The Lost Prophecies

by The Medieval Murderers

  ‘There is still blood on your ankle. And at the hem of your robes.’

  ‘I collected that as I tried to help the fellow, and as I tried to shrive him. I knelt at his side, in the gore. I had no boxes there. Why should I?’

  ‘Was he alive?’

  ‘His soul was there, but his body had failed. I did what I could.’

  ‘I see. Is there anything else you would like to tell me?’

  ‘I should like to help you, but no. I fear there is nothing I may tell you,’ Martin said.

  ‘And what of you, Friar James?’

  ‘Me?’ James said, and shot a look at Martin. ‘There is nothing I can add to my young master’s words.’

  ‘That made little sense,’ Simon said as the two left the friars in the garth. ‘The older man deferred to the younger.’

  ‘Yes. And there was little friendship between them, for all their protestations,’ Baldwin said. ‘I wonder why they are here? They are unlikely companions – one old and set in his ways, the younger more comfortable with his position. I wonder what set them to travel together.’

  ‘Don’t Franciscans have a duty to wander the country together?’

  ‘As mendicants, yes. Yet surely James is a little old for such work?’

  ‘He did not seem a very amiable man,’ Simon noted.

  ‘Hardly,’ Baldwin agreed.

  ‘What did you think of his observations about the dead brother and the prior?’

  Baldwin was silent for a moment. Then he said: ‘I dislike malicious rumours. But they can on occasion serve to help a man find the truth. Let us go and speak to the prior.’

  ‘You dislike my sharing that with them?’ James said.

  Martin was coldly furious. ‘If I hear you talking about catamites and homosexuals, I will have you transported to preach in the mountains.’

  James shivered. He had travelled through the mountains, and the idea of remaining there in perpetual cold was hideous enough to silence him.

  ‘You made it up, did you not?’ Martin hissed after a pause.

  ‘No. I was told by a lay brother. They all know it here.’

  ‘Well, you will not mention it again. I won’t have that lad’s memory poisoned. Leave it, James.’

  ‘Yes.’ James bent his head, but if Martin had seen his eyes he would have noticed the resentment flaming in them.

  So you would deny your own loves, would you? he sneered to himself.

  It took little time for them to return to the cloister, where they found the prior bent over a bowl of sand. It was set upon a small brazier, and he was stirring a pot of milk in which two quills had been set.

  ‘Yes?’ he asked brusquely.

  ‘Please finish what you are doing,’ Baldwin said suavely. ‘We would not wish to disturb you.’

  The prior gave him a surly glower, then returned to a small basket of goose flight-feathers. He had a small knife, with which he stripped the quill, and then he cut off the top and the bottom, before throwing the long middle section into his pot of milk. From the milk he withdrew the two quills and held them carefully, plunging them into the hot sand to temper them. Withdrawing them after a moment, he studied them before setting them aside and turning to Baldwin. ‘Well?’

  Baldwin wrinkled his nose. The odour of scorched feathers was repulsive. ‘The two Franciscans. Can you tell us what they are doing here?’

  ‘Friar James and Friar Martin? They arrived here a couple of days ago. Why? They are surely above suspicion.’

  ‘You think so? In that case, it must be someone here in the abbey who is guilty of the murder. That does at least narrow the field for us.’

  ‘What?’ In his surprise the prior almost upset his pot of hot sand.

  ‘You are no fool, prior. You must know that unless you wish to explain the murder by means of some form of miracle, then a man from within the abbey last night must have killed the lad. And that means someone who was living here – so a member of your community or one of your guests. It seems unlikely that someone could have broken into the abbey overnight to do this and slip away while all the monks were outside.’

  ‘You cannot be suggesting that monks or friars could have done something like that?’

  ‘Persuade me how someone else might have done it and I will be keen to learn,’ Baldwin said.

  ‘But this is ridiculous!’

  ‘Not ridiculous, no. There is some method behind this madness. Who on earth would dream of murdering a lad in so gruesome a manner, other than a madman? Yet there is some intellect behind it.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Whoever killed the boy did after all have him produce the book in the first place.’

  ‘So whoever killed him didn’t know where it was until poor Alexander showed him?’

  ‘That is very likely the case,’ Baldwin agreed. ‘Which leads one to wonder: how did Alexander learn where he could find it?’

  The prior pulled a face. ‘I shall be candid.’

  ‘I would be most grateful,’ Baldwin said sarcastically.

  ‘He put it there for me in the first place. But he swore he would tell no one about it.’

  ‘Why? Because it was too high for you to reach?’ Simon guessed.

  ‘What was too high?’ the prior demanded, glowering.

  ‘We know where you hid it,’ Baldwin said. ‘And it was high in the pillar. So if the lad went there to fetch the book down, why should he have done so? Was he accepting a bribe to seek it out, or was there some other motive for him to get it?’

  ‘What sort of lad was he, would you say?’ Simon asked before the prior could answer Baldwin.

  ‘Well, as I said, he was a good worker.’

  ‘But was he fanciful? You often find that fellows of his age are daydreamers – especially those who spend much of their time drawing.’

  ‘He had a wonderful imagination, yes, but his mind was fixed mostly on more serious matters. He was always looking for the next piece of work to illustrate, and his sketches and rough outlines were always of the highest order.’

  ‘So he was reliable? He wouldn’t be likely to take money for stealing the book?’

  ‘No! Certainly not! He was always a most devoted lad, to the abbey . . . and to me.’

  ‘Was he really?’ Baldwin said quietly.

  It was late that afternoon when Simon and Baldwin returned finally to the bishop’s hall and sat at the bench, jugs of wine at hand, stretching their legs out towards the fire.

  ‘Have you been fortunate with your enquiries?’ Bishop Walter asked at last.

  Baldwin wiped his moustache with his hand. ‘It is intriguing, I confess. The dead monk was not disliked by anybody. He knew where the book had been secreted, but that means nothing. Either he went there to the crypt to steal it himself, to look at it, or he passed the crypt and found another man in there robbing the chamber. We cannot tell which. Yet it is certainly true that he was there in the dead of night, when he ought to have been in his cot, as the other monks were. Or most of them.’

  ‘You have had no more joy than that?’

  ‘I fear not.’ Baldwin considered for a moment, wondering whether to tell the bishop of the accusation laid against Alexander and the prior by Friar James, but decided against. ‘I should like to learn more, though. Perhaps it would help were I to find out a little about the Franciscans there at the abbey. Is it possible to enquire about them surreptitiously?’

  The bishop eyed him narrowly. ‘You think that there is something about them that rings false?’

  ‘Perhaps. I know this: it would be peculiar for one of the monks to suddenly take it upon himself to steal this book. What would be the urgency? But someone who was here as a guest, now that would be different. A man who was visiting for a couple of days only, and who had only limited time in which to take the book – that is more likely.’

  ‘I shall make my own investigations about them. Friar Martin and Friar James, they are called, I think?’

  ‘That is ri
ght. Why are they in the abbey? That is what I should like to know.’

  When Simon awoke the following morning, his head mildly sore from the bishop’s good Bordeaux wine, he was surprised to see that Baldwin was already out of his bed.

  He felt bad, but not because of his head. No, it was more than that. Gradually, his memory returned to him, and he had recollections of waking in the night, visions of a skinned man walking towards him holding a book that dripped with blood, the pages all made of fresh, human flesh, with no writing upon them, but only gorgeous, illuminated pictures that flashed with fire and violence. It was a terrifying memory, made still more fearsome by the eyes. Eyes that begged for aid, when none could be given to him. No. He had not slept well last night.

  Simon hadn’t wanted to go to bed. He’d known that he was going to suffer a sleepless night. From memory, he recalled sitting up until late with Baldwin, discussing the murder only briefly, mostly chatting about the book and the kind of predictions that could be held within it.

  The picture that kept returning to Simon’s mind was that of the boy’s body, but at the same time he was afflicted by visions of the book itself. A work that must surely rank amongst the most foul in history, from its reputation. The way that the bishop had described it had been enough to make Simon averse to seeing it. If he were to come across it, he would not touch it, he decided.

  The thought of the lad in that foul little crypt reaching up to the book and bringing it down, only to have it wrenched from his grasp and then . . .

  That was where his imagination failed him. Alexander had been bound to the pillar in which he had hidden the book. Who could have done that to him? And how? The lad wasn’t incapable. He had looked quite strong enough to protect himself. Perhaps the assailant had a partner? Again, the vision of the two Franciscans sprang into his mind. He could easily envisage one holding a knife to Alexander’s throat, while the other gripped his hands and bound them behind the pillar, only to have the first begin to cut with his blade at the poor lad’s breast, slowly slicing to peel back the flesh.

  It was a repellent idea, and yet Simon was unable to eradicate it from his mind. He could imagine the poignant agony of the point of the knife settling on his breastbone, then slipping slowly downwards . . .

  What had the lad done to deserve such a foul death? Merely pick up a book. That was insane! No one deserved death from touching a book.

  ‘Ah, awake at last?’

  ‘Baldwin, I didn’t sleep very well last night.’

  ‘Nor did I as a result!’ Baldwin said grinning.

  ‘My head feels a little strange, as though it has been filled with feathers,’ Simon confessed.

  ‘There is a strange thing, now. And you hardly finished your fourth jug of wine.’

  It was a terrible thing to admit, but there were times, especially when Baldwin was at his most righteous, when Simon could dislike his old friend. This reaction had much to do with the fact that the knight preferred to avoid strong drink and only supped sparingly of wine. Last night Baldwin had drunk little, from the sight of him.

  Suddenly Simon’s belly felt uncomfortable. There was a feeling that his head was hotter than the rest of his body, and he had a roiling sensation in his gut. ‘I think I need a little water,’ he said.

  After breakfast, which comprised bacon, cold beef, some thick slices of bread soaked in gravy and four eggs fried in the bacon’s fat, Simon felt considerably better.

  ‘You don’t deserve to be able to eat all that,’ Baldwin muttered after toying with his own cold meat.

  ‘I have managed to learn a little about our friends the Franciscans,’ Bishop Walter murmured. ‘This morning I spoke to a friend who is close to the order.’

  ‘And?’ Baldwin asked, leaning forward keenly.

  ‘It would appear that they have come from the Pope himself,’ Walter said.

  Baldwin’s eyes narrowed as he absorbed this. ‘Why should they be at the abbey, then? Are they on an embassy for the Pope? But then they would be going to the palace to discuss the matter with the king. Yet here they are, remaining in the abbey itself.’

  ‘Perhaps they have business elsewhere?’ Simon said.

  ‘If that is the case, surely they would have continued on their way until they came to the place where they should conduct their affairs? There is no reason for them to break their journey.’

  ‘Unless, of course, their business is to be conducted at the abbey itself,’ the bishop said.

  ‘Such as acquiring a book which the Pope wants?’ Baldwin guessed.

  ‘That is a thoroughly scurrilous comment,’ the bishop said with finality.

  ‘But what else could they be doing?’

  ‘I do not know, but I have been told that Martin is one of the most highly regarded friars in his order.’

  ‘What of James?’

  ‘His reputation is more . . . ambivalent.’

  ‘Interesting,’ Baldwin murmured.

  ‘Why?’ Simon asked.

  ‘If they are truly on an embassy from the Pope, surely he would pick two men of equal integrity? Not one above reproach and one who was less than spotless?’

  They were soon at the abbey, and Baldwin led the way into the abbey’s grounds. Once there, they crossed the northern tip of the abbey church and went down to the abbot’s house.

  The young novice, Robert, who had served them wine the day before, was at the abbot’s door when they knocked.

  ‘He is very busy, Sir Baldwin.’

  ‘Ask him if he could make a little time to speak to us.’

  The boy looked reluctant, but he did as he was bid and soon returned to take them up to the abbot’s hall. Here they found the abbot standing near his fire, head jutting pugnaciously. ‘Well?’

  ‘Abbot John, we do not wish to make your life more difficult,’ Baldwin said soothingly. ‘As you know, we have been asked to find out who was responsible for the murder of Alexander. Is there anything you can tell us which could help us?’

  ‘What on earth could I know? Do you suspect me of the murder?’

  ‘Abbot, please. We have heard nothing but good about your ministry here. No, I do not accuse you.’

  ‘That is good. I have spent all my waking hours doing the very best possible for this house since I was elected to the abbacy. I will not tolerate any insinuations about my work. How could anyone think that I would do anything to harm this house? I love it with all my heart.’

  ‘It has been through hard troubles in the last years, I think?’

  ‘Under Abbot Wenlock it was sorely tested. He was . . . well, he was a weakly man. Many of us are. He misused his position, and that meant his monks could misbehave as well. They were involved in frolics with whores, they consorted with gamblers and gamers, and then there were the robberies.’

  ‘More than one?’ Simon asked. ‘We heard only of the attempt on the crown jewels.’

  ‘Which attempt? There were many. Once a short while after the loss of Acre, again at the turn of the century. And did you know that a hundred pounds were stolen from the money given to the abbey for the chantry Masses to be held for Queen Eleanor on her death? Can you imagine that? Monks stealing from money donated for the good of a woman’s soul!’

  ‘Is that why the king had the men skinned and set their hides on the door?’ Baldwin asked.

  ‘Probably. It was a good reminder to the monks about the sort of treatment they could expect if they were to misbehave again. Not that the king trusted them after that, and nor did his son. The crown jewels were removed after the last attempt, and now they’re stored in the Tower of London, I believe.’

  ‘At least that must have been the end of the problems here, though,’ Simon said.

  ‘Would that that was true! After the disaster of the robbery, many of the monks were held in the Tower, and even when they were released the king never forgave them. They fell to internal squabbles. Disputes that could serve no useful purpose, but led only to the diminishment of the abbey. It
did not stop until the old abbot died. Fortunately, since then we have had a period of calm and have re-established some sense of purpose.’

  ‘Only to see it savaged by this latest disaster,’ Baldwin finished for him.

  ‘Exactly! How can I possibly hope to protect my community from news of a terrible murder like this?’

  ‘You cannot save it entirely, but if the killer is located and brought to some kind of justice then at least there will be some resolution. If the killer is not found, matters will be a great deal worse.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘All will think that the murderer remains here within your walls. Not only outsiders, but those within your community will remain distrustful of their own brothers. Lay brothers will look askance at the brethren in the choir; those in the choir will be doubtful of their companions; all those outside the abbey will wonder who was responsible. It will never be possible to clear the taint unless you help us to find the actual murderer.’

  It did make sense. The abbot was silent for a period, staring hard at Baldwin. Then he turned away and gazed through his window. It was all very perplexing. The abbey was his responsibility, as was the community within. The book was very important. It had to be kept from the eyes of those who could not understand it. It was too provocative, too sensational. Too dangerous. But he had another duty. As the abbot, he had to protect the abbey itself. The abbey was more than merely a collection of monks – it was a small outpost of God’s on this very tainted soil. Monks had a duty to serve and save souls, but the abbey was more than merely the sum of their efforts. Eventually, he sighed. ‘Very well. I will do all I may.’

  ‘We know of the book already. Do you think that Alexander could have been selling it for his own benefit?’

  Now he had chosen the path of honesty, it was easier to answer. ‘No. I think that the lad was incapable of such an action. I tell you plainly, I never acted as confessor to him, and so can be honest: he never struck me as particularly bright. He was a good illuminator, true, but no more than that. He would never have plotted anything, I believe, to the detriment of the abbey. He did not have the imagination, and he was not evil.’