by Paul Doherty
‘Why didn’t they just leave the corpses in the marsh?’ Edmund asked.
Piers grinned wolfishly. ‘The marshes are not what you think, good priest. Oh, I have heard of quagmires which drag a man down but the marshes here are not all that deep, not like you get in the Fens. The marshes of Scawsby are, perhaps, only a yard, maybe two yards deep. Like Waldis the parish clerk, the man is sucked in but eventually he’ll rise to the top again. No, no,’ he continued, ‘these men were probably attacked at night and then their assailants waited until daybreak. They took each corpse out, stripped it and brought the bodies here.’
‘Of course,’ Philip murmured. ‘And they would pile the armour in the cart?’
‘Yes, that can be hidden. But you can’t hide a dozen corpses.’
‘And the horses?’ Stephen asked. ‘They must have had horses?’ He glanced apologetically at Philip. ‘Sumpter ponies to carry the treasure?’
‘Oh, they would have killed them,’ Philip intervened.
‘It can easily be done,’ Piers added. ‘Try and sell a horse that’s stolen and you’ll soon find yourself at the foot of the gallows. Most of the Templars’ horses would have been lamed or wounded. They would have been slaughtered, driven into some lonely glade and had their throats cut.’
‘But there was one thing missing,’ Philip intervened. ‘Clothing, the saddles, the harness of these knights?’
‘Buried elsewhere,’ Edmund replied. ‘God knows, Brother, and I mean no disrespect, but God knows what else that graveyard in Scawsby holds!’
They lifted the skeleton up and placed it on a canvas cloth and continued their macabre task of opening the graves. In the end, they unearthed the remains of fourteen men. Some of the graves lay outside the church, though most were in the nave or sanctuary. They replaced the slabs carefully lest any curiosity seeker came on to High Mount and discovered what had happened.
‘Though there is little chance of that,’ Piers remarked. ‘Only the hardy hearts come up here. It’s always had a reputation for being an eerie place.’
‘What will happen in the new church?’ Edmund asked. ‘I mean to the graves?’
‘Oh, I plan to move them anyway,’ Stephen replied absentmindedly.
Philip could see Stephen was fighting hard to conceal his disappointment. They had found nothing in the graves to give them any indication about the treasure or where it could be hidden.
‘The foundations of the old priory,’ Stephen continued, ‘are probably firm and we will build over them. All this,’ he gestured round the nave, ‘will disappear. But, Philip, there are other graves.’
‘Where?’ Philip asked.
‘Just two, over here.’
Stephen led them into a far corner just within the ruins. Both walls had bushes and weeds growing up the sides. Stephen pulled these aside with his mattock: crouching down, Philip looked through and glimpsed a paving slab.
‘How long do you think these bushes have been growing?’ he asked. ‘Perhaps the poor monks who are buried here have been allowed to rest in peace. Ah, yes.’ He rose slowly. ‘I can now see two paving stones.’
Philip was sure that these graves had not been disturbed but he wished to humour Stephen, so he began to hack at the bushes and grass until the area was clear. The graves’ slabs were much more difficult to move than the rest, their rims caked with hard-packed earth. The first tomb held that of a monk, Philip could deduce that by the wooden cross buried with him. The second grave was deeper. At first they thought it was empty until Philip stretched down into the grave. He clawed away the dirt and drew out the remains of battered leather saddlebags. Seven or eight in number. Stephen was beside himself with excitement. They laid them out on the priory floor. The straps were rotting, the buckles rusted.
‘They are made of good Cordovan leather,’ Philip remarked. ‘Otherwise they would have rotted away long ago.’
They emptied the saddlebags. A few pathetic items: horn spoons, a knife, Ave beads, fragments and shards of clothing, cloaks, surcoats, baldrics, belts, even a broken spur. When they climbed into the graves they found other items also buried there. Yet, in the end, the saddlebags proved to be a disappointment. Only one thing caught Philip’s attention: a rolled-up piece of tapestry with what appeared to be cambric round the cuffs and neck. He held it up: it was thin and dirt-stained.
‘I’m not too sure,’ Philip remarked. ‘But I’d say this was the remains of a girl’s dress.’ He decided to hide what he’d learnt from the coffin woman. ‘But what has this to do with Templars fleeing through the dead of night?’
‘What apparently did happen,’ Edmund added, ‘is that Romanel must have brought the corpses here, piled their arms into a cart, then buried the bodies and all the clothing where no one could find it.’
‘I suspect,’ Philip declared, walking to the edge of the ruins and peering through what had once been a doorway, ‘that the remains of the horses and the harness are somewhere on the Scawsby moors. If anything, Romanel was thorough. The bodies and their effects stayed at High Mount: the harness tossed elsewhere whilst the armour was the most dangerous thing. Clothes, harness, horses might be found but armour would provide more positive proof of what had happened to the Templars. So, it couldn’t be hidden out here at High Mount: metallic and cumbersome, someone might notice it.’ He beat the heel of his boot against the earth. ‘It would be difficult to dig here. There are foundations and any new hole, either here or in the forest, might be noticed. The arms were taken to Scawsby, probably at night and buried deep in the graveyard, the safest place for them. Ah well.’ He came back. ‘Place all this into one of the canvas sheets. Let’s eat and drink.’ He glanced up at the sky. ‘Edmund, Stephen, I want you to take the cart to the manor house. Sir Richard will know what to do. On the way collect the Templar arms, tell Sir Richard I’ll sing the requiem Mass tonight. Only we will attend.’
‘What are you going to do?’ Edmund asked.
‘Piers can borrow your horse. I want him to ride with me out along the marshes. I want to see where this terrible tragedy began.’
They all agreed though Stephen’s disappointment was obvious. Whilst the rest ate and drank, he paced restlessly round the ruins as if they might have overlooked something. Philip sat by himself, his back to the wall, face up at the sun to catch its warmth. Piers lay down and fell fast asleep like a child whilst Edmund, now also suspicious of Stephen, insisted on following the master mason around the priory. Philip closed his eyes. He could now visualise what had happened so many years ago. The slaughter out on the marshes; the burial of the corpses; the desecration of the graves. Romanel and his conspirators slipping back into Scawsby village. But what was the treasure they had brought? Where was it buried? Surely they wouldn’t leave it out here at High Mount? Romanel, a ruthless man, would be intent on keeping a close eye on it. Philip stirred, stretching out his legs. Something dreadful had happened but no more terrible than other incidents Philip had heard about. Innocent men died every day. People were robbed. True, Romanel may have been a necromancer, a warlock, but other priests had been steeped in wickedness. Did they haunt their churches? What was so horrible, so blasphemous in what they had done that Lord George Montalt had hidden himself in the cellar, scrawling the word REPARATION so many, many times? And what did the numbers 6 and 14 mean? Who was Veronica? And where did the coffin woman come from? Was she with the Templars as a child? Philip recalled what he knew about that fighting order of monks. They were bound to celibacy and chastity. True, accusations of sodomy had been laid against them but there had never been any allegations about consorting with whores or bringing paramours into their houses. Romanel had definitely lied about the child he called Priscilla. The girl’s mother was not buried in the graveyard and she seemed to have certainly witnessed the attack as a child. Was she a daughter of one of the assailants who’d been killed and Romanel had taken her into his care? Philip sighed and wondered what to do. In a way he had begun to regret sending that letter to Rochester aski
ng for an exorcist. Would the bishop think that he had lost his wits? That he was scarcely a week in his new parish and he was already causing trouble, seeing sprites and goblins in the trees? Philip heard the clink, the sound of hoof beats. At first he thought it was some traveller passing along the road. But it came again, as if mounted men were gathering at the foot of the hill. He opened his eyes. Piers was already on his feet, an arrow notched to his bow. Stephen and Edmund came running across.
‘Did you hear it?’ Edmund cried.
Philip got to his feet. The sun didn’t seem so strong now. He could definitely hear the sound of horses as if a group of men was massing at the bottom of High Mount. He went over to the walls and stared down the hill. There was nothing. He ran to the other side: nothing except sun-dappled fields, the woods in the distance, smoke coming from the hearths of Scawsby village. He looked along the trackway; a journeyman with his sumpter pony was making his way into Scawsby.
Philip stalked along the ruined nave and into the sanctuary. He passed one of the open graves where they had yet to return the slab. Something caught at his foot. He looked down – it was a bony hand snaking out to grasp him. Philip kicked out but, when he looked again, there was no hand at all and he cursed himself as a dreamer. He went out through the ruined wall and stood on the brow of the hill. Birds swooped, trilling their hearts out. A large fox, his bushy tail held high, trotted across the foot of the hill and disappeared into some bushes. Philip swallowed hard: his throat was dry, his lips and mouth sour as if he had eaten something rotten.
‘Lord Jesus,’ he whispered. ‘Keep us safe from the noonday devil. Protect us against the barbs and arrows of the enemy.’
‘Help me!’
Philip jumped round. There was no one.
‘Help me!’ the voice whispered. ‘Oh, help me!’ The voice seemed to be coming from the well. ‘Oh, help me, please!’
Philip went across and crouched down. He peered over the rim and stared straight into the corpse-white face of Romanel. The phantasm gave a great sigh, his hand came up to clutch Philip’s jerkin, dragging him down. Philip fought hard, trying to break his gaze from those devil-eyes, that leering mouth, the smell of rottenness.
‘Help me!’
The ghost was imitating the voice of a child: the mouth then curled into an angry snarl. Philip fought hard, struggling to keep a grip on the stone rim, yet Romanel was pulling him down. He tried to scream but couldn’t.
‘Oh, St Michael,’ Philip prayed to his patron. ‘Oh, St Michael and all the Angels.’
Suddenly he felt himself lifted up and pulled away. Romanel was falling, down into the blackness of the well. Philip lay on the grass gasping and spluttering. He looked around. No one was there. Edmund, Stephen and Piers were now running towards him.
‘Brother, what’s the matter?’
Philip rose to a half-crouch, pulling back his jerkin. ‘Nothing,’ he gasped. ‘I felt a little faint.’
Piers, however, was quick. He caught Philip staring at the rim of the well. The verderer walked across, an arrow notched to his bow and peered down.
‘It’s nothing,’ Philip murmured. ‘Come!’ He got to his feet.
They pushed back the remaining gravestone and cleaned up the site. Edmund climbed into the cart, Piers advising him what paths to take to the manor.
Philip watched them go, noticing that Stephen hung back on his horse as if reluctant to talk to them. He and Piers mounted their horses. The verderer was silent but, once they had left High Mount, he pulled his horse back to ride alongside.
‘Something happened up there, didn’t it, Father?’
‘Yes, Piers, it did. Something demonic, spat out from hell.’ Philip sighed in exasperation. ‘What I can’t understand is why do I experience this? If I rode into Scawsby and told them what was happening they’d think I was witless.’
‘No, Father, they wouldn’t!’ Piers retorted. ‘I told you the tongues are already beginning to wag. My wife’s death, the death after childbirth of other women married to certain men in the village. A terrible evil lurks in Scawsby. Now I’ve been ordered by Lord Richard to give you every help. I am not a lettered man, Father. I can barely read and write. However, I know what happened here and I believe one of my ancestors, God forgive him, had a hand in it.’ Piers hawked and spat. ‘You say the people of Scawsby would mock you.’ He shook his head. ‘It’s not like that, Father. Scawsby is a pleasant village, good people who fear God and honour the king: that is the truth. Nevertheless, Father, we are really like children playing by a snake pit. As long as we don’t go near the edge we are secure. As long as we have nothing to do with trying to discover that treasure, we are safe.’
‘But I am not trying to search for the treasure.’
Piers smiled. ‘I know that, Father, and so does Lord Richard. If you were, you might have been killed on High Mount.’
Philip rode on silently. He still felt sick at that terrible vision he had seen at the well. He couldn’t dismiss it as some trick of the mind but there again he wondered who had dragged him back? Freed him from Romanel’s clutch? Someone had. He’d felt himself lifted up. An angel of light? Or were those whispers true? Were there others watching him? Constantly studying what he was doing? Whatever, he concluded, if he had not been freed from Romanel’s grip, it would have been just another unfortunate accident. Poor Father Philip who had gone out to High Mount and, by accident, fallen down a disused well. Philip closed his eyes. He prayed that Stephen had told him the truth.
‘So, Father.’ Piers took another swig from his wineskin. He offered it to Philip who seized it greedily and took two generous mouthfuls.
‘Take a little wine for the stomach’s sake,’ Philip smiled, quoting from St Paul.
He handed it back. Piers lowered the wineskin over his saddle horn.
‘So, Father,’ the verderer repeated. ‘Where do you want to go?’
‘I want to go to the marshes, Piers. You are a soldier. I want you to use your imagination. You are leading a troop of men fleeing from London. It’s dark and in the dead of winter. You have to stop at villages to eat, drink and rest the horses. Scawsby is in your line of march but you want to keep well away from the main paths and trackways. You want to be safe until you reach the coast.’
Piers rode on, thinking about what the priest had said.
‘We are travelling north,’ the verderer declared. ‘There are many paths to Scawsby, Father. I know the line of march the Templars would have followed but we have some riding ahead of us.’
He urged his horse into a canter. Philip followed.
They rode for an hour, then stopped by a small brook where they shared out the last of their provisions, drank some wine and allowed their horses to rest before continuing. They left the main trackways. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the countryside began to change. No sign of any farms or men working in the fields. Philip realised they were on the marsh lands, a veritable wilderness, broad and dark. Piers told him to be careful as they threaded their way past dark, stagnant water, foul rivulets which curled their way around small islands of weeds, tummocks and thickets. Above them curlew and snipe flew against a sky becoming rapidly overcast. A cold, dark place, lonely and flat, bereft of any sign of human habitation. Piers seemed to know his way. Now and again they would dismount but, at last, they came to a broad trackway which seemed to cut through the wilderness. They rode a distance down this, then Piers reined in. He dismounted, hobbling his horse beneath the outstretched arms of a blighted oak tree. Piers indicated with his hand along the path.
‘I suspect, Father, that the Templars came along this road. If you follow it south you’ll come to other villages. Now, if we were travelling to Scawsby, we would follow the route we have just ridden along, passing High Mount, through the woods into the village. If we were riding fast it would take us just over an hour.’ He smiled impishly. ‘I’ll confess, Father: for a short while I became lost. So it will take us less time to travel back than it did to arrive.’
‘Well, it’s a spring day, Father. Think of yourself here at night with freezing sleet and snow. Pretend you are the Templar commander. You know the path.’ Piers tapped the side of his head. ‘Before you left London you’d study the paths and trackways. However, your horses are tired and your men are starving. Suddenly you see lights out on the marsh.’
‘Corpse candles!’ Philip exclaimed.
‘Ah yes, Father, corpse candles, the devil’s lights.’
‘Devil’s lights they were,’ Philip breathed back, patting his horse which had grown restless in the eerie silence. ‘Somehow Romanel and his gang knew that the Templars were coming along this path. They used the old smugglers’ trick, luring people off the pathways with torches.’ He stood high in the stirrups and looked out over the marshland. ‘A terrible place,’ he murmured. ‘Oh, there are trackways and paths of firm grass but, for the ignorant and unwary, it would be a death trap.’
Philip sat back on his horse and, closing his eyes, fervently intoned the ‘Dona Eis Requiem’. He then looked up at the sky.
‘Come on, Piers. I have visited the place.’ He sketched a blessing. ‘I have satisfied myself and Lord Richard will be waiting.’
Piers untethered his horse, mounted, and they rode back along the pathway. The daylight was fading. Philip felt cold. He even regretted coming here. He heard a sound to his right and looked across the wild heathland: his heart seemed to leap into his throat.
‘Oh, sweet Lord!’ he whispered.
In front of him Piers just rode on.
‘I know, Father. I can see them,’ he called out. ‘It’s best if you continue your prayers and we keep riding.’
Philip, however, had to look again. Away to his right, as if following some invisible path along the marshes, a line of horsemen, shadowy, dark, were also riding, keeping them under close scrutiny.
Chapter 3
Darkness had fallen by the time they reached the Montalt manor house: the line of mysterious riders abruptly disappeared just before they approached High Mount. After such a journey, Philip was pleased to see Lord Richard, Edmund, Henry and Isolda waiting for him in the parlour. He refused any wine or food.
