Huddle closed his eyes and sighed deeply.
Athelstan rocked backwards and forwards. ‘Indeed, I must tell you this, Huddle. The Upright Men have their own traitor in Thibault’s household. It may be only a matter of time before he learns the truth and passes such information on, if he hasn’t already.’
Huddle would have jumped to his feet but Athelstan pressed him on the shoulder. ‘Or worse,’ he hissed, ‘do you think Lascelles will let you go? Do you think just because the Wardes are dead, Master Thibault doesn’t want more information? I assure you, Huddle, whether you like it or not, before the week is out you will face judgement from both camps. You are in this, Huddle, to the death.’ Athelstan leaned forward and cupped the artist’s face in his hands. ‘So, you are truly finished here. You cannot stay in Saint Erconwald’s, yet I will not, I cannot, hand you over to a gruesome death.’ The friar paused to collect his thoughts.
‘Father, please!’
‘Listen, Huddle. The Dominicans have a house on the outskirts of Durham near Ushaw Moor. You are to go there and hide. I shall write to the father guardian, a friend, a man I trust.’ Athelstan took his hands away. ‘You must become a lay brother for a while. Use your talents to decorate their church.’
‘And Father, what will you do?’
‘I shall tell my parish council how my order has been greatly impressed by Huddle’s marvellous talent. How they needed one of their churches decorated with paintings before the great feast of Easter. How you were reluctant to leave, but I was insistent. Now,’ Athelstan pointed to the corpse door, ‘Go to the priest’s house and wait for me there.’
Huddle left, closing the door quietly behind him. Athelstan made to rise when a thud and clatter at the door made him startle. He hurried down, opened the door and saw Huddle sprawled back, eyes staring, limbs thrashing, hands clutching at the yard-long feathered shaft embedded deep in his chest. Athelstan cried out even as another arrow shaft whipped by his face to clatter against the crumbling door jamb.
‘In God’s name!’ Cranston, crouching low, dragged both Athelstan and the dying artist back into the church, slamming the door shut just before a third arrow shaft thudded into it. Athelstan sat down on the cold paving stones gazing helplessly as Huddle, eyes fluttering, lips bubbling a scarlet froth, legs and arms shaking, choked on his own blood.
‘What is the matter?’ The anchorite hurried across to stare in hushed desperation at his former colleague’s death throes. He knelt down, clutching Huddle’s hand, but the blood welling out of the chest wound as well as from his mouth and nose showed Huddle was in his last extremities. Athelstan remembered himself. Leaning down beside the dying man, he feverishly whispered the absolution, followed by the invocation to God’s angels to go out and greet the departing soul. Sir John left him to it, abruptly opening the corpse door then slamming it shut just as swiftly before another shaft thudded into the wood.
‘What shall we do?’ the anchorite murmured. ‘What is happening here?’
Athelstan leaned across, pressing a finger against the anchorite’s bloodless lips.
‘You are Giles of Sepringham, the Hangman of Rochester, the anchorite. You live here by my grace and favour. You will say nothing,’ Athelstan insisted, ‘and I mean nothing, about what you have seen or heard today. Do you understand? If you do break confidence, you and I, sir, are finished. Do I have your solemn word?’
The anchorite nodded, raising his right hand as if taking the solemn pledge.
‘Now,’ Athelstan breathed, ‘what weapons do we have?’
‘I have a crossbow,’ the anchorite offered.
‘Against an assassin!’ Cranston grunted. ‘Armed with a war bow he could kill us in the blink of an eye?’
Athelstan gazed down at Huddle. The painter now lay quiet, the death rattle faint in his throat, the great chest wound drenched in blood.
‘Was it me?’ Athelstan whispered. ‘Did the assassin think he was loosing at me or you, Huddle, dressed in the robes of a Dominican?’ Athelstan’s stomach lurched at the way death had so casually brushed him. ‘Brother?’ He glanced across at Cranston. ‘You know what I’m thinking, Sir John?’
‘God knows,’ the coroner replied.
‘What if, what if, what if,’ Athelstan broke free from his fear, ‘what if doesn’t matter. A killer lurks outside. He wants to end our lives as you would snuff a candle flame. Well,’ the friar wiped sweaty hands on his robe, ‘Huddle is now past all caring and gone to God, while we, sirs, do have a very powerful weapon.’ Athelstan rose and went across into the dusty bell tower. He seized the oiled ropes and pulled vigorously, tolling the bell, ringing out the tocsin, time and again, until he heard the shouts of his parishioners as they hurried across the icy waste outside to discover what was wrong.