The Prologue

THE CHAMBER is dark, lit only by two flickering torches set in sconces at either end, which do but serve to make the shadows deeper and more impenetrable. The place stinks of human sweat, wet wool and fur, made worse by the latrine beyond the door, jutting out over the river. Snores, coughs, farts and grunts are the music of this place as the pilgrims sleep cheek by jowl, stranger beside stranger, all seeking God’s grace for some reason or other. Whatever the colour of their sin, no doubt they hope for St Thomas Becket’s intercession with God and will be on their knees before his be-jewelled shrine in the cathedral in the morning. There, they will beg forgiveness such that they shall number among the souls destined for heavenly bliss come Judgement Day.

But the intruder has other plans. For some, forgiveness wil be too late. Some will never kiss the Blessed Martyr’s tomb. Yet he now faces an unforeseen problem, though a little more thought beforehand would have made it seem most likely. In the spluttering, wavering torchlight, the pilgrims rest upon their straw pallets, crammed together in the gloom. And there are corners and recesses as dark as Satan’s heart where recognising a sleeper swathed in his rough blanket proves impossible. He must find them. It must be done this night if he values his own life, his own immortal soul. Averting his eyes from the torches, they grow accustomed to the darkness. Dagger in hand, he moves amongst the sleepers, pausing and holding his breath whenever one stirs. He is searching for two heads of tousled curls of a reddish hue but, the night being chill, most yet wear their caps and hoods which hide their hair. Two freckled faces so alike… but freckles are invisible without the light of day. His task seems hopeless now. There have been chances. The first went so badly amiss. He should have done it two days since, when confusion reigned at the ford. Or yesterday upon the road through the woods. No time now to regret the hours his courage failed him or matters went awry.

Then, beside the cold stone of a Norman column, he sees two sharing a pallet, close as only lovers should lie. And the faces seem each the mirror of the other, though their hair is hidden by woollen caps pulled down over the ears for warmth. He is certain he has discovered his quarry. He must be swift with his blade, cutting them both before either can cry out. Stealthily, cat-silent, he draws nigh and folds back a hand’s breadth of their shared blanket, revealing naked throats awaiting his knife. In their ignorance, they have made it easy for him. He leans over them: the master’s avenging angel, steel glinting in the torchlight.