‘I just wish you were here,’ Ailward whispered.

Wenlock was always reassuring; after all, he had survived. Once a fighter, a master bowman, the most accurate of archers who could send a grey goose-feathered shaft into any target. The French had captured Wenlock and hacked off the bowman fingers on each hand. Wenlock bore his infirmity well and always comforted the others. Yet he and Mahant had still not returned and probably would not be back until later. So Ailward had come here to be distracted, as he always was, by the vivid array of wall paintings which dominated the south aisle. A collection of stories demonstrating the power of God over Satan and all his works, especially when the forces of hell confronted the black monks, the followers of St Benedict. Some of these wall paintings, or so he was given to understand, were the work of the anchorite, that mysterious person who had once been an itinerant painter as well as the Hangman of Rochester, a service he still carried out for the abbot. Ailward was always fascinated by such frescoes, especially those which celebrated events from the history of St Fulcher’s such as the former abbot who had foiled an evil spirit stealing wine from the abbey cellars. Ailward smiled as his fingers traced the story. The abbot had sealed all the taps of the barrels with holy chrism oil as a trap for the demon. The next scene showed a black-limbed, red-faced devil, fiery charcoal eyes glaring, green horns twitching, glued to one of the barrels. A further story, depicted in glowing colours, narrated how a young novice monk was tempted and threatened by a demon who flung his hellish cloak over the novice’s tonsure, burning his head and blistering his skin. The painting then showed the young novice on his knees begging St Benedict to assist him, which the great saint did in a blaze of shimmering light. Ailward closed his eyes and turned away. In truth he had also come here for help, for assistance, to pray, but who would listen to him? A former soldier whose soul was sin-burdened, sin-scorched, buried deep in all kinds of crimes against both God and man?

‘Corpse-maker, slave of hell, ravenous hell brute, coward!’

Ailward almost screamed at the voice which rang like a trumpet blast through the greying light, echoing under the ribbed-vault ceiling.

‘Slash of blood, raging demons, bloated and dangerous, battle-scarred. Terrors gather amongst us. .’

Ailward relaxed, tapping the pommel of his sword for comfort. He recognized the sepulchral voice of the anchorite in his cell built further along the south aisle. Once a small chantry chapel with altar, ambo and sanctuary, the entire closure had been bricked up except for a small door and a ledge in the front.

‘Mad as a barrel of crickets!’ Ailward whispered reassuringly as he made his way along. He reached the anker house and stared through the aperture. In the poor light he could only dimly make out the anchorite’s tangled hair, the frenetic eyes glaring back.

‘Good morrow, Brother,’ Ailward grated.

‘Good morrow to you too.’ The anchorite’s voice was surprisingly soft and clear. ‘Frightened are we, soldier, of the jabbing daggers, the swish of smooth swords? Oh yes, I’ve heard about the harrower of the dark who crawled through the gloaming and captured one of your kind. You lived for the arrow storm; you’ll die in the arrow storm.’

‘And you,’ Ailward taunted back, ‘live in fear of ghosts?’

‘We all have wolfish souls and hate-honed hearts,’ the anchorite retorted. ‘Guilty, God cursed.’ The anchorite breathed out noisily — a gust of air through the aperture. ‘And you, soldier, don’t the spirits gather around you? The ghosts of my wife and child?’

‘I’ve heard your fable,’ Ailward snapped, ‘your family’s blood is not on our hands. You rant and rave. You chatter like some earth-bound spirit but no one listens.’

‘I do,’ the anchorite whispered. ‘I listen to all the tales, especially about your comrade’s death.’

‘What do you know about Hanep’s murder?’

‘The good brothers gossip like women around the well. You should be careful, all of you! More walks this abbey than you think.’

‘Such as whom?’

‘She with that wicked face,’ the anchorite’s voice changed, ‘with slimy hair. Hanged her I did yet still she walks. Hush!’

Ailward felt a prickling fear. The anchorite, despite his ranting, was right. The soft slither of sandal echoed through the stone-hollowed darkness. The brothers were out in the fields or tending to other duties. The abbey church should be deserted now, that’s why he had come here. Ailward lifted a warning hand towards the anchorite. He moved to stand behind one of the great drum-like pillars; a sculpted fool’s face grinned down at him from the acanthus leaves carved around its top.

‘Horror from the great darkness,’ the anchorite’s voice boomed, ‘horror on all sides! A hideous oppression fills the soul with dread.’

Ailward ignored him; the mysterious intruder would also do likewise. The anchorite’s doom-laden pronouncements were common enough. Ailward peered round the pillar. A shape moved near the Lady chapel. Ailward could make out the garb of a black monk, hood pulled forward. Something clattered to the ground. The figure pushed back his cowl as he stretched out to pick up the sword, its blade blinking in the dancing light of the tapers. Ailward recognized him — Richer, the sub-prior, the Frenchman! Why was he carrying a sword and creeping about so closely cloaked and cowled? Richer had once been a monk at St Calliste which formerly housed the Passio Christi. Hadn’t Henry Osborne, another of the Wyvern Company, also remarked about Richer’s strange recent comings and goings? The sub-prior, in charge of the library and the scriptorium, had shown little love for the Wyvern Company ever since his arrival. Hadn’t he, chattering in French, once dismissed Ailward and his companions as tail-bearing Englishmen worthy of hell fire? Although to be fair, Richer had proved to be most compassionate to that old reprobate Chalk. Had he done that to squirrel out secrets? Had he been successful? Wenlock claimed he had. Curious, Ailward now decided to follow the sub-prior. The monk had disappeared. Ailward followed swiftly, his soft-soled boots making little noise.

Outside in the freezing cold, Ailward glimpsed the black gowned sub-prior go around a corner and across the monk’s bowling yard where the good brothers played nine-pins. Ailward drew his dagger. He kept this low as he pursued his quarry across the frozen gardens, through the apple yard and into Mortival meadow which stretched down to the watergate, usually a desolate spot especially at the height of winter. Ailward followed using the bushes and small copses to hide himself. Richer strolled boldly on. Now and again the monk would turn and glance back but Ailward was skilled in subterfuge and concealment. Hadn’t he and his comrades done similar work against so many French camps and strongholds? Ailward was now absorbed, his former unease and fear dissipated. Mahant was correct. The prospect of battle and conflict solved all misery. Ailward felt he was young again, heading towards the enemy. He was aware of the gathering river mist, the sharp breeze and the oppressive silence which seemed to shroud this lonely abbey. There again he had experienced the same many times in France. Ailward gripped his dagger. Richer was now near the lychgate in the curtain wall. The Frenchman abruptly paused. He put down what he was carrying and called out, a strident cry like that of a bird. A reply echoed in from the river. Richer picked up what he was carrying and hurried towards the watergate. Ailward made to follow but paused at the sound of dry wood snapping behind him. He turned round, dagger out; nothing, only the thickening mist billowing and shifting. He glanced back. Richer was now through the watergate. Ailward followed. Ignoring the stench of fox and other vermin, he pushed the gate open and stared through the crack. Richer stood further along the narrow quayside. He was crouching down beneath the soaring three branched scaffold handing a package to a man hooded and visored standing in a ship’s boat alongside the quay. The conversation was hushed and swift but Ailward caught the occasional French word. The man on the boat took the oilskin pouch Richer handed him. Ailward tensed. Was Richer a spy? What could he be handing over to some foreign ship? Something for the French or some other power? Ailward fought to control his excitement. He calmed himself, drew his sword and peered again. The monk had disappeared. Nothing was there but the boat, the figure in it now squatting down. ‘God go with you.’