House of Shadows

by The Medieval Murderers

  ‘Be that as it may, madam…’ The prior pursed his lips in distaste at the tenor of the conversation. ‘What makes you think Mena…your son is here?’

  ‘Because I have followed his tracks across France and into this realm. I thought to have lost any trace of him then. But, having lodged in Jewry at Canterbury in the small parish of St Mary Bredman, I learned of a French convert lodged close by St Thomas Hospital there. I was too late to catch him there, though. He was said to have been moved here to Bermondsey Priory. Can you deny he is here?’

  ‘I can in truth say that no one called Martin Le Convers is presently in this priory, woman. So your journey is in vain, and you must return empty-handed. However, as the hour is late, and the weather worsening, please accept my Christian hospitality for the night.’

  Saphira Le Veske thought his words accurate only in their strictest sense. Perhaps her son was not presently in the priory, but she was sure he resided here normally. She sensed something uneasy in the manner of the prior, something she could not put down to his being confronted by a Christ-killer, and a mere woman. What had her son done that made the man so unwilling to admit to his existence? She was determined to find out, and after taking up her lodgings in the priory guest quarters she resolved to wait until darkness fell and then scour the priory in secret. It had come as some shock to her to find she had been locked in. She had been standing at the window puzzling over her predicament when the tall stranger with the peculiar eye-glasses had turned up.

  Saphira Le Veske was a good-looking woman with a thick head of red hair and green eyes that were unusual in her race. And she had turned many a man’s head with her looks, which even though she was now forty-one she flattered herself to imagine were still alluring. The stranger was somehow going to be her saviour, whether he was aware of it or not. But before she could properly attract his attention, the creepy old prior had materialized from the stubborn darkness cast by the eclipsed moon. Now she was back relying on her own resources and would have to think again how she could escape her chamber. She wished she had paid more attention to the esoteric faith that had so seduced her husband and son prior to the older man’s death. The Kabbalah might have given her some mystical release from her prison, but in the absence of magic she would have to rely on something more mundane. She poked her head out of the solar window.

  ‘Can I speak to Brother Peter?’

  Falconer had a notion that, if only he could understand the boy, he would be able to decipher what had happened in this accursed priory over the last few days. John de Chartres had spun him a yarn about three young monks who had forged a bond in the months since the young former Jew’s arrival at the priory, a bond that with hindsight the prior now deemed unholy and unhealthy. De Chartres now saw Martin Le Convers as the fount of all the evil that had occurred. Falconer was not so sure but would keep an open mind until he got to the truth. His experience of the Jews of Oxford told him that people of that race avoided conflict where they could. Naturally, there were just as many hotheads among the young Jewish men as there were in the Christian community. But they were by and large more circumspect, and more than aware of their equivocal position in England. Still, this youth was a convert and might not be in the same mould. Falconer had only Peter to tell him what had really been going on.

  The prior pointed out the problem of questioning Brother Peter. ‘But he is mad. All he utters is gibberish.’

  Falconer smiled. ‘And many would say I utter gibberish every day of my teaching life. Especially my new students. But soon they learn there is a logic in my catechism. Sometimes it just takes a pedantic and logical mind to make sense of the apparent madness in the world. After all, once you have discarded the impossible, then even the improbable that remains must somehow be the truth.’

  John de Chartres grunted, clearly not prepared to accept the veracity of Falconer’s rather unusual statement. But he saw no other way out of his dilemma than to allow the Regent Master access to Brother Peter.

  ‘Come, he is in the hospital close by.’

  As the rain still beat down steadily, William took a cloak from his travel baggage and wrapped it around his still-damp robe. He followed the prior down the staircase and out into the yard. The men paused briefly at the archway, hesitant about diving back into the storm. Falconer instinctively looked right and left before stepping into the darkness. Out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of something pale halfway down the junction of the wall to the guest quarters and that of the monastic dormitory, something pale, topped by a flapping bundle of material. He smiled to himself and, taking the prior’s arm, steered John de Chartres across the streaming courtyard – away from the shapely vision of a slim woman’s bare leg topped by her rumpled, dark gown, which had apparently snagged on the leaden downpipe that she was attempting to shin down.

  ‘This way to the infirmary, you said?’

  Behind them, Saphira untangled her gown and slid down the pipe to the ground. She crouched in the shadows, the rain turning her fiery red hair a deep brown, until the two men turned the corner of the building opposite. Then she hurried to follow them, sure that the errand they were on would throw some light on the whereabouts of her son. The tall visitor to the priory – the one who had clearly seen her stuck halfway down the drainpipe – had mentioned an infirmary. Maybe her son was the one they were about to visit there. From one point of view, she hoped not – often such hospitals were used as lazar houses. She did not want to imagine her son as struck down with leprosy, though this might explain the prior’s reluctance to acknowledge his existence. Barefoot, she crossed the courtyard and cautiously peered around the corner of the adjacent building to see the men duck under an archway to her right. Silently, she followed them.

  Falconer cast a quick glance behind him as he and the prior approached the hospital. He was able to spot a shadowy figure sidling around the corner of the building. Despite his poor vision and the growing darkness as the moon was cast further into shadow, he was satisfied that the figure’s slight stature was that of the mystery woman who had been locked away. His instincts told him she would help him unlock the puzzle surrounding the two missing monks and Brother Peter’s madness. To have her on hand and free of the constraints of John de Chartres suited him perfectly. He ushered the prior ahead of him and deliberately left the hospital entrance door open behind him.

  Saphira Le Veske padded barefoot behind the two men, oblivious to the freezing rain that steepled down from the heavens. She was getting closer to finding her son, and all her concentration was on the task ahead. After they had passed under the arched entrance to the building on the opposite side of the courtyard, she hovered for a while in the deep shadow of one of the buttresses to its outer wall. Then, certain that the men must by now have proceeded further into the building, she slipped across the cobbled yard and stood under the same arch. The door was slightly ajar, and she was able to slip through the gap without moving it any further on its hinges.

  Inside, she could discern by the light of flickering candles a long, rib-vaulted room partially divided by wooden partitions. She could hear the sound of restless bodies tossing and turning on straw-filled pallets, a sound punctuated by occasional moans. It was the sound of suffering, both physical and mental. Still, she could not rid herself of the idea of this being a lazar house, and she shuddered. At the end of the room, a curtain had been pulled back from one of the partitioned spaces, and candles burned brightly in the space so revealed. Saphira could make out the prior and the stranger leaning over a bed, staring intently at the figure that lay on it. She tiptoed closer.

  ‘Can you not take these chains off him? He looks soill.’

  Falconer was appalled at the way the poor, mad monk was being treated. He was gaunt, and his skin was papery and taut across his skull. Yet he had been manacled to his bed with chains sturdy enough to hold down a bull. Brother Peter was bearing the indignity with equanimity, sleeping placidly on the coarse blanket that formed his bedding. And his rob
es were clean and tidy. The prior looked at the sombre monk who had been sitting at Peter’s bedside when they had arrived. The thin, grey-faced minder pursed his lips and shook his head briefly.

  ‘I fear not, Master Falconer,’ replied the prior. ‘Brother Thomas here is our herbalist, and I trust his judgement in cases like this.’ He suddenly realized what he had said and qualified it immediately. ‘Not that he is familiar with cases of madness, you understand. It is quite beyond both our comprehensions.’ The monk nodded solemnly in confirmation. ‘As for his…wasted appearance, he and his friends were simply fasting and practising the ascetic life. A little excessive maybe, but I didn’t see anything wrong in it. And, see, we have put him in clean robes and dressed his wounds. But as for the chains, Brother Thomas and I are in agreement. It is better for…Peter…that he remains under restraint.’

  Better for the priory was Falconer’s interpretation, but he kept his thoughts to himself. He leaned over the slumbering body to examine the boy’s face. Suddenly, Peter’s eyes started open, and he stared back straight into Falconer’s own face. The Regent Master wondered if he had been feigning sleep and how much of the earlier conversation Peter had been following. The boy was the first to speak.

  ‘Hello, Adam.’ He raised his right hand as far as he was able, and with a clank of chains traced three marks around Falconer’s head. ‘One, two, three. The Crown, Wisdom and Intelligence. I see it.’

  ‘I am flattered, Peter. But my name is William, not Adam.’

  Brother Peter faltered a little, frowning at the correction.

  ‘Not Adam, then? Well, never mind.’ Quickly, another thought flashed in his eyes. He smiled. ‘Have you found Eudo yet?’

  ‘No, Peter. Do you know where he is?’

  A sly look crossed his features, and he turned away from the prior. ‘I might.’

  ‘And Martin, where is he?’

  Falconer’s question seemed to bother the young monk, and he moaned, shaking his chains as though he wished to be free of them.

  ‘Martin? He is the Sephirah of Darkness. No, no, don’t talk of him. I have journeyed to Jezirah and seen the ten classes of angels. I know.’

  Falconer frowned, not understanding any of this gibberish.

  ‘What do you know, Brother Peter? Where are they both, your friends?’

  ‘Oh! He is dead. He is dead.’

  The young monk’s pale face then screwed up in horror, and he clutched at the sleeve of Brother Thomas’s robe. Uneasy, the herbalist grasped his wrist and worked the cloth out of Peter’s grasp. Behind them, Saphira Le Veske was shaken by the words emanating from the monk’s quivering mouth. Did he mean Martin was dead, or was he referring to Eudo? Guiltily, she prayed for the latter to be the case. Besides, unlike the patient stranger, she knew what the boy’s ramblings meant. Or thought she did.

  ‘What have you done, Menahem?’ she muttered, and slid back into the darkness of the gloomy infirmary.

  Falconer, meanwhile, contemplated his next move. If one of the boys was dead, where was the body? The prior said they had scoured the whole priory when the young monks had gone missing. At that time they had not been found. But if what Peter said was true, one of them was dead and his body lay undiscovered somewhere, leaving the other alive and perhaps guilty of the murder. It had all happened so recently that Falconer could not believe that whoever it was who was still alive – Martin or Eudo – could have gone far. Indeed, it was more likely he was hiding until the awful weather passed and it was possible to travel abroad. Looking out of the window of the hospital, he saw that the rain was still steepling down, and once again the Stygian gloom caused by the disappearance of the moon in the sky was briefly illuminated by a flash of lightning. A thunderclap like the crack of doom followed hard on its heels, showing the storm was now almost directly overhead. The terrible sound roused Brother Peter, and he cowered at the end of the bed, dragging his chains taut. He began to gibber, using strange words.

  ‘He is released, the Sephirah of Darkness – Samuel and all his Keliphoth…’

  The prior and the herbalist stepped back in horror and crossed themselves. Falconer rose, too, and rubbed his forehead in the region where his megrim was advancing. Unseen, he slid another leaf into his mouth and chewed. He looked down at the prostrate form of the chained monk, seeing the fear in his eyes. He knew he would get nowhere in the presence of the prior and his minion.

  ‘Prior John, if there is truly a body in the priory, I urge you to locate it as soon as possible. Before the other monks arise for prime. If the two of you go now and conduct a thorough search, I will stay with Peter.’

  At first, Thomas balked at the idea, but the prior saw the sense of it.

  ‘Come, Brother Thomas, what Master Falconer says is sensible. We must locate the body before anyone else rises and discovers it by accident. Besides, Brother Peter is chained and cannot escape even if he wished to.’

  The herbalist picked up one of the candles burning beside Peter’s bed and led the prior away on their search. Falconer turned to follow their departure, surreptitiously glancing around in the dark for the mystery woman. He had been aware of her presence as he questioned the monk, but now she was nowhere to be seen. He wondered where she might have gone. And what she was doing.

  In fact, Saphira was doing nothing. She had no idea where to begin the search for her son, knowing only that he was not in the infirmary. She had quietly peeped in each cubicle as she had passed it on the way towards Brother Peter’s bed. There were only old and sickly men inside the partitions that were occupied, men on their final journey to the heaven they prayed to every single day of their monastic life. None of the bodies on the beds was that of a young man. She had breathed a sigh of relief. But then when Peter had proclaimed that one of his companions was dead, Saphira had been stricken to her core. She could only hope he was referring to the other young monk, Eudo. Though she wished no one ill, his death was preferable to the demise of her only son. But what troubled her more were the words that Peter had used before his outcry. To the prior and the stranger – someone called William Falconer, apparently – they had clearly been nonsense, the ravings of a lunatic, but Saphira knew exactly what they signified. And it worried her deeply. She sank down on the thin mattress in the cubicle she had chosen to hide in, waiting until the prior and the other monk had walked past. Suddenly she felt cold and tired, and she was aware how her wet clothes clung to her. It caused her to shiver uncontrollably.

  ‘Peter, Peter, they have gone. You can talk to me alone now.’

  Falconer gently urged the somnolent monk to open his eyes and acknowledge his surroundings. After a moment, when Falconer thought his urging was going unheeded, the young monk’s left eye abruptly opened, as he tested the truth of the Regent Master’s words.

  ‘Look, Peter, the prior has gone, and so has Brother Thomas. Tell me, who is dead? What has happened to your friends Martin and Eudo? What were you doing that has frightened you so?’

  Peter opened his other eye and looked slyly into Falconer’s face. ‘Who says we were doing anything?’

  He sounded like a little boy caught in the act of self-abuse, and it occurred to Falconer that all this might be nothing more than a tale of mutual self-indulgence. God knows, he was used to that at the university. Though it rarely ended in death, perhaps one of these monks had been mortified enough to have killed himself. But the fear in Peter’s eyes suggested that the secret held between these three young men was deeper and more horrific. Once again Peter began to babble.

  ‘Look for geometric perfection, where the entrance numbers six, between eight and nine is the flaw. There is the three, and the name of God is creation.’

  He grabbed Falconer’s wrist and pulled himself up to the limit of his chains. ‘Repeat it to me.’

  Falconer balked, but at Peter’s insistence he recited the nonsense twice, fearful that his memory lapses might let him down. His memorizing of the puzzle seemed to calm Peter down, and he fell back on the bed
, his eyes closed once again. Falconer waited until the boy’s breath became even and deep, then he rose. He walked down the gloomy passage between the beds towards the door of the hospital. Suddenly he stopped, distracted by something unusual but not sure what it was. He sniffed the air and walked back a few paces. Peering into the darkness of one of the cubicles, he saw a person sitting on the coarse palliasse, knees drawn up to the chest and head down. Long chestnut hair tumbled over the person’s knees. It was the scent of wet hair mixed with a delicate perfume that had told him it was no tonsured monk he had detected on walking past. He slipped into the cubicle and stood beside the bed.

  ‘Madam,’ he murmured.

  The woman started from her reverie and stared up at Falconer. Her face was pale and her features drawn, but it was a face of great beauty, with a chiselled nose and high cheekbones. The eyes were green and almost almond in shape, suggesting some eastern origin. Falconer saw immediately it was indeed the pale figure he had seen at the window above the courtyard – the ghostly apparition occupying the room next to his. He spoke again, calmly and comfortingly.

  ‘Madam. My name is William Falconer. I believe we have the same goals. You are searching for your son. I, too, would like to find Martin, and his friend Eudo.’

  ‘Menahem. His name is Menahem, not Martin. Menahem Le Veske.’ She spoke firmly, almost stubbornly. William could see it would be best not to cross such a determined woman, who apparently had travelled far to trace her son. Besides, he was now more certain than ever that she would prove an excellent ally in his search. Saphira, for her part, knew that this William Falconer could be the key to tracking down Menahem. If only they shared their knowledge.

  ‘My name is Saphira Le Veske, and I think I can explain some of what that poor young boy was saying.’