His eyes lit up. ‘You found it?’ he said.
‘It?’ I repeated. ‘So you know what this is, then?’
The old monk hesitated, again aware of having made a mistake. ‘No, no,’ he said. ‘Of course not.’
‘I don’t believe you,’ I said, nodding at Sandro to close the door.
Old Simon looked at my valet and then turned back to me. ‘What’s this all about, Lord Somershill?’ he asked softly. ‘I don’t want any trouble.’
I placed the translation down upon Godfrey’s desk. ‘It’s about this,’ I said, pointing at the book. ‘It’s always been about this. Godfrey’s translation of the New Testament.’
Old Simon crossed himself, but said nothing.
‘You knew that Godfrey was working on this project with John Cubit, didn’t you? You knew the true nature of their shared vision. Though you denied it, when I last asked you.’
He shook his head. ‘No, no,’ he stuttered. ‘I don’t know anything about such nonsense. Godfrey never told me anything.’
‘Which is why you spied on his correspondence,’ I said. ‘Godfrey suspected that somebody was reading his letters in recent weeks, and I now know that it was you.’
‘That’s impossible,’ he said. ‘I only arrived at Castle Eden a couple of days before Godfrey’s death. I couldn’t possibly have been reading his letters.’
‘You didn’t open and read them yourself,’ I said. ‘You asked somebody to do it for you.’
‘What?’ he said, clearing his throat. ‘Who do you mean?’
‘It was Alice Cross. Your daughter.’
For a moment the old monk was speechless, before he eventually managed to summon a reply. ‘What a contemptible accusation. I can see that you need more of my prayers,’ he said, casting me a stern frown before hobbling back towards the door, only to find that Sandro had blocked his path. ‘Tell this foolish boy to get out of my way.’
‘No, Father Simon,’ I replied. ‘You cannot leave this library until you start telling me the truth.’
‘I am honestly confounded by this attack, Lord Somershill,’ he said, turning back to me with forlorn, pathetic eyes. ‘I am just an old and infirm priest, coming here to look over my family’s books.’
‘Do you deny that you knew the true nature of Godfrey’s association with the priest John Cubit?’ I said, before adding, ‘Remember that it is a sin to bear false witness.’
He hesitated for a moment and then looked away, unable to answer.
‘So you did know that Godfrey was translating the bible, didn’t you?’ I said. ‘And you looked for this work after his death, but were unable to find it.’
He took a deep breath, but once again refused to respond.
‘I wondered why you’ve always appeared each time I’ve come into this room. You were hoping that I might have located the translation myself, and succeeded where you have failed.’ I pointed to the table where Godfrey’s manuscript was still lying. ‘But now I have found it. And now I will make sure that this book reaches John Cubit in Oxford.’
The old man began to shake. ‘No, no. You mustn’t do that, Lord Somershill,’ he said. ‘I beg you. That travesty must not leave this room.’
‘Why not?’
The old monk clenched his fists. ‘Because it is a work of heresy, Lord Somershill. Godfrey was a fool. He should never have involved himself in this sacrilege.’
‘So you did ask Alice Cross to open and read Godfrey’s letters?’
‘Yes,’ he said with some irritation. ‘I did. But that’s only because my nephew wouldn’t listen to sense, Lord Somershill,’ he blurted. ‘I told him, over and over again. Keep away from John Wyclif and his foolish acolytes in Oxford. They might enjoy the archbishop’s protection for now, but there are plenty of us who oppose their views.’
‘So you do know John Wyclif? Another lie.’
‘Yes. Of course I know of him,’ he spat. ‘The man is a notorious heretic.’
‘That’s a strong word for the master of an Oxford college,’ I said. ‘Don’t you think, Father?’
Old Simon waved this away. ‘Some might call Wyclif a learned man, but he is a heretic to my mind. A fool who will not accept that the bible is written in Latin for a reason.’
‘What reason is that?’
‘So that it can be interpreted by educated minds, of course,’ he said. ‘Priests who properly appreciate the magnitude and the subtleties of its sacred messages. But this Wyclif . . .’ Old Simon’s face was now glowing red with anger and a bubble of spit was forming at the corners of his mouth. ‘Wyclif wants to hand out the bible to the common man as if it were a loaf of Lammas bread. Can you imagine the ramifications of such stupidity? When the bible is read aloud to women and children about the fireside, as if it were a storybook? When every literate man thinks himself able to interpret the Word of God and invent his own foolish version of Christianity? There will no longer be faith in the one church, ordered and sacred. Instead we will descend into a wretched quagmire, whereby a man can attend the church he most fancies, like choosing a wife or a dog. Changing his mind, over and over again, until he doesn’t know which way to turn . . . until he turns away from God himself.’ He paused to regain his breath. ‘This wicked translation will not only lead to the disintegration of my beloved church,’ he said. ‘It will be the end of faith itself. I have no doubt about that.’
‘Were these your words to Godfrey?’ I asked. ‘When you confronted him on the night of his murder?’
The old priest met my gaze. ‘I told Godfrey that I knew what he was doing,’ he said. ‘That he and Cubit were trying to twist the words of the bible into their own contemptible ideas.’ Suddenly he threw up his arms in despair. ‘Don’t you see what had happened to Godfrey in Oxford, Lord Somershill? He had been seduced by the devilry of John Wyclif and his followers. Such as this man, John Cubit. Their beliefs had poisoned his mind, causing my nephew to question and then reject the most fundamental teachings of the church.’ He counted these out on his fingers. ‘Purgatory, monasticism, pilgrimages, praying to the saints.’ The bubbles at the sides of his mouth had now proliferated into an ugly foam. ‘Do you know that Wyclif even denies that the bread and wine become the true body and blood of Christ during communion? He says they are nothing more than a representation. A representation indeed!’ His breathing was now laboured. ‘This is wickedness beyond belief. These ideas are cankers that must be severed before they take hold.’
‘Is that why you burnt John Wyclif’s book in the hearth of this room?’ I asked.
He froze.
‘Is that why you killed your own nephew?’
‘I am a monk,’ he said, quickly regaining his composure. ‘A Benedictine. I have dedicated my whole life to God’s work. So when I discovered what Godfrey was working on, I had to oppose him. I was bound by my faith to do so.’ His hands began to fidget. ‘At first I asked Godfrey to stop this stupidity. I told him that he was shaming both his family and his faith. I had to make him see that he was risking his own eternal damnation.’ He looked at me with tired, reddened eyes. ‘I demanded that he end his association with Wyclif and Cubit.’ He paused, pointing at the book on the table. ‘And then I demanded that he destroy this abomination.’
‘But Godfrey wouldn’t listen to you, would he?’ I said.
The old monk paused a moment and then shook his head. ‘No,’ he said wearily. ‘I was too late. Godfrey’s soul had been corrupted and I could not save him.’
‘So, you took his life. For the sake of this translation?’
‘You might dismiss it as a simple book, Lord Somershill. But this is the most dangerous work of devilry that I have ever encountered. And I would do anything in my power to stop it.’
At these words, he lunged forward and tried to grab Godfrey’s bible from the desk, but I was quicker. ‘Nobody will destroy this,’ I said, once again holding the book out of his reach. ‘When the Plague has retreated, I will take this translation to Oxford and hand it to Jo
hn Cubit myself.’
The old monk started to shake. ‘You must not do that,’ he said, advancing towards me. ‘You must destroy it, Lord Somershill. You were also trained as a Benedictine, I believe. So, you know that it’s your Christian duty to stop this.’
‘No,’ I said. ‘I promised Godfrey’s wife that this manuscript would reach Cubit. And it will.’
Suddenly Old Simon was upon me. For all of his age and infirmity, he could fight with a wild passion. He clung onto me, grappling for this small and unremarkable-looking book with all the desperation of a man fighting for his life. It was the same fervour that must have fuelled his attack on Godfrey. My friend had not anticipated his violence, but I was prepared. Old Simon had religious conviction and zeal on his side, but I had youth and strength on mine. In the end there was no contest between us.
I pushed him away and he fell backwards towards the table, grabbing the weapon that had fallen into his hands at his last confrontation in this same library. It was the mazer. The large drinking cup that still rested on the table, next to Godfrey’s quills and bottles of ink. In an instant, he grasped his hand about its wooden stem and then launched himself at me, waving the metal rim at my head, and only just missing my temple by the thinnest whisker. Sandro had remained out of the fight until now, but this latest attack prompted my young valet to jump to my defence, gripping the old monk about his waist and then throwing him to the floor with a terrible thud.
This did more than snuff out Old Simon’s momentum. He was silent for a moment, before he grasped his chest and groaned in pain – his body shuddering and jolting in a series of short spasms. It was then that his daughter, Alice Cross, appeared at the door, before running across the room to take his hand. I couldn’t say if she had been waiting outside, or whether she had just arrived at the top of the stairs, but now she flung herself down onto the floor beside her father, begging for him not to die.
The old man held her hand and gasped for air. ‘They have the translation, Alice,’ he groaned. ‘Promise me. You must destroy it.’ These were his last words, for then his body suffered one last, tumultuous seizure of his heart.
‘Father?’ she said, as she lifted his hand to her lips. ‘Father?’ she said again. ‘Father. Wake up. Wake up!’ When the old man did not respond, she shook him, over and over again – until she finally threw herself across his lifeless chest and wept.
I left her alone for a while, but when I stepped forward to offer my hand, she turned to me with ferocious eyes. ‘You killed him,’ she said, stumbling to her feet without my assistance. ‘You killed Father Simon.’ She launched a string of punches at my chest.
I caught hold of her wrists. ‘I know that Old Simon was your real father, Mistress Cross.’
‘What of it?’ she said, pulling away from me, and then wiping a long line of spittle from her mouth. ‘Plenty of priests have children. It’s nothing unusual.’
‘Really?’ I said, as if this was news to me. ‘But I wonder if many of these priests were as devoted to their children as Old Simon was to you?’
She sensed a trap. ‘What do you mean by that?’
‘Old Simon taught you to read, didn’t he?’
‘Yes,’ she said tentatively. ‘My father thought it was shameful that most women are illiterate.’
‘But this was useful to him, wasn’t it? It meant you were able to read Godfrey’s private letters. It meant you could spy on your own master, and then report back to your father.’
Her reaction to this was to raise her chin proudly. ‘I was happy to help him.’ She screwed her hands into balls. ‘Lord Eden’s work was blasphemy,’ she spat. ‘It deserves to be destroyed.’
‘But did Godfrey deserve to be murdered?’
She regarded me for a moment and turned away. ‘That was a mistake. My father didn’t mean for it to happen,’ she said. ‘He wasn’t a murderer.’
‘You saw the attack?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘I knew nothing of it at all. Not until Father came to find me that night. This murder has nothing to do with me.’
‘Except that you helped your father to move the body,’ I said. She opened her mouth to object. ‘I’m not stupid, Mistress Cross,’ I said. ‘Old Simon could not have moved Godfrey’s body on his own.’
She took a deep breath. ‘Father asked for my help,’ she said. ‘How could I deny him?’
‘Did you help to arrange his body in the chest as well?’
She nodded guardedly in response.
‘At first I thought that Godfrey had been displayed in a mocking pose, but now I realise my mistake. Laying him out with his arms crossed was supposed to be respectful, wasn’t it? Almost as if it was an apology for his death.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘My father was sorry.’
‘But there was also another reason for trying to hide his body, wasn’t there?’
She crossed her arms and gave a defiant shrug. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘You hoped it would give you some more time, didn’t you?’ I said.
She shook her head, but I knew that I’d touched a nerve, as she turned her face even further from mine.
I continued. ‘The longer it took for other people in the castle to discover Godfrey’s death, the more time your father had to continue his search for the translation in Godfrey’s library. You knew it was hidden in here, didn’t you? It’s why you left the door unlocked and then threw the single key into the well. Your father wanted to make sure he could gain access to this library for as long as possible. You didn’t want somebody else locking the door, so that you couldn’t get in.’
She uncrossed her arms and took a deep breath. ‘My father didn’t mean to kill Lord Eden,’ she said. ‘I told you before. It was a mistake.’
‘Then he should have confessed to this mistake immediately,’ I said. ‘Especially when Lord Hesket and The Fool were also murdered.’
She looked at me sharply. ‘Those other killings had nothing to do with my father,’ she said. ‘He is innocent of those murders.’
‘I know that now,’ I said bitterly. ‘But I wasted a lot of time chasing the wrong man, because of your father’s lies. If he had confessed, then the other two men would still be alive.’
‘That’s not true,’ she said.
‘But it is, Mistress Cross. Hesket and William Shute are only dead because your father killed Godfrey. He might not have murdered them himself, but their deaths are on his conscience.’ I paused. ‘As they are on yours.’
She sank down into Godfrey’s chair and crossed herself at this, her eyes now filling with tears. ‘I only wanted to help my father,’ she sobbed. ‘I didn’t know it would lead to this.’
‘Then you must earn your penance,’ I said.
She wiped a large, freckled hand across her face and then looked up at me. ‘What do you mean?’
‘If you truly repent of your involvement in Godfrey’s murder, then you will agree to assist me.’
‘What do you want me to do?’ she asked, rubbing her eyes again.
‘Help me to lay a trap.’
Chapter Thirty-two
The next morning we buried Old Simon, alongside the two other freshly dug graves beside the chapel. Alice Cross had played her part thus far, and told the others that Old Simon had died of a seizure after climbing the steps to Godfrey’s library. It was not so far from the truth, after all.
As we stood about the grave that morning, the wind swept in off the sea and drove through us, penetrating even the thickest cloaks and the sturdiest boots. The women and children had remained inside the castle for this burial, for it was the grimmest and darkest of winter days. The tide was in and wrathful clouds advanced across the sky towards us like a fleet of invading ships. There was not even the weakest shard of sunlight to lift our mood.
Now that our resident priest had died, I was forced to perform the service of committal myself. Amongst our dwindling number, I was the only man with anything resembling a religious education. While I
worked my way through the final words of petition, Sandro and Lyndham kept their eyes on the nearby forest. We had seen movement between the trees the previous night. People skulking on the outskirts of the castle. Fires burning and dogs howling. It seemed we were not the only souls to be seeking sanctuary from the Plague at this far end of the island. I don’t know if these people had any desire to storm the castle, as Godfrey had feared, but had they carried out any such plan, then they might have been surprised to find the dangers that still lay within these walls.
We retreated inside as soon as the coffin was covered with soil, before we lowered the portcullis and locked the gate. And then Sandro and I set to work, for there was no time to waste. Firstly I asked my valet to fetch the bucket of birch oil that we had found outside the castle walls, on the dawn after The Fool’s murder. Since then, I had kept this bucket in the cellar, with the instructions that it was not to be touched. Sandro carried it to the castle dungeon, where he left it just inside the door to the unlocked cell.
The second part of my plan was a little trickier to carry out, because I needed Filomena’s help for this, and I had not yet taken her into my confidence. I found my wife in the kitchen, holding baby Simon in one arm and stirring a cauldron of porridge with the other. Hugh was behind her, turning the bare roasting spit at speed and clearly causing the elderly cook a great deal of anxiety. I picked my son up in my arms and kissed his head. ‘What are you doing there?’ I asked him gently.
‘Roasting a lion,’ he said proudly.
‘I’m sure it will be very tasty,’ I said. ‘But a lion needs to be turned very slowly.’
‘Why’s that?’ asked Hugh.
I paused. ‘Because he is very large and very fierce.’
‘But he’s dead,’ said Hugh, looking at me as if I were stupid. I certainly didn’t have Sandro’s way with children.
‘But how can you be sure?’ I said. ‘If you turn the lion too quickly, then he might wake up again.’
Hugh regarded me for a moment, before his face dissolved into an excited giggle and he struggled from my arms, returning to the spit, where he duly engaged the turning handle with more restraint. This still annoyed the cook, however, so I asked the woman to leave us alone.
The Bone Fire Page 27