The Medieval Murderers: The Lost Prophecies

As he left, he eyed the ladder at the back of the taproom which went up to the loft, where Nesta had a small bedroom.

‘I’ll try to get back later this evening,’ he said hopefully. ‘I’m sure Brutus will be ready for a walk by then!’

At about the eighth hour, Matilda went up as usual to her solar at the back of the house, to be prepared for bed by her snivelling French maid Lucille. This was the signal for John to snap his fingers for his old hound Brutus, who was his invariable alibi for nocturnal expeditions down to the Bush. They left through the heavy front door, which opened directly on to the lane, and the dog ambled off to visit his favourite smells and mark them with a cocked leg.

The coroner’s house in Martin’s Lane was a mere twenty paces from one of the entrances to the cathedral Close, the wide space around the huge church. The narrow passage connected the Close to High Street, and John’s was one of the only two dwellings on the west side, a farrier’s stables lying opposite. John had on his heaviest cloak and pulled a broad-brimmed pilgrim’s hat low over his black hair, as there was a keen east wind. Though there was a curfew after dark, this ‘couvre-feu’ applied mainly to damping down domestic fires for the night, as in a city where most of the buildings were wooden, a severe conflagration was an ever-present danger. People still went about the streets, though tonight few ventured out into the icy conditions and the almost total darkness, as heavy cloud covered the moon.

As he entered the Close, the only light came from a flickering pitch brand stuck in an iron ring over the distant Bear Gate. However, de Wolfe was familiar with every step of the way and set off down the diagonal path that threaded through the grave mounds, open burial pits and piles of rubbish that disfigured the area. He could hear Brutus scrabbling after something a few yards away, where a rat was probably rooting in a pile of discarded offal. The only other light John ever saw here on his nocturnal adventures was the dim lantern of a cathedral proctor doing his rounds. These were men in the lower clerical orders who patrolled the precinct and tried to keep order, as the Close was ecclesiastical territory, a ‘city within a city’ where the writ of the sheriff and burgesses did not run, the ultimate authority being the bishop.

Tonight he saw no one and was past the great West Front of the cathedral and halfway to the Bear Gate when he heard a cry from somewhere on his left. Immediately, his dog gave a sharp bark, then a deep growl. John was familiar with every nuance of Brutus’s voice and knew that something was seriously amiss.

Then he saw a faint flicker of yellow light from the direction of the South Tower and a crash as if something had flung a door back against a wall. He began walking as fast as he could in the darkness, being careful of obstacles as this was not one of his usual paths. Brutus had no such problem and bounded ahead, still growling. Suddenly, the growl turned into a yelp, and, somewhere in the gloom ahead, pounding footsteps hammered on the flagstones. They rapidly receded towards the far exit into Southgate Street, and all John could see was a momentary glimpse of a figure as it passed beneath the flaming torch and vanished from sight. Pursuit was pointless and instead he hurried as fast as he could towards the light, using it as a marker. With only a few stumbles, he reached it to find a horn lantern on its side, but the candle still lit within. Picking it up, he found himself at the door of the Chapter House, which was wide open.

‘Brutus, where the hell are you?’ he called, and almost immediately the old dog appeared at his knee, giving a whine that sounded almost apologetic. Holding the light closer, John saw that there was a bloody graze on the hound’s flank, though it did not appear to be serious.

‘The bastard kicked you, did he?’ he asked, fondling the dog’s ears. ‘I’ll make him pay for that when I find him!’

Brutus whined again, with a different note this time, and pointed his lean muzzle towards the door. John took the hint and, pulling his dagger from his sheath on his belt, held up the lantern with the other hand and advanced cautiously into the building. His feeble light failed to reveal all of the large room, where the canons and their vicars met each day, but as he moved towards the centre of the flagstoned floor Brutus whined again and moved ahead of him towards the far corner, where steep wooden stairs led up to the library.

As he approached, he saw that a crumpled shape lay at their foot, a man dressed in a black cloak over a plain clerical cassock. His legs were spread-eagled and his trunk was half-turned as if he was asleep. As John knelt by the inert body, he saw that the head had been shaved into a tonsure, but by the stout staff lying alongside the man it was clear that this was one of the proctor’s men, a night guard who had been patrolling the precinct. On his bald patch, a deep gash ran from side to side, dark blood still welling slowly from the wound.

The coroner feared that the man was already dead, but when he gently turned him on to his back he heard shallow breathing, though he was deeply unconscious.

‘He probably fell down the stairs,’ he muttered to his hound, but Brutus made no comment. ‘So who was that bloody fellow who kicked you and ran, eh?’

There was nothing de Wolfe could do other than go for help. Using the lantern, he loped off as fast as he could to find someone.

Unfortunately, this was the quietest time in the cathedral, being the hours between afternoon Vespers and the midnight Matins, when most priests and their acolytes were either eating, drinking or sleeping.

John went into the nave of the cathedral through the small door in the West Front, but he could see no one up in the dimly lit presbytery beyond the choir screen. He hurried out again and decided to go to the proctor’s hut in the Close, between two of the small churches that stood in the cluttered precinct. Here he found another proctor’s man, huddled over a small fire, and within minutes they had both returned to the Chapter House, the proctor ringing a brass handbell vigorously to summon help.

Within minutes, two vicars-choral and a pair of secondaries, who were young men aspiring to be priests, appeared from somewhere in the recesses of the buildings and began fussing over the injured guard.

‘Better take him to the archdeacon’s house,’ suggested the coroner, who knew that his friend John de Alençon, one of the four archdeacons, was a calm, sensible man who would procure the best aid for the stricken man. Using one of the benches, the four younger men carried the wounded man away, the other proctor lighting their path with a pair of lanterns.

‘I’ll come after you very shortly,’ promised John. ‘I need to look around here first.’ Left alone, de Wolfe told Brutus to lie down while he cautiously climbed the stairs, the lantern and dagger still in his hands. There was no sound from the scriptorium above, but he wanted to make sure that no second intruder was lurking there. He made a slow circuit of the upper chamber, holding the small lantern high in the air, but he soon satisfied himself that the place was empty. He noticed that a number of books had been pulled from the shelves on to the reading boards and that some wooden boxes had been dragged into the outer aisle, their lids open and the contents in disorder.

Near the top of the stairs he saw a larger lantern lying on its side, the candle extinguished. Picking it up, he opened the small door that formed one of the sides of thinly shaved horn that allowed the light to escape. John sniffed at it and smelled the pungent odour of recently burned wax, guessing that the lamp had been used by whoever had run away from the building. As he came back down the stairs, the feeble rays of his own lantern showed a pool of drying blood where the head of the proctor had lain, but now he noticed something lying on the flagstones nearby. It must have been concealed by the injured man’s body when he lay there, but now de Wolfe bent and picked it up. It was a thin but heavy book, almost the length of two of his hands and about an inch thick. He brought the lantern close to it and saw that it was covered in worn black leather, with a dozen or so parchment pages inside.