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the departed souls of the other murder victims congregate around him beseeching God’s vengeance? Yet on whom? The Sagittarius, the Bowman? Who could it be? This mysterious, silent assassin had appeared in the New Year. Father Thomas glanced towards the lady altar to his left and the comforting light of candles glowing there. He would have to walk. He rose to his feet and, taking a cresset torch from a sconce in the wall, slowly paced out of the nave under the rood screen into the sanctuary and then back down the transepts, thinking all the time. The killer must be a master bowman, a skilled archer like himself. Was the Sagittarius imitating him, a parish priest who had also indulged in murderous thoughts towards Lord Scrope? Who had played the role of God’s avenger? Who had, in the past, seriously contemplated a violent end for
that evil manor lord who had led Father Thomas’ beloved brother to his death? Best not to think about that! He must concentrate on the present danger. Was the Sagittarius’ abrupt and brutal appearance linked to the deaths of those unfortunates at Mordern? Father Thomas paused and closed his eyes. He’d gone out there. The corpses still lay sprawled, covered in their shrouds of snow and ice. Bodies still dangled from the trees, necks twisted, heads askew. To kill was one thing, but to refuse to bury the dead … Was the Sagittarius a member of that company who had survived? Yet the priest had inspected each of those corpses, counted them carefully. There’d been fourteen members of the Free Brethren and fourteen had died. Yes, he was sure of that!
    He walked on towards the north door of the church, now bolted and locked, and paused. He was tempted to open this as he did whenever he baptised a child, so that any demons could leave and cluster in that part of God’s Acre reserved for them. Ah well! He walked on absent-mindedly reciting his Aves and Paternosters, feeling the hard dried beads thread through his fingers. He tried to sooth the turmoil of his soul, to distract himself from the rage seething inside. Lord Scrope had a great deal to answer for! Now and again he glanced up the transept, eyes drawn by the candle burning before the Pity, a large statue of the Virgin Mary with the dead Christ resting in her lap. He paused near the baptismal font and stared at the painting of St Christopher, a huge figure bearing the infant Christ done in vivid hues, around it drawings of phoenixes, pelicans and mermaids. Father Thomas made the usual prayer whilst staring at the image of that saint, reciting a verse from the psalms that the Christbearer would save him from violent and sudden death that night.

    Father Thomas continued on. He knew where he was going. He walked around up the other transept and paused before the painting that took up a great section of the wall from the floor to just above his head. Father Thomas closed his eyes. He recalled the day Adam and Eve, the leaders of the Free Brethren, had presented themselves at the door of his church. He could still recall the distinct image of two beautiful human beings. At the time he had wondered if in Eden the real Adam and Eve had looked like that: lovely faces framed by golden hair, blue eyes sparkling, full of laughter and innocent merriment. Father Thomas considered himself a hard man. He had fought in the King’s levies in Wales. He had wandered battlefields stinking with rotting corpses. He had examined his own conscience and found himself full of ancient sins and fresh lusts whilst working hard as a pastor to free others from Satan’s iron grip. He was not soft or sentimental, given to tearful emotions. He prided himself on not being … what was that French phrase? Faux et semblant — false and dissembling! Nonetheless, those two leaders of the Free Brethren had touched his heart with their winsome ways and merry smiles. They had arrived at St Alphege’s carrying heavy leather panniers,