The Medieval Murderers - House of Shadows

Inside, she could discern by the light of flickering candles a long, rib-vaulted room partially divided by wooden partitions. She could hear the sound of restless bodies tossing and turning on straw-filled pallets, a sound punctuated by occasional moans. It was the sound of suffering, both physical and mental. Still, she could not rid herself of the idea of this being a lazar house, and she shuddered. At the end of the room, a curtain had been pulled back from one of the partitioned spaces, and candles burned brightly in the space so revealed. Saphira could make out the prior and the stranger leaning over a bed, staring intently at the figure that lay on it. She tiptoed closer.

‘Can you not take these chains off him? He looks soill.’

Falconer was appalled at the way the poor, mad monk was being treated. He was gaunt, and his skin was papery and taut across his skull. Yet he had been manacled to his bed with chains sturdy enough to hold down a bull. Brother Peter was bearing the indignity with equanimity, sleeping placidly on the coarse blanket that formed his bedding. And his robes were clean and tidy. The prior looked at the sombre monk who had been sitting at Peter’s bedside when they had arrived. The thin, grey-faced minder pursed his lips and shook his head briefly.

‘I fear not, Master Falconer,’ replied the prior. ‘Brother Thomas here is our herbalist, and I trust his judgement in cases like this.’ He suddenly realized what he had said and qualified it immediately. ‘Not that he is familiar with cases of madness, you understand. It is quite beyond both our comprehensions.’ The monk nodded solemnly in confirmation. ‘As for his…wasted appearance, he and his friends were simply fasting and practising the ascetic life. A little excessive maybe, but I didn’t see anything wrong in it. And, see, we have put him in clean robes and dressed his wounds. But as for the chains, Brother Thomas and I are in agreement. It is better for…Peter…that he remains under restraint.’

Better for the priory was Falconer’s interpretation, but he kept his thoughts to himself. He leaned over the slumbering body to examine the boy’s face. Suddenly, Peter’s eyes started open, and he stared back straight into Falconer’s own face. The Regent Master wondered if he had been feigning sleep and how much of the earlier conversation Peter had been following. The boy was the first to speak.

‘Hello, Adam.’ He raised his right hand as far as he was able, and with a clank of chains traced three marks around Falconer’s head. ‘One, two, three. The Crown, Wisdom and Intelligence. I see it.’

‘I am flattered, Peter. But my name is William, not Adam.’

Brother Peter faltered a little, frowning at the correction.

‘Not Adam, then? Well, never mind.’ Quickly, another thought flashed in his eyes. He smiled. ‘Have you found Eudo yet?’

‘No, Peter. Do you know where he is?’

A sly look crossed his features, and he turned away from the prior. ‘I might.’

‘And Martin, where is he?’

Falconer’s question seemed to bother the young monk, and he moaned, shaking his chains as though he wished to be free of them.

‘Martin? He is the Sephirah of Darkness. No, no, don’t talk of him. I have journeyed to Jezirah and seen the ten classes of angels. I know.’

Falconer frowned, not understanding any of this gibberish.

‘What do you know, Brother Peter? Where are they both, your friends?’

‘Oh! He is dead. He is dead.’

The young monk’s pale face then screwed up in horror, and he clutched at the sleeve of Brother Thomas’s robe. Uneasy, the herbalist grasped his wrist and worked the cloth out of Peter’s grasp. Behind them, Saphira Le Veske was shaken by the words emanating from the monk’s quivering mouth. Did he mean Martin was dead, or was he referring to Eudo? Guiltily, she prayed for the latter to be the case. Besides, unlike the patient stranger, she knew what the boy’s ramblings meant. Or thought she did.

‘What have you done, Menahem?’ she muttered, and slid back into the darkness of the gloomy infirmary.

Falconer, meanwhile, contemplated his next move. If one of the boys was dead, where was the body? The prior said they had scoured the whole priory when the young monks had gone missing. At that time they had not been found. But if what Peter said was true, one of them was dead and his body lay undiscovered somewhere, leaving the other alive and perhaps guilty of the murder. It had all happened so recently that Falconer could not believe that whoever it was who was still alive – Martin or Eudo – could have gone far. Indeed, it was more likely he was hiding until the awful weather passed and it was possible to travel abroad. Looking out of the window of the hospital, he saw that the rain was still steepling down, and once again the Stygian gloom caused by the disappearance of the moon in the sky was briefly illuminated by a flash of lightning. A thunderclap like the crack of doom followed hard on its heels, showing the storm was now almost directly overhead. The terrible sound roused Brother Peter, and he cowered at the end of the bed, dragging his chains taut. He began to gibber, using strange words.

‘He is released, the Sephirah of Darkness – Samuel and all his Keliphoth…’

The prior and the herbalist stepped back in horror and crossed themselves. Falconer rose, too, and rubbed his forehead in the region where his megrim was advancing. Unseen, he slid another leaf into his mouth and chewed. He looked down at the prostrate form of the chained monk, seeing the fear in his eyes. He knew he would get nowhere in the presence of the prior and his minion.

‘Prior John, if there is truly a body in the priory, I urge you to locate it as soon as possible. Before the other monks arise for prime. If the two of you go now and conduct a thorough search, I will stay with Peter.’

At first, Thomas balked at the idea, but the prior saw the sense of it.

‘Come, Brother Thomas, what Master Falconer says is sensible. We must locate the body before anyone else rises and discovers it by accident. Besides, Brother Peter is chained and cannot escape even if he wished to.’

The herbalist picked up one of the candles burning beside Peter’s bed and led the prior away on their search. Falconer turned to follow their departure, surreptitiously glancing around in the dark for the mystery woman. He had been aware of her presence as he questioned the monk, but now she was nowhere to be seen. He wondered where she might have gone. And what she was doing.

In fact, Saphira was doing nothing. She had no idea where to begin the search for her son, knowing only that he was not in the infirmary. She had quietly peeped in each cubicle as she had passed it on the way towards Brother Peter’s bed. There were only old and sickly men inside the partitions that were occupied, men on their final journey to the heaven they prayed to every single day of their monastic life. None of the bodies on the beds was that of a young man. She had breathed a sigh of relief. But then when Peter had proclaimed that one of his companions was dead, Saphira had been stricken to her core. She could only hope he was referring to the other young monk, Eudo. Though she wished no one ill, his death was preferable to the demise of her only son. But what troubled her more were the words that Peter had used before his outcry. To the prior and the stranger – someone called William Falconer, apparently – they had clearly been nonsense, the ravings of a lunatic, but Saphira knew exactly what they signified. And it worried her deeply. She sank down on the thin mattress in the cubicle she had chosen to hide in, waiting until the prior and the other monk had walked past. Suddenly she felt cold and tired, and she was aware how her wet clothes clung to her. It caused her to shiver uncontrollably.