Ghostly Murders

by Paul Doherty

  ‘That’s what concerns me,’ the Knight replied. ‘Surely there should be?’

  ‘I’ll go,’ the Squire offered.

  ‘No you won’t.’ The Poor Priest pushed his way forward. ‘I and my brother will go.’

  ‘But there’s nothing there,’ Sir Godfrey declared.

  As if in answer they heard a twig snap and a clinking, as if mailed men stood in the darkness watching them. Before anyone could stop him, the Poor Priest had darted forward. They watched him go, the firebrand a pinprick of light in the swirling mist. The Ploughman would have followed but Sir Godfrey held him back.

  ‘No,’ he whispered.

  The Poor Priest, now resolute, crept forward, moving slowly now, fearful lest he trip over a crumbling gravestone: the ground was also uneven, small dips and mounds to catch the unwary. He lifted the firebrand.

  ‘Who is there?’ he called.

  No answer.

  ‘Are you watching me?’ he whispered. ‘I have made atonement and I will make atonement.’

  Certain that there was no one there, he sighed and made to go back to the church.

  ‘Spectamus te!’ The voice seemed to come from the blackness. ‘We are watching you!’

  The Priest spun round.

  ‘We are watching you!’ The words now seemed to come from his left.

  Was that a shadow or a man standing? he wondered. The Poor Priest walked slowly back to his companions outside the corpse door.

  ‘There’s no one there.’ Nevertheless he glanced anxiously at his brother.

  They all walked back in to join the rest of the pilgrims. Mine Host filled the wine cups. Now they were all attention, the Poor Priest stood up and began to tell his tale.

  The Poor Priest’s Tale

  PART I

  Prologue

  The Weald of Kent, near Scawsby, February 1308

  Sir William Chasny, knight commander in the Order of the Templars, reined in and looked back through the driving snow at his companions: nine brother knights and two serjeants-at-arms from the Templar headquarters in London. They all huddled on their horses, great war cloaks protecting the icy, gleaming mail beneath. Cowls were pulled as far across their heads as possible, anything to protect their faces from the biting wind and driving snow.

  ‘Sir William.’ One of the knights pushed his horse forward. ‘We must camp. The horses are beaten and, if we go on, some of the men will collapse.’ He lowered his voice. ‘And there’s the treasure, surely . . .’

  Sir William, his face burnt almost black by the fierce sun of North Africa, lifted his hand for silence. He stared along the line of men and horses. He studied the sumpter ponies waiting so patiently and the little palfrey with its precious burden. Sir William glanced up at the sky. No stars. The clouds were full of snow yet to fall. He looked round. The land was harsh: not a tree to sit under, not a barn or a cottage, or even a shepherd’s bothie, where his men could shelter to build a fire and warm themselves.

  ‘We must go on a little more,’ he declared.

  The man made to protest. Sir William leaned across and grasped his wrist. ‘We must go on,’ he repeated. ‘Brother, we are no longer Knights Templar. We are fugitives. In France all our companions are either dead or lie in dungeons awaiting execution. Our Grand Master is the prisoner of Philip IV. Edward II has followed suit. Warrants have been issued for our arrest and the seizure of our treasure.’ Sir William pointed down to the palfrey. ‘If we are taken, that is lost. If we go on, we might find shelter, some food, some heat. Tomorrow, God willing, we may reach port and go—’

  ‘And go where?’ his companion asked bitterly. ‘Where can a Templar go, Sir William? Heaven is closed, Hell awaits. A year ago we were the most puissant Order in Christendom. Now, look at us, felons in our own country! We can be cut down by any peasant with a hoe or scythe.’

  ‘People are good,’ Sir William replied. ‘People here are good, they will take pity.’ He smiled, brushing the snowflakes from his moustache and beard. ‘Well, as long as they don’t know about the treasure we carry.’ He raised himself in the stirrups and shouted down the line of men. The wind snatched at his words. ‘We go on!’ he yelled. ‘Soon, I know, we’ll be in Scawsby. We can shelter there. Food and wine for our bellies and a roaring fire to burn away the cold.’ He turned his horse and led his men on.

  Nevertheless, Sir William was worried. Earlier in the day, before the snow had begun to fall in earnest, they had passed through a small hamlet and stopped at an ale-house for some greasy food and watered wine. The villagers had been suspicious. One man in particular, a tinker who said he was going on to Scawsby, had studied them, narrow-eyed. Sir William and his companions had not worn their Templar cloaks with the tell-tale cross. However, the rat-faced trader seemed able to read their thoughts: one of the serjeants had found him out in the stable looking at their horses. Sir William pulled his cowl over his face. Head down, reins loose in his hands, he let his horse plod on.

  The man had not, thankfully, been up to the hayloft. He’d run away but where to? Had he gone further along the road to warn others? After all, the fall of the Templars was now well known and every sheriff, constable, bailiff, harbour master and port reeve had been warned to stop and arrest any Templars and seize their goods. Sir William closed his eyes, praying for his brothers now awaiting the scaffold in prisons in London, Paris, Rome and Cologne. For what? For charges that weren’t worth the parchment they were written on? Nothing more than the ruses of cunning and avaricious princes to seize Templar wealth and lands. Sir William was determined that the holy and precious treasure from the Templar church in London would not fall into the greedy hands of such despicable men. He and his companions, hands extended over the sacrament in a secret chapel beneath the church in London, had sworn great oaths.

  ‘We will guard this treasure,’ they had intoned. ‘By day and night. With body, mind and soul. May God, His Angels, Saints and all the Heavenly Court witness that we shall do all in our power to protect this sacred gift of the Temple!’

  They had slipped out of London two days later and made their way south, hoping they’d find someone to help them. A merchant; a fisherman, anyone who’d transport them across the seas to the Chasny ancestral home in France. But would they find such a person, or just more treachery? Sir William recalled the words of the psalm.

  ‘Out of the depths have I cried to thee, oh Lord, Lord hear my voice. Let thine ears be attentive to the voice of my supplication.’

  ‘A light!’ someone shouted. ‘Look, Sir William, a light!’

  The commander lifted his head and searched the blackness: he glimpsed the pinprick of light. Then another. His men were already turning their horses. Sir William did likewise, thanking God his prayers had been heard. They left the trackway, a protective line of jingling harness and clopping hooves around the still figure on the palfrey. The lights became more distinct. Despite the iron discipline of the Temple, Sir William could not have stopped his men if he had wanted to. They were tired, dispirited, starving and freezing. One of the serjeants spurred on almost to a charge. The snow was not too thick and the ground was iron-hard, easy to cross. Sir William could see that the lights were now torches. His heart leapt with joy. If they could rest tonight, if they could, eat and sleep by a warm fire. He recalled the maps in the Templar library showing the trackways and paths of Kent. Too late, he remembered the warning given to him about the marshes and the strange lights which also shimmered above them. What had the old archivist called them? Corpse candles! Were these them?

  ‘Be careful!’ he shouted.

  But his men rode on.

  ‘They are torches!’ a knight shouted. ‘There are men!’

  The thunder of hooves grew. The sumpter ponies, despite their weariness, picked up their legs as if they, too, could smell sweet oats and soft, warm straw. Sir William heard a scream from the blackness. The serjeant who had ridden ahead was now struggling.

  ‘It’s a marsh!’ he shouted. ‘Oh, Christ, h
elp me!’

  Sir William tried to rein in, but his own horse was also mired in the mud. The night air was now rent by shrieks and cries of his men. The neigh of horses, the braying of the sumpter ponies. Sir William slipped from the saddle. The icy cold mud crept up his leg but he kept his nerve. He drew his sword and poked at the ground around him, soft, oozing with mud, but then he struck hard earth. He waded towards this. A small path, a trackway through the marshes. Gasping for breath, Sir William dragged himself towards it and began to shout at his men.

  ‘Towards me!’ he screamed. ‘Towards me! Bring the palfrey!’

  Some of his men reached him but Sir William’s heart sank. Only six or seven and the rest? The Virgin and her precious treasure? He could still hear those awful screams and shrieks from the darkness. The snow was falling thicker now. Heavy flakes, as if heaven itself was weeping at what was happening. Chasny knew he was going to die. This was where it would end. For a few seconds he recalled his childhood, playing in golden fields outside a small village in the vale of York. His parents, hand in hand, laughing as they searched for him. His admission to the Templar Order, his novitiate. He had spent his life fighting for the faith. Now he was to be treacherously killed in this God-forsaken marsh. Sir William stretched his sword towards the sky.

  ‘Avenge me, God!’ he cried. ‘Avenge me!’

  His men were now grouped around him, swords out, staring at the torches which surrounded them.

  ‘We have been trapped,’ one of the knights whispered. ‘They have led us into a marsh.’

  ‘There must be paths!’ Sir William exclaimed. ‘Just like the one we are standing on.’ He grasped his sword tighter. ‘The Virgin, the Veronica?’

  ‘God knows, Sir William,’ the Templar commander groaned.

  ‘Well, we can’t stand here all night,’ one of his companions whispered.

  ‘Murderers!’ Sir William screamed. ‘Traitors! Close with us now! Sword to sword! Dagger to dagger!’

  An arrow whipped out of the darkness and took him full in the shoulder. Chasny dropped to one knee. More arrows fell, his companions began to die. Some silently as the deadly shafts took them in the neck or the chest. Others were knocked off the narrow pathway into the marsh and died screaming as they were buried alive. Sir William dragged himself to his feet but his legs felt like lead, his whole body devoid of strength. He crouched back down and, being a priest as well as a soldier, began to recite the words of absolution for himself and his companions.

  ‘Absolve, Domine, nos a peccatis nostris.’

  He heard sounds along the path and looked up. The assassins were closing in. He stayed still as a stone, head slightly to one side. Out of the corner of his eye he watched the shapes slip through the darkness. He smiled in satisfaction as he recognised the tinker he had seen earlier in the day.

  ‘Come on!’ a villain shouted, lifting him gently. ‘They are all dead!’

  ‘But the sumpter ponies are in the marsh. They have the treasure!’

  ‘The marsh can be dragged: it’s not so deep!’

  The tinker drew closer. Sir William lunged with all his might and drove his sword straight into the man’s midriff.

  ‘Deus vult!’ Sir William shouted the cry of the Crusaders. ‘Deus vult! God wills it!’ He withdrew his sword and the man toppled into the marsh.

  Sir William felt new strength course through his body.

  ‘Before heaven and earth!’ he shouted, his voice booming through the wind. ‘I curse you all before the Lord and His Angels! I summon you before His court to answer for your crimes. I curse you with all the power my Order has given me! We shall return! Do you hear me? We shall return! We shall be watching you! We shall always be watching you!’

  He was still shouting when the arrows shot out of the darkness, piercing his body. Still the old knight shouted his curses, in English, in Latin, in French.

  ‘We shall be watching you! We shall always be watching you!’

  At last they saw him tumble, fall to his knees on the path. Head bowed, he keeled to the ground. They ran forward. One man drew his dagger and tentatively turned Sir William’s body over. He heaved a sigh of relief but then jumped as the Templar’s dagger took him full in the belly with hot searing pain. Locked together in death, the knight and his assailant, faces only a few inches apart, stared in their dying agonies at each other.

  ‘Remember!’ Sir William whispered. ‘We shall return! We shall be watching you!’

  Chapter 1

  Scawsby – 1382

  The three riders reined in at the top of the hill and looked down at the village nestling in the shallow valley below. A bright February morning, the sun was surprisingly strong, quickly burning off the mist.

  ‘A pleasant sight.’ Edmund Trumpington leaned across and grasped his brother’s hand. ‘Philip, I am so pleased I am with you. This will be my first parish.’

  Philip pushed back the cowl of his cloak and smiled. His brother was only two months ordained. Just before Christmas, the Bishop of Rochester had finished the Rite of Ordination by anointing Edmund’s head, lips and hands. Edmund, like himself, was now a priest with the power to preach the gospel, celebrate Mass and shrive the faithful. Philip had been ordained three years previously and served in parishes at Gravesend and Maidstone. Now he and Edmund had been given the parish of St Oswald’s in Scawsby. The bishop believed that the two brothers serving together would be of benefit to the faithful.

  ‘Always remember,’ the bishop had smiled, ‘that quotation from the Book of Proverbs: “Brothers united are as a fortress.”’

  Philip had visited Scawsby on a number of occasions, getting to know his parishioners, walking the village. Above all, he had studied the church which, local tradition averred, had been old when the Conqueror and his Normans had swept into Kent.

  ‘You priests should be pleased, it’s a good living,’ the third rider teased.

  Philip looked over his shoulder at his close friend Stephen Merkle. He had known the blond-haired, fresh-faced young man ever since they had shared the same hall at Cambridge. He, Philip and Edmund were now the closest friends, inseparable in all things. Merkle was a brilliant mathematician, a master of Geometry. He’d already gained his qualifications as a master mason and been employed in the king’s service at the great abbey of Westminster and, more recently, St Bartholomew’s Priory in Smithfield.

  The three friends always kept in touch by letter. When Philip had decided that the church at Scawsby was too old and should be pulled down and rebuilt elsewhere, Stephen had volunteered to be the architect. He had ridden straight to Maidstone, almost confronting Philip in the parlour of the priest’s house.

  ‘I was born near Scawsby,’ Stephen declared. ‘I will build you a church. One that will last for centuries, in the most beautiful style. Not these old Norman blocks and square entrances. You’ll have spanning arches, a rose window, transepts lined with bays. A soaring roof, a sanctuary which can be viewed from any corner of the church.’

  Stephen had gone on and on, until Philip had held his hands up. ‘Concedo.’ He laughed. ‘Stephen, you can come, though the fees will be low.’

  Stephen had drawn his brows together. ‘Philip, what does it profit a man if he gain the whole world?’

  ‘Stephen, Stephen,’ Philip replied. ‘I am a priest and you are a master mason. I expect to be poor. You expect to be rich. You have a fine house in London. I know from the gossips that you are always searching for gold and silver.’

  Stephen had waved his hand placatingly.

  ‘I’ll come to Scawsby,’ he declared. ‘I’ll accept whatever you pay.’ He had clapped his hands like a child. ‘Philip, Philip, I’ll confess – every mason dreams of building his own church, that’s the path to fame and fortune!’

  Philip had accepted: perhaps his friend would think again but Stephen had been most excited about the project. He, too, had visited the village, staying overnight in the old priest’s house, studying the church and searching for a new
site. He eventually wrote to Philip how he had found a suitable location at the other end of the village, amongst the old Saxon ruins at High Mount.

  Philip now studied Stephen closely. The mason was gazing down at the village, a rapt expression on his face. The vicar felt a twings of unease. Stephen seemed absorbed by the village and his plan to build a new church. Oh, he could understand Stephen’s enthusiasm, but the young mason had even neglected his work in London to carry out the most extensive surveys. Moreover, in the last few weeks before they left for Scawsby, Stephen had changed slightly, growing more subdued, even secretive.

  ‘Do you like the village?’ Philip asked abruptly. ‘Stephen, for the love of Heaven, are you asleep?’

  The young mason shook himself from his reverie.

  ‘Of course I like the village,’ he replied. ‘It’s a fine place, Philip. Wealthy as well. Look.’ He pointed down to the high street which ran up to the church: on either side stood the cottages and houses of the peasants. ‘They are prosperous,’ Stephen continued. ‘Some of them are built of stone. Look at the tavern, Philip. It has a tiled roof with the most beautiful gardens at the rear.’

  Philip could only agree. Even from where they sat on the brim of the hill, he could almost feel the richness of the soil, the open meadows all waiting for spring. A cheerful, bustling place. Wood smoke rose from many houses, the sound of children laughing carried faintly on the breeze. Narrowing his eyes, Philip could make out the herds of sheep and cattle grazing in the meadows. Elsewhere the men were busy, with their oxen, laying down manure, enriching the soil so the harvest would be plentiful.

  ‘Scawsby’s a prosperous place,’ the bishop had declared. ‘You’ll like it, Philip.’

  ‘How did you find Lord Montalt?’ Philip asked, gathering up the reins of his horse.

  ‘He is an old warhorse,’ Stephen replied. ‘But a good seigneur, kind to his tenants. He, too, thinks the church should be moved to High Mount.’