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writing_shadows “If we caught, a taffer’s death and arse boiled in oil for us.” Dick Tunkin hadn’t stopped whinging since they’d crept through the window, its panes removed for repair, and landed hard into the silence of the nave. Above them the great, sweeping ceiling; in front of them, in the area normally screened from the likes of them, the mysteries of the Latin mass revealed.
Neither of them paid heed to the silver crucifix, the gold goblets, the censers, the large, sturdy tome whose words they could not comprehend yet deeply, passionately believed. Fear walked the abbey, fear potent enough to trump any man’s greed.
“We are not going to be,” his companion said, slapping his breeches hard. “Priest says we’re blessed by His Lord, from noggin to balls. We do God’s work this night, mark it.”
Dick nodded. Dunstan was always right. After all, he had been the one the priest had approached.
The hushed voices ended, as Dick unrolled his bag, and they set to work with their tools. Outside, the moonlight drifted behind clouds, sending unearthly pools of light caught in stained glass across the abbey’s flagstones. The two men worked in silence, locating the carved stone of the grave, its painted colours pure and vivid even in the dim light.
It had been a long journey from London, with its muck and piss, to Anjou, and its nuns. It had taken weeks of roads, sores, straw and sharing beds with lepers. Yet God’s work had to be done, and the nun had to end her walk forever.
Finally, expertly, Dick laid the wooden slats, and Dunstan pushed the sarcophagus open, working slowly to muffle the sound of stone grinding on stone from watchful ears. The nuns would be in cells now – after Nocturns, well before Matins – but they couldn’t risk disruption. With a final heave, a cloud of noxious brown dust bearing the sweet stench of decay drifted slowly from inside. It had given.
“Pass me it,” Dunstan said, focusing on the gloomy interior of the sarcophagus. From behind, the wooden shaft came into his hand. Slowly, he pushed the tomb its final steps. When the stone fell, the nuns would be upon them; they would have to be quick to do the deed.
Three… two… one… he shoved the stone hard, the wooden slats easing its passage, and rose his hand back to deliver a blow to… nothing.
It was empty. The sarcophagus was empty.
He spun around, looking for Dick, only to find his companion crumpled to the floor, gore and life gushing out of two neck wounds. Slowly, his vision drifted up to the stranger in the room.
In front of him, still dressed in her nunnery robes yet restored to her renowned, miraculous beauty of youth, the figure of Queen Eleanor stood before him. She smiled, her fangs dripping blood that accented her otherwise snowflake skin.
“Looking for me?” she asked.
Neither of them paid heed to the silver crucifix, the gold goblets, the censers, the large, sturdy tome whose words they could not comprehend yet deeply, passionately believed. Fear walked the abbey, fear potent enough to trump any man’s greed.
“We are not going to be,” his companion said, slapping his breeches hard. “Priest says we’re blessed by His Lord, from noggin to balls. We do God’s work this night, mark it.”
Dick nodded. Dunstan was always right. After all, he had been the one the priest had approached.
The hushed voices ended, as Dick unrolled his bag, and they set to work with their tools. Outside, the moonlight drifted behind clouds, sending unearthly pools of light caught in stained glass across the abbey’s flagstones. The two men worked in silence, locating the carved stone of the grave, its painted colours pure and vivid even in the dim light.
It had been a long journey from London, with its muck and piss, to Anjou, and its nuns. It had taken weeks of roads, sores, straw and sharing beds with lepers. Yet God’s work had to be done, and the nun had to end her walk forever.
Finally, expertly, Dick laid the wooden slats, and Dunstan pushed the sarcophagus open, working slowly to muffle the sound of stone grinding on stone from watchful ears. The nuns would be in cells now – after Nocturns, well before Matins – but they couldn’t risk disruption. With a final heave, a cloud of noxious brown dust bearing the sweet stench of decay drifted slowly from inside. It had given.
“Pass me it,” Dunstan said, focusing on the gloomy interior of the sarcophagus. From behind, the wooden shaft came into his hand. Slowly, he pushed the tomb its final steps. When the stone fell, the nuns would be upon them; they would have to be quick to do the deed.
Three… two… one… he shoved the stone hard, the wooden slats easing its passage, and rose his hand back to deliver a blow to… nothing.
It was empty. The sarcophagus was empty.
He spun around, looking for Dick, only to find his companion crumpled to the floor, gore and life gushing out of two neck wounds. Slowly, his vision drifted up to the stranger in the room.
In front of him, still dressed in her nunnery robes yet restored to her renowned, miraculous beauty of youth, the figure of Queen Eleanor stood before him. She smiled, her fangs dripping blood that accented her otherwise snowflake skin.
“Looking for me?” she asked.
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Date: 2011-08-01 09:26 pm (UTC)Love it!