door of the church. It was dark and cool inside, as he knew it would be. A single candle burned on the altar, and the interior was filled with the sweet stale odour of spent incense and beeswax. The baptismal font stood before him, square and solid, the cover locked with an iron hasp. That was vile Hugo— locking the font lest any poor soul be tempted to steal a drop of holy water.
Gazing quickly around the empty space for a place to hide, he saw—could it be? Yes! In the far corner of the nave stood a strange, curtained booth. Oh, these Normans—chasing every new whim that whispers down the road: a confessional. Tuck had heard of them, but had never seen one. They were, it was said, becoming very fashionable in the new stone churches the Ffreinc built. The notion that a body could confess without looking his priest in the eye all the while seemed faintly ludicrous to Tuck. Nevertheless, he was grateful for this particular whim just now. He crossed quickly to the booth. It was an open stall with a pierced screen down the centre: on one hand was a chair for the priest; on the other a little low bench for the kneeling penitent. A curtain hung between the two, and another hid the priest from view.
Tuck could not help clucking his tongue over such unwonted luxury. Not for the Norman cleric a humble stool; no, nothing would do but that Hugo’s priests must have an armchair throne with a down-filled cushion. “Bless ’em,” said Tuck. Pulling aside the curtain, he stepped in and closed the curtain again, then settled himself in the chair, thanking the Good Lord for his thoughtful provision.
No sooner had he leaned back in his chair than the door of the church opened and the soldiers entered.
Tuck remained absolutely still, hardly daring to breathe.
The footsteps came nearer.
They were coming towards the confessional. One of the knights was standing directly in front of the booth now, and Tuck braced himself for discovery. The soldier put a hand on the curtain and pulled it aside. The soldier saw Tuck, and Tuck saw the soldier—only it was no ordinary knight. The squat, thick body, the powerful chest and slightly bowed legs from a life on horseback, the shock of flaming red hair: it was none other than King William Rufus in the flesh.
Tuck pressed his eyes closed, expecting the worst.
But the king turned away without the slightest hint of recognition in his pale blue eyes and called over his shoulder to the two with him. “Le prêtre est ici,” he said. “Me partir.”
The priest is here, thought Tuck, translating the words in his head.God help me, he thinks I am the priest to hear his confession.
King William dropped the curtain and settled himself on the kneeling bench. “Père, entendre mon aveu,” he said wearily.
Knowing he would have to speak now—and that his French was not up to the challenge—he said, “Mon seigneur et mon roi, Anglais s’il vous plait.”
There came a heavy sigh from the other side of the curtain, and then the king of England replied, “Oui—of course, I understand. My Anglais is not so good, forgive moi, eh?”
“God hears the heart, my lord,” offered Tuck. “It makes no difference to him what language we use. Would you like me to shrive you now?”
“Oui, père, that is why I have come.” The king paused, and then said, “Forgive me, Father, a sinner. Today I ride into battle, and I cannot pay for the souls of those who will be slain. The blood-price is heavy, and I am without the silver to pay, eh?”
It took Tuck a moment to work out what William was talking about, and he was glad the king could not see him behind the curtain. “I see,” he said, and then it came to him that William Rufus was talking about the peculiar Norman belief that a soldier owed a blood debt for the souls of those he had slain in battle. Since one could never know whether the man he had just killed had been properly shriven, the souls of the combat dead became the survivor’s responsibility, so to speak—he was obligated to pray for the remission of their sins so that they might enter heaven and stand blameless before the judgement seat of God.
“Oh, yes,” intoned Tuck as understanding broke upon him. The king, like many great lords, was paying priests to pray for the souls of