Missal for Murder
Page 15
By the flare in William’s hand the circle of men could see Father Samuel’s body, still bleeding, still twitching slightly. His throat had been cut with the same precision as Roger’s. There were signs of a scuffle, but Father Samuel had been no match for his attacker.
“There should be two bodies,” Davy said, breathing hard.
“No,” Matthias answered, “One. The other is our murderer. I hope he hasn’t got far.”
Sir Tobias bent to touch Father Samuel. The body was still warm. He shouted instructions, and William mounted his horse and rode to the Castle for re-enforcements.
The Abbot’s bailiff knelt by Father Samuel’s still warm form.
“Who has done this?” he exclaimed, uncomprehending of Matthias’ sudden understanding.
“The priest of Oborne,” Matthias told the assembled party.
“He asked permission to accompany Father Samuel for safety – and we agreed. I thought it would offer some comfort to Father Samuel in his fear of his mission. It was only when he failed to turn up that I realised that it was Father Peter’s retreating horse and shape that were so familiar – I had seen them on the night of the fire, and again when he called at the house to speak to Davy. No wonder he knew how to find us.”
“He’ll be making for Poole,” Sir Tobias realised.
The night became a blur after that.
Sir Tobias, William, Matthias and four mounted soldiers from the Castle set off for Oborne, but as Sir Tobias predicted, the priest-house was empty and dark. Father Peter had packed his belongings, and the place held no clue as to the when and why.
The sea captain from Poole would be ready to take them aboard – blood on their hands notwithstanding. Gold talks. Sir Tobias knew, and he had no doubt that the passengers were “they” and not just “he.” The bogus monks had been the look-out men, the bully boys, and they too would be gone with Father Peter. The lax conditions pervading in the Abbey no doubt had allowed them to join the processing monks at will, and roam about the Abbey unchallenged, - unless there was an accomplice within – and Sir Tobias now rather doubted that.
The three travellers on the coast road were silent as they rode. Their horses were lathered and spent. When they spoke, it was in their native tongue –a French patois. They didn’t need to glance behind them – they had ridden half the night and slept little in order to put distance between themselves and Sherborne, for this was a planned exit once they understood that the great missal was not to be theirs – yet.
But they had the key – that was proof for their master that they had not deceived him all these long months spent in this cursed country, - and it might still be of use to them in the future.
“The Duke will be displeased,” the merchant said, between clenched teeth. The wind was stinging his eyes.
The priest shrugged his shoulders, straining his eyes for the first glimpse of the coast.
“We have achieved something – four dead Englishmen and knowledge of their great treasure. The Duke would have it in his own treasure-house.”
“Three Englishmen and a maid,” said the third traveller, quietly. He was younger, and less-used to such ruthless bloodshed.
The priest shrugged again.
“What matter?” he said, carelessly, “They are all English vermin.”
The younger man folded his lips and said nothing. His bearded companion pointed forwards.
“Look! The coast! Pray God our sea-captain is this side of the narrow sea.”
The priest nodded and spurred his horse on. His had been the hardest part of the task – leaving his mother-house to masquerade as an English priest, to search out the missal his master had heard of, and to set up his two companions to spy out its exact wherabouts and enlist local help.
They had thought themselves fortunate to find Roger, a willing thief. The young married man had not been so easy – he’d become greedy and nearly spoiled all the carefully laid plans – plans which had taken him two years. Two years in England he’d spent – building up contacts – living the life of a young and eager priest, when all around him were the hated English. His appointment to the living of Oborne had been the result of a year of waiting…waiting for the right opportunity, and he had worked so hard at appearing to be the perfect, courteous, compassionate village priest.
His father had been an English soldier, a deserter from the battlefields who’d lived a delicious life of sin with Pierre’s mother – and taught the young boy his language, and Pierre, with his quick ear and talent for mimicry had put the skill to good use. His father had died from an arrow wound when the boy was fourteen – an English arrow – a fellow soldier had run him to earth and he’d paid the price for his desertion.
A life of prayer and devotion had followed, - but always the desire for revenge on the English. And so it had come – his opportunity – when the Duke had sought a man of God with command of the English tongue. The great and magnificent missal of Sherborne was his goal, and he’d laboured at the task for two weary years. So near were they to success that Pierre could almost weep at the missed opportunity, - but tomorrow was another day, and the bothers of Sherborne would not mend their ways for very long, he was sure. Their English arrogance would take care of that.
The town of Poole lay in front of them. Luck was on their side, although the unfriendly sea was tipped with angry foam
The sea-captain was in port – his vessel trimmed and ready. Gold passed hands for the last time.
By the time Sir Tobias and his party caught up with them, they would be half way to France.
Matthias stared in bleak and bitter disappointment at the departed vessel, now hardly visible on the churning grey sea.
Visions of Ben, of Mary, of Lydia’s burning house and the dreadful fate of Roger and Father Samuel danced before his tired eyes. Sir Tobias, beside him, grunted in disbelief.
“We have no power over them now,” he said, shaking his head.
“What of the sea-captain?” Matthias asked.
“He’ll deny any knowledge of them, and in any case, he may well have been ignorant of their purpose and their deeds.”
Matthias was unused to such hard riding. He ached from lack of sleep, and was still amazed and stunned by the ruthless killings he had experienced.
“How can a so-called man of God justify these actions?” he asked, hopelessly. He rubbed his eyes with his knuckles to hide the hot and childish tears that he could hardly restrain. The apparently senseless slaughter appalled him.
“We are still at war with France, Matthias,” William reminded him. “Priest or not, we are still the enemy. Our Oborne priest came here with a mission – an order from high places, which was to snatch the missal from under our nose and to allow a French court or monastery of some standing to glory in the possession of it. They would not let English dogs stand in their way. The young priest must have had some English parentage for his command of our language to be so good – no trace of any misplaced vowels – but we can only guess at his side of the story.”
“Abbot Bradford will learn to have some care over his missal now,” Sir Tobias said, turning his horse towards the North. “We can do no more here. We cannot bring these men to justice – we can only bury our dead and look to the future.”
The party spent that night in the monastery in Wimborne, and a little rested but very subdued, rode into Sherborne late on the second afternoon.
Sir Tobias spent some time closeted with Abbot Bradford, and then he and William and Matthias turned up Cheap Street to join the track which led to Milborne Port and Purse Caundle.
“My judgement was flawed in several places,” Matthias admitted, wryly, before they parted.
“You only do what you think is right at the time,” Sir Tobias assured him. “I agreed that Father Peter should go to Father Samuel. We had no idea of his real purpose. You believed a man of God to be just that – a man of God, not a ruthless killer acting for French duke or bishop, with an eye on the main prize. Concentrate now on
your schooling, Matthias, and learn from this episode of the corruption war and greed brings to the human heart.”
He raised a hand in farewell as Matthias turned off the track and trotted towards the church. Matthias turned back one last time before reaching his home. Sir Tobias and William were watching him home…almost father figures, thought Matthias.
“Come and see us often, Matthias!” called Sir Tobias, as he and William spurred their mounts into action again.
Davy and Elizabeth were waiting by the gate when they had heard the horses’ hooves. Elizabeth looked older and more careworn, and there was still the glass by the front door to replace.
Davy reached up his hand and took the bridle and Matthias dismounted painfully. He tried not to hobble as he entered his own house again, but his legs would hardly hold him.
“I’m not a long distance rider, Davy,” he said, sinking onto the settle where Elizabeth had put cushions. “I don’t think I’ll be able to rise from here for several days!”
Davy laughed shakily – he had been afraid he might not see his master again.
“The day after tomorrow we expect your first batch of pupils,” Davy said, “So there’s much to be done in a day.
Matthias looked round his home, and fleetingly, his mind lingered on Lady Bridget’s tasteful furnishings, and wondered what Alice’s home looked like, - and then he set his mind resolutely to his own future. In a day, his new life as a schoolmaster would begin – he would need to be ready for them.
The Author’s Notes
The difficult years of Henry VI’s reign caused unrest and turmoil, culminating in what we know as the wars of the Roses.
Sherborne, in Dorset, had unrest of its own during this period of history, as Abbot Bradford had made alterations to All Hallows’ church, adjoining the Abbey, which enraged the townspeople.
Abbot Bradford was Abbot of Sherborne....and he was, in character, as described in this novel. The schoolmaster, Thomas Cope, was also a real person, and it is thought that one of the misericords in the Abbey, which show a schoolmaster beating a boy, may well have been Thomas Cope. You can see this under one of the choir stalls.
Bishop Neville was Bishop of Salisbury at this time, and the actions taken by him described in the book are factual.
The story of the attempted theft of the Sherborne Missal is fictional, although it disappeared at the time of the dissolution of the monasteries, resurfaced at the time of the restoration and was later discovered in France, mysteriously, in the hands of the Bishop of Lisieux. How he came by it is not recorded. After passing through the hands of several dedicated book collectors in France, it was purchased in 1797 by George Galway Mills. From there it went to Hugh, Duke of Northumberland for the sum of £215 and remained in the hands of the dukes of Northumberland for 200 years, before being generously loaned indefinitely to the British library in 1983.
More information on the ownership of this valuable manuscript can be obtained by reading The Sherborne Missal, by Janet Backhouse.
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Copyright © Rosie Lear, 2018
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ISBN 978-1-78623-297-7 in electronic format
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