‘So much evil, Lord.’ He prayed. ‘So deep the wickedness. The rich wax stronger and more powerful whilst the poor, like naked earth worms, are crushed and stamped even deeper into the mud. Why, Lord?’

The friar recalled the words of his own confessor, the venerable Magister Ailred at Blackfriars, the principal Dominican house in London. ‘Evil is not a problem, Athelstan,’ Ailred had advised. ‘If it was a problem, like those we confront in philosophy or logic, it could be resolved. No, Athelstan, evil is a great mystery which can only be confronted. Christ did that during his passion, singing his own hymn of love as he journeyed into the very heart of evil to confront it. He became one of us to experience that same mystery. Look at the crib at Christmas, the Holy Rood on Good Friday. .’ Athelstan sighed, crossed himself and rose to his feet. He wandered down to the main door and stared at the crude but vivid crib set up by Tab the Tinker, Crispin the Carpenter and others. Athelstan smiled. He had imitated the Franciscan idea of the Bethlehem stable and the chanting of the ‘O Antiphons’ instead of the planned mystery play about the Nativity. He’d had a bellyful of that after Watkin, relegated to being one of the shepherds, had furiously assaulted two of the Wise Men. Athelstan sighed noisily and shook his head in admiration of the large gold star Huddle and Crispin had nailed above the crib. He recalled his own secret passion. On a clear night, he’d be up on the church tower observing the stars, but the dire weather froze even birds on the wing whilst threatening clouds blotted out heaven’s gems.

Athelstan doused some of the torches and returned to lie before the rood screen. He intended to recite a psalm but, as usual, he drifted into sleep until roused by a hammering on the locked main door. He struggled awake, pulled himself up, quickly rolled up the palliasse and returned it to the recess. He glanced up at one of the windows and groaned as he noticed the grey dawn light. He had slept too long! The door rattled again. Athelstan hurried down, turned the great key, slipped back the bolts and swung it open. Benedicta, hooded and muffled, and Crim the altar boy almost threw themselves into the church.

‘Sorry, Father, sorry, Father,’ the boy yelped, jumping up and down. ‘It was so cold, we thought we’d die. We wondered what had happened. .’

Athelstan peered behind them at the freezing mist boiling over the great cobbled expanse in front of the church. Night was over and a chilly day had dawned.

‘Day has come,’ Athelstan murmured, ‘and so we must continue our journey.’

‘Father?’

Athelstan smiled over his shoulder at Benedicta. She looked truly beautiful: a simple grey wimple under a cowl framed her olive-skinned face. Benedicta’s lustrous dark eyes, full of life, reminded Athelstan of the frescoes celebrating beauty in the great cathedrals of northern Italy, but now was not the time for reflection on such matters.

‘Never was and never should be,’ Athelstan murmured to himself.

‘What?’ Crim was still jumping up and down, as agitated as a box of frogs.

‘It’s never the time for certain things,’ Athelstan smiled. ‘So come.’

There was, in fact, little time for further conversation or greeting. All three hastened under the rood screen, up the sanctuary steps and into the whitewashed sacristy to the left of the high altar. Athelstan unlocked the vestment chest and the coffer holding the sacred vessels, cloths and bread and wine. Candles were brought out and lit. The sanctuary glowed into light. Manyer the bell clerk, all cowled and visored against the cold, hurried in to sound the bell for the Jesus Mass. The clanging echoed out. At short while later Athelstan’s parishioners, bustling and chattering, coughing and spluttering, filed into the church: Watkin the dung collector; Pike the ditcher with his narrow-eyed wife Imelda constantly on the search for insult; Godbless accompanied by his goat; Ranulf the rat catcher who always brought his two prize ferrets, Ferox and Audax; and Ursula and her sow, the great pig’s flanks and ears all flapping. The sight of so much luscious pork on the hoof, and so vulnerable, made people pause, stare and wet their lips. Basil the blacksmith always sat next to the sow so, as he put it, he could savour its warmth, though many noticed how the blacksmith’s fingers never wandered far from the stabbing dagger in his belt. Moleskin the boatman came along with other members of his coven: Merrylegs the pie-maker, Joscelyn the one-armed former pirate and keeper of ‘The Piebald’ tavern, Mauger the hangman and Pernel the mad Fleming woman who, in anticipation of Christ’s nativity, had dyed her wild tangle of hair red and green.

‘Green for the eternal Christ,’ she had screeched down the nave. ‘Red for his blood.’

They all congregated within the rood screen. Some squatted on the floor; others used the leaning poles. Athelstan, dressed in the purple and gold vestments of Advent, left the sacristy, approached the high altar and made the sign of the cross.

‘I will go unto the altar of God,’ he intoned, and so the Mass began sweeping towards its climax, the consecration and elevation of Christ’s body and blood under the appearance of bread and wine. The singing bread was distributed, the osculum pacis, the kiss of peace, exchanged, the Eucharist given. Athelstan delivered the final blessing.

‘The Mass is finished,’ he declared. ‘Go in peace, but not just yet.’

Athelstan ushered his parishioners out into the nave. He dramatically pointed to the small, self-standing cubicle of oak which stood near the small Galilee porch on the far side of the church.

‘Remember,’ he declared, ‘on one side is a pew for the penitent. On the other, separated by a partition with that lattice grille in the centre, is the seat for the priest.’ He paused. ‘Crispin and Tab built that; it’s our new shriving pew. We must use it. We must all go to confession.’ He smiled at the red, chapped faces of his parishioners, mittened fingers scratching their hair or tugging at ragged cloaks against the cold. ‘I shall be hearing confessions every evening during the last week of Advent to shrive you of your sins.’ His smile widened. ‘I hope to journey to Blackfriars to have my own pardoned.’

‘Do you sin?’ Watkin shouted. ‘You, a friar?’

‘Friars especially,’ Athelstan retorted, ‘then monks and even coroners. By the way, Huddle, I must have a chat with you about your most recent painting. Now,’ Athelstan hurried on, ‘as you know there’ll be no Nativity play. You also know the reason.’

He glimpsed Imelda dig Pike viciously in the ribs.

‘I will not rehearse the sorry reasons why. We took a vote and decided to form our own choir. Now, I have translated the “O Antiphons”.’ Athelstan gestured at the bell clerk, who officiously began to distribute the stained, dog-eared but precious scraps of parchment. ‘I know some of you cannot read.’

‘All of us!’ Tab joked.

‘Perhaps.’ Athelstan clasped his hands. ‘However, we’ve been through the words, we have learnt them. Now let us arrange ourselves in the proper voices.’

The usual confusion ensued but at last Athelstan had his choir ready. The gravel-hard, deep voices of Watkin, Pike and Ranulf at the back, the clear, lucid singers of Benedicta, Crim and Pernel at the front with the others in between. Once he had silence the front line, under Athelstan’s direction, began:

‘Alleluia, Oh Root of Jesse thrusting up, a sign to all the nations.’

The line of singers behind repeated it, and so on. Athelstan caught Benedicta’s eyes and smiled in delight.

‘Wonderful,’ he whispered as he directed them with his hands. These poor but grace-enriched souls sang so strong, so passionately, with all their hearts the great hymn to the Divine Child. Athelstan felt the tears prick his eyes. The antiphons continued.