The Medieval Murderers - The Lost Prophecies

Once again he carefully read through the two dozen quatrains, searching for anything that might suggest a contemporary meaning. Eventually, he settled on one that with a stretch of imagination might relate to the present time. It was the fifth in the series, and his lips again whispered the words as he read them through once more:

‘When three golden beasts did reign by bishop’s rule,

A bearded champion fought oppression’s realm,

His secret horde defied the edicts cruel,

But all was lost beneath the budding elm.’

Thomas huddled deeper into his thin cloak, as the only fire in the house was in a communal room at the back and the cold seemed to be addling his mind.

‘Only the first line means anything to me,’ he murmured to himself, wiping a dewdrop from the end of his nose with the back of his hand. ‘“When three golden beasts did reign by bishop’s rule…” Surely that could mean the kingship of our sovereign Richard the Lion-heart?’ He reasoned that this could refer to the new heraldic device adopted by Richard, showing three golden lions couchant on a red field. And surely the ‘bishop’s rule’ by which they reigned could be Hubert Walter’s regency, as the Prelate of Canterbury and Chief Justiciar had been given absolute control of England by the Lionheart, who seemed uninterested in ever returning to his island kingdom.

But what on God’s earth did the other three lines mean? It could be something that was going to happen during Richard’s reign, but that might last another thirty years, if his father Henry’s monarchy was anything to go by. And where would it happen, in England or abroad? Exeter was further from London than parts of France, so news of what was happening in the capital percolated slowly and imperfectly down to Devon. Maybe there was some bearded champion rampant at the other end of England, for all Thomas knew.

He had a faint glimmer of intuition about ‘edicts cruel’, as it was common knowledge that the harsh taxation imposed by the king through Hubert Walter was increasingly unpopular everywhere, especially in the cities, where the brunt of the levy was suffered. King Richard’s insatiable demand for more money to finance his army fighting to regain lands lost to Philip of France by his brother Prince John was becoming so painful to barons, the Church and common folk alike that whispers of rebellion had been heard here and there.

But that still made no sense of the rest of the verse – the ‘budding elm’ meant nothing to Thomas, nor did the ‘secret horde’. He sat brooding at the small table that, apart from one stool and two mattresses on the floor, was the only furniture in the room. Who else could he discuss this with, he wondered? Canon Jordan seemed almost frightened of the Black Book and wanted to get rid of it, let alone discuss its contents. Brother Rufus was happy to talk about it, but Thomas suspected that their already lengthy discussions had exhausted the chaplain’s knowledge and ideas.

Perhaps the vicar who shared the room might be a foil upon whom he could bounce some ideas? Peter Quinel was not the brightest star in the cathedral’s priesthood, but he was an amiable and willing fellow and Thomas looked forward to showing him the verses and asking his opinion.

Some time later he heard the outer door opening, one that led from the street into a common passageway to the several rooms. He looked up expectantly, eager to engage Peter in discussion, but the heavy leather flap that closed the doorway of their room did not swing aside. Instead, he heard voices whispering outside, and with some trepidation the little clerk got up to see who was there. As he did so, two men burst into the room, large and menacing in the dim light. With a screech of terror, Thomas backed away, but he was bowled over in the small chamber and fell flying, thankfully across one of the beds.

‘There it is! On the table,’ growled one of the intruders, grabbing the Black Book. Almost paralysed with fright and expecting to be beaten to death like the proctor, Thomas cowered on the floor, shielding his head with his arms. In a trice, the two men had vanished as quickly as they had come, still muffled up in dark mantles, hoods pulled down over their faces.

Whimpering with fear, for he made no claims to be a hero, Thomas staggered to his feet as he heard the street door slam shut. He waited a moment to make sure the assailants had gone, then pushed his way into the passage and started shouting for the other residents, who were all asleep, making the most of the few hours before they had to get up for midnight Mass.

A few minutes later, after telling his story of the violent robbery, a couple of the bolder young priests ventured out into the street, but all they could do was to stare futilely up and down the empty lane for the thieves, who had long vanished into the darkness.

Next morning the coroner was furious when he heard of Thomas’s ordeal and the theft of the old book. He had no particular interest in it as such, other than as a possible lead to the murderers of the proctor, but as it had led to the attack on his clerk’s privacy and person, he was angry that an inoffensive little priest should have been exposed to such a fright.

‘Are these the same bastards who killed that proctor?’ asked Gwyn, who for all his teasing of Thomas was very protective of him against all comers.

De Wolfe was pacing restlessly up and down his chamber, his long face creased by a ferocious scowl. ‘I saw only one man running away from the Chapter House, but that affair in Clyst St Mary suggests that three of the swine are involved. They seem to operate only at night and wear dark clothing.’ He swung around to face his clerk, who as usual sat at the table with a quill in his hand. ‘Was there any sign of a third man last night, Thomas?’

‘Not in the room, Crowner. There may have been one in the passageway or at the street door, but I did not venture out until they had gone.’

‘And nothing about them suggested a priest this time?’

The clerk shook his head. ‘They wore black, as you said, but not clerical garb – though I admit my mind was not on such matters during the few seconds they were in the room!’

‘You said one of them spoke,’ grunted Gwyn ‘Was it a voice you recognized?’

‘All he said was “There’s the book” or somesuch words. It was a local voice, but not particularly coarse like some labouring peasant.’

John paced a few more turns around the bleak room. ‘The one who attacked the proctor must have been able to read, to pick upon that particular book with a mention of treasure in one of the verses,’ he said. ‘But last night any ruffian could have recognized a black book without being able to read it.’

Gwyn, who was sitting on a window ledge whittling a piece of stick with his dagger, raised another question. ‘How could they have known that Thomas had taken the book home that evening?’

De Wolfe stopped loping around the chamber to stare Thomas in the face. ‘Did you tell anyone about it?’ he demanded.

Defensively, the clerk stammered that all the other clerks in the scriptorium knew about it and any of them could have seen him put the book into his shoulder bag when he left for the day.

‘So this is another priestly connection!’ snapped the coroner. ‘You clerks all gossip like fishwives in a gutting-shed, so any of them might be our clerical thief.’

Thomas shrugged. ‘I doubt if any of the scribes in the library were involved, for they could have stolen the book there or even taken the copy that I left in the press. But, of course, they could have told others outside the Chapter House about it.’

John smacked one hand into his palm. ‘I’m sure we’re looking for a priest, one who has a pair of accomplices. Whether he is one of the cathedral crowd or a parish vicar from the city, there’s a bloody priest behind all this!’