The Commissarius smiled his grim executioner’s smile. “I am impressed, Father Ulfrid. It appears your parishioners are wealthier than they look.” He leant forward, grasping the arms of the chair. “Good, good, that will make it all the easier for you to collect the Christmas tax.”

“But, Commissarius, there is no Christmas tax on the common people. The knights and landowners are obliged to make certain gifts to the Church, but the ordinary people bring whatever offering they can on Epiphany.”

“Quite so, quite so. I see you have been reading your predecessors’ records as I advised. Never fear, Bishop Salmon will ensure that the landowners fulfil their Christmas obligations in full. But this year His Excellency the Bishop feels that the ordinary people might be encouraged to bring a little more than they have been accustomed to do in former times. The Church has suffered greatly these past few months. The harvest has been poor on its lands and it too suffered the loss of a great many beasts in the murrain. Bishop Salmon is anxious that the Church may not be able to fulfil its role of bringing salvation and charity to those in need. I wish to assure His Excellency that the good Christian people of this parish will be anxious to help in any way they can to further the great work of the Church.”

My anger boiled over. “I thought you said, Commissarius, that the failing harvests were a judgement on the sin of the people? If that is so, surely the good Bishop’s lands should have been spared. Or is God incapable of distinguishing saint from sinner?”

I saw his expression harden and knew I’d made a very stupid mistake. The Commissarius was not a man to stomach his words being thrown back at him.

“His Grace the Bishop is above reproach, but sadly the same cannot be said for those who work in his employ. As you above all people must be painfully aware, Father Ulfrid, many of those who serve the Church are steeped in sin and iniquity. And it is the sins of the priests and other so-called servants of the Church that Heaven cries out against.”

He rose, pulling on his cloak. “But rest assured, Father Ulfrid, I will not leave you to carry this heavy burden all alone. It is my role to support parish priests in their great labours. I myself shall attend Mass on Christmas Day in St. Michael’s, in order that I may preach to the people of Ulewic and remind them of their obligations for Epiphany. I trust I will be addressing a full congregation. I should be most displeased to find I’d had a long, cold ride for nothing.”

He closed my cottage door quietly behind him. He was not a man to slam doors; he did not need to. After a few moments I heard the hoofbeats of his horse clatter away into the distance. But I sat unable to move from my chair, staring in disbelief at the closed door. A dank chill enveloped my room, as if the Commissarius had brought the stench of the Bishop’s prison with him.

I was lost. There was no way out of this. Not only would the Commissarius find my church empty of congregation, but he would see the moment he entered St. Michael’s on Christmas morning that the silver was gone. I could not possibly raise the money to redeem it in just two weeks. There was nothing… nothing I could do.

Stealing the church silver was a hanging offence. Other priests could commit cold-blooded murder and still escape death by claiming Benefit of Clergy, but that mercy was up to the Bishop to grant and the Commissarius would ensure it was not granted to me. And they wouldn’t just hang me. The Commissarius would regard slow strangulation on the end of a rope as too merciful a death. He’d make quite sure I suffered for Hilary first.

I found myself staring up at the beam above my head, picturing myself swinging there. A sharp snap of the neck and it would all be over. Not in the cottage, the rafters were too low, but the beams in the church were higher. A man could jump from those if he could get up there or he might hang himself from the rood screen. The Commissarius would see the justice in that-a gift for the Church on Christmas morning, the life of a priest. One less sinner in the Church. The Commissarius would think that a fitting tithe.

I yelped as my chair was kicked from behind, tipping it forward. I grabbed for the heavy table and just managed to stop myself crashing onto the floor. I scrambled to my feet. Phillip was standing behind me, roaring with laughter. I hadn’t even heard him come in.

“Caught you napping, did I, Father? Not that I blame you. I saw the Bishop’s little ferret riding off. That man would talk anyone into a stupor.” He swung himself down into the chair vacated by the Commissarius. “I had to listen to that bastard once myself; nearly begged the servants to bludgeon me with a mace and put me out of my misery.” He prodded my leg with the toe of his boot. “Come on, rouse yourself, man. Is this the way you greet your guests? I want wine and don’t tell me you haven’t got any.”

I stumbled to fetch the flagon and two goblets. My hands were shaking so much that a puddle of wine spilled onto the table and dripped onto the floor. I didn’t care. I handed him a goblet and I gulped down my own before he’d even taken a mouthful. I poured myself a second full measure and took a deep draught from it.

Phillip raised his eyebrows. “Gave your arse a roasting, did he? Now what have you done to upset the Bishop this time, I wonder?”

I gulped another mouthful. “If you must know, he came to tell me that he would be addressing my congregation on Christmas morning. It seems the Bishop’s coffers are light this year, so the Commissarius intends to encourage the villagers to give generously this Epiphany. And you won’t escape either. Bishop Salmon is going to exact the full Christmas tax from the landowners too, so you might want to warn your uncle.”

Phillip gave a snort of laughter. “The Bishop can demand his dues from the Manor till he’s dancing with the demons in purgatory, but my uncle will find a way of getting out of it; he always does.”

He leaned back in the chair, propping his feet, expensively clad in their new red cordwain boots, up against the wall. Phillip always sprawled in a chair, or stood legs apart, arms akimbo, as if he was determined to fill the world with his great body.

“So the ferret is to give the Christmas sermon is he, Father? That at least will make two of you in church. You must be getting lonely, standing up there with no one to say Mass for except the spiders.”

“After the abomination the Owl Masters performed on All Hallows’ Eve, the villagers will come flocking back to the church,” I told him. “You took one of their own children from the grave. Do you think they will forgive you for that? Do you honestly imagine they will continue to pay you for protection after what you have unleashed on them? They will soon realise that only the Church can save them from that demon.”

Phillip laughed. “The villagers saw you running away, screaming like a virgin maid, at the first sight of the demon. They’re hardly going to trust you to defend them from the Owlman.”

I felt my face burning and turned away to pour myself more wine.

“And your congregation isn’t the only thing that’s gone missing from the church, is it, Father?”

I started so violently that the wine spilled over the table for the second time that evening. “What… do you mean-missing? Nothing is missing.”

“I think you’ll find there is, Father.” He reached into the leather pouch that hung about his waist and pulled out a large iron key, which he dangled idly between his fingers.

I stared at it and my hand flew to the bunch of keys at my belt. An identical key hung there.

“Where did you get that?” I demanded.

“You didn’t think you were the only one with a key to the church chest, did you, Father? As my uncle’s steward I have keys for everything in the Manor and the village, including St. Michael’s. And when I heard you had delivered the tithes in full to the Bishop, I must confess I was curious. We’ve had a few problems getting the Manor dues from the villagers ourselves after the murrain, and I had thought our methods of persuasion were-how shall I put it?-a little more robust than yours. So I thought to myself: Where might the good Father find the money to pay off the Bishop, if he couldn’t raise it from the villagers?