The First Murder

by The Medieval Murderers

It was not an easy matter pulling the poor monk out. Stephen locked his arm round the strut of the bridge and gripped the end of an all-too-slender birch branch. Will, grasping the lower end to steady himself, inched as far down the steep, slippery bank as he dared. Blinking the rain out of his eyes, he made several attempts to toss the loop of the knotted cord to the monk. At first, the monk couldn’t seem to summon the strength to grasp it, but finally, with Will shouting encouragement and threats in equal measure, he roused himself and managed to grasp the rope and eventually hooked one arm through it.

  With Will safely back on the bank, they tied the end of the cord to the long leading rein of his horse and urged it forward. The cord straightened and groaned, then with a great splash the monk shot forward in the water and went under. For a sickening moment they thought they had lost him, but he reappeared coughing and choking, still holding onto the cord. Urging the horse another few paces forward, they hauled him out of the water, before finally managing to grasp his arms and drag him up the bank.

  He lay on the track, his eyes closed, as black water streamed from his robes and mouth. It was only then, when they saw his face free from the deep cowl, that Stephen recognised him.

  ‘Brother Oswin! But what are you doing out here and how did you end up in the ditch?’

  It was a long time before the young monk could manage to speak, never mind answer that question. Covering him as best they could with their own damp cloaks, Stephen and Will rubbed warmth back into his deathly cold limbs, and urged him to take a few sips of the wine from the leather bottle Will had in his pack. Finally, Oswin managed to sit up and his teeth began to chatter, which both men knew to be a good sign. When he did speak, however, his words made little sense.

  ‘Slipped off the br-bridge in the dark. Tried to stand up . . . wade back to the bank . . . sank into the mud.’

  ‘But what on earth possessed you to travel on this causeway in the dark, Brother?’ Stephen said. ‘No one from the priory would have sent you out on an errand alone at night.’

  ‘Have to get it back . . . Prior Alan called off the search. I thought they’d find it when they were searching for the actors, but they’re not even looking any more.’

  ‘Find what?’ Stephen asked.

  ‘Hand . . . hand of St Withburga.’

  Will and Stephen gaped at each other.

  ‘Prior Alan told you it was missing?’ Stephen asked incredulously. After all the steps he had taken to conceal the theft, surely he would never have confided in a monk as young and inexperienced as Brother Oswin.

  ‘Prior Alan, no . . . I took the hand. It was me. I refused at first. I told him it was sacrilege, but my brother . . . Father Edmund threatened that if I did not bring him the hand he would betray a secret told to him in confession and my brother would be hanged . . . I had no choice.’

  ‘So you broke into the shrine and stole a holy relic, a relic from your own priory,’ Will yelled at him. ‘And then you desecrated the sacred body of the saint with that piece of rotting flesh. Did this Father Edmund also force you to do that?’

  Will looked so angry, Stephen thought for one moment he was going to hurl the young monk straight back into the water.

  ‘Desecrate? No . . . No! I would never desecrate the shrine of the blessed saint. I prayed to the Blessed Virgin to help me and she showed me what to do. She threw the corpse at my feet. It was an answer to my prayers, don’t you see? At . . . at first I thought she wanted me to cut off the hand and give that to Father Edmund instead, but I realised he wouldn’t believe it was the saint’s hand . . . So after the midnight service, I lingered behind and hid in the shadows until the gate was locked and all the brothers were gone.’

  ‘That’s how it was done!’ Will said savagely. ‘I should have known. When the pilgrims leave after vespers, we search the cathedral thoroughly to ensure no one is hiding, but once the great door is locked, it isn’t searched again, because only the monks attend matins and lauds at midnight and no monk would ever dream of stealing from his own cathedral, would he?’

  He glowered at Oswin. ‘So you had nearly four hours to steal the saint’s hand before the gates were opened again to admit the monks for prime at daybreak, and then all you had to do was slip back into your place among the brothers. But you still haven’t told us why you left that foul abomination in that holy place.’

  Oswin shrank from Will’s fury. ‘I . . . I put that corpse’s hand in the coffin and left the coffin lid a little ajar so that the smell would force you to open the shrine and discover the saint’s hand was missing. I thought you would understand it was a message.’ He clutched at Will’s sleeve. ‘I wanted you to search and find the bones. But they’ve stopped searching. So I must go to Father Edmund now. I must put right what I did wrong.’

  He struggled to rise and collapsed again almost at once. Beads of sweat broke out on his forehead. Stephen pressed his hand to the young monk’s face. It was burning.

  ‘He has a fever. We should get him back to the priory at once.’

  ‘What about the relic?’ Will protested.

  ‘Promise . . . promise you will find it. I must . . .’ Oswin suddenly screamed and doubled up in pain.

  ‘That’s it,’ Stephen said. ‘The relic will have to wait. We must take Oswin to the infirmary now.’

  Ely

  There was silence in Prior Alan’s solar, broken only by the crackling of the fire in the hearth. Candles burned steadily on their spikes, and outside the shuttered casements the world slept on in darkness. Prior Alan stared miserably at the jar before him on the table. There was nothing in it save sodden ashes and fragments of charred bones.

  ‘You are sure this is all that remains.’

  Will nodded. ‘Father Edmund was so close to death when we arrived that I’m certain it was only malice that kept him breathing. He laughed when he saw us. “You’re too late,” he said, pointing to the fire. “She betrayed me, just like de Lisle, so now her bones can warm mine.”’

  ‘Those were his very last words,’ Stephen added. ‘A great spasm seized him. He choked and clutched at his throat as if someone was strangling him, blood gushed from his mouth, then he fell back dead. Will quickly threw the remains of the priest’s ale into the fire to douse the flames, but the hand was already burned away.’

  ‘A t least we recovered something,’ Alan said. ‘We three will inter what remains in her shrine tonight and hold a vigil until prime. We have much to pray about.’

  He lifted the silver sword, which lay next to the ashes on his table, turning the blade over in the candlelight, tracing with his finger the secret names of God – Agla on one side of the blade and on the other side, On. The intricate engraving of mystic signs and scrolls was so delicate, the angels themselves could have fashioned it.

  The alchemist had evidently cleaned the sword, but not well enough, for when Alan held it close to the ball of glass that intensified the candlelight he could just make out dark threads of blood trapped in the fine line of tracery. It was a sword of exquisite beauty, intended only for holy work, but now it was tainted by murder. For this sword had never been honed for battle, though it was sharp enough to bisect a single hair. It had been made to conjure spirits and angels. And such a sword was worth . . . ah, yes, that was the question. What would a man with knowledge of how to use it be prepared to pay for such a sword?

  Alan laid it down with a sigh. ‘This must be locked away in our own vaults, at least until we can discover which cathedral or abbey it was stolen from.’

  ‘Father Prior,’ Stephen said, ‘what do you intend to do with Martin now, and the other players? For it seems they were telling the truth after all.’

  There was more than a hint of ‘I told you so’ in his tone, but if Prior Alan noticed, he was choosing to ignore it.

  ‘I’ll release them in the morning – all except Martin, of course. I think he would find himself a murder victim in truth if we left him to the mercy of the other actors. Besides, he may be innocent of murder
, but there’s still a long list of other crimes for which he is assuredly guilty. But I don’t intend to keep him lying around in the hell-pit. He can spend his nights chained up in there, but I’m sure we can find work to keep him occupied during the day, until the alchemist’s trial. I think cleaning out the latrines might be a good start, then the stables, that way he can start earning the bread he received in alms.’

  There was a knock on the heavy oak door and the infirmarer entered.

  Alan motioned to him to join them round the fire, but he shook his head and remained standing just inside the door.

  ‘I have bad news, Father Prior. It’s Brother Oswin.’

  ‘Has his fever worsened?’

  ‘It has, but I am afraid it’s no common fever.’ He sighed and wearily massaged his eyes. ‘He is coughing blood and the black marks have appeared on his skin. There can be no doubt, it is the Great Pestilence.’

  Prior Alan groaned. ‘God have mercy on us all.’

  Will and Stephen stared aghast at each other. They had both touched Oswin, held him up on Will’s horse as they brought him home and carried him to the infirmary.

  ‘You changed your robes, did you not?’ the infirmarer asked, in answer to their unspoken question.

  ‘They were wet and muddy.’

  ‘They should be burned. But if it’s any consolation, by all accounts it’s mostly the young men like Brother Oswin the pestilence is claiming this time.’

  Will had turned very pale and his hands were trembling. ‘Father Edmund coughed blood at the last. Do you think . . .?’

  The infirmarer grimaced, refusing to meet his frightened gaze. ‘I will prepare some draughts for you that are thought to be efficacious, and, Father Prior, with your permission I will have fumigants burning in every part of the priory by morning. But I think that you should order a grave to be dug in the monks’ cemetery as soon as it’s light. There is no physic that will help Brother Oswin now.’

  ‘I pray it’s the only grave we will need to dig, but I suspect there will be many more,’ Prior Alan said.

  Stephen shuddered. He knew he should not fear death. His life was in God’s hands and it was His to take it, whenever it pleased Him to do so. Nevertheless, Stephen could not help but be comforted that they would be spending the night in vigil at St Withburga’s shrine. He felt the need for her protection more tonight than he had ever done in his life before.

  The infirmarer made to leave, then turned back. ‘There is something else you should know, Father Prior. Some of the brothers are saying The Play of Adam is the cause of this misfortune and when the people of Ely learn of Brother Oswin’s condition they will surely blame the curse of the play as well. They may even try to storm the priory.’

  ‘I’m not a man to believe in curses,’ Alan said, ‘and I’ve always tried to ignore the legend that the very first time the play was performed in Oseney Abbey, a monk was cruelly murdered. But I am beginning to believe that play has a strange way of bringing forth the evil in man.’

  He sat in silence for a few minutes as if he was trying to make up his mind about something. Then he gave a great sigh. ‘Brother Stephen, would you be so good as to fetch The Play of Adam from the library for me?’

  Stephen bowed his head and left the room. He returned a while later with a long wooden case and laid it on the table in front of Prior Alan. Alan opened it carefully and slid out a roll of vellum and unrolled the first few inches.

  ‘This is over two hundred years old and see, the writing is as bold and clear as the day it was scratched upon this scroll. The author used the finest quality ink and vellum. Perhaps he was once a sacrist himself, like me, and knew how to buy the best. A pity, such a pity that what was written in faith should be used for such foul ends, yet that is ever the way of man. But we must put a stop to this and let it be known in the town that The Play of Adam is gone and will never again be performed.’

  ‘You surely don’t mean to burn it,’ Will said. Although he, unlike Prior Alan, was convinced the scene of “Cain and Abel” was cursed, still he could not bear to think of anything so old and beautiful being wholly consigned to the flames.

  ‘No, I would not destroy it, but like the sword it must be placed where it cannot be used for evil.’

  Alan turned over the scroll and dipped his quill in his ink pot. He carefully wrote a few lines on the back of the vellum at the top, then he rolled it up again. Melting the end of the stick of wax in the candle flame, he allowed a glob of it to fall precisely on the edge of the scroll, before swiftly pressing his seal to it. The wax hardened almost as once, sealing the scroll shut.

  ‘Brother Stephen, choose two of our younger brethren. Tell them they must be ready to leave Ely at dawn. They must take this scroll straight to the Benedictine House at Westminster, and give it into the hand of the abbot. He’s an old friend of mine. He will understand my warning. And it might be wise to instruct the brothers to disguise themselves as lay folk just until they are well beyond Ely. As soon as the news of the pestilence breaks, there will be a great throng scrabbling to leave the town and I don’t want the monks to be at the mercy of their wrath. Tell the brothers not to return until they know Ely is free from the contagion. If God wills it, this Play of Adam might for once save two young lives instead of taking them.’

  He handed the scroll to Stephen, who looked down at the words his superior had written.

  In that this scroll contains Holy Writ, you shall not suffer it to be destroyed. Yet neither shall you break the seal upon it, lest fools and knaves make of it swords to slay the innocent and infect man’s reason with the worm of madness.

  Alan of Walsingham, Prior of Ely.

  Outside in the darkness a single bell began to toll. Brother Oswin was dead. How many more times would that bell ring over the coming weeks? Whatever Prior Alan chose to believe, Stephen felt a shadow hovering over Ely, darker and more terrifying than any demon. And he knew then with a dreadful certainty that the scroll had been sealed too late – far too late to save them now.

  Historical Notes

  In the seventh century St Eltheldreda, daughter of Anna, King of East Anglia, founded the monastery of Ely and her youngest sister, Withburga, founded a nunnery at Dereham. Many miracles were attributed to Withburga, including that a wild doe came to her to be milked twice a day to provide food for the workmen who were building the church at Dereham. When she died in around AD 743, she was buried at Dereham, which became a place of pilgrimage.

  In 974, Brithnoth, Abbot of Ely, decided that Withburga should be interred in the cathedral along with her sister Etheldreda. The abbot and his monks broke into the shrine at Dereham and stole the saint’s body. In the morning the men of Dereham gave chase, but the body was already on a boat sailing up the river towards Ely. When the Dereham men returned home they found a miraculous spring had welled up in the empty grave. The shrines of the two princesses, together with the shrines of their sister Sexburga and her daughter, Ermengild, made Ely Cathedral an important medieval pilgrimage site, but, sadly, the shrines were destroyed in 1541 during the Reformation.

  Relics of saints were widely used to heal the sick, and also in rituals to raise spirits, angels and demons. The sword described in the story was used by priests who had been trained in the art of necromancy and in summoning spirits. Priests would undertake these rituals in the service of the Church, just as others would perform exorcisms. Today such rites would be condemned by most bishops, but in the Middle Ages they were regarded as part of Christian belief and practice, and a number of learned medieval scholars and theologians wrote detailed treatises on these rituals.

  The widely held superstition that a dead man’s hand, or ‘hand of glory’, could be used to open any lock, render a thief invisible and put the occupants of the house to be burgled into a deep sleep was still believed as late as the nineteenth century. Indeed, the Observer newspaper of 1831 reports the arrest of a burglar caught using a hand of glory. These hands were normally cut from the corpse of a
hanged man, but since they were also believed to have great curative powers, Father Edmund, in his crazed mind, might well have believed he could use the saint’s hand for this purpose, if she failed to cure the plague.

  The return of the plague in 1361 affected Cambridgeshire particularly badly, striking many villages and towns that had escaped the first wave in 1348, with devastating results. Although young men and women were the major casualties of the 1361 outbreak, it did claim the lives of many others, especially those already weakened by the famine.

  I

  The events that led to the death of Christopher Dole, playwright and player, began one autumn evening when he put down his pen with a sigh. He rubbed his eyes and, by the light of the guttering candle, looked again at the last word he had written. Finis. The End. The conclusion of two days and nights of frantic scribbling. He had scarcely stopped to eat or drink. He had taken no more than a mouthful of bread and cheese or a gulp of small beer. If there were moments when he slept, he did not remember them.

  Christopher shuffled the loose, folio-sized pages into order on his desk-top. He noted, almost with indifference, the way his handwriting grew worse as side after side of the ruled sheets was filled. The first few pages were neat enough but after that came the blotches, the crossings-out and inserted words. ‘Foul papers’ was the name for this, the first draft of a play. Well, these were very foul papers indeed.

  Usually, the draft would be passed to a professional scrivener to make a fair copy. Then it would be transcribed once more into separate rolls containing the parts for the various players. But this play by Christopher Dole would never be seen and heard by an audience. A pity, thought Christopher, blinking and looking through the casement window, which was so small that, if he wished to read or write, he required a candle even on midsummer’s day. Yes, it was a pity this play he’d just completed would never be staged. There were some good things in it. Good things beginning with the title, which was The English Brothers. It contained a scattering of neat verses. A few good jokes. But there were also some dangerous items in The English Brothers. Items meant to bring down trouble on the head of the playwright. Not Christopher Dole but Mr William Shakespeare.