by Paul Doherty
‘I know. I know,’ Stephen declared. ‘What is wrong with a little smuggling? There’s not a Kentish man over the age of sixteen who has not been involved with some smuggling, my own father included. However, Romanel was different. He wanted wealth so he also dabbled in the black arts.’
‘A warlock?’ Edmund asked.
‘Warlock, wizard, sorcerer, gibbet-master. Whatever.’
‘And where did he practise his rites?’
Stephen began to laugh, low and mocking. ‘According to local law and Father Anthony, here.’
‘You mean in the church?’
‘No, Philip, I mean here in the crypt. The usual, noddle-pated nonsense. Animal sacrifices . . .’
Philip sprang to his feet. He did not like this place. Closing his eyes, he quietly cursed his own arrogance. I should have asked, he thought, I should have made my own enquiries. He felt Stephen’s hand on his shoulder.
‘Come on, Philip: that was years ago. Romanel died mad. The church has been blessed and re-consecrated.’ His smile faded. ‘Though I should show you this.’
He stepped across and held his candle up against one of the pillars which supported the floor just near the staircase. Philip expected to see the eyes as he had on the tomb but, as Stephen held the candle up, he glimpsed what he thought was a damp patch which marked part of the pillar. As he studied it more closely, he realised it was like a shadow caught on the pillar forming the figure of a knight. Walking closer Philip could make out the chainmail coif, the moustached face, the cloak falling in folds, the breastplate, greaves, even spurs on the heels: it reminded him of the vision in the graveyard.
‘What is it?’ he whispered.
‘I don’t know,’ Stephen replied. ‘Father Anthony mentioned it in his notes. I have also talked to others. Some say it is a painting of a knight which has faded. Others are more mysterious, they say it’s the imprint of a ghost.’
Philip grasped the candle and studied the pillar closely. For the first time ever he felt frightened. He had seen faded wall paintings before but this was different. He thrust the candle back into Stephen’s hand.
‘I tell you this.’ He glanced at the master mason and his brother. ‘Soon it will be spring. Before another winter comes to Scawsby, I’ll have this church levelled and a new one almost built.’
They left the crypt and went out of the church into the cemetery. The day was dying, the light was beginning to fade. Tendrils of mist curled round the yew trees. Philip glimpsed the welcoming light from the priest’s house.
‘I am looking forward to a good meal,’ he declared. ‘Roheisia has a reputation for being a good cook and I want words with our clerk Adam Waldis.’
‘He’s a furtive little man,’ Stephen declared. ‘Scurries round like a mouse, always muttering to himself but he’s a closed book. Try and talk to him about the parish, or Father Anthony’s death and he’ll just look at you like some frightened rabbit then run away.’
Laughing and talking they walked to the back of the church. Philip was interested in inspecting the wall most open to the elements. As they did so, he caught a movement amongst the trees. He stopped, heart in mouth.
‘Philip, what’s the matter?’
At first the priest didn’t want to reply, to be accused of having a fanciful imagination. Then he saw the movement again, a stooped figure crossing from behind a grave stone to the trees clustered at the east end of the cemetery.
‘Who is that?’ Edmund asked.
Philip laughed and relaxed. He was not having visions; his good humour, however, soon, turned to anger. Was this the figure who had been watching him when he had first entered the church? He strode across the grass.
‘Stop!’ he shouted.
The figure turned: an old woman, a veritable crone, her two hands clenched on an ash stick. She gazed fearfully as the priest approached. Philip felt confused. On the one hand, he was curious and relieved that the figure he had seen was flesh and blood. On the other he was rather repelled because the old woman was ugly. She had a long, thin face, broken nose, eyes constantly blinking, whilst her tongue kept licking her bloodless lips. She seemed furtive, frightened, dressed in a shabby, black gown frayed at the hem, cuffs and round the neckline. A grey, woollen cloak hung across bony shoulders, her white hair, thinning and sparse, was gathered and tied at the back. Philip paused. Was this really the figure he had glimpsed earlier?
‘Please stay!’ he called out. Philip stooped and extended one hand. ‘I am Father Philip Trumpington, the new vicar.’
The woman’s sea-grey eyes held his: no longer nervous, Philip believed the woman was quietly mocking him.
‘I’ve just arrived here,’ Philip declared.
The grey eyes moved: Edmund she dismissed with one glance but her eyes narrowed as she recognised Stephen.
‘I’ve seen one of you before.’ Her voice was low, surprisingly strong. She drew herself up as if the quiet scurrying was a pretence, protection against any threat. ‘I have seen the fair-haired one. You are a mason, aren’t you?’
‘Yes, Mother.’
‘I’m not a mother or a woman,’ she replied. ‘I am the coffin keeper. I am not of the female kind.’ She continued dryly, ‘My breasts are shrivelled, my juices long dried up. People know me as the coffin or corpse woman.’
‘The what?’ Philip exclaimed.
‘The coffin woman,’ she repeated. ‘You know about coffins, priest, the dead go in them.’ She gestured with her head towards the grave stones. ‘We all think we are so important but, in the end, one way or the other, the earth claims us.’ She sighed in exasperation and drew closer. ‘No, I am not a mysterious, old woman,’ she continued, her eyes bright with excitement as if she relished the repartee. She grasped Philip’s hand; her fingers felt warm. ‘Father, this is an eerie, sometimes evil place. No, I do not wish to frighten you; you must not believe the village lore, I am no witch.’ She smiled up at him. ‘I was born Edith Romanel. Oh yes,’ she caught the surprise in Philip’s face. ‘I am a vicar’s by-blow. An eye for the ladies had Parson Romanel. A father to his people in more ways than one.’
Philip now joined in her laughter.
‘And do you know what happens to the illegitimate children of priests?’ she continued. ‘They are cast out to fend for themselves. My father went witless, mad as a March hare. The new priest arrived and I was thrown out.’ She waved her hand. ‘Behind the trees there’s an old cottage near the graveyard wall. I live there. I pick up twigs. I clean the cemetery. When someone dies, someone poor, with no one to wash the corpse or prepare it for burial . . .’
‘The coffin woman does it.’ Philip finished her sentence.
‘Yes, Father, the coffin woman does it. And in return I am paid a shilling every quarter and, if the priest is good, some food and other sustenance.’
‘You talk well, coffin woman.’
‘I was twelve when my father went mad,’ she replied. ‘He taught me my horn book. I could count past fifty by the time I was ten. When the other priests came I served as their housekeeper. I am not a peasant.’ She drew herself up. ‘I am not what I appear to be. So, what do you say, priest? Will you keep me as the coffin woman?’
‘Of course.’
‘I hope you do,’ the coffin woman replied, stepping back. ‘You have a kindly face, despite your sharp eyes. You have a zeal for souls, haven’t you, Father?’ She shrugged. ‘But, there again, others have come and then they leave.’
‘Why?’ Philip asked.
The woman half turned. ‘I don’t know,’ she murmured. ‘I am supposed to. One priest said that to me. Just because you’ve got grey hair and a wizened face they think you’re a wise woman. But, as God is my witness, I don’t know. Indeed, if I told you my suspicions, the things I have seen, then I’d no longer be a wise woman but witless, mad as my father.’ She smiled slyly. ‘And what would happen to me then?’
‘So you know things?’ Philip insisted.
‘No more than other people, Father,�
� she quipped. ‘You know what I am talking about, Father: the ones before you, no priest wants to stay here long. Oh, it’s not the village, there are no dark secrets there.’ She glanced up at the church tower. ‘It’s here,’ she added wearily. ‘This is where it all happens.’
‘What happens?’ Stephen asked.
‘Why, sir.’ She glared at them. ‘Whatever you want, whatever you see. Priests come here, they hear the stories. Some even wonder where my father’s old treasure is!’
‘Treasure?’ Edmund asked.
‘Stories,’ the woman taunted. ‘My father was,’ she smiled, ‘well, he was as madcap as a March hare, dabbling in this and dabbling in that. When I was a child, money came into the village, Heaven knows where from? Like you, he wanted to change the church. Oh yes, I have heard the rumours. But then he went mad.’
‘Why?’ Philip asked.
She sighed. ‘Some people said he was born mad, others that it was the demons: all I can remember is my father waking up screaming or, now and again, in church, when celebrating Mass, he would stop and shout: “They are watching me! They are always watching me!”’
‘And did he ever tell you who?’ Philip asked.
‘As God is my witness, Father, never. No one ever knew. Or, there again, it could have been the disappearances. Go down into the village and ask. They’ll tell you the same story. Some of them just disappeared when Romanel was vicar. All sorts of professions: one was a miller, another a ploughman, a tanner, a shepherd, a journeyman. All gone.’ She clapped her hands. ‘Like the mists which swirl in here.’ She blew her cheeks out. ‘Anyway, I have spoken enough!’ She lifted her head, sniffing the air like a dog. ‘Roheisia has a meal ready for you, beef I think. Highly salted but covered in spices. She and her mad son Crispin. Well, he’s witless, but he’ll look after your horses.’ And, turning on her heel, she scuttled into the trees.
They went back and collected their horses. They led them out of the cemetery and further along the road following the wall around. The priest’s house was a grand, imposing affair built of the same stone as the church: three storeys high with a slate roof and a chimney stack built along one side. Most of the windows were shuttered but those on the ground floor were filled with mullioned glass. The main door was approached up some steps. Whilst Stephen held the horses, Philip and Edmund went up and knocked on the door. Roheisia opened it. A red-faced, smiling woman, plump as a ripe pear, her grey hair caught up under a white veil. She was dressed in a long, dark-blue smock, slightly threadbare, covered in flour which also stained her fingers and wrists. She waved excitedly.
‘Father Edmund, Father Philip, you shouldn’t knock. It’s your house! Come in! Come in!’ She looked over at Stephen holding the horses. ‘Take those round the back,’ she called.
‘I’ll get them myself, Mother.’
A young man, vacant-eyed, with a smiling, simpleton’s face under a shock of greasy hair, came running down the passageway. He almost knocked his mother aside, hastening down the steps, clapping his hands.
‘He’s harmless,’ Roheisia added. ‘He just loves horses. He’ll take care of yours.’
Philip watched the boy gather the reins and take the horses round the side of the house where he knew, from recent visits, stood the small stables, garden and outhouses.
Roheisia led them into the house, chattering excitedly about how all the rest of their baggage had arrived, safely brought by a carter from Maidstone. She explained how she’d moved it all upstairs though she didn’t know where to put it. And were they hungry? And had they seen the church? And was it true they wished to build a new one? Roheisia chattered on as she led them through the house. Philip and Stephen had seen it before. It was pleasant and spacious enough: a parlour, a small refectory adjoining the kitchen, scullery and buttery. The rooms were clean, the plaster freshly painted, crucifixes and small, painted triptychs hung there. The rushes on the floor were green and newly cut: pots of herbs stood in the corners. The rest of the furniture had also been cleaned and washed whilst the kitchen was full of the sweet smells of freshly baked bread and roasted meat.
‘It’s very clean,’ Philip remarked.
‘Oh yes,’ Roheisia declared. ‘I keep a good house for the Fathers.’ She paused, her hand on the balustrade, and looked round at them. ‘You will stay, won’t you?’
‘Of course,’ Philip replied.
‘Other priests come and go.’
‘So I noticed,’ Philip replied. ‘And you’ve been housekeeper to them all?’
‘For the last twenty years, yes.’
‘So why did they leave?’
The old lady turned, gathering up the hem of her gown, and climbed the wooden, spiral staircase. When she reached the top she sat on a stool, mopping her face and smiled up at them.
‘It’s a steep climb. There are three chambers along this gallery. There are also rooms above and garrets under the eaves but they are rarely used.’
‘Why did the other priests leave?’ Philip asked.
‘Well, some were old and became sick. Scawsby can be a lonely place. Others became frightened and withdrawn. They didn’t say much. They learnt about Romanel, the priest who went insane and was taken off to London. Perhaps they brooded too much?’
‘And Father Anthony?’
‘Yes, he stayed longer. He liked the church and was interested in its history, particularly the legends.’
‘So why did he kill himself?’
‘Father, I don’t know.’ She got to her feet. ‘It happened very quickly. He and the parish clerk Adam Waldis, they were often closeted together whispering about this or that. They’d often go out to High Mount where the ruins of the Saxon priory lie. Towards the end, Father Anthony changed, he hardly slept: always looking out of the window. One morning I came in here. The house was empty, I couldn’t find Father Anthony. Waldis lives in the village. There was this terrible hammering on the door. You’ve met the coffin woman?’
‘Aye,’ Philip replied. ‘I have.’
‘Oh, she’s harmless,’ Roheisia declared. ‘Does a work of charity she does. Anyway, she found poor Father Anthony hanging like a felon from the gallows. Crispin my son cut him down.’
‘Where was he buried?’
‘In the churchyard. Lord Richard Montalt said he shouldn’t be buried at the crossroads like a suicide. He said Father Anthony had probably lost his wits and didn’t know what he was doing.’ She sighed and got to her feet. ‘They haven’t even erected a grave stone yet. Anyway, your chambers are here. You have Father Anthony’s, that’s the largest.’ She opened a door and ushered Philip in.
The chamber was large: it contained a small four-poster bed, two chests, an aumbry, shelves on the wall beneath the black, stark crucifix and a large writing desk under the window.
‘Father Anthony left all his books and papers. No one has claimed them. Lord Richard said the next priest could have them.’
She showed Edmund and Stephen their chambers. Roheisia apologised for the lack of rushes on the floor and said she’d see to it the following day.
‘All the baggage is in your room, sir.’ She nodded at Stephen. ‘I am afraid I don’t know what belongs to whom. Now I’ll go back to the kitchen, you’ll be hungry.’
She went slowly back along the gallery, then turned at the top of the stairs, hand to her mouth.
‘Oh Lord save us!’ she gasped. ‘Father Philip, I am sorry, but Lord Richard has invited you to supper this evening, you and your companions.’
‘And will you look after the house?’ Philip asked.
‘Oh Lord no.’ Roheisia smiled with her mouth but her eyes took on a stubborn look. ‘I have my own cottage in the village. When it gets dark, Crispin and I will be leaving but we’ll be back at dawn.’
‘Why?’ Philip asked, walking towards her. ‘Why don’t you like to stay here?’
‘Why, sir, I have my own house,’ she flustered.
‘And nothing else?’ Philip asked. ‘No other reason?’
&nb
sp; ‘Oh, the house is fine, Father. Well, I have no concerns but it’s the graveyard at night. I don’t like to be near it. Ask the coffin woman.’ Roheisia chewed the corner of her lip. ‘In summer, when the sun sets and the bees and the butterflies fly, it’s God’s acre. However, in winter, when the mists seep in, I don’t like it and I never shall.’
‘Come, Roheisia.’ Philip smiled. ‘Surely you will tell me the legends?’
She lifted her hand. ‘Father, if your clerk Adam has not returned, and he will do, because he can smell food from a mile away, then I’ll tell you what I know. Now, unless you want your bread black and beef burnt . . .’
Roheisia almost ran down the stairs. Philip glanced at his companions.
‘Well, let’s unpack. It looks as if we are going to be entertained as well as fed.’
Adam Waldis, clerk to the parish of St Oswald’s, stood in the ruins of the ancient Anglo-Saxon priory. Its buildings were only a shell: its walls crumbling, the small sanctuary, nave, dormitories and outhouses lay open to the sky and the elements. Waldis walked up to where the high altar had once stood. His heel caught in a cracked paving-stone and he looked down. He could make out the crumbling lettering over the brothers who had been buried there. He crouched down and wiped away the dust and spelt out the name ‘Aylric Abbot’.
Waldis heard a sound and looked up but only a bird, nesting high in the wall, had perched on one of the window-ledges, sending down a small hail of pebbles and plaster. Adam got up, brushed his knees and stared up at the sky: darkness was falling and already the sea mist was making its presence felt, blotting out the setting sun. Adam closed his eyes. He’d been here many times, especially with his good friend Father Anthony until the priest had become distant, strange. Ever since, yes, that night. Adam walked up into the sanctuary and gazed down at the loose tombstone. Father Anthony had moved this. Now Adam did. Pushing it aside he stared into the shallow grave below. The grave was a mystery to Adam. According to the ancient lettering, this had been one ‘Alcuin Prior’ and yet, Adam knelt by the grave, if that was the case, Alcuin appeared to have died a very violent death. Waldis picked up the whitening skull and turned it over. Someone had beaten Alcuin to death, shattering the bone at the back of the head. What was more interesting, there were no artefacts in the grave, no cross or rosary beads, nothing; as if the good monks had stripped Alcuin of every item of clothing and not even provided him with a shroud. Adam started as he heard the jingle of harness.