by Paul Doherty
‘Dame Edith, why has the corpse to be burnt so quickly?’
She turned and, linking her arm through the clerk’s, walked back to where Sir Godfrey stood watching them.
‘I don’t know the real reason. But, remember, a Strigoi is a Shape-shifter and if the corpse remains, so does the spirit. This in turn will wait, seeking out a fresh house, another body to dwell in.’
‘You mean these men are possessed?’
‘Oh, of course.’
‘And the sharpened dog’s teeth?’
She shrugged. ‘One of the signs.’
Alexander wiped his mouth on his sleeve.
‘And do such men actually drink human blood?’
‘In a trance they will. Such practices are not uncommon amongst the heathen. I have heard of tribes in the wildest parts of Scythia who will eat a brave man’s heart to gain courage.’
‘But does it make them stronger?’ Sir Godfrey retorted. ‘How can the drinking of blood make any man more skilful or stronger?’
Dame Edith tapped the side of her head. ‘Sir Godfrey, you are a soldier. You, of all people, should realize that a man is what he thinks he is. What causes one man to be a coward and another be a hero? After all, they may be the same flesh and blood. They may even be brothers from the same womb. It’s what they think. Have you not met knights who thought they were invincible?’
Sir Godfrey agreed.
‘And did it not make them more powerful?’
Again he murmured his assent.
‘And have you not seen soldiers carry out extraordinary feats?’
‘True,’ he muttered.
‘I have seen ordinary people,’ Dame Edith continued, ‘perform extraordinary feats in the most difficult situations. In London once a cart toppled over, pinning a young boy to the ground. Burly men couldn’t shift the cart but his mother came running out of the house, lifted the cart as easily as if it was a basket and so freed her son. So it is with these Strigoi, these Shape-shifters. They practise their dark rituals. They sacrifice their bloody offerings, make their invocations to the Dark Lord and believe nothing on earth can withstand them.’ She patted Alexander gently on the arm. ‘Our clerk is most fortunate. He used his brain to escape. If he had depended solely on brawn he’d be dead and so would that boy.’ She leaned over, gently kissed Alexander on the cheek and walked quietly off into the darkness.
In the dark woods beneath the Trinitarian friary the hooded, masked figures looked up at the pinpricks of light from the friary. They stood like hounds of Hell watching their prey. Their leader crouched and moved forward, sniffing the night air, ears straining into the darkness. Then beneath the mask his face contorted into a rictus of rage as he looked over his shoulder at his followers.
‘Our companion will not join us,’ he hissed. ‘We must go now.’
They caught the note of triumph in his voice.
‘Tonight, you will see what I promised. One of the great ones kept prisoner for so long will be released from his bonds. You have your orders – no killing, no violence, unless it is necessary.’ He looked back towards the friary and smiled in the darkness. ‘Let’s give our mumbling prior something to pray about.’
They slipped up the hill, long, dark shadows in the moonlight, moving like bats towards the friary wall. At the appointed place they stopped and took the small scaling ladder they had concealed there earlier. Once on to the parapet wall, they spread out, the last one pulling the ladder up behind him and placing it gently against the wall. They edged quietly along to the steps and down into the grounds. They moved quickly, keeping to the shadows, well away from the pools of light thrown by the cresset torches Prior Edmund had ordered to be lit in case the turbulence in the city should spill into the friary. A few lay brothers were supposed to be on guard but they were sleeping and proved no obstacle as the intruders climbed walls, going deeper into the friary. They reached the steps leading to the prior’s chamber and flitted like ghosts to the top. The leader checked to ensure that the gallery was empty, then knocked softly at the prior’s door.
Prior Edmund heard the gentle rapping, rubbed his face and got up from the prie-dieu where he had been praying. Heavy with sleep, he turned the key in the lock and without thinking lifted the latch and pulled the door open. He wanted to scream but a black, leather glove squeezed his mouth and pushed him back into the room. Edmund’s heart thudded with terror. The four intruders, clothed in black from head to toe, looked like night crows. He half expected that if they spread their cloaks they would be able to drift like bats across the room. For a moment he imagined he had died and was in Hell, then the hand on his mouth tightened and pushed him up against the wall.
‘I will release my hand,’ the voice grated. ‘But if you scream or raise any alarm, believe me, you will die!’
The hand was released.
‘Well, mumbler, do you wish to live or die?’
Edmund was not the stuff that martyrs are made of.
‘Live!’ he whispered through bruised lips.
‘The secret tunnels and passages?’
‘There are no such.’
He received a stinging blow across his face.
‘Please, mumbler. The secret passageways and tunnels beneath this place.’ The man drew back his hand, but Edmund nodded. ‘We wish to be taken there. You will show us the secret entrances and take us into the chamber where our master lies. We will move behind you. If we meet anyone, you will not stop or talk but use your authority to protect us. You understand?’
Prior Edmund could only agree. The black-garbed figure grasped him by the shoulder and pushed him towards the door. From outside came a faint rumble of thunder. The leader turned towards the lead-paned glass of the window and smiled.
‘Fitting,’ he whispered. ‘Fitting indeed.’
He bundled Edmund out into the deserted gallery and the prior, sweat-soaked, his heart hammering, stomach churning, legs feeling strangely stiff, led them down the stairs and across the grounds. They entered another building, the oldest part of the friary. This housed the library on the upper floor and a long council chamber, rarely used, on the ground floor. The prior, with shaking hands, inserted his key into the lock and entered the musty darkness, his heart jumping as the black-clad figures slipped behind him. The door slammed shut. Candles were produced and lit. Edmund pushed farther forward.
‘Show us!’ the leader hissed.
Stumbling and shaking with fright, the prior led them across the rush-strewn floor towards the far end of the chamber, stopping just in front of the wooden wainscoting.
‘I can’t see,’ he muttered.
The candle was pushed closer and he felt a vice-like grip on the back of his neck.
‘Find it!’
Edmund moaned with fear. He would have prayed had the grip on his neck not tightened.
‘No prattling or mumbling!’ the voice hissed.
Edmund’s sweat-soaked hands feverishly felt the wooden panelling. He tugged at the hold on his neck.
‘Please,’ he said. ‘Let me go. I can’t . . .’
The grip was released. Edmund took a deep breath and stared at the pool of light thrown against the carved panelling. Then he saw the knot of wood on the corner of one of the panels. He pressed it and the panel swung loose. Edmund pulled it open, put his hand inside, drew back a bolt, lifted a latch and pushed against the wooden wainscoting. The entire section of the wall moved silently back on its carefully contrived hinges.
‘Go down!’ the voice ordered.
A candle was thrust into his hand. Edmund gulped and led his captors down the steep stone steps. At the bottom, unbidden, he lit a huge cresset torch and the ancient chamber flared into light. The leader of the group sighed with pleasure as he glimpsed the great steel-bound coffin placed in the centre of the room.
‘So, it is here!’
He snapped his fingers and his companions raced forward and began to prise loose the lid. Edmund, thinking he had been forgotten, edged towards the st
eps. He thought he would escape. He heard the lid crash off, a cry of delighted surprise, then his shoulder was gripped and, even before he knew it, his throat was slit from ear to ear.
The next morning Sir Godfrey and Alexander slept late. They were roused by a red-cheeked Mathilda, who said that Dame Edith was waiting in the parlour below and would they like to break their fast? Alexander slipped out of his bed, recalled the events of the previous evening and put his face in his hands.
‘When will this business be finished?’ he groaned to himself. ‘When can we go home?’
He shook himself alert, stripped, shaved, washed and put on fresh garments. This time he needed no reminder to clasp the sword belt around his waist. Downstairs, Sir Godfrey was already breaking his fast on bread, fish and watered wine and questioning Dame Edith further on the Strigoi. Alexander made his greetings and joined them as the exorcist described the night-wanderers or herlethingi.
‘That’s the Saxon word for the night-wanderers,’ she explained. ‘They are mentioned by Walter Mapp in his chronicle, De nugis curialium.’
‘Do they really exist?’ Alexander asked.
‘Well, Mapp says that they have been seen in Brittany – people supposed to be long dead who reappear as living beings and wander the face of the earth in caravans of horses, men and carts. The theologian Peter Le Bois, in his fourteenth epistle, says that in the reign of our Henry II armies of these night-wanderers rambled about in their mad vagrancy, making no sound. They were seen tramping along the marches of Hereford and Wales with carts and beasts of burden, pack-saddles, provender, baskets, birds and dogs, a mixed multitude of men and women.’
‘Are they Strigoi as well?’ Alexander asked, breaking up a small manchet loaf.
‘They might be, though the point I was making to Sir Godfrey is that reality is not what it appears to be; the dead make their presence felt.’ She smiled as she put a small piece of fish into her mouth and chewed it carefully. ‘What we now face, however, is different; I feel these Strigoi are waiting for something.’
‘Such as?’
‘A leader, one of their Dark Lords who has been undead for many years.’
Alexander shivered. The exorcist’s words brought back the terrors of the previous evening, so he excused himself, saying he needed some fresh air. Once outside the guest house he walked directly to the garden where he had last seen Emily and his heart leapt with pleasure as he rounded a small privet hedge and saw her sitting there. She was clothed in a cream-coloured, fur-lined cloak, jabbing a needle in a piece of tapestry and singing softly under her breath. Alexander coughed. Emily looked up and Alexander’s heart leapt again at the beauty of those splendid blue eyes.
‘My lady, good morning.’
Emily smiled, stuck the needle into the piece of tapestry and indicated that Alexander should sit on the turf seat beside her. Alexander thrilled with the sheer warmth and pleasure of being so close. He caught a faint whiff of her perfume and marvelled at the golden roundness of her face.
‘You are well, my lady?’
She moved her hand closer to his. ‘I am, sir, though I am afeared.’
‘Of what?’
‘Dame Constance told me what happened last night.’ Her blue eyes swept up to meet his. ‘You were brave,’ she sighed, ‘so very brave in protecting the boy.’ A small pink tip of tongue wetted her lips. ‘Dame Constance says you are in Oxford to hunt down evil men. You must be frightened.’
‘If I have your favour, my lady—’ Alexander moved his hand closer to hers, ‘then I would go down to meet Satan himself.’
He half turned to face her squarely. ‘And the more I see of you, the closer I come to you, the braver I become.’
‘Does that please you?’ she whispered, slipping her small, hand in his.
‘My lady, my world stops at your gentleness.’
Lady Emily half smiled as she began the courteous, graceful dance of chivalrous flirtation.
‘You think of me often, sir?’
‘No, my lady, I think of you always.’
Emily pressed his hand and moved in a little closer.
‘I am a maid,’ she murmured, ‘unspoken for and not betrothed.’
‘My lady, I could change that.’
‘Are you noble born?’
‘Aye and of noble heart.’
‘Do you easily fall in love?’
‘My lady, only once.’
She blinked those beautiful eyes. ‘And do you miss her?’
Now Alexander pressed her hand. ‘My lady, how can I, when I am sitting so close to her?’
Emily moved her face, turning her cheek slightly away.
‘You must capture many hearts?’
‘Why many, my lady, when, for me, there’s only one.’
Emily looked into the clerk’s merry eyes. She felt guilty for she thought of Sir Godfrey with his face of stone and burning looks.
‘Do you love me, sir?’
‘My lady, you have said it.’
‘But, when you are gone?’ she whispered.
Alexander slipped off the seat and fell on to one knee, holding her hand and gazing adoringly up at her angelic face.
‘Can a man forget his right hand? Can a man ignore the beating of his heart?’
Lady Emily was about to reply when she heard a sound and turned. Sir Godfrey stood there and, by the stricken look on his face and the sheer passion in his eyes, she knew the knight truly loved her. If she was honest, she would have preferred him, proud as an eagle, to be the one kneeling before her.
‘Sir Godfrey,’ she called. ‘Good morrow to you!’
Alexander rose hastily to his feet.
‘Sir,’ he blustered, ‘you come unannounced.’
‘Sir,’ Sir Godfrey replied sardonically, ‘if I thought I needed a herald I would have hired one. Sir Oswald and Proctor Ormiston are in the great house, they demand our presence.’
But Sir Godfrey’s eyes were for Lady Emily. She stared coolly back. For God’s sake, she thought, make a move, declare yourself. Sir Godfrey, however, turned on his heel and walked back behind the hedge. Alexander sighed, took Emily’s hand and raised it to her lips.
‘My lady, another time.’
Then he hastily followed, leaving Emily to fume at Sir Godfrey’s abrupt departure.
‘Sir Godfrey!’ Alexander called.
The knight turned and Alexander glimpsed the fury in his face.
‘Sir,’ Alexander declared, ‘you lack manners.’
Sir Godfrey stepped closer, his hand falling to the hilt of his sword.
‘You bloody clerk!’ he snarled. ‘With your glib phrases and flattering words!’
Alexander smiled. So, you have a heart, he thought. Blood does beat in your brains and send fiery messages coursing through your veins.
Sir Godfrey moved closer. ‘Do you find me amusing?’
Alexander stepped back, his hand going to his sword.
‘Sir Godfrey, I respect you.’
‘Don’t play with me!’
The knight’s hands moved quickly and the sword seemed to leap from his scabbard. Alexander followed suit, stepping back, raising his own sword to cross that of the knight.
‘Why?’ Alexander pleaded.
‘Because, sir, you insult me.’
‘Before Heaven, I do not!’
Sir Godfrey took a deep breath, closed his eyes and lowered his sword.
‘No, sir, you do not.’
He sheathed his weapon, Alexander did likewise and the knight stretched out his hand.
‘I find it difficult,’ he muttered. ‘I am not well versed in words.’
Alexander grinned, took the knight’s hand and shook it vigorously.
‘Words are nothing.’
‘Don’t quarrel!’
Sir Godfrey whirled around. Dame Edith stood nearby under the overhanging branches of an elm.
‘Don’t quarrel!’ she repeated. She flailed her hands at her side. ‘Why do you men always have to fight for l
ove? You see a pretty face and you become like bucks on heat. You, Sir Godfrey, are a knight. And you, Alexander McBain, are his trusted clerk. You have a task to do. So, finish it! And, afterwards I shall judge between you.’ She half smiled. ‘I will be your Queen of Love!’ She beckoned them forward as if they were recalcitrant boys. ‘I know how the heart hungers,’ she whispered. ‘We crave for love, the human heart is an inexhaustible hunter for it. But let it wait, your visitors expect you.’
The two men sheepishly followed the exorcist back to the guest house, where Sir Oswald Beauchamp and Proctor Ormiston impatiently awaited them.
‘God’s teeth!’ the sheriff snarled. ‘Sir Godfrey, you must come with us. Last night the Trinitarian friary was attacked. Prior Edmund is dead. They say a secret chamber has been violated.’
‘And what else?’ Dame Edith spoke.
‘A coffin was emptied,’ Ormiston blurted out. ‘Why did they kill for a corpse?’
‘Oh, sweet Lord!’ Dame Edith murmured and sat down on one of the stools. ‘That fool of a prior!’ She shook her head. ‘So, it’s happened.’
‘What has?’ Alexander asked.
‘They must have released their Dark Lord,’ Dame Edith replied. ‘The Strigoi Sir Hugh Mortimer imprisoned there so many hundreds of years ago.’
‘Folderol!’ McBain snapped. ‘Oh, Dame Edith, I accept your night-walkers, your drinkers of blood, your Strigoi, your Shape-shifters! But how can a man survive in a coffin for hundreds of years?’
Dame Edith rapped the top of the table.
‘Have you not listened?’ she snapped. ‘The Strigoi never die! If their corpses survive, they merely sleep!’
‘In which case,’ the knight intervened, ‘why doesn’t this Dark Lord just rise from his coffin and walk?’
‘He has to be summoned,’ Dame Edith replied wearily. ‘He has to be invited back. He has to have the blood sacrifice poured over him, then he comes to life.’ She looked in the direction of the four men and quietly cursed their uncertainty. ‘What is so original about that?’ she cried. ‘McBain, do you pray?’