The Medieval Murderers - The Lost Prophecies

As he could not read any of it, he put it under his arm and, having satisfied himself that there was nothing else to be seen or done until daylight, he pulled the outer door shut and with a rather subdued Brutus at his heels made his way to Canons’ Row on the north side of the Close, where the houses of a dozen of the most senior clergy stood.

In one of them lived his friend the Archdeacon of Exeter, one of four archdeacons that served the diocese of Devon and Cornwall under Bishop Henry Marshal. A wiry, grey-haired man, John de Alençon lived a simple, ascetic life, unlike some of his portly fellow canons, and John found that the injured proctor had been laid in the priest’s spartan sleeping room, which contained nothing but a hard cot, a stool and a large wooden cross on the wall.

‘How is he?’ asked the coroner as soon as he entered.

The archdeacon and one of the vicars who had come to the Chapter House were there, standing over the bed with worried expressions on their faces.

‘He is very poorly, John. I have sent the other proctor up to St John’s Priory to ask Brother Saulf if he will come down at once,’ replied de Alençon. The nearest thing Exeter had to a hospital was the small priory of St John near the East Gate, which had a sickroom that offered help to the poorer people who could not afford to visit an apothecary. One of the Benedictine monks, a Saxon named Saulf, was skilled in physic and was often called upon in emergencies.

There was nothing the two Johns could do to help, so they went into another small room, where the archdeacon did his reading and writing. They sat at a table, and de Alençon’s servant brought them a jug of wine and some pewter cups. As they sat and drank while waiting for the monk, John told his friend what had happened and showed him the book that he had found.

‘I’m sure this is to do with this accursed treasure fever,’ he said. ‘It looks as if someone was rifling the library and was disturbed by the proctor. Whether he was assaulted or fell downstairs in a scuffle remains to be seen, but either way there is a dangerous man loose somewhere in the city.’

The archdeacon took the book and looked at it with curiosity. ‘This is very ancient, John. I’ve never seen the like of it.’

‘What’s it all about?’ asked the coroner, curious to know what was so important that it may have cost a man his life.

De Alençon slowly turned the pages, shaking his head slowly in bewilderment. ‘It seems to be a collection of quatrains of some kind. Written in excellent Latin and beautifully penned.’

‘What the hell’s a quatrain?’ demanded the coroner. He sometimes tended to act the bluff soldier, partly to cover up his lack of learning.

‘It’s a short verse containing four lines, which rhyme alternately. As these are in Latin, they wouldn’t rhyme in our Norman-French, John – but the meaning is still just about understandable.’

‘But what’s the subject they concern?’ persisted de Wolfe. ‘Is it a religious tract of some kind? Gospels or prayers?’

The archdeacon looked wryly at his friend. ‘They seem far removed from prayers – almost the opposite! From the couple I’ve glanced at, they seem like forebodings of catastrophe. God knows what they mean, and I say that most reverently.’

He turned the yellowed pages over again, shaking his head in wonderment. ‘It reminds me most of the Book of Revelation of St John – and few clerics understand that, though many pretend to.’

‘But why would anyone wish to steal this most obscure book – and maybe even kill for it?’ asked de Wolfe.

De Alençon shrugged. ‘In desperation, perhaps? If you are right and this is part of the treasure-hunt fever, then having broken into our Chapter House and discovered nothing definite to aid his search, these obscure verses must have been the best he could manage to find that might speak of hidden treasure.’ The coroner mulled this over for a moment. ‘Is there anyone who can tell us more about this book? Perhaps knowing something of its origins might lead us to whoever wanted to steal it?’

The archdeacon handed the book back to de Wolfe and made the sign of the cross on himself, as if to ward off any evil influences from having handled it. ‘The obvious person is Jordan le Brent, our worthy archivist,’ he suggested. ‘Perhaps he knows where the book came from, though the disorder in that library is shameful. I hope that my nephew Thomas is able to improve matters with his labours there.’

John nodded as he rose to take his leave. ‘My clerk is another who may have some ideas about this volume – he is a fount of information on almost every subject under the sun.’

It was the next morning before the coroner could show the book to Thomas de Peyne, and by that time he had had the news that the injured proctor had died, so he now had a killing to investigate, whether deliberate or by misadventure remained to be seen. Together with Gwyn, they sat in his chilly room above the gatehouse, huddled over a small brazier that Sergeant Gabriel had sent up to them. After de Wolfe had related the story, he handed the book to his clerk, who took it almost reverently.

‘This is very ancient indeed, Crowner!’ he said, carefully studying the covers and the contents. ‘The style of binding suggests that it must be centuries old, and the manner of the penmanship is also archaic. It somehow reminds me of several Gospels that I have seen which came from Irish monasteries.’

‘But what the hell is it all about?’ demanded Gwyn gruffly.

Thomas turned the pages of thin animal skin and read a few of the verses, his lips moving soundlessly as he traced the words written in ink that was still jet-black after all this time. ‘Latin quatrains, about a score of them. But no preface or dedication, nor any hint as to who the author may have been,’ he mused. ‘But I can see why my uncle suggested that the thief may have thought that treasure was involved… listen to this!’

Thomas cleared his throat and read out two lines from the middle of the book:

‘Where sand and rock prevail beneath the sun,

Then gold galore bedecks the shrivelled king.’

There was a silence, broken by Gwyn belching and announcing that it meant nothing to him.

‘You great Cornish barbarian!’ complained the clerk. ‘I merely quoted it to show that someone feverishly searching in the light of a candle for clues to treasure might grab this as the best chance he was likely to get.’

‘We need another opinion on this,’ said John. ‘Your uncle suggested that Canon Jordan might have some ideas.’

Thomas nodded vigorously. He was greatly beholden to his uncle for getting him the post as coroner’s clerk after his disgrace in Winchester and more recently as a part-time archivist under Jordan le Brent.

‘Perhaps we could have a meeting with him this morning, master. And perhaps I could suggest that Brother Rufus could be included, as he served for some years in Ireland and is very knowledgeable about religious matters over there.’

The monk he mentioned was the amiable Benedictine who was the chaplain to Rougemont’s garrison, possessed of insatiable curiosity but also with a wide experience of the world. The coroner agreed, and Thomas went out into the icy streets to arrange the meeting for an hour before noon, after the morning devotions in the cathedral had finished. De Wolfe and Gwyn made their way to St John’s Priory, not far from the bottom of Castle Hill, to see if Brother Saulf could throw any more light on the nature of the dead proctor’s injuries.

The body was lying on the floor of a small room off the single ward, awaiting removal to the cathedral.

‘As he is in holy orders, albeit minor ones, they want him back there to lie before the altar in a side chapel until he is buried,’ explained the monk. He pulled back the sheet that covered the corpse of the proctor to reveal the injured scalp.