Missal for Murder

by Rosie Lear

  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  The Author’s Notes

  Copyright

  Dedicated to the memory of my husband, Alan,

  without whose love and support this would

  never have been written.

  He did not live to see the publication, but certainly

  lived patiently through the birth of this first gentle

  adventure into medieval murder.

  Chapter 1

  Cheap Street was silent in the glistening moonlight, roofs shining unevenly, their windows dark and silent under frozen eaves. A cold wind blew as Thomas Copeland lifted the latch of his house. He paused at the threshold, glad to smell the familiar sweet and fragrant rushes which carpeted his floors. His maidservant Hannah had expected his return today and had renewed them in anticipation of his homecoming.

  Thomas breathed in deeply, satisfied with his day’s work. He had dined well with a former pupil of his, one Matthias Barton, who lived in the nearby village of Milborne Port. His horse was safely stabled after his ride home – some four miles, and Thomas, no longer a young man, was pleasantly tired. He had known and liked the Barton family for many years and had been much saddened when the family was decimated by sweating sickness, leaving only Matthias, then just sixteen years of age.

  Now he had been pleased to welcome Matthias back to the family home, and to advise him on his plans to open a small school for a few boys, using his family home as a base. Matthias, he knew, had some private income and a suitably large house near the church, and was a patient young man, sufficiently able to build up his proposed small group of boys who lived too far from Sherborne to benefit from Thomas’ own school. For Thomas Copeland was himself a teacher, engaged by the monks of Sherborne Abbey to instruct the scholars who looked to the Abbey for education.

  The Abbey stood slightly down hill from where he stood, awesome and solid, and with more building work going on. Within its walls the monks sung their offices eight times daily, and went about their work of prayer and obedience – although obedient these days to a more pampered regime than in his father‘s time, Thomas thought ruefully, as he closed the door on the silent street.

  He rubbed his hand over his tired face as he prepared to retire. He was a slightly built man, his back beginning to stoop, brown hair now streaked with silver and his eyes, somewhat sore after his recent ride in the wind and the gathering dusk took in with appreciation the work Hannah had done today. He laid his travelling cloak carefully over the carved wooden chair and loosened his boots, wincing at the mild back pain caused by his ride home.

  He had left Matthias’ house rather late, so the last mile of his journey had been in semi-darkness – not a safe or sensible thing for a man of his age for despite the simplicity of his attire, the quality of his clothes spoke of a man who enjoyed and could afford quality.

  Thomas’ door was closed, as another shadowy door opened cautiously further down. The dark, enveloping cloak and cowl admitted no clue as to the identity of the owner. Swiftly towards the darkened Abbey the figure went, without looking behind or to the side, and keeping carefully to the shadows. It was a black night despite a weak moon, the cobbled streets deserted. At the corner of the Shambles the figure paused to wait for another such hooded figure to join him; neither hood nor cowl fell back to reveal their faces as the two passed without word through the gate and into the Abbey grounds. Night swallowed them. An evil little breeze marked their passing.

  Abbot Bradford stirred restlessly, his knees troubling him as he knelt at prayer. His woven linen nightshift was open at the neck, for he was ready to retire, but he was unable to compose his mind sufficiently to concentrate on his office. The bitter quarrel with Father Samuel, priest of All Hallows, threatened to escalate out of all proportion and bit into his mind.

  All Hallows joined the Abbey and was where the common townspeople worshipped. Father Samuel, their priest, was a champion of the people, unafraid to speak out, fierce in his condemnation of the Abbot’s regime. His pale grey eyes had blazed in his thin aesthetic face as he had faced Abbot Bradford on the Abbey Green, spittle landing on the Abbot’s cloak. The quarrel today had been decidedly unchristian and extremely public. He, Abbot Bradford, had felt fully justified for the things he had said. The townspeople WERE noisy and common…oh, Father Samuel had accused him of snobbery and a lack of compassion for that … how dare he … and the demands of the people had been thrust under his aristocratic nose … they had no right to DEMAND anything of him . . he was The Abbot. He would be respected.

  The flavour of the argument crept into his prayers … there had been undignified name calling, denials concerning the rights of the townspeople … accusations of hypocrisy and self indulgence (some of which, if he was totally honest, he should have agreed with ) but he felt totally justified in his actions – there was no doubt in his mind that the doorway between the Abbey and neighbouring All Hallows should have been narrowed. It gave for a more disciplined walk during processionals, and it gave the common and often noisy townspeople less opportunity to spy shamelessly on the brothers as they sung their daily offices. If the truth be known, there were often less monks than there should have been singing, for laziness and self indulgence had crept in to the monastic life. Sherborne was a rich jewel in the Bishop’s mitre, and as Abbot, he knew his share of the pickings could be worthwhile … but the decidedly unchristian quarrel he now had with Father Samuel was eating at his very soul. He was the Abbot – his word would be respected. The unseemly and undignified encounter with Samuel that day had left him filled with righteous anger and indignation.

  He had already appealed to Bishop Neville of Salisbury in an effort to end this pettiness. The resulting enquiry of some months previously had been attended by some hundred townspeople and had been a noisy affair. Bishop Neville had wisely tried to support aspects of both sides, but his orders had not been carried out by either party. The font the rebel townsmen had erected in the Chapel of Ease was still there – and no, he would not widen the doorway until they removed the font. He would appeal to Bishop Neville again if necessary.

  He quivered with anger, even while on his knees in attempted prayer. His great work was the continuation of the rebuilding of parts of the Abbey, a magnificent architectural work of which he was very proud. It was his passion to complete the work started by his predecessor, Abbot Brunyng, and his drive and enthusiasm obliterated every other thought in his head. This humiliating and pernicious quarrel poisoned his thoughts and he could not rest … even found it difficult to pray.

  He moved to end his vigil. His well-fleshed knees ached and cracked, and he eased his back with the flat of his hand as he rose to his feet.

  Abbot Bradford was a tall, heavily built man running to fat; proud and haughty towards his fellow men, his face bore signs of rich living. His nose was the most prominent feature in his face, and he used it to good effect often to look down disparagingly at those he considered beneath him. His elevated position as Abbot over twenty four monks, seven infirmarians and their retinue of lay workers gave him a somewhat inflated sense of his position. He was feared by his brothers and openly disliked by the good townspeople. Their enthusiastic applause of Father Samuel during the public acrimonious exchange that afternoon concerning the door in the Abbey had enraged him rather than shaken him. His plump cheeks flamed afresh as he remembered the scene – twenty angry tradesmen, rangi
ng from silversmiths, fletchers, cloth merchants, glovers through to several women and a crowd of masons and their apprentices, listening avidly as Father Samuel championed their cause, berating the Abbot for being high-handed, lacking sympathy, failing to show humility – oh, it went on and on … . and all that from a man whose grasp of the required Latin was so slight … a man so far beneath him in learning and breeding . . a mere priest in charge … unlettered and without land … but fired with tremendous passion for the perceived rights and needs of his flock …

  Abbot Bradford shook his head angrily – He would decide how the Abbey was to be run – he would not be dictated to by such a man – hadn’t he taken over the visionary new building started by his predecessor, Abbot Brunyng? Didn’t that make him every bit a man of vision as Abbot Brunyng had been so described? How dare Father Samuel question his motives.

  Quivering with emotion, he moved away from the glassed windows of the house recently built for him – and by so doing, missed the two cowled figures slipping noiselessly through the Abbey garden

  Brother Francis found sleep difficult. He had partaken of too much good wine and roast meats, a welcome change from the unending diet of fish, for this was the season of Lenten fare. The Abbey refectory was too well provided for these days… gone were the days of his novitiate, when poverty and abstinence were observed more closely and absence at the divine offices was rewarded by penance … he had seen some radical changes in monastic life, and now as an old man, he had allowed himself to be content with the slackness, regarding it as progress rather than regression. The monks of Sherborne lived well.

  He stumbled from his bed to ease his digestion with a short walk. Quietly, for fear of waking his fellow brothers in the long dortoir, he moved to the glassless window which overlooked the garden. Opposite was the Abbot’s new house, solidly built of Purbeck stone and offering a degree of privacy hitherto unknown. Brother Francis jumped slightly as a tree appeared to move. As he watched, the tree became a cloaked figure moving towards the Abbey. The figure turned into two, silently gliding in the moonlit darkness of this chilly March night before disappearing from view against the shadowy walls. Brother Francis shook his head – he was old; the monastic life had become pampered – who was he to tell tales if his fellow brothers slipped out to whore’s alley now and again? It did not occur to him to count the sleeping forms behind him in the dortoir, or to see whether there were any empty beds. He returned to his own bed, and fell asleep instantly.

  The heavy doors of the Abbey swung open without sound as the cloaked figures reached it. The great grey stones of the floor were marked with the residue of dust from the building work – the fine dust they created flew everywhere. Bare feet made no noise on the cold stone floor, although in the dust, slight footprints were left. The moon which had dangerously lit their progress slid behind a cloud, hiding the hard glitter of their concealed daggers. Pressed close to the soaring pillars, their progress down the great nave was slow and cautious, dodging the detritus of the day’s labour, for the workmen had appropriated the nave as their yard, and part of the great building was open to the sky, pending temporary shelter of thatch until the new work could be completed.

  Surprise was their best weapon – daggers only their second. They held their breath, the better to surprise their quarry. He had become too greedy; his threats of exposure to the Abbot had sealed his fate – he had to die. They passed seamlessly into the Lady Chapel, no more than dark shadows on the soul, killing machines to the core. The young man waited patiently for them expecting his new instructions, and his increased reward. His soft shoes had made little sound when he’d entered; his short dark green cotte and brown hose indicated a man of some skill – a craftsman. He was nervous, but also elated, for his baseless threats to these strangers appeared to have been successful. They had indeed promised increased reward. He thought briefly of his young wife and the child expected so soon – how fine it would be to indulge her in some luxuries for herself and the new child. He was unaware that it would be his last thought.

  His task for them was incomplete. He had been promised simplicity, and suddenly it had become more sinister and considerably more difficult. He needed more coins, over and above those already given to him … and stage payment for his discoveries, or, he had told them, he would have to speak to the Abbot. As a mere apprentice his access to the Abbot was far removed, but he had innocently hoped the idle threat would bring him success so there could be an end to this affair. He had sorely miscalculated his adversaries, for he was a simple country young man, unused to complicated plots and double dealings. What had seemed a useful way of earning extra coin had suddenly become more serious, but he was determined to hold his nerve, and so he was doing exactly as he had been told, confident that his nerve would bring the expected reward.

  The chill of the Abbey was penetrating his bones – he was kneeling as he had always been instructed – facing the altar – and although his ear was pricked for the sound of his task-masters, he heard no sound behind him … only a sudden raising of the hairs on the back of his neck before the first dagger found its mark, sliding in to soft tissue as easily as a knife to butter … a choked strangled gurgle … a gush of warm, sticky blood flooding the stones beneath his collapsing knees … a second dagger thrust, more accurate than the first … strong cruel hands covering his mouth … pressing into his neck … he jerked in death spasm … tried to turn to see his attacker … failed … a rasp of breath sprayed fountains of blood over his tunic …

  Gouts of blood stained the floor and ran into the cracks between the grey flag stones as the shadowy figures wiped their blood encrusted daggers on his tunic before retreating as swiftly and silently as they’d come, silent killers who knew their business well.

  Chapter 2

  Matthias Barton’s plans for a simple scholastic establishment in his home were well advanced. He had spoken long and carefully with his one-time schoolmaster and now friend, Thomas Copeland, and he admired his organization, sense of purpose and discipline. Thomas’ school was ordered by the Sherborne monks, who wished suitable boys to be educated with a view to entering the church or the law. Thomas Copeland taught them grammar, astronomy, logic, arithmetic and geometry, following the liberal arts programme of the two great universities. His pupils were mostly the sons of wealthy families or prosperous merchants, some of whom might aspire to the new universities in distant Oxford and Cambridge. Thomas Copeland himself was an Oxford scholar and valued learning as the path to progress. He had met a variety of men at Oxford who had different aspirations - some even now had achieved high office in the service of the King, but Thomas had been content to return to Sherborne and take up the position as schoolmaster, that others might satisfy their quest for learning.

  His time at Oxford had not been entirely happy - he was always cold, always poor, his lodgings were inadequate and shared with four other students as impecunious as himself, - and the plague had retreated only a few years before, leaving an unhealthy atmosphere of fear and apprehension among the decimated population.

  Here in Sherborne, he lived his life with his work amongst the scholars, such as they were. Hannah, his maidservant, looked after his every need and he had earned a degree of respect from the townspeople as well as from the Abbot. His young wife had died in childbirth in 1400, the child with her, and he had never sought the company of women again, preferring instead to bury himself in his work. There were very few such schools as his - many were still attached to the abbeys and monasteries of the land and accepted only such young boys as had been encouraged to enter orders, either by choice or because they were second or third sons of less wealthy gentry. He was fortunate that the easy-going and lax rules of Sherborne encouraged the monks to seek to relinquish the arduous task of instructing the young.

  Matthias Barton had been a pupil of his twelve years ago, - a ready and willing lad, eager to learn, serious by nature and utterly devoted to his two sisters, to whom he would impart all the knowled
ge he gained from Master Copeland. Matthias’ grandfather had seen service as a soldier in France under King Henry V and for his services had been granted land in Milborne Port. He had died as Alexander Barton, his son, had completed the building of Barton Holding on the land granted by King Henry, when Matthias was twelve years old.

  Seeking to send Matthias to Oxford to study law, Alexander had sold some of the land surrounding Barton Holding to pay the high fees required, - land which had once been farmed by the Bishop of Salisbury’s men but had been granted to him in addition to the land already inherited from his father, in gratitude by the King for faithful service during the terrible wars with France. Father and son – Matthias’ father and grandfather, had both served in the great struggle with France, but Matthias had no desire to follow their lead. The intrigue, politics and destruction of war held no appeal for him, and since the Maid Joan had intervened, England was fast losing ground . The young king had not the same stomach for victory as his father and grandfather, and the forces remaining in Normandy were led by young Richard, Duke of York.

  His long years at Oxford nearly finished, Matthias returned home distraught on the death of his father from sweating sickness only to be there in time to find his mother and two sisters dying from the same deadly peril.

  So aged just twenty and not completely finished with his studies, he abandoned all his hopes and dreams in despair and grief. He left England and traveled the continent, careless of the handsome house he had inherited.

  His grief dulled somewhat after four years, he returned to put his life together again... England was a changing place….. he had studied law but was not a lawyer. However, he had the ability and the temperament to instill in others a degree of learning. Indeed, he had done just that for a year, with the Benedictine monks in a small Italian monastery….ragged street boys who came to the good monks for food and who stayed to listen to Matthias’ faltering efforts at teaching them.