House of Shadows

by The Medieval Murderers

  That was all long ago. A woman with no shame, a whoring bitch who tempted the poor chaplain from his vows and threatened his soul with her lusts. It was said that the two had disappeared soon after, snatched away by the devil himself.

  ‘Brother Lawrence, we are so grateful to you.’

  The two had walked to him, and Lawrence was uncomfortable with their gratitude. Not so these two, please, God, he prayed. She was so terribly young, he much more experienced. It was that reflection that brought on the sense of fear again. In Christ’s name, he knew full well that it might matter not a whit that they adored each other. Their families might do all in their power to destroy them. Others had in the past.

  ‘We have been wanting to marry since we first met here, on the afternoon of the feast of St Peter ad Vincula last year,’ she said.

  That day, he thought with a shock.

  ‘The day that the traitor escaped,’ her husband confirmed.

  ‘We saw them, I think,’ she continued. ‘I saw the men coming over the river in the early darkness. It was my husband here who saved me. God knows what men such as they would have done to me. He pulled me aside until they’d all ridden away.’

  John, the novice, was listening intently, Lawrence saw. The older monk motioned to him with a frown, and John walked off a short distance. Lawrence didn’t want him listening to anything that might be difficult to keep to himself. A boy had enough to hold secret as it was. The fewer the temptations of gossip the better.

  ‘What were you doing here at such a time?’ he asked.

  She flushed a little. ‘I was a fool! I saw William that afternoon and came to speak to him. We remained longer than we should. It was only my husband here who saved me!’

  Her expression was so joyous as she turned to him that the monk had to look away. He folded his hands, and as the two embraced he bowed his head and prayed for them. They would need God’s help if they were to survive.

  ‘When the men came, we saw the ghost. It terrified me, but my husband held me close and protected me. Of course, later we realized!’ The monk’s quick look made her nod sadly. ‘Yes, I told my father.’

  He motioned to her to be quiet and drew her away from the others, but when they were finished, and he had made the sign of the cross over her in forgiveness, he shook his head. It was a sad, sad confession to have to make. He only hoped no more harm would come of her actions.

  The girl’s maid, Avice, stood at the side of the novice, but the monk saw that in her eyes, too, there was little pleasure to see her mistress wedded. Only a certain reserved anxiety, as though she, too, was viewing their future and disliked what she saw. The only witness who genuinely approved of the match appeared to be John, his new novice, who stood with a fixed grin on his face.

  Brother Lawrence sighed inwardly. He tapped John on the shoulder and nodded back towards the priory. John made a sign of acquiescence. Their order demanded silence as well as obedience.

  The two turned away from the little clearing where the marriage had been sworn and witnessed, but as Lawrence walked away he realized that John had stopped and was now gazing back at the newlyweds again.

  John gave a defensive shrug of his shoulders.

  Lawrence could see what he meant. The two were so full of joy. But the older brother could not help but tell himself: ‘For now, yes. She is the happiest woman alive. But when her family hears what she has done…my God! I only hope no evil comes of this!’

  Vigil of the Feast of St George the Martyr 2,

  Surrey Side of the Thames

  Sir Baldwin de Furnshill was a reluctant visitor to this, the greatest city of the realm.

  Content with his lot as a rural knight living in Devon, he would have been happy not to have returned. He had been here many years before, when he had still been one of those fortunates, a respected and honoured member of the Poor Fellow Soldiers of Christ and the Temple of Solomon, a Knight Templar. But his order had been destroyed by that snake King Philip IV of France, and his dishonourable, mendacious lackey Pope Clement V. Those two had seen to the destruction of the Temple and the murder of many loyal brothers in their avaricious pursuit of the order’s wealth.

  Yes, the last time Sir Baldwin had seen London and Westminster had been more than ten years ago, when he had fled France after his order’s dissolution. He had arrived here in the hope that he might find some few of his old companions and had made his way to the Temple. Once there, he stood and stared, dumbfounded. He should not have gone. It was depressing to see how his order’s headquarters in Britain had been so pillaged. Where once the rich and powerful had congregated to petition the order, where kings had come to borrow money and others came to give up their secular lives, accepting a life of rigorous training, obedience, poverty and chastity, now beggars and peasants gathered. Drunks walked in cloisters meant for spiritual contemplation. He felt sickened to see how this deeply religious place had been so debased.

  Still, the tall, bearded knight with the calm, square face could easily understand how a city like this must be thrilling to a man like his companion, Simon Puttock, from Devon. Just how impressed Simon was would have been perfectly plain to a less observant man than him.

  ‘Christ’s ballocks, Baldwin! Look at the size of it! I thought Exeter’s bridge was huge, but this!’

  Baldwin grinned to himself. His companion was more than a decade younger, and, although they had often worked together in the last eight years, he as keeper of the king’s peace charged with capturing and prosecuting felons, Simon as bailiff to the Abbot of Tavistock with responsibility for law and order on the troublesome tin-mining lands of Dartmoor, Baldwin had never truly accustomed himself to Simon’s parochial view of the world. ‘Yes, I would say it is perhaps the most impressive bridge in all Christendom.’

  Which was true. It might not have been as elegant as some, God knew. The bridges of Paris, of Rome and of Avignon were all marvellous to behold – but there was something about the immensity of this, with the gaudy red and white, blue and gilt paintwork on the huge buildings that stood over the roadway like an enormous series of tunnels, that was almost otherworldly. Nineteen arches, some hundred or more shops on it, the chapel, the drawbridge halfway along its length – it was an immense creation.

  Men in other cities built from a desire to make their world beautiful; Baldwin believed that Londoners built to be rigorously efficient – and to overwhelm visitors.

  They were here, to Baldwin’s disgust, because he had been persuaded by the Bishop of Exeter. It was much against his better judgement, but he had a feeling that many in power were not to be trusted, and if the government were dishonourable, it ill behoved him to complain without attempting to do something about it himself. So here he was, recently elected to the English Parliament, ready to do his duty and uphold the honour and integrity of the nation’s laws so far as he was personally able.

  That thought made him curl his lip with self-deprecating amusement. It made him feel ridiculous. He was a rural knight. At home in Devon he understood life. Here he was aware at all times how alien the people seemed…how foreign he felt. And that it was people here, like those in the Parliament, who had eagerly helped destroy his order.

  The Bishop of Exeter had a house just by the Temple, he knew, west of the city walls, just by the Fleet river. Truth be told, Baldwin could have brought Simon by that route, but he hadn’t. He needed to prepare himself before he took another look at the Temple grounds. Instead he had chosen to come here, south of the river, and to cross the Thames over the drawbridge at London’s great bridge. Once here, he could turn west more easily, he thought.

  But when they had passed over the river and entered the city walls, Baldwin gazed that way with a heavy heart. If he must go there and see his old order’s headquarters buildings, he would do so after resting. To go there now, tired and depressed, would serve no useful purpose to anyone.

  ‘Follow me. I know a place to stay,’ he said, and led the way into the great city, taking Simo
n eastwards, away from the bishop’s London house – the enormous place just outside the Temple’s grounds.

  William de Monte Acuto stood pensively in his hall, a middle-height man clad in a rich scarlet tunic with fur trimming his collar. Few even in London had known wealth such as he had enjoyed – once, but no longer.

  Only a short time ago he had been a strong, healthy, fair-haired man with chiselled features that were his own secret pride. His chin was powerful and square, his nose straight, his brow unmarked by scars even after a number of battles at sea, and he knew that women looked at him with lust in their eyes.

  But no longer. Where once his calm blue eyes had exuded confidence, now there was a drawn introspection. Laughter lines were replaced by tormented tracks at either side of his mouth: the marks of anxiety and loss. Few had known such wealth, no – and fewer had seen it disappear so speedily.

  ‘Continue,’ he said.

  This growing rage was hardly new to him. Since his fall from favour, the anger had never been far from him. Still, that someone could have betrayed him was unthinkable – it was almost a prerequisite in business, aye, but this was one of his own. Any man who had spent a little time on board ship to make money knew that many merchants were in truth little better than pirates. Nothing was ever intended as a personal insult, of course, but if a man could steal another’s cargo at sea, far away from prying eyes, then he would be an arrant fool not to do so. It was natural.

  But this…this was different. This was a man he had brought up, a man he would have trusted to the ends of the earth, just as any lord would trust his most devoted men-at-arms. This was intolerable!

  ‘Master, I am truly sorry…’

  ‘I said: “continue”,’ William stated softly. He didn’t need to look at the messenger to know how his cold tone would have affected the man. Any man who had served him as long as old Perce would know that his voice was more often an indicator of his mood than were his eyes.

  ‘As you ordered, I followed him. He went up towards the water, as you reckoned, near the Bishop of Winchester’s house.’

  Once William had owned properties in London itself. That was back in the past, when he had been rich. Not now, though. Now all he had was this small manor in Surrey, a short way south of Southwark.

  ‘So he went to the whores?’ William hoped so. Perhaps this was all: the lad was wandering up to the bishop’s lands. The wenches were so common up there, they were known as ‘Winchester geese’. The bishop waxed fat on their rents, and what could be more natural than that a lad of his age, almost twenty, should want to go and slake his natural desires?

  ‘He didn’t stop there. He carried on, master.’

  William closed his eyes. ‘And?’

  ‘Master, I am sorry. I can tell you only what happened.’

  ‘Then do so!’

  ‘I saw him. He went up past St Thomas’s and over to Bermondsey. There was a woman there. It was Juliet Capun.’

  ‘So I was right. He is betraying me,’ William said heavily. He turned and walked slowly to his table, sitting on his great chair, trying to hold back the tears. Looking up, he nodded. ‘You’ve done well, Perce. Very well.’

  He barely heard the man’s sad apologies, and Perce’s departure went unnoticed. At least Perce was still loyal to him. It was treachery that offended him more than anything.

  Especially the treachery of his own son.

  It was naughty to tease the novices, but it was also a time-honoured tradition, and when his novice asked about the ghost, Brother Lawrence was not the man to let an opportunity pass him by. There were brief periods during which he was permitted to instruct John, and he did have a duty to let the boy know about the appalling history of the priory.

  Only later would he realize what had been happening as he slowly paced about the cloister, but at the time all he thought about was the expression of rapt horror on John’s face as he told the story of the ghosts of the priory.

  ‘Her name was Lady Alice,’ he said with relish. The basics he knew, of course, but any story had to be embellished to make it believable, and twenty years here in the convent had lent his imagination wings. ‘She was brought here for safekeeping, and her lover was a chaplain, a strong, bold fellow called…Francis. He was here to watch over her, but she had a lustful spirit that could not be tamed. She was tempted, and she succumbed and tormented poor Francis until he also yielded.

  ‘Well, Francis saw that their love could lead only to disaster, so he tried to extricate himself from her clutches. Too late, poor man. Too late. Their passion would not permit them to keep apart, and I fear that they sought each other out. I know—’ he held up a hand in pained agreement ‘—what they did was appalling. To sin in such manner here in the house of God…and not only once, so I heard…Well, God’s fury was roused!’

  Lawrence knew also how to maintain suspense, and while he tried to think of a suitable ending to this story he could sense the novice’s increasing torment.

  ‘And? Brother? What happened to them?’

  Lawrence shook his head sadly. ‘They died. Both of them. But it is said that no one ever found their bodies. You see, some say that they decided to flee the priory, where they were honour bound to live out their lives in the service of God as their oaths demanded, and while trying to cross the marshes in the night they sank into a bog and perished. Some say that they were so miserable with their sins that they went to the river and threw themselves in. But the truth is concealed in the prior’s books. Did you know that there is a chronicle of the earliest times of our foundation? In there, I have heard tell—’ and he dropped his voice and looked about him as the novice leaned closer, his eyes grown round with thrilled horror ‘—it says that a great devilish beast came and bore them away, John. So terrifying was it that all who saw it fell to the ground, and some were never right in their minds again after that.’

  He withdrew, nodding with solemn sagacity, eyeing the novice. ‘And ever since that day, men have said that they have seen their ghosts – especially in the undercroft just here. See that? There is where the two are supposed to have been captured in flagrante delicto. You understand that?’

  The boy did. No one at the convent could deny that they had more thoughts about such indecent acts than about anything else.

  ‘Well, let that be a lesson to you. A man who commits a mortal sin of that nature is accursed, but a monk! He is damned for ever, as is the whore with whom he consorts. Never forget that, John, or you, too, will see the ghosts, and they’ll beckon you to join them. Great, tall ghosts, enormous, with grasping hands to pull you down to hell!’

  A tolling bell caught his attention.

  ‘Hurry, lad. It’s time to wash your hands for vespers.’

  ‘But…’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Would a crime like that be more evil than any other?’

  ‘Perhaps not. The king ordering Prior Walter to be arrested and held in the Tower: that, too, is a great crime against God; He will punish the guilty.’

  Lawrence watched as the lad nodded seriously. Dear heaven, but he must try to moderate his tone. He had let the boy see his own pain, and that was a dangerous thing, now that the prior had been arrested and marched away. Prior Walter was ever a strong defender of the rights and liberties of Bermondsey – for all the good it had done him. Accused of aiding the escape of King Edward’s most detested traitor, Lord Mortimer, who had managed to get out of the Tower of London and make his way, so they said, to France, there was nothing he could say or do in his own defence. When a man was accused by the king, no defence was adequate.

  That was the state of the kingdom now. No man was secure if once accused. The king’s deplorable adviser, confidant and, so it was rumoured, lover, Sir Hugh Le Despenser, held sway. After the last civil war, the king and Despenser had emerged victorious, and both had sought all who had stood against them. Knights, bannerets and even lords were arrested and barbarically executed. Even priors had to tread warily.

&nbs
p; Because the prior was thought ‘unsound’ by the king’s special advisers, he was taken away and replaced with this…this affected, primping coxcomb. A vain, foolish courtier, John de Cusance, whose interest in the priory extended only so far as the quality of the food. He had neither interest in nor understanding of the holy mission of the priory, which existed solely to fight for the souls of the men of this world by the careful round of prayers and services. This new prior was no protection to them. Prior John had his position because his brother was close to the king’s especial adviser, Sir Hugh Le Despenser.

  Brother Lawrence watched the boy scuttle off in the direction of the laver to wash his hands. He could remember how enthusiastic he had been at John’s age.

  His face hardened. That was a long time ago. A long, long time ago.

  Feast of St George the Martyr 3,

  Bermondsey Marsh

  Old Elena could scarcely see it sticking up from the mud and filth, her eyes were so tightly narrowed against the rain that slanted down that morning.

  Foul weather, this, especially since it was so unexpected. In the past they had grown used to the swyving rains that fell incessantly through the summer and into autumn, but for the last couple of years the weather had been better, and through the summer there had been food to eat and fewer deaths. This year, though, she wasn’t sure that the houses wouldn’t all be flooded again. She’d have to get her belongings up into the eaves again, just in case.

  She had been to the market this morning, and when she left her home here by the Thames in Surrey the sun had been shining. There were no clouds, and if it was windy – well, when wasn’t it up here?

  It was on the way back that the weather had set in suddenly, a low, dark squall rushing up the river, and all she could do was lower her head and try to hurry homewards before she was drenched. Too late to worry now. A chilly trickle at the back of her neck told her that the bastard rain had already penetrated. Even if she hung up all her clothing in her hovel before her fire, it would still be clammy and dank in the morning. One day’s rain spelled two days’ misery.