The Lost Prophecies

by The Medieval Murderers

  ‘Somewhere more secure than a strongbox?’ Simon asked disbelievingly.

  ‘Yes. Somewhere where not even the most ardent felon would consider looking,’ Baldwin said, pulling a couple of boxes over to the pillar. ‘Like the interstices between stones. Look up there.’

  He had climbed on to the largest box and was reaching up into the gaps between stones, testing the mortar and pressing and pulling, trying to see where one could be moved. ‘Ach! They are all fixed!’

  ‘There’s a gap above you, there,’ Simon said.

  ‘Where?’ But even as he asked, Baldwin saw the dark shadow. It was a good few inches higher than he could reach, but he was sure that he could test it with his dagger. He tugged the weapon free of its tight sheath and probed the gap about him. To his surprise the stone moved easily to one side, leaving a larger gap, and when he pushed the blade in it slipped inside for more than ten inches. ‘Nothing there now,’ he grunted, sheathing his knife and jumping down to the ground again. ‘Whatever was there is certainly stolen now.’

  ‘You think that’s where they installed it for safety?’ Simon asked, staring aghast at the narrow space.

  ‘If you were a thief come to ransack the place, would you have looked there, or just kept your eyes to the obvious? It was a mark of brilliance to hide it up there,’ Baldwin said.

  ‘So now we know where it was, what do we do?’

  Baldwin was staring at the ground. ‘We ask who it was who came to take the body away.’

  ‘For what purpose?’

  ‘To see if the men who fetched him wore sandals, Simon. Because there has been someone in here without them,’ Baldwin said, pointing to the footprints that led from the crypt to the main door. ‘And who do we know who walks barefoot?’

  ‘The Franciscans, if they are particularly pious.’

  ‘That is correct,’ Baldwin said. He was pulling the strongboxes away from the pillar, to place them back where he had found them, but as he set the first down he paused and stared. ‘That is strange.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well, I don’t remember seeing any strongboxes by the body this morning – do you? And yet one of these other boxes has also been set upright in the blood. The gore is all over the handle and side, as though this too has been standing there at the pillar for someone to look for the book. But Alexander wouldn’t have been setting the box in blood if he found Brân’s book. The blood was Alexander’s own, shed when someone caught him with the book. So does that mean another man found the book and killed Alexander, and then put the box away, even though he knew the screams must have woken the whole community? That would show considerable courage. Or perhaps someone saw Alexander and pulled the boxes away before we saw him—’

  ‘Or someone came here like us to see whether the book had gone?’

  ‘Yes. Quite. Which may mean someone else is searching for the book too. And that could be dangerous.’

  Friar Martin bent his head at the sight of the dead man before the altar. It was fortunate that the monks had already tidied up his body before installing him beneath the hearse here, but there were still streaks of blood showing on the man’s face.

  He could not feel much sympathy. The fool was meddling with things he’d no knowledge of, nor the intellect to understand. It was enormously dangerous for him. As he had learned.

  At the end of the Mass the monks filed out silently, their leather soles crunching on the stone and tiles. The only men who remained were the prior, Friar Martin and Friar James, and as Friar Martin rose to leave he was surprised to see the prior approach them. ‘Brother prior,’ he said, ducking his head.

  ‘Brothers. I am most sorry about this appalling desecration in our community.’

  It was a dreadful event, there was no doubt. The church would have to be reconsecrated to take away the stain of murder, although fortunately it would not be long before such a ceremony would be held. No one would wish to hold up the reconsecration. The king was enormously proud of his church, and he was jealous of any who might seek to harm it.

  ‘It was a terrible crime,’ Friar Martin said.

  ‘I am most sorry for the man who died. It must have been an awful discovery,’ Friar James said.

  ‘Naturally.’

  ‘And yet it appears so motiveless. That is what is so truly alarming,’ Friar Martin said. ‘Is there any conclusion as to why the brother was slaughtered in so revolting a manner?’

  ‘What reason could there be for such a foul deed?’ the prior demanded, turning his pale eyes upon Martin.

  Friar Martin smiled thinly. He was not so foolish as to attribute motives. ‘Whatever the reason, it must surely lie within the abbey. Unless, of course, the felon has fled?’

  ‘No man has fled the abbey that I know of.’

  ‘Then beware!’ Friar James intoned. He leaned forward, his hawk-like features fixed into a scowl. ‘The man must still remain within the walls. And he is evil!’ His lips parted in a sneering grimace. ‘The man who killed the lad is the harbinger of slaughter. The bringer of death to all.’

  Simon and Baldwin took a little while tracking down Peter, the lay brother who had earlier been their torchbearer.

  He was sitting in the calefactory, warming his feet before the fire, a quart pot of ale at his elbow, while he rubbed some oil into his temples.

  ‘I get these headaches,’ he admitted when asked.

  ‘We will try to be as quick as we may,’ Baldwin said soothingly. ‘It is about the dead monk.’

  ‘Alexander. Poor fellow.’

  ‘Yes. Was he particularly devoted to any master here? You know what I mean – was he . . . ?’

  ‘He was the prior’s man. No doubt about that. He was the man Prior Stephen trusted more than any other.’

  ‘They had similar interests?’ Simon asked.

  ‘Yes. Both were very bookish. If Prior Stephen needed something, he’d always ask Alexander, because Alexander would always know which book he needed. They were natural allies.’

  Baldwin nodded. ‘Did they often work together?’

  ‘Yes. Whenever there was a special book to work on. They’d often work together then. I think the prior looked on Alexander as being a natural copyist. Prior Stephen was himself an expert. Easily the best in our scriptorium.’

  ‘I see,’ Baldwin muttered. ‘Tell me – you brought us to see the body. Had many others been there before us?’

  ‘Almost all the brothers in the convent, I would say. It is not so common that we have a dead monk in the crypt.’

  ‘No. And the fact that he was one of your own would mean that many would want to go to see him, I suppose.’

  It wasn’t a question. Baldwin had been a warrior monk, a Knight Templar, and he knew the tedium of living in a monastery. The early rising, steady days of prayer and work, always the same, with minor changes of emphasis depending upon the Church calendar. It was no surprise if something like this would attract some of those who had lived here for many years without even the hint of excitement.

  ‘I would think so.’

  ‘How many of them were barefoot?’ Simon asked.

  ‘I don’t know – I wasn’t looking at their feet,’ Peter said with bemusement. ‘But I will tell you this, though. There were plenty who’d have had bare feet in all likelihood. They’d all been woken from their beds. Not all would have thought to put on sandals.’

  ‘That is fair,’ Baldwin said, nodding. ‘Another thing – do you know if anyone moved any boxes around in there? After the body was found, were the items in the crypt moved about?’

  Peter stared at him for a moment. ‘You think anyone would want to tidy up in there? We’d found a body, Sir Knight. We aren’t all that used to finding our own brothers opened like that!’

  Bishop Stapledon met them as they stood out in the yard before the Chapter House again, discussing the matter. ‘Have you discovered anything new?’

  ‘I’m afraid not, bishop,’ Simon said. ‘The trouble is, it could easily
have been anyone within the abbey. The only reassuring factor is, it is unlikely that it’d be someone from outside. The guards all swear that there was no sign of forced entry, and the porters are content that their gates were not opened. So it is someone within the precinct.’

  ‘Which is scarcely reassuring to those who live here,’ the bishop pointed out acidly.

  ‘What can you tell us of the Franciscans here?’ Baldwin asked. ‘Do you know them?’

  ‘No. I do not think that I have met them . . . There are many thousands of Franciscans.’

  ‘Yes. And many hundreds are Spirituals.’

  ‘Who are they?’ Simon demanded.

  ‘An extreme faction of Franciscans,’ Baldwin said.

  ‘That is a harsh description!’ the bishop protested.

  ‘How would you describe them?’

  ‘As highly dedicated aesthetes, perhaps.’

  ‘I am not sure that it makes them sound any more sympathetic.’

  Simon was baffled. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘These men, Simon, believed the Joachist view of the world – that the world’s third age was coming. There would be need of a new religious order, one that was uniquely pure. These men believed in following Christ’s path of poverty. Nothing could be owned and held by them – their food must be begged from others, they should labour and count on God’s mercy to feed them, clothe them, give them beds at night. Everything. But because these ideas were so powerful, they were also unworkable.’

  ‘Why?’ Simon asked.

  Bishop Walter sighed. ‘Because the Franciscans were too successful. They began to infiltrate universities. They had to teach their men how to work, how to argue and debate, and most of all how to preach to the masses. But to do that they needed buildings. And they wanted many thousands of men to be out in the world doing God’s work – well, how do you organize thousands of men without even the certainty of ink and pen? You cannot expect God to provide a bureaucracy. Friars need organization as much as monks. The whole argument has been debated ad nauseam, and the Pope has decreed that individuals can maintain their poverty while the order can hold property.’

  ‘But the Spirituals, Simon, disagreed. They saw this as another step towards the end of the world. Because what they believe is that they will be needed to save the world in the third age. As the Antichrist takes on the Church and pulls it apart, so the Spirituals will be there to pick up the pieces and be the foundation of a new Church, one free from the corruption and profligacy which they say the existing Holy Church is guilty of.’

  ‘I do not understand. You said that this Joachim predicted that the end of the world would have been sixty or more years ago. So surely these “Spirituals” will have no credibility?’ Simon protested.

  ‘A prophecy may be correct in its import, and be . . . hazy as to the precise time it will become so,’ the bishop said.

  ‘The Spirituals believe very firmly in the prophecy – but if the time is a little out, they will be able to manipulate the prophecies to suit them. It’s been done before . . . but only by the unscrupulous, of course,’ Baldwin added hastily.

  ‘I am glad you added that,’ the bishop said ironically. ‘I should not like to think that you could accuse anyone in the Church of such heretical behaviour.’

  ‘Of course not, Bishop,’ Baldwin said smoothly.

  ‘But why should this all become relevant now?’

  ‘The prophecy about our king,’ Baldwin said quietly. ‘And his son.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You have heard it – it has been about ever since Prince Edward’s birth. The prophecy told of the six kings of England after John – Henry would be a lamb, Edward I a dragon, our king was a goat, his son will be a boar. All these have come to pass in their own way for the first three. Now we wonder what our next king may be like. But you know who was termed “the boar who came from Cornwall”? King Arthur. Some say our next king will be similar, with the heart of a lion, but strong, relentless and cunning. They already say he may become Holy Roman Emperor. Perhaps he will be the man to bring down the old, corrupt Church and help to set up a new order, based on the Friars Minor, the Franciscans.’

  ‘You should be cautious to whom you tell that tale,’ Bishop Walter said in a low growl.

  ‘I shall. But first I need to speak to the Franciscans here to see what they were doing last night.’

  ‘Very well. Go with God. And be careful, Sir Baldwin. Do not accuse these men of any crimes. You are on Church ground here. It is not safe for you to jump to conclusions too directly.’

  ‘I am grateful to you for your warning.’

  Baldwin nodded to himself as he watched the bishop stride away, peering about him with that short-sighted frown that was so habitual to him now.

  ‘Sweet Christ’s cods, Baldwin – is that right? You just accused our king’s son of being the Antichrist.’

  Walking about the cloister garth, his hands clenched before him, Friar Martin avoided Friar James’s look.

  He had seen that expression so often. The man had heavy lids, which gave the impression that he was contemptuous of others. Today he was watching Martin with keen attention, but Martin was not going to admit to being aware.

  ‘Brother friars. Do you mind if we speak to you for a little while?’

  Martin faced the men as Baldwin introduced himself and Simon. ‘I am honoured you wish to speak with us,’ Martin said. ‘But I presume this is no social meeting?’

  ‘We have been charged with seeking the murderer of the unfortunate monk.’

  ‘A shocking thing. Especially here, so close to the palace of the king.’

  ‘Yes,’ James said. ‘That adds a distinct ghastliness to the whole matter.’

  ‘The only ghastliness lies in the cruel death inflicted on the man who was slain,’ Baldwin said shortly.

  ‘You think so? I should have thought that the idea that a religious man on this side of the wall is a savage murderer, while on the other is the king, who considers this house of God as his personal chapel, was itself quite appalling. The juxtaposition of the man who seeks to elevate this church, and here, subsidized by that same king, is a lunatic who can kill in that manner. That to me is ghastly. Or is it merely sordid that I can attach such mean thoughts to such a foul extinction?’

  ‘You are too educated for me to comprehend,’ Baldwin said shortly. ‘Do you know of any reason why the lad should have been murdered?’

  ‘Me? What would I know?’ James sneered. ‘I am a stranger here.’

  ‘You have travelled much. You are a man of experience.’

  ‘Perhaps. Well, I will tell you this: the boy was handsome.’

  ‘You imply that he was—’

  ‘You know what I mean. Repulsive, foul, evil sins were perpetrated. Perhaps his lover killed him.’

  ‘Why do you think this?’

  ‘I saw the look in his eye. I have been a monk and friar much of my life. I can recognize the signs. The prior and that boy were too . . . affectionate.’

  ‘You have proof?’

  James glanced at Martin. ‘It is a matter for the abbot. You should tell him and demand that his prior makes a full confession.’

  ‘Perhaps we should allow the rumour to die with the boy, eh?’ Martin said with quiet firmness. ‘This is gossip-mongering. I ask you to be more cautious with your accusations, Friend James.’

  ‘I will—’

  ‘You will please be silent.’

  James subsided, pale with anger.

  Baldwin glanced at Martin. The man had authority, which was surprising when used against a man so much older than him. ‘Where were you when you heard the screams, Friar James?’

  ‘In my chamber. The abbot has provided us with a pleasant room.’

  ‘In his house?’

  ‘No, in a room there.’

  Here in the cloister they were surrounded by abbey buildings. North was the church itself, while west lay the abbot’s house, the prior’s standing ne
xt door to it. From the prior’s stretched a long building that bounded the garth on the southern side.

  ‘There?’ Baldwin asked, following his pointing finger.

  ‘That is the refectory, but the guest quarters are beyond that, yes.’

  ‘So your room would connect with the corridor to the crypt’s entrance?’ Baldwin noted.

  ‘Would it?’

  ‘Were you both woken by the murder?’

  ‘I was not asleep,’ James said. ‘I heard a shout, then a shriek. After that there was just a terrible sound of anguish. I think the poor boy went mad before the end, mercifully.’

  ‘What did you do?’ Baldwin asked.

  ‘I went to wake Martin, and then hurried to see if I could help.’

  ‘What of you?’ Baldwin asked Martin.

  ‘Me? I took heed of the screams and ran straightway to the source as speedily as I might.’

  ‘You knew where the sounds came from?’

  ‘The man’s voice echoed along the passageways to the guest rooms, so I followed the noise until I came to the crypt.’

  ‘By which time the killer had gone?’

  ‘Yes. The boy was slumped there against the pillar . . . But you saw him, of course.’

  ‘Who else was there?’

  ‘No one. Only me. So I ran back to fetch help,’ Martin said. He held Baldwin’s gaze boldly.

  ‘Interesting,’ Baldwin said. ‘Why was James not with you?’

  James said: ‘My legs are not so young, nor my blood so warm, as those of a man five and twenty years my junior.’

  ‘What of others?’ Simon interrupted. ‘Surely someone else realized where the screams were coming from?’

  ‘I think that because they sleep in the main dormitory, they heard the lad through their windows, which give out on to the pasture by the wall to the palace. We heard the noise from within, which was why we were so quickly on the scene.’

  James added: ‘The brothers were all scrambling about in the dirt out there. They had no idea.’

  ‘I thank you for that. Tell me, Friar Martin, why did you drag the chest to the pillar?’

  ‘Me?’ Martin said calmly, but his world had tottered. How could this man have known that?