by Paul Doherty
‘And the Watchers? The eyes? The demons here in Scawsby?’
‘The Mills of God, Lord Richard, grind exceedingly slow but they do grind exceedingly small. Romanel handed the veil to your ancestor, Lord George, so it could be hidden, whilst he began to kill members of his coven who might threaten him. The royal commissioners came and went. Romanel was relieved but the hand of God intervened.’ He glanced at his brother. ‘Remember, Edmund, what the exorcist told us: the thin line between our visible world and that of the spirits? The Templars returned to haunt Romanel, Lord George and the rest. At the same time the evil which had been done here also made its presence felt. The wives of those men, guilty of the Templars’ murder, always died within weeks of being birthed. A chilling reminder from God of what they had done.’
‘And the sins of the father are visited upon the son, yes,’ Lord Richard quoted from the scriptures. ‘Even unto the third generation.’
‘Yet there was more to come,’ Philip added. ‘The Templars exacted their vengeance but so did the veil. Romanel and Lord George had caught the eyes of Christ the Saviour and those eyes began to haunt them.’ Philip shrugged. ‘The rest of the story you know. Romanel tried to exorcise his fear by painting those eyes in the church, by trying to forget. Lord George slipped into madness, realising what had been done, knowing that he could do nothing about it. All he could do was recall the sixth picture from the Way of the Cross, Veronica wiping the face of Jesus. That’s why he constantly scribbled six and fourteen: the name “Veronica” and, above all, the word “REPARATION”.’
‘But why did my ancestor have the veil buried with him?’
‘To save it from other people’s hands. Or, perhaps, Lord George saw it as a warrant to escape hell fire; like wicked princes who want to be buried close to the altar. Romanel would agree. Lord George was buried with the relic. Romanel had the inscription written and, in the months following, he, too, slipped into his own private hell.’
‘And the later hauntings?’
Philip spread his hands. ‘Lord Richard, a terrible crime had been committed, innocent blood cried for vengeance. Evil had to be resolved, reparation to be made. Now, for the ordinary priests who came here, such things were beyond them. For those who tried to discover the treasure, by entertaining such impure motives, they were drawn into Romanel’s evil and had to pay the price, as Father Anthony discovered.’
‘But why us?’ Edmund asked. ‘Why were we different?’
Philip shook his head. ‘I don’t really know. Perhaps that’s why God called us to be priests, why we came to serve at Scawsby? God does choose people, whether they like it or not. I am not saying we are any better, or any worse, than those who went before us, but there was a task to be done and we had to do it.’
‘And now?’ Lord Richard asked.
‘We must go. The work of reparation has to continue. St Oswald’s must be destroyed, a religious community given the site to occupy, and a new church built at High Mount.’
‘And the relic?’
‘Lord Richard, Lady Isolda, she is still a maid?’
The nobleman coloured. ‘I think so,’ he stammered. ‘Of course!’ he snapped.
‘You, she and Henry must make a pilgrimage. You must take this relic back to France to its rightful owners. What happens to it in the future will be up to the good Lord and the Chasny family. Promise me you will do that?’
Lord Richard held his hand up. ‘As God is my witness!’
‘Do not tell the Chasnys the full story, in fact the less they know the better. Let Isolda carry the relic. She must finish the task of the Templars.’
‘And you?’
‘I will leave Scawsby tomorrow morning,’ Philip replied. ‘Today I will pack my belongings, as will Edmund. I must, in lawful obedience, go and tell my bishop what has happened. I must continue the reparation. Christ came to serve the poor and so will I. I will ask for the poorest village in Kent where a priest has to plough before he can eat his bread. Edmund, if you . . . ?’
‘No,’ his brother intervened. ‘Where you go, Brother, I will follow. I, too, have been party to this. I, like you, invited Stephen here.’
Lord Richard got to his feet. ‘Are you sure, Philip?’
‘Yes, sir, I am. In fact I will not even wait to sing the requiem Masses. They can be given to someone else. The sooner we are gone the better. But we still have some other business to complete.’
Lord Richard stayed for the rest of the day. He helped the two brothers pack their belongings. He offered them money, fresh robes, swifter horses, but Philip was adamant. They would leave as they came. Deep in his heart, Philip blamed himself for Stephen’s death and, although he knew he would leave Scawsby, Scawsby would never leave him. He glanced out of the window, noticing how the buds on the trees were beginning to sprout. He called Edmund over.
‘Every year,’ he said, ‘wherever we go, Edmund, whatever happens, when spring comes, when the April showers have fallen, we will go on pilgrimage. We will never leave Kent but pay homage to St Thomas of Becket: go on our knees before his shrine in Canterbury Cathedral and pray that he will intercede for us with God, for our souls, for that of Stephen and for all those who have died here.’
They continued with their preparations. They had finished and were seated in the kitchen when Piers and another of Lord Richard’s retainers arrived. The verderer asked no questions: he and his companion helped the two priests and their lord unroll the vats of oil from the cart and up a makeshift ramp into the church. Philip ordered the vats to be broken, the oil spilling out, bundles of faggots were also brought in and stacked along the oil-soaked transepts. Philip went down to the crypt and continued the preparations there, telling Edmund to bring anything dry that would burn and pile it high. After that, Edmund took care of their visitors whilst Philip paid a visit to the empty, cold cottage of the coffin woman.
He found the place desolate, the fire long dead. Some of the pots had been broken and Philip suspected that a curious villager, or one of their children, had already paid a visit here. He went through the dead woman’s belongings: nothing remarkable, only the pieces of vellum on which she had scrawled her memoirs were now more plentiful. One thing was added: the name of Catherine.
‘Was that your name?’ he asked the darkness. ‘When you were a little girl, warm and comfortable in that London nunnery, was that your real name? Not Priscilla, not the coffin woman but Catherine.’
Outside a bird screeched. Philip sat on a stool and watched the daylight fade in the doorway. He felt at peace, no longer frightened. He had learnt a great deal, in his short stay at Scawsby, about good and evil, about the human will and the need to repair what was broken, for man to answer for what he did. On the evening breeze he heard the faint jingle of harness and heard the murmured words:
‘Spectamus te, semper spectabimus te!’
Philip caught the refrain. No longer, ‘We are watching you, we are always watching you!’ The ghosts of those dead Templars were picking up his future intentions: ‘We are watching you, we shall always be watching you!’
Philip got to his feet and, searching round the cottage, found a small cup of oil. He spread this over the makeshift bed, struck a tinder and, as the flames began to lick greedily at the cloth, walked out into the darkness and joined the others in the Priest’s house.
They waited late into the night, Philip and Edmund finishing off the details, so that nothing would be remiss when the new priest arrived. They went down to the kitchen where Lord Richard was sitting with Piers, the other retainers having been dismissed.
‘It’s best if we begin now,’ Philip declared.
They went back into the cemetery, the air thick with the smell of wood smoke. Philip went to check on the charred remains of the coffin woman’s cottage, then into the church. Lord Richard had brought the small keg of gunpowder and was laying a trail from the sanctuary out through the corpse door.
‘Stay well away, Father!’ he warned. ‘When this is fired,
the heat will be terrible.’
‘Strike the tinder,’ Philip replied.
Lord Richard did; Philip watched fascinated as the small, yellow-blue flame ran along the string covered by gunpowder. They saw it move into the sanctuary. Lord Richard pulled Philip out, slamming the corpse door shut. They went and stood with the others at the far side of the cemetery. From one of the narrow sanctuary windows, Philip saw a flash of light and then from other windows the glow of flames. The fire soon caught and, within minutes, a blaze was roaring throughout the church; all the windows turned a fiery red-orange whilst columns of smoke began to escape through the gaps in the roof. The tiles began to shatter. There was a rumble like that of distant thunder followed by a terrible crash as the roof caved in. The tower, too, was alight, standing like a burning finger pointing up into the night sky. Eventually the noise, the smoke and flames roused some of the villagers, who came running along the high road. Lord Richard went out and told them to go back to their homes.
‘Thank God there’s little breeze!’ the manor lord murmured. ‘No sparks will be carried. Father, you should go back. Piers will stand guard.’
‘No, no,’ Philip replied. ‘I wish to see the end of this.’ He smiled round at them. ‘Please!’ he begged. ‘I will stay and, if there is any danger, I will come for you.’
Edmund protested but Philip insisted.
‘The fire has caught hold,’ he declared. ‘There is nothing more you can do. The fire cannot spread either to the house or anywhere else.’
Lord Richard and the rest left. Edmund returned with a small jug of ale, some bread, dried meat, cheese and a rather bruised apple. He found Philip sitting beneath one of the old yew trees, eyes fixed on the burning church. Edmund put the food and drink down and left his brother alone.
Philip didn’t mind the cold and the dark. He just sat and watched that church burn to its foundations. The walls began to crumble; the one facing him collapsed completely under the burning heat which seemed to race across the cemetery till Philip flinched and had to turn away. When he looked again the church was now a burning shell. Philip wondered if Heaven was giving it assistance; of the tomb, sanctuary, pulpit or lectern there wasn’t a trace. He got up and walked towards the fire. It was now losing its intense heat though it still burnt fiercely in the middle of the nave. Philip gasped; as he stared into the fire, he saw shapes forming, as if people, cloaked, cowled and hooded were standing in the heart of the fire. At first he thought it was just one but others, like columns of smoke, also rose up. Philip counted at least fifteen. He stared in disbelief. The foremost figure advanced towards him: like something in a dream, not walking or moving its feet, but gliding like a shadow along a wall. Philip stepped back. The figure kept coming: as it did, it lost its fiery cloak, the hood falling back. Philip made out the ghoulish features of Romanel: eyes blazing with fury, mouth twisted in a sneer, hands outstretched, formed like claws as if he wished to pluck out Philip’s heart. The priest stood his ground. He refused to be frightened. Am I dreaming? he wondered. Is this a phantasm of my imagination? He could smell burning cloth. Romanel was no longer moving smoothly. He was beginning to walk, stumble towards him. Philip made the sign of the cross. Romanel drew near. Philip could see his pointed teeth and red-rimmed eyes. Behind him he heard the jingle of harness, the clip-clop of hooves. Romanel looked up at a point behind Philip’s head. He was moving back, his mouth open in a soundless scream, into the flames which seemed to roar more angrily, then the shape disappeared. Philip spun round: there was nothing, only the yew trees and long grass bending in the stiff breeze. He looked back at the church. The fire was dying as if the flames, their hunger sated, had lost their intensity, their desire to consume everything. Philip went back and resumed his seat beneath the yew tree.
He was fast asleep when Edmund shook him. He opened his eyes with a start. It was daylight, birds were singing in the trees above him. The acrid smoke from the church made him cough and gag.
‘Brother, did anything happen last night?’
‘Yes,’ Philip replied, getting to his feet and stretching himself. ‘I saw Romanel, or I think I did: him and all those imprisoned here because of their attack upon the Templars. Romanel came towards me, a look of murder in his eyes, but then he went back into the flames. I do not think he will trouble this place any more.’
Ignoring his brother’s warning, Philip walked into the charred remains of the church. He could smell the oil as well as the odour of burning wood and cloth. Lord Richard and Piers came out of the house; walking swiftly across the cemetery, they shouted at Philip to be careful.
‘If the good Lord saved me from Romanel . . . !’ the priest called back, ‘he will save me from falling stones!’
Nevertheless, he glimpsed the anxiety in their faces so he came out to join them.
‘What you must do,’ he informed Lord Richard, ‘is now level this place. Leave not a stone standing upon another. Pull down the gravestones. Have some good priest bless and exorcise the place with salt and holy water. The house, too, must be utterly destroyed!’
‘Won’t you stay, Father?’ the manor lord declared. ‘You have hardly slept?’
‘No. Our panniers are packed, our horses are waiting. We’ll stop somewhere on the road. I would like to be in Rochester by nightfall!’
They made their farewells. Philip washed his hands and face. He and Edmund collected their horses from the stables. He kissed Roheisia and gave Crispin a silver piece. He repeated his instructions to Lord Richard and then left, riding quickly through the village, before his parishioners could find out what had happened.
They entered the woods but, instead of skirting High Mount, Philip took the trackway leading up to it.
‘Why?’ Edmund asked.
Philip shrugged. ‘I wish to make my farewells.’
They reached the top, dismounted and led their horses into the ruined sanctuary. Philip knelt before where the high altar had stood. He crossed himself, closed his eyes and said a short prayer. Edmund joined him. Afterwards they unpacked one of the saddlebags. Philip filled two cups from the wineskin they carried. He smiled at his brother.
‘Let us toast ourselves, Edmund, as well as Stephen’s memory. Look around, Edmund, we shall never return here again.’
They moved into a corner, resting their backs against the wall, reminiscing about what they both agreed was the climax of their priestly lives. Philip threw the dregs of the wine to the ground. He was about to get up when he heard the jingle of harness just out beyond the wall.
‘Oh, my God!’ he groaned. ‘Oh, Lord, save us!’
Edmund rushed to join him. He, too, stood, mouth gaping; at the other end of High Mount, blocking the path down the hill, a group of horsemen had gathered. The bright sunlight reflected on their steel helmets and chain-mail coifs. From where they stood the white surcoats of the Templars, with the great six-pointed crosses, were clearly visible. Philip narrowed his eyes. The Templars were dressed as if ready to participate in some solemn cavalcade: their horses were beautifully groomed, saddles and harness of brown leather, their weapons were of silver whilst their cloaks were as white as virgin snow.
‘Do they mean us any harm?’ Edmund gasped.
The group came forward; try as he might, Philip could not make out details of their faces. Behind the leading Templar, the rest of the group formed an expanding ‘V’ like a phalanx ready to charge. A flash of colour caught his eye. Looking down the line of horsemen, he could glimpse a young girl seated on a berry-brown palfrey, she was wrapped in a cloak of sky-blue wool. Again he could make out no details. Abruptly the leading Templar drew his sword and held it up so the sun shimmered brilliantly from it. He lowered his sword before holding it up once more.
‘They are saluting us,’ Philip whispered. ‘They mean us no harm.’
The leading Templar re-sheathed his sword. Philip heard the words again. He didn’t know whether the Templar spoke and the breeze carried his words, or whether his soul just caught an
echo. He closed his eyes and, when he opened them, the Templars were gone.
The Epilogue
The pilgrims roused themselves just after dawn. They built the fire up and the old ruined church was soon full of the savoury smell of cooking meats. The pilgrims were eager to leave. All exclaimed at what a beautiful day it promised to be. The sky was cloud-free, the sun was already strong with not a wisp of mist in sight. Each went his own way to do his or her toilette whilst the Cook, despite the ulcer on his shin, took a leather bucket down for water from a nearby spring. The horses were checked and saddled and the pilgrims, chattering cheerily amongst themselves, gathered round the fire to break their fast. They laughed off their fears of the previous night when the darkness seemed to close around them and the Poor Priest’s tale had filled them with secret dread.
Once the story had finished, the pilgrims had sat quietly reflecting on what he had said. Once again Sir Godfrey had gone out, sword drawn, to discover why they had heard the sound of rustling, of footsteps in the disused cemetery round the church. His search had been fruitless. Nevertheless, all the pilgrims confessed they had felt a shiver up their spines, as if people were outside watching them.
‘It was only a ghost story, wasn’t it?’ the Shipman asked.
‘Now, now,’ Mine Host intervened. ‘We all know better than that.’
He winked at Sir Geoffrey Chaucer: he and the little, cheery-faced diplomat from London had often confided how it was strange that so many of the pilgrims knew each other and how these stories told at night were not just fables but, perhaps, based on truth.
‘I can’t say,’ the Cook declared proudly, ‘whether it’s a story or not. I come from Scawsby. The Montalts do own land there . . .’
