‘Athelstan!’ Cranston paused and pointed to the severed heads displayed above the gatehouse.
‘Do you ever despair at the sheer, squalid wickedness, the weariness and waste of it all?’
‘Isaiah, twenty-six,’ Athelstan replied. ‘God’s promise that one day he will wipe away the tears from every eye. I truly believe that, Sir John. In the end, time will run backwards and full justice will be done.’ Athelstan closed his eyes. He shivered as he recalled that beautiful young woman falling against the coming night, tumbling into the hands of God and those other souls cruelly snatched from life and dispatched to judgement.
‘I must not despair,’ he whispered. He opened his eyes and tugged at Cranston’s cloak. ‘For the moment, Sir John, let me wipe away a few tears and what better place than the Holy Lamb of God!’