But I didn’t get very far. A group of boys were hanging around the entrance who I recognized immediately as being the ones who had been tormenting Nicholas at the squiring. Were these the ones who had galled Nicholas into murdering poor Esme, I wondered? Almost certainly judging by what they were doing now. As I approached they were teasing an elderly trader who was trying to lead his heavily-laden mule into the castle grounds. Every time he tried to go forward they were turning the mule’s head so that it was constantly going round in circles, a game they seemed to find highly amusing. The man was trying to take the jest in good part but it was plain that he was far from happy.
‘Please sirs, let me pass. I have pots that may break if the mule bucks.’
An unwise confession since it simply made the louts try all the harder to do just that. No-one seemed interested in helping the man so I decided I would. If nothing else it would give me satisfaction to repay them for what they had done to Nicholas.
I returned to my new friend the guard: ‘Excuse me. Can you see what those boys are doing?’
Initially the man ignored me and carried on checking visitors’ passes so that I thought he might not have heard. I stepped closer and tried again:
‘Those boys. Can you have a word with them?’
‘Outside the gate,’ the man replied. ‘None of my concern,’ and went on checking passes.
I was aghast. ‘Surely the welfare of all visitors is your concern?’ I said to him. ‘Isn’t that your job?’
He put his face right into mine: ‘Why don’t you push off back to the priory and mind your own business.’
‘As I think I’ve already told you,’ I said trying not to flinch, ‘I’m not from the priory. I’m from the abbey in Edmundsbury.’
‘Even better,’ he said and marched off to deal with a cart that had slipped on the ice.
The boys were watching this exchange with arrogant smirks on their faces. They could see nothing was going to happen to them. Why, I wondered? Well, I was just in the mood to box someone’s ears.
‘Have you nothing better to do?’ I said to the nearest of them, a youth of about fifteen summers.
He gazed back at me in mock astonishment. ‘Who me?’
‘Don’t act the innocent,’ I said. ‘I saw what you were doing. Why don’t you let this poor man be?’
‘It’s all right,’ the muleteer grinned nervously. ‘It’s only a bit of fun - isn’t it boys?’
‘No it’s not all right,’ I said him. ‘These are Lord William’s servants and they should be whipped for their impudence - as I’m sure they would be if their master knew what they were doing.’
‘Brother please, don’t make a fuss.’
I frowned at the man. ‘What’s the matter with everybody today? And why are you rolling your eyes at me like that? Is there something wrong with them?’
I turned to see what he was looking at and saw immediately what the matter was. Leaning against a wall a figure I recognized:
Richard.
I should have guessed he’d be behind this. Those boys would never have dared behave the way they did on their own account. No wonder the guard was reluctant to get involved.
‘Are these boys cheeking you, brother?’ Richard asked. He wagged a reproving finger at them. ‘Bad boys. Bad, bad boys.’ But they merely sniggered back at him. ‘What can you do, brother?’ he sighed. ‘The youth of today.’
I shook my head. ‘It’s not really the sort of example a squire should being setting, is it? But I tell you this, young sir. You may smirk and you may sneer but you do yourself no favours. For all his awkwardness, your cousin Nicholas has far greater nobility than you will ever know.’
That seemed to hit the mark, I was pleased to see. His smile vanished. ‘You’ve been to see my grandmother.’
‘Yes, and we both know why don’t we?’
‘I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about, brother.’
It was obvious that he did know about the nasty trick played on Nicholas which convinced me more than ever that he was behind it. Unfortunately I couldn’t prove it, and even if I could I doubted anything would come of it. The nobility of England may be vicious towards each other but they will not allow anyone else to be so and certainly not to one so highly born as Richard Fitzroy. I could see a lot of his father in him. King John was reputedly an arrogant youth. It was clear I wasn’t going to win this one. But I’d said my piece. And I would be leaving Acre in a day or two. So with luck I would never have to see the any of obnoxious Warennes - nephews, uncles, aunts or indeed countesses - again.
Back in the street I started up the hill only to come across another unwelcome assemblage this time at the town gate. A small group of locals were gathered around a monk who I recognized as one of the three who had come to my door the previous morning. He was fat, French and from the way he was behaving, highly agitated. I suspected their debate was probably about the business in the priory cemetery the previous day and I tried to slip past without getting involved. Unfortunately the monk spotted me.
‘This is the man you need,’ he said pointing to me. ‘Maître, these people wish to hear about le revenant.’
‘I know nothing about it,’ I said trying to duck by quickly.
The monk put his hands together appealingly: ‘Mon frère, s’il vous plait. These people have the right to know their lives are in peril.’
A small group of his listeners had blocked my path and were looking expectantly at me.
‘Does Prior Maynus know you’re here?’ I said to the monk.
‘Of course.’
I nodded. ‘I’ll check when I get back to the priory.’
I tried again to leave again but a sturdy-looking market trader had stepped in my way.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said to him, ‘I can’t help you.’ But the man would not let me pass.
‘Is he right what he’s saying?’ He nodded towards the fat monk. ‘Something about dead men walking?’
‘There’s no proof of any of that,’ I said firmly.
‘The brother says there is. Says there’s an empty grave. That right?’
‘Oui,’ the fat monk nodded. ‘Of course it is right, we all heard. You heard too, maître.’
‘What I heard was a young man crying.’
‘What was he crying about?’ asked the trader.
‘As a matter of fact, his dog.’
‘His dog?’
‘Non non,’ insisted the fat monk. ‘It was not a dog. It was a monster de l’enfer.’
‘Enfer,’ frowned the trader. ‘That means “hell” doesn’t it? A monster from hell?’
This brought more agitation from the crowd which was growing in size. I laughed in what I hoped was a reassuringly dismissive way. ‘It’s all a fallacy. Nobody saw a monster.’
‘I did.’
We all turned to see who had spoken and I groaned as I recognized the drunk from the cemetery.
He came forward. ‘I saw it. ’Orrible he was. Great ugly face on him. Little slits for eyes.’
‘That wasn’t a monster,’ I began. ‘It was -’ But I hesitated to name Nicholas.
‘What?’ the trader prompted. ‘What was it?’
I closed my lips.
‘The Frenchie’s right,’ the former drunk continued to rant. ‘It was a monster from hell. An’ it tried to drag me down there with its claws. Look.’ He showed the hole in his sleeve where his own knife had gone wiggling his finger through it. He held it out for others to do the same.
‘He didn’t have claws,’ I said. ‘He was as human as you or I.’
‘So you did see it then?’ said the trader.
The fat monk put his hands together imploringly. ‘Maître, you do not understand. These creatures are no longer human. They have become les morts-vivants.’ He stared wide-eyed around his audience: ‘The living-dead.’
The phrase scythed through the crowd like pox through a brothel. Several fell on their knees. One woman giggled hysterically.
> ‘It’s them French monks,’ said a different voice in the crowd.
‘Non non,’ the monk insisted. ‘English! He is English this revenant. An English priest.’
‘The brother’s right,’ said the former drunk. ‘It wasn’t the French monks who brought the body here. It was that abbot.’ He pointed at me. ‘He was with him.’
‘Aye, he was,’ agreed another voice.
Suddenly all eyes were on me. But at that moment I was more concerned about the little scene I had just noticed developing further down the hill. The boys who had cheeked me earlier had emerged from the castle grounds and had congregated at the foot of the slope. No sign of Richard of course, but his cronies were peering up in our direction with an interest that didn’t look at all friendly.
‘I think it might be time we left,’ I said quietly to the fat monk.
But he was just beginning to enjoy himself. ‘Ah, non,’ he objected.
‘Yes, I think so,’ I insisted. ‘Or I may yet tell the prior what you’ve been up to.’
Reluctantly he started to come with me as the crowd stood in silence to watch us go. But just as I feared, Richard’s lieutenants had already started up the hill towards us and began to mingle with the crowd. I don’t know whether they instigated it but suddenly the entire mass started as one to follow us.
‘Brother,’ I urged the Frenchman. ‘Could we move just a little faster do you think?’
‘Oui oui,’ he nodded oblivious to the danger. ‘I come.’
He was coming all right, but not quickly enough for my liking. Our pursuers were beginning to gain on us. At the church gate he stopped to catch his breath and wipe his brow.
‘Brother, please. We really must hurry.’
‘You go,’ he said flapping a hand at me. ‘I follow.’
I didn’t need telling twice. I left him leaning against the church wall and continued on alone glancing back only once. As I suspected the crowd weren’t interested in him; they eddied around him like a river round an island en route for me. I didn’t dare look round again but carried on walking as fast as I could without actually running. Then a piece of flint flew past my head and with it went all sense of decorum. I picked up my robe and started to run for the priory as fast as my legs could carry me.
Chapter 20
STAND-OFF AT THE PRIORY YARD
‘Close the gates! Quickly! Close the -!’
Too late. My pursuers were in before the old porter could get the bar across. But once inside the hallowed precinct they hesitated. A monk who happened to be crossing the yard at that moment dropped the pail he was carrying and ran off - to fetch help, I hoped. Meanwhile the crowd edged towards me just as I edged away from them. They looked as if at any moment they could break and rush me. Images of Archbishop Geoffrey being dragged over the cobbles flashed uncomfortably through my mind.
But then - God and all His saints be praised - Maynus appeared at the door of the porch.
‘What is the meaning of this invasion?’ he demanded. ‘This is God’s holy ground. How dare you desecrate it!’
‘We’ve come for the monster!’ yelled a voice.
‘What monster?’ frowned Maynus. ‘There is no monster here.’
‘The fat monk said there is!’
Right on cue, the fat monk came puffing through the gate. ‘Non non non, ce n’est pas juste, ce n’est pas juste!’ he was shouting and slapping heads as he came.
‘Emile!’ Maynus barked at him. ‘Que sait-tu de cela?’
‘Ce n’est rien, mon père. Un malentendu, c’est tout.’
‘Non, ce n’est pas tout. Dis-moi que s’est-il passé?’
The crowd watched as the two Frenchmen jabbered at each other, Maynus’s face growing blacker and blacker by the second. When Brother Emile had finished his explanation the prior turned back to the crowd again:
‘My friends, I understand your concerns, but this is a matter for the church. Please, I ask you - return to your homes.’
‘We’re not leaving without the creature!’ said an anonymous voice to loud cheering from the rest.
‘I cannot give you what I do not have.’
‘Then give us the Benedictines!’
‘Aye, the Benedictines. They brought the monster!’
I felt every eye on me. Maynus shook his head. ‘They brought the body of a priest to be interred in the priory cemetery. There is no monster.’
‘Then show us the body!’
It was the former drunk again.
‘They can’t because he’s not there. I seen the grave. It’s empty.’
‘The monster has risen,’ came another voice.
A murmur went around the crowd. For a moment neither side moved. But it would not last.
‘Come on!’ yelled a voice and they started to rush us.
But then, heaven be thanked, the Angelus bell started to ring loudly and there emerged from the cloister porch a procession of monks hands clasped together in an attitude of prayer and chanting the Kyrie: “God have mercy; Christ have mercy; God have mercy,” over and over. At its head was a wonderful sight: the abbot looking resplendent in his white cope and mitre and carrying his abbatial crook before him. The monks formed themselves in a semi-circle around Maynus and me like a protective shell. The crowd hesitated and for a moment no-one seemed to know what to do. There was an uneasy silence which was finally broken by a woman’s shrill voice:
‘Murderer!’
We all turned. Jane, her hair blowing in the wind and looking wilder than ever after her night in the fields, was standing on the hillside pointing an accusing finger at Samson:
‘Murderer, I say! I name Samson of Tottington!’
‘What is this?’ growled Samson. To his credit the abbot stood his ground without flinching. But then another voice cried out:
‘Look!’
We all turned to see on the side of the valley a truly terrifying sight: the figure of a man silhouetted against the dark sky, his head was bandaged and his clothes hanging from him in rags. Hesitantly he started staggering down the slope towards us, his arms outstretched before him.
‘The monster!’
Women screamed, men shouted and suddenly all was pandemonium as people scrambled, tripped, fell over each other to get away. Even the monks ran for the cloisters and the church. In a minute the entire precinct was cleared of all humanity leaving only Samson, Maynus and me staring at each other in bewilderment.
Thus ended the stand-off at the priory yard.
*
‘I’ll have them all blinded! I’ll have their noses split! I’ll have their ears pinned to the church door!’
Samson was raging up and down the prior’s study. He hadn’t even bothered to take off his mitre or put down his crook which he was brandishing like a weapon at Prior Maynus.
‘I want the names of the ringleaders. I’ll teach them to threaten a prince of the church!’
‘Is this wise, père abbé?’ cautioned Maynus. ‘It may only make matters worse with Lord William.’
‘It is to forestall Lord William that I want to sort this thing out ourselves. Did you not notice his men among that rabble?’
‘They weren’t Lord William’s men, father,’ I said. ‘That is, they were his men but they were youths. Richard’s companions mostly.’
Samson glared at me. ‘You seem to know a lot about it. Why would that be I wonder? Could it be because you were at the castle despite my request that you don’t leave the priory? Maybe if you had that ridiculous pantomime out there might never have happened.’
I winced. ‘I was summoned by the countess, father. I could hardly refuse.’
That caught him by surprise. ‘The countess? What did she want?’
‘To be truthful, I don’t know.’
He frowned. ‘What do you mean, you don’t know? You must know what you talked about.’
I shrugged. ‘Nothing. At least, nothing I could make any sense of. I thought she might want me to see the earl. But when I offered she poo
h-poohed the suggestion. Seemed to find the idea absurd. Which was curious in the light of what she said next.’
‘Which was?’
‘She said our meeting had been satisfactory - most satisfactory to be precise.’
He stroked his beard thoughtfully. ‘Did she, indeed? Interesting.’
‘Does that mean anything to you, father?’
He shook his head. ‘Not a thing. But that doesn’t let you off the hook. What I want to know is how she knew where to find you. You were supposed to be at the graveside keeping watch for the Revenant.’
I winced again. There was no ducking the issue. I told him about Nicholas killing Esme and my suspicion that Richard was behind it. When I’d finished he smiled knowingly.
‘So that was why you were at the castle. Not because the countess summoned you. You went there to defend Nicholas.’
‘Well someone had to. He can’t do it himself and nobody else seems bothered about him, not you, not Father Maynus, not even his own grandmother.’
‘What did la comtesse say to that?’ asked the gentle Maynus.
‘She said she would punish Nicholas. Can you believe that?’
Maynus have a helpless shrug. ‘Well you did say he killed the creature.’
‘Only to prevent her suffering more from those young louts,’ I said in exasperation. ‘They were going to torture poor Esme to death.’
Maynus laughed dismissively. ‘You don’t really believe that.’
‘What I believe, father, doesn’t matter. It’s what Nicholas believed. That’s why he did what he did. The poor lad was in a terrible dilemma. It was him those boys were torturing with his cousin’s approval.’
‘Be careful who you accuse, mon fils,’ cautioned Maynus quietly. ‘Richard is still of the blood royal.’
‘That’s what’s really bothering you all, isn’t it? The fact that Richard is King John’s son.’
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