SINGLE window allowed a gentle stream of sunlight into the cell of Father Bartholomew. It was enough to stir Ellias who was kneeling half-awake in prayer. Once more he looked at the body on the bench against the wall, a black cloth overlaying the white shroud. The women of the church had embalmed Bartholomew with care and sorrow; his hands held a small crucifix.

The night of the death had been windy with a violent gust blowing from the sea. There had been no witnesses. A messenger had ridden to the abbey the following morning, but it was passing strange, Ellias thought, that they had not encountered him on the road.

The prospect of his original mission lingered, and he wished now that he might have spoken with the man who lay dead. What would Bartholomew have asked of him? Hubert had wanted a steady hand, and, at the least, he would expect a full account of events. It had seemed sinful to refuse the task at the start, but now it seemed presumptuous to lead as a mere monk without the presence of the priest. He was not ordained to any special office. Hubert’s favouritism had gone awry in this instance. But the deceased was in need of intercession, and the village needed guidance until the abbey could bring succour.

The matter would soon be out of his hands. Though they would travel slowly, the brothers from the abbey would arrive in a few days. The thought came as a tremendous relief. His task now was to gather an account from the villagers, and to put that document into the possession of the abbot. The abbot would no doubt send Ciaran, who should have been given the charge from the beginning.

The ever present odour of death recalled him to the body of the priest.

It had been fifteen or more years since Ellias had cared for a corpse. A soldier named Armel had ridden beside him only to fall suddenly upon the road. He’d died there in the summer heat due to a festering wound hidden under his hauberk. Ellias remembered how the man’s tongue had lolled.

The passing of Brother Agathon two years ago had been an occasion of sombre beauty with the brothers intoning the words of the requiem, praying for the passage of his soul.

Those deaths had been in the natural way of being. One could not gainsay the heavenly judgement of time. But this murder was a rupture in the fabric of creation, a desecration of God’s image. The cruelty of the lacerations, the piercing of living flesh hidden beneath the shroud, had been keenly felt. The man’s cries echoed in his mind. His lips were silent, true, but the mangled body cried for justice.

Ellias sensed the old man’s tidy customs in this small room: the carefully arranged items, spare and well preserved; the window that looked upon the green hills and blessed his place of devotion with light.

The rhythm of the priest’s life was not much different than his own. Bartholomew had been a monk at heart.

He remembered the sole occasion when they had met. It was before his final oath to the abbey, at a gathering in the court of King Leodegrance. He and Ciaran had attended upon the abbot, then hale of body, and the singular figure of the priest had towered over the visiting clergy. His black beard flecked with grey descended to his navel, and his strong hands gripped one another as if he prayed walking and conversing. His eyes were dark brown flames and his voice baritone. Well read, Hubert had noted, but not one for conversation. A stern presence, but not without warmth.

Ellias had liked him while Ciaran, who did not share the priest’s taste in books, had found him a philistine. But it was his strong words to Hubert that caused disquiet. “The old ways are not gone, Father Abbot,” Bartholomew boomed. “I find druidic charms hanging in the forest of a time. I do my part by teaching my flock how to truly ward off evil spirits. I make use of many sacramentals in my work.”

It was the kind of speech to embitter Ciaran who despised the fears of folklore. “There’s a man who would let superstition grow like a weed beneath his feet,” he whispered later to Ellias. He thought the comment too strong at the time, but as he recollected the words now, the idea took root again in his mind.

For though he had seen little of the villagers thus far, he guessed at the kind of people they were—credulous, frightened of an evil they were ill-equipped to discern. He’d passed through many such towns during his campaigns under Arthur, all full of local legends that reflected the fears and secret failings of the people—sorcery, where simple plant alchemy was used; goblins, instead of a madman; fairies, instead of kidnappers. And here a dead priest, in a place already lit with the fires of superstition. Had he not seen it with his own eyes from the watchtower?

Could the story of the letter be true? ‘A creature of demonic powers though of a nature to be recognized.’  Those had been Bartholomew’s words. He considered, but after a while, dismissed them. It would do no good to let a holy man’s sacrifice give credence to his superstition. Similar tales had been told even by the noblest of knights in his early years, many of whom confided later that their tales were to satisfy their audience at the court, papiliones transeuntes—little lies of the moment.

Perhaps Ciaran had perceived clearly the good priest’s credulity.

And what of the body? It should not be difficult to discern if a beast or a man had slain the poor priest. And yet…

Ellias replaced the candle above the corpse and recited again the words of exorcism. As he finished, he uncovered the body and looked once more at the horrors inflicted. Lacerations covered the neck and upper body. From steel blade or animal claw he could not tell, for some looked clean and others jagged and any intention was concealed beneath the sheer savagery of the deed.

A dog barked outside, and Ellias looked to the sky beyond the window. The day was ageing quickly. He got up, considering his brief reverie to be enough rest for the present. Asprey, however, remained curled on the floor in deep sleep. The poor boy had not been ready to look upon such a sight.

He prayed a final Paternoster then shook Asprey from his sleep.

“Get up,” he said. “There is much we need to do.”

They went out again into the world, fatigued and hungry.

***

CHILL wind belied the bright clear sky. The valley, rounded by mountains on three sides, glistened with morning dew. The business of the land was subdued; far figures in the low pastures glanced surreptitiously at the two monks, then kept to their work. These people were in no hurry to greet them, Ellias noted. They crossed the short distance from the cell to the wooden doors of the church. It was a building of rough-hewn beauty, a stone building on a paved yard.

“This is lovely country,” said Asprey. The boy was kneeling at the edge of the grass, a straw in his mouth, eyes gazing at the hills.

Ellias clutched the large lock on the chapel door. He looked down at the stains of blood underfoot. Though partially washed away, they had still spread far. According to Margret, the body of Father Bartholomew had been found here, on the threshold of the church, its doors blown open as if by the wind. She and other women had tended to the body quickly while the other villagers had gathered in shock and grief. Howell, the village elder, had placed a lock upon the door to prevent further disruption, insisting that nothing should be touched until word had reached the abbey.

He looked at Asprey. “Margret said she would greet us here about this time,” he observed.

“She’s down at her house, just there,” said Asprey, pointing downhill over the road.

Ellias could just make out the figure of the woman shaking a rug on the doorstep of her house.

“Go and fetch her. Tell her we wish to reopen the church.”

“Yes, Brother Ellias,” said Asprey, and hurried off.

Watching the retreating figure of the youth, Ellias felt grateful that he was not alone in this windswept hamlet. Yet, he regretted bringing a lad of fourteen with him.

***

SPREY’s errand proved long. With spare time before him, Ellias returned to the cell. There was not much to see, but as he circled the room, he caught sight of a small wooden chest under Bartholomew’s bed. Inside he found no surprises: a tattered prayer book, incense, a knife for whittling, ink, pen, and small folds of blank parchment. But in a privileged place, wrapped in a purple cloth, lay a sheaf of papers tied with yarn. Cautiously the monk removed it and untied the string. It felt just shy of sacrilege, reading the private papers of a dead man, but as he considered, he suddenly knew that in all the world only he might read them to any good purpose. Otherwise the thoughts of this peculiar, yet formidable priest might as well be lost to the ages.

Bartholomew’s hand was strong and generous. He detailed the many beauties and oddities of the natural world: flowers that bloomed a week sooner than expected, a raven that perched in the chapel tree of an evening, the changing of the seasons on the many paths through the forest, as evidenced by the signs of certain plants.

The forest loomed large in the life of the priest. Bartholomew was a keen woodsman and set many small traps. One passage written a few days before his death leapt from the page:

‘Walking along the deer path that closes on the ridge, I saw a fire burning near the old ruins. I don’t know many who would dare sleep near the weird stones even among the old believers. Matha, perhaps, but he has been gone many years now. I should investigate, but I have not found the time to walk so far. Such wicked days. I must consult with Abbot Hubert…

Here the last words were unreadable, but clearly Bartholomew had intended to write to the abbot before any death had occurred. He glanced at the date in the journal—just three days before the slaying of Hova’s son.

Could the boy’s death have been a ritual? Heathen sacrifice had been stamped out in the days of Arthur, though many still whispered their belief in the old ways. King Lludd, it was said, still harboured the faith of his grandfather. But even in the kingdom of Lludd the ritual fires were forbidden.

He looked at the text again. ‘Matha’—a peculiar name. Now he knew for certain that the fire in the forest carried some significance.

***

SUDDEN sound of hooves drew him to the threshold. A rider was approaching. Looking up the road, Ellias had time enough to see what sort of man he was.

Raven haired, silvered at the temples; a man lean and strong. His sable dress and leather riding boots suggested wealth while their weathered state spoke of long travel. His horse breathed deeply—a fine animal for hunting and war. He halted before the monk.

“Good morning,” said Ellias.

“The same to you,” the man replied.

“Are you the messenger for this village?”

“Only this once, I hope,” he said.

“Then you have travelled from St. Mark’s?”

“This is about the murdered priest,” said the stranger. The words were more a statement than a question.

“As you say,” said Ellias. “Though I know little as yet.”

“I am Sir Edwin, a friend of Master Howell’s,” replied the rider. “It was at his urging that I carried the news to the abbey, since his manservant had not returned.”

“Truly, these days are filled with grief upon grief,” said Ellias. 

“Indeed. And I fear there is more to come,” said the rider. “But as you no doubt have guessed, I bring word for you, Brother Ellias.”

The rider dismounted.

“Hubert sends this message,” he said. “Help is being sent, and he wishes you to delay Bartholomew’s burial until he may be given the proper rites by a company of the brethren.”

They moved into the cell. Edwin’s face grew solemn as he came upon the shrouded body.

“I helped carry him,” he said. “He deserved a better end. Perhaps you would hear something else. It is not my business, to be sure, though it may throw some light on the circumstances of his death. For you will have a trying time wrenching it from the mouths of these people.” He motioned the village outside.

“You have told me something already by your manner,” said Ellias. “But I will hear anything you have to say. Perhaps you can give meaning to the name ‘Matha’.”

Edwin shook his head. “The name means nothing to me. As for what I have to tell you, you may wonder if my friendship with Master Howell clouds my judgement.

“You have no doubt read the letter telling of Aeron’s death. He was the son of Hova, brother to Howell, and of Karin, a Danish woman of noble birth. A fine boy. This accursed place did not deserve one such as him.”

“Why do you say so?”

“There are some among these villagers who slew Karin’s kinfolk in a blood feud, many years ago. Her boy is dead, and now their priest.

“I was a guest of Howell’s the night of Bartholomew’s death. We went on horseback to the church. Several villagers were there already, but they stood doing nothing for the dead man—he who had cared for them, a true shepherd of his flock. We set his body on a coverling and brought him in here. Howell was beside himself. ‘They have killed him,’ he said, ‘just as they killed the kin of my brother’s wife.’

“I set out for the abbey early the next morning. I know the river paths well enough to cut half a day from the journey. Thus have I returned, a weary traveller.”

“You give me much to consider,” said Ellias. “But I must determine what is the truth, and what is whisper or rumour, before I submit my account to Abbot Hubert.”

“Yes, and the abbot asks something else of you,” said Ewin. “He urges complete secrecy, but rest assured it is business of the Church, and for the sake of Arthur’s Peace.”

“I am a loyal son of the Church,” said Ellias. It occurred to him that this knight might have purposes of his own, whatever his words of loyalty.

“It concerns one of the royal House of Linfoyle. As you no doubt know, King Lludd is a jealous man.”

“It is his kingdom.”

“It is rightfully Arthur’s kingdom,” replied Edwin.

Ellias considered this. “I will do whatever is right. If it is for the restoration of Arthur’s Peace, and for the Church, then I will. But I would know more of you, Sir Edwin.”

“I am the son of Urien of the court of King Leodegrance. I often come to St. Alban’s to have Hova look over my horse. There’s not a finer animal physician between the two kingdoms.”

“My brothers and I have supped at the court of Leodegrance. A good king. May his days be long.”

“The king is dying,” replied Edwin. “You should pray for the kingdom he will leave without an heir. As to the request—”

He leaned closer, and spoke in a low voice.

“A small band of companions may travel through St. Alban’s. They will be dressed like merchants, but fairer in demeanour. Give these travellers room in the church and do not allow any in the village to pry too closely. Let them pass without notice when they take leave. I would say more, but you will know their business from them yourself. It is in the service of Arthur’s Peace, rest assured. Do this and you will do the will of the abbot.”

“And Master Howell? What is he to know of this? Is he not the elder here?”

“He knows already all that which he will know. Pray do not mention it to him.”

“I am not a man for politics, Sir Edwin. I pray that my duties may take me back to the abbey quickly once Bartholomew has been buried and his murderer found.”

“Then you too believe it to be murder?”

He had not meant to reveal his own assumptions so openly.

“Speaking the word aloud carries dread doesn’t it?” said Edwin with a twinkle in his eye. He pointed a finger at the monk’s chest. “Nevertheless, you may be right. Not all is well among these villagers, as I have told you. And there is something else, a sense that the past has not vanished. But nevermind, you will sort truth from falsehood. A princely game. I wish you well, Ellias, formerly Knight of the Red Chequer.”

“Indeed, I was a knight,” affirmed Ellias. “Though my memories of those days yield less happiness the more I think on them.”

“Then perhaps this final news from me will only add to your unhappiness. There is another of Arthur’s men who roams this county as its sheriff. You may remember his name—Kenric of Caredris.”

“I am in debt to you,” said Ellias. The less said the better, he thought.

“I am grateful for the trouble you are taking, Brother Ellias. Though it is not my village, if it were I would certainly be glad of your presence. I would have words with the abbot again soon—he thinks highly of you! Perhaps then we can discourse at greater leisure. But now I must see to my horse—he has suffered overlong for my adventures.”

They walked outside and Edwin patted the black mane of his destrier.

“God be with you,” said Ellias.

The knight mounted and rode off with a courtly gesture.

Sir Edwin had never before appeared at the abbey, though Ellias had heard his name mentioned. Perhaps Captain Killian had good reasons to suspect intrigue from the abbey. If so, the truth would not fall from his lips. The news of Leodegrance’s illness was dismaying. The rivalry between Leodegrance and Lludd had not occupied Ellias overmuch, but now he felt the weight of politics added to his troubles. A kingdom without an heir would not last long without war.

Edwin’s bearing made him think of his own soldier days, the sad days after Arthur, moving from court to court, seeking work. What had become of his friends of that time? He had not had many. Sir Philodorus, the seneschal, who died in battle; Sir Palomides, the foreigner, who used a scimitar and fell by the same.

Now Kenric. His name brought to memory a tall swordsman, a warrior in Arthur’s last battle and in the feuds that followed. A fighter with a quick mind and a cruel wit, Kenric and he had enjoyed many of those merriments of which a man must repent to take holy orders. Men like him were celebrated outside the walls of the abbey, among those who held little concern for the ways of the Church.

***

LLIAS looked up to see Asprey’s face peering in at him. “We have opened the church, Brother,” he said, smiling. “I could not find the key, for Master Howell has it and he is out. I know not where, and so I wrangled a hammer from the blacksmith. He was rude at first, but his curiosity overcame him.”

“What did you tell him?”

Asprey grinned. “That a knight of King Arthur required a hammer immediately. He came and broke the lock himself! And do you know what he said? ‘I told Howell it was not his church anyhow.’”

Ellias stifled a smile. “I see. What is that?”

A heavy object swung in Asprey’s hand. “Why, the broken lock!” He gave it to Ellias. “Did I do wrong, Brother? Was I indiscreet?”

“In this case it’s just as well, considering the urgency,” said Ellias.

“I am beginning to like it here,” Asprey admitted. “Except…the people have all been very odd, with their eyes downcast, or, when they look, they glance at me as if I were a foreigner.”

“They are grieving and do not know what to expect. Your words to the blacksmith may shake them. You do not understand the power of the words you speak, even carelessly.”

“Oh, but I do Brother Ellias. That is what Brother Ciaran has taught me in his lessons. To take the greatest care for the word.”

“Nevertheless, you must take even greater care in the future. We must listen and learn first, and choose our words accordingly.”

“Yes, Brother.”

Ellias sat and wrote of all the events that had occurred since their arrival. He took careful note of Edwin’s words concerning the villagers. He laid the pages side by side, allowing the ink to dry. There would be more to write—much more, he suspected, in the coming days. He cherished the clarity that the words brought him. The weight of the task was not lost on him—the writing of a book of deeds that must seek earthly and heavenly justice. Arthur’s land had fallen astray, and wherever a Christian had once walked freely, the bastion of his faith had been subverted. King Lludd, though he spoke fairly beside his Christian bride, allowed a generous protection of pagan practices, until, it seemed, the priest and bishop had little leeway in the land.

***

SOFT knock came at the door. Margret, the goodwife, had arrived. “Brother, I must beg your pardon!” she said. “I had not been sure if you and your novice would break fast with us. I fear our hospitality has been lacking.”

“We have spent the night in prayer and have not needed anything.”

“You must be starving,” she insisted.

“We will not eat till evening.”

“I came to clean the chapel, but Master Howell thought you should see it first, given what took place.”

“We will see to it presently,” said Ellias. “Bartholomew’s body demands that we freshen its condition. We will need rosemary, thyme, lavender, and spruce branches. A fair amount of each.”

“Most I can get quickly,” she said.

“God be praised,” said Ellias. “I have no doubt the brothers from the abbey will come with everything else that is needed. Come, let us go to the chapel.”

Ellias led them to the church and threw the doors wide.

Chaos met them, for the wind had blown through the sanctuary. The candles were guttered, and the lamps had fallen to the floor, their oil spilt. There was another tale to be discovered, for the baptismal font was shattered into rubble. The contents of the sacristy were strewn about, broken and twisted. The wreckage showed not only the casual force of nature, but a blind hatred.

Margret was pale and shuddered at the sight. “I have not been here since that night,” she said. “What demon could have done this, Brother?”

Ellias looked askance at her, and decided it was not the time for such questions.

The floor was done in a similar fashion to those of St. Mark’s, square tiles of many years of use. Now he looked for muddied prints of foot or sandal, and found them. Following them, he rose and crossed the nave to the altar, and then again to the shattered font.

Were they Bartholomew’s prints, or another’s? The sandal marks were recent enough, but there was much scuffing. A putrid air now divulged itself, as if some foulness had been smeared.

It was at the threshold that the marks on the floor told their confused tale, here with a sorrowful end. Ellias peered closely to discern the pattern under the large stains of blood which was surely that of the priest.

From the top step he looked in and finally spoke to his silent companions.

“The main encounter took place here, at the doorstep, between Bartholomew and the one who killed him,” he said.

He looked to Margret. “I believe they ended their struggle outside the church, as I observe there was a large pool of blood that has since been washed out.”

“It’s true,” said Marget. “I boiled some water and washed it away.”

“The font is smashed up, not merely broken. The desecration was interrupted, for Bartholomew must have come on the scene and found the desolator at work.”

The monk stood over Asprey on the outside step. He loomed large over the young novice.

“Whoever it was had the advantage of him, standing over his shoulders. Though Bartholomew was a big man, he must have been surprised by the attacker. Though I believe he fought mightily to defend his church.”

Margret sobbed. “Forgive us, Brother, for leaving this place so.”

“Be at peace,” said Ellias, comforting her. “God loves the devout of heart, and he sees your intention. As terrible as it may have been for the parish, there is a usefulness in preserving the scene as it happened that night. I have now seen all that I need.”

Even without the destruction, there was much to clean. The only glad thought that came to Ellias was that the church reminded him of the old chapel at St. Mark’s, with its far altar and sturdy benches. Several hours of work and buckets of water served to revitalise the church. Asprey diligently moved the rubble outside with the use of an old blanket, disposing of it at the edge of the field. Ellias began a rite of reparation and exorcism, and finally the three of them stood in the light of a westering sun, serenely cast upon the chapel’s crucifix.

“I must prepare supper,” said Margret. “I shall expect the both of you!”

“That you may,” said Ellias. “I would like to rest before supper and vespers, I think.”

“Our old hut is comfortable, Brother, though it is humble. There it is. You can see my husband Cradhok, working. He will show you,” said Margret. “I’ll have supper ready before too long.”

“Thank you. My novice will gather spruce branches if you will direct him to the place. And spare as much as you may for the church—it has as much need of greenery as does the corpse. Tell me, Margret—when might I speak with Master Howell?”

“He will still be afield,” said Margret. “We often see him when he collects rent of an evening, but I’ve heard that he’s gone today with his brother, into the forest.”

“Very well. If he comes, will you send word to me?”

With these words they parted.

Having seen the situation inside and outside the church, he now considered what it was that a villager might have seen on this hill, for the church entrance was uniquely situated and stood in open view of the village. The village, in turn, was mainly in view of the church. In the daylight it was easy enough to imagine what might have been seen. And yet he had been told there were no witnesses.

***

HE green country unrolled before him, a garden of the earth. But the business of the dead would not leave him. A shadow had not fallen suddenly here—it had grown up like the twisting vines of the bramble that he now passed.

His memory returned to an episode from his youth during his service to Sir Aglovale. In those days Grail-fever had swept Camelot. While King Arthur proclaimed his belief in the Grail, some suspected that Lancelot nurtured the legend to stem growing discontent among the knights. Countless beggars filled the forests, conducting bizarre religious rites, and Ellias well remembered the horrible slog through field and fen to find a myth that never materialised. It didn’t help that Sir Aglovale had been a taciturn man prone to long silences.

One afternoon, a hermit had hurried from the undergrowth, crying for help.

“What ails you?” asked Sir Aglovale.

“Demons! The soldiers of Satan are loose in the forest.”

“Do you speak of spirits or flesh and blood?”

“I have seen the face of Lucifer himself!” cried the beggar.

A short ride into the forest had revealed the truth: a band of robbers betting on the credulity of a wealthy knight. Though they escaped, Sir Aglovale was wounded in the melee, and Ellias badly bruised. Afterwards, weary and soiled, he had murmured, “We should not have trusted that beggar.”

Sir Aglovale had replied with words he’d never forgotten.

“Perhaps, but what if he were telling the truth?”

As if the Evil One could be faced with steel! Years of campaigns had taught him to distrust the rumours of remote villagers and beggars. No. Bartholomew’s death was not the ritual of ogres, but the work of men of selfish intent. Such are the ways of men, subverting the grace of God, invoking phantoms for a low purpose. That such ordinary evil resembled the work of devils was to him logical—like the snake he’d once found under foot in the abbey—a subtle and deadly form, slipping with little notice into the cracks of the foundation.

***

HEN he came to the mill-house Ellias circled to the riverbank where the wheel churned steadily. He found a sensible spot to wash and was soon donning his habit once more, refreshed, and hungrier.

Around the corner of the storehouse, an older man was squatting, hammering at a repair. He approached the man slowly to make known his coming. A lean build with thin features and balding grey hair that grew long to his shoulders—such was Cradhok the miller.

The man did not look up as he paused silently beside him.

Ellias observed the front of the house, humble and sturdy, and the surrounding partitions: a coop filled with hens bobbing and pecking about; another enclosure with a lonely sow, and a larger thatched hut some yards back from the house. No doubt a toolshed. The house was well built of wood with a stone foundation and a roof neatly thatched. Whatever prosperity these villagers enjoyed, it was due to the plenitude of the river and nearby wood.

“Cradhok?” said Ellias at last.

So incessantly did the man hammer that the monk repeated his name louder.

The old man looked up, squinting hard then widening his eyes.

“Did you not see me?” asked Ellias. “With my shadow crossing you?”

“Long last ‘es got a tongue,” said Cradhok to nobody. He peered past his shoulders, glancing up at his tonsured head.

“You’re fairly clear,” Cradhok declared, getting up.

“I am Brother Ellias. Your wife has offered us shelter and supper. My novice and I have prayed for long hours for Bartholomew, and I am in need of a place to rest.”

“And may the soul of the poor Father find its way to heaven,” said Cradhok.

Like the other words the miller said, it had an odd tone.

“I will show where ye may rest awhile.”

Cradhok had a habit of staring at the ground, then to either side, as if he crossed invisible lines known only to himself. They approached a smaller hut and he opened the its door with some struggle.

The inside was dark save for soft rays seeping through into the middle of the room. There was no window to the outside otherwise. The floor was bare ground. However, the cots against the far wall seemed to have been mounted with careful attention. A wood post with metal rungs set into the floor signalled that this had for some time functioned as a stable, though the smell had mainly been expelled by disuse. By no means the most uncomfortable quarters he had seen. It would do, until Bartholomew was buried.

“Lived ‘ere meself quite a few nights,” said Cradhok, nodding his approval of the furnishings.

“Before you built the house?” said Ellias.

The miller paused, looking up as he searched for his words.

“Often when the wife didn’t want my company,” he said. “I will get some straw, it ain’t much good wi’out it, to say fairly.”

Just as Cradhok made to shut the door, Ellias stopped him.

“One moment. What did you mean back there by ‘fairly clear’?”

“Eh?”

“You said I was fairly clear, as you looked past my shoulder. What did you mean by that? Is there someone I should look out for in these parts?”

“You might put it that way,” said Cradh.

“Well, why don’t you say it plainly now.”

“Spirits, ‘o course,” said Cradh. “They’re all about, in the air, settlin’ on people’s shoulders.”

The miller moved to leave, but the monk motioned for him to stay.

“Please, linger awhile. I do not know anyone here, and I would speak with one who knows the village.”

“Very well,” said Cradh, shifting his weight uncomfortably.

“This boy Aeron. Perhaps you knew him.”

“We all knew ‘im,” replied Cradh.

“What can you tell me of his death?”

“‘’Twere a regular enough night, to my mem’ry. None o’ us ‘eard nothin’ nor saw the body of Hova’s boy. They did the burial rites next mornin’, in Master Howell’s private yard. That were all I could see over the wall, as we went to pay our respect.”

“And Bartholomew, did he say nothing?”

“All ‘e would say was we were in need of guardin’ our ‘earts ‘gainst the evil one. Hova—now ‘e were like a huntin’ dog, wantin’ men to follow ‘im into the wood at all hours. That’s where ‘e went this mornin’ I gather.”

Ellias nodded his understanding.

“Just now at the church I could not help noticing how much is visible from the churchyard. I wonder what someone could have seen the night of Bartholomew’s death,” said Ellias.

“A strong wind came from the sea, Brother, and clouds that didn’ burst. We mainly kept indoors.”

“But surely you saw him that night.”

“As ‘ad we all, brother. At vespers!”

“And afterwards?”

There was a shift in Cradh’s wrinkled face as he looked at the ceiling uneasily.

“‘It were I that found ‘him at the church, cut up, like ‘e were a killed deer. God save ‘im!”

“Did you hear him cry out?”

Cradh shook his head and stroked his beard.

“What did you think had happened?”

“Well, plainly speakin’, that a bear had come out o’ the wood and mauled ‘im. People said many things that night. We were struck with terror, to tell ‘ee the truth. ‘owell locked the doors tight, and said to keep to our ‘ouses lest the beast find another of us.”

“Did you see bear prints in the grass?”

“Nay,” said Cradh. “Anyhow it were dark.”

“And the next day?”

“I did not look.”

“Did anyone else? Hova?”

“Like as not, he did,” said Cradh, nodding. “And like as not ‘e will tell ye ‘isself.”

“What else did you see when you found the body?”

“I only rang the bell and waited.”

“Did you look inside the church?”

Cradh paused, then nodded.

“All blowed in by the wind.”

“Or the bear,” Ellias suggested. “A bear makes for a very careless congregant.”

“Yes, p’raps, I ‘adn’t thought o’ that till ye said so.”

“Perhaps it was the same bear that killed Hova’s son.”

“Who’s to say? Wouldn’ be the first time wild animals ‘ave ‘unted people. I’ve ‘eard of such stories, and seen some meself.”

“Thank you, Cradh. I will rest now.”

“As you say, brother monk. I’ll be returnin’ to mendin’ now. Rest up and we’ll call ye for supper.”

***

HE sun had sunk to an ember when he woke some time later. The straw bed had proved more comfortable than he would have guessed. He heard footsteps coming from the mill-house, quick and noisy. Moments later Cradh stood in the hut’s doorway, his face glowing by the light of the candle he held.

“Supper be hot,” he said. “Have a care or it’ll burn ye.”

The mill-house held a spacious room, half kitchen, half living quarters. A large dog lay sprawled on the hearth where a fire burned.

“Meet my pride,” said Cradh, leaping on the dog. He ruffled his ears violently and the dog crooned. “Can smell a rabbit a mile off.”

“Come in, Brother,” said Margret, her face and hands red.

“Where is Asprey?” asked Ellias.

“It’ll be no sin if we eat without him,” said Cradh.

“Cradh!” said Margret.

“He should be here with us,” continued Ellias. “Did he complete the task I set for him?”

“That he did. Perhaps you should go find him up at the church,” said Margret with an eye on her husband.

Cradh shook his head. “Give ‘im a little while. It’s dark as a cave outside.”

“Are you afraid of the bear?” asked Ellias jovially, but his joke was met with a stony look from the miller.

“Aye, I’m a fool,” said Cradh. “I’ve seen its handiwork. Shall we go up and look for the young lad together?”

Even as he spoke, the lithe figure of Brother Asprey suddenly appeared in the doorway.

“Where have you been?” asked Ellias.

“Gathering news. And I have some foodstuffs—given hospitably by the good folk of St. Alban’s.”

He set a basket upon the table.

“A gift to us from goodwife Morvel and her daughter Elena—they belong to Rhain, the blacksmith. Look, Brother Ellias!” He smiled and raised a jar of honey.

Ellias laughed. So the boy was resourceful. “Some honey would do us all good. Let’s sit down and eat.”

***

RADH possessed one of those faces in which one might read too little or too much—were his words playful with his reference to “spirits of the air”? The church condemned such beliefs, but it was a difficult subject. 

The old man kept his eyes turned away, except for a quick glance, paired with a smile.

The dinner was finished.

“Now Margret,” said Ellias, breaking the silence. “If it does not violate hospitality, I would hear more of what happened. Cradh has told me some. I must have a reliable account for the abbot.”

“Will he come here, do you think?” said Margret, her eyes wide.

“He is too old, I fear, to make the journey. I hope, however, to travel back to the abbey to give it to him there. Once the brothers arrive, I will request as much.”

“Then you will not be with us long?”

It surprised Ellias to find that his presence was already relied upon.

“Nothing is settled,” was all he found to say.

Margret cleared the table and stepped away.

Ellias persisted. “Of Bartholomew’s death…what can you remember of that night?”

“There’s not much more to be told, Brother. Not more than my husband can say.”

“Nevertheless, I would have it in your own words,” he said.

“The night of…” she began with a shallow and quavering breath, “it were all high and violent wind. You couldn’t get outside, hardly. But Cradh did, to shut the coop. I looked out at him then closed the door quickly. After a while he returned. Then we worried about Father because of the wind, thinking he’d find it difficult to come down the hill for his supper. Cradh, he went out again to find him, and…well, did you tell him the rest?”

Margret looked to her husband, who nodded.

“There,” said Margret. “That’s all, until me and the women had to fix up his body.”

She began to cry into her apron. The three men looked on as she retreated into a corner.

“I wonder how much work had to be done for the body Aeron,” said Asprey. “They found him at the old ruins west of here.”

The words caught Ellias’s attention.

“Druidwork they say,” said Asprey. “It’s long been abandoned, of course. At least…”

The boy hesitated.

“Yes? What else?” Ellias prodded.

“At least that is what I’ve heard,” Asprey replied, blandly.

Cradh laughed. “Boy’s ‘eard what many’ ‘as. These parts are grown with such wild tales o’ the old days, an’ those who were ‘ere. Off’rings piled up on old stones i’ the forest. Once a man came through town and tol’ me a tale of a giant i’ the forest. Said he talked to ‘im fer hours, as though ‘e were ‘is own brother.”

“Very tall men are not unheard of even in our own day,” said Ellias. He watched the eyes of his young novice as they had grown with wonder at Cradh’s inkling of a tale. “I have been to the courts of many kings, and they employ many such men in their personal guard.”

Cradh shook his head.

“Not like them!” he insisted. “As I said, the man was a giant, o’er seven feet tall, with a face as pale as the moon.”

“Then I should say the visitor who related this story to you was having fun at your expense.”

“This man was a servant of King Lludd himself,” said Cradh. “They know much of the old ways in Linfoyle.”

“Even the ranks of knights are filled with liars and sinners. Nevertheless, I am interested to see the place where the boy died,” said Ellias.

“There was a goat sacrifice there, one night.” The words hissed through Cradh’s lips quickly. “Maerloc said such a thing might wake the god of the forest. He’d heard it himself—cries from the forest.”

“Maerloc?”

“One of the ‘orse ‘erders, Brother. And the story of Bartholomew is true, rest ‘is soul, ‘e went to the ruins and fetched the dead goat.”

Margret turned in surprise and a dish clattered. “You never told me this!”

“No need. There’s too much tongue wagging these days and much of it about as good as warped wood. But I tell ‘ee,” Cradh’s eyes locked with Ellias’s, “that the priest told me that he buried the goat that very night. There! A Christian burial ought to cancel out the bad magic of a blood libation…or maybe tempt revenge!”

Cradh’s fervid expression turned his stomach, and he couldn’t help but see a similar excitement in the eyes of Margret.

“That which is of Heaven has no fear of Hell. But let us not speak of such deeds lightly,” said Ellias firmly.

The miller did not miss the intention of the words. He leaned back and gave a low silent whistle, bemused.

Ellias looked to Margret and Cradh both.

“Tell me of the night of the boy’s death.”

Margret wiped her hands upon her apron, sensing the uneasiness in the room. “We were not witnesses to that, Bro—”

“Tell me at least what others have said.”

“Aeron were another ‘erder fer ‘owell,” said Cradh. “Maerloc and ‘e were good friends.”

“They looked after the horses all day, most days,” said Margret. “One evenin’ two horses got spooked and ran mad into the woods. Followin’ day, about noon, Aeron and Maerloc went after them. They were gone for a full ‘nother day, but Aeron sent Maerloc back to fetch his father. When Aeron didn’t return the morning of the third day, Hova went in search. They found his body by the old ruins, as your novice said. They say he was mangled beyond reckonin’, just as Father Bartholomew were.”

“From what I have heard today,” said Ellias. “Hova is a man who carries many sorrows.”

A hard look came into Margret’s face.

“He’s a strange man. Son of the old Earl. Married a Danish woman from the settlement three days downriver. The Earl was furious, but she became a Christian for her husband’s sake. Hova is willful. Doesn’t have many friends, to speak the truth, except for his own brother. No doubt he grieves for his son, though he shows it little in his ways. Perhaps he feels guilt.”

“Why would he?” asked Asprey.

“For allowin’ the boy to go out alone. The ruins have a foul name. Hova nearly killed Maerloc when he found out that he’d left his son alone. You should speak with Howell, his brother, if you want the full tale.”

Ellias suddenly felt weariness come over him.

“I will have to visit him tomorrow,” he said, rising. “Then perhaps I can finish my account in time.”

“Master Howell will be happy to see you. He keeps busy since he breeds horses for both kings. Truth is, Brother, without Master Howell, we’re such a small village that no one pays us much mind except the abbey. But what am I saying? You are here!” she said, breaking into a smile.

“I will do what I can in the given time. I shall not ask more questions tonight, though I have many more” said Ellias. “We shall read vespers now.”

“Wait!” Margret held out her hand for a blessing.

“I am not a priest, my good lady, only a poor monk, so that blessing I cannot do,” said Ellias. “God bless you all the same.”

“There was a cry through the wind that night,” said Margret, suddenly. Her face was fearful.

They waited.

“It was Bartholomew’s, I’m sure.”

Ellias turned from Margret and looked at the miller who kept his eyes on the dog at his feet. He gripped her hand. “All will be well,” he said and then turned to the door.

“Come, Asprey.”

***

UTSIDE in the dark, they walked up the hillside. The priest’s death, Ellias now understood, must have taken place in near dark. From such an outlook, the church doors were barely visible. As for the figures at the church, they might have been discernible to some, but as Ellias now understood, the hills of St. Alban’s cast long shadows.

There was a cry…it was Bartholomew’s, I’m sure.

Despite the ferocity of the wind, Bartholomew had been heard by one person—Margret. Cradh had rung the bell. Who were the other villagers whom Edwin had mentioned, come to see Bartholomew’s body?

“Asprey, ring the bell.”

The bell was pulled and three times it rang, clear in the night, its translucent music cast around the vale, dispelling some of the unease they felt. Entering into the church he felt the hairs raise on his arm. The aroma was now rich with spruce, and incense they had brought from the abbey. But a foul air, intermingled, remained. Ellias stopped Asprey as the novice made to shut the doors.

“Let those awake see the light of the candles.”

He motioned Asprey to light them.

“No strong wind tonight,” said Asprey, gazing at the candle flames. “What are you thinking, Brother Ellias?”

“It’s hard. Whatever the story the wounds might tell, I see the hand of man. Men often lay blame elsewhere when the blame lies in themselves. Now tell me, what did you learn in the village—were they still hostile?”

“Less hostile than before,” said Asprey. “As far as Morvel and Elena are concerned, not hostile in the least. They told me where the body of Aeron was found.”

“They must know Master Howell, or one of his household, then,” said Ellias.

“Yes, that would be Maerloc, Morvel’s brother and Elena’s uncle.”

“You keep mentioning Elena. Is she beautiful?”

Asprey stammered.

“Never mind. Tell me more about the village.”

Asprey began. He spoke of the widow Paulina, Howell’s stepmother, who had visited Morvel and her daughter while he was there; of the horse-trade with the king which had suddenly flourished in the last twelve months, and of the many rumours that surrounded the villa.

“I think the villagers believed Aeron’s death was some kind of judgement on Hova—at least until Bartholomew died.”

“What act would bring such a judgement on him?”

“For marrying a pagan.”

“That’s enough,” said Ellias. “I don’t want gossip spoken here in the presence of the sacraments. We will speak further in the morning. Let us pray.”

The doors were left open, and Ellias was aware of people entering the church quietly—women, from the sound of their skirts. He turned and faced them and saw Margret, and two others, also elderly. They were kneeling, and what little glow the candles offered graced the top of their coverings, heads bowed, and hands folded in front of them.

When the prayers had ended, he and Asprey remained, praying silently for sometime, and finally they rose to find themselves alone again.

Back in the hut, sleep evaded him on the straw bed. Ever he heard the voice of the wind, imagining the fearsome frame of Father Bartholomew at the door of his church…and the shadow he had encountered there.