The Medieval Murderers - House of Shadows

At first, Falconer had urged his friend to remember his own admonitions about experimental science. Proof of theories could be obtained only by personal experience through the senses. The Regent Master prided himself on his adherence to logic. Indeed, he had often made use of Aristotle’s rules in Prior Analytics to solve many a vexing murder case in Oxford.

‘We must seek only truths. For two general truths, not open to doubt, often lead us to a third truth not previously known.’

‘Exactly, William,’ responded Friar Bacon sweetly, reining in the irritation caused by Falconer’s school-masterly tones. ‘And that is why I am doing what I am doing. I need to understand pulverization and distillation, mortification and the proposition of lime. For whoever knows these things will have the perfect medicine, which the philosophers call the Elixir, which immerses itself in the liquefaction as it is consumed by the fire and does not flee or evaporate.’

To Falconer, it all sounded like dark magic, and he feared for his old friend. Perhaps Bacon’s long incarceration by his order had addled his brain. But he knew that in the end he would have to humour him. He sighed, stopped pacing and plonked his burly frame down next to Bacon on the bench outside his workshop. He ran his hands through his unruly, grizzled locks, aware not for the first time that they appeared to be thinning on the top of his head. He knew he could not refuse Bacon’s plea. Besides, he had his own reason for wanting to consult an alchemist, and preferably one far from Oxford, where everyone knew everyone else’s business. He gave in gracefully.

‘Tell me what it is you want.’

He hadn’t bargained on his acquiescence resulting in him travelling half across the country and back. To Canterbury, in fact. And with little to show for his efforts at the end of the day. Now, to make matters worse, on his return journey, the rounsey he had hired in London had gone lame in one hoof. Moreover, one of his headaches was beginning. He fumbled in the pouch at his waist for some of his medicament. Dusk was falling rapidly, and he was well short of the inn where he had obtained the nag several days before. With even London Bridge, built only twenty years earlier, beyond the capabilities of his mount, he knew he would have to seek somewhere to stay. But he was floundering in the marshy lands to the south of the River Thames. Exasperated, he was almost moved to call the lonely area godforsaken until he remembered. He had passed close by Bermondsey Priory on the outward leg of his trip to Canterbury’s Jewry. It could not be far away now, and his spirits lifted. Through rising mists, he followed his nose and the stench of the tanneries located in the priory’s vicinity and soon saw the heavy bulk of church buildings looming out of the darkness. The priory sat low to the earth, as though it were sinking under the weight of its own bulk into the surrounding marsh. But he was glad of its proximity. Falconer was now on foot, leading the poor, lame mare, and his own feet were pinched in the new boots he had treated himself to in Canterbury.

‘The lame leading the lame,’ muttered Falconer as he finally limped under the great stone arch of the priory gatehouse. A rumble of thunder from the heavy storm clouds that gathered over his head welcomed him in. Strangely, the gates were still ajar, but there was no one to meet him. The place was deserted. Before him the outer court was empty, with the church’s ornate façade rising up steeply. Row on row of saints precariously perched each in his own niche looked grimly down on him. Large spots of rain began to spatter one by one on the cobbles of the yard. The only light he could discern was that cast by flickering torches inside the church. Long shadows and guttering flames played across the great rose window high above, creating a sense of something hellish going on inside the church. This impression was strengthened when a piercing scream surged out of the half-open great doors in the church’s western façade. The scream was followed by another, and another, causing its own echo in the gasps that were rent from Falconer’s breast. His headache was worse, and the screams pierced his brain like a knife.

‘In God’s name, what is going on here?’

He dropped the horse’s reins and left the nag to fend for itself in the priory courtyard. Striding towards the source of the awful screams, he suddenly felt a deep sense of foreboding. All was not well in Bermondsey Priory.

He pushed through the heavy oaken doors and stepped into the cool and imposing interior. The church was lit by pitch-brands set in iron rings along the side aisles. But it was the central nave of the church that drew his gaze. His eyes were carried up the seven pairs of sturdy columns that marched down the nave and on to the high rib-vaulting of the ceiling. It spoke of open space and heavenly calm. But at the end of the soaring space, in the entrance to the choir and the holiest of sanctuaries beyond, a scene from hell was being enacted.

A dozen black-clad figures were in the process of beating what looked like a roped-together bundle of rags heaped on the floor at the foot of the steps up to the choir. Each in turn raised an arm and brought his birch rod down with fearful force on to the bundle. In solemn but remorseless motion, the beating rotated around the circle of men, their actions synchronized by one who stood at the top of the short flight of steps. This man’s face was grim and set with firm resolve. At any sign of weakness on the part of those thrashing the bundle, he issued a stern admonition.

‘Harder, Brother Paul. Brother Ralph, remember this is for his own good.’

At his next turn, the accused offender unflinchingly beat even harder. It was a while before Falconer realized that the bundle was not just a pile of rags but a person, bound by ropes. And the heart-rending cries were coming not from those wielding the rods but from their helpless victim – a monk, as his oppressors were. Falconer could not stifle his cry of horror.

‘For pity’s sake, stop this.’

The call echoed around the lofty nave, and one by one the rods ceased their awful downward plunge. Slowly, the monks turned to face the intruder, a mixture of shock and guilt etched on their faces. Only the older man who had guided their efforts was unmoved. His authoritative voice rang out down the central aisle.

‘Where have you come from? Who are you?’

His face set in a mask of determination, the man strode down the steps towards Falconer. His flock parted like the Red Sea before him, stepping back into the gloom of the side transepts. A lesser man might have fled at his forceful approach, but Falconer was too old and wise to be worked on by outward show. And he stood his ground. So it was the prior who hesitated momentarily, breaking his stride. Suddenly a change came over his countenance. In a swift moment, he was the man of God, shepherd of souls, welcoming a stranger into his church. He spread his arms and stood before Falconer with an apologetic cast to his looks.

‘Forgive me, good sir. You encounter us at an awkward time. I am John de Chartres, prior of Bermondsey. Please forgive me for your being witness to this unpleasant scene. It was not intended for others’ eyes.’

‘William Falconer, Regent Master of Oxford University. And I can imagine your not wanting others to see this. Do you often beat your monks into submission?’

The prior threw a glance back over his shoulder to where the other monks were stood frozen on the spot. Falconer’s words had been loud and clearly spoken. The monks could not have failed to hear them and were wide-eyed in astonishment that the stranger could be so bold in the face of their stern and overbearing prior. They had experienced four years of his dominance and were well cowed by now. Previous governance of the priory had been lax, but they had been brought back to strict discipline after the arrival of the new head of their house. John de Chartres had remedied former faults, righting the bad reputation of the priory, and now the monks feared him. Prior John coughed out a warning, scattering his gawping flock, and took Falconer by the arm. He led him into the side aisle, where their conversation would not be overheard by those more innocent ears.