The Lost Prophecies

by The Medieval Murderers

  Knowing he would make better time than the fat monk, Bartholomew left Michael to tend the wheezing deputy and began to run in the direction John indicated. A path wound through the undergrowth, used as a short cut between the High Street and the area of tangled alleys known as the Jewry. But by the time Bartholomew emerged in the Jewry, there was nothing to see, and John’s assailant was long gone. He retraced his steps and found the Junior Proctor sitting on a tombstone, holding his stomach, while Michael stood next to him.

  ‘You did not catch him,’ said the Junior Proctor accusingly. He looked disgusted.

  ‘I am sorry,’ said Bartholomew, taken aback by the irritation in John’s voice. ‘What happened?’

  Michael was also furious. ‘Someone tried to kill my deputy. And from John’s description, it sounds as though it was the same hooded man who aggravated the trouble earlier.’

  ‘He lobbed a knife at me, but it missed – more by the grace of God than any skill on my part,’ continued John. ‘So he punched me instead. He was preparing to clout me over the head with that stone when you arrived.’ He pointed to a rock that would have caused serious damage had it been pitted against a human skull.

  ‘Why would anyone harm you?’ asked Bartholomew. John was only the Junior Proctor, and it was Michael who carried the real power.

  ‘Because he is my deputy, of course,’ snapped Michael. ‘The culprit knows I rely on him to help quell this brewing unrest. It is an attack against peace – against the very authority of the University.’

  Bartholomew regarded him soberly. ‘Then you should be careful that the same thing does not happen to you. There will be a riot for certain if the Senior Proctor is not here to stop it.’

  They escorted John to the proctors’ office, to rest until he felt better, and resumed their walk to King’s Hall. It had been founded with royal money and was the largest and most powerful college in Cambridge. It boasted more than a hundred members, and its buildings were amongst the finest in town. The grandest edifice of all was its gatehouse, designed to protect it from hostile invasion. Bartholomew surveyed its thick, crenellated walls and well-placed arrow-slits and thought it was not surprising that the scholars of King’s Hall were not afraid to antagonize Peterhouse.

  ‘I like Warden Powys,’ he said while they waited for their knock to be answered. ‘And I am surprised he has allowed his college to be drawn into a war.’

  ‘Powys is away. King’s Hall would never be in this situation if he were home – or if the current vice-warden were someone other than William Bardolf. Incidentally, he did not see you fighting Hugh, and, although most sane men would applaud your courage, I would advise against your mentioning it.’

  Bartholomew regarded him askance. ‘Do you think me a lunatic, to need to be told?’

  Michael chuckled. ‘I am obviously spending too much time with John, who was all for racing here and confessing. I think Beadle March overheard us, and I hope to God he does not gossip.’

  The door opened before they could discuss it further, and Michael demanded an audience with the vice-warden. While a porter went to see if William was receiving visitors, Bartholomew thought about what he knew of the Bardolf family.

  Its head was Lord Thomas, a baron who had fought bravely in the French wars and whose long string of mistresses had provided him with an equally long string of illegitimate children. He acknowledged them all and did his best to set them on the road to prosperity. He enrolled some at King’s Hall, where he hoped they would make the connections necessary for distinguished careers at court. Unfortunately, he tended to sire louts who preferred fighting to politics. William Bardolf, his sole legitimate son, was the exception and was more intelligent than the others, although that was not to say he did not also appreciate a brawl.

  When the porter conducted them to a suite of rooms in the gatehouse, Bartholomew saw that William lived in style. Thick woollen rugs covered the floor, and the furniture was of the highest quality. William was not alone. Four of his kinsmen, including Roger, lounged on benches, all swarthy individuals with bushy beards. They were also heavily armed, despite the fact that it was against University rules to carry weapons. None seemed bothered by the fact that the Senior Proctor possessed the authority to fine them for such an infraction.

  ‘Brother,’ drawled William with a lazy smile. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘You can make sure there is no recurrence of today’s brawl,’ replied Michael coolly. ‘It was reprehensible. Seven men are dead, including two from King’s Hall.’

  ‘And five from Peterhouse,’ one sibling murmured. ‘It is a fair exchange.’

  ‘They started it,’ said Roger hotly. ‘They said Michaelhouse had taken their side – a claim we now know to be false – and were gloating. Hugh was right to punish their insolence with his blade.’

  William’s expression was unreadable. ‘Someone encouraged Hugh to do it, though – whispered in his ear that killing Peterhouse boys would be God’s work. Perhaps that person should bear some of the blame for what Hugh did.’

  Michael regarded him with raised eyebrows. ‘From that statement, I judge that you are keen to distance yourself from Hugh’s actions?’

  William shrugged, silencing Roger’s indignant splutter with a warning glance. ‘I do not want it said that King’s Hall is full of ruffians. But you know I am right about the whisperer, because you observed him yourself. I saw you watching him.’

  ‘I did, but he kept his face concealed by his hood. Who was he?’

  ‘Everyone was wearing his hood today, Brother,’ said William, a crooked smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. ‘It was raining. Perhaps it was someone from Peterhouse, aiming to see King’s Hall in trouble with the Senior Proctor.’

  Bartholomew regarded him closely, not sure what to think. Was he lying, and one of his own clan had goaded Hugh into launching his violent attack? Or had someone else done it, perhaps to underline the fact that King’s Hall housed some very unpleasant men?

  ‘He is almost certainly the same fellow who attacked my Junior Proctor,’ said Michael in a low, dangerous voice. ‘And I will discover his identity. Perhaps you can make that known.’

  William continued to smile. ‘Yes, if that is what you want.’

  ‘Tell me about the Black Book of Brân,’ said Michael, changing the subject abruptly in an effort to disconcert. ‘Drayton was stabbed trying to sell it to Peterhouse, so how do you come to own it?’

  ‘We had nothing to do with Drayton’s death,’ replied William, allowing his impassive mask to slip and reveal his indignation. ‘And I resent the implication that you think we do.’

  ‘Drayton was a snake,’ said Roger. ‘He told so many lies about how he came by the book that no one knew what to believe in the end. However, such a fine thing did not belong in his tainted hands. Perhaps the saints thought so too, and they killed him for touching it.’

  ‘Saints do not commit murder with cheap daggers bought from the Market Square,’ said Michael tartly. ‘Why did you decline to tell me about this book seven years ago?’

  William shrugged again. ‘Why? So you could include us on your list of suspects for Drayton’s murder, because we tried to buy the book from him?’

  ‘If you were innocent, then you had nothing to fear,’ Michael shot back.

  William laughed, genuinely amused. ‘We are innocent of starting today’s trouble, but you are still here, making accusations. We had nothing to do with Drayton’s death, Brother. We did not even know he had elected to sell the book to Peterhouse until his body was found the next day. Until then, we believed he was going to do business with us.’

  ‘I understand it disappeared after his murder,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And now, seven years later, you claim to be its rightful owners. How did that come about?’

  ‘God arranged it,’ said Roger matter-of-factly. ‘We do not usually bother with morning prayers, but two weeks ago it was our college’s Foundation Day, and we decided to make an exception. We use A
ll Saints’ Church as a chapel, and when we arrived there was the Black Book of Brân, lying on the altar. The Almighty put it there, you see, because He wanted us to have it.’

  ‘And why would He want that?’ asked Michael cautiously.

  ‘Because we intend to give it to our father, Lord Bardolf,’ replied Roger, as if the answer were obvious. ‘He is a good man, and predictions about the future will be useful for when he goes to war.’

  ‘But Peterhouse would give it to the Archbishop of Canterbury,’ added William. ‘And the Church has a habit of burning books it does not understand. God knows we are not narrow-minded fanatics, so He put it in a place where He knew we would find it.’

  ‘Why else would He have chosen that particular day to lay it on the altar?’ asked Roger.

  Bartholomew was bemused by the tale. ‘So you arrived for your morning devotions, and the book was just there?’

  Roger beamed at the memory. ‘Waiting for us. Ask your Junior Proctor if you do not believe us. He came in for morning prayers moments after we made our miraculous find.’

  ‘He says he saw you admiring it but has no idea how it got there,’ said Michael. ‘May I see it? Given that it is causing so much trouble, I should at least know what it looks like.’

  ‘We prefer to keep spectators away,’ said William, ‘for security reasons. But I think we can make an exception for you.’

  All Saints’ Church was on the High Street, and because it was used by King’s Hall as a chapel it was one of the most lavishly decorated buildings in Cambridge. Its lectern and pulpit were studded with precious jewels, and there were gold statues in its niches. Unfortunately, this made it attractive to thieves, so the college was obliged to take precautions. Its elegant windows were fitted with heavy shutters, and its doors were nearly always locked. These made it one of the most secure buildings in the town, and it was generally acknowledged that it would prove a challenge for even the most determined of criminals. It was thus an excellent place in which to store a book that another college had vowed to steal.

  In addition to the usual safety measures, the brothers had hired a full-time guardian, a studious priest named Thomas de Shirford. Shirford looked as though he needed the money. His robes were threadbare, and there were holes in his shoes. He had a reputation for solid but dull scholarship, and his colleagues tended to use words like ‘reliable’ and ‘sensible’ to describe him. He opened the door to William’s knock and stood aside to let him, Roger, Michael and Bartholomew enter. The church was gloomy, the only illumination from a small lamp in the chancel.

  ‘Has Peterhouse tried to get the book today?’ asked William. ‘Or has it been quiet?’

  ‘Neuton came,’ replied Shirford. ‘But I declined the bribe he offered to let him inside.’

  ‘And he would not get the book, even if he did charm his way in,’ said Roger, clearly proud of himself, ‘because I secured its back cover to the altar with nails. They are big ones, and I hammered them in very hard. The only way to release it would be to rip it free – and few scholars can bring themselves to damage a book.’

  Michael hid a grin. ‘If it is so well affixed, how are you going to take it to your father?’

  Roger’s face fell, indicating he had not planned that far ahead, so William stepped in to rescue him. ‘We shall take book and altar together. It will make the tome more difficult to steal en route.’

  ‘Well, there is that, I suppose,’ said Michael. ‘May I see it? If you have only attached the back cover to the altar, I presume it can still be read?’

  ‘We shall leave you to it, then,’ said William, beckoning Roger to follow him. ‘Be sure to lock the door when they go, Shirford.’

  ‘Obviously,’ said Shirford a little testily. ‘I am likely to be harmed if anyone breaks in, so I am careful for my own sake, as well as for the book’s. But you are leaving, Master Bardolf? You will not stay until they have finished?’

  ‘I am needed at King’s Hall,’ replied William. ‘I am afraid Peterhouse will attack, given that they lost five scholars today.’

  Shirford shot Bartholomew and Michael an uneasy glance as he barred the door after the King’s Hall men. ‘I accepted this task on one condition: that there would be no showing of the book to spectators. Gratuitous opening of the door is a risk that does not need to be taken, and there is always a danger that viewers may decide to take the tome for themselves – dispatching me along the way.’

  ‘But I am the Senior Proctor, and so exempt from such restrictions,’ said Michael haughtily. ‘However, no one can deny that you have accepted a dangerous commission. What made you do it?’

  Shirford smiled. ‘William promised me a country living when this is over. I am not a good scholar, but I might be a good parish priest. It is a chance to make something of my life.’

  ‘What do you think about the way the Black Book of Brân came into King’s Hall’s hands?’ asked Bartholomew curiously. ‘Do you really believe it was divine intervention?’

  ‘The Bardolfs rarely attend church, but the day they did the book happened to be on the altar. Perhaps God did want them to have it.’

  ‘Why them?’ asked Michael. ‘They are not scholars, to study it. They are not priests, to explore it for holy wisdom. On the contrary, they plan to give it to their father as a battle aid.’

  ‘It is not for me to judge my fellow men,’ said Shirford. ‘All I know is that the book was not in the church when I said my prayers at midnight, but it was there when the Bardolfs arrived the following dawn. God moves in mysterious ways, Brother, and who knows His plans?’

  ‘Right,’ said Michael, declining to comment further. He took a deep breath. ‘We had better look at this text, then, to see for ourselves why it is stirring up so much trouble.’

  Shirford led them to the chancel. ‘Inspect it at your leisure, although you must handle it with care.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew.

  ‘Because it harms anyone it deems unworthy. Look what happened to Drayton. I heard he set a priory alight to get the book, killing all its occupants. Then his own life was ended by violent means.’

  Michael raised his eyebrows. ‘Who told you about the priory?’

  ‘Roger. But it was common knowledge seven years ago.’

  ‘Common knowledge to everyone except us,’ grumbled Michael.

  The Black Book of Brân was a shabby thing and did not seem worthy to be graced with such a grand title. Its wooden covers were crude, and it did not seem any great pity that Roger had hammered six large nails through the back of it, because there was a long cut, probably from a sword, scored across the front. There was also a dark stain that looked suspiciously like blood on the edge. Michael opened it and was pleasantly surprised to find that the writing was a work of art – the scribe had taken considerable care with his work.

  The text was in Latin. He tried to resist the notion that there was something mystical about it, but the silent church and the crackle of ancient parchment as he turned the pages were having an effect. He began to lose himself in the strange poetry, and found himself linking some of the verses with events from the past, such as the early death of Richard the Lionheart and the murder of the current king’s father. He was so engrossed that when Bartholomew spoke, he jumped violently.

  ‘It is a lot of gibberish,’ said the physician, who had been reading over his shoulder. ‘Some verses may pertain to real events, but they are written so vaguely that it is impossible to be certain.’

  Michael rubbed his eyes. Reading in low light was a strain, and he knew he would have a headache if he persisted. He found himself reluctant to stop, even so. ‘I can see why the Church might want to suppress it, though, and why William is keen to give it to his warrior father. It contains just enough material to make one pause for thought. The lines that seem to refer to Queen Isabella and her paramour are uncanny.’

  ‘You do not need to be a fortune-teller to predict that a queen will take a lover at some point in the future,’ said
Bartholomew dismissively. ‘Inevitability is not the same as prophecy – most “predictions” will come true over eight hundred years.’

  ‘Even the end of the world?’ asked Michael, trying to shrug off the nagging sense that Brân’s ‘wisdom’ should not be so summarily dismissed. ‘There is mention here of cities being destroyed, and of the sinful being purged before a “Sun-bright fire of blood” appears.’

  ‘The end of the world is the greatest inevitability of all,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘It had a beginning, so logic dictates that it will also have an end.’

  Michael frowned. ‘Look at this one:

  “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.”

  ‘Do you not think that sounds like the wars King Edward fought with Scotland? They caused him to be known as the Hammer of the Scots, and he had bright gold hair.’

  ‘I suppose so, but it is hardly specific, is it. You needed to explain it to me.’

  Michael tapped another quatrain with a chubby forefinger. ‘Then what do you make of these lines?

  “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.”

  ‘It has been less than ten years since the pestilence was here, and we do have strife in our colleges.’

  ‘I admit that rock – petra in Latin – may refer to Peterhouse, and kings may refer to King’s Hall, but these words could just as easily have nothing to do with us.’

  ‘What about the next verse?’ asked Michael:

  ‘“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.”’