House of Shadows (17 page)

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.

Morrow of the Feast of St Andrew
¹
,
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.

That was all long ago. A woman with no shame, a whoring bitch who tempted the poor chaplain from his vows and threatened his soul with her lusts. It was said that the two had disappeared soon after, snatched away by the devil himself.

‘Brother Lawrence, we are so grateful to you.'

The two had walked to him, and Lawrence was uncomfortable with their gratitude.
Not so these two, please, God
, he prayed. She was so terribly young, he much more experienced. It was that reflection that brought on the sense of fear again. In Christ's name,
he knew full well that it might matter not a whit that they adored each other. Their families might do all in their power to destroy them. Others had in the past.

‘We have been wanting to marry since we first met here, on the afternoon of the feast of St Peter ad Vincula last year,' she said.

That day
, he thought with a shock.

‘The day that the
traitor
escaped,' her husband confirmed.

‘We saw them, I think,' she continued. ‘I saw the men coming over the river in the early darkness. It was my husband here who saved me. God knows what men such as they would have done to me. He pulled me aside until they'd all ridden away.'

John, the novice, was listening intently, Lawrence saw. The older monk motioned to him with a frown, and John walked off a short distance. Lawrence didn't want him listening to anything that might be difficult to keep to himself. A boy had enough to hold secret as it was. The fewer the temptations of gossip the better.

‘What were you doing here at such a time?' he asked.

She flushed a little. ‘I was a fool! I saw William that afternoon and came to speak to him. We remained longer than we should. It was only my husband here who saved me!'

Her expression was so joyous as she turned to him that the monk had to look away. He folded his hands, and as the two embraced he bowed his head and prayed for them. They would need God's help if they were to survive.

‘When the men came, we saw the ghost. It terrified me, but my husband held me close and protected me. Of course, later we realized!' The monk's quick look made her nod sadly. ‘Yes, I told my father.'

He motioned to her to be quiet and drew her away from the others, but when they were finished, and he had made the sign of the cross over her in forgiveness,
he shook his head. It was a sad, sad confession to have to make. He only hoped no more harm would come of her actions.

The girl's maid, Avice, stood at the side of the novice, but the monk saw that in her eyes, too, there was little pleasure to see her mistress wedded. Only a certain reserved anxiety, as though she, too, was viewing their future and disliked what she saw. The only witness who genuinely approved of the match appeared to be John, his new novice, who stood with a fixed grin on his face.

Brother Lawrence sighed inwardly. He tapped John on the shoulder and nodded back towards the priory. John made a sign of acquiescence. Their order demanded silence as well as obedience.

The two turned away from the little clearing where the marriage had been sworn and witnessed, but as Lawrence walked away he realized that John had stopped and was now gazing back at the newlyweds again.

John gave a defensive shrug of his shoulders.

Lawrence could see what he meant. The two were so full of joy. But the older brother could not help but tell himself: ‘For now, yes. She is the happiest woman alive. But when her family hears what she has done…my God! I only hope no evil comes of this!'

Vigil of the Feast of St George the Martyr
²
,
Surrey Side of the Thames

Sir Baldwin de Furnshill was a reluctant visitor to this, the greatest city of the realm.

Content with his lot as a rural knight living in Devon, he would have been happy not to have returned. He
had been here many years before, when he had still been one of those fortunates, a respected and honoured member of the Poor Fellow Soldiers of Christ and the Temple of Solomon, a Knight Templar. But his order had been destroyed by that snake King Philip IV of France, and his dishonourable, mendacious lackey Pope Clement V. Those two had seen to the destruction of the Temple and the murder of many loyal brothers in their avaricious pursuit of the order's wealth.

Yes, the last time Sir Baldwin had seen London and Westminster had been more than ten years ago, when he had fled France after his order's dissolution. He had arrived here in the hope that he might find some few of his old companions and had made his way to the Temple. Once there, he stood and stared, dumbfounded. He should not have gone. It was depressing to see how his order's headquarters in Britain had been so pillaged. Where once the rich and powerful had congregated to petition the order, where kings had come to borrow money and others came to give up their secular lives, accepting a life of rigorous training, obedience, poverty and chastity, now beggars and peasants gathered. Drunks walked in cloisters meant for spiritual contemplation. He felt sickened to see how this deeply religious place had been so debased.

Still, the tall, bearded knight with the calm, square face could easily understand how a city like this must be thrilling to a man like his companion, Simon Puttock, from Devon. Just how impressed Simon was would have been perfectly plain to a less observant man than him.

‘Christ's
ballocks,
Baldwin! Look at the size of it! I thought Exeter's bridge was huge, but
this
!'

Baldwin grinned to himself. His companion was more than a decade younger, and, although they had
often worked together in the last eight years, he as keeper of the king's peace charged with capturing and prosecuting felons, Simon as bailiff to the Abbot of Tavistock with responsibility for law and order on the troublesome tin-mining lands of Dartmoor, Baldwin had never truly accustomed himself to Simon's parochial view of the world. ‘Yes, I would say it is perhaps the most impressive bridge in all Christendom.'

Which was true. It might not have been as elegant as some, God knew. The bridges of Paris, of Rome and of Avignon were all marvellous to behold – but there was something about the immensity of this, with the gaudy red and white, blue and gilt paintwork on the huge buildings that stood over the roadway like an enormous series of tunnels, that was almost otherworldly. Nineteen arches, some hundred or more shops on it, the chapel, the drawbridge halfway along its length – it was an immense creation.

Men in other cities built from a desire to make their world beautiful; Baldwin believed that Londoners built to be rigorously efficient – and to overwhelm visitors.

They were here, to Baldwin's disgust, because he had been persuaded by the Bishop of Exeter. It was much against his better judgement, but he had a feeling that many in power were not to be trusted, and if the government were dishonourable, it ill behoved him to complain without attempting to do something about it himself. So here he was, recently elected to the English Parliament, ready to do his duty and uphold the honour and integrity of the nation's laws so far as he was personally able.

That thought made him curl his lip with self-deprecating amusement. It made him feel ridiculous. He was a rural knight. At home in Devon he understood life. Here he was aware at all times how alien the
people seemed…how
foreign
he felt. And that it was people here, like those in the Parliament, who had eagerly helped destroy his order.

The Bishop of Exeter had a house just by the Temple, he knew, west of the city walls, just by the Fleet river. Truth be told, Baldwin could have brought Simon by that route, but he hadn't. He needed to prepare himself before he took another look at the Temple grounds. Instead he had chosen to come here, south of the river, and to cross the Thames over the drawbridge at London's great bridge. Once here, he could turn west more easily, he thought.

But when they had passed over the river and entered the city walls, Baldwin gazed that way with a heavy heart. If he must go there and see his old order's headquarters buildings, he would do so after resting. To go there now, tired and depressed, would serve no useful purpose to anyone.

‘Follow me. I know a place to stay,' he said, and led the way into the great city, taking Simon eastwards, away from the bishop's London house – the enormous place just outside the Temple's grounds.

 

William de Monte Acuto stood pensively in his hall, a middle-height man clad in a rich scarlet tunic with fur trimming his collar. Few even in London had known wealth such as he had enjoyed – once, but no longer.

Only a short time ago he had been a strong, healthy, fair-haired man with chiselled features that were his own secret pride. His chin was powerful and square, his nose straight, his brow unmarked by scars even after a number of battles at sea, and he knew that women looked at him with lust in their eyes.

But no longer. Where once his calm blue eyes had exuded confidence, now there was a drawn introspection. Laughter lines were replaced by tormented tracks
at either side of his mouth: the marks of anxiety and loss. Few had known such wealth, no – and fewer had seen it disappear so speedily.

‘Continue,' he said.

This growing rage was hardly new to him. Since his fall from favour, the anger had never been far from him. Still, that someone could have betrayed him was unthinkable – it was almost a prerequisite in
business
, aye, but this was one of his
own
. Any man who had spent a little time on board ship to make money knew that many merchants were in truth little better than pirates. Nothing was ever intended as a personal insult, of course, but if a man could steal another's cargo at sea, far away from prying eyes, then he would be an arrant fool not to do so. It was natural.

But this…
this
was different. This was a man he had brought up, a man he would have trusted to the ends of the earth, just as any lord would trust his most devoted men-at-arms. This was
intolerable
!

‘Master, I am truly sorry…'

‘I said: “continue”,' William stated softly. He didn't need to look at the messenger to know how his cold tone would have affected the man. Any man who had served him as long as old Perce would know that his voice was more often an indicator of his mood than were his eyes.

‘As you ordered, I followed him. He went up towards the water, as you reckoned, near the Bishop of Winchester's house.'

Once William had owned properties in London itself. That was back in the past, when he had been rich. Not now, though. Now all he had was this small manor in Surrey, a short way south of Southwark.

‘So he went to the whores?' William hoped so. Perhaps this was all: the lad was wandering up to the bishop's lands. The wenches were so common up there,
they were known as ‘Winchester geese'. The bishop waxed fat on their rents, and what could be more natural than that a lad of his age, almost twenty, should want to go and slake his natural desires?

‘He didn't stop there. He carried on, master.'

William closed his eyes. ‘And?'

‘Master, I am sorry. I can tell you only what happened.'

‘Then
do
so!'

‘I saw him. He went up past St Thomas's and over to Bermondsey. There was a woman there. It was Juliet Capun.'

‘So I was right. He is betraying me,' William said heavily. He turned and walked slowly to his table, sitting on his great chair, trying to hold back the tears. Looking up, he nodded. ‘You've done well, Perce. Very well.'

He barely heard the man's sad apologies, and Perce's departure went unnoticed. At least Perce was still loyal to him. It was treachery that offended him more than anything.

Especially the treachery of his own son.

 

It was naughty to tease the novices, but it was also a time-honoured tradition, and when his novice asked about the ghost, Brother Lawrence was not the man to let an opportunity pass him by. There were brief periods during which he was permitted to instruct John, and he did have a duty to let the boy know about the appalling history of the priory.

Only later would he realize what had been happening as he slowly paced about the cloister, but at the time all he thought about was the expression of rapt horror on John's face as he told the story of the ghosts of the priory.

‘Her name was Lady Alice,' he said with relish. The basics he knew, of course, but any story had to be
embellished to make it believable, and twenty years here in the convent had lent his imagination wings. ‘She was brought here for safekeeping, and her lover was a chaplain, a strong, bold fellow called…Francis. He was here to watch over her, but she had a lustful spirit that could not be tamed. She was tempted, and she succumbed and tormented poor Francis until he also yielded.

‘Well, Francis saw that their love could lead only to disaster, so he tried to extricate himself from her clutches. Too late, poor man. Too late. Their passion would not permit them to keep apart, and I fear that they sought each other out. I know—' he held up a hand in pained agreement ‘—what they did was appalling. To sin in such manner here in the house of God…and not only once, so I heard…Well, God's fury was roused!'

Lawrence knew also how to maintain suspense, and while he tried to think of a suitable ending to this story he could sense the novice's increasing torment.