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explaining how they were also itinerant painters and artists, skilled in wall frescoes and paintings as well as depictions on stretched canvas. They offered to render a similar service to St Alphege’s in return for food and other purveyance. When Father Thomas demurred, they promised heartily that if their work was not to his satisfaction they’d whitewash it over. Eventually he had agreed. The nave of the church was not in the gift of the manor lord but in his, and he had letters from the bishop confirming this.
    Accordingly, on the Feast of St Mary Magdalene past, Adam
and Eve, with two assistants from the Free Brethren, had moved into St Alphege’s, working in the clear light of day though helped by the occasional candle and lantern. At first Father Thomas had been a reluctant bystander, often wandering down to inspect their work after he’d celebrated the Jesus Mass or rung the Gabriel Bell reminding the townspeople to honour the Virgin. Some parishioners had objected to the work but many had been interested to see the grey walls of their parish church bloom with colour. Adam and Eve chose as their theme the Fall of Babylon from the Book of Revelation and other sources. Once the walls had been dressed and primed, they had brought the scene to vivid life with their brushwork in an eye-catching array of red, green, blue, gold, yellow and black against a white marbled background. Now the priest moved the cresset torch closer to study this scene once again, ignoring the dancing shadows and the strange eerie sounds from around the church.
    â€˜Babylon has truly fallen,’ he whispered. In the painting the soaring towers and gateways of the City of the Great Whore were being consumed by a swirling storm of fire that swept backwards and forwards above a bubbling sea of boiling blood. Black rain pelted down. Flames belched from windows and doorways. Defenders stood along the crenellated battlements, stark against the blue-red sky dominated by a fire-breathing dragon with scaly green wings, black claws and a brilliant red tail. The malignant beast, that horror of hell, was now swallowing the souls of those who’d served the Great Whore, digesting them and excreting them as dung. Figures in swirling white cloaks, apparently angels, sent up a rain of arrows against the defenders of Babylon dressed in russet and green. In one of the castle chambers a man lay on
a bed, a cup in his hand. The next scene, set in a large banqueting chamber, showed Judas, his neck adorned with the noose he’d used to hang himself, feasting with other sinners at a great banquet of toads, snails and reptiles cooked in burning sulphur, whilst drinking fiery liquid from flame-encrusted goblets. In the final picture Judas and his minions were fleeing up a Valley of the Dead, staring fearfully backwards, unaware that the path at the far end of the valley was blocked by a soaring cross bearing the crucified Christ, his wounds gleaming like beacon lights.
    The entire tableau was decorated around the edges with strange symbols and leafy plants; it was about three yards long and stretched from just below the floor to the sill of the transept window. Father Thomas had been deeply impressed and so were members of his parish council. Visitors to the town flocked into the church to view the new painting. The entire company of the Free Brethren, with their strange biblical names – Seth, Cain, Abel, Joshua, Aaron, Esther and Miriam – also arrived to dance with joy. Dame Marguerite, Lady Abbess of St Frideswide, accompanied by her ambitious chaplain Benedict Le Sanglier, came to admire, as did Scrope with his escort of henchmen. The manor lord had studied the painting closely, then grunted his approval.
    Father Thomas sighed. He replaced the sconce torch in its holder beneath the memorial plaque to the memory of Gaston de Bearn, then read the pious inscription to this kinsman of Scrope and Dame Marguerite’s killed at Acre. He