“It’s just as well you don’t,” Regis said. “However, as long as the manuscripts were ‘neglected and forgotten,’ my buyers were quite content to leave them alone. It was your arrival in England, and your unprecedented energy and success in coping with the difficulties they present, which demonstrated the need to make other arrangements.”
“I don’t think I like your ‘arrangements,’ ” I said. “In at least three instances I know of, they look a lot like murder.”
“I really hope I have not misjudged you, Dr. Fairchild. I thought you were a man we could do business with. Of course, this offer must be kept in strictest confidence. Any attempt to report our conversation to the College authorities or to the police would be exceedingly futile. You are not in a position to bargain with us, nor do you have a shred of evidence to use against us. It would be—and this you may construe as a threat—dangerous in the extreme for you to pursue your studies in defiance of our wishes. Should you do so, I doubt that even America would be large enough to hide you.”
“That’s a pretty big claim,” I said, “for a pipsqueak cult of cockeyed devil-worshippers.”
Regis had been about to leave the table, but this last remark had the desired effect of setting him back in his chair. He glared at me, attempting to master his anger. His slender fingers gripped the table. The waxed tips of his mustache quivered. I had never seen a man lose his good humor and urbanity so quickly.
“You are speaking of things,” he said,” of which you are abysmally ignorant. What if I were to tell you that the order I represent is older than Christianity; that some of the world’s greatest men have belonged to it in times past; that even today it attracts men of great power, wealth and influence? You would be surprised at the vast numbers which have embraced this ancient and honorable faith.”
“I’m sure Satan’s always had his following,” I said, “but so far I haven’t exactly been impressed by the quality of the congregation. You’re the first one I’ve seen, Regis, who wasn’t close to a gibbering idiot.”
“You have perhaps seen more of us than you realize. The term ‘Satan’ means ‘enemy’ in Hebrew. The Bible identifies this enemy with Lucifer, a mere exiled minion of the Hebraic God. Our order cherishes a different tradition. The Christians fear and hate us, for we dare to challenge their simplistic notion of the world, their allegiance to an absurd and enfeebling faith. They know that the god we worship is real, whereas this God of theirs—who has ever seen Him? Who can rely upon Him? Indeed, the entire history of the world might well be seen as the unfolding struggle between their God and ours.”
“And was one of your eminent disciples by any chance a poet named Geoffrey Gervaise?” I asked.
In the waning light from the harbor, the eyes of Simon Regis had taken on a reptilian opacity. His skin had turned yellow and scaly. His cultured voice had become a kind of hiss. “You have asked far too many questions and received, I’m afraid, too many answers. But I will tell you this. In the battle of which we’re speaking, hostages are sometimes taken. The author of the Westchurch manuscript was a vain and foolish man who challenged our god and relied too greatly upon his own ingenuity. He is now paying the price for his arrogance and doing much good for our cause. His text is precious to us as a token of his submission. For nearly two centuries that text lay safely in the College library, where one of ours, in his wisdom, had placed it. Now it is no longer safe and we have made you an offer for its return. You have forty-eight hours in which to make your decision.”
“And where shall I find you?” I asked, as Regis rose from the table, a dark figure looming over me in the dim light.
“We shall find you, Dr. Fairchild. You must make up your mind before we do.” And with that he turned and walked swiftly from the tearoom.
His departure seemed to clear the air of some unpleasant odor I had scarcely been aware of, or had taken for the rotting fish smell of the harbor.
I found that I had no interest in drinking the rest of my cold tea. A smutty young waitress came to clear the table and give me the bill, which I had no choice but to pay. A nice touch, I thought. One might have known the devil would employ a cheapskate.
There was a pay phone in the lobby and I put through a call to Abbotswold. Mrs. Mortimor answered and I asked for Stephany.
“David, what’s wrong? Has anything happened to my car?”
“It’s fine—but something’s come up and I’m going to have to keep it for a while longer. I’ve got to drive back to Cambridge tonight.”
“Cambridge? Whatever for?”
I didn’t expect her to believe me, so I said, “To steal the Westchurch manuscript.”
Ten minutes later I was driving across the twilit fens toward Cambridge.
His Excellency the Archbishop
Thomas à Becket
At the Court of King Louis VII, Paris
My Lord:
In obedience to your will, I have made discreet inquiries concerning your onetime friend and protege, the infamous Geoffrey Gervaise. I am most grieved to inform Your Excellency that what you have heard rumored of Gervaise does indeed seem the truth, and that Your Eminence has no recourse in this matter but speedy excommunication, pronouncing both the man and his heathen works anathema to all faithful and right-minded Christians.
I feel these measures are necessary because there are many here in England still faithful to your primacy (and who long for your return to your rightful place as head of the Church in England) who remember that Gervaise was once your friend and will deny him sanctuary only when the archbishop himself has spoken. When you have heard the facts in the case, you will not, I am sure, suffer this wretched creature to trade upon the esteem your country-men and fellow religious hold for you.
I have been able to reconstruct Gervaise’s history from numerous sources. Forced to flee the court when Your Excellency chose exile to capitulation to the king, Gervaise prevailed upon the good abbot of Blackstone to speak for him and thus found refuge as a humble country priest in the village of Wendlebury, under the patronage of Lord William Fitzjames. There were many who warned Gervaise that he was unfit for the life and duties of a village pastor, but the headstrong man was not to be dissuaded. There followed a series of altercations with Fitzjames, culminating in some angry words over a peasant girl whom Gervaise accused Lord William of abusing in the manner of country gentlemen. He was soundly beaten for his pains and was obliged to seek a new shelter at the monastery at Blackstone. It was at this time that the king, anxious to keep peace with Fitzjames and willing enough to persecute one of your supporters, issued a warrant for Gervaise’s arrest on the grounds that he had made off with chancellery supplies and funds—one crime, I am fairly sure, the fellow did not commit.
The good abbot of Blackstone, ignorant of Gervaise’s wicked propensities and ever faithful to you, provided the man sanctuary for well over a year. During this period Gervaise seems to have developed his interest in the forbidden arts and to have undertaken forms of study which were clearly perilous to his immortal soul. He absented himself from the monastery for nearly a month in order to seek out a certain sorcerer called Gwynneddon, who had hidden himself away in the mountains of Wales. Some say he learned the secrets of the ancients from Gwynneddon and became himself a sorcerer of great powers. Others say the old pagan introduced Gervaise to the devil and that an unholy pact was sealed between them. And still others—those who have fallen under the spell this man seems to cast, or count themselves among his friends—have tried to claim that Gervaise met Satan only to defy him, and did defy him successfully, so that he alone among all men can count himself free from Satan’s power.
In any case, Gervaise left Blackstone to travel the highways and byways of England, frequently but a few hours ahead of the king’s soldiers. He found refuge and sanctuary wherever he went, and many miracles and good works were attributed to him by the common folk, though the evidence for such prodigies, I hasten to add, is slight. Nevertheless, shrines were established
at places where he had been, and there were many, including a sizable number from among the lower rank of the clergy, who became his disciples. If Gervaise had confined himself to an evangelical crusade, few would condemn him, whatever the audacity of his personal claims. But wherever he went he also sowed dissension and unrest, preaching against the powers of the aristocracy, attacking the wealth of monasteries and bishoprics, railing against all those whom God has placed upon this earth to govern and to save souls. In village after village, his presence led to ill will, conspiracy and open revolt. In some instances, manor houses were looted and burned by the peasants, shops and warehouses sacked, churches defiled. The very monks of Wiltonham Priory broke into the prior’s treasury and distributed gold and jewels to the poor. Is it any wonder, then, that the king doubled, tripled and quadrupled the reward for Gervaise’s capture, and dispatched an entire company of his best soldiers to hunt the villain down?
Still Gervaise eluded capture. He was by now too famous for his good works and too beloved by peasant and priest alike. The nadir of this horrid affair came when Lord William Fitzjames, Gervaise’s old protector and now his chief foe, was actually drawn and quartered by the peasants of Wendlebury, pieces of his corpse impaled at every crossroads for miles around. Gervaise let it be known that he had had no hand in this outrage and repudiated all acts of violence, yet it was clear to all whose inflammatory preaching and wretched example should be held accountable.
These troubled times continued in England for nearly three years, from the spring of 1166 to the winter of 1168. Then, mysteriously, Gervaise disappeared from view. Some said that his demons had carried him off to hell; others believed that the king’s soldiers had dispatched the villain without a public trial. And still others claim to this day that Gervaise has only gone into hiding—some even say with you, my lord—and that he will soon return to resume his crusade. In which case, it is believed, nothing can stop Gervaise until he has made himself the lord and ruler of England. I suspect it is this last rumor which most troubles our king, for he is known to be anxious to crown his eldest son as his successor while he is still alive, and to this end, it is rumored, he has even made secret overtures to Your Eminence concerning your safe return to England—since even Henry acknowledges that only the Archbishop of Canterbury may lawfully crown an English king . . .
My lord, it is now several hours since I wrote the above lines, and I take my quill in hand once again to describe for you the extraordinary event which interrupted my account.
I have seen the very devil himself, Geoffrey Gervaise!
Our interview came about in this wise. My secretary, the faithful Botolph, of whom you’ve often heard me speak, came to my chamber to inform me that a hermit had appeared in the cathedral close and begged leave to speak with me. I have long made it a practice to turn away no weary pilgrim in search of the bishop’s blessing. I therefore instructed Botolph to send the fellow to the small reception room I have reserved for such occasions.
No sooner had I entered the chamber than the hermit leapt from behind the door, slammed it and threw the bolt, thus trapping me alone with him. I cried out for my guards, but the hermit took me by the throat and put a dagger to my jugular. “Send away your guards,” he cried. “An hour’s audience I beg of you, or by the devil, I’ll slit your throat!”
I had no choice but to grant Gervaise this audience, for I realized by now into whose hands I had fallen. I had not seen the man for many years, and I can hardly describe for you the way in which he has changed. Tall and thin he is as ever, but exceedingly gaunt, as if he has been fasting. His hair and beard are still black and thick but much longer, filthy and unkempt. His clothes too were ragged and filthy, as if the man had just crawled out of his own grave. A hellish fire burned in his eyes, and I recognized that, with no hope of rescue or escape, I would be wise to humor his dementia.
The rogue informed me that he had heard of my inquiry into his case and that I was to write for Your Excellency an account of what I’d learned. He had also heard—I don’t know how; perhaps through his demons—that the king has asked you to return to England and that you are but waiting for some further sign of Henry’s good faith. He demanded that I include in my letter a message from himself, urging Your Eminence to grant the wretch an audience immediately upon your return to England.
His message I will place before you; but I can in no way advise Your Grace to subject yourself to the contamination, peril and misery of such an audience. The fiend wishes me to tell Your Grace that he has engaged the devil . . . in a game of chess! He says that the magician Gwynneddon, whom he visited in Wales, gave him a certain drug which he was fool enough to take, and that he was visited by Satan himself, while so drugged, at a pagan burial site called Brixton Barrow. He promptly challenged the devil to a game at the board, and to an accompanying wager—his soul against the devil’s promise to grant Gervaise immunity to all temptations and supernatural affliction. If you needed further proof that Gervaise has gone quite mad, you have it now in his very own words!
At this point Gervaise’s account, or my understanding of it, grows confused. A game there was, perhaps two games. I gather Gervaise emerged victorious, and that Satan pretended to honor his side of the wager. Thus we have an explanation—if we could but take it seriously!—for the miraculous powers Gervaise exhibited when he began his wanderings across England. Believing himself a victor over Satan, the fool set out to make himself a second savior of the race. Oh, he acknowledges Christ as the first Savior—he does Our Lord that justice! But Gervaise believes it is up to him, and others like him, to shoulder crosses of their own. As you can see, Gervaise is no theologian, but a mystic, and you know how mystics are wont to trample reason and authority underfoot. When I asked him how this blasphemous wager could serve any justifiable Christian end, he replied that his damnation—should it come to that, as I think it shall—will clearly prove the existence of a God whose power exceeds that of Satan. I should have explained earlier, my lord, that a third contest between Gervaise and Satan is apparently now in progress, and has been in progress since Gervaise disappeared nearly two years ago. On this point he was exceedingly obscure, but I gather that Satan has introduced certain variations and refinements into the rules of the game. There was some mad business about the stars, and about a move each night, or once a fortnight, or whenever Satan demands it; I don’t know. I am still quite upset and my wits don’t seem to function. I keep seeing those wild eyes, that dagger which he held to my throat . . . I gave him my promise that I would deliver his message, and with that he left me. I sent the guard after him at once and dispatched a messenger to the castle, but I have no doubt the wary brute has escaped once again.
My lord, please listen to one who loves you and do not suffer this man to come near you! In fact, I must urge that you do not return to England at all until Gervaise is dead and the king has regained a somewhat calmer mind. The king has not been himself, they say, for many months. The queen imprisoned, his sons fighting among themselves and daily giving him new cause for concern—and now this lunatic Gervaise once more aprowl across the land . . . I should not count upon Henry’s rationality under such circumstances, nor would I trust his promises.
But I can go no farther. The memory of that man’s burning eyes haunts me still. It will take much prayer and penance, and perhaps a long vacation at my country estate, before I am myself again. And so I close, with all reverence and love and admiration, your most humble and obedient servant, who has served you in this matter as faithfully as he could, and who begs your indulgence for any flaws or inadequacies in this most trying account.
Written this evening of November 7,
the year of Our Lord 1170.
Robert Hastings
Bishop of Ely
“Steal the Westchurch manuscripts? Have you gone crazy?”
“It could be I have, Archie,” I said, sinking down into one of his chairs before the gas fire, “but I’m going to steal them, and I’d like you to
help me.”
Archie sat on the arm of the chair opposite and looked at his suitcases near the door, awaiting the porter’s call the next morning. I could see he was intrigued by the notion of a last prank on the dons who had dictated his exile, yet reluctant to commit himself to anything quite so criminal. I’d been counting on his penchant for reckless escapades and felt sure I could talk him around.
“Now see here,” he began, trying very hard to be firm with me—then caught himself playing the role of my British nanny. “Have a glass of whisky, lad, and tell me just what’s been going on down at Trevor-Finch’s place.”
I gratefully took the glass of liquor he handed me and began my explanation. “There is a cult of Satanists connected with those manuscripts, Archie. Not only did they murder Dr. Greggs, but they’ve murdered two other men besides, and offered me one hundred thousand pounds to steal the manuscripts for them—with the suggestion that my death will be next if I refuse.”
“One hundred thousand pounds! They’ve actually made you such an offer, and you’ve accepted? So what’s my cut, if I lend a hand?”
“Archie, I’m not stealing the manuscripts for the cult. I have to learn what makes them so important to these people—and incidentally, to our friend Trevor-Finch. I’ve got just forty-eight hours to come up with some answers, and I could use your support back at Abbotswold, if things get rough.”
“I’m sure you could.” Archie savored his whisky and cast another glance at his waiting suitcases. “I think you’d better start from the beginning. How in the world did Finchie ever get mixed up with a cult of Satanists?”
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