Chapter Five
The Broken Church
THE LAST COACH Frederick had clung to rolled through East Dulwich. He slid off the back. It took sturdy legs to keep your feet when hopping off the back of a moving coach, even a slow one. The most he could say for the place so far was that there was a lot of mud. The way his shoes sank, he teetered and had to hop for balance. He darted through the grass for the nearest trees.
At least the local stable wasn’t hard to find. Within, the hosteler lay slumped against a wall in some straw with less than half a bottle dangling in one limp hand. When Frederick plucked the bottle away, the man jerked halfway to consciousness and pawed the air for it. Frederick to a swig and asked the way to Finiston.
‘What the hell you want with that wretched place, eh?’
‘Just tell me where it is.’
‘Give me back me bottle first.’
‘Finiston,’ said Frederick.
The hosteler let out a hacking laugh. ‘You mean where is it? Ha, good question! I doubt even them’s what live there could tell you for certain.’
‘The road there, then.’
The hosteler pointed a shaky, stubby finger in the right direction. Frederick returned the bottle, sprinkled a few coins in the sod’s lap, and saddled a horse. The sky went from black to dark blue as he reached the village. Or so a swaying, mossy sign told him. For a while, it was the only evidence he could spot that he’d arrived anywhere. He finally saw three cottages within sight of each other. He checked the timepiece, squinting hard through the moonlit gloom. The hands still ticked backward, but he knew by now that it showed the right time. It would be quite a while before the church bells tolled noon. Someone had already set some bells chiming, faint as thought, in the distance.
Scarlet dawn washed across the frosty edges of that arrowhead cloud, which still hovered ominously as ever. Frederick could find no stable here, so he led the horse to a small, grassy clearing and tethered the animal loosely to a branch. He followed the phantom toll up a thickly wooded hill, away from the sleeping cottages. Even dawn’s early light wouldn’t follow him through the black trees ahead. At the end of the path, the sky glimmered with a steeple towering at the centre. The nearer he drew, the more missing chunks of brick he spotted. He’d expected a rocky, lumpy, root knotted walk, but the path underfoot was smooth and lightly gravelled.
What sort of worshippers used this place? Devil worshippers like Polly claimed, or something even more curious? Either way, here was the right spot. Frederick smelled it through the clean, countryside air, musky with sex and rot cooking on a bed of coals.
The spectral bells rose to a thunderous clamber, then jangled to a stop. The ancient façade teetered. Its rickety archway yawned like a cave mouth. The morning had gone that special quiet that crystallized every tiny sound for what seemed like miles around. Vines and brambles hugged the sunken foundations of what had long ago been rustic cottages. Frederick trusted the lifelessness like a gentleman’s bellowing camaraderie or a lady’s sweetest whispers. Good for him, he had a sharp knife handy.
He climbed the mossy steps. Soft shod feet padded around inside. He slipped within quietly, sniffed the air, and smelled the usual stuffy church blend of tallow and oiled wood. Something else lurked beneath it, though. Something fresher… livelier.
‘Who’s there?’ said someone.
Frederick’s hand dipped into his pocket for his knife. Before showing himself, he turned up the bill of his cap, further disarrayed his collar and sleeves, ran his hands through some dust and brushed it about his coat. He hunched his neck and shoulders, slackened his jaw and lips, and made himself stop blinking ‘til his eyes watered and trembled.
He trudged out. ‘Oh! Pardon me, Father. I ain’t meanin’ no ’arm.’ He spoke more coarsely, his words broken with a meek lilt. ‘Just twas passin’ by, and oh, them bells was such a comfort to ‘ear.’
The priest was neither young nor old as expected. He was tall and narrow, accentuated by the black, floor length cassock, with strong hands and shoulders. The face was hard, weathered and clean shaven, with only a few grey streaks through the straight, dark hair and dark eyes that probably looked sternest when trying to seem gentle and nurturing.
‘There’s no service, today,’ he said. ‘I fear the bell tower’s in some disrepair. Twas but the wind set them chiming.’
There’d been no wind, Frederick might have mentioned… scarcely a breeze in fact. ‘Oh, that’s a shame. But oh, their song was a comfort…’
‘If it’s rest and a bit of food you seek…’
‘Oh please, Father. Don’t trouble yourself on me lowly account…’ Frederick’s wide, starry eyes scanned the gilt ceiling. Lush paintings bedecked the walls—Renaissance angels to the right, Old Testament warriors to the left. Nothing in the outer dilapidation had hinted at such splendour within. ‘Just I’m so weary, rovin’ so long… forgive me. I don’t get to church much no more.’
Behind the priest arose a freshly cloistered altar with Eucharist wine and cups set about. No service today, indeed. Frederick knew the ritual, for his da’s family had been Catholics from the old country. Not that Da had ever been much of a church going man, and neither had Frederick. Did the Queen’s Church even keep to that old custom?
‘Our Lord smiles on those who earn their keep.’ The priest gazed with warm pity. ‘Perhaps, if I found you a broom…’
‘Why, yes. Anything to be useful, Father! Aw, all so pretty!’ Frederick shifted and scurried everywhere, gawking at everything. He ran his palm all over the pews. The priest stifled a chuckle, as though at a playful puppy. If the man had helpers about who might be trouble, they’d have heard the noise and be along. Frederick looked for spots where they might be lying in wait. ‘Oh, but it must’ve been the blessed Virgin herself, what drew me to this door with them bells o’ hers…’
‘Well, yes, such are our Lord’s mysterious ways…’ The priest’s pious tone hitched ever so slightly.
‘…Aye, as on the wings of a falcon.’
The priest’s eyes hardened. ‘Not in this parish.’
‘So, they don’t still hunt with falcons?’
‘No. Not here. Have you any further questions, my son? Perhaps the scriptures…’
‘Could I… oh, it’d be such a kindness if you showed me about…’
‘Oh. Nothing else to see. Really. I assure you. Merely a dusty, old cellar… and my private office.’
‘Oh, bless you, Father. Could I curl up for a few hours’ sleep in that cellar?’
‘No, I… don’t think you’d care for that…’
‘Oh…’ Frederick hunched up more contrite. ‘Apologies, Father. Apologies. Really, it weren’t right of me—’
‘No. Quite all right, but surely you don’t wish to see—to sleep in such a dreadful spot.’
‘No worse than a manger, eh? Or someone’s dungeon? Just sounded like you wasn’t usin’ it otherwise, so’s I thought—’
‘Look here. What are you getting at?’
‘Gettin’ at? What’s for me to get at? Please, Father. I ain’t meanin’ no harm! Just, oh, now I’m here. Seems I recognize the place by all the old tales… oh, surely you must know. People drop through this lovely ol’ place, and they talk of it to fellow travellers on the road.’
‘Indeed. Not many travellers pass this way. Who’s told you these tales?’
‘Oh, young chap, he was. Called himself Martin.’
‘I don’t recall anyone named Martin.’
‘Oh? He recalled your church, Father. Aye, this is the place, I’m sure of it. Even gave me a wee gift, think it must’ve come from here.’ Frederick drew out the pocket watch and held it up.
The priest took half a step back then drew up more imperious than ever. ‘No, I… no, you must be mistaken.’
Frederick shifted toward his natural posture, keeping up the dullard’s voice for now. ‘Aw, come on.’ He thrust out the watch. ‘Go on, have a look. Where you suppose this come from?’
The priest’s eyes shot back and forth, between Frederick’s hand and face. ‘Look here, sir. I think it’s time you dropped this charade.’
‘Charade? Wha’ you mean?’ Word by word, Frederick’s real face and voice returned. ‘What’s behind your charade, Father?’
‘Who are you?’
‘Frederick Hawthorne, if you please. I’m of a mind to think your lovely wee church here harbours something nasty… something not so Christian, nor would the old pagans have approved of it neither. Here now, there’s something they’d have agreed on.’
‘What could you know about it?’
‘I’d be happy to tell it, though I wager you’d be unhappy to hear it. Either way, I think I’ll show myself about.’
The priest drew up stouter than ever. ‘You shall not, sir.’
‘Did you let Martin have a look around? He didn’t take it so well, neither.’
The priest’s eyes bled pale. ‘That trinket’s heathen owner is rightly captive, in the eyes of God, until the coming judgment! She is merely the instrument.’
‘That’s what they say of her, is it?’
‘Only the coming messenger of the Lord can direct her power according to His will. Sir, I beseech you. For your own soul, leave this matter in His hands, lest you reap His wrath.’
‘Sounds like an even less savoury bloke than you.’ Frederick shoved the priest aside and mounted the dais.
A strong hand caught his shoulder, far stronger than he’d have expected. ‘Get out of here, you heathen bastard.’
Frederick waited for the priest to yank at him. He reached up, caught the priest’s hand, and pressed it to his shoulder. He crouched and twisted. The priest shambled and fell across the dais. The man floundered and scuttled backwards towards the altar like a crab.
‘Interfere?’ Frederick loomed and snarled. ‘With what, the end of the bloody world?’
‘Should our Lord will it so—’
‘His will, maybe,’ said Frederick. ‘Not mine. What are you up to here?’ He kicked the priest’s heels, sending him scuttling faster.
‘How dare you—’
‘Dare what?’ Blood thundered in Frederick’s temples, boiling through his limbs. His nerves quivered eagerly. He yanked the priest up by the collar. ‘Strike a man of the cloth? Your scrubbed, shielded, child buggering cloth?’
The priest bucked free. A wild fist crashed against Frederick’s jaw, shaking flashes loose in his brain. His vision cleared as the priest edged backward.
Frederick stalked forward, teeth bared. The inside of his mouth was soupy with blood. It painted his teeth and lips. A little leaked from his nose. ‘You’ll have more of it ‘til you show me to your—’
The priest grabbed a golden candlestick and swung it at Frederick’s head. Frederick’s arm flew up reflexively. White hot pain flashed through him. Three candles rolled on the floor. They went out and sent the room a shade dimmer. Frederick jerked back as the candlestick swung again. His other hand caught the priest’s wrist and twisted. The priest howled, dropped the candlestick, and squirmed free. He darted backwards. Frederick brandished the candlestick, locked eyes with his attacker, and tossed it aside. The priest went a new shade of pale. This time, he snatched and swung the crystal bottle of communion wine. Frederick ducked. The bottle struck a low arch. Both men froze at the same moment as clear shards and ruby liquid rained around them. The priest shook off the shock fast enough to drive the jagged edge at Frederick’s face. Before all the debris landed, Frederick caught the wrist in a frenzied jolt. He squeezed and twisted ‘til the shattered bottleneck dropped.
Red, screaming pain pulsed into his head, and he went blind. Oh, bloody hell. No, don’t let it be the glass—No, his lids squeezed tight enough to feel the eyeballs beneath. Neither had split, but how to know for sure? After all, he’d never—
A stout, tough body slammed into him and knocked the wind from his lungs. He crashed on his back across the stones. Powerful hands closed on his throat. If jagged, shattered glass hadn’t gotten in his eyes, it certainly sliced up his coat and shirt, lacerating his back and sides. Two thumbs pressed against his windpipe. His flailing fingers fumbled across the floor and found a crystal chip. When he brought it up, it struck and dug deep into the priest’s cheek. Frederick scraped. Nothing could have prepared him for the slick, swift smoothness of the cut, like sliding downhill on firm, dry earth that magically turned into slick and muddy snow, except there was bone underneath.
The priest howled and let go. When Frederick sprang upright, his mouth struck the priest’s throat. The windpipe pulsed in panicked gulps against his lips. Sweat and blood sent Frederick’s nostrils flaring. His teeth opened, closed, and tightened. The priest punched and swatted, shoved weaklier, and sank back.
Fists and knees kept striking Frederick. He brushed them away. When blows landed on his head, his jaw tightened. More skin tore, and he tasted the slick meat beneath. Damn, but a windpipe was a tough, chewy, defiant thing! All the thrashing just made it worse. At least the man slowed up from air loss. Frederick’s head shook spasmodically. Plenty more blood filled his mouth. Strong fingers fastened on his jaws, trying to pry them loose. Damn, priest fingers tasted rank! He pried the hands away and smacked the wrists against the stone. He reared up and spat out ragged flesh, muscle, and gristle. When he fell forward, the hot and ebbing gush tried to turn his stomach inside out. The body shuddered and convulsed as he lurched away and rolled onto his back.
CONTINUES NEXT MONTH
