protect it from the rain.
He gave a grin and lifted an eyebrow as he glanced at the priest. ‘News is slow around here, eh? It must be good to see strangers ride past.’
‘Better to see them stop and talk,’ Father Luke chuckled, leaning aside to allow Agatha to reach the fire.
Aye, we’ve ridden far. And there are evil tidings and to spare,’ Paul said, staring into the fire gloomily.
‘Why, my friend?’
‘The King is captured. That whining cur Lancaster has him, and is taking King Edward to Kenilworth.’
‘Good God!’ Father Luke exclaimed, clutching at the cross about his neck. ‘But how? There was no news . . . Are you sure, my friend? Surely God would not see His crowned King brought so low?’
‘We were there,’ Paul stated baldly. ‘The King was captured near Caerphilly with all those who remained loyal to him. There were few enough of them.’
‘What will become of him?’
‘He’ll be at the mercy of Mortimer and the Queen. What they will do . . .’ He broke off, clenching his jaw.
‘Come, Paul,’ John said. ‘There’s no need to torment yourself. We’ve done our duty.’
‘You shock me,’ Father Luke muttered. ‘This is dreadful news. If a man raises his hand against God’s anointed, He must punish the kingdom, surely.’
‘Our King must be freed.’
It was John of
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