[Ela of Salisbury 03] - The Lost Child

by J G Lewis

  “Brother Sebastian at your service, my lady,” he muttered. “The abbot is not here.”

  “May I wait for him?”

  “It will be a long wait. He’s in Rome.”

  Interesting. “Then who is in residence here in his absence?”

  “No one of consequence.” His beady eyes narrowed. “We all eagerly await his return.”

  “You are here.” She tried to curb her irritation. She needed to be invited in so she could look at the floors, but that wouldn’t happen if she pushed too hard or asked about Vicus Morhees. “I’m sure the abbot would be pleased to have you make the acquaintance of his neighbors in his absence.” She smiled mildly.

  “I’m afraid we have to prepare for Nones.” He fidgeted with the wooden crucifix at his waist. “You must excuse me.”

  Panic flared in her chest. If he closed that door—and if the sheriff refused to investigate here—she’d never find out if this was the place she’d been held. “I’d like to make a donation to your beautiful church. Sir William Talbot and I attended services at St. Michael and All Angels yesterday, and we intend to visit regularly.”

  Brother Sebastian hesitated. He clearly wanted to close the door firmly in her face, but no doubt he knew someone as richly dressed as she could make a substantial contribution to their coffers. If word came out that he’d refused it he might be in trouble.

  She took a step forward, placing a foot over the threshold. “Perhaps we could discuss how I might support the abbot’s good works?” Her syrupy smile did nothing to lessen the grimly reluctant expression on his face.

  He hesitated. “You really must speak to the abbot.”

  “But I shan’t be in London for long,” she said with mock regret. “Just another day or so and then I’ll have missed my chance. Who is the priest conducting services in the abbot’s absence?”

  The prospect of her disappearing in the near future seemed to soften him. “That would be Father Dominic. Perhaps he could discuss the arrangements. I’ll see if he’s available.”

  Ela stepped in through the door before he could exclude her. Bill followed close behind her. Brother Sebastian muttered something in rapid English to a servant who then scurried away down a dark passage.

  Ela studied the floors. More bare gray stone. The interior of the house did not match the grandeur of the exterior. With rough plastered walls and low timbered doorways, it seemed much older than the elaborate church building behind it. Or this could be the oldest wing of a very large residence.

  They turned a corner and Brother Sebastian opened a door. The doorway was so low that she had to stoop so as not to catch her fillet on the door frame. Once she went through the door, however, she found herself in a wide, bright room with high ceilings, of quite different construction than the low stone passages they’d just walked through.

  And with a floor of patterned black and white stone.

  A surge of excitement warred with an equal twinge of terror. This is the house. A different room, though. This one had a row of diamond-paned windows and fine wood paneling but no exotic objects or extravagant tapestries. A large silver cross, with gems at each corner, was the only decor in the room apart from a heavy, plain wooden table and three sturdy chairs.

  “Wait here, my lady,” said Brother Sebastian.

  As soon as he left the room, Ela turned to Bill and whispered, “Don’t eat or drink anything.”

  His eyes widened. “This is the place?”

  “We’re probably being watched,” she whispered. They could save discussion for later. She strained her ears and didn’t hear any singing. But her suspicions were confirmed when the door opened and the young boy with dark skin entered carrying a jug of wine. Behind him came a taller, fair boy carrying two cups.

  When the first boy saw her, his shock almost made him drop the jug. But he got hold of himself and placed the jug on the table. Without glancing at her again, he hurried out of the room.

  So whoever sent this same boy to serve her had no idea she’d seen him during her sojourn here. This household did seem large enough that the west wing might not know what the east wing was doing.

  The fair one, a boy of about ten, poured the cups of wine and hurried away, leaving the door open. Ela and Bill left the cups sitting on the table.

  After a short while, the tall priest who’d led the Vespers service the previous evening entered. “What an unexpected pleasure, my lady.” He spoke in courtly French and bowed low. Ela felt oddly reassured by this fawning greeting. She was more accustomed to toadying than to Brother Sebastian’s prickly reception. “I am father Dominic de Poitieu, the present shepherd of our blessed church in the absence of our beloved abbot, who is visiting our father, the pope, in Rome. We humbly welcome you.” His delight seemed quite genuine.

  Which, upon reflection, was unsettling.

  “Some wine?” He gestured to the cups.

  “Thank you. We simply wished to make the acquaintance of the guardians of this church so we might offer our support for your good works and for the maintenance of the blessed church.” A wild idea unfurled in her brain. “Could you give us a tour of the church that we might enjoy its features—its tombs and statuary—and learn of its needs? It is of most beautiful construction and quite new, I suppose.”

  “It was completed in the second year of our king’s reign, so it is quite new by ecclesiastical standards. Fortunately for that reason it’s in excellent repair, but it has few tombs to speak of.”

  “There was an interesting statue in a side chapel I visited to light a candle for the immortal soul of my late husband. I couldn’t tell which saint it was.”

  “Perhaps St. Ebrulf. A small church in his name stood here before they built this one.”

  “How fascinating. I’ve never heard of St. Ebrulf. Does the church contain his relics?”

  “Some relics are in the catacomb beneath the building. They’re too delicate to be on display.”

  Catacomb? An underground crypt where one might perhaps hide something…like stolen children.

  “I’d be most honored if you’d show me the relics of St. Ebrulf. I could offer a donation of five pounds for the upkeep of the church.”

  His eyes widened. Five pounds was a tidy sum of money under any circumstance, and she knew it would be hard for him to say no with such an incentive dangling under his nose.

  She rearranged the purse at her belt, making sure to clink the coins together.

  Father Dominic seemed to wrestle with the situation for a moment. Which only deepened her suspicions that he had something to hide. “We don’t typically offer such visits. The saint’s bones are very delicate, after all.”

  “But I daresay few visitors offer five pounds for the privilege. As I said, I’m your neighbor and I’ll soon be gone back to the countryside. I’d consider myself graced by God—and St. Michael and all his angels—if you were to take us into the saint’s presence.” Ela smiled enthusiastically.

  “I suppose…” Father Dominic shifted awkwardly from foot to foot. “I could show you the relics. If you were to deposit the offerings in our coffers first.”

  Did he really think they’d try to cheat him? She pulled gold coins minted in Constantinople from her purse and gave them to Father Dominic, who tucked them somewhere into the folds of his robe.

  “Your guards will have to wait outside.”

  Ela hesitated. Fear pricked her spine. But could he really kill her while four of her guards waited outside? “All right.”

  The guards were led back to the front door. Ela felt oddly naked without them. But Father Dominic was a priest. A man of God. Hopefully that meant something.

  Father Dominic picked up a candle in a wooden stand and walked to the door. Ela shot a glance at Bill. She knew this house was the place she’d been held, since the African boy was here. And Father Dominic must not know that she’d been brought here, or he’d never take the chance of leading her through the house.

  Which meant Father Dominic wasn�
��t part of the conspiracy.

  He led them down a hallway with a crisp pattern of black and white stone, then into another. Up a flight of wood stairs and along a narrow wooden passage—almost like a covered bridge—that led to an adjacent building. Then down a steep, spiral flight of stone steps into a dark passage that smelled of damp.

  What if he’s leading us down into the catacombs with a plan to seal us in there until our bones are as fleshless and brittle as St. Ebrulf’s?

  These people had shown no hesitation in attacking two of her guards and killing two others. Had she made a terrible mistake coming here? It’s too late to turn back. “Have you lived here long, Father Dominic?”

  “Only since St. Swithin’s Day.”

  Just over three months. Was that a long time, or a short one?

  “Which order is this church associated with?”

  “The Blackfriars. Come this way.”

  They stepped through a round arch supported by two stone pillars and into a damp-smelling space too dark for her to see her own hand. Father Dominic used the candle he carried to light candles in two sconces on the wall. The smell of the tallow candles turned her stomach, but they illuminated the cut stones of the ancient walls. “Is this the catacomb?”

  “It is. It’s much older than the church. There are graves down here from the time of St. Swithin himself. They were left undisturbed when the new church was built.” He led them over to a long, narrow wooden box. The lid was painted with a cross and two doves, but the paint had flaked and peeled in the damp atmosphere. “This box contains relics of the saint’s body.”

  Ela thought for a horrible moment that he might open it up and expose the moldered body of St. Ebrulf. She braced herself for the sight of a shriveled, blackened skeleton, or even a corpse half eaten by rats.

  But he rested his hand on the lid. “The lid is nailed shut to protect the relics. You may pray here if you like.”

  Ela heaved a silent sigh of relief, closed her eyes and lifted her hands in prayer. Dear St. Ebrulf, please guide us in our search for these precious children and deliver them from the hands of these vile men who deprive them of their families and their futures. She hoped Ebrulf was a real saint and not one made up by Father Dominic for convenience.

  She doubted this box contained his entire body. Relics of a true saint ended up spread far and wide. They probably kept no more than a knuckle bone or a lock of hair down in this damp cellar. If even that.

  She ended her prayer since she was clearly not in the right frame of mind to commune with a saint. The foul and oppressive atmosphere reminded her of the castle dungeon, but thank goodness no living people were chained to the walls.

  “Is there access to the church from here?” She had a violent desire to leave this lightless vault.

  “Come this way.” He led them across the room. There were a few more ancient-looking tombs and some boxes and barrels piled in the corners and along the walls. “This staircase leads up into the sacristy.”

  Ela climbed the second spiral stone stair gratefully. Light from the windows above gave her courage to ask the question that had burned in her mind the whole time. “What business does Vicus Morhees have here in this place?”

  Chapter 17

  Ela could swear she saw a hitch in Father Dominic’s step. “Who?”

  “Vicus Morhees. A tall man with curly dark hair. Wears a black cloak.”

  “Never heard of him.” He reached the top of the stairs and stepped into the sacristy.

  Ela and Bill hurried behind him. Two windows high in the walls lit the small chamber where the priest prepared for services. A large Bible on a wooden stand lay open to one of the gospels, and an embroidered vestment hung nearby. “We saw Vicus Morhees leave the garden of this house yesterday evening. My guards followed him toward the river.” And killed him.

  Did Father Dominic know that already? Or did he know nothing of the whole sordid business proceeding under his nose?

  “This illustrated gospel was donated to the church by Bishop de Burgh himself,” said the priest brightly, as if her question simply didn’t interest him. “As you can see, the illuminations are quite extraordinary.”

  The illustrations were indeed vivid and detailed and the work of a master. Did it matter that Bishop Geoffrey de Burgh was her sworn enemy’s brother? “What a blessing for the church to possess such a beautiful book.” She would have loved to spend some time admiring it. But that was not why she’d come here or why she’d parted with five pounds. “I’ve seen Vicus Morhees here before, too.” When he warned me to leave London or die.

  “I’ve never heard of such a person.” Father Dominic’s face now had a taut quality, a blue vein rising in the pale skin of his forehead.

  “I wonder if he uses another name?” Ela persisted. “The man in the black cloak?”

  “Many men wear black cloaks. Our Dominican brothers, for example. I have one myself.” He headed toward a tall door that must lead into the church. She knew they wouldn’t be able to talk about such matters in the sacred space.

  Ela could feel Bill tensing. She was sure his hand already rested on the hilt of his sword. But she wasn’t about to leave here without probing deeper into the matter of the children. “Where did that brown-skinned boy come from?”

  “I don’t know. As I’ve said, I haven’t been here long.”

  “He looks African.”

  “He may well be.”

  “Is he a servant here in the house?”

  “He is.” He turned a key in the door. “The abbot takes a special interest in unfortunate children—orphans and those who’ve been abandoned by their parents.” Then he stepped through into the church.

  Ela turned and stared at Bill. Could Abbot Abelard de Rouen himself be the keystone of this child slavery ring? The thought chilled her. She wanted to dismiss it. She knew men of God were prey to the same temptations as ordinary men, but she’d never heard of one involved with an underground criminal network.

  There had to be some other explanation.

  Father Dominic walked into the church, turned toward the altar and genuflected. Ela followed suit, crossing herself and asking forgiveness from the Blessed Virgin for any impious thoughts she brought to this holy place.

  Father Dominic gave them a quick tour of the four side chapels and waited while Ela lit a candle for her husband and one for her late father. He then walked them to the door, blessed them dismissively and all but shoved them out into the bright afternoon sunlight.

  After the door closed behind them Ela took a bracing gulp of smoky London air. She felt oddly deflated, which didn’t make sense, since they’d achieved their main objective in entering the abbot’s house.

  “This is definitely the place where they held me,” she whispered, as they walked along the wall back to where their guards were still—hopefully—waiting. Two of the men had wisely stationed themselves at the corner of the wall, watching the church entrance, and they strode toward Ela and Bill. Ela signaled for them to fetch their fellows and return to her mother’s house.

  “The same dark-skinned boy sat with me in the room where I was held prisoner. He was finely dressed, like a little prince, that time.” Just now he’d worn a plain wool tunic, more typical clothing for a young servant.

  “Why would they let you see him?” Bill looked astonished.

  “I suspect the people there today didn’t know that I’d been there before. I don’t think Father Dominic would have led me through the house if he thought I’d recognize it.”

  “And did you?”

  “Not the exact rooms, but the floors were similar tile and it had the same grand construction. But the boy was unmistakable. The masked man, who I’m now sure was Morhees, bragged about him being from Africa.”

  “Very odd.” Bill scratched his chin. “It occurs to me that perhaps they wanted you to know it was the same place.”

  “But why?”

  “To frighten you.”

  “Do I look frightened?�
� She lifted a brow. She’d certainly felt a twinge or two as they’d walked through the bowels of the house, across the raised passage, and down into the dark catacomb, but now she felt like she’d got away with something. “If they wanted to frighten me I think they’d have tried a little harder. Last time they dumped me alone in the countryside in the middle of the night. That was a much better effort.”

  Bill laughed. Then winced.

  “Don’t laugh. It tugs at your wounds.”

  Ela was sitting down to an early supper when the porter announced the sheriff. “Send him in.”

  She didn’t rise when he entered but gestured to an empty chair at the table with her and Bill Talbot. “Sheriff le Duc, what a pleasant surprise. Please join us for a dish of eels in a sweet wine sauce.” She wanted him to think that she didn’t need his help.

  He hesitated. She’d been sure he’d say no, anxious to be gone as fast as possible, but to her surprise he accepted. Hilda took his cloak and sword and brought him a bowl of water to wash his hands.

  To Ela’s surprise, le Duc shared engaging and interesting details of two cases he’d dealt with that day. He didn’t seem at all intimidated by her high rank and made surprisingly frank conversation. He had good manners and, relaxed and loquacious, looked quite handsome.

  “More wine, sheriff?” She poured it herself, keen to loosen his lips. “I can hardly believe how you have time to sleep with all the crime that takes place in London.”

  “It’s a question of priorities,” he admitted. “If there’s a killer to be caught, we must catch him first. That’s where we focus our efforts.”

  She could restrain herself no longer. “Have you caught the men that killed my two guards?”

  “Indeed we have.” He took a swig of wine. “They’re imprisoned at the Tower.”

  Ela gaped for a moment. “Who are they?”

  “Two low criminals who’ve crossed our path before. They’d been tried and punished for stealing, and one of them lost three fingers for it. Apparently the punishment did not serve as an adequate deterrent. Now they’ll hang for certain.” He beamed with satisfaction.