His furious advance knocked Peter backwards, Simon’s sword rattling over the stone of the walls. And then, as Peter collapsed, dropping his own sword and clutching at his throat, Simon saw bubbles emerge from the huge wound, and he heard the rattling of breath gargling in Peter’s blood. Simon rolled away and vomited.
Monday before the Feast of St John the Baptist,4 Twenty-Second year of the reign of King Edward III of England (Ninth year of the reign of King Edward of France)
The prior leaned back in his chair and set down the spectacles. At his age it was unsurprising that he should need such instruments, for men of his age often did, but it yet rankled that he was forced to use them.
This chill morning it seemed as though the world was dying. Much as it had seemed all those years ago when the strange knight from Devon and his friend had found the king’s spy and killed him. The man who had killed poor Stephen.
There had been so much pain and suffering in those far-off days. Prior Stephen being slaughtered just after poor Alexander, and all because that fellow Peter wanted to save the king from some little embarrassment. Not that the new king would have minded. From all that had happened since then, with the civil war, the irruption of King Edward III into the void left by the death of his poor father, the new war with the French, even the king’s declaration that he was the true King of France a decade ago, his restless ambition had become all too clear. He had made all those events seem so far distant they were like a dream. And for a man who was almost fifty years old, with failing eyesight, sore limbs and a memory that was not to be trusted with matters that happened a scant five minutes ago, their dreamlike quality was more real than more recent events.
Peter had died, of course. There had been talk about skinning him like an ox and having his skin held up on the door, but the old king wouldn’t hear of it. Refused to accept that the man had been in the wrong – even tried to deny aiding him. But the presentation of the crypt’s key, which had been discovered in Peter’s room, had silenced his negotiator. Peter’s body was removed, and the book remained where it had been left, in the safekeeping of the abbey.
Not that it was safe there. After that attempt, Bishop Walter of Exeter had suggested a safer place in which to store it, and it had come here, with the prior, when he was elected to this house. There were some who still wondered about it. No doubt those Franciscans would dearly have loved to have handled it, just so that they could copy the more outrageous prophecies and use them to the greater glory of their order. But no. Abbot John had insisted upon keeping it. If the Pope himself ordered it, he would give it up, he said, but no one else’s command would be heeded. But the Pope didn’t want to command that it be given up. And the Pope had more important matters to concern him by then. War between France and England – yet again. But there were some in the papal Curia who thought that the mad jottings in that book may have some relevance. It was not so heretical as to deserve destruction and should be kept safe in case it proved useful. The Franciscans were probably responsible for that. They always believed they could manipulate books to suit themselves. Maybe they’d try to get it again and rewrite pieces to better fit their view of the world.
Never mind. Here it was, and here it would remain. All those prophecies . . . Perhaps some had come to pass. Certainly, there was war enough to sate the most bloodthirsty Antichrist. But there was no man who appeared to fit that description. And what of the other prophecies? They were the merest nonsense.
Prior Robert stood and stretched, preparing for the Mass. Once a youthful novice in a great, bustling abbey, now he was prior in his own right in this little house at Hemel Hempstead, and he was content.
He left his room, and as he did so, unknown to him, the little taper, which had illuminated his work, fell. A spark alighted upon a fragment of dandelion seed lying amongst the rushes, and it combusted as he closed his door behind him, flaring into some dog hairs. They were enough, just, to light a few fragments of straw and rush.
The prior entered his priory church with his hands clasped, singing. For some reason, as his eyes caught a glimpse of the cross on the altar before him, he was struck with a shiver of horror. Into his mind came another prophecy from that damned book: Then plague and war will scour the land.
No, that was nonsense. Just like all the rest, he told himself. He was glad that the damned book was well concealed, down beneath the altar here, in a chest under a heavy stone. It would take a man of unusual foresight and wit to discover it there. Long may it remain, for no man should ever read it again.
ACT FOUR
As ancient foes do burn and fight,
And foul fair fields with their woeful dead,
The Hammer of the Unruly will show his might,
The glorious sun, the golden head.
And then, when war-blood stains the trading stones,
Will murder spoil the rock’s most sacred place.
And while the King’s house mourns its shattered bones,
Will blaze the traitor’s sainted face.
When scarce a decade since the plaguey scourge,
Far worse than northern wars have ravaged sore,
Then kings and rock will clash and purge,
And strife will visit colleges once more.
I
Cambridge, November 1350
It was a good night for crime – dank, foggy and dark. The robber stood in the shadows cast by the college of Peterhouse and bided his time. The only light was from the lamp that hung above the gate, a pale, sickly gleam that did little to dispel the blackness. He smiled grimly. Perhaps God had sent the mist to help him. It was not such a wild thought: the so-called Black Book of Brân, with its uncannily accurate prophecies, was considered dangerous by the Church, and God might well have decided He did not approve of what its current owner – William de Drayton – intended to do with it.
And He was right to be worried. Drayton was a despicable creature, who claimed to have rescued the book from a fire in Hemel Hempstead. The robber suspected that Drayton had set the blaze himself, ruthlessly ensuring that no one survived to accuse him. Of course, it was all Prior Robert’s fault. The foolish, trusting head of Hemel Hempstead Priory had rashly taken Drayton – who by chance had been stuck there for a few days after his horse had gone lame – into his confidence one night, telling his visitor all about the strange and wonderful book that had been entrusted to him, stored in its special box of stone. The robber grimaced. Prior Robert must have been drunk, because he would certainly not have told someone like Drayton such a closely guarded secret. Perhaps the plague, which had been sweeping the country when the priory had burned, had addled Prior Robert’s mind.
Once he had snatched the book from the smouldering ruins, Drayton had disappeared, scuttling from settlement to settlement in an effort to avoid the foul disease that was claiming one in every two or three of the population. It was almost two years before he had deemed it was safe enough to emerge and sell Brân’s prophecies to the highest bidder. He had originally intended to hawk the tome in London, but then had decided to travel to the University at Cambridge instead, on the grounds that scholars loved books and were more likely to pay top prices than the book-dealers of London.
The robber grimaced a second time as he recalled the interest Drayton had managed to drum up – the Black Book of Brân had been kept secret for hundreds of years, yet Drayton flaunted it as though it were an undergraduate textbook. At least a dozen academics had clamoured to buy it, and immediately began bidding against each other – the different colleges had always enjoyed a degree of antipathy towards each other, and no one wanted a rival foundation to gain the upper hand. Now there were only two left: Bardolf of King’s Hall had offered fifteen marks, but Wittleseye of Peterhouse had managed to scrape together seventeen. The robber did not have that sort of money, but he wanted the book – or, rather, his master did, and no one liked disappointing him. So he decided there was no choice but to take it by force. He did not take pleasure from the fact t
hat he would have to kill Drayton in order to get it; it was simply a necessary part of the plan.
The robber reflected on his master for a moment. He was still young but already showed the mettle and determination that would make him great one day – and he showed the cool ruthlessness that would allow him to succeed in all he did too. The robber had never taken a life before, but when his master had ordered him to do so, he had not dared demur: clearly, his master wanted the book at all costs, and as Drayton was unlikely to hand it over without demanding a princely sum in return, then Drayton was going to have to die.
The robber scratched his chin in the darkness. Perhaps Drayton’s death would be foretold in the book – his master had told him that it contained remarkable predictions about all manner of events. And that was why he was so determined to have it, of course – to see whether his own destiny was announced by the ancient prophet, and to see how he might use the verses to claw more power and wealth towards himself.
In the distance a night-watchman called the hour, and the robber shivered, hoping that Drayton would not renege on the arrangements he had made that day. It had not been easy to stalk Drayton without being noticed, and it had been pure luck that the robber had happened to overhear Wittleseye agreeing to hand over his seventeen marks at midnight. Of course, Wittleseye should have been suspicious of the fact that Drayton insisted on trading at a time when honest men were abed, but the Peterhouse Fellow was so determined to have the book that he did not seem to care. The robber knew for a fact that Wittleseye had not told his colleagues what he was going to do – perhaps he intended to run off with it and make his own fortune. The book had a habit of bringing out the worst in people.
The robber wondered what Bardolf of King’s Hall would say the following morning when he learned that the book had been sold while he was asleep. He allowed himself a second mirthless grin. Except that would not happen, because Drayton would be dead and the Black Book of Brân nowhere to be found. By dawn it would be miles away, en route to his master.
Just when the robber was beginning to think that Drayton must have decided against selling to Wittleseye, the man appeared. He had been drinking and was unsteady on his feet, no doubt celebrating the seventeen marks he thought he was about to acquire. Soundlessly, the robber left his hiding-place and padded towards him. Drayton had a bag looped across his shoulder; even in the dim light of the lamp above the gate, the robber knew it contained the book. Before Drayton realized what was happening, the robber slipped up behind him and plunged a dagger into his back. He used his other hand to cover his victim’s mouth, to prevent him from crying out. Holding a man while the life ebbed out of him was not pleasant, but it did not take long. The robber dropped the body and grabbed the bag.
The book was inside, wrapped in oiled parchment to protect it from the damp. Deftly, he pulled away the wrappings, keen to see the thing that had led him down such a dark path. What he found made him gape in horror.
Drayton had brought Aristotle’s On Dreams to the meeting instead. It was the same size as the Black Book of Brân and had the same crude wooden covers, but that was where the similarity ended. Filled with rage and frustration, the robber hurled the tome at Peterhouse’s door. What had Drayton done with the real text? The robber knew for a fact that it was not in his lodgings on the High Street, because he had searched them thoroughly. And Drayton had no friends in the town so could not have left it with a third party. Had he sold it to King’s Hall for fifteen marks, and planned to deceive Wittleseye and get Peterhouse’s seventeen too?
The robber cursed softly in the darkness: the one man who could have answered his questions was dead. Would the Black Book of Brân disappear yet again, before someone else ‘discovered’ it and attempted to use it for his own ends?
II
Cambridge, July 1357
Matthew Bartholomew, Master of Medicine at the college of Michaelhouse and the University’s official Corpse Examiner, only just parried the blow that was intended to deprive him of his head. He staggered, struggling to lift his sword to meet the next lunge. His opponent’s face was infused with battle-lust, and Bartholomew knew he could not deflect many more vicious swipes – he was a physician, not a warrior, and although he had acquired a modicum of skill with weapons through the years he was no match for a trained professional.
All around him were the sounds of affray: clashing weapons, war cries, clanging bells, the crackle of fire. It was not the first fracas that had raged in the little Fen-edge town, but it was certainly one of the most serious. He could hear the moans of the dying, and the sandy soil of the Market Square was stained dark with blood.
‘Say your prayers,’ snarled Hugh Bardolf, preparing for his final assault. ‘I will show you what happens to those who declare an allegiance with Peterhouse.’
‘I have not declared an allegiance to Peterhouse,’ objected Bartholomew, ducking behind a cart of onions. Hugh kicked it out of the way as if it were no more solid than straw.
‘Liar! The Master of your college made a speech today, swearing to fight against King’s Hall.’
‘He cannot have done,’ protested Bartholomew, knowing there was no point in trying to reason with Hugh when the man was so inflamed but persisting anyway. ‘He is away.’
Hugh ignored him, concentrating instead on driving him back with a series of determined hacks. Bartholomew’s arms burned from the effort of defending himself, but then Hugh performed a fancy manoeuvre that saw the sword fly from his opponent’s hands. Weaponless and exhausted, Bartholomew braced himself for the blow that would kill him, but even as he raised his head to look Hugh in the eye he saw the man’s fury fade to shock. Then Hugh dropped to his knees, before pitching forwards to land face down on the ground.
‘Lord!’ murmured John de St Philibert, clutching his bloody dagger with unsteady hands. ‘Brother Michael told me you could hold your own in a skirmish, but I thought Hugh was going to kill you.’
Bartholomew retrieved his sword, knowing the danger was not yet over. Hugh had brothers in King’s Hall, and it would be only a matter of time before one raced to avenge his fallen sibling. He pushed John behind him; the Junior Proctor was an even less accomplished warrior than he, and a vengeful Bardolf would hack him to pieces in moments.
But no one came, and a quick glance around told Bartholomew that the violence was ending as abruptly as it had started. The bells grew silent, the clash of steel petered out and calls to arms were replaced by the moans of the wounded. Eventually, Market Square residents felt it was safe to open their doors; they emerged cautiously, making disparaging remarks about the University’s insatiable penchant for fighting. A month ago the friars had been at each other’s throats over some edict from the Pope; now it was the turn of King’s Hall and Peterhouse. The two colleges had suddenly taken against each other after years of peaceful coexistence, although the feud had been confined to sharp-tongued exchanges in the High Street until now.
John was still gazing at Hugh’s body. The Junior Proctor was a handsome man, betrothed to the Earl of Suffolk’s eldest daughter and so destined for a life of power and influence. Until the earl chose a date for the wedding, John was studying law at Cambridge. Afraid that academia would not prepare him for the rough politics of a baron’s household, he had volunteered to serve as the University’s Junior Proctor, which meant he was one of the men responsible for maintaining law and order amongst students. He worked hard at both, although neither peacekeeping nor scholarship came easily to him.
‘I stabbed him in the back,’ he said wretchedly. ‘I should have told him to face me first.’
‘Then he would have killed you,’ said Bartholomew practically, knowing that Hugh would have thought nothing of pitting his great broadsword against John’s slender dagger.
‘What will Joan say when she hears about this?’ John’s voice was full of anguished remorse. ‘She will not want to marry a man without honour.’
Bartholomew thought Joan was the least of John’s prob
lems. ‘Do not tell anyone else what you did,’ he advised. ‘Hugh has brothers, and you do not want them coming after you for revenge.’
John was horrified, the courage he had mustered to save the physician dissipating now the danger was over. ‘I did not think of that. Lord! What have I done?’
‘Cut short a killing spree,’ replied Bartholomew tersely. ‘Hugh was an accomplished warrior, and he had no right sparring with Peterhouse’s boys. I saw him kill three myself, and if you had not stopped him there would have been more. You did the right thing. Just do not discuss it with anyone.’
‘Is that why you fought him?’ asked John. ‘You saw him cut that bloody swath through those hapless students, and you wanted to stop him?’
‘They were unarmed,’ said Bartholomew shortly. Witnessing such brutal carnage had been harrowing, and he knew it would haunt him for a long time to come. ‘I had to do something.’
‘You should have been unarmed too,’ said John, eyeing the blade that the physician still held. ‘And so should Hugh. Weapons are forbidden to scholars.’
Bartholomew nodded towards the corpse of a King’s Hall student: Hugh’s blind blood-lust had led him to kill a lad from his own side as well as ‘enemies’.
‘I borrowed his. Do you know how the fighting
started? As far as I understand, it is because my college has announced an alliance with Peterhouse – or so Hugh claims. However, our Master is away, so perhaps one of the other Fellows . . .’
‘I did hear a rumour to that effect,’ said John, nodding. ‘However, I suspect what happened today had nothing to do with anything your colleagues may or may not have said. It was meant to happen – it was predicted in the Black Book of Brân.’
The Lost Prophecies Page 19