“That aside...” the girl put a finger across his mouth to shut him up. “Have you ever traced your ancestry, Wesley Bruce Leigh?”
“No.”
“I think you will find it goes a long way back.”
“How would you know?”
“The Book. I’ll trow it has been handed down over the generations. I have a vague feeling that the reason you can’t get rid of it, is because it belongs in the family. If you could find another family member to hand it on to, you would be free of it. It’s as simple as that.”
“So, all I’ve got to do is go through social media, looking for people with the surname, Leigh, and ask them if they’d like to take a cursed book off my hands?”
“No.”
“No?”
“No. You may find,” stated Ankerita, “that your name has been shortened from ‘Leighton’, which was my surname. We could be related. I will try to take it, if you want me to.”
“Really? You would do that?”
She ran her hand over the cover. “I’m tolerably sure. I don’t ever remember seeing the book, but I know it belongs to the family, our family.”
“Shit. You mean we’re cousins?”
“In a way.”
“Oh dear, if I’d done anything, er...”
“Did you?”
“Oh my God.” He looked embarrassed and horrified at the same time.
Ankerita’s eyes seemed to flash. The room darkened, and Wesley whimpered.
“You took advantage of me?” she said calmly.
“Only to warm you up,” he faltered.
“I’m going for a shower,” she said. “I’m size eight. Get me some proper clothes from a charity shop or something. You do have charity shops around here?”
He nodded dumbly.
“And you can return these ‘things’ you put me in. I want a complete set of something I can wear outside, without being arrested. And don’t be long.” She ushered him to the door. “Have you got your money, cards and stuff?”
Wesley looked worried.
“Good. Give me your keys.”
“But I’ve only got the one set.”
“You can knock when you get back. I will be waiting... cousin,” she finished pointedly.
When Wesley returned, Ankerita opened the door to his anxious knock. She was wrapped only in his duvet. The clothes he had found her in lay near the overflowing bin. “What did you get?”
He handed over a bulging carrier bag.
“Thanks. Wait there.” She shut the door in his face, and locked it again. He stood helplessly on the landing, hoping she wouldn’t take too long.
One of the neighbours opened his door and stared at him. Wesley gave him an uncomfortable greeting.
The door slammed without a word.
“Shithead.”
“Perhaps he doesn’t speak English.” Ankerita spoke from behind him. Wesley jumped. “You can come in now.”
Wesley went into his own flat and looked at the girl. He gasped. On anyone else, the charity shop cast-outs would have looked cheap, but Ankerita had the figure and the looks to wear anything at all. She was combing her hair; it glistened, dark and luxuriant.
“Good choices, cousin. You can stop gawping at me. These things are new. How did you find my size?”
“I thought they might be a bit young for you, really...”
“What?”
“It seems that the teenage girls round here get their parents to buy them fancy clothes, and then get bored after one wearing, or sometimes never wear them. There was loads of stuff that nobody seemed to want... I got a few strange looks,” he added.
“Good, you can take me again later, when the rain goes off, and get more outfits. Were there any suitcases?”
“A few,” he said, starting to worry about his negative bank balance. “But I’m not rich. Even in a charity shop I can’t afford that much.”
“I don’t need much. Now I’ve got some catching up to do.” She grinned and took up the Book of Ghosts again.
5. Plot
14th August 1528
B
rother Francis approached the abbey, breathless and worried. His feet were sore, and the rain, which blanked his view soon after he left Siwaldston, had started to find its way through the thick wool of his habit. The clothing’s sodden mass was weighing him down. He should replace it with a new one, but that would cost, and he had spent his savings on the items he carried with him. He was desperately trying to keep them dry as he trudged towards the welcoming lights of the abbey.
He sneaked in through the night gate, and made his way to the abbey kitchen. A few canons were busy baking bread and mixing potage, and a line of rabbits turned on the spit over the fire. The room was warm and oppressive after the damp air outside.
“Brother Francis,” said one of the men. “You chose a poor evening to go on pilgrimage. How was the sanctuary? Are you forgiven for your sins?”
Francis wondered about the tinge of sarcasm in the man’s voice. They knew he had been to Siwaldston, and Genet’s reputation was notorious. He reddened, and decided to retaliate. “It is not your concern, Brother Galfridus. Are you making food for the Lady Ankerita? I would like to take it to her myself this evening.”
“You know that is forbidden, Brother.”
“I know, but she has been ailing these last few days. I would like to talk to her and perhaps give some comfort.”
“As you wish, Brother. I cannot stop you.”
“Thank you, Brother Galfridus. I will make sure I am not seen. What can I take?”
“She eats what we eat,” said Galfridus. “Help yourself to a plate, and dish out the last of the potage for her. You can cut some of the bread too.”
“Thank you, Brother. I am pleased to see that you are caring for the lady.”
“I have heard that the family of her husband are out for revenge. If they were to poison her food, I would be blamed. Take it, and God go with you.”
“I thank you, Brother. In these troubled times, it is good that someone is aiding her.”
With slight apprehension about why Galfridus had mentioned poison, Francis scraped the last of the soup from the pot, making a generous helping for the lady. He cut a large hunk of bread from a loaf cooling on the slab, grabbed a wooden spoon, and hurried out of the room into the corridor leading towards the dormitories. Outside, he glanced up and down the empty passage, set the plate on a stone seat and tipped Genet’s medicine into the food. “No idea how much,” he sighed, “but I can’t see the witch giving us any to waste.” He stirred gently with the spoon, and the powder disappeared into the gooey green mixture. “I hope it is the right amount,” he muttered, “but I can’t risk it not working.”
Francis went up the steps at the end of the passage, and turned left towards the main cloister. The door at the end was closed, and he peered through its barred window into the cloister itself: deserted. He gave the potage one last stir, took a breath and pushed through. As he tiptoed past the entry to the chapterhouse, the door opened, and the large figure of Abbot Hunt blocked his way.
“Did you get it?” asked the man, behind his hand.
“Yes, Father. The mixture is in the food.”
“Good. I will take it for you from here. You know you have been forbidden to see the lady.”
“I know, Father, but I thought that in these special circumstances...”
“I will take it, Brother. Do not worry.”
“But, would you deny me...?”
“You know the rules, Brother.” The abbot looked away. To Francis it seemed a suggestion of guilt.
“You will make sure the lady gets the food, won’t you?” he said. “Please let her know I am concerned.”
“I will, Brother,” said the abbot. “I will give her your respects. Go to your devotions, and pray for the lady’s soul.”
Hunt took the bowl from the monk, and went towards the south transept, off w
hich was the anchorhold that Lady Ankerita had been imprisoned in for the last ten years.
Francis said a prayer under his breath. During that period, he had managed a few times to see the lady who was his charge since he was ordained, and she a young teenager. He was in love with her, but his vows prevented anything more, and he never confessed his affection. To do so would probably have met with banishment from the house and possibly the clergy itself. The Church was his life, and had been since he was committed to the abbey when he was five, as what they called an ‘oblate’. As a child, he studied intensely, but wasn’t very good, and his probation as a novice extended longer than it should have. At fifteen, he took his vows, but the then abbot, Richard Pontesbury, despaired of his flighty attitude to the ministry, and sent him to be the tutor and spiritual guide at the Leighton household.
Here, he met the Lady Ankerita, thirteen and full of life and adventure, and lost his adolescent heart to her. He considered it a test of devotion to be unable to take the relationship any further. Instead he taught her to read and write, Latin and French, in addition to the modern English vernacular, all the time maintaining an acceptable distance. Ankerita was the second child of the high sheriff, and he took residence in the family home, a crumbing three-hundred-year-old pile, desperately in need of replacement. Francis had his piety and self-control challenged here; Ankerita teased him mercilessly.
Her arranged marriage to Richard Mynde worried Francis. Richard was a cruel man, but rich on sheep farming, and a valuable ally to Sir John, as the sheriff became. After the wedding, Francis returned to the abbey, being considered no further use in the household. He lost touch with his lady, and the next time he heard of her was after the killing of her husband, and her incarceration as an anchoress. Being a canon at the same abbey, he stole many visits to her, but after Christopher Hunt took over as abbot, Francis was largely prevented seeing the anchoress, owing to suspicion over their previous relationship. Now she was ill, and he was worried what the witch’s powder was going to do. He went to his bed in the dormitory, knelt and prayed.
A
bbot Hunt returned from his food delivery, and went to the kitchen. Inside, Brother Galfridus looked furtively round. “How fares the lady? Does all go well, Father?”
“I managed to stop Francis from seeing her,” said the abbot. “I wouldn’t want him to worry. Why did you let him take the food?”
“He insisted. To refuse would have added to his suspicions. Who’s this...?”
The outside door opened, and a richly-dressed nobleman slipped in.
“Abbot.”
“Your Lordship.” The abbot shooed Galfridus to the other end of the room. “Brother, go and find something else to do. Sir Henry and I have things to discuss.”
“Yes Father.” Galfridus grabbed a cloth, and disappeared towards the refectory. “I will clean the tables.”
“Good, good,” said the abbot, absently.
“Is it done?” Sir Henry challenged, when Galfridus had disappeared.
“It is done, your Lordship. We have been adding small amounts to her food as you asked. She can’t last much longer.”
“What about that annoying brother who was threatening to tell the authorities that we were planning to murder her?”
“I sent Francis off to see Genet, the witch.”
“Ah.” The man smiled.
“Not for that, your Lordship,” said the abbot, hastily. “I primed Genet to give him a harmless powder, so that when Lady Ankerita dies, he will think it was his fault. His silence is thus guaranteed.”
“Bravo, Abbot. Remind me not to get on the wrong side of you.”
“No, my Lord. Now, as to the offer of payment: one hundred pounds, was it not?”
“Fifty, I believe,” said the nobleman, smiling. “And you will get that, once the lady is in her grave.”
15th August 1528
T
he tolling of the big tenor bell in the abbey church brought Francis to his senses. For a moment, he couldn’t work out what was happening. Abbot Hunt had abolished the old practice of disturbing the canons at regular times during the day, starting at 01:45 in the morning for Matins at 2 a.m., and finishing with Vespers at dusk. The night prayer, Compline, had already gone into disuse, even in the more regimented times of Pontesbury. Life in the abbey was somewhat relaxed. To ring the bell in the morning was unusual. Something was wrong. Francis sat up in his cot.
“My lady!” With horror, he realised he had been praying nearly all night and had only closed his eyes briefly. The dormitory was empty; his fellows had left him to sleep. He found his bag, and fished out the glass ball the witch had given him. It had been clear when he got it, it had gone cloudy. He tried to see into it, but nothing came.
He rushed down the stairs, and was rounding the corner into the church, when he was stopped by the abbot’s second in command, Prior Thomas Corveser. “You can’t go in,” said the man, placing his hand on Francis’ chest.
“Why, what’s happened?” In his heart, Francis already knew, and he also knew he had to get to the lady before they completed any death rites.
“The Lady Ankerita is dead. She passed on during the night.”
“I have to go to her. I am her family chaplain. Her father would want me to preside.”
“We have been given strict orders to exclude you,” said the prior. “I’m sorry, but the family insisted. I do not agree, but they have the entitlement.”
“Her own family?” Francis was incredulous.
“No, her husband’s. They have the rights to the body.”
“But, what about her real family?”
“We have already sent for Sir John, but it will be difficult to get the high sheriff over from London. He is attending the King. We shall proceed without him. The abbot is keen that we clean out the anchorhold, and reuse that chapel.”
“I need to see the abbot.” Francis was sweating.
“Who wants to see me?” The bulk of Abbot Hunt appeared behind the prior. “Thank you, Prior Thomas, you may return to your duties.”
Thomas shot him a strange glance, but bowed, and hurried away.
“What is happening, Father?” bleated Francis. “You promised me I could inter the body, and there would be no questions asked.”
“There will be no questions,” said the abbot, “Because there are only two people who know how she died.”
“She isn’t dead,” insisted Thomas.
“I’m afraid she is,” said the abbot, lightly. “You must have given her an overdose. It is past. I will keep your secret, if you stay out of the way, and let the burial go ahead without interference.”
“Oh Lord.” Francis sank slowly on to the tiles outside the gate, tears running down his face.
“Don’t worry,” said the abbot. “She was very ill. You have simply spared her further suffering.”
16th August 1528
A
few hours after dark, two figures met in the abbey church.
“You have done the lady proud, Abbot,” said the nobleman, regarding the freshly placed grave-slab, “and quickly.”
“We had the coffin ready, my lord, and did not want her to smell any worse than she already did.”
“Very good. There is no chance of anyone investigating how she died?” The abbot shook his head. “Here, then, is your payment.” A bag of coins was passed over.
“We will get the marker stone engraved in a few days, along with an inscription, and tribute to her husband, the late Richard.”
“It is fitting that my brother should be remembered that way. Justice has been done. What about the high sheriff?”
“If he ever gets here, and asks any questions, it was a natural death. In the unlikely event he starts to probe the circumstances, I have my scapegoat to sacrifice.”
“Brother Francis?”
“Yes, Brother Francis. He thought he could say the rites, and free her for a new life, while we burie
d an empty coffin. It is lead-lined, so the missing weight would not have been noticed. She was a poor thin thing.” His teeth showed yellow in the candlelight.
“That is the end of it. I thank you, Abbot.” Sir Henry strode towards the side of the church.
“And you will make sure that I retain my post at the abbey,” puffed the cleric, trying to keep up with him. “...despite everything I have been accused of?”
The nobleman stopped, and regarded the man with a half-smile. “If you mean the fornication, bad management, misappropriation of funds, and the total abandonment of monastic ideals, then I will do my best.”
“You have my gratitude,” my lord.
Sir Henry bowed, and slipped out of the side door to retrieve his horse. The abbot locked up behind him, gave a sigh of relief, and headed back towards the cloister, and his comfortable lodging the other side of the abbey complex.
As soon as the church was silent, from behind a wall-hanging slipped a thin woman with a mass of red hair; under her arm was a book, a strange book, bound with soft leather, and bulging with calf-skin parchment. Genet of Siwaldston glanced furtively around the nave, dropped her robe on the floor, and settled down on it, cross-legged at the foot of the grave, the book balanced on her knees.
“You are a devious creature, Abbot,” she muttered, “but you will not have your way. The prior has your measure, and your days are numbered. I will not, however, be part of this particular crime. The lady is not dead, and she will rise again, once my potion wears off. You thought it was harmless, but in fact it was there to counteract the poison you were giving her, as well as putting her into a deep sleep; hah.” She was considering giving a little cackle of pleasure, but resisted the temptation. “I’m not that old,” she mused. “So, find the spell to protect her, until I can see the people to get her exhumed. And then she can walk, and the abbot will think he’s seen her ghost. Perhaps he will repent, perhaps he will die of fright; with that much weight, the strain on his heart might do the job. I will have my revenge for him cheating me on the agreement, and the lady of her life.”
The Summoning Page 5