The anchorite rose and paced his cell. He paused at the whispering outside the anker slit. Was she back? Trying to control his fears and the icy tremors piercing his belly, the anchorite crept towards the slit then recoiled at the pasty white face which suddenly appeared there.
‘Hangman of Rochester,’ that spiteful mouth hissed, ‘are you not ready to pay?’
‘Pay? Pay?’ The anchorite gasped. ‘Pay for what?’
‘Blood money, surety for what you’ve done. Strip yourself of your wealth. Leave it on the ledge, the profits you have made. Money for Masses . . .’
The anchorite retreated. He plucked up the coffer crammed with gold and silver coins. For peace, he thought, I’ll surrender this, a shimmering cascade through that slit to buy peace from all this. The anchorite grasped the coffer even tighter. He felt his stomach drawn like a bow string. If only she’d go and leave him alone! He glimpsed movement at the anker-slit, a trail of scraggly hair. Was she gone? He startled as the door was pushed and rattled against its bolts. The anchorite opened his mouth in a silent scream. The door shook again, a threatening rattle. Agnes Rednal was trying to break in! He dropped the coffer and hurled himself at the door screaming and cursing, banging with his fists, pleading for that hell creature to leave him alone.
The following morning after his dawn Mass, Athelstan heard about the disturbance at the anker house. He was divesting in the chantry chapel assisted by Brother Simon, who’d acted as his acolyte and altar boy.
‘Screaming and banging he was,’ Brother Simon exclaimed. ‘The sacristan had just entered the church when it happened, a man possessed or so they say. Our anchorite is haunted by demons.’
Athelstan thanked Simon. Curious, he made his way down to the anker house and tapped on the door.
‘Who is it?’
Athelstan glanced at the slit and glimpsed the anchorite’s long white fingers grasping the sill.
‘Brother Athelstan, friend. I wonder if all is well? I mean no harm. If you would like to speak?’
To his surprise he heard the rattle of chains, bolts being drawn and the low door swung open. Athelstan bent his head, entered the anker house and straightened up. The anchorite immediately knelt and asked for his blessing. Athelstan gave this and stared around. The cell was rather large, apparently a disused chantry chapel – its wooden screen had been removed and a wall built across the gap. A comfortable, sweet-smelling chamber with bed, chest, coffers and a lavarium; a table stood under a window of clear glass, beside it a lectern then a prie-dieu with pegs driven into a wall on which to hang clothes. A small brazier warmed the air with scented smoke whilst a five branch candle spigot and a lantern horn provided more light. The anchorite, still agitated, invited Athelstan to the chair while he drew up a stool and gazed expectantly at the friar.
‘What happened?’ Athelstan asked.
The anchorite told him. When he’d finished Athelstan shook his head in disbelief.
‘And this has happened before?’
‘Oh yes, Brother, I always see her, at least in my mind’s eye. I always did but now, during these last few weeks, she comes here demanding vengeance and blood money.’
‘Blood money?’ Athelstan scoffed. ‘For what?’
‘For her death.’
‘Well, what money?’
The anchorite rose, went into the shadows and returned carrying a casket which he unlocked with a key from a ring attached to his leather belt. Athelstan gasped at the mound of glistening coins, good, sound silver and gold. He grasped a handful, weighing it carefully before putting it back.
‘My inheritance,’ the anchorite explained, ‘after my parents died, as well as what I’ve earned over the years both as a painter and hangman. Remember, I am allowed all my victims’ goods while some pay well for their going to be brisk.’ The anchorite paused, muttering a prayer. ‘Brother, why am I being haunted? If she wants blood money should I give it to her?’
‘She demanded that last night?’
‘Yes, she did and I nearly agreed.’
‘Look,’ Athelstan took the coffer from the anchorite’s hands and placed it on the ground, ‘demons walk, we know that. The Lords of the Air float by in hordes. Devils whisper in corners and all kind of darksmen roam the wilderness of the human soul. Ghosts cluster close before our mind’s eye or, indeed, to our physical senses. Nevertheless, I’ve never heard of a ghost demanding money. Moreover, why does she only appear when the abbey falls silent and deserted?’
The anchorite stared back, unconvinced.
‘You have eerie imaginings, my friend,’ Athelstan continued. ‘Undoubtedly the death of Agnes Rednal haunts you but not her soul. Please,’ Athelstan smiled, ‘trust me.’