The First Murder

by The Medieval Murderers

  The prior smiled chillingly. ‘You won’t need to. I will take charge of the play. And nothing will be said of murder ever again. Brother Paul died in an unfortunate accident.’ His harsh gaze told both canons that this was the way it would be.

  ‘And what of me?’ Sylvanus’ question was filled with righteous anger.

  ‘You will prepare yourself for a journey. A long journey,’ the prior replied.

  ‘To where?’

  ‘There is a solitary cell on an island on Leven Sands close by Low Furness, in the north-west of England. You will spend the rest of your life there pondering on the great sin of murder.’

  Sylvanus’ face went ashen, but he said not a word on his defence. So the triumphant prior, now convinced of his own rightness, continued his exposition.

  ‘You see, I could tell from the murder weapon that it had to be you or Wilfred who had killed Paul. Only you two, apart from myself, who suggested using a real jawbone, knew of the implement to be used in the play. Only you two harboured resentment at Paul’s – shall we say – zealous nature.’

  Wigod showed with his own careful selection of words that he was aware how irritating Paul could be. The poor dead fellow had come close to irritating him more than once. But he had not harboured a desire to murder him, as Sylvanus obviously had. His old adversary found some words at last.

  ‘And so, when Paul was murdered, you found it convenient to place the blame on me, who has sought to check your excesses all these years. You could not even consider the possibility that it was Wilfred.’

  The young canon in question blurted out a denial, but the prior was unmoved.

  ‘It could not have been Wilfred. I know that for sure. Because my punishment for him hitting Paul in your rehearsal was for him to prostrate himself before the altar all night until the matins bell rang. I watched as he lay face down, his arms forming the cross. He could not have got into the tower from the church because the door bolt that side is rusted in place. Nor could he have come out through the door into the cloister without me seeing him. To make sure he kept to my punishment, I sat up all night in my chamber, from where I can see into the north-east corner of the cloister. Unfortunately, I could not see the part of the cloister directly below me. So I did not see you, Sylvanus, creeping along to the bell-tower in order to kill Paul before midnight.’

  ‘That is that, then.’

  Sylvanus was seemingly resigned to his fate. He glanced at Wilfred, who returned his look with one of simple innocence. Turning on his heels he left the chapter house in order to pack his few belongings.

  The prior gazed sternly at Wilfred.

  ‘You, brother, must continue to expiate your sins. As it will be an onerous task for your lazy bones, I am appointing you as the bell-ringer in Paul’s place. I hope it will prove to be a burden to you.’

  Wilfred bowed his head, but found it hard to suppress a grin. He hurried from the prior’s presence to begin his new task.

  Wigod walked to the outer gate of Oseney Priory to observe a humbled Sylvanus already crossing the water meadow towards Oxford, and his long journey to his exile in the north. Something about Wilfred’s grin gave him a cold feeling in his chest, and he returned to the priory church to communicate quietly with God. But first, he walked down the nave to the bell-tower door, which had long been rusted shut. He wiped his hand over the rusty bolt, and it came away with a greasy smear on it. He pulled on the bolt, and it slid easily. The coldness in his chest became a fist squeezing his heart as he thought of Wilfred’s grin. He had chosen the wrong man as the murderer in his desire to be rid of Sylvanus. And his old enemy had finally triumphed, knowing that Wigod would be forever mortified by his banishment of an innocent man. But Wigod knew there was nothing to be done now – he had made his decision – and to go back on it would show weakness.

  Instead of entering into a colloquy with God, he rushed back to his quarters, and got out his fair copy of The Play of Adam. Picking up his quill, and dipping it in ink, he added two lines to the angel’s words at the end of ‘The Story of Cain and Abel’ by way of a warning to others.

  Beware the sins of envy and vainglory,

  Else foul murder ends your story.

  I

  Oseney Abbey, Oxford, September 1199

  It was a pretty day, although a nip in the air and the profusion of blackberries in the hedgerows told Canon Wilfred that a hard winter was coming. He settled more comfortably on the camomile bench and turned his face to the sun, breathing in deeply of the sweet scent of herbs, freshly cut corn and scythed grass. He sighed his contentment.

  Life had been so much nicer once Prior Wigod had died. The old tyrant had kept Wilfred as ‘careful brother’ for the best part of fourteen years, a miserable existence for a man who liked his bed – getting up in the middle of the night to call the others to prayer was an onerous, thankless task, and Wilfred had hated it. Then Wigod had died suddenly in his sleep. At least, that was what had appeared to have happened.

  That had been more than thirty years ago, and since then Wilfred had been careful not to earn the enmity of another Head of House. The current one was Hugh, a malleable, shy man, who had been only too pleased to accept fatherly advice from one of the foundation’s oldest members. Indeed, Hugh considered Wilfred a friend, one of the advantages of which was that Wilfred felt he had the right to lounge in the sun of an afternoon. The other canons resented Wilfred’s indolence, but he did not care. Surely, he had earned a little luxury in his evening years, especially after the suffering he had endured under the despotic Wigod.

  Of course, Wigod had been a gentler, kinder man before Sylvanus – the canon he had exiled to Leven Sands in an act of poor judgement – had been killed by robbers on his journey north. Wigod had told everyone that he blamed himself for the death, but Wilfred knew it was a lie. Wigod held him responsible, which was unfair. It was not he who had ordered Sylvanus away. Wigod’s sour humour had not even improved when Oseney had been elevated from priory to abbey, with all the privileges that went with a more exalted status.

  But three decades was a long time, and no one remembered Wigod now . . .

  Wilfred closed his eyes and was just slipping into a pleasant doze when footsteps crunched on the path. It was Robert, the young canon Hugh had asked him to mind. Wilfred disliked the task for two reasons: firstly, it was unwelcome work for an indolent man, and secondly, Robert was shockingly impudent. To teach him his place, Wilfred used him like a servant, compelling him to bring wine and treats at specific times in the day – and as Robert considered himself destined for great things, it was proving to be a sore trial for him.

  ‘Two groups of visitors have just arrived,’ Robert reported excitedly as he handed his master a cup of wine. ‘A bishop elect from the See of St Davids and his retinue; and envoys from the Archbishop of Canterbury.’

  ‘Important men,’ mused Wilfred. ‘What do they want?’

  ‘Nothing, other than a bed for the night.’ Robert smirked. ‘They are old enemies, and started quarrelling the moment they set eyes on each other.’

  ‘Then I know how we shall keep them apart,’ said Wilfred, pleased. ‘With The Play of Adam. It is always popular with guests, and we have honed it to perfection over the last thirty years. Prior Wigod took against drama after . . . certain events, but I reinstated it after he died, and everyone loves our performances.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Robert without enthusiasm. He had been listening to Wilfred’s bragging conceit about this particular drama for longer than he could remember, and was heartily sick of it – especially as the old man could never be persuaded to reveal what the ‘certain events’ entailed. ‘I suppose you will play God, as usual?’

  Wilfred glanced at him sharply. ‘Of course. Why?’

  ‘Because I should like to do it, for once. I am tired of being the serpent.’

  Wilfred fixed him with an icy glare. ‘You will do as you are told, and be grateful you have a role at all. Now go and tell Abbot Hugh my suggestion.
’

  ‘Will you include the bit about Cain and Abel this time?’ asked Robert chirpily, ignoring the order. ‘You always leave it out, but our brethren are bored to tears with the rest of the play after so many years, and a new section may revive their interest.’

  ‘How dare you!’ cried Wilfred, outraged. ‘They love The Play of Adam. Now go and do as you are told before I box your ears.’

  Full of resentment, Robert slouched away, while Wilfred struggled to bring his irritation under control. Was the lad right? A number of canons had asked recently if he knew any other dramas, and their attendance was not what it had been. But that was too bad. Finding another one would mean work, and that was something Wilfred was unwilling to contemplate.

  Still angry, he went to round up his actors.

  As usual, The Play of Adam was scheduled to be performed after the office of nones, in the afternoon when the brethren had free time. Wilfred scowled when he saw how few of them were present. How could they prefer reading in their cells to his production? What was wrong with them?

  The visitors were there, though, three standing in one group and four in another. Judging by the way they were glaring at each other, Robert had been right to say they were enemies. Abbot Hugh was between them, his face pale and strained: clearly, keeping them from each other’s throats was transpiring to be a trial.

  Wilfred turned as someone came to stand next to him. It was Robert who, without being invited, began to tell him which visitors were which. Usually, Wilfred would have berated him for his audacity, but that day he was interested to hear what the boy had learned.

  ‘The tall, proud man is Gerald de Barri, Bishop Elect of St Davids. His companions are Pontius and Foliot, both canons from his cathedral, which voted unanimously to have him as their prelate. Unfortunately for Gerald, the Archbishop of Canterbury does not want him, and refuses to issue the necessary charters.’

  Wilfred studied the trio. Gerald was a handsome man with thick grey hair and snapping black eyes; he was certainly elegant and haughty enough to be a bishop. His fellow priests were less imposing: Pontius had sharp, ratty features and wispy fair hair; Foliot was small and dark, but with a kind face and gentle eyes.

  ‘And the others?’ asked Wilfred, turning his attention to the four men on Hugh’s left.

  ‘Prior Dunstan from our sister house in Canterbury, and his secretary, Hurso. And the two knights who guard them are Roger Norrys and Robert Luci. Luci is the one who looks like a scholar, while the big, loutish brute is Norrys.’

  The moment Wilfred saw Dunstan, he was put in mind of a goat. The Prior had a long, thin, white beard, and pale, widely spaced eyes. By contrast, Secretary Hurso possessed a comb of red hair and beady eyes that were redolent of a chicken.

  The knights were Hospitallers, recognisable by their black surcoats with white crosses. Luci was cleaner than most warriors, with neatly cut hair and an air of quiet contemplation. Norrys, on the other hand, looked like most of the louts who had forged a bloody trail to the Holy Land a decade earlier: large, brutal, ruthless and stupid.

  Time was passing, so Wilfred nodded that the play was to begin. An expectant hush fell over the little audience as the first actor stepped forward and began to tell the story of the Creation. Wilfred was gratified to see the visitors nodding approvingly. He felt vindicated. Guests always liked The Play of Adam, even if his brethren were uncouth ingrates. Indeed, he had sold many copies to admiring audiences over the years, keeping the modest profits for himself, of course. The vellum original, beautifully and painstakingly scribed by Wigod, had been purchased by no less a person than the Dean of Ely Cathedral, and put in the library there for posterity.

  As usual, the play passed off without a hitch, and when it was over, Wilfred repaired to the kitchen for a cup of congratulatory wine, leaving his actors to dismantle the stage and store away the costumes and props. He had not been relaxing for long when Robert arrived.

  ‘Our visitors are arguing again,’ he reported gleefully. ‘Bishop Gerald said the Serpent reminded him of Prior Dunstan, and Prior Dunstan took offence. They are yelling loudly enough to be heard in Oxford!’

  ‘Why such vitriol?’ asked Wilfred curiously. ‘Such spats are hardly seemly.’

  ‘Because Dunstan is the Archbishop of Canterbury’s envoy, and he is travelling west to tell St Davids that they cannot have Gerald as their prelate. Meanwhile, Gerald is travelling east to tell the archbishop to mind his own business. It is the second journey for both of them, and they met on the first one, too. Their hatred is months old.’

  ‘Is that why Dunstan has two knights with him?’ asked Wilfred. ‘Lest St Davids objects to being told what to do?’

  Robert nodded, his eyes gleaming, and Wilfred looked away in distaste. The lad really was disagreeably malevolent.

  ‘Gerald is popular in Wales, so Dunstan’s task will not be easy,’ Robert said. ‘He contrived to meet Gerald here, hoping to convince him to drop his claim and save him a journey, but Gerald refuses. Dunstan is furious, because he did not enjoy his first foray into Wales, and he thinks his second will be even more unpleasant.’

  Abbot Hugh arrived at that point to congratulate his friend on the excellence of the performance. The guests, he said, had thoroughly enjoyed it – and so had he, because it had given him a respite from acting as peacemaker.

  ‘Do they really dislike each other so much?’ asked Wilfred, a little stiffly after the Abbot’s backhanded compliment.

  ‘I am sure they would kill each other, given the chance. For clerics, they are uncommonly vicious. Indeed, Dunstan’s servant is ill, and claims that Gerald has poisoned him.’

  ‘And has he?’ asked Wilfred uneasily.

  ‘No, the fellow is malingering because he does not want to go to Wales. It is unfortunate, because Dunstan has asked us for a novice to replace him.’

  ‘Not a novice,’ said Wilfred immediately. ‘Send Robert. I am sure he would love to go.’

  ‘I cannot leave Oseney!’ cried Robert, horrified. ‘I am cultivating friendships and contacts that will stand me in good stead for when I am abbot. A journey would ruin—’

  ‘A journey might teach you some humility,’ interrupted Hugh sharply, shocked to learn that his post was coveted by such youthful eyes. ‘Wilfred is right to suggest you go.’

  Wilfred allowed himself a small smile of satisfaction as the lad stamped away. That would teach him to make disparaging remarks about The Play of Adam!

  That evening, Abbot Hugh was obliged to entertain the guests in his private hall, although he confessed his reluctance to do so to Wilfred. With the air of a martyr, Wilfred offered to help, waving away Hugh’s relieved gratitude. The truth was that Wilfred did not mind at all: fine wine and expensive sweetmeats would be on offer, which would be a lot nicer than a crust in the refectory and compline in the church.

  Unfortunately, the guests were disagreeable company, and although Wilfred was not usually averse to being entertained by spats, even he found the constant sparring tedious. Moreover, Robert was there on the grounds that he was now a member of Dunstan’s party. The boy’s eyes shone with malicious glee as the arguments swayed back and forth.

  ‘You will never be bishop, Gerald,’ said Dunstan, for at least the fourth time. His pale goat-eyes were hard. ‘So you may as well save yourself a journey and go home to Wales. You are Archdeacon of Brecon, are you not? Why not be content with that?’

  ‘Because I was born to be Bishop of St Davids,’ replied Gerald coldly. ‘My father is Norman, but my mother hails from Welsh stock, so my dual heritage will unite an uneasy nation. Moreover, I am familiar with Court, I have three decades of experience in the Church, and I am a scholar of some repute. There is no man better qualified than me.’

  ‘None more modest, either,’ murmured Wilfred to himself. Unfortunately, wine made him speak more loudly than he had intended, and the three Welsh priests glowered at him when Dunstan roared with spiteful laughter. Wilfred gulped when he saw he had made ene
mies of the St Davids men, and was glad they would be leaving in the morning.

  ‘You tried to be bishop twenty years ago, Gerald,’ said Dunstan when he had his mirth under control, ‘and you were rejected then, too. You should have learned that you are not wanted – not by the Crown, not by Canterbury and not by Rome. You are even less popular with our new King than you were with his father, and should abandon your claims while you can. Only a fool irritates John.’

  ‘I am not afraid of John,’ said Gerald contemptuously. ‘And I despise anyone who is.’

  ‘Yet sometimes it is wise to be wary,’ said kind-eyed Foliot quietly. ‘John is not a man to cross, because he bears grudges.’

  ‘I will not sit at a table where treason is spoken,’ said Norrys the Hospitaller, standing abruptly. His loutish face was flushed with anger. ‘Calling the King vengeful is—’

  ‘Prior Dunstan tells me you were once Constable of Carmarthen, Norrys,’ interrupted Abbot Hugh, diplomatically changing the subject while the scholarly Luci grabbed Norrys’s arm and tugged him back down. ‘That must have been pleasant.’

  ‘It was pleasant,’ agreed Norrys, while his scowl suggested this was not a topic that pleased him either. ‘But I was ousted in favour of Symon Cole, a dull-witted youth who had distinguished himself in battle with acts of reckless bravado.’

  ‘It was not just his courage that impressed King Henry,’ said Luci quietly. ‘He married a Welsh princess, who provided an alliance with powerful native rulers.’

  ‘But the old King is dead,’ said Norrys sullenly. ‘And the new one has intimated that he would like Cole out of Carmarthen and me in his place. He does not care who is related to whom in Wales.’

  ‘That particular Welsh princess is my cousin,’ said Gerald icily. ‘On my mother’s side. So Cole is my kin, too. Did I hear you call him a dull-witted youth?’

  ‘He was a dull-witted youth when he took over Carmarthen,’ Norrys smirked, and his expression became challenging. ‘Now he is a dull-witted man.’

  ‘I take exception to—’ began Gerald angrily.