by Paul Doherty
‘Yet what does it profit a man,’ he prayed, ‘if he gains the whole world and suffers the loss of his immortal soul?’
Sir Walter had drunk deeply of the wine of life. His young wife, the Lady Elizabeth, daughter of the powerful Redvers merchant family, was considered a great beauty with her cornflower blue eyes, perfectly formed face and lustrous golden hair. Sir Walter sighed. The Lady Elizabeth was forever lecturing him that this penance was not necessary. Yet Sir Walter knew the truth: he had lost his soul on that day some nineteen years earlier, thousands of miles away, when he had fought in the Varangian Guard at the side of the last Emperor of Constantinople. Sir Walter placed his face in his hands. He would never forget that day! The Turks had breached the walls; the Janissaries, in their yellow coats and white turbans, came pouring into the city, spreading out through its narrow cobbled streets and across its broad basalt-paved avenues. Churches were put to the torch. Clouds of black smoke hung over the palaces, but still the Emperor and his guard, their armour soaked in blood and sweat, had tried to close the breach. Their cause had been hopeless. The trumpets of their enemies brayed like demons and, even from where he stood on one of the towers, Sir Walter could see the green and gold banners advancing deeper into the city. The Varangians, mercenaries from every nation under the sun, had taken a solemn oath to stand by their master, to die sword in hand and go to their God like soldiers. The Turkish attack had proven too intense. The imperial household troops had broken. Sir Walter had found himself swept down some steps and recognised the Emperor’s cause was hopeless. The city was already given over to slaughter. More gates had been opened, and Turkish light horse came clattering through. A black-turbanned Sipahi charged at him, lance lowered. Sir Walter had cut both horse and rider down, but his helmet had been knocked off and a blow to the side of his head had sent him reeling. He’d staggered up the steps of a church, a beautiful Byzantine chapel dedicated to Mary the Virgin. Father John, an English priest known to the imperial household, had been sheltering there. He had tended Sir Walter’s wound, hiding in the crypt away from the slaughter being waged all around them. Father John had whispered how the city was doomed, the Emperor was dead, how they could not allow the treasures of the chapel to be seized by the Turks. Together they had filled a chest with plunder: gold coins, jewels, and the sacred relic the chapel held, the Lacrima Christi. Afterwards they had fled through secret passageways and dark caverns which led out under the city. They had been fortunate, making their way to the coast to secure passage on a merchant cog bound for Italy. Since that day Father John and Sir Walter had been inseparable. The priest had argued how Sir Walter deserved to keep the treasure they had seized and so his new life had begun. Sir Walter made little reference to his days in Constantinople and, if he had to, it was always in the most evasive terms.
Now he knelt just within the sole entrance to his sprawling, mysterious maze. The privet hedges blocked out the sun; the lane stretching in front of him seemed like that needle-thin alley he had hurried down so many years ago when he and Father John had escaped from the doomed city. He should never have done that! He should have stood and died beside his Emperor. Now the Furies were pursuing him. The Lacrima Christi had been stolen the previous evening from Greyfriars Church. Was that the work of the Athanatoi – the Immortals? Sir Walter lifted his head and stared up at the light blue sky. It was not yet noon. He would only begin his pilgrimage when Father John came to hear his confession, as he always did every Friday. Sir Walter, dressed only in a hair shirt with a halter around his neck, moved on his knees towards the marble stone bench. His clammy hand appreciated its coolness. He cocked his head and listened. He caught the lilting tune from the arbour of flowers where his wife, the Lady Elizabeth, and her constant companion and maid Eleanora sat making pleasant music together with rebec and flute. She always had an ear for music, did Elizabeth, and had spent hours teaching Eleanora. Other voices caught his attention – the high pitched tones of his steward Thurston, then the deeper voice of his captain of the guard Gurnell who, with his men-at-arms, always guarded the entrance to the maze. Another voice came and Sir Walter sighed in relief. Father John had arrived! Sir Walter knelt back on his heels. Huffing and puffing, Father John swept by him, sat down on the marble bench and stared at his master.
‘I am sorry I am late.’ He smiled.
Sir Walter was always struck by how kindly Father John appeared. The priest had been sheltering in Constantinople, where he had secured a benefice at the church of St. Mary the Virgin. For the last nineteen years he had been Sir Walter’s constant companion and asked for little except Maltravers’s company, a roof over his head and three square meals a day. Well, that had been the case till recently. Sir Walter blinked. He would not think of that!
Father John, as usual, was dressed in a dusty robe, slightly threadbare with a white cambric shirt underneath; his face was grey and lined though laughter wrinkles crinkled his eyes and mouth. The priest scratched his thinning black hair and wiped the beads of sweat from his forehead. He adjusted the purple stole around his neck and leaned closer.
‘I was sleeping, my lord. I was dreaming.’
‘You drank too deeply of claret,’ Sir Walter teased, dropping his voice to a whisper.
‘Don’t be fearful,’ Father John replied. ‘No one can hear you.’
The priest gazed into the light green eyes of this man he’d served so well over the last twenty years.
‘Walter, you are not at peace.’
‘I am never at peace.’
‘The killings?’ Father John queried.
Maltravers looked away. He recalled the great bloodletting at Towton some eleven years previously, the bloody hand-to-hand combat amongst the frozen hedgerows of Yorkshire when Edward IV and his warlike captains had smashed the power of Lancaster. The massacre of prisoners, the summary bloody executions . . .
‘Sometimes,’ Sir Walter replied, ‘that does concern me, as does my flight from Constantinople. The Athanatoi. . .’
Father John leaned closer.
‘Sir Walter, that is nonsense, a cruel joke!’
‘Is it?’ Sir Walter rasped. ‘The Athanatoi were the Immortals, members of the Imperial household. They, at least, stayed by their master’s side. They suffered imprisonment, slavery . . .’
‘And, according to a silly fable, they now hunt down all who deserted their master. . . .’
‘I did not desert him!’ Sir Walter retorted.
‘I know. I know,’ Father John replied soothingly. ‘So, put this foolishness away.’
‘They are hunting me down.’
‘Ridiculous!’ Father John snapped.
‘They stole the Lacrima Christi last night from Greyfriars!’
‘That’s not true.’ Father John’s face was only a few inches from Sir Walter’s. ‘The Lacrima Christi was stolen by a clever felon, some trickery and mischief at Greyfriars.’
Sir Walter was not listening, he knelt shaking his head.
‘You must reconcile yourself,’ Father John continued. He touched the hair shirt and the halter round Sir Walter’s neck. ‘You have asked for absolution and absolution has been given. Nevertheless, every Friday you come into this maze and insist on walking on your knees to the centre to pray before the Weeping Cross.’
‘It is only right,’ Sir Walter replied, ‘during the three hours of Christ’s Passion. I do it as an act of atonement.’
‘Is that why you bought Ingoldby?’ Father John teased, trying to lighten the situation. ‘Because of this maze and its Weeping Cross? I much preferred it when you knelt in front of a crucifix in some chapel.’
Sir Walter lifted his head and strained to hear the faint conversation between Thurston and Gurnell, the laughter of his wife and Eleanora, the lilt of the flute.
‘You should be with them,’ Father John urged. ‘Enjoy your wife, celebrate your life. Put away these gloomy thoughts.’ The priest steepled his fingers. ‘You had to flee Constantinople, likewise the massacre of the Prove
ncales at Towton was not your fault. Constantinople fell nineteen years ago, Towton is well over a decade in the past. Forget such things.’
‘And the Athanatoi?’ Sir Walter glared at his chaplain.
‘The Athanatoi may call themselves that name.’ Father John smiled. ‘But they’re not real. I doubt if they come from Constantinople. It’s a cruel joke perpetrated by people who have studied your past. The good Lord only knows how many deeply envy your good fortune.’
‘But the proclamations?’ Sir Walter protested. ‘Posted on the market cross in Canterbury, not to mention that nailed to the door of the cathedral itself!’
‘Cruel acts,’ Father John said. ‘The twisted jape of some malicious jester. Now, Sir Walter, I will hear your confession though I know that it’ll be no different from last Friday. In Nomine Patris et Filii. . . .’ The priest made the sign of the cross and Sir Walter followed suit.
‘Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It is a week since my last confession.’
Father John placed his hand gently on Sir Walter’s bowed head and stared despairingly at the green privet across the narrow lane. He was beginning to hate this place. He wished he could leave, yet he was genuinely frightened for the health of his lord’s mind. Sir Walter was so businesslike in many ways: a generous, compassionate man, a brave warrior, skilful in council but, when it came to his past. . .
Father John listened to the litany of petty sins and half-smiled. Ingoldby Hall was a paradise with its marble floored chambers, rich fields and fragrant gardens. Sir Walter had come here just after the war and bought it immediately. Was it because of this maze? These tortuous, narrow paths winding through yards of thick green privet? Only Sir Walter knew the way. On one occasion Sir Walter had taken him, twisting and turning, to the centre. Father John had found it a dizzying experience; the paths seemed to go nowhere, the hedges closed in like a trap.
‘A man could become lost here,’ he’d declared.
Sir Walter had merely smiled. At last they had reached the Weeping Cross, a tall, wooden crucifix, fitted into a stone plinth at the top of three stone steps and surrounded by a pebble-dashed path. Sir Walter had knelt on the step like some pilgrim before the holy sepulchre in Jerusalem. Father John believed the maze represented Sir Walter’s soul, a desolate search to find peace.
‘Father, I have finished.’
‘Of course you have.’ The priest smiled.
‘And my penance?’
Father John was tempted to order him back to Ingoldby to enjoy a tub of hot water and a cup of chilled Rhenish wine, to join his wife and sing a canticle, yet Sir Walter was stubborn.
‘Say three Aves,’ the priest whispered, ‘and the Salve Regina but, for God’s sake man, find peace! Now, I absolve thee from thy sins.’ Father John made the sign of the cross. He hoped Sir Walter might stay and talk but the knight was intent on the ritual.
‘It must be noon,’ he murmured. ‘I must be at the Weeping Cross. Tonight, Father, seeing it’s the feast of the Transfiguration tomorrow, we’ll feast well. Perhaps the Lady Elizabeth will sing?’
‘I hope so.’
The priest made to put his hand on Sir Walter’s shoulder but the knight, clutching his ave beads, was already shuffling off on his knees up the grassy path. Father John watched him go, barefooted, that damn halter about his neck. Father John made the sign of the cross, wiped away a tear from his eye and made his way back to the entrance. He did not like to linger here. He was always fearful that he might take a wrong turning, even though the distance was so short, and be caught up in the dark greenness. He glanced once more at his master now lost in his own Via Dolorosa. How did Sir Walter know the way? Did he have a map? Father John looked after the library and had discovered no trace, either there or amongst Sir Walter’s private manuscripts. The priest shrugged and made his way out of the maze. Gurnell was squatting on the grass, dressed only in a white linen shirt and dark green breeches pushed into riding boots on which spurs jingled, his war belt slung on the ground beside him. A little distance away were the four men-at-arms wearing the dark blue and gold livery of Maltravers. Thurston, the Manciple, dressed like a friar in his brown robe, was already waddling back to the house. Father John stretched and stared across the broad green meadow to the right of the maze, where Lady Elizabeth and Eleanora sat deep in the flower-ringed bower which stood near the tree-fringed edge of the great meadow, heads together, chattering and whispering. Father John narrowed his eyes. Eleanora was Lady Elizabeth’s lifelong companion.
‘More of a sister than a maid,’ the lady of the manor had described her.
Father John found Eleanora personable enough, though he often wondered how she and her mistress found so much to talk about.
‘Is Sir Walter well?’ Gurnell called out.
Father John walked across and stood over the captain of the retinue. Gurnell was a youngish man who claimed to be of Scottish extraction, thickset with thinning blond hair and a rubicund, polished face, a laughing mouth, snub nose and mischievous dark eyes. Father John liked him; from conversations with Sir Walter he knew that Gurnell was not to be judged by his looks. ‘A born master-of-arms’ was how Sir Walter described him. ‘A fighter who likes nothing better than the tang of blood and the sound of battle.’ A mercenary who had seen service abroad in the French wars, Gurnell had joined the household two years ago and proved himself to be a faithful retainer.
‘The master is well.’ Father John smiled. ‘But I wish he was at peace.’ He took off his stole and kissed the gold embroidery and folded it neatly. ‘I don’t think he’ll find peace at the centre of that maze.’
As Father John returned to his beloved library, Sir Walter continued on his self-imposed pilgrimage. He moved slowly, now and again pausing to whisper verses from the gospel such as, ‘Jesus fell for the first time.’ He moved on: the lanes became narrower. The hedges seemed to rise like walls blocking out the sun and sky but Sir Walter did not care.
‘Miserere Mei Domine,’ he prayed.
Today the journey seemed to take an eternity as the sounds from the meadow receded. Sir Walter was no longer journeying towards the cross but back down the passage of years to that group of bloodsoaked men standing beside their Emperor under his imperial banner. The image changed to that frozen copse on Towton’s bloody battlefield. Sir Walter returned to his prayers. He only half thought of where he was going; he knew the plan of this maze so well it always came as a surprise when he broke free and gazed up at the Weeping Cross. Sir Walter blessed himself and, allowing the pebbles to graze his knees, he lurched over towards the bottom step. He would first pray for those who had died at Constantinople.
‘Out of the depths have I cried to thee, Oh Lord!’
For some strange reason he paused as he remembered the Lacrima Christi. Was its disappearance a sign of God’s anger? He heard a sound and lifted his head.
‘That’s impossible!’
He turned and glimpsed the hooded figure, but Sir Walter only had a few seconds of life left. The sharp, two-edged axe cut through his neck, shearing off his head as easily as a maid would snip a flower.
Chapter 1
‘And on a Friday fil al this meschaunce.’
—Chaucer, ‘The Nun’s Priest’s Tale,’
The Canterbury Tales, 1387
Kathryn Swinbrooke stood fascinated by the wall painting just near the corpse door in Greyfriars Church: a group of yellow geese clustered round a scaffold, ready to hang a russet and black fox. The itinerant artist had painted the scene in vigorous dashes and brilliant hues. The more Kathryn studied the geese, the more they seemed like fat, pompous burgesses about to hang a rather hapless-looking felon. Whoever had commissioned it wanted to teach the lesson that the world could be turned upside down and nothing was what it seemed to be.
‘True, true.’ Kathryn murmured. ‘And it never is.’
‘Do you think the geese will ever hang the fox? I mean, in this vale of tears?’
Kathryn turned and stared up into
the brown, weatherbeaten face of Colum Murtagh, King’s Commissioner in Canterbury and Keeper of the royal stables at Kingsmead. Colum Murtagh, Irish warrior, courtier and her beloved! Their vows had been exchanged, the ring bought and the day fixed; on Saturday the feast of St. Bernard, they would confirm their vows outside the church door and become man and wife.
‘We were supposed to visit the market this morning.’ He touched her face gently.
Kathryn pressed her hand against Colum’s brown leather jerkin, her fingers falling to the buckle of his war belt. She peered closer at the white linen shirt open at the neck revealing a silver cross on a golden chain.
‘You should have a silver chain for a silver cross,’ she murmured. ‘But that’s my Irishman, nothing ever matches.’ She glanced down; his bottle-green leather breeches were mud-stained. She laughed, stepped back. ‘Those boots aren’t a proper pair.’
‘What!’ Colum scratched his black tousled hair and shuffled his feet.
‘Irishman, you are not even awake! Wrong boots, and your dagger sheath’s empty.’ She stepped closer and smiled. ‘Are you in love, Colum?’ She traced the stubble on his cheek. ‘Did you sleep deeply and dream of me?’
