The Lost Prophecies (20 page)

He had seen that expression so often. The man had heavy lids, which gave the impression that he was contemptuous of others. Today he was watching Martin with keen attention, but Martin was not going to admit to being aware.

‘Brother friars. Do you mind if we speak to you for a little while?’

Martin faced the men as Baldwin introduced himself and Simon. ‘I am honoured you wish to speak with us,’ Martin said. ‘But I presume this is no social meeting?’

‘We have been charged with seeking the murderer of the unfortunate monk.’

‘A shocking thing. Especially here, so close to the palace of the king.’

‘Yes,’ James said. ‘That adds a distinct ghastliness to the whole matter.’

‘The only ghastliness lies in the cruel death inflicted on the man who was slain,’ Baldwin said shortly.

‘You think so? I should have thought that the idea that a religious man on this side of the wall is a savage murderer, while on the other is the king, who considers this house of God as his personal chapel, was itself quite appalling. The juxtaposition of the man who seeks to elevate this church, and here, subsidized by that same king, is a lunatic who can kill in that manner. That to me is ghastly. Or is it merely sordid that I can attach such mean thoughts to such a foul extinction?’

‘You are too educated for me to comprehend,’ Baldwin said shortly. ‘Do you know of any reason why the lad should have been murdered?’

‘Me? What would I know?’ James sneered. ‘I am a stranger here.’

‘You have travelled much. You are a man of experience.’

‘Perhaps. Well, I will tell you this: the boy was handsome.’

‘You imply that he was—’

‘You know what I mean. Repulsive, foul, evil sins were perpetrated. Perhaps his lover killed him.’

‘Why do you think this?’

‘I saw the look in his eye. I have been a monk and friar much of my life. I can recognize the signs. The prior and that boy were too . . . affectionate.’

‘You have proof?’

James glanced at Martin. ‘It is a matter for the abbot. You should tell him and demand that his prior makes a full confession.’

‘Perhaps we should allow the rumour to die with the boy, eh?’ Martin said with quiet firmness. ‘This is gossip-mongering. I ask you to be more cautious with your accusations, Friend James.’

‘I will—’

‘You will please be silent.’

James subsided, pale with anger.

Baldwin glanced at Martin. The man had authority, which was surprising when used against a man so much older than him. ‘Where were you when you heard the screams, Friar James?’

‘In my chamber. The abbot has provided us with a pleasant room.’

‘In his house?’

‘No, in a room there.’

Here in the cloister they were surrounded by abbey buildings. North was the church itself, while west lay the abbot’s house, the prior’s standing next door to it. From the prior’s stretched a long building that bounded the garth on the southern side.

‘There?’ Baldwin asked, following his pointing finger.

‘That is the refectory, but the guest quarters are beyond that, yes.’

‘So your room would connect with the corridor to the crypt’s entrance?’ Baldwin noted.

‘Would it?’

‘Were you both woken by the murder?’

‘I was not asleep,’ James said. ‘I heard a shout, then a shriek. After that there was just a terrible sound of anguish. I think the poor boy went mad before the end, mercifully.’

‘What did you do?’ Baldwin asked.

‘I went to wake Martin, and then hurried to see if I could help.’

‘What of you?’ Baldwin asked Martin.

‘Me? I took heed of the screams and ran straightway to the source as speedily as I might.’

‘You knew where the sounds came from?’

‘The man’s voice echoed along the passageways to the guest rooms, so I followed the noise until I came to the crypt.’

‘By which time the killer had gone?’

‘Yes. The boy was slumped there against the pillar . . . But you saw him, of course.’

‘Who else was there?’

‘No one. Only me. So I ran back to fetch help,’ Martin said. He held Baldwin’s gaze boldly.

‘Interesting,’ Baldwin said. ‘Why was James not with you?’

James said: ‘My legs are not so young, nor my blood so warm, as those of a man five and twenty years my junior.’

‘What of others?’ Simon interrupted. ‘Surely someone else realized where the screams were coming from?’

‘I think that because they sleep in the main dormitory, they heard the lad through their windows, which give out on to the pasture by the wall to the palace. We heard the noise from within, which was why we were so quickly on the scene.’

James added: ‘The brothers were all scrambling about in the dirt out there. They had no idea.’

‘I thank you for that. Tell me, Friar Martin, why did you drag the chest to the pillar?’

‘Me?’ Martin said calmly, but his world had tottered. How could this man have known that?

‘There is still blood on your ankle. And at the hem of your robes.’

‘I collected that as I tried to help the fellow, and as I tried to shrive him. I knelt at his side, in the gore. I had no boxes there. Why should I?’

‘Was he alive?’

‘His soul was there, but his body had failed. I did what I could.’

‘I see. Is there anything else you would like to tell me?’

‘I should like to help you, but no. I fear there is nothing I may tell you,’ Martin said.

‘And what of you, Friar James?’

‘Me?’ James said, and shot a look at Martin. ‘There is nothing I can add to my young master’s words.’

‘That made little sense,’ Simon said as the two left the friars in the garth. ‘The older man deferred to the younger.’

‘Yes. And there was little friendship between them, for all their protestations,’ Baldwin said. ‘I wonder why they are here? They are unlikely companions – one old and set in his ways, the younger more comfortable with his position. I wonder what set them to travel together.’

‘Don’t Franciscans have a duty to wander the country together?’

‘As mendicants, yes. Yet surely James is a little old for such work?’

‘He did not seem a very amiable man,’ Simon noted.

‘Hardly,’ Baldwin agreed.

‘What did you think of his observations about the dead brother and the prior?’

Baldwin was silent for a moment. Then he said: ‘I dislike malicious rumours. But they can on occasion serve to help a man find the truth. Let us go and speak to the prior.’

‘You dislike my sharing that with them?’ James said.

Martin was coldly furious. ‘If I hear you talking about catamites and homosexuals, I will have you transported to preach in the mountains.’

James shivered. He had travelled through the mountains, and the idea of remaining there in perpetual cold was hideous enough to silence him.

‘You made it up, did you not?’ Martin hissed after a pause.

‘No. I was told by a lay brother. They all know it here.’

‘Well, you will not mention it again. I won’t have that lad’s memory poisoned. Leave it, James.’

‘Yes.’ James bent his head, but if Martin had seen his eyes he would have noticed the resentment flaming in them.

So you would deny your own loves, would you?
he sneered to himself.

It took little time for them to return to the cloister, where they found the prior bent over a bowl of sand. It was set upon a small brazier, and he was stirring a pot of milk in which two quills had been set.

‘Yes?’ he asked brusquely.

‘Please finish what you are doing,’ Baldwin said suavely. ‘We would not wish to disturb you.’

The prior gave him a surly glower, then returned to a small basket of goose flight-feathers. He had a small knife, with which he stripped the quill, and then he cut off the top and the bottom, before throwing the long middle section into his pot of milk. From the milk he withdrew the two quills and held them carefully, plunging them into the hot sand to temper them. Withdrawing them after a moment, he studied them before setting them aside and turning to Baldwin. ‘Well?’

Baldwin wrinkled his nose. The odour of scorched feathers was repulsive. ‘The two Franciscans. Can you tell us what they are doing here?’

‘Friar James and Friar Martin? They arrived here a couple of days ago. Why? They are surely above suspicion.’

‘You think so? In that case, it must be someone here in the abbey who is guilty of the murder. That does at least narrow the field for us.’

‘What?’ In his surprise the prior almost upset his pot of hot sand.

‘You are no fool, prior. You must know that unless you wish to explain the murder by means of some form of miracle, then a man from within the abbey last night must have killed the lad. And that means someone who was living here – so a member of your community or one of your guests. It seems unlikely that someone could have broken into the abbey overnight to do this and slip away while all the monks were outside.’

‘You cannot be suggesting that monks or friars could have done something like that?’

‘Persuade me how someone else might have done it and I will be keen to learn,’ Baldwin said.

‘But this is ridiculous!’

‘Not ridiculous, no. There is some method behind this madness. Who on earth would dream of murdering a lad in so gruesome a manner, other than a madman? Yet there is some intellect behind it.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Whoever killed the boy did after all have him produce the book in the first place.’

‘So whoever killed him didn’t know where it was until poor Alexander showed him?’

‘That is very likely the case,’ Baldwin agreed. ‘Which leads one to wonder: how did Alexander learn where he could find it?’

The prior pulled a face. ‘I shall be candid.’

‘I would be most grateful,’ Baldwin said sarcastically.

‘He put it there for me in the first place. But he swore he would tell no one about it.’

‘Why? Because it was too high for you to reach?’ Simon guessed.

‘What was too high?’ the prior demanded, glowering.

‘We know where you hid it,’ Baldwin said. ‘And it was high in the pillar. So if the lad went there to fetch the book down, why should he have done so? Was he accepting a bribe to seek it out, or was there some other motive for him to get it?’

‘What sort of lad was he, would you say?’ Simon asked before the prior could answer Baldwin.

‘Well, as I said, he was a good worker.’

‘But was he fanciful? You often find that fellows of his age are daydreamers – especially those who spend much of their time drawing.’

‘He had a wonderful imagination, yes, but his mind was fixed mostly on more serious matters. He was always looking for the next piece of work to illustrate, and his sketches and rough outlines were always of the highest order.’

‘So he was reliable? He wouldn’t be likely to take money for stealing the book?’

‘No! Certainly not! He was always a most devoted lad, to the abbey . . . and to me.’

‘Was he really?’ Baldwin said quietly.

It was late that afternoon when Simon and Baldwin returned finally to the bishop’s hall and sat at the bench, jugs of wine at hand, stretching their legs out towards the fire.

‘Have you been fortunate with your enquiries?’ Bishop Walter asked at last.

Baldwin wiped his moustache with his hand. ‘It is intriguing, I confess. The dead monk was not disliked by anybody. He knew where the book had been secreted, but that means nothing. Either he went there to the crypt to steal it himself, to look at it, or he passed the crypt and found another man in there robbing the chamber. We cannot tell which. Yet it is certainly true that he was there in the dead of night, when he ought to have been in his cot, as the other monks were. Or most of them.’

‘You have had no more joy than that?’

‘I fear not.’ Baldwin considered for a moment, wondering whether to tell the bishop of the accusation laid against Alexander and the prior by Friar James, but decided against. ‘I should like to learn more, though. Perhaps it would help were I to find out a little about the Franciscans there at the abbey. Is it possible to enquire about them surreptitiously?’

The bishop eyed him narrowly. ‘You think that there is something about them that rings false?’

‘Perhaps. I know this: it would be peculiar for one of the monks to suddenly take it upon himself to steal this book. What would be the urgency? But someone who was here as a guest, now that would be different. A man who was visiting for a couple of days only, and who had only limited time in which to take the book – that is more likely.’

‘I shall make my own investigations about them. Friar Martin and Friar James, they are called, I think?’

‘That is right. Why are they in the abbey? That is what I should like to know.’

When Simon awoke the following morning, his head mildly sore from the bishop’s good Bordeaux wine, he was surprised to see that Baldwin was already out of his bed.

He felt bad, but not because of his head. No, it was more than that. Gradually, his memory returned to him, and he had recollections of waking in the night, visions of a skinned man walking towards him holding a book that dripped with blood, the pages all made of fresh, human flesh, with no writing upon them, but only gorgeous, illuminated pictures that flashed with fire and violence. It was a terrifying memory, made still more fearsome by the eyes. Eyes that begged for aid, when none could be given to him. No. He had not slept well last night.

Simon hadn’t wanted to go to bed. He’d known that he was going to suffer a sleepless night. From memory, he recalled sitting up until late with Baldwin, discussing the murder only briefly, mostly chatting about the book and the kind of predictions that could be held within it.

The picture that kept returning to Simon’s mind was that of the boy’s body, but at the same time he was afflicted by visions of the book itself. A work that must surely rank amongst the most foul in history, from its reputation. The way that the bishop had described it had been enough to make Simon averse to seeing it. If he were to come across it, he would not touch it, he decided.

The thought of the lad in that foul little crypt reaching up to the book and bringing it down, only to have it wrenched from his grasp and then . . .