by LJ Ross
CUTHBERT’S WAY
– A DCI RYAN MYSTERY
LJ Ross
Copyright © LJ Ross 2020
The right of LJ Ross to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or transmitted into any retrieval system, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Cover design copyright © LJ Ross
OTHER BOOKS BY LJ ROSS
The Alexander Gregory Thrillers in order:
1. Impostor
2. Hysteria
3. Bedlam
The DCI Ryan Mysteries in order:
1. Holy Island
2. Sycamore Gap
3. Heavenfield
4. Angel
5. High Force
6. Cragside
7. Dark Skies
8. Seven Bridges
9. The Hermitage
10. Longstone
11. The Infirmary (prequel)
12. The Moor
13. Penshaw
14. Borderlands
15. Ryan’s Christmas
16. The Shrine
TABLE OF CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
AUTHOR’S NOTE
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
“Even if I could possibly hide myself in a tiny dwelling on a rock, where the waves of the swelling ocean surrounded me on all sides, and shut me in equally from the sight and knowledge of men, not even thus should I consider myself to be free from the snares of a deceptive world…”
—St. Cuthbert, from Bede’s Life of St. Cuthbert
PROLOGUE
Priory of St Cuthbert, Durham Cathedral
December, 1537
“Fetch the chaplain—quickly, now!”
The novice bowed to the words of his elder and then, with a parting glance across the infirmary room to where Brother Edward lay pale and inert, left quickly to do his bidding.
As the young man’s echoing footsteps receded along the flagstone cloisters, the two who remained spoke in hushed voices, their faces lit only by the dying embers of a meagre fire.
“The Commissioners left York last week,” Brother William murmured. “It’s said they spent a night and a day at Selby and will ride to Durham with all speed, if they’re to return to London afore the New Year.”
There was a small, crackling silence while they considered the threat that was, even now, thundering towards them from the south. By the King’s order, Catholic monasteries throughout the land had been sacked; their authority dissolved, their riches and treasures confiscated or destroyed on behalf of the Crown, all in the name of a new, Protestant order. Thus far, the bishopric of Durham had escaped that fate which had befallen so many, but it seemed their period of grace was almost at an end.
Yet they feared the loss of something far more precious than gold or silver.
“They say the doctors amongst them are of lowly skill,” Brother William continued, casting an anxious glance towards the doorway, lest anyone should overhear. “Given to destructive method—”
“Then we must act.”
The Prior’s voice was calm; its tone resigned. Hugh Whitehead was known as a fair and pious man, not prone to immorality of any sort; indeed, a model of monastic virtue. There had been temptations—siren maidservants to test his resolve and worldly accolades to test his vanity—all of which he had overcome. Yet only now, as an old and wizened man, had the Lord delivered his greatest test of all.
Prior Whitehead drew in a deep breath, his rough, weather-beaten hands forming a steeple as he sent up a silent prayer and sought forgiveness.
“Brother Edward must be afforded every rite,” he said quietly. “As befits the passing of so devout a friend and son of God.”
Brother William nodded, watching the laboured rise and fall of the man’s chest as he fought the final stages of what would, one day, come to be known as pneumonia.
“The chaplain has been sent for, and will stay with him until the end—”
“He must die tonight, if aught is to be done.”
William gave a strangled gasp. “Father—?”
“Think of the higher cause with which we are entrusted,” the Prior said, as much for himself as for the other monk, whose hands had begun to shake beneath the cuffs of his habit. “Our brother would have borne this sacrifice proudly, had he the strength to choose.”
Just then, they heard the sound of returning footsteps.
No further words were spoken. Brother William gathered himself and crossed the small infirmary room in three quick strides, pausing only to remove the thin pillow of duck feathers upon which Brother Edward’s head rested. With a strength borne of righteousness, he held it over the man’s face, shedding a single tear as the monk’s body convulsed briefly before sagging back against the bed, barely offering a token resistance. He tucked the pillow beneath Edward’s head again and closed his mouth, which gaped open in horrified accusation.
By the time the novice returned with the chaplain, the Prior and Brother William stood at the back of the infirmary, their heads bent in solemn prayer.
* * *
Brother Edward’s body was dispatched to the Dead Man’s Chamber, in the very bowels of the Cathedral, and thence to the Chapel, where it lay shrouded within the heavy folds of his habit. Two monks who had been closest to him in life now took it upon themselves to keep a silent vigil by his side in death, and knelt on the cold stone floor at his stiffening feet to pray for the departed’s immortal soul.
Their prayers could not prevent the merciless advance of the Commissioners, who crossed the River Wear at sundown and entered the city of Durham bearing the King’s banner. They made their way through its foul-smelling streets, past the miserable huts of townsfolk beaten down by pestilence and poverty, and wound their way upward to the summit of the hill upon which the cathedral had been built. Hundreds o
f years earlier, monks carrying the sacred body of Saint Cuthbert had built a modest ‘white church’ of wood, wherein they laid their charge to rest. Now, in its place there stood a towering edifice of carved stone, its Norman arches and columns a reminder to all who looked upon them of the wealth and power that lay within.
The men who entered its hallowed walls looked upon the architectural masterpiece with open stares, cataloguing and calculating its worth.
Doctor Ley was the first to speak, having drunk his fill from a cup of ale the Prior had, solicitously, delivered with his own hands.
“We will look to the book of accounts soon enough,” he said. “But, first, by the King’s order, we demand to see the body of Cuthbert.”
The Prior affected an air of surprise.
“The body? ’Tis interred within the shrine,” he said. “A place of holy rest, for that most holy of saints. Surely, sirs, you must have heard of Cuthbert’s great healing power upon the afflicted—?”
“There’s much that can be said, yet remains unproven,” one of the other commissioners sneered. “It has been many years since any have looked upon Cuthbert’s form. It may be a jumble of bones, not flesh and ligament, as many are wont to say.”
There was a rustle of discontent amongst the small crowd of monks who had gathered in the nave, and the Prior held up an authoritative hand to silence them.
“You must excuse us,” he said softly. “There are few in these parts who would question the power of our patron, whose deathly touch has healed the sick and the dying these many hundreds of years.”
“Aye, and lined the Priory’s coffers, no doubt, with lands and gold aplenty,” the doctor replied. “So much the better, for now’s the time of reckoning. Come! Lead us to where the man lies, and we’ll have done with the matter.”
The Prior inclined his head, and called to the Keeper-of-the-Shrine.
“Brother William? Lead these good sirs to Cuthbert’s rest, and unlock the chains so they might look upon his form and behold it for themselves.”
* * *
The body of Saint Cuthbert was kept in a raised iron casket in front of a magnificent shrine, as befitted the status of one of the world’s most famous saints. In life, Cuthbert had been a Godly man; at times a hermit, a prior and a bishop, who lived a simple life in the Farne Islands during the seventh century. Years after his death, his coffin was reopened and his body found incorrupt, as though he were merely sleeping. As word spread of this phenomenon, talk of miraculous healing spread with it and people of all walks sought out the saint’s divine power, bringing offerings in exchange for his favour. But when Viking marauders advanced across the North Sea, the monks were forced to flee the island of Lindisfarne with Cuthbert’s body, travelling for seven years to protect him from those who sought to destroy all that he symbolised.
Five hundred years later, different marauders had come to pillage—and, this time, they brought with them a goldsmith by the name of Prycewinkle.
“You, there! Light up these candles and hold them aloft,” Doctor Ley commanded of Brother William. “The light grows dim and we’ve a mind to see this bony-piece before nightfall.”
William said nothing, capitulating to the demands of the King’s men with all the humility he could muster.
“Prycewinkle! Bring up your hammer. The lock will not open.”
“Sir, if I might help,” William began, casting an anxious glance towards the hammer the goldsmith wielded. “What lies within the chest is of delicate condition—”
“Stand aside, man,” the other doctor, Henley, said roughly. “Unless you wish to feel the King’s displeasure.”
William fell silent and watched the goldsmith heave himself up the wooden ladder to the top of Cuthbert’s iron casket, where Ley waited impatiently.
“Strike!” he said. “I’ve a wish to find a warm bed and a warm woman, afore the day is out.”
They shared a manly laugh and Brother William closed his eyes as Prycewinkle dealt the first blow, his iron hammer smashing through the casing and the inner coffin, connecting with the body within.
The goldsmith paused and let out another laugh.
“I fear I have broken the gentleman’s leg,” he called out. “Though I suspect he won’t be needing it!”
“Aye,” Henley laughed. “Mayhap he can heal it, himself!”
“Here, and I’ll ask him,” Ley boasted, clearing away the shards of wooden coffin to reveal the unfortunate recipient of their ministrations.
When he saw clearly what rested inside the folds of golden robes, now careworn with age and decay, the smile fell from his face and he let out a sharp cry.
“Good God!”
“What, man?” Henley called up, yawning widely. “I’m in no mood for japes.”
“The body—I can hardly say, but it be whole!”
The goldsmith peered into the open coffin to see for himself, and then let out a similar exclamation.
“By me, but it’s true!”
“It cannot be so!” Henley shouted.
“Come, and see with your own eyes!”
With much muttering and expletives, Doctor Henley joined his fellows on top of the casket and looked upon the pale, ghostly face of Cuthbert. His heart lurched against his chest when he saw, not a dusty skeleton but a body, wasted but whole, with a beard neatly kept, its fingers clasped around a magnificent pectoral cross of gold and garnet.
“What—what do we do?” the goldsmith whispered.
Henley recovered himself, eyeing the silver and gold trinkets tucked around the body.
“What, man? Have you forgotten your trade? Feast your eyes upon that cross of gold, then look to the rest. As for the corpse, we’ll have it removed to the vestry while the King decides its fate.”
“What of God’s wrath?” Ley wondered. “There may be bad omens for those who move a saint.”
He might not have believed such things, but finding a body instead of a skeleton after five hundred years could change a man’s perspective.
“Then let us not be the ones to move him,” Henley reasoned. “The monks can tend to the body, and we’ll tend to the gold.”
* * *
While the commissioners filled two horse-drawn carts with gold and silver, ivory and other valuable commodities to please the King, the monks filled another cart with a plain wooden coffin and covered it with caskets of ale and baskets of fish, intended for distribution to the poor. As night fell, the Prior came out to the courtyard to speak to the monks entrusted with its safe passage, knowing they should never meet again.
“Brothers,” he said quietly, as each fell upon his hands to kiss the fingertips. “Kneel, and receive God’s blessing.”
He delivered a prayer, their bent heads illuminated by the pearly light of the moon, before a cloud passed over the sky and cast the landscape in shadow once more.
“William, George,” he began. “May God grant you grace and fortitude, all your days. Only we three know of our saint’s final journey, and so it must be until one of us dies. Only then can the knowledge be shared with another of our brothers, and they must be wise and true. Do not speak in haste, nor under any threat of worldly harm, for your Maker will decide your fate upon the Day of Judgment and will not look kindly upon cowardice.”
The others nodded.
“Then, go, brothers. Seek out Elven Moor, for there are many there in need of hope.”
“Hold!”
They turned, to find one of the commissioner’s guards approaching.
“Who goes there?” he demanded.
“Alms for the poor, my son,” the Prior told him. “Fish and a little ale, to ease their plight, for there are many running from the plague who are living wild on the moors, and many remaining to starve or else die a black death.”
“Plague, you say?” The guard took an involuntary step back.
“Aye, they say it’ll reach us, soon enough,” the Prior continued, and it was no lie. The country was beset with a pandemic and many we
re already decamping the city, running for the sweet-smelling air of the hills.
“Soon? How soon?” the guard asked, all thoughts of checking the cart now forgotten.
“Any day now,” Whitehead told him. “It would be as well for you to tell your masters to make haste, else none may live to return home.”
The guard bade a hurried retreat, and the Prior turned back to his brothers.
“Godspeed,” he said, and raised a hand in farewell.
He watched the cart rumble across the cobblestones, disappearing into the murky night until it was no more than an apparition, a memory of what once had been, and wondered if he had made the right decision.
Only time would tell.
CHAPTER 1
Crayke College, Yorkshire
Sunday 6th December 2020
All was blessedly quiet in St. Cuthbert’s boarding house.
The boys had taken themselves off to attend ‘Movie Night’ in the main school hall, chattering and laughing as they crossed the grassy quadrangle and, as the hallways fell silent in the wake of their departure, Father Jacob could only thank God there was a double feature that evening, which meant he could look forward to at least four hours of restful, child-free contemplation.
Praise be.
Heaving a sigh of pure contentment, he followed the wood-panelled corridors towards his private rooms, where he took his time selecting a book from the overstuffed shelves in the small library he’d developed over the twenty years he’d been a monk and housemaster at Crayke. Given his vocation, it would, perhaps, have been more pious if he’d selected a religious text to while away his free time; however, when his hand strayed towards a volume of The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, the matter was decided.
“To a great mind, nothing is little,” he murmured, and settled himself down to read, cracking open the window to allow a steady gust of wintry night air to swirl around the room.
Father Jacob had barely finished the first page of The Red-Headed League before his solitude was interrupted by the sound of shattering glass somewhere on the floor below. He jolted in his chair, and half wondered whether it was God’s way of telling him that he should have chosen different reading material, after all.
