The Medieval Murderers - The Deadliest Sin

Randal’s remark about pride might have been left hanging in the air like a stray wisp of smoke had it not been for Laurence, ever the genial host. He could tell from the moment the group arrived that this man had not struck up any friendship among his fellow pilgrims, and reckoned this to be the perfect chance to draw him into companionship.

‘You have a tale for us, sir? Come, we are all eager to hear it, aren’t we?’ he said, nodding vigorously at the others to lend their encouragement to the man. But the grunts and murmurs he received in return were not quite as enthusiastic as he hoped for.

‘Come closer. Join us,’ he urged, but Randal did not move.

He clasped his beaker of ale in both hands and stared into it as if he could see shapes forming in it. Katie Valier shuddered and found herself tucking her thumbs beneath her fingers to ward off evil, as Randal began his tale of…

Pride

My tale takes place in the wealthy city of Lincoln, Randal began, not more than twenty years ago, though at times to me it seems like two hundred. It should be a holy city for it’s a city of many churches, some reckon there to be as many as forty-six within its walls and that’s besides the great Cathedral, the Bishop’s Palace, the chantry chapels and the religious houses. So there are a great many priests in the city and most have precious little to occupy their time, save for saying Masses for the dead, for which the wool merchants pay handsomely.

But the hours that God does not fill, the Devil will. And there was in that city a group of five young clerics who regularly met in the evening to drink, eat and gamble at dice. Their chief amusement was to set challenges for each other – dares, if you will – and wager on the outcomes. They frequented a tavern near St Mary Crackpole, which inspired the name for their little circle – the Black Crows. The owner allowed them to use the cellar, trusting that the priests would not steal from the kegs and barrels. It suited both parties: the young men didn’t want rumours reaching their superiors that they were spending long hours in the tavern and the innkeeper didn’t want the presence of a group of clerics to prick the consciences of his other customers and put them off their drinking and wenching.

Randal paused to take a gulp of his ale and the pilgrims’ host, Laurence, chuckled heartily, nodding as if he understood the problem of entertaining clerics only too well, but his laughter died away under the stern glare of Prior John Wynter, who clearly disapproved.

‘It seems to me this is a tale of greed or gluttony,’ the prior said coldly. ‘I hardly think that these young men can have had anything to be proud of. Shame is the only thing they should have been feeling.’

‘Ah, but they were proud,’ Randal said. ‘Listen and you shall see.’

They sought out each other’s company because they considered themselves to be far more interesting than the dull-witted clergymen who infested most of the city. There was one of the Black Crows in particular who took great pride in his talents and intellect, a young priest by the name of Father Oswin. He’d come to the attention of Bishop Henry Burghersh as someone who would do well in the Church, destined for great things and high office, many said. Oswin could read and write prodigiously well in several languages in addition to Latin, standing out markedly against his fellow priests, many of whom could barely gabble a Latin prayer by rote and that with little idea of what it meant.

Thus it was that Father Oswin, a man of no more than twenty-five, was selected, as one of the youngest men ever to be trained in the art of necromancy and other spiritual defences in the service of the Church. Subdean William and a few other members of the Cathedral Chapter had counselled strongly against it. It took a wise head and a steady nerve to wield power over spirits and angels, they said. No one under the age of forty was mature enough to handle such a role. But Dean Henry pointed out that wisdom did not necessarily increase with age. Many priests were just as addlepated and vacillating at sixty as they had been at sixteen, probably more so, he added, pointedly staring at several of the members of the Cathedral Chapter. The will of the dean, as head of Chapter, prevailed and Father Oswin entered into training.

Although Oswin was supposed to discuss his training only with his tutors, he could not resist the temptation to impress his fellow members of the Black Crows with little hints about the mysteries he was learning and, out of curiosity and perhaps a little jealousy, they constantly pressed him to tell them more.

One cold December night, the members of the Black Crows began to make their way towards their favourite tavern. There was a bitter wind blowing, carrying with it a fine misty rain, which clung to clothes and quickly soaked them.

First to arrive was Deacon Eustace, a thin-faced man with a long nose, which was always dripping and red, for he seemed perpetually to have a cold. He was dismayed to find himself the first, for he hated being down in the cellar alone. It was a gloomy place. Barrels and kegs of wine, flour and salt were stacked around the mildewed walls, and slabs of salted goat and bacon hung from the great hooks in the arched ceiling. The floor had once been the street on which Roman soldiers had marched and some in the town claimed their ghosts still did. It was only too easy to believe in ghostly soldiers in the flickering candlelight, which sent strange shadows creeping around the barrels and boxes.

Eustace had just made up his mind to wait for the others up in the warmth of the crowded ale-room, when he heard footsteps on the stairs and John ducked his head under the arch. He grinned cheerfully on seeing Eustace and clattered down the remaining steps into the cellar, stripping off his cloak as he came and shaking the rain from it. Eustace was still sitting huddled in his, for even in summer he complained constantly about the cold and damp of the cellar.

‘Good,’ John said, rubbing his meaty hands and straight away pouring himself a beaker of wine from the flagon on the table, which had been set ready for them. ‘Thought I was going to be last, and I’d have to drink fast to catch up.’

John had the build of a blacksmith rather than a cleric, with a strength to match. Indeed, that was the trade of his father and older brothers, but there wasn’t enough work in the smithy for all of them, and he, being the youngest, had taken minor orders simply to get an education, but he had no intention of remaining in holy orders. His talent lay in gambling, and he was convinced that if only he could scrape some money together, he could make a comfortable living as the owner of an honest gambling house, which would surely prosper if word spread that his tables had not been rigged, nor the dice weighted.

Footsteps clattered on the stairs again and Giles and Robert descended into the cellar. Giles, like John, was also in minor orders as the parish exorcist, his main duties being to exorcise infants at the church door prior to their baptism and organise the parishioners who were to receive the host at Mass and ensure they didn’t smuggle the bread away uneaten to use in spells and charms. Giles bitterly resented this lowly role. Unlike John, he desperately wanted to be a priest, but he could not be ordained into major orders until he could find a living to support him. Without a wealthy patron, that was proving impossible.

He wiped the rain from his freckled face and threw himself down on the bench. It was evident to all that he was in a foul temper. ‘I swear one day they’re going find that old priest hanging from the rood screen with his tongue cut out. If I could carry him up there I do it myself.’