by Paul Doherty
Alexander went back to the scriptorium, where he began to write hurriedly. Sir Godfrey came storming over to ask what was the matter, but McBain waved him away. He stayed for at least an hour and, by the time he reached the guest house, everyone was waiting in the small refectory. Beauchamp and Ormiston looked furious. Dame Constance sat imperiously tapping the top of the table with her long, slender fingers. Sir Godfrey walked up and down like some hunting dog. Only Dame Edith seemed composed.
‘I know who the Strigoi master is,’ Alexander declared as they all took their seats, Dame Constance serving her guests goblets of white wine.
‘I have no proof, as yet, but logic and commonsense dictate the truth.’
‘Who is it?’
‘Father Andrew, priest of St Peter’s near the castle.’
‘Nonsense!’ Beauchamp snarled, half rising to his feet. ‘How dare you malign such a good priest?’
Sir Godfrey drew his dagger and banged its pommel on the table top.
‘You will hear the clerk out!’
Alexander got to his feet, finding it difficult to contain his excitement.
‘First,’ he declared, ‘we have killers who can gain access to a house in the dead of night, murder their victims and escape scot-free without causing any tumult or commotion. Who better than a priest? He could slip along the streets and alleyways of Oxford unchallenged by the watch. He could even pretend to be carrying a host. He knocks on the door and enters saying “benedicite”, a blessing on you all.’
‘Father Andrew may be a youngish, fairly strong man,’ Proctor Ormiston interrupted, ‘but could he kill so many people?’
‘Ah!’ Alexander picked up his wine cup. ‘What happens if he brought some wine, a gift? Robert Cotterill heard the “benedicite” but, being a child, he only caught the second syllable, the one anyone emphasizes, “—dicite”. He also heard his mother go into the kitchen for cups or goblets. The wine is poured and drunk but it contains some sleeping powder – crushed poppy seeds or valerian. In a few minutes the householders are drugged.’ Alexander put his wine cup down. ‘And, if there were young people in the house, Father Andrew might allow them to sip from his goblet. He made sure he never drank any.’
‘So, he killed them all himself?’
‘Oh, no. He opened the door to allow others in.’
‘But my guards,’ Beauchamp objected. ‘The city watch, they never apprehended anyone.’
‘Sir Godfrey,’ Alexander asked, ‘when we rode the streets of Oxford that night, whom did we see?’
‘No one.’
‘No, think again.’
‘A few beggars.’ The knight’s jaw dropped. ‘Of course!’ he breathed. ‘Who could dream that some beggar pretending to be maimed, covered in dirt and clothed in rags, was the killer?’
‘Of course,’ Alexander continued. ‘The beggars are always with us. We pass them by, treat them with contempt. Now, what happens if four or five of these beggars are really Father Andrew’s accomplices? Some of those young men who help him at the church, giving bread and meat to the poor. A fact I’ll return to in a minute. These young men, using their beggarly disguise and the cloak of night, take up position outside a house like the Cotterills’. Once the family are drugged, Father Andrew lets his accomplices in. They slit their victims’ throats, perpetrate their abominable practices and slip back into the night.’ Alexander paused. ‘Never once are they disturbed, except when they came across that drunken student you later arrested, Sir Oswald. They knew of our coming here so they daubed the student with blood to mislead us and passed on.’
‘What other proof do you have?’ Dame Edith asked quietly.
‘Well, both the Hospitaller and the dead slattern from the Mitre carried black metal discs. These are probably counters given out by Father Andrew and his helpers so the poor can claim their bowl of pottage and loaf of bread. Don’t you remember when we passed him outside his church?’
Sir Godfrey nodded.
‘But why kill those two?’ Proctor Ormiston asked.
‘Well, I think Laetitia was bringing the counter to us as some proof of the link between her dead sweetheart, Eudo, and Father Andrew. And in the Hospitaller’s case—’ Alexander smiled sourly and sat down. ‘Don’t forget he was a fugitive from the law. He arrived in Oxford hungry and thirsty and what does he do? Where can he get free food?’
‘Of course!’ The doubt ebbed from the sheriffs face. ‘He would join the other beggars outside St Peter’s church. That’s why he had a counter.’
‘Ah, he did more than that. He was carrying a precious relic with him. I suspect he went into the church and hid that somewhere. Sir Oswald, or you, Dame Constance, you know Oxford well. In St Peter’s church is there the tomb of a crusader?’
‘A “chevalier outré mer”!’ Ormiston breathed.
‘Exactly,’ Alexander confirmed. ‘A knight who had gone across the sea.’
‘Yes, there is,’ Beauchamp replied. ‘A large tomb in one of the transepts. The effigy of a knight lies on top, legs crossed at the ankles as a sign that he had served in the Crusades.’
‘If we go there, I’m sure we’ll find the reliquary. Now, Father Andrew was a demon priest. He may have pretended to say mass but he never actually consecrated the bread or wine. He may have pretended to keep the blessed sacrament reserved in the tabernacle but, in reality, he didn’t. Accordingly, the church posed no threat to him. However, the presence of a powerful reliquary, if Dame Edith is to be believed, would disturb the wickedness of himself and his followers. Therefore the church was closed on the pretence that the roof needed repair. In reality, the Strigoi, Father Andrew, would have an excuse not to be anywhere near the relic. The Hospitaller, of course, had to die for his crime.’
‘What other proof is there?’ Dame Edith asked.
‘Ah well, now we come to the opening of the crypt at the Trinitarian friary by Abbot Samson. You may remember that Abbot Samson was visited by someone who accompanied him there. Prior Edmund described him as “alius”, “another”. However, Edmund was an educated man, he should have used “alter”. I was intrigued. But when I spoke to little Robert and heard about “benedicite”, I understood. Dame Edith, what is a name sometimes given to a priest?’
‘Christus alius,’ she replied. ‘Another Christ.’
‘I think that is what Edmund meant. Samson and another priest went to the crypt. Somehow or other Father Andrew convinced Samson that his presence there was necessary, playing on the abbot’s desire for wealth, the means to enrich his monastery.’ Alexander shrugged. ‘Father Andrew really wanted to ensure that the Strigoi lord, buried alive centuries earlier by Sir Hugo Mortimer, still lay there.’ Alexander toyed with the cup in his hand. ‘There are other pieces of evidence: the attack on me, when the Strigoi were really trying to kill young Robert. And who knew he was here except Father Andrew and the people in this room?’
‘What about the students who disappeared?’ Ormiston said.
‘Ah, that’s one piece in the puzzle that is difficult to fit. But, don’t forget, they disappeared before the attacks in the city itself. Somehow or other Father Andrew got to know the Luminosi, he exploited their secrecy and used them to gain access to the library archives so as to study the manuscripts, then he killed them. But there are limits to the victims he could choose; when he and his coven wanted fresh blood, they began their attacks in the city.’
‘Why didn’t they just kill the poor they served?’ Sir Godfrey asked.
‘Perhaps they did,’ Alexander replied. ‘One or two. Such poor creatures would never be missed but Father Andrew wished to protect his public reputation. Moreover, if the poor began to die, someone might suspect.’
Sir Oswald Beauchamp heaved himself to his feet, his podgy, white face a mixture of trust and disbelief.
‘What you say, Master McBain, could be the truth.’ He pointed at Dame Edith. ‘But why didn’t she recognize him? Why didn’t she sense the evil?’
‘Even Satan can a
ppear as an angel of light,’ Dame Edith replied. ‘You are a law officer, Sir Oswald, you have experience of crime. Can you tell a criminal just because you are in his presence?’ She shrugged. ‘Then neither could I tell this demon-possessed priest. Unless he made a mistake, let the mask slip, and he was very careful not to do that.’
‘Why did they need so much blood?’ Ormiston asked, as if talking to himself.
‘To refresh themselves,’ Dame Edith answered. ‘To practise their rites, to drink, to revive the body of their Strigoi lord.’
Beauchamp walked towards the door.
‘Sir Oswald, where are you going?’ the knight asked.
‘We,’ the sheriff emphasized, ‘we, everyone in this room, with the exception of Dame Constance, will go to the church of St Peter. We’ll find the proof there.’
‘The proof is there.’ Alexander smiled faintly. ‘You told us about the ancient legends, when “the devil from the old keep comes to the rock near the new keep”.’
‘What do you mean?’ Sir Oswald snapped.
‘Peter is “rock” in Latin,’ Alexander explained, ‘and St Peter’s is near the keep of your castle. The old keep is now the site of the Trinitarian friary.’
Sir Oswald just shook his head. ‘Perhaps you tell the truth, clerk, but let’s see for ourselves.’
They found the church cloaked in darkness, nor was any light showing from the priest’s house. Sir Oswald’s soldiers forced the door and, as soon as they were inside, Dame Edith said she felt faint.
‘Great evil has been here,’ she whispered as Alexander helped her on to a stood in the small kitchen, while one of Sir Oswald’s soldiers began to light candles. The knight looked around the clean, gaunt, white-washed chamber.
‘Nothing remarkable,’ he observed, yet he too felt the fear tightening his jaw and curling the hair on the nape of his neck.
‘So clean,’ Alexander murmured. ‘Too clean. And, have you noticed? No crucifix. Nothing to indicate he is a priest.’ He sniffed. ‘And that smell, stale as rotting food!’
Sir Godfrey drew his sword and climbed the rickety steps up to the small loft that served as a bedroom. He called for a candle and one was passed up.
‘Alexander McBain!’ he shouted. ‘Come!’
The clerk followed. At first he could see nothing wrong – just a simple chest, a bed and two battered coffers. Sir Godfrey lifted the candle higher and Alexander’s stomach lurched. On the far wall a crucifix stood upside down. The corpse of a rat had been nailed to it and, on either side, a red eye had been painted. In the flickering candle-light it looked as if some baleful face was watching them. Alexander cursed, walked over and knocked the blasphemy from the wall.
‘He’s fled!’ Sir Godfrey said, ‘and he left that as his farewell!’
Chapter 2
They went back downstairs. Sir Oswald, Ormiston and the soldiers clustered near the door like frightened children.
‘Don’t eat or drink anything!’ the knight ordered. ‘Anything at all!’
Sir Godfrey was about to lead them out when he noticed, in the far corner near the hearth, a small iron ring. He went over, kicking the rushes aside to reveal a wooden trapdoor. Sir Godfrey hacked the padlock off with an axe lying near the wall, pulled up the trapdoor and went down. Immediately he caught the stench of corruption, of stale blood. It reminded him of battlefields, when the fighting is done and the corpses have to be buried.
‘Lord!’ he breathed, looking up at Alexander, who handed down a candle. ‘What horrors here!’
McBain followed him down, covering his nose and mouth with his cloak. At first they thought it was just an ordinary cellar, though it stank like a slaughterhouse. Above them they could hear the cries and exclamations of the rest as the stench seeped out into the kitchen.
Sir Godfrey edged his way forward. As the flame of the candle grew stronger, he saw that a pit, about three feet deep and ten feet square, had been dug in the middle of the cellar. Sir Godfrey fought back the inclination to gag, went to the edge of the pit and looked down. It seemed to be covered in some sort of drape and he tested this with his dagger. He held the candle closer to discover it was ox-hide, large pieces sewn together and laid across each other to cover the entire pit. He leant down and scraped his dagger along the leather. He then examined his dagger point in the full glow of the candle-light.
‘Blood!’ he exclaimed. ‘Like some rotten wine vat. Oh, my God!’
He looked over his shoulder at the clerk, but McBain was now leaning against the wall retching violently.
‘They brought the blood here!’ Sir Godfrey whispered to himself. ‘They drained their victims and brought the blood here, probably using wineskins, turning this into some sort of horrible vat!’
The knight could stand no more so he helped McBain up into the kitchen. The sheriff and proctor had already left. Only Dame Edith sat slumped on a stool, her head forward, mouth gaping.
‘Take me from here!’ she whispered. ‘Get me out of this damned hell-hole!’
McBain wiped his eyes and face on the edge of his cloak and gently led her out. Sir Godfrey dropped the burning candle on to the dry rushes and slammed the door behind him. McBain stood, sucking in the clean, night air, with Dame Edith resting on his arm. The knight walked over to inform Sir Oswald and Ormiston of what they had found. Proctor Ormiston could stand no more. He glared speechlessly at the sheriff, gathered up his robe and fled into the darkness. The sheriff himself had lost all his usual bombast and bonhomie. He was a mere shadow of his former self, while his soldiers muttered among themselves that they had no business here. Sir Oswald dismissed them as the knight shouted, ‘Send them back to the castle!’
The sheriff walked over to the men. ‘You are to tell no one!’ he declared.
‘Don’t worry about that, sir!’ one of them replied, mounting his horse. He tugged the tabard over his head and flung it on the ground. His companions did likewise.
‘God damn you, Sir Oswald, for bringing us here! And I say a fig for your orders!’
The soldier glanced at the fire now burning the priest’s house and pushed his grizzled face down towards the knight.
‘We are country lads, sir, not your hardened mercenaries. Our homes lie in the villages miles from here. We intend to go back there. This city is cursed. Let the likes of Sir Oswald tend to this business!’
He turned and he and his three companions cantered off into the darkness.
Sir Oswald was about to shout after them, but the knight stopped him.
‘Let them go,’ he muttered. ‘No need to swear them to silence. We will not see them in Oxford again.’
‘What about Ormiston?’ the sheriff asked.
‘I suppose he’ll go back to his hall and drink himself stupid. God knows, I don’t blame him. Such sights would break a lesser man.’
‘I have had my fill, too,’ Beauchamp said wearily. ‘Oh, don’t worry, Sir Godfrey, I’ll see this matter through but, when it’s done and you have gone, so will I. I’ll go back to my manor, marry some sweet-faced wench, settle down and till my soil. Never again will I work in royal service.’ He turned, hawked and spat into the darkness. ‘I became a sheriff to maintain the king’s peace, to hunt down, arrest and punish felons, not to cross swords with the powers of darkness. Are we finished here?’
‘One more thing,’ the knight replied. ‘McBain, you stay with Dame Edith. Sir Oswald, come with me!’
They walked round to the front of the church. They removed the bars, hacking off the padlocks, and entered the musty darkness. Sir Oswald handed the knight a spluttering pitch torch and they walked cautiously up the deserted nave. Both men fought to control their panic, prompted by their own shadows flickering and dancing in the torch-light.
‘The tomb’s over there,’ the sheriff indicated.
They walked into the transept. Sir Godfrey held the torch up as they carefully made their way forward. At last they reached a huge marble tomb with the life-sized effigy of a knight on top. T
he figure was clothed in chain mail, legs crossed at the ankles and resting on a small dog, both hands clasped on the hilt of a sword. Sir Godfrey took the torch, ignoring the strange sounds and creaking noises from the church. At last he found a small aperture just beneath the neck of the effigy. He put his hand in and drew out a small case about three inches wide. Its sides and back were made of gold and small precious jewels encrusted the rim around the glass front. In the centre, resting on white samite, was a small piece of wood.
‘The relic!’ Sir Oswald breathed. ‘The Hospitaller must have hidden it there. Come on, man!’ he pleaded, peering over his shoulder into the darkness of the church. ‘We have the relic, the devil priest has gone. We can do no more tonight.’
Sir Godfrey agreed and they went to join McBain, who was talking quietly to Dame Edith beneath an outspread yew tree. The knight gave her the reliquary and Dame Edith clasped it reverently and pressed it against her cheek.
‘Now we have something,’ she whispered. She raised her head as if staring up into the starlit sky.
She gripped McBain’s wrist with one hand and Sir Godfrey’s with the other.
‘They have brought their Dark Lord back to life,’ she whispered, ‘and we must hunt them down. Kill them for what they are. Send them, body and soul, back to Hell!’
Sir Oswald, exhausted, agreed but said such matters would have to wait until morning.
‘Then tonight,’ Sir Godfrey ordered, ‘when you go back to the castle, tell no one of what has happened here. Send your swiftest courier to the chancellor in London, asking for all ports on the south coast to be sealed.’
The sheriff nodded.
‘Use only your mercenaries,’ Sir Godfrey continued. ‘Have this place cordoned off. Tomorrow morning, at first light, search the cemetery!’