Bloodstone

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Sir Robert Kilverby was about to be murdered. Of course he did not know that, ensconced so comfortably in his warm, snug chancery chamber, its costly linen panelling gleaming in the dancing light of the candle spigots. True, the fiery glow of the pine logs crackling in the mantled hearth sent the shadows swiftly fluttering. The gargoyle faces carved on either side of the hearth assumed a more sinister look whilst the grisly scenes of Archbishop Alphege’s martyrdom on the painted cloths above the panelling took on an eerie life of their own. Nevertheless, Kilverby felt safe and secure in this fortified chamber, its heavy oaken door bolted and locked. The oriel windows high in the pink plaster walls glowed with the dying light of the December day though they were too small for any footpad to break through. Kilverby hitched his fur-lined cloak closer about his bony shoulders. He stopped gnawing on the plume of the elegant quill pen and placed it down on the pewter writing palette. Distracted, he gazed around at the sprigs of evergreen pinned to some of the gaily coloured cloths by his beloved daughter Alesia. She had gone out into the frosted garden and plucked holly, ivy and mistletoe, reminders of the evergreen Christ and the imminent arrival of Christmas. Soon Advent would be over. The fasting and the chanting of the Dirige psalms finished. The great ‘O Antiphons’ would be sung to the ‘Key of David’, ‘Lion of Judah’ and ‘Ever Mighty Counsellor’. Christmas would soon be celebrated but not as it had been before — that’s what Alesia was quietly hinting at — in those glorious days when Kilverby’s first wife, Alesia’s mother Margaret, was alive.

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