The Owl Killers (39 page)

The Commissarius smiled his grim executioner’s smile. “I am impressed, Father Ulfrid. It appears your parishioners are wealthier than they look.” He leant forward, grasping the arms of the chair. “Good, good, that will make it all the easier for you to collect the Christmas tax.”

“But, Commissarius, there is no Christmas tax on the common
people. The knights and landowners are obliged to make certain gifts to the Church, but the ordinary people bring whatever offering they can on Epiphany.”

“Quite so, quite so. I see you have been reading your predecessors’ records as I advised. Never fear, Bishop Salmon will ensure that the landowners fulfil their Christmas obligations in full. But this year His Excellency the Bishop feels that the ordinary people might be encouraged to bring a little more than they have been accustomed to do in former times. The Church has suffered greatly these past few months. The harvest has been poor on its lands and it too suffered the loss of a great many beasts in the murrain. Bishop Salmon is anxious that the Church may not be able to fulfil its role of bringing salvation and charity to those in need. I wish to assure His Excellency that the good Christian people of this parish will be anxious to help in any way they can to further the great work of the Church.”

My anger boiled over. “I thought you said, Commissarius, that the failing harvests were a judgement on the sin of the people? If that is so, surely the good Bishop’s lands should have been spared. Or is God incapable of distinguishing saint from sinner?”

I saw his expression harden and knew I’d made a very stupid mistake. The Commissarius was not a man to stomach his words being thrown back at him.

“His Grace the Bishop is above reproach, but sadly the same cannot be said for those who work in his employ. As you above all people must be painfully aware, Father Ulfrid, many of those who serve the Church are steeped in sin and iniquity. And it is the sins of the priests and other so-called servants of the Church that Heaven cries out against.”

He rose, pulling on his cloak. “But rest assured, Father Ulfrid, I will not leave you to carry this heavy burden all alone. It is my role to support parish priests in their great labours. I myself shall attend Mass on Christmas Day in St. Michael’s, in order that I may preach to the people of Ulewic and remind them of their obligations for Epiphany. I trust I will be addressing a full congregation. I should be most displeased to find I’d had a long, cold ride for nothing.”

He closed my cottage door quietly behind him. He was not a man to slam doors; he did not need to. After a few moments I heard the
hoofbeats of his horse clatter away into the distance. But I sat unable to move from my chair, staring in disbelief at the closed door. A dank chill enveloped my room, as if the Commissarius had brought the stench of the Bishop’s prison with him.

I was lost. There was no way out of this. Not only would the Commissarius find my church empty of congregation, but he would see the moment he entered St. Michael’s on Christmas morning that the silver was gone. I could not possibly raise the money to redeem it in just two weeks. There was nothing … nothing I could do.

Stealing the church silver was a hanging offence. Other priests could commit cold-blooded murder and still escape death by claiming Benefit of Clergy, but that mercy was up to the Bishop to grant and the Commissarius would ensure it was not granted to me. And they wouldn’t just hang me. The Commissarius would regard slow strangulation on the end of a rope as too merciful a death. He’d make quite sure I suffered for Hilary first.

I found myself staring up at the beam above my head, picturing myself swinging there. A sharp snap of the neck and it would all be over. Not in the cottage, the rafters were too low, but the beams in the church were higher. A man could jump from those if he could get up there or he might hang himself from the rood screen. The Commissarius would see the justice in that—a gift for the Church on Christmas morning, the life of a priest. One less sinner in the Church. The Commissarius would think that a fitting tithe.

I yelped as my chair was kicked from behind, tipping it forward. I grabbed for the heavy table and just managed to stop myself crashing onto the floor. I scrambled to my feet. Phillip was standing behind me, roaring with laughter. I hadn’t even heard him come in.

“Caught you napping, did I, Father? Not that I blame you. I saw the Bishop’s little ferret riding off. That man would talk anyone into a stupor.” He swung himself down into the chair vacated by the Commissarius. “I had to listen to that bastard once myself; nearly begged the servants to bludgeon me with a mace and put me out of my misery.” He prodded my leg with the toe of his boot. “Come on, rouse yourself, man. Is this the way you greet your guests? I want wine and don’t tell me you haven’t got any.”

I stumbled to fetch the flagon and two goblets. My hands were
shaking so much that a puddle of wine spilled onto the table and dripped onto the floor. I didn’t care. I handed him a goblet and I gulped down my own before he’d even taken a mouthful. I poured myself a second full measure and took a deep draught from it.

Phillip raised his eyebrows. “Gave your arse a roasting, did he? Now what have you done to upset the Bishop this time, I wonder?”

I gulped another mouthful. “If you must know, he came to tell me that he would be addressing my congregation on Christmas morning. It seems the Bishop’s coffers are light this year, so the Commissarius intends to encourage the villagers to give generously this Epiphany. And you won’t escape either. Bishop Salmon is going to exact the full Christmas tax from the landowners too, so you might want to warn your uncle.”

Phillip gave a snort of laughter. “The Bishop can demand his dues from the Manor till he’s dancing with the demons in purgatory, but my uncle will find a way of getting out of it; he always does.”

He leaned back in the chair, propping his feet, expensively clad in their new red cordwain boots, up against the wall. Phillip always sprawled in a chair, or stood legs apart, arms akimbo, as if he was determined to fill the world with his great body.

“So the ferret is to give the Christmas sermon is he, Father? That at least will make two of you in church. You must be getting lonely, standing up there with no one to say Mass for except the spiders.”

“After the abomination the Owl Masters performed on All Hallows’ Eve, the villagers will come flocking back to the church,” I told him. “You took one of their own children from the grave. Do you think they will forgive you for that? Do you honestly imagine they will continue to pay you for protection after what you have unleashed on them? They will soon realise that only the Church can save them from that demon.”

Phillip laughed. “The villagers saw you running away, screaming like a virgin maid, at the first sight of the demon. They’re hardly going to trust you to defend them from the Owlman.”

I felt my face burning and turned away to pour myself more wine.

“And your congregation isn’t the only thing that’s gone missing from the church, is it, Father?”

I started so violently that the wine spilled over the table for the second time that evening. “What … do you mean—missing? Nothing is missing.”

“I think you’ll find there is, Father.” He reached into the leather pouch that hung about his waist and pulled out a large iron key, which he dangled idly between his fingers.

I stared at it and my hand flew to the bunch of keys at my belt. An identical key hung there.

“Where did you get that?” I demanded.

“You didn’t think you were the only one with a key to the church chest, did you, Father? As my uncle’s steward I have keys for everything in the Manor and the village, including St. Michael’s. And when I heard you had delivered the tithes in full to the Bishop, I must confess I was curious. We’ve had a few problems getting the Manor dues from the villagers ourselves after the murrain, and I had thought our methods of persuasion were—how shall I put it?—a little more robust than yours. So I thought to myself: Where might the good Father find the money to pay off the Bishop, if he couldn’t raise it from the villagers?

“My duty is to keep an eye on things for my uncle, see that nothing goes astray. My uncle doesn’t like his property wandering from the village. Being a godly man, he naturally tries to follow the example of the Good Shepherd, and seek out that which is lost. So when I found the church chest was somewhat … denuded, I made a few discreet inquiries. I think you know what I discovered, don’t you, Father?”

I sank into the chair and covered my face with my hands. There was no longer any point in denying it. I raised my head. Phillip was studying me with an amused expression on his face, as he might have watched the misery of a baited bear.

“When are you going to tell the Bishop the church silver is missing?” I asked him bitterly. “If you’d got here a minute or two sooner you could have told the Commissarius tonight and saved yourself the ride to Norwich.”

“Father, you are even more of a fool than I took you for. Why should I tell the Bishop anything? You spoke the truth when you said nothing was missing.”

My head was swimming from the wine. I could make no sense of what he was saying. “But I thought you said the chest …”

“I said the chest
was
empty. And now, miraculously, it is full again.”

My shock and bewilderment must have been obvious, for Phillip chuckled.

“Your moneylender friend was persuaded to return the items you gave him to me. The jewelled chalice and all the other items are now safely back in the church chest.” He held up his hand in mock protest. “Oh, no, Father, don’t thank me.”

I stared at him. “But why would you … ?”

“If you think it was to save your miserable hide, Father, you should know by now I am not that generous. I would have enjoyed seeing you suffer at the little ferret’s hands. I regret I had to deny myself that pleasure. Something tells me our friend, the Commissarius, could be most creative in the punishments he devised, and he really doesn’t like you at all, does he, Father?

“No, I’m afraid I did not recover the church’s treasure to spare you. You see, the items in that chest were given to St. Michael’s by my ancestors. They were brought back from the Crusades or made as thank offerings for births and marriages or even, I wager, as penance for the many sins they much enjoyed. So I have a certain … attachment to them.” He shrugged. “You might call it a filial duty to the memory of my forebears to guard them. But if the Bishop was to learn how close these valuables came to being lost, he might think they were not safe where they are. He might be tempted to have them removed to his own palace where he could keep a closer eye on them, especially with his own coffers being somewhat empty at this time. And we don’t want to put temptation in the good Bishop’s way, do we? Better not to tell him, I think.”

I felt as if I had been pressed under heavy stones and just when all the breath was crushed out of me someone had lifted the weight from my chest. My head was spinning, but whether from abject relief or the effects of the wine, I could not tell. The danger was over, and it had been so easy, so simple.

Phillip waved his empty goblet at me. “And try to pour the wine in the cup this time.”

The flagon was empty. I went to the cupboard for another. It was
the last one I had. I’d been keeping it for the Mass, for I had no money to buy more, but I no longer cared. All I could think about was that I had got the silver back and the Commissarius would never find out what I’d done. I filled Phillip’s goblet to the brim.

He took a long draught before setting the goblet down. “I regret that I will have to ask you for your key to the chest, Father. It would not do to have you led into sin again.” He held out his hand.

“But you can’t!” I protested. “The chest is my responsibility.” How long would the silver remain in the chest, once Phillip had both keys?

Phillip frowned. “Now, Father, if you please.”

I knew I was in no position to refuse.

He tucked my key away in his leather pouch, patting the bag with some satisfaction. “Now there is just the small matter of the money you borrowed from the moneylender plus his interest, money you now owe to me. To which sum, of course, I will be adding a trifling amount for my trouble and expenses in tracking the man down. But I’m feeling generous, so shall we say payment in full by the Twelfth Night of Christmas?”

I felt as if he’d punched me in the stomach. I couldn’t breathe. How could I possibly have believed it was over?

Phillip swung his legs down from the wall, his eyes suddenly narrow and hard. “The question is, Father, with an empty church where are you going to get the money to pay me?”

“I … There … will soon be a relic in the church. It is presently in the house of women, but … but I have excommunicated them and warned them they will remain in peril of their souls until they deliver the relic to the church and make public penance for their sins. They cannot hold out for much longer. Once they realise they will be denied the sacraments at Christmas, they will surrender the relic to me. They will have no choice. And when they do, the villagers will return to the church, knowing that it will protect them. And,” I added desperately, “once word spreads, pilgrims will crowd to the church, which will mean money not only for St. Michael’s, but for the Manor too. Pilgrims will need food, ale, places to sleep, new shoes, candles, all manner of things. A man with your nose for opportunity could make a fortune.”

“You are going to have the pilgrims flocking in by Twelfth Night,
are you?” Phillip taunted. “You haven’t even laid your hands on the relic yet. From what I hear your edict of excommunication is having as little effect on the house of women as it is on the rest of Ulewic. The villagers are still creeping to the women’s gate for charity and they are still taking their sick there. The women are laughing at you, Father. You have fired your last arrow and still your enemy is advancing. What have you got left to fight with?”

He leaned back again in the chair. “Of course, if that bitch who leads the women met with an unfortunate accident, you’d have no trouble getting the others to hand over the relic.” He took a swig of wine. “It seems we are on the same side after all, Father. You want the relic and the Owl Masters want those foreign shrews gone. And if you were to help us, Father, I might be persuaded to wait for my money. I’m sure we could work out regular monthly payments from what monies and gifts the relic brings to St. Michael’s.”