Stone of Destiny by Paul Doherty

Author:Paul Doherty [Paul Doherty]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Severn House Publishers
Published: 2020-10-15T23:00:00+00:00

PART FIVE

‘Many devils are busy carrying him off.’

The following morning, the second Sunday in Advent, Athelstan finished reading the Gospel and went straight into the pulpit to deliver a homily which truly startled his parishioners. Watkin, Pike and the rest were accustomed to Athelstan pleading with them to be gentle to each other and how, at Christmas especially, they should prepare for the birth of Christ in their hearts as well as the manger in Bethlehem. Instead, his voice full of fury and scorn, the friar delivered a truly angry denunciation of the Flayer who, in his view, was excommunicated and fit for hell as any Herod. He attacked the Flayer for his repulsive murder of innocents and the ghastly desecration of their corpses. He then spoke warmly about his ‘dear sister Ursula’ and his genuine affection for Ursula’s constant companion, the great sow Hilda. Athelstan then returned to the attack, damning the Flayer as worse than a demon incarnate, a soul bound for hell where the demons would welcome him like a brother. Athelstan’s parishioners sat chilled by the ferocity of their parish priest’s invective. It ended with a heartfelt prayer that God send an angel to intervene and bring this malicious malignant to a well-deserved end on the gallows outside Newgate.

Once he had finished, Athelstan swept into the sacristy, where he hastily took off his Mass robes.

‘You weren’t just condemning the Flayer, were you?’

Athelstan turned to confront Paltoc, who had slipped like a shadow through the sacristy door. ‘What do you mean?’ Athelstan asked, slightly cross at this stranger creeping up so silently behind him.

‘You are trying to provoke him, yes?’

‘Perhaps. My sermon is not really meant for my parishioners. I hope it will be repeated and proclaimed throughout Southwark, across the bridge and into the city. It may well provoke the Flayer to show himself. Anyway,’ Athelstan continued briskly, ‘to what do I owe this honour?’

‘First, when I have found the family grave, I would like your permission to dig. I understand,’ Paltoc’s words came in a rush, ‘and you may well know this, my family were buried in caskets not just shrouds, and their names and titles were carved on the coffin lids. I assure you, Father, there will be no disruption …’

‘To the others during their final sleep before the resurrection.’ Athelstan finished his sentence, taking the words from the rite of exhumation. ‘Go ahead, my friend, but be respectful and prudent.’

‘And secondly, Father.’

‘Of course there is always a secondly.’ Athelstan bit his lips. He did not mean to be so tart and blunt.

‘Secondly, Father, this …’ Paltoc dug into his pocket and took out a strip of grubby linen. ‘You asked me to bury the linen parcel containing human skin. I did so, but I first took a strip of the linen so I could examine it. Father, it’s quite coarse, not fashioned in this kingdom but from Hainault or Brabant. Their looms produce a tougher and indeed a cheaper linen. Not the sort of material you would carry around with you.

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