The Lost Prophecies

by The Medieval Murderers

  ‘So who do you accuse, friar?’ Baldwin asked.

  ‘The abbot himself, perhaps! He wants to protect his abbey from the poison of sodomy, I am sure! If he sought to defend his institution against such behaviour, he would be serving God!’

  Simon strolled with Baldwin back into the abbey’s grounds. ‘Why don’t you like friars, Baldwin?’

  ‘It is not all friars, only the Franciscans. They are often untrustworthy. Some say that they will manipulate the truth in order to promote their own perfection.’

  ‘I seem to recall that it was you who said that.’

  ‘Really? Then perhaps it is my prejudice which is coming to the fore, then,’ Baldwin said with a short grin. ‘But it is still true, nonetheless. There are some in that order who consider themselves superior to everyone else. In their warped view, they matter more than all others, because they are hastening the third age of the world into being. That means they are sanctioned to do anything to bring about the arrival of the Antichrist.’

  Simon shivered. ‘Do you think that he is truly coming now?’

  ‘Simon, Simon, do you know how many men have predicted the end of the world? Do you know how many have been disappointed in their predictions? There were those who thought the end of the world would come in the year of Our Lord 1000. More predicted it would be a few years later. Joachim said it would be 1260 when the Antichrist would appear. Others said that when Acre fell, four and thirty years ago, the end of the world was coming, because God had taken His lands away from His people and given them to the Muslims.’

  ‘Don’t you believe that Christ will return?’

  ‘Of course I do – but I believe that it will be at a time of His choosing, and not predicted by a monk hundreds of years ago wearing a hair shirt and sitting in a draughty room on a bog in Ireland!’

  ‘What do we do now?’

  ‘It’s clear enough that the two friars wish us to believe that the abbot was responsible.’

  ‘Yes.’ Simon nodded grimly. ‘You are not sure?’

  ‘No. But James is convinced.’

  ‘Or he wishes to divert our attention from him. Let us go and confront the abbot, then. Perhaps he will confess?’

  ‘I doubt it greatly,’ Baldwin said. ‘And yet there is merit in speaking to him again. If nothing else, to warn him of James’s suspicions.’

  They had come to the outer wall of the abbot’s house, and Baldwin knocked.

  ‘Of course, all we need to do is find the book, and we shall have our felon.’

  ‘But who has it? That is the question,’ Simon agreed mournfully.

  They were ushered into the abbot’s hall a few moments later.

  ‘What now? I thought I’d told you all I could.’

  ‘I wanted to enquire about the Franciscans. Are they here to take the book away?’

  Abbot John leaned back in his chair and growled. ‘They are not. They were sent by the Pope to discuss other matters. Matters of international importance.’

  Baldwin nodded. Martin had said that the Pope was attempting to smooth over the diplomatic chasm that had opened in English and French relations. ‘I see. And Martin is a papal envoy, then?’

  ‘Yes. I have been discussing matters with him.’

  ‘You realize he knows all about the book?’

  ‘What if he does?’

  ‘Perhaps he wished to acquire it for his own purposes?’

  ‘What possible reason could he have for wanting it? No. He is here for other business which does not concern you.’

  ‘His companion, James. Do you know much of him?’

  ‘No, in truth. I know that he has been well regarded by his confrères, though.’

  ‘He is old and experienced.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘While his companion is a great deal younger,’ Baldwin said reflectively.

  ‘What of it? In this age, men of ability will rise.’

  ‘Absolutely. And there is greatness in a Church that rewards merit.’

  ‘Quite so.’

  ‘And yet . . . To have a man of James’s ability relegated to the post of clerk to a man half his age must surely be galling to his sensibilities?’

  ‘He is a man who has grown old in the service of God. He will not feel such jealousy, if that is your inference.’

  ‘Perhaps you are right.’

  ‘And what of it? A man like him would scarce kill two because he wished for recognition.’

  Baldwin was quiet for a moment, and gradually his eyes narrowed as though he had suddenly thought of a fresh and uniquely unwholesome aspect to the mystery. ‘But would another man kill for that, I wonder?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Baldwin was suddenly on his feet. ‘Simon, come! I have some thoughts I need to consider.’

  Friar James could see his friend’s eyes on him all the way from the refectory to the guest chamber.

  ‘So, then. Are we ready to depart?’

  ‘Oh, I think so. There is little more to discuss here, after all,’ Martin said. He crossed the chamber to their bed and took up his leather scrip. ‘We have done all we may here.’

  ‘The abbey is in a ferment,’ James growled. ‘Should we not remain here for a little longer?’

  ‘For what purpose?’ Martin snapped. ‘There are two already dead. Would you have us remain here? In faith, my friend, I swear it would be best for both of us to depart and report to our master.’

  It was at that moment that Baldwin opened the door and entered.

  ‘Sir Baldwin, you do have a habit of appearing when least expected.’

  ‘You are to leave?’

  ‘You overheard us?’ James growled.

  ‘You were not hiding your conversation. Now, tell me, to which master do you return to report?’

  ‘We have only one master – God!’

  ‘Ah,’ Baldwin said and nodded sagely. ‘That is true in general, but here on earth you make reports to the Pope – and to your own general, of course.’

  Friar Martin was smiling now. ‘And you suggest that this is unfortunate? We are loyal servants.’

  ‘Loyal enough, perhaps, to kill in your service.’

  ‘That is a disgraceful suggestion!’ James blurted loudly. ‘You dare accuse Friar Martin of murder?’

  ‘You suspect it already, my friend,’ Baldwin said mildly.

  James opened his mouth to deny it, but then he slowly allowed his head to droop, and his eyes would not meet Baldwin’s.

  ‘Besides,’ Baldwin continued, ‘if I were to suspect you, I should only have to accuse you, and you would confirm or deny the crime. And no matter which the case was, you would escape punishment, because you are in possession of benefit of clergy. You could confess here and now and no English king would dare to take you. Not since the death of St Thomas has a secular officer brought justice to a priest. Neither priest, vicar, monk nor friar can be held under the laws of England, save by his own Church master.’

  ‘So? Then why do you persecute us?’

  ‘Hmm? I do not mean to. No, I merely wished to know what you would do with the Black Book of Brân were you to discover it.’

  Martin smiled gently. ‘You are an intelligent man, Sir Knight. I am surprised you never sought to ask me before. But I fear I have to be honest. I would take it. My general would dearly love to read it.’

  ‘And amend a few predictions to more fully suit and benefit your order?’ Baldwin asked cynically.

  ‘Our order has a duty to help to bring about the new age, in which all the world shall be as a monastery, with all people singing the praises of God all day.’

  ‘So you would be keen to bring about that blessed day, then,’ Baldwin said.

  ‘It is our duty.’

  ‘Which is why you persuaded a young lad to seek it for you and bring it to you,’ Baldwin said.

  Martin’s smile was frozen. ‘You were not there.’

  ‘You do not deny it. I believe that the suggestion was plain enough, that the
boy should find the book and bring it, because it was so evil that it would pollute the minds of all who read it. And then you went to the prior and let him know by a deliberate slip of the tongue that you were here to learn all about it.’

  ‘There was no subterfuge. I told the prior and asked for the copy, because my master wished to see it.’

  ‘But you were sure he would not allow you to take it.’

  ‘It was clear enough by his attitude that he did not consider us suitable porters for his prized book. He preferred to keep it hidden here.’

  ‘How did you arrange for the boy to fetch it, then?’

  ‘The prior was not very trusting. After we spoke to him, we rested, and we went to see whether we could find it ourselves. But there was no sign of it. We had to give up. James here returned to our room, after we discussed the thing a while in the corridor outside the monks’ dorter, and then I walked back to the crypt for a brief search.’

  ‘And Alexander appeared while you were there?’

  ‘No.’ And at last the mask of confidence slipped. ‘No, I sought high and low, but no sign could I see. So I returned to our chamber to sleep. But as I was about to open the door, there was the scream, and it chilled my blood, Sir Baldwin. It chilled my blood.’

  ‘So you ran there, saw he had placed boxes—’

  Martin sighed. ‘Yes. I saw the boxes and guessed at the hiding-place. I confess, my greed overwhelmed me. I clambered up and felt in all the cracks, but there was nothing there. The book was stolen. So I went to the poor boy and said the paternoster and prayed for him a little. And then moved the chests back with the rest.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘If someone had been there, I did not want them to think that I knew where the place of concealment lay.’

  ‘And you guessed that if the book were recovered, you may have another chance to seek it,’ Baldwin reasoned. ‘So from all you say, your companion could not have been the killer?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But he did suspect you.’

  ‘Did you?’ Martin asked.

  James had no need to answer. He hung his head like a whipped hound, then said: ‘My companion was away from me for some while, and when I hurried to the crypt after the screaming I found him there with the boy. It was a great shock to me.’

  ‘Perhaps. Well, Friar James, have no fear. You are safe in your bed,’ Baldwin said. ‘It was not your master who killed these two.’

  ‘Then who did?’

  Baldwin grunted to himself. ‘First, tell me: how did you gain access to the crypt? Where did your key come from that you may search the room?’

  ‘There was a man who had a key. He let me borrow it,’ Martin said, smiling.

  ‘I see.’ Baldwin considered a moment, then shook his head. ‘It is a pathetic tale, in truth. I wish I did not have to tell it. But I think there is no merit in leaving matters to fester. Please, friars, come with us.’

  He walked slowly along the passageway to the cloister, and thence to the abbot’s hall. On the way he saw Peter, their torchbearer of the day before, and asked him to fetch wine to the abbot’s hall.

  ‘Abbot, I am sorry to disturb you once more,’ he said.

  ‘Of course you are,’ the abbot said thinly.

  ‘These are matters which require care. Bringing to justice a murderer is a serious matter. However, consequences can be serious even when lesser crimes are committed. Especially when the man who may be offended is immensely powerful.’

  ‘Please, Sir Baldwin, come to the point and stop honing the edge.’

  ‘Very well. You, abbot, wield power of life and death, within certain boundaries. You can arrest your brethren for misconduct, punish lay brothers and others, can you not? And were I to find a murderer in your midst, I should be powerless to capture and punish him. This is your precinct. My authority is left at your door.’

  ‘I know all this.’

  ‘Yes. And yet you have to be cautious in the presence of your neighbour, the king. His own father came in here and punished a thief by flaying his body and leaving the skin nailed to your Chapter House door as a reminder to your brethren that you should be more careful in future.’

  ‘There were allegations that brothers from this abbey were complicit in the robbery of the crown jewels,’ the abbot admitted.

  ‘Just as they were in stealing this book,’ Baldwin said. ‘A brother from the abbey here allowed Friar Martin to use the key to the crypt to search inside for the book. How many keys are there?’

  ‘Only one.’ The abbot frowned. He reached under his robes and brought out a heavy key ring. ‘It is this one,’ he said, indicating a long, heavy key. ‘It is always with me.’

  ‘The crypt was open. Plainly another man has a key,’ Baldwin said. Then he grinned. ‘And I know who he is.’

  Peter entered apologetically, a tray with goblets and jugs of wine in his hands. ‘Sir Baldwin asked for wine, my Lord Abbot.’

  ‘Bring it in, then,’ the abbot said tersely.

  ‘So, abbot, you have here a problem: the book, which this friar would be most glad to remove from your possession and take with him to his master; you may deny him the opportunity, but there is another key. So even if you find the book and return it to your crypt, you will still need to find that key. Or change the lock, which would be expensive.’

  ‘I do not understand what you mean,’ the abbot said.

  ‘I had thought that the book was the target of the robbery. Now I think that it was an accident. It was not the book itself which was wanted. It was a copy being created, a copy that incorporated pieces of the strange prophecy of the six kings of England.’

  ‘Who would want to kill to recover that?’ Brother Martin demanded.

  ‘Think of the two dead men. One killed and flayed like the thief of the crown jewels, the other stabbed, but with works stuffed in his mouth as though the words and pictures were designed to choke him.’

  ‘Well?’

  In answer, Baldwin turned to Peter, who was serving wine to Simon. ‘A man loyal to the king may take the prophecy of the six kings as an insult to his master. If he learned that this prophecy was to be bruited abroad, might he not take it into his head to prevent it? A royalist may well decide that this prophecy, which alleged that the present king was little more than a goat, while his first-born son would be an Arthur, bringing new realms under his sway, was a slur on his master. A man who sought to break into the crypt and spread such tales deserved to die in the same way as that earlier thief. Skinned.’

  ‘What of the prior?’

  ‘He had sought to have Alexander work with him on a copy of the Black Book of Brân and incorporate in it the prophecies of the six kings. He was guilty too. And because the killer was in the pay of the king himself, and the king possessed a key which gave access to the crypt – from the days when the crown jewels were stored there – it was easy for this man to open it for Alexander. You see, I was surprised that Alexander should be able to gain entry. Prior Stephen himself told me that valuables were stored there. Clearly, the door was kept locked. Yet Alexander entered. More, I was astonished that his voice was heard mostly from the open windows. Little sound penetrated from the crypt along the corridors. Perhaps that was because the man who killed Alexander had already locked them both inside, to prevent any risk of their being discovered until he was ready. That door barred the sound of the screams.’

  Peter eyed him with a wry grimace. ‘You accuse me?’

  ‘Yes, Peter. I believe you are still in the pay of the king. You were never truly a corrodian. You are not old; you have no injury. No, you are a king’s spy in here. And when you saw that there was a risk to his reputation, you took it upon yourself to destroy utterly those who threatened him.’

  Peter gave a dry chuckle, then bent over Simon’s goblet. Suddenly he whirled and hurled the heavy jug at Baldwin. He turned and pelted for the door, slamming it behind him.

  The wine had drenched Baldwin, the heavy pewter slamming into th
e wall behind him, but he was already on his feet and making for the door. Simon got to it first and wrenched it open, and then the two were running along the corridor towards the cloister.

  Peter was some distance before them, and Simon caught a glimpse of his heels as he rounded a corner. The lay brother was hurtling into a wall to slow himself, then setting off to the right, towards the lay brothers’ dorter.

  ‘This way!’ Baldwin nodded, and the two pounded on, their heavy boots echoing on the slabs.

  There was a door open. Simon saw it, saw movement, and drew his sword. Inside he saw Peter rummaging in a chest. He stood with a long knife in one hand, a heavy-looking book with ancient wooden board covers in the other. Seeing Simon and Baldwin, he rushed at them, knife held close to his breast, the book over his heart like a buckler.

  Baldwin caught the gleam of steel as he reached the door and threw himself sideways, but his ankle turned on a loose stone. He hit the wall, his temple catching a protruding stone, and suddenly all went white, silver stars shining in his face as he slumped to the floor.

  Simon leaped before him and, before Peter could stab downwards, Simon’s sword clashed. Peter gripped the book tightly, but he could wield his sword with skill with his right, and Simon was reminded of his story of being in the king’s host. This was a man who had fought before.

  So had Simon. He was trained in the basic English fighting techniques, but his training had been supplemented by his years on the moors, dealing with the miners. They had shown him rougher methods of fighting with steel. More serious, more dangerous, more unexpected. When Peter suddenly dropped to one knee and thrust upwards, Simon was able to parry with ease; when Peter feinted a slash from the right, only to slip sideways and thrust again, Simon blocked and darted to Peter’s right, trying to stab under his armpit. Peter was wily too, and retreated sharply, blocking the manoeuvre. But he brought up the book at the same time, and it snagged his blade for a moment. It left a brief opportunity, and Simon took it. He sprang forward and right, and thrust.

  The first caught the book on the point. It skittered on the hard, age-blackened wood of the cover as though meeting steel and slipped over the cover, making a long slash, then slid over the top, where it met Peter’s throat. The blade slid in effortlessly, grating slightly on Peter’s spine, slicing through his windpipe, and on until Simon’s hand was on Peter’s chin, while he grabbed Peter’s own fist and kept his blade away.