The Haunted Cathedral

by Antony Barone Kolenc

  “This is it?” Xan said, disappointed. “Are you sure this is a burial ground?”

  “Our father says so,” Simon said, standing on a tall rock. The remains of stone in the desolation outside the city gates looked more like a play area than a cemetery—a place where the boys at the abbey could make up a new hiding game, with Joshua sneaking around the stones yelling “boo!” whenever he saw someone.

  “We’re wasting our time out here,” Xan said.

  “I told you, ’tis Nelly in that cathedral,” Christina said. “Not some old Romans.”

  Xan jumped upon one of the ruins and surveyed the abandoned countryside. “Nelly or not, the answers aren’t out here.” Standing on that rock, it all seemed so clear. Visiting cemeteries or talking to monks wasn’t going to get him any closer to that ghost. Everything he needed to know was in the cathedral.

  Good or evil, child or adult, if there was a ghost in that cathedral, he needed to find it. He needed to know the truth—for Mother and Father, for his faith, for all the decisions he must make.

  “We need to find a way to trap that ghost,” he said.

  16

  The Dungeon

  Saturday morning dawned with a drizzle outside. Xan awoke to find Brother Andrew by the hearth, staring into the burning embers, prayer beads in one hand. Father Philip was nowhere in sight.

  “Brother, you’re out of bed!” Xan said, jumping up.

  “I told you today would end my days of healing. We have God’s work to do.”

  Xan sat next to the monk on the wide bench, basking in the orange glow of the fire. “Will we look for my uncle?” he said. “Or do you think he’ll come for me on his own?”

  Last night, Father Philip had reported that his inquiries about Uncle William and the mysterious Master had been fruitless. His uncle’s house stood abandoned now, emptied of anything of value, presumably by Mort and Ivo. Nor had Uncle William reappeared, his fate unknown.

  “Perhaps he shall,” the monk said. “Do you wish him to return and take you into his care?” The monk’s blue and brown eyes betrayed an inward struggle. If Uncle William came for Xan, that would likely mean he would leave Harwood Abbey, and Brother Andrew’s hopes for him as a novice monk would be dashed. But if Uncle William never returned, then Xan would have lost another member of his family after so many other heart-wrenching losses.

  And who knew which choice Xan would pick if it were his alone? Harwood Abbey had become his home, yet Uncle William was his own true family, like Father in many ways.

  “I don’t know, Brother.”

  The monk placed a kind hand on his shoulder. “There will be time to pray on these things. God will show the way, and I will help you. But first I must find my way to the dungeons.”

  “You still mean to visit that bandit?”

  “Aye, and I mean for you to come with me.”

  “What?” He pulled away from Brother Andrew. That was out of the question.

  “Father Philip told me of your last meeting with Carlo,” the monk said. “’Tis time for you to forgive, my son. Your bitterness will only harm yourself in the end.”

  Nay—it wasn’t anyone else’s choice but Xan’s own to forgive or not forgive. Aye, there was some good in Carlo, but mixed with too much evil. One day’s goodness could not undo a lifetime of harm. Plus, there were the opinions of Mother and Father and Uncle William to consider.

  “I won’t do it, Brother. You can’t make me.”

  Brother Andrew gave a loud cough and held his chest, as if in pain. “Then come to help a poor wounded monk. By grace, I need your assistance. I should not walk alone in this condition.” Was the monk exaggerating his weak situation merely to convince Xan to come? If so, Brother Andrew had outmaneuvered him. How could he possibly refuse that request?

  “All right. I’ll come, Brother—but only to help you.”

  “So be it.”

  They placed the remaining bread the monk hadn’t eaten yesterday into a brown sack. Then they headed slowly toward Lincoln Castle, standing tall on the hill that overlooked the city. Brother Andrew walked with a slight limp, clinging to Xan’s arm for support.

  “Father Philip’s news from the dungeon last night was not good,” the monk said, as his grasp on Xan’s arm tightened. “By Peter’s staff, they plan on holding trial for Carlo in five days’ time, during Holy Week, even as we remember the trial of our Lord on Holy Thursday.”

  “Why do they want to have the trial so quickly?” Xan asked.

  Brother Andrew frowned. “Despite the abbot’s letter, the judges still might execute Carlo. Executions are suspended during the Easter season, so they must do it next week, if at all.”

  Apparently, the abbot’s friend on the King’s court was not as influential as the old monk had believed. He’d been certain Carlo would avoid the hangman’s noose here in Lincoln. Now it seemed the judges wanted to keep all their choices available to punish the bandit.

  And rightly so—why should all the bandits receive the death penalty except their leader?

  They moved at a sluggish pace up the paths toward Lincoln Castle—some of the very trails Simon had shown Xan when they’d gone to the nearby cathedral. All their talk about Carlo and execution had seemed to put the monk into a depressed mood.

  Finally they arrived. The grandness of the castle’s stonework proved it superior to all else Xan had seen in Lincoln. Enormous walls of rock rose, one great layer above another. On every side perched guards in armor, standing between rectangular gaps in the stones on the top of the wall. Those would make great hiding places from which to shoot down arrows on any attackers.

  “Is this not amazing, Brother!” Xan said, hoping to cheer the poor monk.

  “Aye,” Brother Andrew said, stirring from his silence. “One of the most impressive castles in England. Built by the Conqueror when those warring Northmen still tormented these lands.”

  “Are those the same Northmen who come each year to trade here in Lincoln?”

  The monk nodded. “Aye, they are their descendants. Is it any wonder the people in these parts hold such prejudices against them even to this day?” Not just against adults either. Apparently, even the Danish children were held in disdain.

  They entered the castle through a high, steel-gated portico, where guards stood at the ready. Lucy had said the gate usually stayed open, but it could be dropped at a moment’s notice. Passing through, Xan gazed at the tallest tower of the castle, which seemed to reach to the clouds. Atop the tower, a colorful standard now fluttered in the wind.

  Brother Andrew noticed his interest. “That’s called Lucy Tower,” he said with a smile. “’Twas built many years after the original castle.”

  “Are you jesting with me, Brother? Do they really call it that?”

  “Aye. Named for Lucy of Bolingbroke, a wealthy widow who gave much of her lands to the Church for the Lord’s work, God rest her soul.”

  Lucy would laugh so hard when she heard about her namesake—that is, if she didn’t know about it already. It was just like Lucy to keep that kind of fact to herself. If it had been named Chrissy Tower, you could bet Christina would be talking about it every chance she could.

  Brother Andrew pulled one of the guards aside and explained the reason for their visit. The man left them waiting a few minutes while he fetched his superior. A few moments later, another guard arrived, tall and dark-haired and with a booming voice: “Follow me.”

  They walked behind him and entered a low stone building within the castle walls. He led them down a flight of steps to a narrower rock staircase, deeper and colder than the one before. In the chill air of the stone corridors, every footstep and every voice echoed as in a cavern.

  They reached a thick wooden door, splintered and rotted near its bottom. The guard fumbled with a set of large keys, unlocking the door noisily. “How many of you blasted monks plan to visit this murderer in one morning?” he said.

  “What do you mean?” asked Brother Andrew.

&nbs
p; “Wasn’t but an hour ago that another shifty-looking monk was here to bless this fiend.”

  That was odd. Father Philip looked nothing like a monk and surely wasn’t shifty looking.

  With three booming clangs and a long creak, the door swung open. “Go down these steps,” the guard said, “but do not get too close to the prisoner. His chains are strong, but he could still work mischief with those evil hands.”

  “We will be careful,” Brother Andrew said.

  The dungeon reeked of human waste and decay. Still, they navigated each step, the monk holding tight to Xan, until they reached Carlo’s level. A solitary candle lit the room.

  On the cold floor, the bandit sat in chains, his back against a jagged rock wall. Next to him lay a moldy piece of bread, a half-eaten bowl of spoiled porridge, and a cup of muddy water. Carlo had a welt on his face, as though someone had punched or beaten him. “Who is there?” he called out in a weak voice. “Is that you again, Father Philip?”

  “’Tis I, Brother Andrew, and the boy Xan.”

  “You have finally come,” he said, ending in a hoarse coughing fit. The bandit looked so miserable that for a moment forgiveness seemed possible.

  “May God bless you,” the monk greeted. “I hear that I am much in debt to your pains.”

  The bandit shook his head. “I am but a sinful man who fulfilled a vow to a boy.” Carlo turned his face to Xan and gave a nod, but Xan didn’t return the gesture.

  Brother Andrew held out the loaf to Carlo. “Take and eat.” The bandit did so, eyeing Xan the whole time. “Do you still have my heirloom, boy?”

  Xan gestured to the pouch on his belt.

  “Good,” the bandit said. “Father Philip tells me you have been exploring that old cathedral. You know, then, ’tis built over the crypt of that old Saxon church.”

  Xan merely nodded.

  “Be careful in there. When I was your age, I too explored that place after the great fire had left so much of it in ruin, even cracking the slab of Bishop Remigius’s tomb.” If Carlo spoke truly, he must know much about the cathedral. Might he even know something that could aid them in catching the ghost?

  “Did you start the fire that destroyed it?” Xan said with a smirk.

  Carlo chuckled and coughed. “Nay, though I did hold lit candles when I served at the altar.”

  Not only had the bandit considered the priesthood, then, he’d also been an altar boy. With the same hands he’d used to take innocent lives, he’d also borne the cross of the Mass.

  A large gray rat scurried from the shadows toward Carlo, sniffing at his foot. The bandit’s heel shot out and caught it in the head. The rat screeched in surprise and scampered to the wall. Carlo peered at the monk. “Death will find me in this place, Brother. I cannot last long here. Is that why you sent a priest yesterday—for me to repent and confess my sins?”

  Xan took in the full surroundings of the dungeon: sickness and disease, rats and beatings.

  “The abbot was mistaken,” the monk said, shaking his head sadly. “Even Lord Godfrey would not have treated you as poorly as this cursed place.”

  “But his guards would have found a way to kill me,” Carlo said. “There is but one way for me to escape from this life.” He sighed. “But my punishment is justice, right, boy?”

  Xan turned his face away to avoid the bandit’s glance. For a long moment, none of them spoke. Finally, Brother Andrew tried to soften the awkwardness. “Who was that other monk who visited you this morning?”

  Carlo didn’t answer. He bowed his chin into his chest.

  “That was no monk at all, was it?” Xan said. “’Twas your friend, Rummy, dressed in a black robe—perhaps even the robe you wore when you tried to kill the abbot.”

  The bandit’s pale face grew whiter. “Aye, boy. ’Twas him.”

  “What did he want with you?” Brother Andrew asked, startled.

  “The same thing he always wants with me,” Carlo said. “The only thing that matters in this world to him: treasure.”

  “But how can you give him treasure when you are chained in this cursed place?”

  The bandit stared at the candle. “He knows I have hidden my treasure in Lincolnshire, Brother. He demanded I tell him its location. He threatened to harm you and the boy if I refuse.”

  Of course. That also must be what he and Rummy had discussed on the side of the road on the way to Lincoln. Rummy must have seen that Carlo cared for Brother Andrew—even perhaps for Xan. The fiend was using the bandit’s affection to manipulate his former leader.

  “And what did you tell him?” the monk asked.

  Carlo refused to answer, even though Brother Andrew asked a second time. Either he didn’t want to disclose the location of his treasure for fear of Xan and the monk revealing it to someone, or else he had some other secret to protect.

  Brother Andrew asked a third time, and the bandit finally lifted his head. “I can promise you only this: I will do everything in my power to ensure that you and the boy remain safe—whatever the personal cost to me.”

  17

  Uncle William

  What do you think of Carlo now?” Brother Andrew asked as they exited the castle through the portico gate.

  Xan shrugged without a word. The more he thought of Carlo, the more miserable he felt.

  “The bandit would ask your forgiveness if you would but let him, my son. And though you may not see it, I sense a softening within you this morning.”

  Had he really grown any closer to forgiveness? Aye, Carlo seemed pitiful in that dungeon, receiving just punishment for his crimes. True, he sincerely spoke of protecting Xan and Brother Andrew. He even appeared genuinely remorseful for what he’d done to Xan’s family.

  Yet Carlo was a cunning shapeshifter who knew how to change his skin to meet the expectations of those around him. Were he to be released tomorrow, he’d surely return to his criminal ways if life required it. He was perilous—too dangerous to ever see freedom again.

  Brother Andrew squeezed Xan’s arm tighter. “If your mother and father are watching from Heaven, I know they see what I see: a boy growing to a man; a good heart starting to heal; a lost child who has almost found his way home.”

  Brother Andrew sounded assured, but the monk had no special knowledge of what Mother and Father could see. Still, if Xan could solve the mystery in the cathedral, perhaps he could learn what they saw, or at least know there existed a place from which their souls could see him.

  “Xan!”

  Lucy was calling out from a stone’s throw behind them. She must also be on her way to Father Philip’s, as she’d promised yesterday. They waited for her to catch up.

  Something about her seemed different today. Her white tunic—she’d exchanged it for a red frock with frilly sleeves and a flowing hem to her ankles. She’d also let her raven hair down, with a red strip of cloth holding it back from her wide brown eyes.

  She waved and smiled as she approached, a healthy blush in her cheeks.

  “Good dawning,” Xan said, trying not to meet her eyes for fear of giving away how impressed he was with her raiment. Next thing you knew, he’d be babbling and sputtering like the day he met Christina. That wouldn’t do at all.

  Brother Andrew greeted her warmly. “You look like a princess, Lucy!”

  Her olive skin took on a pinkish hue. “Father bought me this for Palm Sunday tomorrow.” They walked together in the spring sunlight, which had broken through the clouds. He told her how they’d found nothing at all of interest at the Roman burial ground yesterday. He also told her about Carlo’s conditions in the dungeon and what he’d said about Rummy and his treasure.

  “How awful!” she said. “I never want to see another bandit again for as long as I live.” Then they talked with Brother Andrew about happenings at Harwood Abbey since she’d left. She said she often pretended to be at the convent when she prayed in chapels on her journey.

  They finally arrived at Father Philip’s cottage and opened the oak door with
out knocking. Inside stood a man wearing a beggar’s tunic and cape: hopefully not Rummy, disguised as a peasant.

  “Stephen!” the man said. It was Uncle William!

  “Come in and close the door quickly!” Father Philip whispered from within. Inside, they huddled around the hearth while Uncle William spoke in a hushed voice.

  “I have traveled along the outskirts this past day,” he said, “wandering like a cursed Northman, afraid to approach the city gates. I dare not return home while the Master watches.” His nervous eyes scanned the door and windows as he spoke, searching for danger.

  “Can you tell us what’s gone wrong, Uncle?” Xan said. “Who is this Master?”

  “I will not say his name, Stephen, only that he has ruined me. I know this is a great sorrow to you, having traveled so far seeking my assistance only to find that I am the one in need of help.”

  Xan took his uncle’s hand and squeezed it. “I understand.”

  Tears began to stream down the man’s cheeks. “I would gladly take you into my home if it were safe. Seeing you makes me yearn for my younger days, for my brother and those who loved me just as I am. Indeed, I would welcome you as my apprentice, if only I had something to offer.”

  At Uncle William’s mention of Xan as an apprentice, the color drained from Brother Andrew’s face, but he quickly recovered his wits. “What have you done to put yourself in such a state, William?” the monk asked. “By Adam, no more evasions. Tell us plainly what ails you.”

  He hesitated. “I curse the day I ever borrowed from the Master. I should have known better than to break the laws of both God and man by trifling with usury—taking loans that require the repayment of interest, as though one can put a price on time itself.”

  The monk shook his head. “This Master is a usurer then. Could you not go to the sheriff, William? Could you not report his crimes?”