Chapter 1

Salster, the week before Easter, 1385

In all the twenty years that Gwyneth of Kineton had waited to conceive a child, she had never thought that it might be the death of her. Though she had known others die in childbirth - had observed, bleakly, that her barenness saved her from that, at least - she had not, in her bones, truly imagined that the child for which her very soul ached might be the death of her.
Yet here she lay, exhausted and almost beyond the reach of agony, sinking towards death. The child which she had treasured all these months in her womb was killing her, stuck fast as he was.
She lay on a pallet, her knees drawn up, her damp shift twisted around her. Next to her stood the birthing stool from which she had fallen, vomiting, in an extremity of agony. Beside the stool, their eyes flicking nervously from one another to the semi-conscious woman at their feet, sat the midwives. Both had seen women die with their children unborn and both feared that Gwyneth of Kineton would make another. They did not speak since neither had any comfort to offer, but sat in resigned helplessness.
Worlds away from them, transported by narcotic pain into a delirium state, Gwyneth’s mind raced through her life, stopping here and there momentarily, like a housewife anxious to reassure herself that everything is in order before she embarks on a long journey.
Her first certain memory: taking a wooden-headed mallet from her father’s outstretched hand, feeling its weight and balance.
“They may not see you a master, Gwyneth, who can tell in these times? But the craft may be meat and drink to you.”
Thirty years ago and more. A long time to grow from a child to a woman dying of a child.
Her father again, alongside him Simon as a young man, before he and Gwyneth married. Simon and her father, mason and carpenter, chalk and cheese, burning energy and slow craft.
Years skipped by, their comings and goings ignored until her searching mind found him; Henry Ackland. Henry who lived under their roof and learned Simon’s trade. Henry who had been all but a son to them.
He had visited, brought news - what was it? Important news. He had been away, too long, but when he had come back to them he had brought news. What was it? Her mind searched restlessly, needing to know this last thing. Was it his love for Alysoun, her foster daughter?
Again her unquiet mind shifted in its accounting. Alysoun: the child who had saved her from barren bitterness. That child had cost a death, and now her own child was demanding another. It was owed.
Alysoun’s father had fallen to his death from a roof of Gwyneth’s own design. The sound of his brief cry as he fell, the butcher’s-club impact of flesh and bone on trodden-earth floor, came back to her now.
She had always said that it would be with her till her dying day.
Michael Icknield had lived for more than an hour, clinging to life with senseless desperation. All work suspended around him, he could not die in peace; they had not dared move him for fear of increasing the agony of his death. They were all helpless, hushed, appalled. Masons fell to their knees, invoked saints; some for swift death, some for a miracle of healing.
A miracle. Simon had called this child’s conception a miracle. Was it actually a curse? Would Simon lose both wife and unborn child in one death? Perhaps he would marry again and have the son he had prayed for so long.
Was she already halfway to another world that she could look at her life as if it was already over?
Why did they not call a priest?
They had called a priest for Michael. He had done what he could, but Michael’s wits had been shattered by the fall: he could voice neither confession nor repentance. Gwyneth had seen nothing in him but a beast-like will to cling to life.
The women, drawn by some change in the air, perhaps the sudden silence, had come from the workers’ houses crowded around the site. Seeing the helpless shuffling of the still and silent men, the broken form on the floor, some turned back, forestalling the curious children and sending them away to their games.
Gwyneth knew that Icknield’s child was motherless and when his comrades had carried the mason’s body away, Gwyneth went, without indecent haste, to speak to the women.
And now, it seemed, she must answer for that and for everything else that her thirty nine years had said and thought and done. But, in truth, it was only that greed for a child that she truly regretted - that hunger had robbed her of compassion.
And was it Simon’s need for a son that was responsible for this double death now? Had her husband’s passionate petitions, his prayer-broken knees, his refusal to bow - even to God’s ‘no’- brought her to this?
Was the Father Almighty so very just and so very unmerciful?
What little was left of her spirit rose up against such ingratitude. If God had given her a child, then he meant her to live.
‘Oh God! Help me!’ she groaned aloud, willing herself back into the startling brightness of full consciousness.
The midwives, shaken into motion by this evidence of a persistent will to live, took her under the arms and lifted her once more to the birthing stool. The heave and lunge which this required of her doubled body, straining against the tight-bound agony, forced a scream from Gwyneth. But as she heard the sound she also felt a twist of new, lurching pain and then fluid, copious and hot, flowing from her.
The elder midwife, ignoring her protests and pushing away her hands, felt inside. At her fingers’ probing, the pain seized Gwyneth with fresh teeth, but through her own scream she heard the midwife shouting, ‘The head is down! The head is down!’
Through her screams at each new, widening pain, Gwyneth almost laughed with relief. The pain would soon be over and she would not die. She would see her child, hold it in her arms, feel its downy face against her own. Soon, soon...


Chapter 2

London, the present day

‘God you really piss me off, d’you know that? Don’t you bloody tell me you know how I feel. You have no fucking idea how I feel! How can you have – have you ever been homeless? Have you?’
‘No Des, I haven’t but-‘
‘But bloody nothing! If you’ve never been homeless you’ve got no right to say you know how I feel. It’s just bloody middle-class arrogance.’
‘Hold on a minute Des-‘
One of the project workers wandered past in the direction of the kitchen, empty coffee mugs in hand. ‘Rain, leave it - he’s just winding you up.’
But he wasn’t. Rain knew he wasn’t. The sudden stream of bile which Des had spewed over her casual sympathy at yet another job rejection had the sting of hatred – hatred of himself, of her, of what had happened to his life.
‘Des – aren’t I allowed to sympathise with you-‘
‘Not if you’re gonna tell me you know how I bloody feel, no! You don’t know! You never could, could you, you’ve never been homeless – nobody’s ever looked at you like you were a piece of shit, have they?’
‘Des, that’s not the point! The point is I do know what it’s like to be rejected-‘
‘Oh come on! Whatever rejections you’ve had in your nice cushy middle class life are nothing compared to being told you can’t even have a shitty little job which nobody else even fucking wants! There’s no way you’ve ever had anything like that-‘
‘You’re making a lot of assumptions that you know all about my life, Des.’ I sound so calm, she thought. But he’ll just think it’s arrogance.
‘Aren’t you middle class then? Am I assuming wrong?’
‘What’s class got to do with anything?’ She let the calm slip. ‘You think only homeless people really suffer? You think only other homeless people should have the right to say they know how you feel? What if they haven’t had exactly the sort of experiences you have?’
Des leaned forward, putting his face closer to hers and stabbing the air between them with a long, pianist’s forefinger. ‘If you’ve never been homeless you don’t know how I feel and you shouldn’t say you do.’
‘OK Des’ she leaned back and put her hands up in surrender ‘OK, I’m sorry. I’ll never say I know how you feel again. But let me ask you something – would I get all steamed up if you said the same to me?’
Des looked at her, sensing a trap. ‘I may be homeless’ he spat at last ‘but I’m still human.’
She looked at him, thinking for the umpteenth time how beautiful his long-lashed brown eyes were and how much older he looked than his twenty eight years. ‘And I may be middle-class, Des’ she said, quietly ‘but I’m still human too.’
‘God, Rain’ Debbie said from behind the computer when Rain walked into the back office, ‘I dunno why you let him get to you – you just need to walk away, love, it’s not worth the aggravation.’
‘He didn’t get to me’ Rain lied ‘and anyway, just walking away would be patronising. If somebody ‘middle class’ she quirked sardonic quotation marks in the air with two fingers of each hand ‘had said all that, I’d have argued with them – so why shouldn’t I argue with Des? If I walk away just because he’s homeless, then I’m saying his opinion isn’t important enough to waste my time on.’
‘Yeah… whatever.’ Debbie’s mind and attention were on the computer screen.
‘What are you doing, anyway?’
‘Updating the donor database. Had a couple of people come in yesterday with clothes and stuff. One of them left a cheque as well.’
‘Brilliant. How much?’
‘Fifty.’
‘Not bad.’
‘Not bad at all.’ Debbie intoned, without looking up.
The phone rang, its ring-tone a gentle electronic burbling. ‘I’ll get it – you get on with the database.’ She picked the phone up. ‘Good morning, Mandela Centre.’
‘Oh, hi – can I speak to Rain Gordon please?’
‘Speaking.’
‘Oh, hi Rain, it’s Neil.’
‘Hi! I thought it was you but I didn’t want to make a prat of myself if it wasn’t. What’s up? You never ring me at work.’
‘Well, don’t take this the wrong way, but I wanted to tell you something without Catz knowing.’
An eyebrow lifted in Rain’s mind. ‘Why?’
‘Well, let me tell you the something and maybe you’ll see.’

As Rain walked to the tube at the end of her shift, she reflected on Neil’s phone call. He had been right, the reason for secrecy from Catz had been obvious. She needed to have a free vote on his news, not be chivvied and encouraged. Or discouraged.
‘I know the curate’s job wasn’t a huge success-‘
‘Wasn’t a huge success? It was a complete and utter disaster! I had a nervous breakdown, Neil.’
‘Yes, OK, I know. The point is, you were so convinced that was the place for you - have you ever thought of giving it another go? Only something entirely different’ he added, prompted by an audible intake of breath.
‘Like?’
‘Well, that’s why I’m ringing-‘
‘Yes?’ Rain shot a look at Debbie. Details were being entered steadily on the database. If she was listening then her parallel processing skills were formidable.
‘There’s a vacant chaplain’s job at one of the colleges here’ Neil said, flatly.
‘Why’s it vacant?’
‘Eh?’ he’d obviously been anticipating a different response.
‘Why is the job vacant? Guy gone on to higher things has he?’
‘Died of a heart attack actually.’
Shit. Avoid crass quip about definitely having gone on to higher things then etc. ‘Oh. Sorry – did you know him?’
‘No, just came to me via the grapevine.’ He paused. ‘ Anyway, what do you think?’
What did she think? She shrugged further into her coat as the wind swept down the street at her, eddying dog-ends and sweet wrappers where pavement met wall. Did she want to return to the clergy after her inner-city curacy had burned her out so spectacularly?
Chaplaincy would be different, she knew that. No bishop exerting subtle but definite pressure to get bums on seats, no merry-go-round of hatches, matches and despatches, more time for reading and – the thing she had found most suprisingly lacking in her previous clergy job – the time to get to know people properly. Committees, rotas, meetings, bureaucracy had disillusioned her with the church and left her minimal time for cultivating relationships with people in the parish. Those she had managed to get to know - because they made it their business to make sure she did - had sucked her dry in their neediness.
‘I need to think about it, Neil’ she had said.
‘I know – the post’s not even been advertised yet – there’s no rush. If you decide to go for it, just give the college a ring.’
‘Mmmm. OK. Which one is it?’
‘Funnily enough, it’s your old friend Kineton and Dacre’