The Medieval Murderers - The Lost Prophecies

John and Gwyn, well used to wounds, peered at the laceration running across the shaven tonsure.

‘Right on top of his head,’ grunted Gwyn. ‘Difficult to land right there and not bruise himself elsewhere, if he fell down the steps.’

John felt the edges of the wound, which were reddish-black and turned inwards against the shattered bone underneath, which moved ominously against his probing fingers.

‘Cracked like an eggshell,’ he muttered. ‘I’d say he was hit on the head first and fell afterwards.’

Saulf, the gaunt Saxon monk, had also seen plenty of violence and agreed with the coroner. ‘Could be an iron bar or somesuch.’

De Wolfe rose to his feet. ‘He must have used some tool to break the locks on those boxes in the library. That might have been the weapon.’

As the assault had been in the precincts of the cathedral – and upon one of their own servants – John knew that the ecclesiastical authorities, especially the bishop, would fight against interference by the secular power in the shape of a coroner’s inquest. He was not inclined to fight tooth and nail against this and decided that the clear circumstances allowed him to concentrate on finding the perpetrator, rather than confirming the obvious nature of the proctor’s death.

They left the tiny infirmary and went back to Rougemont, where de Wolfe related to Henry de Furnellis what had happened. The sheriff was concerned at the news of a violent death, but as usual was content to let the coroner carry on with the investigation.

‘You feel that this was definitely related to this mania for seeking buried treasure?’ he asked. When John confirmed his belief, Henry shook his head in wonderment. ‘I can’t understand the greed of common people,’ he said sadly. ‘I had a message only an hour ago that yet another mound had been dug into out Crediton way. That’s the third this week!’

The belief that there was treasure inside the numerous piles of earth and stones that dotted the countryside had been translated into frantic, though futile, activity since the first hoard had been discovered.

Thomas returned to say that both Canon Jordan le Brent and Brother Rufus would meet them before dinner at the tiny chapel of St Mary in the inner ward of the castle, where Rufus was the incumbent. The sheriff decided to join them, and at the appointed hour they assembled in the little church. The earthen floor was surrounded by a stone shelf meant for the old and infirm to rest upon, and here they sat while the archivist and the chaplain inspected the mysterious Black Book.

Jordan le Brent, a large, slightly obese priest, studied the covers and carefully turned the pages with an expression of increasing disbelief.

‘To think that this has been in my archives for many years without my being aware of it!’ he breathed. ‘True, I have never had the time to delve through all those boxes of muddled documents, but it was remiss of me to miss finding such a unique book as this.’

As he handed it on to the Benedictine, a rather impatient John wanted answers. ‘Have you any idea what it is and where it came from, canon?’

‘No, Sir John, I have no idea! I inherited all the mass of material in the library some ten years ago. Much of it has been there since the present cathedral was begun in 1114, but I know that some of the parchments and books are even older, inherited from the previous abbey, which stood since Saxon times where the Lady Chapel now lies.’

‘But what of its contents?’ demanded Henry de Furnellis. ‘I hear that they are most mystical and prophetic.’

The canon shook his head in despair. ‘I cannot make any sense of the few I read just now. They seem to be the product of a fevered mind. I even wonder if they are saintly or devilish.’

‘But it must be a work of considerable antiquity?’ persisted the sheriff.

‘From my long experience of written missives, it has to be at least several centuries since it was written and bound together,’ answered the archivist. ‘But there is no clue as to who did it and when.’

By now Brother Rufus had had the chance to study the book, and he closed it on his ample lap with an air of finality.

‘I’m sure I have heard of this before,’ he said in his mellow voice. ‘Brother Thomas here is right, I think it came from Ireland.’

He uttered this with such confidence that the others turned to him in expectation, as he continued. ‘I spent three years with the troops in that miserable island and visited many places, especially religious houses. I heard a thousand stories from those garrulous and superstitious Irish, and one of them was about a mystical book from long ago.’

With such an attentive audience, Rufus was in his element. ‘Some of the older monks I met looked over their shoulders and crossed themselves when they mentioned it, for it seems that it was suppressed by the Irish Church and hidden away for centuries, then vanished altogether. No one knew where exactly it came from, but it was somewhere in the bog-ridden centre of the island.’

Thomas listened with rapt attention, as a combination of history, religion and mysticism was like manna from heaven to him. ‘Why was this book so shunned by the Church, Rufus?’

‘It was called the Black Book of Brân, who presumably was the monk who wrote it back in the mists of time. No one I had heard of had seen it, nor even met anyone who had, but it was held in awe, being a compendium of prophecies, some of which had already been fulfilled.’

‘Who was this Brân?’ asked the sheriff.

Thomas de Peyne piped up to answer this one from his compendious knowledge of history. ‘In Celtic mythology, both in Ireland and Wales, he was a giant, the son of Llyr, the sea-god. He waded across the Irish Sea, towing his enemies’ ships behind him.’

‘Sounds a bit like Gwyn here,’ commented the sheriff dryly.

‘The head of Brân the Blessed is said to be buried on Tower Hill in London, where it defends these islands against invaders,’ added Rufus.

‘Didn’t do much of a job, then,’ muttered Henry, thinking of the Romans, the Saxons and his own Normans.

Rufus appeared to have exhausted his knowledge of the mysterious Irish book and further questions could draw forth no more information from him. Jordan le Brent looked disturbed and took the book back from Rufus with reluctant hands.

‘It sounds as if this may be a dangerous relic,’ he said sombrely. ‘I doubt if it should remain in our cathedral if it has this bad reputation from our Irish brothers-in-God.’

Thomas looked concerned, as he did not want to lose such an intriguing item before he had a chance to study it in depth.

‘What should be done with it, then, canon?’ he asked. ‘Surely it has too great a historical value to be destroyed! It may be part of the heritage of our early Christian Church.’

The archivist shook his head. ‘No, that might be sacrilege, but it is not for us to decide. I will suggest to the bishop that it be sent to Canterbury – let them ponder it and possibly send it on to Rome. The Holy Father has a secure vault in the basements of the Vatican where suspect volumes may be carefully hidden from the sight of man.’

Young Thomas had his own ideas about that, but at this moment he wisely kept them to himself.

In the Bush that evening, John de Wolfe sat at his usual table by the firepit, which on such a bleak night was full of glowing logs. He had his arm around his auburn-haired mistress, and on the other side of the table Gwyn sat huddled in his frayed leather jerkin, with a quart of ale and a large meat pie.

‘So what help did we get today from that coven of priests, Crowner?’ grumbled the big Cornishman. ‘Didn’t get us any nearer discovering who belted that proctor over the head.’