hurried to shrive the dying man. Simon withdrew until the priest had finished, making the sign of the cross in the air above Bolt-Head, who now lay against the sanctuary cushion coughing and spluttering.
‘Do what you have to,’ Father Benedict whispered to Simon as he passed. ‘There is nothing we can do. You know that. According to the law of sanctuary, not even medicine can be brought in.’
Simon crossed himself and knelt beside Bolt-Head, whose face was now as white as snow, mouth gaping in pain.
‘Please,’ the fugitive opened his eyes, ‘the mercy cut.’
Simon drew his misericord dagger and gently put his hand behind the dying man’s head. ‘Look at me, old friend.’ Bolt-Head did so, and Simon expertly drew the dagger across his throat, holding his comrade as he jerked and trembled. Once he was still, he withdrew his arm and knelt for a while reciting the requiem, trying to recall all those other comrades he’d sent into the dark; the friends lying gashed and wounded in the war-ravished fields of Normandy.
‘Simon.’ Father Benedict touched his shoulder, ‘Go now. Roger and I will dress the corpse. I will sing the requiem mass tomorrow and bury him in God’s Acre with a fine cross and a posy of spring flowers on the grave.’
Simon cleaned his dagger, shook Benedict’s hand, nodded at Father Roger and walked out through the corpse door. A beautiful evening; the sun was still strong and the market horn had yet to bray. The cemetery, God’s Acre, stretched down to its red-brick curtain wall and massive oaken lychgate. The crowd had thinned. A few city bailiffs, watched by Roseblood’s men, still lounged in the long grass around the stone tombs and wooden crosses. The wild roses and other late spring flowers had bloomed rich and full to incense the air with their perfume. As he walked along the path to stand in the shadow of the lychgate, his mind was elsewhere, swirling and turning like a lurcher hunting a hare. A sea of troubles was boiling up. York would soon march south, and what could Simon do except defend himself?
The sounds and smells of the ward wafted towards him. A market beadle – Simon couldn’t recall his name – was ringing a bell, his shrivelled face all furious, his hooked nose cutting the air. He bawled a proclamation ‘Against rotten mutton, beef that is turnip-fed, lean measly pork from hogs glutted on city muck. Against all meats charred and sweaty and thrice roasted.’ Simon recalled the delicious dishes served at his own tavern. A group of courtiers passed in their ridiculously padded jerkins, multicoloured hose and hats of the same florid design. Clean-shaven, they allowed their hair to fall down almost to cover their eyes and to lie ringleted and curled on their shoulders. All of them were armed.
‘You are the dangerous ones,’ Simon whispered, ‘the city bully boys. When the black banner is raised, you’ll be there to rob and rape.’ He closed his eyes and murmured a prayer. If he fell from power, those same deadly fops would swagger into the Roseblood tavern to take what they wanted. The same could be said of many who flowed by the lychgate. The peasants pushing their barrows, merchants strolling arm in arm, storytellers full of eerie tales about elves and fairies, changelings and witches. Prior Aelred claimed that the city mob remained hidden, concealed behind ten thousand masks; in truth, it was a beast in waiting. Cade’s invasion had proven that.
‘Master Simon Roseblood!’ He glanced up. A dust haze had risen, stirred by the iron wheels of heavy carts. A line of strumpets, Venus’s children, went by dancing and stamping their feet, garish wigs askew, low-slung bodices open to reveal all. The dust cloud shifted to reveal a gallant in padded doublet, black hose and costly riding boots. He had long dark hair, his face hidden by a silver satyr’s mask, which he held elegantly in place with one gauntleted hand, the other resting on the stabbing dirk
‘Do what you have to,’ Father Benedict whispered to Simon as he passed. ‘There is nothing we can do. You know that. According to the law of sanctuary, not even medicine can be brought in.’
Simon crossed himself and knelt beside Bolt-Head, whose face was now as white as snow, mouth gaping in pain.
‘Please,’ the fugitive opened his eyes, ‘the mercy cut.’
Simon drew his misericord dagger and gently put his hand behind the dying man’s head. ‘Look at me, old friend.’ Bolt-Head did so, and Simon expertly drew the dagger across his throat, holding his comrade as he jerked and trembled. Once he was still, he withdrew his arm and knelt for a while reciting the requiem, trying to recall all those other comrades he’d sent into the dark; the friends lying gashed and wounded in the war-ravished fields of Normandy.
‘Simon.’ Father Benedict touched his shoulder, ‘Go now. Roger and I will dress the corpse. I will sing the requiem mass tomorrow and bury him in God’s Acre with a fine cross and a posy of spring flowers on the grave.’
Simon cleaned his dagger, shook Benedict’s hand, nodded at Father Roger and walked out through the corpse door. A beautiful evening; the sun was still strong and the market horn had yet to bray. The cemetery, God’s Acre, stretched down to its red-brick curtain wall and massive oaken lychgate. The crowd had thinned. A few city bailiffs, watched by Roseblood’s men, still lounged in the long grass around the stone tombs and wooden crosses. The wild roses and other late spring flowers had bloomed rich and full to incense the air with their perfume. As he walked along the path to stand in the shadow of the lychgate, his mind was elsewhere, swirling and turning like a lurcher hunting a hare. A sea of troubles was boiling up. York would soon march south, and what could Simon do except defend himself?
The sounds and smells of the ward wafted towards him. A market beadle – Simon couldn’t recall his name – was ringing a bell, his shrivelled face all furious, his hooked nose cutting the air. He bawled a proclamation ‘Against rotten mutton, beef that is turnip-fed, lean measly pork from hogs glutted on city muck. Against all meats charred and sweaty and thrice roasted.’ Simon recalled the delicious dishes served at his own tavern. A group of courtiers passed in their ridiculously padded jerkins, multicoloured hose and hats of the same florid design. Clean-shaven, they allowed their hair to fall down almost to cover their eyes and to lie ringleted and curled on their shoulders. All of them were armed.
‘You are the dangerous ones,’ Simon whispered, ‘the city bully boys. When the black banner is raised, you’ll be there to rob and rape.’ He closed his eyes and murmured a prayer. If he fell from power, those same deadly fops would swagger into the Roseblood tavern to take what they wanted. The same could be said of many who flowed by the lychgate. The peasants pushing their barrows, merchants strolling arm in arm, storytellers full of eerie tales about elves and fairies, changelings and witches. Prior Aelred claimed that the city mob remained hidden, concealed behind ten thousand masks; in truth, it was a beast in waiting. Cade’s invasion had proven that.
‘Master Simon Roseblood!’ He glanced up. A dust haze had risen, stirred by the iron wheels of heavy carts. A line of strumpets, Venus’s children, went by dancing and stamping their feet, garish wigs askew, low-slung bodices open to reveal all. The dust cloud shifted to reveal a gallant in padded doublet, black hose and costly riding boots. He had long dark hair, his face hidden by a silver satyr’s mask, which he held elegantly in place with one gauntleted hand, the other resting on the stabbing dirk
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