House of Shadows

by The Medieval Murderers

  She had been the beauty he had looked for all his life. A tall woman, with flashing blue eyes and dark, Celtic hair, she entranced him. So much so that he had mentioned her to his old companion, Henry. And then, the next time he saw Henry, Henry already had her heart. It all but broke William’s.

  Over time, he had healed. He had found dear Isabelle, who had been a congenial spouse who had borne him young William and two more children, and William had found his star rising with the influence of his master, Piers Gaveston. The king himself recognized William.

  But then Gaveston was caught by his enemies and murdered. It was a terrible shock. Suddenly William learned what it was to lose his patron. Only three years later, the famine struck, and Isabelle and the children died. Christ’s bones, but that had been a black time! Only eight years, but it was as though he had been living a different life.

  It was after the famine that Henry grew in influence. And only eighteen months ago, William first clapped eyes on Henry’s daughter, and in her face he saw the woman he had wanted to marry all those years before. Juliet ensnared him with her calm, elegant beauty, her ready wit and cheerfulness. He couldn’t resist her.

  There was a thundering on his door, and he tutted to himself. ‘Perce, see who it is.’

  When they had been young, he and Henry had been inseparable. The two of them had revelled in the same alehouses, whored after the same wenches in the stews, even fought together in the same actions when they came against pirates. Yet once Henry took his woman, all his love for his friend had dissipated like smoke before a wind. There was nothing left.

  There was a shriek from the yard outside, and William spun on his heel in time to see Perce stumble inside. His hand was at his temple, and he walked with a dazed, unseeing expression. He entered, tottered, and then slowly fell to the floor, like a tree subsiding after the axes had hewn away one side, spinning a little to crash down on his back.

  The men sent to protect and guard him were at the door, but they were reluctant to stand in the path of the force that entered now.

  ‘So, William,’ Sir Henry said. He thrust the war-hammer into his belt, casting a look about him. ‘I think you’d best come with me.’

  Lawrence walked up the lane towards the bridge, but all the while his mind was fixed on the knight waiting at the priory’s gate. At last, with a sigh, he gave instructions to the carter about where to go with the fish, and with a heavy heart he turned back, walking along the river bank to the kiddles. There was one figure still there, a tall lad with his robes bound up to keep them dry, the stilts he wore hidden under the murky waters.

  ‘John? Come here a moment.’

  William felt the rope pulling at his throat again, but there was little he could do to protect himself as the horses trotted onwards. It was only fortunate that he had not lost all his strength.

  Ironic. That he should have been innocent of crimes, that his greatest enemy should seek to destroy him, when his only offence had been to love the same woman and then love her daughter. He married her, and the result? She died, his son died, and now he was to die as well. For William had no doubt in his mind that this must be Henry’s intention. The man was determined to remove him.

  He was here between two horses, a rope about his neck gripped in Henry’s fist, while other men-at-arms rode about him. His hands were bound behind him, his wrists already chafing, but the pain was bearable compared with the anguish of the losses he had already suffered.

  They had left his manor as soon as William had submitted to being tied, the men supposedly left to guard him surprisingly quiet in the face of Henry’s force. There was no point in their being killed to protect a felon. That much was obvious enough. And William had hardly covered a hundred paces from his gate when the little force passed him, one of them on his own horse. The man stared down at William, spat into the road and sped off towards the bridge and the city.

  ‘He’s coming back,’ Simon said.

  Brother Lawrence carried a large wicker basket, a pair of stilts lying over the top. ‘Good day again.’

  He set the wicker basket on the ground, where it leaked brown mud and water. The stilts rolled from it.

  ‘They look a handy tool,’ Baldwin commented.

  ‘On the flats they can be useful, and in the shallows.’

  ‘And if a man wished to scare all the locals away from a place, such a device would make him appear greatly taller.’

  ‘It would take more than—’

  ‘Yes. Perhaps a good grey cloak and hood would be needed also.’

  Lawrence nodded and sighed. ‘You have learned much.’

  ‘The night that the rogue Mortimer escaped from the Tower, he came this way. We know that. Someone was out here pretending to be a ghost to scare all the people away. You.’

  ‘Yes. I confess. I walked about the marsh for some nights before the feast to remind people of the ghost and scare them away.’

  ‘Elena’s husband was killed. By you?’ Baldwin demanded harshly.

  ‘Me? No. But others were there, and if they met a man in a chance encounter, blood could have been shed.’

  ‘You say one of Mortimer’s men did it?’

  ‘I say one of his men could have killed Elena’s man. I do not know. That I swear on the Gospells.’

  Baldwin eyed him narrowly. He spoke with conviction and apparent honesty, and Baldwin did not think him a murderer – and yet Brother Lawrence felt his guilt. His subterfuge at reintroducing people to the idea of this ghost had indirectly led to deaths. Elena’s husband, the girl, and Pilgrim. All dead for nothing.

  ‘Where is John?’

  ‘Now? I am not sure. Some distance away.’

  ‘You advised him to flee?’

  ‘All he did he did for good motives.’

  ‘I didn’t think you would murder a girl, even if you thought she had betrayed your prior. That was the act of a younger, angrier man.’

  ‘You may think so,’ Lawrence said calmly. ‘It is between him and God.’

  ‘Juliet told her father about the priory helping Mortimer to escape, and then he told the king’s men. That led to Prior Walter being arrested.’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘And your novice knew of this. He heard Juliet tell you.’

  ‘She was proud of telling her father about the escaping men, but she told me in order to apologize, I think. She never expected the prior to be taken. She was very young.’

  ‘And innocent. But a lad like John, who was raised to the concepts of honour and obedience, he took a different view, didn’t he? He thought her act was disgraceful treachery, rewarding the priory’s kindness in marrying her by destroying the prior.’

  Lawrence looked away. ‘I can say nothing. My lips cannot be opened except to God. But whether it is true or not, John has the benefit of clergy. You may not touch him.’

  Sir Henry was aware of the eyes on him all the way along to the bridge. There, he fully expected to be accosted, but the porter at the gate meekly accepted his words about his capturing a known felon, and he rode on with his little force to his home.

  ‘You should have stayed away, William. I didn’t want to have to hurt you, but you couldn’t keep away, could you? What, did you want to upset me by stealing my daughter? Eh? Perhaps you did. Maybe you didn’t even give me a thought. Well, you should have done, old friend. You should have. Because now I’ve got you here, and you’re going to pay for the death of my little girl. And because you took her without my permission, first I’ll have you castrated!’

  And he clambered from his horse and tugged on the rope, pulling William onwards.

  William had been in a daze while he spoke, and only now, as Henry drew him towards the stables, did he realize what was happening.

  ‘Christ Jesus! No!’

  The men grabbed him and pulled him bodily to the heavy wooden table set out by the brazier, the farrier’s tools set out nearby. And Henry smiled to hear the screams of his old friend.

  ‘You’ll
rot in hell for what you did to my daughter, William.’

  ‘Sir Baldwin! Thank God I have found you! Sir Henry, he has come and taken William. You must help us. My lord bishop is in Westminster, and I can’t get him…’

  ‘Tell me all,’ Baldwin said urgently.

  The man explained quickly how the men had arrived at William’s house, beaten down Perce and dragged William from the place.

  ‘Where are they now?’

  Baldwin took his horse, and then stopped a man with a small piebald rounsey. ‘I am keeper of the king’s peace, acting for my Lord Bishop Stapledon. I must have your horse.’

  ‘You can’t take it, I—’

  In answer, Baldwin drew his sword. Its wicked blue blade flashed in the sun. ‘Retrieve your horse from Bishop Stapledon’s house later this day. For now, it is needed. Simon? Mount. Lawrence – send a messenger as swiftly as you can to my lord Bishop Stapledon’s house and tell him of this. He must send men to Sir Henry’s house if we are to save William.’

  The man left with alacrity at the sight of the sword, a fact that pleased Simon no end. Too many men would have argued and drawn their own steel at being ordered to give up their horse.

  Soon they were cantering illegally and dangerously along the thronging streets. Simon was almost brained by a low-hanging merchant’s sign, and then, peering over his shoulder at that near catastrophe, almost rode into a tavern’s sign. After that he gazed ahead resolutely.

  As they turned into the house’s yard, the screaming assailed their ears.

  Baldwin had sheathed his sword after taking the horse for Simon. Now he drew it again and clapped spurs to the beast. It leaped forward, narrowly missing a groom and making him dart away with a shocked curse.

  ‘Free him immediately in the name of the king!’ Baldwin roared.

  Simon was already on the ground. His sword was out, and it came to rest at the throat of the man holding shears near William’s groin. ‘Put that down,’ he hissed.

  There were seven men about the yard. There was a man at William’s arms, holding them by the rope that bound them, while a man gripped each leg, holding them apart. The man between them was very still, his eyes fixed on the steel at his throat.

  Baldwin saw Sir Henry and his son standing a short distance away.

  ‘Tell your men to release him, Sir Henry. If any harm comes to him, I will have you pay for it. Release him, I say!’

  ‘You could fall from your horse here in my yard, and no one need know what happened to you,’ Sir Henry scoffed. ‘I could have you dropped by arrow, and all would declare you had an accident. Go and leave us.’

  ‘This man is innocent! He did not kill your daughter!’

  Timothy stepped forward. ‘So? He may not have stabbed her, but he raped her.’

  ‘A man cannot rape his wife,’ Baldwin grated.

  ‘He didn’t have permission to marry her. He took my sister and persuaded her to lie with him so he could insult my family, but there was no marriage – I deny that she was married!’

  Baldwin looked about him at the men standing still and quiet. ‘Sir Henry, you are safe. You are a friend of my Lord Despenser, and anything you do here today will be forgiven. But any man here,’ he lifted his voice, ‘any other man here who attempts to hinder me or harm this man will be arrested and held by my authority as keeper of the king’s peace. And if William is harmed, I will have you all taken and I will see you hanged.’

  ‘Where is your authority for that?’ Timothy sneered. ‘There are only two of you!’

  Baldwin felt an unbounded relief as he heard the rushing of feet outside, and as men poured into the yard wearing the livery of Walter Stapledon he smiled nastily and glanced down at Timothy.

  ‘Stand back.’

  The bishop leaned back in his chair. ‘You are quite sure of this?’

  Baldwin had explained all. ‘There is little doubt. John was utterly devoted to the cellarer, and through him his prior. The young lad was appalled by what the girl did, telling others about the ruse of using a ghost, and it was as a result of her informing that the prior was arrested. William’s son was innocent, of course. That was why he was set out so neatly. John was sorry to harm him, I suppose, but he wanted revenge on the girl, and he wouldn’t let a little thing like Pilgrim being there get in his way.’

  Bishop Walter looked down at his hands. ‘It seems far-fetched.’

  ‘I was happy enough to believe that her brother was responsible. Timothy was very keen to preserve his family’s honour. Not his father – he still loved Juliet, but not Timothy. She was only ever a half-sister after all. But then it seemed clear that it must have been Pilgrim’s father. William was clearly hurt by his wife’s change in affection. She once loved him, but then the attraction of a man nearer her own age overwhelmed her. Yet when I considered the strange disparity in the way the two bodies were treated and learned how her words may have affected the priory, it seemed more and more likely that there was an element of revenge involved. Perhaps in a way it was the same motive as Timothy’s. A means of retaliating against an insult to the honour of a group. Not a family, but a monastery.’

  ‘I shall discuss the matter with the bishop here and suggest that the boy be punished.’

  ‘Please do so. And now I would like to re-enter the city and find my bed,’ Baldwin said.

  ‘You have done well, Sir Baldwin. I am grateful.’

  Baldwin nodded, but as he followed Simon from the hall, along the screens corridor and out into the bishop’s yard beyond, all he could see in his mind’s eye was the faces of those whom he had suspected: Sir Henry’s, twisted with pain and hurt; William’s, torn with longing and despair; and, last, Brother Lawrence’s. A man who had seen all that his faith stood for destroyed by a novice.

  Of all, Baldwin felt that the monk’s loss was somehow the worst of them all. The others at least had the strength of their hatred of each other to sustain them. Lawrence had nothing.

  ACT FOUR

  July 1373

  Geoffrey Chaucer fiddled with his pen. He peered at the other pens that were lined up to his right. He counted them, although he already knew how many there were. Did any of them need sharpening? With his left index finger, he touched the end of the one he was holding. The goose-quill did not need sharpening, not really. He put down the pen. He reached out and brought the ink pot an inch or two closer to his writing hand. Then he straightened the few sheets of paper on the table. This particular task didn’t need doing either.

  He sighed. He was familiar with these little devices whose purpose was to delay the moment, the inevitable moment, when he’d actually have to put pen to paper and start writing. Anything to put that moment off.

  He was sitting by an open window. Sounds of activity came from down below, from the area around the entrance to the gatehouse. On his arrival the previous evening, Geoffrey Chaucer had observed an excavated space in a corner between wall and buttress, a space large enough to hold a seated man. There was a neat pile of stone near the cavity, which was kept stable by stout wooden props. Water damage, Geoffrey supposed, looking up at the gargoyle that leered above his head. Rain pouring down over the centuries. Or perhaps water seeping up from an underground spring and slowly dissolving the mortar, for this was a marshy area.

  Now there came the scrape of trowel on stone, or a shared joke or an inaudible curse as one of the workmen lifted an especially heavy block. Geoffrey considered shutting the window to keep out the sounds. After all, he’d come to Bermondsey Priory to get some peace and quiet. London bustled on the other side of the Thames, but you’d expect a silent order of monks to provide a bit of peace and quiet. The only noises should be the bells summoning the brothers to prayer. And, as if on cue, a bell rang at that instant. Closing the window would mean depriving himself of the soft airs and smells of a summer morning and breathing the stuffy air of the room. Chaucer glanced around at the room. It was barely furnished – a bed in one corner, a substantial chest in another, and the st
ool and table beneath the window where he was sitting. But, compared with the cells or dormitories that were reserved for the monks, it was like a chamber in a palace.

  Geoffrey Chaucer knew something of palace chambers. His wife Philippa and their three young children had only lately left their private lodgings in John of Gaunt’s little place on the banks of the Thames. John of Gaunt’s little place was the Palace of Savoy. Geoffrey was sometimes employed by Gaunt – third son to King Edward – in private business or secret matters relating to the court, although that wasn’t the principal reason for his family’s residency at the Savoy. Geoffrey stayed in the palace from time to time when he wasn’t on his travels. But he had never felt at home in the Savoy. Unlike his wife Philippa, who was the daughter of a knight and who in her earlier life had been under the protection of the late queen of England. Philippa felt at home in palaces.

  Whenever he could, Chaucer retreated to the gatehouse in the city wall at Aldgate, which he’d bought around the time of his marriage. That was home to him, that was where he kept his books and papers and his writing implements. And now, for various reasons, the Aldgate house had once more become the residence of Chaucer’s entire family, his wife, his children and servants. The city gatehouse, which had looked so spacious when he’d first seen it, was transformed into a cramped dwelling filled with domestic demands. So Geoffrey was spending a few days on the south bank of the river at Bermondsey Priory to get away from them. Neither husband nor wife had expressed it in those terms, but both of them knew that he was, temporarily, escaping his family on the pretence of work.

  By chance, Geoffrey Chaucer was staying in a room in another gatehouse on this summer’s morning. It was a guest-chamber on the first floor of the inner entrance to the priory. It was where the more important lay visitors were accommodated or those to whom the abbot, Richard Dunton, wanted to show favour. Geoffrey had met Richard Dunton for the first time on the previous evening when he’d arrived at the priory. Geoffrey recalled with pleasure the prior’s words at their meeting. He was a handsome man, with a commanding presence which he combined with an easy air. He seemed genuinely glad to see Chaucer. He’d said…