by Paul Doherty
Sir Godfrey drummed his fingers on the table top.
‘What,’ he wondered, ‘is their business in Oxford?’
‘God knows!’ Dame Edith replied. ‘But what can we do to discover and prevent it?’
‘Well,’ Sir Godfrey replied, ‘we do have two more places to visit. We would, Dame Constance, like to study the chronicle you’ve read, the one in the university library at St Mary’s church.’
‘It will be there,’ the abbess replied. ‘I have carefully marked, with black crosses, the sections that are relevant. And the second place?’
‘The Trinitarian friary?’
‘That will be hard. They are an enclosed order, reluctant to accept visitors and even more unwilling to talk about the legends of the place.’
Godfrey pulled his commission out of his wallet. ‘This is the king’s own warrant. Our good brothers at the Trinitarian friary will certainly speak to me.’
Dame Constance wished them well and left. Dame Edith said she was ready to leave, but warned both men to arm themselves with swords and daggers. She asked Sir Godfrey if he had a crossbow.
‘We have two,’ he replied.
‘Then bring them,’ the exorcist advised. ‘Don’t go anywhere unarmed.’
‘So these Strigoi can be killed?’ Alexander asked.
‘Yes, Master McBain, I have told you so. But they must not only be killed; their corpses must be burnt.’
‘Why don’t we use relics?’ Alexander asked, pushing his stool back.
Dame Edith laughed softly. ‘I wish we could. But, first, most genuine relics are now sealed beneath the stones of many altars. Secondly, how do we know a relic is genuine? I have seen enough pieces of the true cross to build a warship and still have enough wood left for a manor house.’
Sir Godfrey laughed and drained his tankard.
‘Dame Edith speaks the truth,’ he declared. ‘Just think, Alexander, of the rubbish that is sold. A piece of Jesus’s vest, a hair from St Joseph’s beard, a feather from the wing of the Holy Spirit!’
‘Then why not use the sacrament?’ Alexander asked testily.
‘How?’ Dame Edith asked. ‘Make everyone in Oxford receive the eucharist?’
‘Well, we could carry it around,’ Alexander suggested, ‘perhaps in a small pyx?’
‘Nonsense!’ Dame Edith retorted. ‘You saw how we interrogated Lascalle. The host, like the relic, must be held very close against the Strigoi.’
Muttering and cursing, Alexander followed Sir Godfrey up to their chamber where they collected their belongings before escorting Dame Edith to the stable. Grooms prepared their horses and soon they were out of the convent, winding their way through the early-morning streets to the centre of Oxford. The day was just beginning. Traders were setting out their stalls. Apprentices ran hither and thither. The morning air was heavy with the odour of horse-dung and the smell from the sewers mingled with more fragrant odours from the cookshops and taverns. A group of roisterers, now doused with water, their hands tied behind their backs, were being escorted towards the town gaol. A forger screamed and beat his hands against the stocks that imprisoned him as the city executioner, a glowing iron in his hand, burned the incriminating ‘F’ on his cheek. Farther along, two blasphemers who had shouted drunken abuse during mass stood in barrels of horse-piss while raucous-voiced beadles piled manure on their heads. A whore, found touting for business in the wrong place, stood next to them. She was having her hair shaved before being paraded through the town behind a bagpiper to be mocked and jeered at until she reached the city gates, where she would be expelled.
‘Business as usual,’ Sir Godfrey murmured.
Alexander smiled, but this time he caught the tension the knight had earlier remarked on. Some students, the food still in their hands, were being driven out of a cookshop by a group of burly labourers. A doctor of philosophy had to scamper quickly through the porchway of one of the halls when some apprentices began to hurl abuse at him, followed by the usual fistfuls of mud.
Alexander grumbled about the unrest as they stabled their horses in a tavern and made their way through the crowds towards the university church of St Mary.
‘Is it always like this?’ he asked.
‘No,’ Dame Edith murmured, pressing his elbow. ‘This is different. I think the news of the dreadful murders is seeping out to excite and stir up old hatreds and animosities. The Strigoi love that. They thrive in an atmosphere of hatred. They commit their crimes beneath the veil of local animosity. Time and again others are executed for the crimes they have committed.’
They entered St Mary’s through a small door and went up the nave. A clerk, trimming the candles on the high altar, came down the sanctuary steps and took them through the sacristy into the great chapter house where the library was kept. The archivist, Simon Neopham, a tired-looking, dusty-faced cleric, greeted them cordially enough. He was eager to show them around the shelves and cupboards that lined the walls, all packed high with leather – or calfskin-bound volumes; the coffers where parchment was kept; and the great carved bookstands, with their thick folios chained to the wall, in the small study carrels at the far end of the room. Neopham looked at Dame Edith intently, then glimpsed the swords and daggers beneath Sir Godfrey’s and Alexander’s cloaks.
‘But you are not here to look around, are you?’ he said dryly.
‘No, sir.’ Alexander smiled dazzlingly. ‘I believe you have a secret chronicle, the Annales Oxonienses?’
‘The Oxford Chronicle?’ Neopham looked puzzled. ‘There’s no secret about that.’ He smiled, offering a display of yellow, ragged stumps of teeth. ‘Ah! The chronicle Dame Constance studied.’ He waved vein-streaked hands. ‘It’s not really secret,’ he said, ‘except Dame Constance noticed a change in pattern, certain items that repeated themselves. Come! Come! I’ll show you.’
He made them sit at the long, polished table that ran down the centre of the room and lit the eight-branched candelabra. He then scurried off and returned, huffing and puffing, carrying a thick, leather-bound folio. Alexander stared around the room and shivered. The chapter house was long and dark. He looked up at the rafters and noticed how the candlelight created flickering, dancing shapes. Alexander also caught unease from the exorcist, who pushed her hands up the sleeves of her gown as if she was cold. She kept moving, turning around, listening.
‘There’s evil here,’ she murmured. ‘Perhaps it’s the record of their wrong-doing!’
Neopham, chattering like a squirrel, pushed the leather-bound volume towards Alexander and began to point out the sections in the centuries-old chronicle that were marked by Dame Constance’s black crosses. Alexander thanked the archivist and assured him that all was well, but asked if they could be left alone to study the texts. The clerk then sat, turning over the pages, scrutinizing the sections the abbess had marked.
‘What’s it all about?’ Sir Godfrey asked crossly, peering over his companion’s shoulder. Dame Edith drummed her fingers on the table, impatient for Alexander to comment.
‘Well,’ Alexander replied, ‘the chronicle is full of the usual rather boring items of information. Who was sheriff; how the weather affected crops; the doings of the city council; the fortunes of the university. But, occasionally, about once every twenty or thirty years, each individual chronicler has narrated some terrible story.’
‘Such as?’ Sir Godfrey asked impatiently.
‘Well, stories about men who died but who later came back to life.’
Beside him Dame Edith stiffened.
‘What stories?’ she whispered. She touched the clerk gently on the hand. ‘Tell us, Alexander.’
Alexander sighed, blew his cheeks out and turned a page.
‘Well, here’s an entry for year 1297. According to the chronicler, a certain merchant of depraved, dishonest life, either through fear of the law or to avoid the vengeance of his enemies, moved from Herefordshire and bought himself a large house at Parismead in Oxford. He didn’t change his ways but b
usied himself in lewd traffic.’ Alexander looked up and grinned. ‘And I will not describe what it was. However, according to the chronicler, this man persevered in his evil ways, fearing neither God nor man. He married the daughter of a local official, a beautiful woman whom he treated most evilly.’
‘Does it say how?’ Sir Godfrey interrupted him.
‘No, but the merchant travelled abroad. Anyway, on his return, people began to whisper wanton stories about his spouse, firing the merchant with the hot flames of jealousy.’ Alexander went back to the chronicle. ‘Restless and full of anxiety to know whether the charges were true, the merchant told his wife he was going on a long journey to London and would not return for several days. However, he stole back that very evening and was secretly admitted into his wife’s bed chamber by a serving wench who used to pleasure him in his bachelor days and was privy to his designs.’ Alexander looked up in mock horror. ‘Dame Edith, should you be listening to this? It’s more like one of Master Boccaccio’s stories about ladies who are hot and whose husbands like to pry.’
Dame Edith tapped him on the hand as if he was some errant little boy.
‘The lures of the flesh,’ she assured him, ‘hold no attraction for me.’ Then she grinned. ‘More’s the pity! Continue, Alexander.’
‘Well, once the husband was in the room he hid away and that night saw his wife being well served by a lusty youth. So angry did he become that he fell from his hiding place. The young cuckolder beat a hasty retreat as the husband lay unconscious on the floor.’
‘A bawdy story,’ Sir Godfrey interrupted. ‘I have heard the likes in many a camp, with a bit more spice and certainly more sauce.’
Alexander waved his hand. ‘No, no listen to this! The husband had struck his head against an iron bar. He became very ill. A priest came and told him he was near to death’s door and that he should be shriven and receive the blessed sacrament. But the husband refused, he died in his sins and was buried.’ Alexander moved his fingers farther down the page. ‘According to this, the wicked husband used to come out of his tomb at night, wandering through the streets, prowling round the houses, causing the dogs to howl and yelp. His appearance was grotesque and, if he met anyone, he grievously harmed them whilst the air became foul and tainted with his fetid, corrupting body.’ Alexander moved his fingers down the page. ‘Eventually, the people of North Oxford, losing all patience, went out to the grave and began to dig. They thought they would have to delve deep but, suddenly, came upon the corpse covered only with a thin layer of earth.’ Alexander pulled a face. ‘The chronicle describes the body as being gorged and swollen with a frightful corpulence, a face florid and tubby with huge puffed cheeks. The clothes and shroud of the corpse were soiled and torn. One of the townspeople immediately dealt the corpse a sharp blow with the keen edge of the spade and a stream of warm, red gore gushed out. So, before nightfall, they dragged the corpse to Parismead, quickly built a large pyre and set the body alight.’
‘Nonsense!’ grumbled Sir Godfrey. ‘Such stories are commonplace. You can find them in chronicles and manuscripts up and down the kingdom.’
The exorcist just shook her head, while Alexander turned more pages over.
‘No, no, there are other stories!’ he exclaimed. ‘Dame Constance has marked them with her black cross and they are all of the same ilk. Here’s one from 1322 which occurred during the civil war between the present king’s father and his barons.’ He turned the pages. ‘Another from 1340. All the same. Individuals, notorious for the wickedness of their life, coming back to life and wandering the streets until the authorities intervene and the corpse is burnt.’
‘Is there any time pattern?’ Dame Edith asked.
Alexander turned the pages back. ‘Yes,’ he replied, ‘every twenty or thirty years the same story occurs.’ He studied the manuscript and tapped the table top as he emphasized the points. ‘First, the notorious sinner dies; secondly, he comes back; thirdly, he commits terrible crimes, horrible murders; finally he is destroyed.’
‘Is that what’s happening now?’ Sir Godfrey asked, grasping the exorcist’s hand. He could tell by the set of her mouth that she was puzzled.
‘No,’ she replied, ‘what’s happening now is quite different. These stories are only precursors of a great event. Mere shadows of the horrors now occurring.’
‘But what causes them?’ Alexander persisted, closing the book.
‘God knows. Perhaps the escape of some baleful influence. It’s like a woodland pond, clear and bright on the surface but, if you thrust in a pole and stir the murky depths, all the dirt and filth rise to the top.’ She rubbed her mouth with the back of her fingers. ‘What was recently stirred has caused these terrible murders to begin.’ She got slowly to her feet. ‘But I have heard enough. Let’s leave.’
They thanked the librarian, who had been secretly watching them from the other end of the library. Although he was a lover of books, Alexander was relieved when they left the church and could feel the cold breeziness of the High Street, where the raucous shouts of the hawkers and sellers were a welcome relief from the baleful silence of the library. They were pushing their way through the throng when Sir Godfrey heard his name called and glimpsed Father Andrew, merry-eyed and bright-cheeked, walking through the crowds, a basket slung over his arm.
‘Good day, Sir Godfrey, Master McBain, Dame Edith.’ The priest’s eyes became serious. ‘You are making good progress?’
Sir Godfrey walked on, the priest beside him.
‘No, Father, we are not,’ the knight replied. ‘Indeed, very little. But, thanks be to God, no more murders have occurred.’
‘Is there anything I can do?’ Father Andrew asked.
Sir Godfrey stopped to allow Alexander to help Dame Edith on to her palfrey.
‘Such as what?’ Sir Godfrey asked.
The priest shrugged and pointed to his basket. ‘I am buying bread and vegetables for the poor we feed outside St Peter’s church. I listen to the gossip of the city. I could ask questions.’
Sir Godfrey patted the man on the shoulder. ‘Anything you can do, Father, will be appreciated.’
‘And I pray for you,’ the priest said, ‘every morning at mass that this evil ends.’
Again the knight thanked him. The priest sketched a blessing in the air and slipped back into the crowds milling around the stalls.
Sir Godfrey and his companions paused for something to eat at the Saracen’s Head then continued along the High Street, into Eastgate and through the postern gate of the Trinitarian friary. The buildings were large and forbidding, with soaring walls, crenellations, turrets and gables. The ugly-faced gargoyles made Alexander shiver; he noticed that Dame Edith, too, had become quite agitated.
‘God forgive me!’ she whispered. ‘This is a house of God, but I feel uneasy.’
A lay brother hurried over to ask their business. Sir Godfrey nearly asked for Abbot Samson but caught himself just in time and demanded, on the king’s authority, to see Prior Edmund. The lay brother shrugged and called for ostlers to look after their horses. He then led them through the cloisters, where the brothers were crouched in their study carrels, making use of the good light to copy or illuminate manuscripts. They went up a wide flight of stone stairs and, knocking on an iron-studded door, were ushered in to where a highly nervous Prior Edmund was waiting.
‘You have been expecting us, Father?’ Sir Godfrey asked.
The prior hopped from foot to foot, his mouth opening and closing.
‘Yes, yes,’ he muttered. Suddenly he remembered his manners and waved them to seats before the weak fire. He pulled up a small stool for himself, crouching there like a mannikin, his thin worried face betraying deep anxiety, even fear, at their presence.
Alexander studied the prior’s pallid face and noticed that his grey robes were stained and unkempt.
What’s he frightened of? Alexander thought. And why has Dame Edith become so restless?
Sir Godfrey, however, was more matter-of
-fact. He curtly refused the prior’s offer of refreshment and came abruptly to the point.
‘Father, you have heard of the ghastly murders in the city?’
‘Yes.’ The prior tried to force a smile of sympathy, but his blinking became more furious as he constantly wetted his thin, dry lips.
‘And you’ve heard of the legends behind them?’
‘There are many legends,’ the prior replied hoarsely, ‘legends about this house, about the city.’
‘Father,’ Sir Godfrey dryly asked, ‘why are you so nervous?’
The prior bowed his head and plucked at a blob of wax on his robe. ‘Sir Godfrey, I am only the prior,’ he muttered. ‘I have heard about the horrifying murders, but tragedy has occurred here. Abbot Samson is dead.’ He looked up, brushing away bits of dried wax. ‘I find it difficult to cope. The order should appoint someone else.’
‘How did Abbot Samson die?’ the exorcist interrupted harshly.
The prior swallowed hard. Of all his three visitors he seemed most fearful of this blind woman, small, white-haired but with a commanding presence.
‘He was found dead in his chamber!’
‘And the cause?’
‘God knows, I am no physician. A sudden stop to his heart, a rush of blood to his brain, an imbalance of humours.’
‘But he was a healthy man?’
‘Many young, healthy men die unexpectedly,’ Father Edmund protested.
‘Father prior,’ Alexander tactfully intervened, ‘we are not here to accuse or to pry but to ask certain questions. We have heard the legends and read the chronicles. This house is supposedly built over secret tunnels and passageways. In one of these, in some antique chamber, lies the corpse of a very evil man who lived in these parts many hundreds of years ago, a Strigoi.’
The prior looked up, his face ashen. ‘I have never heard the like,’ he whispered. ‘What is a Strigoi?’
‘A man who has died spiritually and whose soul is possessed by an evil spirit from Hell.’