House of Shadows

by The Medieval Murderers

  ‘At least we got that right, though the prior already suspected it,’ grunted the coroner. ‘That ruined Ferdinand’s accident plot, but if he hadn’t discovered she was no virgin he would have got away with it.’

  There was a silence as they stared into the glowing fire pit, their only defence against the hard frost outside.

  ‘What about this falling ceiling?’ asked Thomas. ‘Can you really doubt that it was divine intervention?’

  Gwyn was scornful. ‘Divine intervention be damned!’ he said. ‘Cornish intervention, more likely! When that maniac lifted that rock to hurl it at the prior, I charged at him and we went arse over head, crashing into the back wall! It was already shaky, and the shock of both of us hitting it dislodged some of the keystones at the top, where one had already fallen out of its own accord.’

  John was inclined to agree with him, but a small voice in his head made him wonder why the roof fall had so efficiently killed the monk but left his officer unharmed.

  ‘That place is unsafe,’ declared Gwyn. ‘The prior was right for once. They should brick up that staircase and forget the vault ever existed.’

  ‘Perhaps they will,’ said de Wolfe. ‘Whatever happens, I’ll not be going back to that dismal place. At least we can satisfy Hubert Walter and King Richard that this was no political assassination, just the mad escapade of a crazy monk.’

  ‘Maybe they’ll ask you to be Coroner of the Verge again?’ suggested Thomas, proud of his master’s reputation.

  ‘God forbid!’ said John fervently and for once he made the sign of the cross.

  ACT TWO

  30 September 1270

  When they found him in the vicinity of the reredorter he was babbling.

  ‘God is over the three, the three over the seven, the seven over the twelve, and all are joined together. There are thirty-two paths of secret wisdom. The number thirty-two is the sum of ten and twenty-two, being fingers and letters of the Hebrew alphabet. The decade and its elements are figures. One is the spirit of the living God, and two the spirit from this spirit. Three and four are water and fire. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, Brother Peter.’

  Prior John de Chartres assured him of his full comprehension, though he could clearly see that the monk was raving. Brother Peter looked gaunt, his sandy hair lank and unwashed. The prior suspected him of fasting himself into this agitated state and felt humiliated at not having noticed it sooner. The youth smiled broadly and pressed on, the words cascading from his lips.

  ‘And five to ten are the six sides of a cube – that perfect form – each designating in its turn height and depth, and the four compass points of the world. Of course, this establishes nothing real but expounds the idea of possibility…’

  ‘Yes, yes, brother. Nothing is real.’

  The prior soothed the young man, squeezing his shoulder in an avuncular fashion. But his words were just balm. Prior John’s heart felt as heavy as a stone. He had been sent from France to shore up the faltering establishment that was Bermondsey Priory. Sundry suits concerning the ownership of adjacent lands had drained the priory’s purse. And there had even been unseemly scuffles between tenant farmers and some monks, resulting in complaints of rough treatment. After four years of hard work, Prior John had thought he had at last got on top of all these problems. Then suddenly, in late September of the fifth year of his office – 1270 – matters had deteriorated. There had been a disappearance, and now it seemed that evil had been visited on the priory. For the only possibility he could imagine was that Brother Peter Swynford had gone stark, staring mad.

  William Falconer, Regent Master of the University of Oxford, had been on a wild-goose chase, and he cursed his friend, Roger Bacon, for it. The Franciscan friar had become obsessed with alchemy since discovering certain secret books, books the contents of which he refused even to share with his old friend William. As a result, Bacon had locked himself away for weeks in his little watchtower on Folly Bridge at Oxford. At night the glow of furnaces and the stink of bubbling alembics assailed both the eyes and noses of those in the vicinity. Even those merely passing were occasioned to hurry by, fearing they might be contaminated by the deeds of the devil. He had finally emerged only to beg William to make a small journey on his behalf. Bacon’s monastic order forbade him free movement, preferring to keep their free-thinking brother under close observation. But it seemed that Friar Roger required further confirmation of his theories of ‘species’, or radiating forces that emanate from every substance, physical or spiritual, to affect other things. And for that he needed Master William Falconer, himself an inveterate fiddler in the field of the natural sciences, to go on a journey. Falconer was reluctant to comply at first. But Bacon knew an appeal to Falconer’s curiosity would hit the mark. And it had.

  At first, Falconer had urged his friend to remember his own admonitions about experimental science. Proof of theories could be obtained only by personal experience through the senses. The Regent Master prided himself on his adherence to logic. Indeed, he had often made use of Aristotle’s rules in Prior Analytics to solve many a vexing murder case in Oxford.

  ‘We must seek only truths. For two general truths, not open to doubt, often lead us to a third truth not previously known.’

  ‘Exactly, William,’ responded Friar Bacon sweetly, reining in the irritation caused by Falconer’s school-masterly tones. ‘And that is why I am doing what I am doing. I need to understand pulverization and distillation, mortification and the proposition of lime. For whoever knows these things will have the perfect medicine, which the philosophers call the Elixir, which immerses itself in the liquefaction as it is consumed by the fire and does not flee or evaporate.’

  To Falconer, it all sounded like dark magic, and he feared for his old friend. Perhaps Bacon’s long incarceration by his order had addled his brain. But he knew that in the end he would have to humour him. He sighed, stopped pacing and plonked his burly frame down next to Bacon on the bench outside his workshop. He ran his hands through his unruly, grizzled locks, aware not for the first time that they appeared to be thinning on the top of his head. He knew he could not refuse Bacon’s plea. Besides, he had his own reason for wanting to consult an alchemist, and preferably one far from Oxford, where everyone knew everyone else’s business. He gave in gracefully.

  ‘Tell me what it is you want.’

  He hadn’t bargained on his acquiescence resulting in him travelling half across the country and back. To Canterbury, in fact. And with little to show for his efforts at the end of the day. Now, to make matters worse, on his return journey, the rounsey he had hired in London had gone lame in one hoof. Moreover, one of his headaches was beginning. He fumbled in the pouch at his waist for some of his medicament. Dusk was falling rapidly, and he was well short of the inn where he had obtained the nag several days before. With even London Bridge, built only twenty years earlier, beyond the capabilities of his mount, he knew he would have to seek somewhere to stay. But he was floundering in the marshy lands to the south of the River Thames. Exasperated, he was almost moved to call the lonely area godforsaken until he remembered. He had passed close by Bermondsey Priory on the outward leg of his trip to Canterbury’s Jewry. It could not be far away now, and his spirits lifted. Through rising mists, he followed his nose and the stench of the tanneries located in the priory’s vicinity and soon saw the heavy bulk of church buildings looming out of the darkness. The priory sat low to the earth, as though it were sinking under the weight of its own bulk into the surrounding marsh. But he was glad of its proximity. Falconer was now on foot, leading the poor, lame mare, and his own feet were pinched in the new boots he had treated himself to in Canterbury.

  ‘The lame leading the lame,’ muttered Falconer as he finally limped under the great stone arch of the priory gatehouse. A rumble of thunder from the heavy storm clouds that gathered over his head welcomed him in. Strangely, the gates were still ajar, but there was no one to meet him. The place was deserted. Before him the ou
ter court was empty, with the church’s ornate façade rising up steeply. Row on row of saints precariously perched each in his own niche looked grimly down on him. Large spots of rain began to spatter one by one on the cobbles of the yard. The only light he could discern was that cast by flickering torches inside the church. Long shadows and guttering flames played across the great rose window high above, creating a sense of something hellish going on inside the church. This impression was strengthened when a piercing scream surged out of the half-open great doors in the church’s western façade. The scream was followed by another, and another, causing its own echo in the gasps that were rent from Falconer’s breast. His headache was worse, and the screams pierced his brain like a knife.

  ‘In God’s name, what is going on here?’

  He dropped the horse’s reins and left the nag to fend for itself in the priory courtyard. Striding towards the source of the awful screams, he suddenly felt a deep sense of foreboding. All was not well in Bermondsey Priory.

  He pushed through the heavy oaken doors and stepped into the cool and imposing interior. The church was lit by pitch-brands set in iron rings along the side aisles. But it was the central nave of the church that drew his gaze. His eyes were carried up the seven pairs of sturdy columns that marched down the nave and on to the high rib-vaulting of the ceiling. It spoke of open space and heavenly calm. But at the end of the soaring space, in the entrance to the choir and the holiest of sanctuaries beyond, a scene from hell was being enacted.

  A dozen black-clad figures were in the process of beating what looked like a roped-together bundle of rags heaped on the floor at the foot of the steps up to the choir. Each in turn raised an arm and brought his birch rod down with fearful force on to the bundle. In solemn but remorseless motion, the beating rotated around the circle of men, their actions synchronized by one who stood at the top of the short flight of steps. This man’s face was grim and set with firm resolve. At any sign of weakness on the part of those thrashing the bundle, he issued a stern admonition.

  ‘Harder, Brother Paul. Brother Ralph, remember this is for his own good.’

  At his next turn, the accused offender unflinchingly beat even harder. It was a while before Falconer realized that the bundle was not just a pile of rags but a person, bound by ropes. And the heart-rending cries were coming not from those wielding the rods but from their helpless victim – a monk, as his oppressors were. Falconer could not stifle his cry of horror.

  ‘For pity’s sake, stop this.’

  The call echoed around the lofty nave, and one by one the rods ceased their awful downward plunge. Slowly, the monks turned to face the intruder, a mixture of shock and guilt etched on their faces. Only the older man who had guided their efforts was unmoved. His authoritative voice rang out down the central aisle.

  ‘Where have you come from? Who are you?’

  His face set in a mask of determination, the man strode down the steps towards Falconer. His flock parted like the Red Sea before him, stepping back into the gloom of the side transepts. A lesser man might have fled at his forceful approach, but Falconer was too old and wise to be worked on by outward show. And he stood his ground. So it was the prior who hesitated momentarily, breaking his stride. Suddenly a change came over his countenance. In a swift moment, he was the man of God, shepherd of souls, welcoming a stranger into his church. He spread his arms and stood before Falconer with an apologetic cast to his looks.

  ‘Forgive me, good sir. You encounter us at an awkward time. I am John de Chartres, prior of Bermondsey. Please forgive me for your being witness to this unpleasant scene. It was not intended for others’ eyes.’

  ‘William Falconer, Regent Master of Oxford University. And I can imagine your not wanting others to see this. Do you often beat your monks into submission?’

  The prior threw a glance back over his shoulder to where the other monks were stood frozen on the spot. Falconer’s words had been loud and clearly spoken. The monks could not have failed to hear them and were wide-eyed in astonishment that the stranger could be so bold in the face of their stern and overbearing prior. They had experienced four years of his dominance and were well cowed by now. Previous governance of the priory had been lax, but they had been brought back to strict discipline after the arrival of the new head of their house. John de Chartres had remedied former faults, righting the bad reputation of the priory, and now the monks feared him. Prior John coughed out a warning, scattering his gawping flock, and took Falconer by the arm. He led him into the side aisle, where their conversation would not be overheard by those more innocent ears.

  ‘You do not understand the situation, Master…Falconer, was it? You see, Brother Peter is ill.’

  Falconer snorted in derision, at least glad to perceive that the pains in his head were receding. ‘And thrashing him to within an inch of his life will cure him?’

  With difficulty, the prior retained his calm exterior. ‘Indeed, I hope it will. You see—’ he paused, clearly unwilling to divulge too much of the internal problems that beset him ‘—Brother Peter is vexed with demons.’

  Falconer frowned, reluctant to brook such unscientific thought. Demons did not figure in Falconer’s pantheon of ailments. He offered an alternative guess as to what troubled the unfortunate monk. He knew that all too often the illness that caused a man to fall down in a fit and froth at the mouth was seen as demonic possession. Whereas the more skilled in medicine called it epilepsy, Falconer chose to use its old name. ‘He has the falling evil, then?’

  Prior John de Chartres smiled sadly and shook his head. ‘I almost wish it were that disease. At least we then would know what to do and could take care of our brother. No. Unfortunately, we found him in frenesim – in a frenzy – and I do believe he has gone stark mad. It is fortunate we have a hospital here, where we formerly confined those with leprosy. Now that curse is receding, we use the old lazar house for the mad, the lame and the dumb.’

  Falconer had heard of such hospitals. The inmates were not there to be treated but merely to be confined. He did not doubt that the bound and beaten figure of Brother Peter, now lying groaning in the centre of the church, would be chained up in such a place. If, as was likely, his so-called treatment was deemed to have failed. Falconer’s first impressions were vindicated. The priory did not seem to be a happy place to have stumbled on, and in other circumstances he would have moved on. But he had no other choices available to him. Outside the church, he could hear the rain beginning to fall heavily, and he needed a dry place in which to rest. With luck, it would be for only one night.

  ‘Hmm. Much as I doubt you can beat out the madness from his mind, I don’t know of any other way he can be cured. Perhaps a little kindness would help, though.’

  The prior smiled wanly in response to Falconer’s admonition. He might have wished the man was not present to witness the problems he had suddenly had to deal with. But the requirement to provide hospitality to the traveller was paramount. He strove to change the subject to something less painful to his soul. ‘I imagine you wish to break your journey with us, Master Falconer. Especially with the weather turning so evil.’

  As if on cue, a flash of lightning illuminated the outer courtyard in an eerie bluish glow, and a crack of thunder followed close on its heels. The frightened whinny of Falconer’s hired rounsey reminded him of the reason for his broken journey, and he hurried out into the driving rain to quieten the animal. Prior John de Chartres did not follow him out into the deluge. From the cover of the church’s western archway, he called out above the noise of the rising storm.

  ‘Take the horse around the rear of the church. A lay brother there will stable the beast for you. The guest quarters are in the hall beyond the infirmary. But beware, there is someone…’

  There was a momentary hesitation in the man’s instructions, as though he had suddenly thought of another impediment to his new guest’s sojourn. However, Falconer, who was short of sight anyway, did not see the worried frown on the prior’s vi
sage at such a distance and through the sheet of falling rain. Merely that the prior cast a look over his shoulder before again waving his arms to the right to emphasize where Falconer should go.

  ‘Well, you will see for yourself. Go that way before you drown. You will find the hall easily enough.’

  He then disappeared inside the church again to deal with the problem of the mad monk.

  Falconer shrugged his shoulders at the mysterious utterance of the prior and, bowing his head against the driving rain, led the rounsey around the north side of the church. Avoiding a brook that already ran in flood across the marshy ground beyond, he followed the prior’s instructions. He turned to the right around the grey and looming structures south of the church. Most abbeys and priories were similarly laid out, and Falconer guessed that the first outbuilding he came to was the infirmary where Brother Peter would soon be confined. It looked a grim and depressing place, and by the evidence of his nose the main cesspit for the priory abutted it close by. The final building in the range should be the guest quarters. And indeed, hugging close to the walls to shelter from the worst of the rain, Falconer soon discerned a bedraggled figure lurking in an archway that led to another inner courtyard. This would be the lay brother who would stable his horse.

  The man beckoned him over and took the reins of the lame rounsey with nothing more than a grunt to welcome the prior’s unexpected guest. It was only as the man turned his back that Falconer’s eye was taken by a light in one of the upper windows of the guesthouse. He thought he saw the pale features of a person in the light of a flickering candle. Delving in his pouch, he produced his eye-lenses and fixed them on. But by then the vision was gone, the window dark, and, besides, the rain was smearing his view through the lenses.

  When first he had commissioned the device to rectify his poor eyesight, it had been nothing more than two pieces of glass fixed at either end of a V-shaped bar of metal. He had had to hold it to his face to see clearly.