‘It’s over, they’ve gone!’

Athelstan opened his eyes. Cranston and the anchorite stood in the doorway of the church.

‘Swift?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Like that!’ Cranston snapped his fingers.

‘For such small mercies,’ Athelstan whispered, getting to his feet, ‘deo gratias.’ He walked down the nave. ‘Although not over Sir John.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘It never is,’ the anchorite declared, hood and visor now pulled back.

‘It never is, is it, Father?’

Athelstan smiled at both of them. ‘Abbot Walter needs to do a great deal of explaining, so does Prior Alexander. His Grace the Regent must decide on what to do with the Passio Christi. .’ Athelstan spread his hands.

‘Father,’ the anchorite stepped forward, ‘could I move my cell to St Erconwald’s? I cannot stay in that abbey.’

‘You could hang half of his parish,’ Cranston joked.

‘Not now, and you,’ Athelstan pointed at the anchorite, ‘you have a name, Giles of Sempringham, yes? I shall call you that. So,’ Athelstan rubbed his hands, ‘let us go back to “The Holy Lamb of God”. Let us sit before a roaring fire. Let us revel in all God’s comforts and rejoice in the approach of the feast of the birth of God’s Golden Boy.’

‘Oh sweet words, lovely friar,’ Cranston breathed.

All three left the priory. Athelstan turned his face away so as not to glimpse those two corpses hanging black against the bright December sky.