The Medieval Murderers - House of Shadows

Above their heads the church bell dolefully tolled the time for Mass.

At the junction of the road leading between Canterbury and London, William Falconer sat astride his rounsey, now rested and cured of its lameness. He surveyed the open marshland that surrounded Bermondsey Priory and reached as far as the glassy expanse of the Thames. This morning, as the watery sun rose higher above the scrubby line of trees to the east, a yellowish shimmer filled his view. The river had freed itself from its confines and had stretched itself out luxuriantly across the low-lying fields. The priory now appeared to be floating in the middle of a glistening lake. Pewter clouds still loomed to the west, painting the vista a uniform grey. It was probably raining on Oxford town and its university.

Falconer eased himself in the saddle, the leather creaking beneath him.

‘We go our separate ways, then.’

Saphira Le Veske, perched comfortably on a palfrey lent her by the prior, nodded her head. ‘It would seem so. I have a business to run in La Réole that I have too long ignored. Oh, by the way, an infusion of sage is said to be good for the memory.’

‘I’ll remember that.’

Saphira laughed, and Falconer suddenly realized what he had said.

‘…if I can remember it without taking some sage first.’

Still, he was reluctant to make their parting too soon.

‘And now you have a capable partner to assist you.’ He waved a hand at the boy who stood at his mother’s stirrups. ‘Martin…er, Menahem…will make a far better man of business than he did a Cluniac monk, I feel.’

The boy hung his head, but Falconer could detect a smile on his face. He had found his family and his path in life again.

‘By the way, Menahem Le Veske, I never thanked you for guiding me towards thinking of a tunnel. Without your mother seeing you in the dark last night down by the reredorter, I would never have guessed it was there.’

Menahem’s pinched face folded into a frown.

‘The reredorter? I was never there last night. I was hiding under the water mill until it was dark enough to get back to the room. I could not leave Eudo on his own, you see. He was too frightened of the dark. And of something in the room itself.’

Falconer recalled the grey, ghostly shape he and Saphira had seen in the brief brightness of the lightning fork, a shape that had disappeared into stone walls like a phantom.

A cold shiver ran up his spine.

Morrow of the Feast of St Andrew [1] ,

Eighteenth Year of the Reign of King Edward II,

Bermondsey, Surrey

The monk looked at the newlyweds standing smiling before him, each so obviously joyful in the company of the other, and knew only pleasure in their happiness at first. They were so happy , and yet he knew as well as they did what risks they ran. Suddenly his belly clenched, and for a moment he couldn’t think why. Then he remembered the old story of Lady Alice and Brother Francis all those years before.

That was all long ago. A woman with no shame, a whoring bitch who tempted the poor chaplain from his vows and threatened his soul with her lusts. It was said that the two had disappeared soon after, snatched away by the devil himself.

‘Brother Lawrence, we are so grateful to you.’

The two had walked to him, and Lawrence was uncomfortable with their gratitude. Not so these two, please, God , he prayed. She was so terribly young, he much more experienced. It was that reflection that brought on the sense of fear again. In Christ’s name, he knew full well that it might matter not a whit that they adored each other. Their families might do all in their power to destroy them. Others had in the past.

‘We have been wanting to marry since we first met here, on the afternoon of the feast of St Peter ad Vincula last year,’ she said.

That day , he thought with a shock.

‘The day that the traitor escaped,’ her husband confirmed.

‘We saw them, I think,’ she continued. ‘I saw the men coming over the river in the early darkness. It was my husband here who saved me. God knows what men such as they would have done to me. He pulled me aside until they’d all ridden away.’

John, the novice, was listening intently, Lawrence saw. The older monk motioned to him with a frown, and John walked off a short distance. Lawrence didn’t want him listening to anything that might be difficult to keep to himself. A boy had enough to hold secret as it was. The fewer the temptations of gossip the better.

‘What were you doing here at such a time?’ he asked.

She flushed a little. ‘I was a fool! I saw William that afternoon and came to speak to him. We remained longer than we should. It was only my husband here who saved me!’

Her expression was so joyous as she turned to him that the monk had to look away. He folded his hands, and as the two embraced he bowed his head and prayed for them. They would need God’s help if they were to survive.

‘When the men came, we saw the ghost. It terrified me, but my husband held me close and protected me. Of course, later we realized!’ The monk’s quick look made her nod sadly. ‘Yes, I told my father.’

He motioned to her to be quiet and drew her away from the others, but when they were finished, and he had made the sign of the cross over her in forgiveness, he shook his head. It was a sad, sad confession to have to make. He only hoped no more harm would come of her actions.

The girl’s maid, Avice, stood at the side of the novice, but the monk saw that in her eyes, too, there was little pleasure to see her mistress wedded. Only a certain reserved anxiety, as though she, too, was viewing their future and disliked what she saw. The only witness who genuinely approved of the match appeared to be John, his new novice, who stood with a fixed grin on his face.

Brother Lawrence sighed inwardly. He tapped John on the shoulder and nodded back towards the priory. John made a sign of acquiescence. Their order demanded silence as well as obedience.

The two turned away from the little clearing where the marriage had been sworn and witnessed, but as Lawrence walked away he realized that John had stopped and was now gazing back at the newlyweds again.

John gave a defensive shrug of his shoulders.

Lawrence could see what he meant. The two were so full of joy. But the older brother could not help but tell himself: ‘For now, yes. She is the happiest woman alive. But when her family hears what she has done…my God! I only hope no evil comes of this!’

Vigil of the Feast of St George the Martyr [2] ,

Surrey Side of the Thames

Sir Baldwin de Furnshill was a reluctant visitor to this, the greatest city of the realm.

Content with his lot as a rural knight living in Devon, he would have been happy not to have returned. He had been here many years before, when he had still been one of those fortunates, a respected and honoured member of the Poor Fellow Soldiers of Christ and the Temple of Solomon, a Knight Templar. But his order had been destroyed by that snake King Philip IV of France, and his dishonourable, mendacious lackey Pope Clement V. Those two had seen to the destruction of the Temple and the murder of many loyal brothers in their avaricious pursuit of the order’s wealth.

Yes, the last time Sir Baldwin had seen London and Westminster had been more than ten years ago, when he had fled France after his order’s dissolution. He had arrived here in the hope that he might find some few of his old companions and had made his way to the Temple. Once there, he stood and stared, dumbfounded. He should not have gone. It was depressing to see how his order’s headquarters in Britain had been so pillaged. Where once the rich and powerful had congregated to petition the order, where kings had come to borrow money and others came to give up their secular lives, accepting a life of rigorous training, obedience, poverty and chastity, now beggars and peasants gathered. Drunks walked in cloisters meant for spiritual contemplation. He felt sickened to see how this deeply religious place had been so debased.