The Haunted Cathedral

by Antony Barone Kolenc

  That must be why the abbot had so quickly decided to send Xan to Lincoln: he’d known the bandit would be going, also. He’d known that Xan would need to travel with Carlo there.

  That crafty monk was still trying to get him to forgive that murderer!

  The abbot smiled as the bailiff stared in amazement. “Indeed, Sire Baldwin, if your lord will provide a cart and two guards, the travelers can leave on such a journey in three days’ time. I can ask Brother Andrew to escort the boy and the bandit as a representative of this abbey.”

  The bailiff slumped into his chair. The abbot had outwitted him.

  Xan’s chest ached again. Carlo would be spared the penalty of death, as the abbot wanted.

  Even worse, in just three days Xan would be forced to share a cart on a long journey with the very fiend who’d killed his family. And he didn’t have any control over the matter, either.

  4

  Travel Plans

  On Monday afternoon, Xan sat at the thick oak table in the abbey’s library. Against the wall, four wide shelves held copies of the Sacred Scriptures, local histories, glossaries, books from the ancient world, and wordbooks. On the table lay a glossary and a leather book, a little cup and a pointy stylus, and a rough goatskin parchment only half-filled with letters.

  On the wall hung Brother Andrew’s painting of the death of Saint Ignatius of Antioch, showing a gruesome end to the saintly martyr. In the portrait, the saint’s soul has left his body, almost like a ghost rising to the next world. Did Mother and Father’s souls do the same when they died?

  Brother Andrew had insisted that Xan continue his studies before their journey to Lincoln. Indeed, the monk assigned him a special project to translate a passage from the Vulgate, a version of the Scriptures translated from Greek by Saint Jerome many centuries ago.

  Now Xan sat alone at the table grappling with every word of the flowing script:

  diligite inimicos vestros benefacite his qui vos oderunt; benedicite maledicentibus vobis orate pro calumniantibus vos; ei qui te percutit in maxillam praebe et alteram et ab eo qui aufert tibi vestimentum etiam tunicam noli prohibere

  The words were Latin, the great tongue of the Roman Empire, which had fallen prey to barbarians seven centuries ago. Latin had remained alive and well in the Church—the priests spoke it during every Mass. But using the glossary to translate Latin passages was no easy task, especially since Xan was still learning how to read and write in the common tongue.

  He finally pushed his chair back from the table, his assignment done. He read aloud the words he’d translated, as though hearing them for the first time. This was no random assignment from Brother Andrew. He’d assigned this passage to Xan for a reason, and it probably had to do with Carlo.

  Brother Andrew stepped into the library, holding a loaf of black bread. “Here, my son, ’tis past time for you to break the Lenten fast.”

  Before winter, the monk had started to grow a beard on his youthful face, similar to the one worn by the old prior, but it wasn’t quite meshing with his different-colored eyes. Though the dark beard matched his brown eye well, it contrasted too starkly with his blue one.

  “You’ve come just in time, Brother,” he said, taking the bread. “I’m finished translating.”

  “Already? You have completed it in half the time of a novice boy. Let me hear it.”

  Xan slowly read the words he’d written on the parchment with that stinky ink from the cup:

  “Love your enemies; do good to those who hate you; bless those who curse you; pray for those who mistreat you. To him who hits you on one cheek, offer the other one also. And he who takes your cloak, do not stop from also taking your tunic.”

  “Did I translate it well?” he asked.

  “As well as any novice boy,” Brother Andrew said. “You are well on the way to becoming a learned monk one day, if that be God’s will for you, lad.”

  No doubt, Brother Andrew would be happy if he became a monk, taking the vows of Conversion, Obedience, and Stability. But with their journey to Lincoln tomorrow, Xan might not have that choice anymore. Indeed, he might never come back to this abbey. And even if he did, that heartless reeve might force him to return to Hardonbury to live as a serf.

  He looked at the parchment again. “‘Offer your other cheek to someone who hits you,’ Brother? It sounds like someone wants a beating.”

  The monk chuckled. “Perhaps this teaching is foolishness by the standards of this world, but these words are from Jesus himself. Their true meaning can be discovered only by living them.”

  But the words didn’t seem livable. Who blessed those who hated and cursed them? Only people like the abbot, somehow forgiving and offering kindness to evil bandits. When John had held Xan’s arm too tight, he’d given the bully a fist in the gut. It seemed the proper thing to do at the time.

  “Some men don’t deserve having good done to them,” Xan said.

  The monk gazed at him closely, his blue eye dimming with disappointment. “Perhaps in time you will understand. Now come. We must rest for our journey tomorrow.”

  Morning arrived, brisk and cold, as though winter had not already passed. The birth of spring that had blessed the abbey now departed on the wind. In its place were dark, foreboding clouds.

  Xan woke in the morning light. After prayers, he walked the convent path to the oak door.

  “I leave for Lincoln soon,” he told Sister Regina when she answered.

  “’Tis good for me to see you ere you leave,” she said, leading him back along the path to the boys’ dorm. For all Xan knew, this was the last time he would ever see this kind nun.

  “You seem unhappy with this coming journey,” she said.

  He didn’t respond immediately. “I . . . ’tis been . . . why does God keep punishing me?”

  “Nay,” the nun said. “God loves you, Xan.”

  “But he killed my parents; destroyed my village; took Lucy away. And now the abbot is forcing me to go all the way to Lincoln with that horrible bandit. I might never return here.”

  Sister Regina stopped and gazed at him. “Have you ever heard the story of Joseph?”

  He hadn’t. She took his arm and walked with him as she told the tale. “Joseph was a young man, much like you, Xan. He was the son of Jacob—the man who became father to the nation of Israel, God’s chosen people. He had many brothers and was a blessed child, deeply loved by his father. But this made his brothers jealous. One day, they threw him in a well and even were ready to kill him. The poor boy had done nothing wrong at all! But at the last moment, they changed their minds and sold him as a slave instead.”

  What kind of brothers would do that to a member of their own family? If Xan had cousins in Lincoln, he wouldn’t care if Uncle William loved them more than him—they’d still be family.

  “Joseph was taken to Egypt,” Sister Regina continued, “and put through terrible sufferings: mistreated, accused falsely, even put in prison. But he always kept his faith and trusted God. It took many years, but finally he understood why God had allowed so much evil against him.

  “Here is what happened: God gave Joseph a gift to interpret people’s dreams. So, while he was in prison, he met the servants of Pharaoh, the king of Egypt, and interpreted their dreams. Later, he helped Pharaoh understand his dreams too. Because of this, Pharaoh put him in charge of all Egypt! And ’twas a good thing he did—Joseph saved Egypt from a famine and, in doing so, also saved his father and his brothers. If not for Joseph, God’s chosen people would have starved.”

  Sister Regina was watching him work through the story in his mind.

  “What happened to Joseph’s brothers?” he asked. “Did he tell Pharaoh to punish them?”

  Sister Regina shook her head. “Actually, Joseph forgave them.” The nun put her hands to the wooden crucifix hanging upon her habit. Jesus had also suffered so He could bring good to all people. Xan reached into the leather pouch attached to the white rope around his tunic. He took out the little cross the
abbot had whittled for him.

  The nun smiled. “See, Xan? You do understand. God has allowed terrible evils to befall you—just as he did with His own Son, our Lord. He will turn all that evil to good, you watch and see. But like Joseph, you must keep faith and let God work good through you.”

  Just then a shout came from the hilltop by the dormitory. “Xan!” Brother Andrew stood, calling down to him. It must be time to leave for Lincoln.

  “I have to go,” Xan said.

  The nun embraced him. “I will be praying for you, Xan.”

  He bid her farewell and jogged up the path to meet the monk in the meadow. As he passed the dorm, he saw John standing there in the grass, staring at him, no forgiveness in his eyes.

  Suddenly Joshua rushed out the door and gestured wildly—broom in hand, red hair brighter than the dreary morning. “Come back soon, Xan! I’ll make sure no one takes your bed!”

  He gave a wave to the poor boy. If Uncle William asked him to stay in Lincoln, Joshua would take the news worst of all. For some reason, he’d looked up to Xan right from the start.

  Brother Andrew escorted him through the granges toward the abbey complex. There, in front of the abbey church, stood a sturdy wooden cart drawn by two muscular black horses.

  “Xan,” the monk said, as they drew near. “We must keep an eye on these guards of Chadwick. No accident took the lives of those bandits in their custody. Godfrey’s guards despise Carlo and would feel justified if he met death, just as his two companions did.”

  “All right, Brother.” He’d keep both eyes on that bandit, as well as on the guards. And if some accident befell Carlo, perhaps they could laugh and all say it had been God’s will.

  Just then the prior hurried out to meet them. “You two are flying into perilous danger,” he said. “Trust no one, least of all this bandit. The abbot might think him a penitent, but I am not so certain. The devil still has a hold on his heart. I believe he will try to escape if given the chance.”

  At least Xan wasn’t alone in his mistrust of Carlo.

  Brother Andrew bowed his head and scratched at his patchy beard. “I will do my best, Clement, but I do not have the strength to fight off both that bandit and Lord Godfrey’s guards.”

  “’Tis true,” the prior said. “That is why you must pray for wisdom.”

  They arrived at the wagon. It had seating up front for two men to direct the horses. In the rear, a wooden bench ran along three sides. The fourth side held chests of supplies for the trip.

  The other travelers were already loaded. Two burly guards in chain mail held weapons and round shields in their laps. The larger of the pair—in the back of the cart, stroking the edge of a long sword—had a coating of hair on his huge body. He turned to the group and grinned through decaying teeth.

  “Call me Ox,” he said. Then he pointed to the other guard, who sat up front, reins in hand, beside a small crossbow and leather quiver of pointed quarrels. “An’ this here’s Guy.” He was thinner than Ox.

  Finally, on the floor of the wagon lay Carlo, shackled both hand and foot. His disheveled clothes resembled rags, matching the stench that rose from his filthy body. He still wore the dragon pendant around his neck and, despite the chill air, sweat dripped from his soiled face.

  The bandit looked so miserable that for a moment it was easy to feel sorry for the despicable man. But what about that evil gleam in Carlo’s eyes when he’d made up his mind to kill Xan that night long ago, just moments before Lord Godfrey’s men had swooped in and saved the abbey?

  Ox waved his hand in front of his nose, as if to dispel the odor. “And this one’s nothin’ but a stinkin’ pig.” He gave the bandit a restrained kick in the side, causing him to grunt in pain.

  Brother Andrew glared at the guard, but then gestured to the cart. “Climb in, my son.”

  Xan did so, eyeing the bandit and taking a seat as far from Carlo and Ox as possible. As Brother Andrew mounted the wagon, the abbot stepped forward and placed his hand on Carlo’s grimy forehead, tracing the shape of a cross with his thumb. Then he whispered a word to the bandit that was inaudible to the others. Carlo gave a warm and unexpected smile.

  The old monk nodded encouragingly to Xan and then turned his eyes toward Heaven. Stepping back, the abbot made the Sign of the Cross: “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. May God bless this trip and lead its travelers to rest in his will.”

  “Amen,” they all responded, including Carlo.

  At that, Ox’s shield crashed down upon the bandit’s head and shoulders like an anvil. “Shut yer cursed mouth, you dirty swine,” the guard barked, “or y’ll feel the sting of me blade!”

  The bandit didn’t respond, except to cry out from the blow.

  Xan nearly smiled, though it seemed cruel. If this were a taste of the punishment Carlo had coming, perhaps he would receive some justice for the deaths of Mother and Father after all.

  The abbot rushed to the wagon with surprising speed. His fiery brow blazed at the guard. The two of them locked eyes, but Ox couldn’t win that test of wills—his gaze shifted downward.

  “Guard,” the abbot said in a cold voice. “Know truly that our Lord in Heaven will judge you with the same mercy you show this prisoner. Remember that.”

  The monk had barely finished speaking when Guy spurred the horses with a snap and a yell. The cart creaked down the path with the clip-clop of hooves and the dull grind of its wheels.

  Xan’s home grew smaller in the distance.

  Farewell.

  When they’d rounded a bend in the trail, Guy turned his head back to look at Xan.

  “Hold on to yer seat, lad. ’Tis gonna be a rough journey.” He grinned through yellow teeth. “And I hope yer not afeared of spirits. I just returned from Lincoln last week, and they got themselves a spooky little ghost haunting that old cathedral there. So you be careful now.”

  Guy began to snicker, and Ox’s deep laugh soon joined in, loud and obnoxious.

  5

  Rough Roads

  The first hour of that journey along the cratered, dusty road was perhaps the most wretched in Xan’s life. The stench from the chained bandit suffocated almost all other senses. And the bumpy trail jerked and banged him along his seat, almost knocking him to the floor several times.

  “’Tis this old Roman road,” Brother Andrew shouted over the churning of the tires. “A feat of the Roman Empire all over England. But 700 years have passed with far too few repairs.”

  Guy dared not drive the horses with any speed. The faster they went, the more Ox got annoyed from the constant jostling. “Slow down, ya simpkin!” he hollered again and again.

  Xan said nothing, going round in his thoughts. What would become of him once they got to Lincoln? Hopefully he could find Uncle William quickly. Then he could meet his aunt and his cousins, too, if they existed. Surely they would make him stay and never return to the abbey again.

  And what of Lucy? She and her father were traveling with the King’s courts, but which one? She might already be in Lincoln with the judges. That truly would be a miracle.

  And then there was Carlo. Mother and Father were probably watching from Heaven right now. How did they feel about this tragic scene—their son traveling in a cart with their killer?

  He gasped some fresh air stolen from the passing breeze. That wretched fiend was staring at him again through despairing gray eyes, though Carlo didn’t seem to be a threat, bound in shackles on his hands and bare feet, propped against the bench. A thick silver beard—untrimmed and tangled with bits of food and dirt—stretched to his long, tattered hair.

  “Guy, you smelly pig!” Ox called out to the other guard with a laugh. “This filthy swine here stinks near as bad as you after eatin’ a bowl of porridge!” The hairy guard poked meanly at Carlo’s back with the edge of his shield.

  “Nah,” Guy replied with a cackle. “Smells more like your mother after eatin’ bean stew.”

  Brother Andrew watched the whol
e scene disapprovingly. He fingered a string of beads while his lips moved silently, as though he could pray away the rudeness of the guards.

  All signs of civilization had faded into the distance miles earlier, once they’d passed the abbey’s fence posts and sheep pastures. The wagon now rode through a vast green wasteland.

  After another mile, Ox tapped Guy’s back and pointed. Guy gave a nod. Something about their strange glances and silent gestures seemed suspicious. Ox had even grasped his sword hilt.

  As the cart approached a trail that shot off to the right, Guy turned the wagon from the main path and headed down a hill under the trees beside a flowing stream. Then the cart halted.

  “Why have we stopped?” the monk asked, finally stirred from his meditation.

  Ox ignored him. With a great kick from the heel of his boot, he ousted Carlo from the back of the cart, sending the bandit crashing to the ground with a clang and a pained grunt.

  “Move it, filth!” Ox shouted, jumping down next to him as Guy approached from the front.

  Both guards had drawn their swords. Were they going to execute the villain, as he deserved? Maybe they’d say he’d tried to escape, like that other bandit who’d lost his head.

  The monk leapt from the wagon. “Stop this cursed act!” But his voice wavered. Brother Andrew had once told Xan that his family had raised him to be a knight before he’d decided to become a monk. Right now, he had no sword, no shield, no chain mail—just the fire in his brown and blue eyes, which couldn’t disguise the trembling behind his words.

  “Stay outta this,” Ox warned.

  Brother Andrew’s face turned paler. “I will not let you harm this prisoner.”

  But why couldn’t the monk just let the guards alone? Nothing Ox and Guy could do to the evil bandit would be too strong a punishment. Sire Roger had paid for his crimes with his life, as had all the other bandits who’d been captured during the raid on the abbey. Why should their leader somehow escape justice when all the others had been rightly punished?