House of Shadows

by The Medieval Murderers

  He rubbed his temples, determined not to consume any more khat leaves. They assuredly relieved his megrims, but they also altered his perceptions of the world. He could not be sure what it was that had attacked him in the cellar. Had it been a golem, a ghost, or something much more real? He pushed himself up off the bank and waded along the leat towards the reredorter building by the pale light of the nascent moon.

  Falconer’s emergence up through the long slot that formed the toilet seating in the reredorter had startled two bare-arsed monks who had risen early in anticipation of the prime bell. Their shouts of surprise had roused most of the dormitory, causing Brother Ranulf to scuttle off and find the prior before his charges ended up scattering like hens harried by a fox in their house. If Falconer’s mission had not been so serious, he would have found all this amusing. And when John de Chartres arrived, Falconer was at the foot of the night stairs, at the top of which was a press of curious faces. The prior soon scattered them with a severe look, and Ranulf began to ring the bell announcing prime – an unnecessary act, as everyone was now awake, but one Ranulf thought would settle the monks back into a proper routine. The prior, meanwhile, was persuaded by Falconer to accompany him to the hospital.

  ‘Why do you want to go there, Master? We should be deciding what to do with the boy Martin Le Convers down in the cellar. By the way, have you got the key to the door? Brother Michael thinks you might have…’ The prior struggled for the appropriate word that might not offend his guest, even though he had the deepest suspicions about the Regent Master.

  ‘Purloined it?’

  John de Chartres blushed.

  ‘I did, actually. And made good use of it in your absence.’

  ‘I hope you did not release the boy. He is a murderer, and I need not tell you the consequences for yourself of such an act.’

  ‘Oh, I did not release Martin, but neither is he any longer in the cellar.’

  The prior stopped in his tracks.

  ‘Please do not speak in riddles, Master Falconer. Either he is in the cellar or you released him. There can be no other answer.’

  ‘Believe me, Prior John, there is. And as I, too, was attacked down there, behind the same locked door, you will see there has to be another answer. But let us step into the hospital, and I will provide a solution for you.’

  They had stopped in the entrance to the infirmary building, and the prior gave Falconer a cautious look but stepped inside. He clearly thought Falconer capable of some kind of evil magic. Making boys disappear, and claiming ghostly attacks on himself. He hoped the darker secret of the cellar that he had been vouchsafed did not enter into any of this current problem. He followed Falconer into the hospital. Inside, the space was much as it had been before. A few cubicles were occupied by elderly monks eking out the last of their days in a less harsh environment than was demanded in the priory as a whole. And at the end, Brother Thomas once again sat next to the prone figure of Brother Peter, whose chains still bound him to the bed.

  The prior and Falconer walked down the central aisle with the solemn chanting of the first service of praise of the day washing over them from the priory church. They stopped at the foot of Peter’s bed, and the boy’s eyes opened. He looked blankly around him, as though in a daze. The prior and Brother Thomas turned their gaze on Falconer, both expressing curiosity at what was to come next. What Falconer saw in the cubicle finally convinced him of his already shaping view on the murder of Eudo La Zouche. He just needed one more person to be present and hoped that his guess as to his whereabouts was correct. For the time being he didn’t need Martin to reveal himself, however.

  ‘Prior, earlier tonight you feared that three of your monks had gone missing, only to find one of them – Brother Peter here – in a state of derangement. Your worry was that something evil had happened in the priory, and you were quick to blame Brother Martin.’

  ‘And it is clear now that I was correct in my opinion that Martin Le Convers was at the centre of all this evil. This Jew…’

  Falconer held up his hand, fancying he could hear a rustling from somewhere else in the infirmary. He needed to stop the prior’s invective before things got out of hand.

  ‘We will have no more about that, prior. Let us first ask Brother Peter what he and his two friends were doing in the cellar where Eudo La Zouche was found murdered.’

  The prior sucked in his breath.

  ‘The cellar? How could they be doing things in the cellar? It has been locked for years, and Brother Michael has the only key. You saw how difficult it was to open that door. No one has been down there for a long time. I have expressly forbidden its use.’

  ‘And yet both Martin and Eudo were clearly in the cellar when we found them.’

  The prior’s face went pale when he thought of the implications. And Falconer wondered once again what it was that was down there that the prior wanted no one to know about. Something important enough to kill for? He filed that away in his mind and continued his present train of thought.

  ‘Tell us, Peter, what you and Martin and Eudo were doing in the cellar.’

  Falconer could see Peter’s eyes clouding over as he strove to think of a judicious lie that he could tell. In the end he feigned incomprehension.

  ‘I wasn’t there. Never.’

  Falconer smiled coldly.

  ‘But there is someone else who can tell us the truth, isn’t there, Peter? Martin was there. He knows what you were doing. Digging into ancient mystical philosophy and invoking the name of God to call up life from a heap of clay.’

  The two other monks gasped and quickly crossed themselves as protection from such abomination. Peter just lay back, a blank look on his youthful features. His chains clanked as his arms dropped on either side of the bed. Falconer pressed on.

  ‘Martin can tell us if you were there. Can’t you, Martin?’

  He called this out loud, startling those present. The prior was forming a question on his lips, when a woman’s voice called out from the gloom.

  ‘He is coming, William. And he is ashamed.’

  From one of the nearby cubicles emerged Saphira Le Veske, still wrapped in Falconer’s long grey cloak. She was pushing a reluctant Martin in front of her. His monk’s garb was smeared with mud and soaked from the hem almost up to the boy’s waist.

  ‘Brother Thomas, take the boy and lock him away. Somewhere safe this time.’

  The prior’s command was peremptory, but Falconer held back the herbalist before he was able to comply.

  ‘There is no need for all that, is there, Martin? You will not try to escape, will you?’

  Martin Le Convers shook his head and looked shamefacedly down at the ground.

  ‘How can you believe his promises?’ The prior was inexorable in his denigration of the young monk. ‘He has escaped once from his cell…And you still have not explained that, Master Falconer.’

  ‘He used the same route all three of them used whenever they wished to meet for their secret gatherings. There is a tunnel that links the cellar with the leat below the reredorter. All they had to do during the night was to sneak to the toilet, drop into the leat and walk along the tunnel to the room. How they found it the first time, perhaps they can tell us.’

  It was Martin who supplied the answer.

  ‘Eudo found it. He saw the tunnel entrance one day when he was sent to clean out the leat as a punishment for laziness. He only meant to hide in it so no one would see he was not completing his task. But then he became curious and explored the whole length, coming out in the room. Later, when we sought somewhere to…practise our skills, he remembered it. It was perfect – in every way – a hidden room, and perfect in proportions.’ His face crumpled. ‘And then it all went wrong.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I don’t know exactly, but there was something about the room. One night, when we were…when we were…exploring the names of God, the candle that Eudo had brought went out, snuffed out just like that. And yet there were no draughts in the
room. Eudo accused me of messing around, trying to scare him. But it wasn’t me. We argued and left the room, crawling back down the tunnel in the dark. I felt there was something behind me. But Peter and Eudo had gone ahead, so what could it have been? It was a week before we were brave enough to go back again. That was two nights ago.’

  Falconer gradually became aware of a droning noise that had begun as Martin spoke. Slowly it rose in volume, but it seemed to be made of indistinct sounds. It was coming from the mouth of Peter Swynford.

  ‘Kether, Chochma, Bina, Chesed…’

  The incantation rose in volume until it seemed to fill the room.

  ‘Shut up. Shut up.’

  Martin crammed his fists in his ears and pleaded with Peter to stop. The prior bent over the prostrate figure on the bed and slapped his face hard. The noise was abruptly cut off, to be replaced by a sobbing from the lips of Martin. Saphira drew the youth to her bosom and comforted him like a mother would a little child. But Falconer had to press on nevertheless. Dawn had come and gone, and he was short of time. Saphira was unlikely to be able to leave with her son, if he was truly the murderer.

  ‘Martin, did you kill Eudo on that night? Or did Peter?’

  Martin turned a tear-stained face on his accuser.

  ‘You don’t understand. It was neither of us. We both left, Peter and I, before it got light. Eudo said he was staying a little longer. We told him it would soon be light and that we would be discovered, but he was adamant. Peter went first, then me. When I dropped through the opening into the tunnel, I turned and looked back through the hole. Eudo was scraping up the earth of the floor…’

  Falconer recalled the mound of earth he had thought unimportant.

  ‘What was he doing, Martin?’

  ‘He was making the shape of a man on the floor. A golem.’

  Martin spoke the last word with awe and horror. And even Falconer’s rational mind lurched to think of the creature that had attacked him. It was said that all you had to do was attach the name of God to base earth or clay, and you could create life just as God had. Was Martin suggesting that Eudo had died at the hands of a monster of his own creation?

  ‘Enough of this blasphemous nonsense.’ John de Chartres’ abrupt tones sliced into the shocked silence. ‘You are merely trying to shift the blame from yourself to some…some chimera. You have consorted with the devil and dragged two unfortunates with you. It is time we rid the priory of your evil influence.’

  Falconer could see the fires beginning to burn in Saphira’s eyes. Before she exploded and made matters worse, he stepped between the prior and Martin.

  ‘It seems to me, prior, that there are more possible murderers here than merely Martin. Eudo may have been killed two days ago, in which case either Martin or Peter could have been guilty. Or it could have been another who found out what they were doing and hadn’t wanted them poking around in the cellar room. Tell me, what is the secret you are so keen to preserve down there?’

  The blood drained from the prior’s face. ‘Surely you are not accusing me of the murder? I didn’t even know of the tunnel. Or why would I have been so ready to imprison Martin in there?’

  ‘You knew where the key was, and, no doubt, if I asked Brother Michael if you ever borrowed his keys, he would not be able to deny it. You do keep a tight rein on the accounts and the supplies, do you not?’

  The prior could not deny the truth of it, but he still stood firm. ‘I have no reason to have murdered Brother Eudo. The whole idea is absurd. Whereas Martin has spoken already of quarrels and fallings-out. Dabble with magic and reap the rewards of your evil, I say.’

  Falconer sighed, divulging another more problematic fact.

  ‘I do have to say that the murder probably took place two nights ago. You see, when I saw the body last night I could tell that the blood was congealed and dry. Yet I believe the murderer was also the person who tried to kill me last night. And by then you were all engaged in caring for the body. It looks very bad for you, Martin.’

  Even Saphira seemed to lose heart at this stage, and her shoulders slumped. Especially when Falconer waved a hand at the recumbent Brother Peter.

  ‘For by that time, Peter was in chains. Isn’t that so, Peter?’

  Peter sat up as far as his chains would allow him and nodded. Falconer then went for the jugular.

  ‘But then how did you know Eudo was dead, Peter? You did know that, didn’t you? You told us yourself right here. And Eudo was murdered in the cellar without a doubt.’

  Peter eyed him slyly, twisting his tongue in his mouth. He began to gibber as though the madness had returned. The prior pointed at the poor afflicted youth.

  ‘You can see he is mad. It was the prophecy of insanity that simply happened to be true. You can see he is chained down. There is no way he could have been in the cellar in the night.’

  Falconer pointed down at the youth.

  ‘Then how did his robe get so muddy? Look, the hem is wet and stained and there are smears higher up. You put a fresh robe on him when you brought him here. His feet are muddy too. Yet he has never left this bed. Open your mouth, Peter.’

  At Falconer’s command, Peter’s gibbering faltered, and he cocked his head to one side as if puzzled.

  ‘Open your mouth.’

  Slowly, Peter slid out his wet, pink tongue. It looked like a large, obscene slug. And lying on it was a key. The key to his chains that he had stolen from the herbalist earlier, when he had grasped the monk’s sleeve. While the others recoiled in shock, he sprang from his bed, the chains slipping off his wrists, and he pushed past his tormentors with ease. Saphira Le Veske was the one to recover her wits first, and stuck out a pretty ankle. Peter sprawled on the floor, driving the air from his lungs. Falconer quickly straddled his back, surprised at the powerful resistance driven by the skinny boy’s madness. A similar power had almost defeated him in the cellar. It had, of course, been human flesh – Peter’s – covered in mud from the tunnel that Falconer had fought, not a golem raised up by Eudo La Zouche. Now Peter’s raging voice echoed down the hospital with a sort of confession that carried no sense of repentance.

  ‘How stupid you are, Martin. Eudo wasn’t shaping the golem; he was trying to destroy it. The creation was all my doing, and Eudo would have ruined it. Just because he was scared. Just as you were too scared to go ahead, or even return to the dormitory that night. But I wasn’t. I would have created him. I nearly did, too, after I had doubled back behind you in the tunnel. I tried to persuade Eudo to proceed, but he argued and argued. I had to stop him in the end. But it left me no more time before prime. I would have gone back to the cellar, but you caused the alarm to be raised by your absence. You made me so mad. I could have done it. I could have done it.’

  Above their heads the church bell dolefully tolled the time for Mass.

  At the junction of the road leading between Canterbury and London, William Falconer sat astride his rounsey, now rested and cured of its lameness. He surveyed the open marshland that surrounded Bermondsey Priory and reached as far as the glassy expanse of the Thames. This morning, as the watery sun rose higher above the scrubby line of trees to the east, a yellowish shimmer filled his view. The river had freed itself from its confines and had stretched itself out luxuriantly across the low-lying fields. The priory now appeared to be floating in the middle of a glistening lake. Pewter clouds still loomed to the west, painting the vista a uniform grey. It was probably raining on Oxford town and its university.

  Falconer eased himself in the saddle, the leather creaking beneath him.

  ‘We go our separate ways, then.’

  Saphira Le Veske, perched comfortably on a palfrey lent her by the prior, nodded her head. ‘It would seem so. I have a business to run in La Réole that I have too long ignored. Oh, by the way, an infusion of sage is said to be good for the memory.’

  ‘I’ll remember that.’

  Saphira laughed, and Falconer suddenly realized what he had said.

  ‘…
if I can remember it without taking some sage first.’

  Still, he was reluctant to make their parting too soon.

  ‘And now you have a capable partner to assist you.’ He waved a hand at the boy who stood at his mother’s stirrups. ‘Martin…er, Menahem…will make a far better man of business than he did a Cluniac monk, I feel.’

  The boy hung his head, but Falconer could detect a smile on his face. He had found his family and his path in life again.

  ‘By the way, Menahem Le Veske, I never thanked you for guiding me towards thinking of a tunnel. Without your mother seeing you in the dark last night down by the reredorter, I would never have guessed it was there.’

  Menahem’s pinched face folded into a frown.

  ‘The reredorter? I was never there last night. I was hiding under the water mill until it was dark enough to get back to the room. I could not leave Eudo on his own, you see. He was too frightened of the dark. And of something in the room itself.’

  Falconer recalled the grey, ghostly shape he and Saphira had seen in the brief brightness of the lightning fork, a shape that had disappeared into stone walls like a phantom.

  A cold shiver ran up his spine.

  ACT THREE

  Morrow of the Feast of St Andrew1,

  Eighteenth Year of the Reign of King Edward II,

  Bermondsey, Surrey

  The monk looked at the newlyweds standing smiling before him, each so obviously joyful in the company of the other, and knew only pleasure in their happiness at first. They were so happy, and yet he knew as well as they did what risks they ran. Suddenly his belly clenched, and for a moment he couldn’t think why. Then he remembered the old story of Lady Alice and Brother Francis all those years before.