by Paul Doherty
‘Prostrate yourself,’ he murmured.
Philip looked at him, surprised.
‘Lie face down!’ the friar ordered. ‘Close your eyes and, whatever happens, do not move!’
Philip obeyed.
‘Do not lift your head!’ the friar repeated. ‘In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti!’ Brother Anselm began the exorcism. This was introduced by a powerful prayer to the Trinity, Our Lady, St Joseph and then to St Michael and all the powerful angels who stood in God’s presence. Once that was finished, Brother Anselm began the adjuration to the presence. ‘I adjure in the name of the Lord Jesus . . .’
Philip, though he kept his face down, suddenly had a picture in his mind’s eye of the church filling with cursed spirits, horrid in appearance: huge heads, long necks, scraggy faces; filthy and squalid with shaggy ears, blood-filled eyes and foul mouths. Their teeth were like wolf fangs, their open gullets filled with flames. They shrieked and were harsh of voice. They had crooked shanks, bent knees, spidery arms and shrivelled-up toes.
‘Oh my God!’ he murmured and made to get up, but Brother Anselm pressed him back gently.
‘Children’s games,’ he murmured. ‘Stay still, listen to whatever happens.’
The silence was now oppressive.
‘By what name are you called?’ the friar shouted into the darkness.
Philip suddenly went cold. He was not sure whether the voice was outside his head or within it. First there was a snigger, an evil, chuckling laugh.
‘Piss off, friar!’ The voice came like the hiss of a snake.
‘By what name are you called?’ Anselm repeated.
‘Shite and dross. Filth and muck. Get a wash, friar!’
Again Philip tried to lift his head.
‘No, no!’ Anselm whispered. ‘There’s nothing here, Philip. You can see nothing. I heard the same voice as you.’
‘Fornicating friar!’ the voice mocked. ‘Foulsome and horrid!’
‘This always happens,’ Anselm murmured. ‘In the name of the Lord Jesus,’ he intoned. ‘Be quiet and answer my question. By what name are you called?’
‘Our name is Legion, for we are many.’
‘I adjure you once again, by what name are you called?’
‘Romanel, former priest.’
‘And I adjure you to tell me the truth. Why are you here?’
‘Tied here.’ The voice was now tired. ‘Tied by sin.’
‘By the evil you did?’ Anselm asked. ‘Answer me!’
‘By the evil we did.’
‘And what was it?’
‘The priest knows.’
‘You mean Father Philip?’
‘The priest knows: he has been chosen for atonement.’
Other voices now intervened, clamouring, begging for mercy, asking for atonement, then silence. Philip waited, then raised his head. The friar was now kneeling next to him, hands clasped, eyes closed. He made a brisk sign of the cross and got to his feet.
‘Is it over?’ Philip asked.
‘It is over but not finished,’ the friar replied. ‘You see,’ he continued, ‘in an exorcism all I can establish is what power inhabits a certain place as well as a very brief reason for it being there. More than that I cannot ask.’
Brother Anselm walked with Philip out of the church. They stood on the steps and the friar stared up at the star-strewn sky.
‘It will be quiet for a while,’ he declared. ‘But I cannot exorcise this presence. You must do that, Philip. Atonement must be made.’
‘What do you mean?’ the priest asked.
‘It’s like here on earth, Philip,’ Anselm replied. ‘If you attacked me, burnt my house, you would be punished, you would be fined and you’d be expected to make reparation. The same is true of the spiritual life. When great evil is done, it must be undone. The debt must be; settled, reparation must be made. That is a matter for you.’
‘But how?’ Philip asked desperately.
Anselm smiled, linked his arm through Philip’s and led him down the steps back across the cemetery to the Priest’s house.
‘I think you are doing well already. That’s why Romanel has pitted himself against you whilst the others, the Watchers, wait and see if they can help.’
‘So, what do you suggest?’
‘I am going to have some more wine, Philip, then I am going to bed. At dawn I’ll be gone. No, no fee, no payment, nothing. I’ll go as I came and report what I’ve done to his Lordship.’
‘And?’ Philip asked.
The friar stared back at the church. ‘You went out across the marshes today?’
Philip nodded.
‘And you’ve been to High Mount, the manor house and, of course, here? Well, I think you should go to where it all started and where it all ended.’
Philip looked at him in surprise.
‘London!’ the friar exclaimed. ‘The Templars came from their church there. I understand the archives of the Order are still extant. Perhaps you might find some clue, some key to unlock this mystery.’ He took a deep breath. ‘And then go to St Bartholomew’s: that’s where Romanel died, didn’t he? Raging mad? Perhaps the good brothers kept some record of him. And, if I were you, I would start immediately. In the end, I would also advise two further matters. First, your friend in the house, whatever he tells you, Stephen, that’s his name, isn’t it?’
Philip nodded.
‘Stephen is like the others: he has a hunger for this ill-fated treasure.’
‘And secondly?’ Philip asked.
‘Once you have the key, whatever it is, burn the church to the ground and the house as well. Clean it with fire and then build something else. Something which will help to atone for the dreadful deeds done here.’
Philip started to move on but the friar caught at his arm. Now he looked sad, even fearful.
‘This will never leave you, Philip,’ he added. ‘Whatever you think, whatever you do, you are a priest. You have taken on this church. You have put your hands to the plough and, whatever the cost, you cannot let go. You will make reparation!’
Words between the pilgrims
The Poor Priest paused in his story. He stared round at the rest of his fellow pilgrims. The Cook was now smiling at him, nodding in recognition, whilst the Friar was almost beside himself with excitement.
‘I know Brother Anselm!’ he exclaimed. ‘A truly holy man. Much travelled in the work of Holy Mother Church.’
‘Well, I am glad one of your friars is!’ the Miller bawled.
‘Can such things really happen?’ Dame Eglantine the Prioress spoke up.
‘Oh yes.’ The Pardoner ran his fingers through his dyed yellow hair which hung like flax on either side of his thin, mischievous face. ‘I could tell you stories about exorcisms which would make your hair curl, my lady, and frighten the life out of your little lap dog.’
‘But this is surely only a ghost story?’ the Wife of Bath spoke up. She stared round the ruined church and shivered. ‘Do you think it’s midnight yet?’
‘It soon will be.’ The Summoner leered. ‘And then, all sorts of goblins and creatures of the night will come crawling out from their secret places.’ He edged a little closer. ‘But I’ll keep you warm and secure!’
The Wife of Bath shook a ham-like fist in his face. ‘And I’ll make your ears warm and secure!’ she spat back.
‘Hush, hush, now.’ Sir Godfrey got to his feet. All the chatter and gossip died as he drew his sword. ‘I don’t wish to startle you.’ He was glancing through the broken doorway. ‘But I am certain I heard a sound outside.’
‘We should make sure.’ The Squire sprang to his feet, ever eager to follow his father.
‘And I’ll go too.’ The Yeoman picked up his long bow and grinned at the Poor Priest. ‘I am as good a shot as any verderer. Even in the dark, I can see like a cat!’
‘You can go,’ the Poor Priest replied, ‘but, I assure you, you’ll see nothing there.’
Sir Godfrey, however, was strid
ing towards the ruined doorway, the Yeoman and Squire following quickly behind. The Poor Priest turned to his brother the Ploughman.
‘My story seems to have caused some alarm.’
Without answering, the Ploughman got to his feet: he and the Priest went and stood in the doorway.
Sir Godfrey, his sword and dagger out, was moving forward slowly, his son and the Yeoman spread out on either side of him. The Knight felt his mouth go dry. He was sure he had heard someone moving here, softly, as if sheltering beneath some tree or behind a bush, watching the pilgrims as they grouped round the fire. The Knight paused. He was a man who kept his own counsel. He did not accept that the Poor Priest’s story was mere fable. He knew the Montalts. Had he not been out there and supped with the family? They, too, had referred to a great mystery, about something which had happened a few years before Lord Richard’s death. Moreover, when the Knight passed through Scawsby he had seen no church: Lord Henry had explained how a new one stood outside the village on a small hill called High Mount. Sir Godfrey shivered. He was not just worried about the Poor Priest’s story. Had he not devoted most of his life to hunting the Strigoi? Those devils in human flesh who drank the blood of others? Did he not have suspicions about the Monk? With all his blustery good cheer, the Monk’s soul was as dead as stone. They had never met before yet the Knight recognised the Monk nourished a burning resentment towards him. The Yeoman came over, slipping softly through the darkness, he was joined a few seconds later by the Squire.
‘Sir Godfrey, there is no one here. Perhaps it was some animal? A fox?’
‘Then let us return.’
Sir Godfrey turned back. The Poor Priest and his brother were standing just outside the ruin. As they returned to join the rest, Sir Godfrey was sure that the Ploughman whispered, ‘Even here?’
To which the Poor Priest replied, ‘Yes, Brother, they watch us even here!’
PART IV
Chapter 1
When Philip rose late the following morning, Roheisia informed him that the friar had left.
‘Oh, he was very friendly,’ she declared as she bustled round the kitchen. ‘He said he would pray for you and wished you every happiness.’
Philip sat down at the table. He thought Anselm would do that, arriving with so little fuss and departing in the same manner. Stephen and Edmund also came down. They followed him out across the cemetery to the parish church where he celebrated a low Mass. A few parishioners joined them, just standing within the rood screen. Afterwards all three broke their fast in the kitchen.
‘I am leaving today,’ Philip declared, putting his horn spoon down. ‘I have to travel to London, certain matters require investigation. Edmund, you will be left in charge. Matters should remain quiet here. If they do not, go and stay with Sir Richard Montalt. Stephen,’ he glanced sadly at the master mason, ‘I would like to see some progress on your drawings by the time I return. I must ask you to heed Brother Anselm’s advice. Do nothing to disturb the harmony here.’
Stephen promised; Philip knew he was lying but accepted there was little he could do about it. He gave Edmund more detailed instructions, then went upstairs and packed his saddlebags. Within the hour he had left Scawsby. Philip deliberately avoided the paths and trackways which wound through the marshes but headed east until he reached the Pilgrim’s Way which linked Canterbury to London. That night he stopped at an Augustinian priory. The kindly brothers gave him a bed and board in their guest house and he entered London through Bishopsgate late the following morning.
Philip found the city a harsh contrast to the silence of the open countryside. Huddled houses, narrow, winding lanes, open sewers, the bustle and roar of the market place. Different people thronged there: Hanse merchants, seamen from Levant, Italian bankers and, on every corner, crowds of beggars, men and women, pleading for alms. He found the stink and stench, the shifting sea of colour, rather unnerving. He stopped at a tavern in St Martin’s Lane where his horse could be fed and rested, whilst he dined on a hearty meal of capon pie and a jug of strong London ale. It was late afternoon by the time he had left the city again, riding down the lanes to Fleet Street until he reached the rounded church of the Templars. He stabled his horse in a nearby tavern where he also hired a chamber for the night. He then dressed in clerical garb and went up into the church. Philip marvelled at the strange architecture and design of this rounded church, built, so it was said, on the model of Solomon’s temple in Jerusalem.
For a while Philip just sat on a bench near the door, staring at the different wall paintings. He got up and studied the Templar tombs laid out on the floor of the church. He walked round the walls and noticed with interest that the church had a new devotion, fostered by the Franciscans, whereby Jesus’ passion and death were portrayed in fourteen paintings. These began with Jesus’ condemnation by Pilate and ended with the dead Christ being placed in the sepulchre.
As he walked round, Philip gasped and returned to one of the paintings. He knelt down and said a quick prayer of thanksgiving. He could not believe his luck and, getting up, he went round again and counted fourteen paintings in all. He then returned to number six. This was a painting which showed Jesus carrying his cross on the road to Calvary: he was stopped by the holy woman, Veronica, who bathed his bleeding face with a cloth.
‘Can I help you?’
Philip whirled round. The young monk was dressed in the black and white habit of the Carmelite Order. He had a broad, open, friendly face, snub nose, smiling mouth, though his eyes were watchful.
‘I’m Father Philip Trumpington,’ he introduced himself.
‘So you are, so you are.’ The Carmelite came forward, scratching his black, wiry hair. He pointed to a small prie-dieu at the far end of the church. ‘I have been kneeling there since you came in. I must admit, Father, at first I thought you were a madcap, walking round, bobbing up and down.’
‘A madcap I might be,’ Philip quipped back, ‘but I am still a priest looking for help.’
The Carmelite grinned. He came forward, they clasped hands and exchanged the kiss of peace.
‘Brother Nicholas,’ the Carmelite introduced himself. ‘Nicholas Overton for my sins, member of the Carmelite order, I also serve in this church. You seem interested in the Way of the Cross?’ He led Philip back to the paintings.
‘Yes, it means something to me,’ Philip replied. ‘Brother, it’s too long a tale to tell. I’ve heard of this devotion but never seen such paintings before.’
‘Oh, the Templars, when they owned the church, had these painted,’ Nicholas replied. ‘They took the idea from the Franciscans.’ He pointed to the scene of Veronica bathing the face of Jesus. ‘You were studying that one. You know it’s a legend, don’t you? Thirteen pictures,’ the Carmelite continued, ‘are based on scriptural evidence but nowhere in any of the gospels is there any mention of a woman called Veronica bathing the face of Jesus. It’s just one of those stories which has been around since, well, since time immemorial.’ The Carmelite paused and scratched his chin. ‘Mind you, there is some evidence . . .’ He glanced at Philip. ‘Am I boring you, Father?’
‘No, no, do continue.’ Philip pointed to the painting. ‘This is the sixth of fourteen, yes?’
‘Why yes.’
‘And the order has never changed?’
‘Never. The devotion is now spreading across Western Europe.’
‘And the legend of the veil?’ Philip asked.
‘Well, as I was going to say, there has always been a tradition that this woman, Veronica, wiped Jesus’ face as he struggled towards Calvary. As a reward he left the imprint of his divine features upon the cloth.’ The Carmelite stepped back and pointed up at the painting. ‘Now the veil was supposed to have travelled around Europe but, eventually, it fell into the hands of the Byzantine Emperors who lodged it in one of their basilicas in Constantinople. In 1204 Constantinople was sacked by the Crusaders, these included a large contingent of Templars. They seized the veil and kept it for themselves.’
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br /> ‘Where?’ Philip asked.
‘Oh, at their headquarters in Paris but, more than that, I can’t tell you.’
Philip breathed in deeply to control his excitement. He could hardly believe his good fortune. He now knew that, somehow or other, the word ‘Veronica’ and the numbers 6 and 14 referred to this painting and the legend of the veil.
‘Brother Nicholas, what happened to the Templar documents?’
‘Most of them were seized by the Crown,’ the Carmelite replied. ‘They were used in the pursuit of the Templar wealth. Eventually, most of them were returned. They are kept in the archives and library. Do you wish to have a look?’
Philip nodded.
‘Anything in particular?’
‘Oh, household accounts, expenses of the Temple, particularly for those months at the end of 1307 and the beginning of 1308.’
‘That’s when the Templar Order was suppressed,’ Brother Nicholas replied. ‘I know something of their history. How can this concern a priest from Scawsby?’
‘There’s a link between the history of my church and the Templar Order,’ Philip replied.
‘Ah well,’ Brother Nicholas breathed. ‘Come, I’ll help you.’
He led Philip out by a postern door, through an overgrown garden and into the Templar buildings, much decayed, which lay at the back of the church. The library, however, was well preserved. The walls had been replastered. The floorboards were of polished wood. The air smelt sweetly of leather and beeswax, books and manuscripts were carefully arranged on shelves.
‘God knows how long they will stay here!’ Nicholas murmured. ‘We Carmelites now serve the Temple but no one has really decided what belongs to whom. Until they do, the library is held in trust by us.’
‘Not by you, Brother.’
An elderly Carmelite shuffled out from behind one of the wooden stacks which ran at right angles to the wall. He was tall, thin-faced, his cheeks as smooth as a baby’s. Tufts of hair stood upright on his balding head, his light-blue eyes had ponderous bags beneath. He came forward, clutching his stick.