The Haunted Cathedral

by Antony Barone Kolenc

  Yet there stood Brother Andrew between Carlo and the armed guards.

  Ox let out a booming laugh that shook his body. “Really, monk? How’ll ya stop us?”

  “Leave ’im be, Ox,” Guy said. “Godfrey won’t see no harm come to a man of God.”

  “There in’t no God,” Ox said.

  A hurt expression flashed across Brother Andrew’s face at those words, but he stood his ground. Maybe Xan should jump down and help—protecting Brother Andrew wasn’t the same as protecting Carlo. But what could he do with no weapons?

  Ox stepped around Brother Andrew, staring him down. Then he jerked at the chains on Carlo’s ankles, pulled out a key, and unlocked the bandit’s feet. “Get up and walk,” he ordered.

  Brother Andrew shot a glance toward Xan. Did he want his help? This was the moment to choose. The guards might be trying to trick Carlo into running, so they could say they killed him as he escaped. Indeed, the monk might be the only obstacle between the bandit’s death and life.

  Xan hopped down and stood at Brother Andrew’s side. If the guards were willing to kill a monk, they’d also have to kill an unarmed boy. What would Lord Godfrey think of that?

  But Ox wasn’t interested in hurting them. He held his sword to Carlo’s face: “Move.”

  Carlo got up and walked slowly, uncertainty in his eyes—and also hatred for the guard. The bandit turned his head to the monk but received no guidance. He took another reluctant step.

  Ox kicked Carlo forward. “Faster! To the water, swine! Wash yer filthy stench off.”

  The small stream flowed not far from the horses. That must be why they’d stopped here.

  Brother Andrew’s face dawned with understanding. “Friend,” he said to Ox, “I see now that you want the man to cleanse his odor, but he is old and might take ill in that water.”

  “I feel ill from his reekin’ stench,” Ox said. “An’ who you callin’ friend?”

  The monk lowered his voice. “Fine—Ox—but that water is icy cold.”

  “If he gets ill, yer God can heal ’im.” Ox grinned cruelly. “Or are ya a faithless simpkin?”

  This disrespect was more than Xan could endure. He stepped forward and pointed a finger at Ox, like Brother Leo might have done. “You can’t talk to him like that. He’s a monk!”

  Brother Andrew placed a hand on Xan’s shoulder. “Be still, my son. By grace, I can suffer much more than these words of abuse. You stay here.”

  The monk reached for Carlo’s shackled hands. The bandit recoiled at his touch, but Brother Andrew gave a supportive smile. “Come, I will assist you.” Side by side, he led Carlo to the edge of the stream. Together they stepped into the chill waters and washed. When they emerged, their bodies shivered uncontrollably.

  They sat next to the wagon, crouching from the wintry breeze and wringing their wet clothes. The foul odor coming from Carlo had faded.

  “Th-thank you, Brother,” the bandit stammered through blue lips.

  Ox’s shield slammed into the cart, barely missing Carlo’s head. “Shut yer filthy mouth!” he barked. He raised his shield again as if to strike. “Y’ll speak only when spoken to!”

  Shaking, Brother Andrew stood to confront the guard. If Ox had wanted to kill Carlo, surely he’d be dead already. The monk shouldn’t put himself at further risk for that bandit.

  Carlo rose to his feet, still unchained at the ankles. “Brother, I shall obey whatever he—”

  Ox dropped his shield to the dirt and balled his right hand into a pounding fist. “I said to shut yer mouth!” He swung and connected with an awful sound of bone crashing bone. Brother Andrew fell to the ground in a heap. He’d thrown himself in front of the guard’s punch and now lay upon the dirt—as still as Wulf, dead in the pasture.

  Xan ran to his side, while Carlo stooped to the monk, checking his condition.

  “Oy, Ox! What’ve you done?” cried Guy. “You killed ’im!”

  Nay!

  God couldn’t be so cruel as to take another member of Xan’s family from him. He’d be left all alone with Carlo and those two vulgar guards. That would be the worst punishment of all.

  Ox shoved Carlo from the fallen monk’s side just as Brother Andrew began to stir.

  He’s alive! Xan grasped Brother Andrew under both arms, helping him to his feet. The monk drew himself up to full height and turned his bruised face toward Ox. A great red welt had already formed on his cheek. Blood dripped over his lips.

  “You may strike me again,” the monk said, his voice now stronger and more certain. “But you will never strike this man again while I live.”

  Ox stared at him in defiance, but not for long. The guard’s eyes shifted to the dirt.

  “Now, friend,” Brother Andrew said, as though he’d won a great battle. “You will not touch this prisoner again. He will speak as he wills and stay by my side on the bench, not the floor. Do you understand?” Thick red droplets of blood fell from the monk’s chin onto his black woolen scapular.

  Carlo and Guy watched on in stunned amazement as Ox gave a nod.

  Brother Andrew had done what that Scripture passage said: he’d turned his other cheek to the one who had struck him, and yet somehow God had brought him the victory. Is that what the monk had meant when he’d said Jesus’ teaching must be lived to be understood?

  Ox growled and turned away. “Load up, Guy. I’m comin’ in front.”

  6

  The Attack

  The wagon plodded along the Roman road through the rest of the morning. Dark storm clouds mostly held their downpour, only briefly weeping from the skies after lunch.

  The two guards rode in front, while Brother Andrew sat on the cart’s bench next to Carlo and across from Xan. Guy had chained the bandit’s feet again, with the monk’s permission. They approached a crossroads ahead.

  “’Twould be a mistake to go through Leeds,” Guy said to Ox, over the noisy wagon wheels that clunked along the trail. “We should take the road that bends to the south of that city.”

  “Aye,” Ox said. “No fool’ll lodge us in a real bed while we got this prisoner along.”

  Guy nodded, steering the horses onto the wide road that headed off to the left. “Tomorrow’s another full ridin’ day but, with any luck, we still might hit Lincoln ere dark.”

  The wagon rolled on, into the afternoon, a bit smoother after their turn onto the southern road. Thankfully Carlo’s stench also had gone, helping to ease the heavy mood in the cart.

  The bandit stayed silent, but Brother Andrew spoke to him lightly at times, pointing out features in the landscape even as the victory welt on his cheek swelled under his brown eye.

  Throughout the day, the dead trees of a retired winter marched slowly by on both sides of the ancient road. If Xan were alone with the monk, he’d have plenty to ask, but he couldn’t possibly speak his heart in the presence of these other horrible men.

  Ox had blasphemed at the stream, saying aloud there was no God. But hadn’t the truth of Jesus’ teaching about turning cheeks proved him wrong?

  Xan took the whittled cross from his pouch and held it tight in his palm, trying to pray—for the monk’s eye; for arriving safely in Lincoln; for Lucy; for finding his uncle and his family. His silent words seemed to echo into the nothingness of tiny white stars in the dusk sky. What if Ox were right? What if all that the monks believed was untrue?

  As the dimness of twilight approached, Guy began to chatter. He joked about Ox’s hairy neck and commented on potential spots where they could stop and light a fire for the night. When the moon appeared on the horizon, he turned to address Xan. “Ya doin’ all right, lad? Yer not afeared a’ the dark, I hope. Perhaps a little ghost story would do you good.”

  “By Adam,” Brother Andrew said. “Do not cloud the night with such superstitions.”

  Ox chuckled meanly. “Oh, I don’ know, Guy. I could use a good story ’bout now.”

  “Ya might like it, monk,” Guy said. “Fact is, I heard it from a priest fr
om that old Lincoln Cathedral. There be strange happenings there lately—an evil spirit working its mischief.”

  The monk frowned. “Nonsense. No evil can stain the holy temple of God. Keep your ghost tales to yourself. I want no part of them.”

  Why was Brother Andrew so set against hearing the story? If a priest had spoken about a ghost, maybe there was some truth to the tale.

  “What are ghosts anyway, Brother?” Xan said. “Aren’t they just the souls of the departed, like that portrait in the library that you painted about the death of Saint Ignatius?”

  The question seemed to give Brother Andrew trouble. He didn’t answer immediately.

  “Exactly right, boy!” Guy said. “Souls of the dead—except these ones refuse to go.”

  Mother and Father were saints, Brother Andrew had said. So, might they not be ghosts too? If they had been given a choice by God to refuse to go, they might have chosen to stay near their son, who had been attacked by bandits. Perhaps that meant they could send him a sign.

  Ox glanced at Xan and then at the monk, who was still deep in thought. The guard grinned. “You say there be strange stories from that cathedral, Guy? Go on and tell the boy.”

  “Reports too strange for logic,” Guy said, softening his voice. “Like some nights, the candles light themselves up after all’s left the cathedral. And sometimes there be a mournful cry, like a child’s sob risin’ up from the floors an’ the walls.”

  “A child crying? Candles?” Brother Andrew said. “No ghosts are needed for such things.”

  “But what about the tremors, Brother?” Guy raised a hand up. “When the spirit gets angry, the whole cathedral shakes. ’Tis happened more than once, and many have felt it.”

  Brother Andrew folded his arms across his robe. “Surely there are explanations.”

  “Aye,” Guy said. “I wager the explanation is an angry spirit tryin’ to tell us somethin’.”

  Might all this be possible? If people had souls that lived after death, surely they could talk to the living. Mother might have been trying to speak to him all this time—he’d dreamed of her and could feel the warmth of her kisses on his forehead before bed: “Goodnight, my sweet boy.”

  He turned to Brother Andrew. “Why couldn’t a ghost haunt that cathedral? Didn’t you teach me that we can speak to God’s saints in Heaven? Ask for their assistance and prayers?”

  “Indeed I taught you that. We are joined through our Lord Jesus to all God’s family, in Heaven or on earth. And as a family, we help each other: I pray for you; you pray for me; and the saints pray for us both. Sacred Scripture calls them a ‘cloud of witnesses’ that surround us.”

  If the monk believed all these things, then how could he deny the possibility of ghosts?

  “So then, it might be true,” Xan said. “Ghosts can be the souls of our heavenly family.”

  The monk shook his head. “’Tis not the same, my son. This guard speaks of tormented spirits haunting the temple of God. Nay, the holy saints are joined with our Lord in heavenly bliss.”

  Ox snarled at the monk. “Curse you and all yer holy talk. You insist yer God exists, yet you refuse to even accept the chance of a ghost. You be the very worst kind of—”

  At that moment, a whizzing sound pierced the air. Ox cried out in pain.

  A quarrel lodged into the guard’s shoulder near his neck, just above the edge of his chain-mail sleeve. He tumbled from the wagon, hitting the road with a crash.

  “Oy, what goes on here?” Guy yelled, pulling the horses to a halt.

  Xan scanned all around. Where had that quarrel come from?

  A second quarrel—buzzing in the dimness—struck the wood of the cart by Guy’s side.

  “’Tis an attack, you fools!” Carlo shouted. “Take cover!”

  Guy dove from his seat and onto the safety of the road, rolling under the wagon. At the same time, Brother Andrew pushed Xan from the cart. He hit the ground hard, stunned.

  “Leave me, Brother!” the bandit yelled. “Protect yourself.”

  But the monk wouldn’t have it. As another quarrel pierced the cart just inches from his leg, he helped Carlo roll over the side and fall to the dusty road below. Then all the travelers scurried under the wagon’s tall wooden wheels, which gave a roof high enough to use as a shelter from the crossbow assaults and also from the drizzling sky.

  They waited under the wagon. Minutes passed. Heaviness hung in the cool evening air, with only Ox’s moans to break the silence. The birds had ceased all chirping, and even the wind had died, as raindrops touched the earth.

  “’Tis probably that Rummy again,” Xan said. Who else would have pursued them here, seeking Carlo’s treasure so many miles from Harwood Abbey?

  Guy held a crossbow in his hands, aimed and ready to fire. “Shh! Listen!”

  A rustling echoed just yards away in the shrubs. Guy let loose a quarrel, which squarely struck a bush, causing panicked footsteps to rush into the woodland from behind it.

  “That oughta’ teach the scum we be ready to defend ourselves,” Guy said.

  “Aye.” Ox groaned. “Now help me with this cursed quarrel, ya simpkin!”

  Guy loaded the crossbow for battle again and then rolled over to Ox. “You are barely saved,” he said, studying the wound. “It almost sliced you through the neck.”

  “Just pull it from me shoulder ere I bleed to death, fool!” Ox ordered.

  While Guy worked on the wound—Ox gritting his teeth on a twig to stop from screaming in pain—Xan picked up the armed crossbow. If that vile bandit returned, he could shoot a quarrel at the villain. Even if he missed, it might scare Rummy off a while longer.

  The time passed without any further sounds of the attacker. Guy had removed the quarrel from Ox’s shoulder and given him a dirty rag to hold to his wound to slow down the bleeding.

  “What do we do now, Brother?” Xan said. With a bandit ready to hunt them down, how would they ever make it to Lincoln along the open road?

  The monk took out his prayer beads. “We wait. And pray.”

  “An’ keep guard through the night,” Guy said, taking back the crossbow. “I doubt the fiend returns again tonight—not when he knows the long road to Lincoln lies in front of us tomorrow.”

  Carlo nodded. “Aye. If this attacker indeed is Rummy, he will be working alone and will wait for the moment of greatest weakness ere he strikes again. He is patient and disciplined.”

  Guy put sticks and dead leaves in a pile and moved to light a fire. “We need clean rags and hot water for Ox’s shoulder,” he said. “C’mon, boy. Climb onto that cart and get our supplies.”

  Xan shimmied from the wagon into the open air. If that bandit was still out there, he’d be the next target. Indeed, in a matter of moments he could find himself shot through the heart.

  7

  The Storm

  They spent most of the next few hours in the cold wetness, shivering under the wagon’s protection.

  Once Xan had retrieved the supplies from the cart, their situation improved slightly. The flames of the small fire had brought a bit of warmth and also heated water in an iron pan.

  Brother Andrew dipped Ox’s rag into the water and cleansed the guard’s wound. Guy stood watch with his crossbow, at one point firing two quarrels into the darkness. He said they must ride double-quick tomorrow. “If we get to Lincoln ere dark, we still might survive.”

  No other attacks came, but the rain began to pound harder, dousing the small fire and leaving the dreary group to break their Lenten fast in darkness.

  “At least me ale is cold,” Guy said. They’d packed a case of ale because it wouldn’t spoil. Xan hated the taste of ale. Instead, he sipped at water from the cask they’d refilled at the stream that morning and nibbled on his portion of soggy bread.

  “Why’s this bandit tryin’ to rescue you?” Guy asked Carlo. “Yer just a sick old man now.”

  Carlo shrugged. “An old man in need of rest.” He turned away, struggling for a comfortable
position. No doubt, he didn’t want to tell the guards that Rummy was after his treasure.

  “Let us rest, then,” the monk agreed with a yawn. “Tomorrow we will need our strength.”

  Xan curled up on the hard dirt until exhaustion forced him into a restless, dreamless sleep.

  The chill light of dawn woke him in the morning, the sun’s rays peeking between gray storm clouds for a moment. Soon the others were up too. Guy swept the area for any signs of their attacker but found none. Who knew when that bandit might return to murder them and set Carlo free? For now, though, he had gone.

  Ox gnawed at a loaf of black bread, though the others abstained from breakfast in accord with the Lenten tradition. His hurt shoulder, wrapped in a rag, made him groan with every move.

  Xan, acting as watchman, sat with his back against one of the large wooden wheels of the wagon, holding the crossbow in his lap while Guy and Brother Andrew loaded the cart.

  Across from him, Carlo grew restive. The chains had bruised the old man’s wrists and ankles. It must have been impossible for the wretch to sleep with such soreness. Still, there was no looking Carlo in the eye. If Mother and Father were spirits who could see Xan now, they would know their son had never spoken to that murderer without necessity.

  After a while, the cart was ready for the journey. All that was left was for Brother Andrew and Guy to look under the trees for the quarrels Guy had shot in the night.

  “Boy,” Carlo called to Xan, after they had gone to search. “I wish to tell you something.” Xan ignored him. He wouldn’t give the fiend the satisfaction of even acknowledging him.

  “I know of your loss,” the bandit said. “I think often about how my own actions have—”

  Xan shot Carlo a glare. The villain surely could recognize hatred when he saw it.

  Ox had been watching all this. The burly guard struggled to his feet and towered over Carlo. “Leave that boy alone, filth. Just wait and see: I will kill you ere I let you escape.” Then he kicked Carlo hard in the gut, bringing the old man to tears.