by Paul Doherty
Prior Edmund picked up an iron poker and jabbed furiously at the small log fire, causing a splutter of sparks and a sudden surge of warmth.
‘Old wives’ tales,’ he muttered.
‘So, no such tunnels exist?’
‘They may have done,’ Prior Edmund replied, throwing the poker down. ‘But I have never heard of any. This is a house of God, a community dedicated to the service of Christ.’
‘Did Abbot Samson ever talk of such matters?’ Alexander persisted.
‘Never.’
‘And you know nothing of these at all?’
Prior Edmund stood up, pushing his hands into the voluminous sleeves of his gown. ‘I have told you what I know!’ he snapped. ‘You carry the king’s commission. You may go where you wish, speak to whomever you want. I cannot stop you. However, I am a busy man and, unless you have further questions . . .?’
He walked towards the door and opened it. Sir Godfrey shrugged. Alexander helped Dame Edith to her feet and the lay brother, who had been waiting outside, took them back to the stables. As they went down the galleries and outside across the cloister, Alexander stared around. The friary seemed no different from the other religious houses he had visited. The smell of good food mingled with that of polish and soap. Brothers and their lay staff bustled about. The infirmarian carried a stack of crisp linen sheets for the laundry room; servitors noisily laid out the refectory for the evening meal. The sounds were normal – a hum of conversation from the study carrels as scholars worked, the ringing of bells, the clatter of noise from the outhouses. Nevertheless, Alexander detected something amiss. It was as if everyone was busily acting out a part as they surreptitiously watched these three strangers to their house.
They had to wait for a while in the stable yard. The lay brother apologized.
‘I thought you’d stay longer,’ he explained cheerfully, ‘so I removed the saddles. It won’t take long.’
Sir Godfrey nodded and stared back at the friary buildings. ‘Everything is in order here,’ he declared, ‘but. . .’
‘I know what you mean,’ Alexander said.
‘This is a place of prayer and worship,’ Dame Edith murmured, ‘but there’s something else here.’ She shook her head. ‘It reminds me of a battlefield where the dead have been buried and masses sung for the repose of their souls. However, if you stand long enough, you can smell the blood and slaughter in the air and experience a deep desolation.’ She shifted her head like a hunting dog sniffing the air. ‘This place should be burnt,’ she continued, ‘exorcised by fire, cleansed and purged.’
She stopped speaking as a monk, white-haired and bent with age, walked slowly towards them, his ash cane tapping the cobbles. He didn’t stop until he was almost touching Sir Godfrey, then he looked up, his blue eyes rheumy with age.
‘My name is Lanfranc,’ he wheezed, dabbing the white phlegm at the corner of his mouth. ‘I am the historian of this—’ He waved a brown-spotted, vein-streaked hand back towards the friary. His eyes darted first to McBain then to the exorcist.
‘You have come at last,’ he continued hoarsely. He waved a finger at Dame Edith. ‘My sight is going, but my hearing is good. Yes, this place should be burnt, cleansed by fire, the tunnels opened and the evil within destroyed.’
Sir Godfrey caught the man’s bony wrist.
‘You know where such tunnels exist?’
‘No,’ the old man replied, ‘and, if I did, I couldn’t show you them – I am bound by a vow of obedience to that fool Edmund. But Samson’s death was not an accident. Samson was courageous but headstrong.’ He lifted his head and dabbed at his dripping nose. ‘He went to places he shouldn’t have done, God rest his soul, and it’s all the fault of the stranger.’
‘Which stranger?’ Sir Godfrey asked.
‘Come back,’ Lanfranc replied, ‘come back tomorrow with the sheriff’s men. Bring dogs. I will show you the secret manuscripts.’
‘You mean the legends?’
‘Aye.’
‘Why wait till tomorrow?’ Dame Edith retorted. ‘Sir Godfrey, you carry the king’s warrant.’
The old man wheezed with laughter and tapped his cane on the cobbles. ‘Aye, that’s the way,’ he chortled.
Sir Godfrey looked at McBain, who stood tight-lipped.
‘What shall we do?’
‘We can’t very well force our way in,’ Alexander replied slowly, ‘but the prior did lie.’
Sir Godfrey’s hand fell to the hilt of his sword and he was about to shout an order to the ostler when another lay brother came running into the yard, hands flailing.
‘Sir! Sir!’ he cried. ‘You must return to the convent!’
Alexander gripped the lay brother’s arm.
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know, sir, but the sheriffs man was most insistent. Sir Oswald Beauchamp demands your presence there.’ The man’s voice fell to a whisper. ‘He did say something about another killing!’
Chapter 3
Sir Oswald and Proctor Ormiston were waiting in Dame Constance’s parlour, an anxious Father Andrew with them. Dame Constance had lost some of her hauteur since her nightmarish fright the previous evening; she sat at her desk pretending to study a book of accounts. Sir Oswald could scarcely contain his impatience.
‘More deaths,’ he brusquely announced, hardly waiting for Sir Godfrey and his companions to sit down. ‘A man, his wife and young daughter brutally slain last night.’
‘Where was this?’
‘In Bocardo Lane,’ Father Andrew interrupted.
‘And the corpses?’
‘They have already been removed, but they died like the rest – throats gashed, blood drained, no sign of any forced entry.’
‘Couldn’t this have waited?’ Sir Godfrey snapped.
‘This one’s different.’ The ashen-faced proctor spoke up.
‘How?’
‘First, the corpses were discovered by neighbours and the news is pouring oil on a flame of rumour spreading through the city. You have been in the market place and witnessed the tension. Rumour piles upon rumour and gossip fans the flames. The students blame the townspeople, the townspeople whisper about satanic covens amongst the scholars.’
‘And what else?’
Father Andrew turned to Dame Constance. ‘May I bring him in?’
The abbess nodded and rang the small bell on her desk; a lay sister answered and was ordered to bring ‘the child’ up. A short while later a boy, his face as white as chalk, eyes large dark pools of fear, entered the room. He clutched the lay sister’s hand and sucked noisily on the thumb of his free hand. He stared round-eyed at the people assembled in the room and hid in the lay sister’s skirts. Father Andrew crouched down, arms extended.
‘Come on, Robert,’ he said gently. ‘Come to me. Come here, Robert!’
The boy ran forward and the priest stood up, one arm protectively around the boy’s shoulders.
‘This is Robert Cotterill,’ he announced. ‘When his father, mother and sister died, he was playing a game by himself. He was hiding in a secret chamber. The neighbours discovered him only when they heard his crying.’
Sir Godfrey strode forward and knelt before the lad. He unhitched his sword and, ignoring the gasps from the others, pushed the leather scabbard into the boy’s unresisting hand.
‘We have come to help you, Robert,’ he said softly. ‘Will you stay here and look after this for me?’
The boy nodded solemnly.
‘If you do,’ the knight continued, ‘I will give you some sweetmeats and we’ll find another home for you. However, as long as you hold that sword, because it’s sacred, no one can hurt you.’
The boy’s face creased into a smile, his thumb came out of his mouth and he touched the knight gently on the cheek. Sir Godfrey looked at Dame Constance.
‘The boy is suffering from deep shock,’ he murmured. ‘I have seen the same before amongst children in towns taken by storm. They can slip into a sleep from which they never w
ake, or become violently ill. He must be given warm wine and allowed to sleep. He must never be alone. If these Strigoi, these night-walkers, know there is a survivor . . .’ His voice trailed off. He tousled the boy’s hair and glanced warningly at the abbess.
‘He will stay in the infirmary,’ Dame Constance declared, nodding at the lay sister, ‘in full view of our infirmarian. Ask her to give him a sleeping draught.’
‘Has he said anything?’ Alexander asked.
‘Nothing,’ Father Andrew replied. ‘I brought him straight here with the neighbours who found him. They left us at the gate.’
The boy trotted off with the lay sister, Sir Godfrey’s great sword sheathed in its scabbard clasped in his small hand. The knight grinned sourly at the sheriff.
‘If I could borrow yours, Sir Oswald?’
The sheriff unhitched his and handed it over.
‘You did right,’ the exorcist declared from where she sat on a stool warming her hands by the fire. ‘The boy will sleep and then he will talk, though I doubt if he saw or heard much. Sheriff Beauchamp, you must take precautions.’
‘I have already done that!’ Beauchamp snapped. ‘Every available soldier is now walking the streets. The town council has its own bailiffs and beadles, and Proctor Ormiston has guaranteed the full support of the university.’
‘And I have finished here,’ Father Andrew said. ‘Sirs, if you will excuse me, I must go back to my parish.’ He sketched a bow in the direction of the abbess and walked out of the room.
The proctor made to follow, but Alexander restrained him gently.
‘We still have questions to ask,’ he insisted.
‘The students who disappeared,’ he went on, ‘don’t you think it’s strange that the last one, the Brabanter, asked you, Proctor Ormiston, for permission to study in the library at St Mary’s church?’
Ormiston shrugged his shoulders and spread his hands.
‘Such licences are common,’ he snapped. ‘Many students ask for such permission. What are you implying, master clerk?’
Alexander smiled. ‘Nothing, sir, I just remark upon a coincidence which may interest you.’
‘Many things interest me,’ Ormiston retorted. ‘But, at the moment, my hands are full with other matters.’
The pilgrims watched expectantly as the knight paused in his tale to refill his wine cup. When it was brimful he picked it up and silently toasted the crop-headed yeoman sitting next to him. For the first time the pilgrims saw the yeoman’s stony face break into a slight smile. Their surprise deepened as the yeoman raised his hand and wiped away the tears brimming in his eyes.
‘What is going on here?’ the franklin whispered to the lawyer.
‘Only the sweet Lord knows.’
‘Sir knight,’ the lawyer called. ‘Your tale, you will continue?’
The knight nodded. The yeoman suddenly got up, went round the table and whispered to the knight, then quietly walked out of the taproom. The lawyer turned and looked through the mullioned glass; in the light of a flickering lamp, he saw the yeoman standing in the yard, his face looking up at the starlit sky. The knight whispered something to the squire, who followed the yeoman out. Then the knight took up his tale again.
Laetitia, the servant girl from the tavern, hurried through the darkening alleys of Oxford to the convent gate of St Anne’s.
‘I must see the knight,’ she whispered to herself. ‘Perhaps what I will tell him will be of use. I owe that to Eudo.’ She stopped at the corner of a street to catch her breath, coughing to clear her throat. She pulled a shawl closer around her thin shoulders. She had to be careful of that cough, sometimes it hurt, the pain spreading into her throat and, more frightening, she would spit blood as well as phlegm. She recalled Eudo’s happy face and laughter-filled eyes. Deep in her heart the girl knew that the scholar was dead. She owed his memory something and, above all, she owed herself. The clerk had kindly eyes, was a just and honest man. He had not frightened her, but promised her a gold coin if she told him what she knew. Laetitia sucked in a deep breath. Well, she would! She would tell him everything and show him the metal disc Eudo had given her which she had secreted under the heel of her cork shoe.
Laetitia hurried on. She turned a corner where the alleyway became as narrow as a needle, but she glimpsed the walls of the convent and her stomach tingled with excitement. She had almost reached the mouth of the alleyway when the dark shapes suddenly appeared out of a doorway to block her path. They were all cowled and masked. Laetitia stopped, heart pounding. She turned to go back but another figure stepped out, blocking her way. Laetitia whirled round, hands clutched to her chest.
‘I am only a poor serving girl,’ she whispered. ‘I have nothing of value.’
The dark, sinister figures just leaned against the wall.
‘What do you want?’ she wailed.
The figures began to push her gently back up the alleyway.
‘Oh, please don’t!’ Laetitia looked wildly about. In the poor light she caught a glimpse of an eye, the white of skin between lip and mask. She crouched against the urine-stained wall.
‘I am no whore,’ she pleaded. ‘What do you want?’
‘We want nothing, Laetitia,’ one of the dark figures whispered. He waved his hand. ‘You may run on!’
Laetitia moved forward.
‘No, Laetitia, hold your head high. You may be a servant girl but you have every right to be proud.’
Laetitia relaxed, forcing a smile. Perhaps these were only scholars, she thought, out to play some prank. She cursed herself. She wished she had followed the order, so recently issued by the sheriff, instructing all householders to keep within doors and to allow access to no one.
‘Can I go?’ she asked.
‘Of course you can, Laetitia,’ the voice mocked, ‘on one condition. You may walk, you may run, but hold your head high!’
The figure stepped aside. Laetitia made to run, but her shoulder was seized in a vice-like grip.
‘Only if you hold your head high, Laetitia!’
The girl heard a snigger from one of the others which made her flesh creep.
‘Go on, Laetitia, run!’
Laetitia needed no second bidding but sped down the alleyway. She stopped, looking over her shoulder to see if there was any sign of pursuit. The dark shapes stayed huddled together.
‘Run, Laetitia!’ the voice mocked. ‘Run proudly!’
Laetitia sped on. She reached the end of the alleyway, her head held high, and the razor-sharp wire strung between the buildings cruelly tore at her throat. The girl staggered back, the blood splashing out. She opened her mouth to scream then tipped over gently, crumpling on to the mud-stained cobbles.
Early next morning, Sir Oswald Beauchamp with Proctor Ormiston and a posse of soldiers rode into the convent of St Anne’s, the sheriff bellowing that he had to see the king’s commissioner immediately. Sir Godfrey, Alexander McBain and Dame Edith were breaking their fast in the guest house. Sir Oswald flung the door open and stormed in, Ormiston following like a shadow.
‘By Satan’s cock!’ the sheriff bellowed, his face purple with rage. ‘It’s started, Sir Godfrey, and now we are in a worse pickle than before.’
The knight covered Dame Edith’s hand.
‘Sheriff Beauchamp, there is a lady present and your language hardly becomes you and certainly offends her.’
The sheriff glowered at him and McBain found it difficult to control his laughter at the sheriffs puce face and popping eyes.
‘I apologize,’ the sheriff said heavily. ‘Lady Edith, I meant no offence.’
‘None taken,’ she returned. ‘I have heard worse.’
‘Sir Oswald, Proctor Ormiston,’ McBain got to his feet and pushed two stools closer to the table. ‘For Heaven’s sake, sit down.’
The sheriff mumbled his thanks. He sat down with all the grace of a falling sack and put his face into his hands. McBain, raising his eyes at Sir Godfrey, went to the buttery and brought back two cups h
alf-filled with wine and placed them in front of their guests. Beauchamp dropped his hands.
‘God forgive me,’ he said hoarsely, ‘but the devil himself seems to have arrived in Oxford. Tell me, Sir Godfrey, did you know a servant girl called Laetitia? A slattern from the Mitre tavern?’
Sir Godfrey nodded.
‘Well, she’s a dead slattern,’ Sir Oswald told him. ‘Late last night the poor girl had her throat slashed in an alleyway not far from here. I think she was coming to see you. You apparently tried to question her?’
‘Yes,’ McBain replied. ‘She was sweet on one of the students who disappeared. Do you think she was killed by the Strigoi?’
‘Oh, yes, but not like the others. They put a razor wire across the mouth of an alleyway and probably panicked her into running headlong into it.’
‘You are sure she was coming here?’ Alexander asked.
‘Oh, yes. She told the taverner at the Mitre where she was going – to see the gentlemen and the blind woman who tried to talk to her a few days previously.’
‘Did she have anything on her person?’
‘Nothing. Not a scrip, not a wallet,’ Sir Oswald replied. ‘Except, when they removed her body to the death house near Eastgate, they found this in the heel of her shoe.’ He tossed a black, metal disc, no bigger than a penny, on to the table. Both Sir Godfrey and McBain examined it carefully. It meant nothing to either of them.
‘They must have been watching her,’ Alexander declared. ‘Somehow, when we met her, they silenced her by fear but the lure of gold brought her out.’ He shrugged. ‘Now she’s dead and we know nothing.’
‘But you’ve come about more than that haven’t you?’ Dame Edith asked the sheriff.
Beauchamp sighed. ‘You probably can’t hear them from here?’
‘Hear what?’ Alexander asked.
‘I heard bells ringing earlier,’ Dame Constance said. ‘Not the tolling for prayer or divine office but a wild, frenetic clanging.’
Beauchamp pulled a face. ‘The news of the girl’s death has spread into the city and that, together with the rumours about the murders, has caused the deep antagonism in the city to overspill. Not just between the students themselves, the usual rivalry between the northerners and the southerners but, more seriously, between the scholars and the townspeople. To put it briefly, a riot has broken out and it looks as if it’s spreading.’