by Paul Doherty
‘I’ve found something,’ he said. ‘It’s not much. This,’ he tapped the small, grease-covered ledger in his hand, ‘is the record kept of all the patients, well, like the one you described, who were incarcerated here. Read the entry.’
He thrust the open ledger into Philip’s hand, indicating with his stubby finger the entry for July 1312.
‘“Today, the feast of St Bonaventure, died Romanel, former priest of the church of St Oswald’s in Scawsby, Kent. He died raging against God and man. He believed devils were thronging about his bed, eager to pluck his soul to hell. The said Romanel, who covered his cell with paintings of human eyes, talked of Those who were watching him and, in his delirium, said all he could see were a dreadful pair of eyes. Whether he had lost his wits, or was of wicked nature, is not known. He raged constantly, refusing food, drink or any solace, be it corporal or spiritual. In his dying whispers, he said that High Mount held a treasure and that the High Mount was responsible. He died shortly before Vespers and was buried in the common grave near Charterhouse,”’ Philip read out.
Philip stared at the entry: written in Latin, this scribe had also used the words ‘Mons Alta’ to describe High Mount.
‘He wasn’t talking about the High Mount,’ Philip whispered. ‘He was talking about Montalt.’
‘Father Philip?’
The priest looked up.
‘I thought I had heard of your Scawsby before. Our archivist just reminded me. We had a master mason here. What was his name? Ah yes, Stephen Merkle. He, too, was very interested in that entry!’
Chapter 2
In his chamber in the Priest’s house at Scawsby, Stephen Merkle sat slumped on a stool staring down at his hands. The floor around him was littered with his drawings; pieces of vellum and parchment, screwed up and tossed in a corner. Merkle put his face in his hands. He couldn’t lie, not to himself. He’d come to Scawsby to build that church but, always at the back of his mind, were the legends of the Templar treasure. When he had heard about his friend’s appointment to this benefice, Stephen could hardly believe his good fortune. And, when Philip had begun to talk about building a new church, Stephen saw it as a sign from God. He had done his studies carefully. He had heard about Romanel and, when he had worked as a master mason at St Bartholomew’s, he’d taken time off to study the end of that ill-fated priest more closely.
Stephen truly believed that he could find the treasure, enrich himself and his friends, perhaps even pour some of the money into a new church. It looked to be so easy. Stephen had really believed the treasure was out at High Mount. Now he conceded he’d been chasing will-o’-the-wisps, like the tendrils of that damn fog which seeped in, curling round the village, cloaking the church in a sea of grey. Stephen took his hands away. But if it wasn’t at High Mount?
‘It must be in the church!’ he exclaimed. ‘Or the cemetery.’
Stephen had listened very carefully to Philip’s discussion with the exorcist. Oh, he accepted there was a curse but he felt he was in no danger. What intrigued Stephen were Philip’s references to the old coffin woman. If she wasn’t Romanel’s daughter, who was she? Did she know something? Could she help?
Stephen went to the window and opened the shutters. Night was falling. He breathed a sigh of relief, the sky looked clear: for the first time ever he heard the chatter of birds in the cemetery. Perhaps the exorcist had lifted the curse? Perhaps it was safe? He would have liked to have talked to the old stone-cutter. Had Father Anthony also reached the conclusion that the treasure was buried in the church? He stared across the cemetery. From where he stood he could glimpse the faint glow of candlelight through one of the narrow sanctuary windows: the coffin woman was keeping her vigil.
Stephen closed the shutters and stood listening. The house was empty. Edmund had gone visiting, ever eager to stay away from the house whilst his brother was absent, as well as use the occasion to get to know his parishioners more closely. Stephen gnawed at his lip. He’d made promises to Edmund but what happened if he could prove them all wrong? He picked up his cloak, swung it about him, left his chamber and went downstairs and out across the graveyard.
A soft, balmy evening full of the promise of spring. Stephen breathed in deeply. Surely Edmund would have no objection to him asking the old woman a few questions? The side door was unlocked. He opened it and went inside. Even the church seemed a little brighter. The old woman was in the sanctuary, hands clasped, staring at the crucifix above the high altar. Stephen knelt beside her. She took no notice so he coughed and she turned, eyes watchful.
‘What do you want, friend of the priest?’
‘My name is Stephen.’
‘I know your name and I know your heart,’ she retorted. ‘You search for the treasure of the Temple. You break your promise to your friend and trample where even angels would fear to tread.’
Stephen got to his feet. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Your friend the priest. He’s a good man. He and his brother are people of God: their hearts are clean but you are different.’ She tapped the side of her head. ‘They have made me think. They have brought back memories. I was there, you know,’ she continued in a rush as if wanting to confess. ‘I was there that dreadful night. Out on the marshes when the Templars were attacked. Oh yes.’ She brushed the hair away from her face. ‘Good men, strong soldiers.’
‘You were there?’ Stephen took a step forward. ‘You were there!’
The woman backed away. ‘I shouldn’t have said that!’ she babbled.
‘No, no, please!’
Stephen went to grip her by the shoulder but the old woman, now frightened, struggled: her body was so thin and frail, Stephen’s hand slipped and her ragged cloak ripped. She staggered and fell back. Stephen went to catch her but her body hit a small plinth, the base of a statue long gone. Stephen watched in horror as the back of the old woman’s head hit the jagged stone with a crack like that of an axe hitting wood. She opened her eyes, almost smiling up at him. She then gave a small cough and her head slumped sideways.
‘Oh no! Oh my God, no!’
Stephen crouched beside her and felt vainly for the pulse in her neck. The skin was dry, even cold, as if her spirit, only too eager to be gone, had sprung from the corpse. He laid her down carefully, resting her head against the floor. When he took his hand away, he noticed the streaks of blood. Stephen got to his feet, wiping his fingers on his jerkin, and stared up at the cross.
‘I did not mean to kill her,’ he whispered.
The carved face of his Crucified Saviour stared impassively back. Stephen’s mouth went dry. He had killed a woman in the sanctuary of a church, her blood was on his hands. He ran through the rood screen but stopped in horror. The eyes painted on the pillars down the church now seemed to be glowing with a life of their own whilst, in the transepts on either side, he heard the shuffling of mailed feet and the clink of harness. Stephen recalled the words of the exorcist, about how the sanctuary was safe, yet, try as he might, he couldn’t go back. Something evil, something loathsome was crawling through the darkness towards him. Stephen drew his dagger.
‘I didn’t mean to!’ he shouted. ‘I didn’t mean to kill her!’
‘Spectamus te, semper spectamus te!’ The words came in a whisper. ‘We are watching you, we are always watching you!’
Stephen turned.
‘Spectamus te, semper spectamus te!’
Now the words were chanted, deep-throated as if some invisible choir was watching him. Suddenly the corpse door slammed shut. Stephen whirled round. He could see the Montalts’ tomb and the door into the sanctuary where the corpse woman lay. He should go back but a plume of black smoke was coming up out of the floor. The phantasm took shape. Romanel was standing there, head lowered, those malevolent eyes watching him.
‘Spectamus te! Semper spectamus te!’
The words were now being roared at him. Stephen dropped his dagger and ran. If he could only reach the main door of the church, lift the bar and escape into the
night. He fled, those awful sepulchral voices still chanting; behind him, a slithering, malevolent evil. Stephen lifted the bar and tugged at the door but it was locked. He turned. Romanel was gliding down the church towards him. The small door to the tower was open. Stephen rushed through, sweat pouring, heart pounding like a drum. He climbed the spiral staircase. Halfway up he paused, the chanting in the church had stopped but then he heard it: the tap, tap of booted feet. Someone was following him up the steps. Stephen ran on and reached the top; pushing back the trap door, he climbed onto the roof of the tower, sucking in the cold night air, staring wildly up at the stars. He pushed the trap door down and ran to the crenellated wall.
‘Help me! Help me!’ he screamed into the night.
The breeze caught his words and whirled them away like dry leaves in autumn. Stephen kept on shouting. Perhaps someone would hear. Perhaps Edmund would return. He heard the jingle of harness and looked down. A group of knights sat on their horses in the cemetery below. They were mailed and coifed. The great, white cloaks over their shoulders bore the six-sided Templar cross. Stephen sobbed in terror. Behind him the trap door fell back with a crash. Romanel climbed out and stood staring at Stephen. He then walked towards him, hands extended, as if desirous of exchanging the kiss of peace. Stephen moved sideways. He felt the gap in the wall. Romanel lunged. Stephen fell back. He missed his footing. Slowly his body went over and, hands clawing at the air, Stephen Merkle, master mason, fell like a stone from the tower of St Oswald’s church.
Philip left London early the following morning, certain that he had the key to the mystery to his haunted church and the curse which lay on Scawsby. He rode hard, stopping just after noon at a tavern on the old Roman road where his horse was rested, watered and fed. Philip then rode on. The weather was good, the breezes brisk, the sky free of clouds so the trackways and roads were hard underfoot and the streams and brooks easy to ford. He stopped at a priory and, after he had celebrated Mass the following morning, rode on. He breathed a sigh of relief when High Mount came into view. So immersed was he in what he had learnt, Philip let his horse amble as he made his way along the trackway through the woods to Scawsby.
At first Philip thought he was by himself. After all, it was mid-morning, the men would be out in the fields, the women busy at the loom or tending children. Philip heard a creak and, looking up, reined in. The forest trackway narrowed just as it reached the centre, now a cart blocked the way. Philip raised his hand in the sign of peace.
‘Good morrow, sir. I am Philip, priest of Scawsby.’
The carter made no friendly sign back. Philip felt a touch of cold at the back of his neck. He looked more closely. The horse was black and the man sitting in a seat had the reins wrapped round his hands. He was cloaked and muffled, a black, broad-brimmed hat pulled over his eyes. Philip moved his horse sideways. The cart stood still on the path. Philip glimpsed the coffin, covered with a purple burial pall, which lay across it. His horse, though tired, became restless and skittish.
‘If you want to pass on,’ Philip called, ‘then I’ll stand aside.’ He urged his horse off the road onto the grassy verge. ‘In the name of God!’ he called. ‘The way is free. Come forward!’
The cart still stood silently. Philip was now fighting hard to keep his horse from bolting.
‘Then damn you!’ Philip shouted.
He urged his horse forward along the grassy verge. He was almost up to it when the cart abruptly sprang into life, the man flicking the reins. The cart rumbled forward, faster than Philip thought: so quick he was frightened that the coffin jutting out would catch him a glancing blow. He pulled the horse aside, further away from the road. As the cart passed, his horse, ears flat, eyes rolling, reared up, his hooves scything the air. Philip shouted and turned and, even as he did, he glimpsed Romanel’s face leering at him from under the broad-brimmed hat. Philip, however, now had to cope with his horse and, by the time he had it soothed, the cart had vanished. Philip dismounted and, hobbling his horse, just knelt, his chest sobbing with the exertion. He did not know whether he had seen a vision or was it some devilish trick playing upon his tired mind? Or a warning that he had come back and must still face the horrors? When he recovered his composure, Philip loosened his horse and rode on into the village. He’d hardly entered the high street when he knew something was wrong. The houses were closed and shuttered and, as he passed the tavern, the old stone-cutter shouted out, pointing up towards the church.
Philip found the cemetery thronged with people: women, children, men from the fields, all gathered round the two corpses which lay on sheets stretched out on the grass. In the far corner of the cemetery, Philip glimpsed the carpenter nailing together two makeshift coffins. At first he thought one of the corpses was his brother.
‘Edmund!’ he shouted, hurriedly dismounting.
One of the villagers grasped his hand.
‘It’s the coffin woman,’ the man gruffly informed him. ‘She was found dead in the sanctuary and your friend the mason, he fell from the tower.’
As Philip reached the corpses, Edmund and Lord Richard came out of the church. Philip stared down at the bodies. Both looked as if they were asleep, though the right side of Stephen’s face was all bruised, whilst his head hung slightly askew. Philip crossed himself and knelt down between the two. Edmund came over and patted him on the shoulder.
‘Last night,’ his brother declared, ‘I came home. I found the doors of the church open. The old woman was lying in the sanctuary, Stephen at the foot of the tower.’
Philip crossed himself and got to his feet.
‘Do you know what happened?’
Lord Richard shook his head. ‘As Lord of the Manor, Father, I am also coroner and justiciar. I had the bodies laid out here and declared their deaths by misadventure.’ His voice dropped to a whisper. ‘But we both know . . .’
‘Yes, yes, we do,’ Philip replied. He was stricken by both deaths, still fearful of what he had glimpsed in the woods but now ruthlessly determined to implement his plan. He had warned Stephen: what more could he have done? ‘Lord Richard,’ he declared, ‘I’d be grateful if both bodies could be coffined and taken to your private chapel. Let them be buried quickly in the manor grounds and, when this business is over, I will sing a requiem. Edmund, clear the cemetery! It is not safe for people to be here!’
Philip knelt once more. He finished his prayers, then gently sketched the sign of the cross on each forehead, and although Edmund murmured that he had done the same, whispered the words of absolution. He gently stroked the old lady’s worn hands.
‘Be at peace,’ he prayed. ‘Go and join those who went before you. Tell them I have kept faith. I will continue to do so and bring peace to this benighted spot.’ He turned and stared at the white face of his dead friend. ‘Whatever sins you have committed,’ he murmured, ‘may the Lord Jesus forgive you and see them as weakness rather than malice.’
Philip stood up. He brushed the grass from his knees and, ignoring the curious looks of his parishioners, walked back into the Priest’s house. Roheisia would have fussed around him, like a clucking hen, but Philip, trying to be as genial as possible, told her to put the food on the table and leave as soon as possible. Once she had, Philip brought out some wine and filled three cups. He then cut the meat pie Roheisia had baked and shared that, with a small dish of vegetables, on to three traunchers. Edmund and Lord Richard arrived. Philip ushered them into the kitchen. He closed the doors and windows, took some holy water from a small phial and blessed the kitchen. He said grace and invited his two companions to eat with him. They did so. No one spoke. Edmund kept glancing at his brother who just shook his head. Lord Richard looked tired, dejected, as if the two recent deaths had proved too much. He sat toying with his food, lips moving soundlessly. Finally, he drained his cup and slammed it down on the table.
‘Will this business never end?’
‘Very soon,’ Philip replied. ‘At least, I think it will. But what happened last night?’
‘He must have slipped,’ Edmund spoke up. ‘Lost his footing and fell between the crenellations.’
‘Romanel pursued him!’ Philip declared. ‘The exorcist said that there was an evil presence in the nave. Stephen would not deliberately intend to harm the poor woman but he had her blood on his hands, that made him vulnerable.’ Philip paused and stared into the flickering embers of the fire.
‘And your journey to London?’ Edmund asked quickly.
‘I think I know what happened,’ Philip replied. ‘Only one last thing remains. Come, follow me.’
He led them out of the house, across the cemetery to the church. Before he unlocked the door, he asked Edmund to bring picks and shovels from an outhouse, whilst he enquired of Lord Richard if there was oil kept at the manor.
‘A great quantity,’ Montalt replied.
‘I am going to ask you a great favour,’ Philip declared. ‘I want your permission that, when we have finished here, we burn this church to the ground.’
Montalt studied the priest’s face, white and drawn, though his eyes were clear and firm.
‘Is that the only way, Father?’
‘Believe me, sir, it is the only way. I will remove the host from the pyx and consume it. Everything else, including the tomb of your ancestor Lord George, must be consigned to the flames.’ Philip tugged at Lord Richard’s sleeve. ‘When you return to the manor, ask Piers to bring down the oil and other combustibles. Do you have any gunpowder?’ he added.
