Sanctuary

Slipping between shadows, he knew safety was close at hand. Just a little further, a little closer and he would...

A cry went up instantly, ripping open the evening lull, and the clink of mail quickened, loudened, heading his way.

No time now to be cautious. He sprinted across the courtyard, praying his legs wouldn't trip on a cobble. This was the least of his prayers, but right now the most important.

They had seen him, he knew, and were closing fast. He ran on, feeling the thin silver around his neck like a cold hand. He daren't look over his shoulder, but could almost feel the shafts being nocked, ready to be loosed, set to cut him down like a dog in the dirt.

But no arrows came, and he realised that his path meant his pursuers couldn't risk missing. Miss, and they would likely strike his intended place of refuge, and that no man could do. Every soldier knew that weapons were not to pierce or breach a holy house, regardless of whether they were in flight, hand, or sheath.

How fortune favoured the bold.

The humble church loomed large to his eyes now, shrouded in the dark of night.

Just a little further.

His feet flew up the steps, three at a time, and he seized the plain brass ring attached to the front door. He hammered the ring into the door with a thud, as if trying to wake God himself. Not that he expected, or even needed an answer.

Ripping the door open, he stepped past the faded wood and tumbled onto the cold stone floor uninvited with a triumphant shout, for noise was no threat to him now. He lay there in a heap, his long black hair matted, his stained undershirt slick with perspiration.

Heaving over the tiles, he allowed his head to hang low while breath attempted to return to his lungs, making sure the necklace was tucked safely away. He took quiet satisfaction at the familiar voice cursing in front of him, nearing the doorway.

The steady clip-clop of hooves drew near, and he took plenty of time to raise his eyes, indulging in a little merriment now that he was out of harm's way.

"Ah, Dewhurst. Of course it would be you. Just a little too late," he laughed. "Didn't fancy a shot at my shoulder? Not all of us wear chainmail, you know."

"Not all of us are thieves, Purcell."

Purcell nodded in agreement, for on that point he would not dissent.

"Even so, I think you might have made it. What, afraid you would miss?" he chuckled. "Maybe you would have had to arrest yourself, and that sounds complicated."

"As the expert on being arrested, I will have to take your word for it." Dewhurst hopped off his horse, handing the reins to a fellow soldier, who stared daggers at Purcell, as if to pierce him with eyes in place of the longsword balanced on his hip.

Purcell sat up, waving the soldier off, and glanced around the empty church.

Row upon row of empty pews, scratched and worn. Plain windows, some of them broken, others simply missing, letting a gentle wind swirl around the chipped stone pillars at each corner. A plain altar, covered in a simple white cloth and adorned only by two pewter candlesticks, their faint flame shivering. And a golden tabernacle, the size of a small box, upon a wooden plinth.

Even thieves, desperate as they were, refused to steal the most precious item of the House of God.

"You know, if you wanted to talk, you could have just asked. You would have saved me my breath. Having said that, there are plenty of seats, if you're so inclined," Purcell gestured, indicating the pews behind him.

Dewhurst snorted, a step outside the door, blocking the muted moonlight so that only faint beams snuck by his frame. He was built where Purcell was slight, imposing where the thief was not. His armor bore the dents of battle, and the polish of a man of diligence.

They could not have looked more different, the two men, and the space between them suggested as much.

"You've gone too far this time. Why else run for the church? You and I both know that somewhere under that stinking excuse for a tunic, you hide something that does not belong to you" Dewhurst said, rapping his gauntlet against the door.

"Oh, you know that, do you?" Purcell attempted to stand, but found the task too much, and returned to the cold comfort of his tiles. "Such accusation."

Dewhurst raised an eyebrow. "You would call it unfounded?"

"I would call it baseless. Preposterous even. How dare you besmirch my good name?" Purcell attempted to clutch his shirt in mock outrage, but succeeded only in flashing a hint of metal, which he hastily covered up.

"So you do have it then," Dewhurst let out a sigh. "Give it to me Purcell, and you might avoid the cells this time."

Now it was his turn to snort. "Please. I've been in there so many times they keep the door open for me these days."

"Well then it might be wise to consider that before you steal from Levett's store. Just because he's a simpering fop who only sells to the rich, doesn't mean you get to lift his wares from under that sniveling nose. He doesn't like you Purcell, and while I'm at it, neither do I."

The accused lay back on his elbows, attempting to look more comfortable than he really was. Elbows were not made for leaning on cold stone. "You know, I'm not sure I believe that Dewhurst. In fact, I rather think you enjoy this game of cat-and-mouse."

His accuser grimaced. "Believe whatever you like. My job is to keep this town safe and uphold justice. We both know you're nothing more than a petty thief, but you cannot undermine the law over and over and expect nothing to change. If that means throwing you in with the murderers and traitors, so be it." He cast his eye around the church again, then turned to go. "It'll give the rats something to nibble on come winter."

"Not that there's much of me to nibble" came the muted reply.

Purcell let him mount his horse before responding properly, still crouched on the cool flagstones inside. "Say I had removed something of value from the fat jeweller's shop."

He paused, waiting for Dewhurst to turn his head. "Would you care to know why?"

"Apart from for your own satisfaction, amusement, or profit, you mean? If you break the law, you're playing with fire, Purcell. Burn once too many, and there'll be nothing left of you but ash."

The soldier turned, heading for the centre of town, and likely, to inform his commander. He exchanged a quiet word with one of his men, patiently waiting with the others near the edge of the square. "You know we'll be watching the church. Step one foot outside, and we will catch you," he said over his shoulder.

That was Dewhurst- a straight arrow if ever there were one. Purcell watched him go from the doorway, rubbing his right shoulder where he had collided with the ground. "Very cheering. And a good night to you too." he muttered, just loud enough for the other man to hear.

Turning inside, he greeted the old man who had appeared from an alcove to the left, a half-candle in hand and a forced smile upon his face.

"Father!" Purcell bowed low, stretching his back in the process. That felt better.

"I seek refuge from my persecutors, from the long arm of the law, unjustly snatching at my poor neck. I claim sanctuary within these hallowed walls."

"Purcell." The reply came back as tired as the man who said it. "As much as I would delight in casting you out for waking me at so late an hour, you may remain here. As for your poor neck, be grateful that your head is still attached to it. That was Dewhurst, was it not? He has far more patience than I."

The old priest groaned as he reached, struggling to light the bracket closest to him, a weary hand shaking as he extended his arm.

Purcell watched the pathetic attempt for a few seconds, then stepped up and deftly lifted the taperstick from the Father despite his protests.

"Here, it'll be quicker if I do it myself. Go back to sleep, old man," he said, gesturing towards the side-door. "I will light your church."

The Father thought about arguing, then nodded in assent. He tottered off, leaving Purcell to sweep around the walls, casting the shadows off with a weak but steady light. He closed the main door with a firm shove, and set about trying to cover the broken and missing windows. In the left-hand corner, under a stern statue of Jesus, he found a pile of musty blankets that some kind soul had clearly donated with a thought to the poor, despite the fact that not only were they so worn as to barely be there, but a dank smell clung to their threads that forced him to hold his breath.

He reluctantly saved one for himself, and was about climb into a pew and huddle underneath it when he spotted a small bundle up in the middle of the aisle, right in front of the altar.

The priest had left him a jug of water and a crusty loaf of bread, along with a thick blanket; one that would allow him to ward off the cold of the church properly. He unrolled it and clambered into the space directly underneath the altar.

Sacrilegious? Quite possibly, but he was cold.

Besides, the light from the cluster of candles gave the semblance of warmth, and the altar stood firm as a sentry against the wind, letting him rest a tired head.

Surely the Lord would want his servants, even those as fallen as he, to be comforted. The needs of the body come before the needs of the spirit.

What of Dewhurst and the guard? That plan would have to wait for sleep.

Morning brought noise with it, in the form of brown birds and beggars, both seeking crumbs from within. They chirped and clamoured, until the old priest released the door.

Purcell stumbled down the aisle, pushing past the devout faithful who had come to pray, heads bowed and hands clasped fervently. If he had slept, his body did not feel it. Patience wore thin in the stomach of a hungry man.

He dared not leave, yet how to eat? The loaf had been devoured, and he would not trouble the priest for more. There was Communion of course, but one unremarkable wafer would not a meal make. Squeezing through the gathering crowd, he was met by a half-bent figure, beckoning him to a pew, their features shrouded in cloth.

As if he had coins to spare. Stepping quickly to the side, he made to move past, but the figure matched him.

He felt a hand on his arms, and when he made to pull away, the grip tightened like steel. He looked properly, and sighed.

"For an old cripple, you're remarkably quick on your feet."

The figure shrugged. "It pays to be when your duty is to catch those who run from the law."

Purcell shook him off and spread his arms, indicating their surroundings. "I have the right of asylum. Would you go against not only the rule of man, but the Church too?"

"Shhhhh!"

They felt the glare from worshippers in front of them, already set in prayer, lips moving and eyes closed.

Dewhurst put up his hands in answer.

"You know that I cannot exercise force or arrest you in this place, nor may I bear weapons. If I carry out the law, I must therefore abide by it too."

He stepped back, taking a seat in the opposite aisle, after kneeling in the direction of the tabernacle.

"That didn't look comfortable," Purcell observed in a low voice. "Either you're getting old, or that leg needs treatment. Maybe both," he shrugged.

"For once in your life, Purcell, hold your tongue and take this seriously," the soldier snapped back in a whisper. "I'm here alone, in disguise, without arms."

The terse reply cut the air between them, and the thief just stared for a moment. Eventually, he nodded, and took a seat alongside his counterpart.

"You tried to tell me last night about your reason for taking the necklace. I would not listen. Here I am, and you are cannot be harmed. Tell me now."

Purcell pursed his lips, scratching his left shoulder.

"Everyone knows Levett cares for no-one but himself," he shrugged, affecting an air of nonchalance that did not carry to his tone. "He would not deny it if asked. Yesterday, I watched him take a young widow's necklace, and give her one-fifth of its value in return. She has a son barely three years of age. When she tried to protest, he threatened to not take it at all."

Dewhurst nodded, as if this was nothing new to him. "Don't tell me you stole it out of a sense of care. Since when were you so concerned about the lives of others?"

His words hung in the air accusingly, and Purcell's silence indicated that they had hit their mark.

"Since the people responsible for doing so fell short," he seethed, putting a hand up in apology to an irritated neighbour two pews in front of them. "People are hungry Dewhurst, and they aren't all thieves. The Church and the city watch are supposed to look out for the fallen among us. The orphans and widows, the poor, the sick..."

The soldier tapped his fingers on the pew, taking in the quiet murmurings of so many desperate mouths. "We cannot be everywhere. What would happen if we started to give out bread to every man, woman, and child who has fallen on hard times? People would expect it. They would rely on us instead of their own hands."

He looked at the man beside him, his eye drifting to the collar that hid what they both knew to be underneath.

"My hands are tied. Levett is within his rights to negotiate a price with his customer. Is it wrong? Most likely, yes. What would you have me do? Throw him in jail for bargaining a profit?" he said, exasperated. "Are we responsible for all the tragedies in this world?"

"I know you follow the law to the letter, Dewhurst. Why do you think I took it in the first place?"

His fingers fished out the light silver chain, its globe of gold catching the early sun's rays through a window. Clearly, his blankets would not suffice.

Dewhurst reached for it, but only half-heartedly.

"I don't think so. I can survive off my own wits, but she cannot, and her son will not last the winter. This is all they have."

The soldier raised an eyebrow. "And you know this how?"

"The occasional visit. You call me thief? Levett is the real one, and he has coins to line his clothes for a thousand winters."

"You've claimed sanctuary, Purcell. And you've done this before, though this is a new location at least," Dewhurst said with the hint of a smile. "There's a guard outside, and they won't leave until they have you, or you run. Snow is coming and we both know you wouldn't make it ten miles as you are. It's a trial or exile."

"I choose neither. I choose this, as my way out. You've also neatly ignored my mention of Levett," he said pointedly.

"I hadn't forgotten him. Explain this," he said, pointing at the necklace.

"Let me out, and let me stay in the city. I'll give this to you, on the condition that you return it to Levett, but for the true price. And that the widow receives all of it."

Dewhurst pondered. "That's a fine idea, it really is. But how would I excuse you? The law could not permit it, you know that."

"A distraction then. Get me out of here, and I won't bother you for a month or so. Enough time for your men to forget. At least until the next time," he grinned.

The soldier made to speak, but didn't. He simply held out his hand.

The thief removed the silver from his neck, and passed it over without a word. He stood up, bent his knee awkwardly, and made for the side door near the front. Right before he disappeared, he looked back, and nodded.

Dewhurst fingered the silver, then placed it gently into his pocket. He grabbed a candle from the corner and tipped it onto the aisle quickly.

The flame spread, hungry for more.

"Everyone out!" he shouted. "Fire! Get to safety!"