The Haunted Cathedral

by Antony Barone Kolenc

  Uncle William rejected her suggestion with a wave. “Nay. He was named Stephen at his baptism. I will not dishonor my little brother’s memory by calling him anything other than that.”

  Xan opened his mouth to protest, but Lucy pulled at the sleeve of his tunic. “He’s still grieving, Xan,” she whispered, her voice gentle in his ear.

  She was right. Uncle William had just learned of his younger brother’s death. Each person must grieve in their own way. For now, then, he must tolerate the use of his birth name. Indeed, Uncle William had the right to use that name, if anyone in this world still did.

  “I remember my last visit home, Stephen,” Uncle William said, smiling sadly. “I carried you around the hearth like a horse. You kept kicking at my ribs, shouting, ‘Move it, you lazy beast!’”

  “I remember.” Reliving that memory of the hearthside—a time of laughter and the warmth of family—seemed right and good and safe. That was how the world was meant to be.

  Uncle William said nothing for a while, lost in memory. When he spoke again, he’d regained his stature. “’Tis kind of you to travel all this way to break this sad news, nephew. I am grateful.”

  But that wasn’t why Xan had traveled all this way, and no invitation had yet come from Uncle William’s mouth about Xan’s future. Nor had Xan found the big family he’d hoped for in Lincoln.

  “Actually,” Lucy said, straightening her belt. “I think your nephew may need your help.”

  Xan nodded. “There’s a problem at the abbey, Uncle. The reeve at Hardonbury wants my head money. And the monks think you might have your own ideas for my future.”

  Uncle William’s eyes cleared. Indeed, he now wore the same expression as Father when he’d fix a tool or craft a new chair for the cottage. He must have realized Xan’s dilemma. “Your head money, of course,” Uncle William said. “And the monks—they wish me to take you under my care now, I suppose.”

  Xan nodded. “They say I can stay at the abbey if you wish. ’Tis your decision.”

  “But that can happen only if someone pays your head money and frees you from being a serf,” Uncle William said, almost to himself. “Otherwise, the lord of Hardonbury has say over you.”

  “Aye,” Xan agreed. Uncle William apparently knew quite well how the system worked.

  Uncle William gazed at him sadly. His eyes welled with tears. “I must confess that, at present, I doubt whether I can provide you a good home, my nephew.”

  “Why not?” Simon said. “Your house is ten times bigger than ours.”

  Uncle William hesitated. “What you see here, Stephen, has been the accumulation of a life of good fortune.” He gestured to the high wood ceilings within the home. “When I escaped Hardonbury over thirty years ago, I became an apprentice to one of the most successful merchants in Lincoln.”

  “An apprentice?” Xan asked. “Is that like being a novice monk?”

  “Aye. He taught me about this way of life. Eventually, I paid my own head money. Then my mentor retired, and I took over his business. I had vowed as a child to escape the poverty of Hardonbury. Several times I asked your father to join me, but he refused to uproot his family.”

  “You would have paid all our head money for us?” Xan said.

  Uncle William nodded, surveying the empty walls around him. “There was a time when these walls were covered in tapestries, and my home was filled with vases from Egypt, jewelry from Persia. I’ve never been a man of great faith, but God blessed me nonetheless. ’Til last fall, that is, when a ship filled with an entire lot of my imported goods sunk in a storm off the coast of Sicily.”

  “The Kingdom of Sicily?” Lucy said. “My mother grew up there.”

  Carlo too had mentioned Sicily as a place where the bandit’s father had lived.

  “Aye, but all my profits for the year sank to the bottom of the sea. So, I was forced to take from all I had accumulated in life to finance another journey of commerce.” Uncle William shook his head sadly. “’Twas just a few months ago—on the same winds that brought those cursed Northmen to Lincoln, in fact—that a second ship with my goods was swallowed by the sea, bringing me to ruin.”

  Two ships sunk. It was as though God had singled out Uncle William for some kind of punishment. Indeed, his double misfortune had come just weeks after Hardonbury’s tragedy. Perhaps God was cursing Xan’s entire family for some reason.

  “You shall overcome these setbacks,” Christina said seriously, approaching Uncle William and looking him directly in the eye. “You can start again and find success once more.”

  “I wish it were so,” he said, his voice trembling. “My situation has become dire. I—”

  Just then the front door crashed open. Two men burst in—Mort and the other brute from Uncle William’s shop, with clubs in hand and daggers tucked in their belts.

  “Well, guess who we finally found, Ivo,” Mort said to his shorter partner.

  Uncle William jumped to his feet. “Leave these children in peace! They know nothing.”

  “Uncle, what’s happening?” Xan said. Great fear had filled his uncle’s eyes.

  “We don’ care a whit ’bout them,” Ivo said, baring his yellow teeth. “But you just come along with us now and we’ll be taking you on to the Master.”

  Uncle William shook his head. “The Master would take my life to pay my debt to him.” He turned to Xan with a melancholy look. “Now you understand, dear nephew. Godspeed to you.”

  Before Xan could speak, Uncle William rushed out an exit in the back of the room, leaving a din of chaos in his wake as he passed through other rooms and possibly out a back door.

  Mort pushed Xan aside as he and Ivo gave chase with shouts and grunts. Uncle William’s life was in danger. No way could Xan stand idly by and let his only remaining family die alone.

  “Go!” he yelled to the others. “I’ll meet you back at Father Philip’s cottage.” With the protests of Simon and Lucy echoing behind him, he sprinted outside, following the men through an alley and onto a steep, narrow lane between rough-hewn buildings.

  Down they ran, outpacing Xan as he fell far behind them.

  Simon had said this cobblestone street led to the South Gate at the base of the hill. The boy was right. Xan reached the bottom, passed under the gate—the guard on duty watching curiously—and headed toward a wharf and a great pool of water that connected to the wide river.

  He stumbled the last steps to the edge of the water. Where had they all gone?

  There was no movement in the wide pool, except for the gentle trio of white swans that cruised across the surface. No sign of a swimmer, or even of one who had drowned after a struggle.

  Uncle William and the ruffians had disappeared. They must have turned off the main path.

  “Uncle, where are you?” Xan shouted, his voice echoing over the water.

  15

  Burial Ground

  Halt!” The guard at the South Gate held up a spear as Xan approached. “Who are you, boy?”

  “No one,” Xan said. “Just a boy looking for his uncle.”

  “Not one of those Northmen boys, I hope,” the guard said, peering at him suspiciously.

  “Why does everyone keep saying that?” Xan said. Those Northmen boys must have been quite a lot of trouble for them to draw this kind of reaction from everyone they met.

  The guard smirked. “When those Danish traders show up here every winter, their ships barely get to dock when a whole horde of them boys come racing out, like a pack of wild wolves.” His tone was half-mocking, half-disgust.

  “What do they do that’s so bad?” Xan asked.

  “Bring chaos and trouble wherever they go, ’tis what. And their parents go about town all day, selling queer fabric and trinkets from the East at dishonest prices. Who needs it all?”

  “Well,” Xan said. “I’m no Danish boy, as you can plainly see. So, may I pass?”

  “I suppose you are tellin’ the truth,” the guard said. “But every few days a group of them N
orthmen are prowling outside the city—always the same ones.” The guard stepped aside to let him by. “God only knows why they’d want to return here after the way we drove ’em out that night.”

  That did seem odd. Who would possibly buy anything from them even if they could sneak back into the city? It seemed that all of Lincoln was against them.

  Xan bid the guard farewell and continued back up the hill. He reached the path that passed near the old cathedral. Still there was no sign of Uncle William or his attackers. For all he knew, they had already captured his uncle and were torturing him right now.

  Ahead of him strode Father Philip, alone.

  “Father, where are you heading?” Xan asked, catching up to him.

  “Ah, Xan! I am on my way back to the cottage after running an errand. Walk with me and tell me all about your uncle.”

  Xan told him what had happened, including his chase to the swan pool.

  “How terrible,” the priest said. “I will inquire to see what I can learn about this Master.”

  “Thank you, Father.” They walked on, and Xan told him about his conversation with the guard at the gate. “No one seems to like those poor Northmen families.”

  Even Father Philip sneered at their name. “A den of thieves they are. We trusted them to enter our city, and how did they repay us? We suspect several of them stole from the town square.”

  They stopped to speak with a baker selling his bread from a cart on the side of the road. Father Philip took out a coin. “One loaf, please.”

  The man pointed to a bushel on the ground containing three loaves of bread. “If you’d like, Father, you can take some of the Lenten excess at no cost to you. I will be leaving it here for the poor tonight, as always, so that it does not go to waste.”

  The priest smiled. “Nay, my friend. Save that bread for the beggars. I will pay. ’Tis for a sickly monk recovering from his injuries.” He purchased the bread, and they walked on the rest of the way to the cottage. When they arrived, none of the other children were present. Had they come and gone so soon?

  Brother Andrew was awake in bed.

  “We’ve brought you some bread to eat,” Xan told him.

  “Thank you, my son, but not on a Friday, especially during this season of fasting.”

  “’Tis after midday,” the priest said. “You have just prayed sext, I deem, so the rules permit you to take a meal. Plus, you need strength. You cannot serve God if you are dead, monk.”

  That was exactly the kind of argument that could convince Brother Andrew, and indeed it did. He chuckled and took the bread. “You win, Philip.”

  “Now I must tend to another errand,” the priest said. “Carlo awaits in the dungeons. I will care for him, as I promised. And I have your letter from the abbot to deliver to the court.”

  “I am in your debt, Father,” the monk said with a grateful tone.

  It was good that Father Philip didn’t ask Xan to join him in the dungeons. He couldn’t bear to see Carlo—not until he felt ready to forgive, if that day should ever come. If only he knew what Mother and Father expected. Maybe he should ask Uncle William’s opinion, if he ever saw him again.

  After the priest departed, Xan filled in Brother Andrew on all that had happened.

  “You worry for your uncle’s safety,” the monk said.

  “Aye. I want to find him, to see if he escaped, but I don’t know where to go.”

  If the Master were to kill Uncle William, Xan would be all alone in the world—this time for real. The spirits of Mother and Father might rejoice to see their brother again in Heaven, but would they not also mourn because their son would be left to die by himself as a serf back in Hardonbury?

  “I wish to help.” The monk coughed weakly. “Tomorrow I will rise from this bed whether the priest allows it or not. We can search for your uncle together. For now, let us pray.”

  Brother was right. There was nothing else Xan could do about it now except to pray. He reached for the abbot’s whittled cross inside the leather pouch attached to his belt. His hand brushed against Carlo’s dragon pendant, which would lie neglected in that pouch until the day of Carlo’s death. He took the wooden cross into his palm as the monk prayed aloud.

  The monk’s prayer ended with these words: “Saint Stephen the Martyr, pray for us.” There it was again—Brother Andrew asking the dead to do something for him. Why was that any different from seeking the help of Nelly’s ghost in the cathedral?

  “Brother, I . . . I’m confused about what you said about little Nelly’s ghost. You believe in asking the saints to help us, but isn’t Nelly in Heaven?”

  “A baptized, innocent girl who died tragically? By grace, I should hope so.”

  “So, she’s a saint,” Xan said. “And if we’re surrounded by the saints—and Nelly loved that old cathedral—then why can’t she be a ghost there?” If Nelly’s ghost wasn’t imaginary—if she was real—she might be a link between Heaven and earth for him. Even a sign from God.

  Brother Andrew sat up in the bed. “You ask difficult questions, but ’tis not the same. These ghost stories sound as though this poor little girl is tormented to dwell in a cathedral alone for all eternity. Yet, if this child lives with Christ, then she lives in total joy. Do you see?”

  “But what about all the signs and the strange happenings in there?”

  “There could be reasons for those things, my son.”

  Maybe the monk was right. Christina had called Nelly a sweet child who loved God. Why would she now be tormented, sobbing in the cathedral? Unless this spirit wasn’t Nelly at all. “Brother, what about the souls of evil people or those who hate God?” Someone like Carlo, perhaps, or a nonbeliever like Ox. “Could that kind of spirit be stuck in torment?”

  The monk paused before answering. “We know little about the souls who depart this world in mortal sin, except that they spend eternity deprived of God’s presence.” Jesus had said in the Gospels those souls would spend eternity “wailing and gnashing their teeth.” The prior had preached on the topic at Mass just a few weeks ago.

  “What about one of them? Could such a soul be trapped here on earth?”

  Before the monk could answer, a knock came at the cottage door. Xan opened it to find Simon, Lucy, and Christina. “There you are!” Simon said, bursting in. “We went looking for you.”

  “You had us worried sick, Xan,” Lucy said, but not in a reprimanding tone.

  Christina folded her arms. “I told them we should come here right from the start.”

  They spoke together for a while, catching up on what had happened. None of them had seen Uncle William or the brutes once they’d run from the stone house.

  As they spoke, a rumbling sound filled the room. Brother Andrew was snoring again.

  “Come on,” Xan said. He led them outside and sat upon the low stone wall near the chapel, as he used to do with Lucy and Sister Regina at the convent. He tossed a rock between his hands. “I’ve been talking with Brother Andrew about the cathedral. He doesn’t think the ghost could possibly be Nelly. But what if it were someone who had died in mortal sin?”

  “Like who?” asked Christina.

  Xan shrugged. “I don’t know. Someone who rejected God maybe.”

  Simon stuck up a finger. “The old Roman burial ground! We should check there.”

  Brother Andrew had said the ancient Romans were heathens who didn’t believe in Christ. They had even persecuted the Christians. Surely that would be a reason to be separated from God.

  “I don’t know,” Xan said. “They’ve been dead an awfully long time.”

  “It can’t hurt to go take a look, can it?” Simon asked. “You’ll really like it there too.”

  The boy had a point. The ancient burial ground might be interesting, even if it didn’t give them any new clues about the cathedral. Also, with Brother Andrew snoring and Father Philip at the dungeons, there was little else to do except wait for Uncle William to reappear sometime.

  “Well, I still
think ’tis Nelly,” Christina said. “That burial ground is all the way outside the city walls, too.” Her voice sounded disapproving.

  Lucy nodded. “Perhaps you should go without me. I still have to clean the stables today.”

  Xan shrugged. “All right, Lucy. But promise you’ll come by tomorrow.”

  “I promise,” she said, stepping closer. “I’ll keep your uncle in my prayers today too.”

  Christina’s tone turned upbeat. “Ah, well, I’ve got nothing better going on this afternoon. I guess I’ll join you for the journey, Xan.” At least she had stopped calling him Alexander.

  As Lucy turned to leave, her eyes flickered, perhaps with concern. Maybe she was worried about getting her chores done at the stable on time. Or maybe she was jealous of Christina, who had originally sounded as though she too would be skipping this trip, before changing her mind.

  But Lucy didn’t say a word about it, merely giving a wave goodbye and heading off.

  Simon pointed to the path. “C’mon, this way!”

  He led them along narrower paths until they reached a wide road that led to the East Gate. It passed under a thick, guarded tunnel and outside the city walls, where it grew wider. This must be another part of the same Roman road they’d taken on their trip from the abbey.

  Christina didn’t seem to tire from the journey. Not only was she a year older, she also appeared to be in strong shape. Someone like Uncle William might indeed wish her to be his wife.

  “Did you mean what you said earlier?” Xan asked, walking beside her. “Would you really marry an old man for his money?”

  She laughed and flicked her head. A veil of hair covered the dimple on her right cheek. “It depends on who the man is, I suppose.” Perhaps that was one good thing about Uncle William losing his wealth. Christina would never marry him if he was a poor man again.

  “There!” Simon called out, pointing to the horizon. Jutting ruins of rock shot up from yellowish grass, silhouetted against the gray sky.

  “That’s the Roman burial ground—their final resting place.” They walked on a bit further, until a vast area of yellow-green grass surrounded them. Rocky ruins of dingy white and dirt-worn stones were partly buried in the hills. Most had been washed smooth from the punishing wind and rain that had swept over the fields for centuries. There were no grave markers; no names of the dead, like on that hill in Hardonbury.