The Medieval Murderers - House of Shadows

Geoffrey was surprised to find how knowledgeable Richard Dunton was about outside affairs. The prior knew the latest news about King Edward’s health (declining) and that of the Prince of Wales (also declining). He was better informed than Chaucer on some of the most recent comings and goings at court. When Geoffrey commented, tactfully, on this, Dunton said: ‘You must not think, Master Chaucer, that because we spend our time thinking of a higher world we are somehow not of this one too. It is very necessary for the prior of a great place like this to be aware of what the king is thinking and feeling – and of the state of his health. It’s not so many years since we were taken under his protection on account of debt and other misfortunes.’

At one point, as they were rounding a corner in the cloister, a hooded figure almost collided with Geoffrey. The figure was carrying some books, which he dropped in his confusion. Another brother was following in his wake. This second monk busied himself retrieving the dropped books. After apologies had been exchanged, Richard Dunton said: ‘This is well met.’

He introduced the brothers. The first, who’d been carrying the books, was Brother Peter, who combined the posts of sacrist and librarian. The second, who’d picked the books up, was a moon-faced young man called Ralph. He was described as the revestiarius and the sacrist’s assistant. Chaucer was a little hazy on the responsibilities of the various posts in the order, but he had an idea that the revestiarius was in charge of the linen and vestments.

Richard Dunton explained the reason for Geoffrey’s presence in Bermondsey and once again made reference to the ‘court poet’. If Brother Peter had never heard of Geoffrey Chaucer, he made a good job of disguising the fact by nodding and saying: ‘Of course, of course, Master Chaucer.’ The librarian was old but with a stringy strength to him. He pushed his hood back and thrust his lined, spectacled face towards the newcomer as if to read Geoffrey like a book. The cloister was gloomy enough, but the gesture seemed like a lifelong habit, acquired from years of poring over texts. What little light there was reflected off Brother Peter’s spectacles, making it hard to interpret his expression, in fact giving an odd impression of blindness. Meanwhile, Brother Ralph stood smiling pleasantly in the background.

‘You remember that I wish to speak to you, Brother Richard?’ said the librarian to the prior. When the other did not respond, he said: ‘The matter cannot wait.’ His voice was, like his body, creaky but firm.

‘Come after compline,’ said the prior.

Peter seemed about to say something more but, tucking his books under his arm, he nodded to his assistant and the two men rounded the corner of the cloister. Chaucer and Dunton resumed their walk.

‘There is a man who does not live in the higher world or the lower one but only among his books,’ said the prior.

‘I can think of worse worlds,’ said Geoffrey.

‘No doubt his ceiling is leaking or a bookish mouse has chewed some manuscript.’

Geoffrey wondered that the prior needed to account for the librarian’s wish to see him. He thought there’d been a greater urgency in Brother Peter’s voice than would be justified by a leaking roof or a trespassing mouse. By now they had wandered out of the cloister and were walking near the chapterhouse. Beyond lay the monks’ cemetery, with its modest white stone markers, all identical in the dying light, sheltered by willows and oaks. Richard Dunton gestured at some more scattered buildings. Like all great establishments, Bermondsey Priory was, if not a world unto itself, at least a township. It contained a bakery and an infirmary and, at some distance, even a farm. Around them stretched the flatlands of Surrey rising to gentle hills in the distance. This was marsh country, at risk from high tides and protected by ditches and dykes.

But now the prior took Geoffrey Chaucer by the elbow and, saying that there was something very precious that he wished to show him, led him back in the direction of the great church. Perhaps because of the nearness of water – in the river to the north, in the very ground under their feet – Geoffrey suddenly thought of the church as a stone ship. An upturned ark. Passing down the slype, or covered passage, they entered the building through a door off the cloister.

The interior was deserted save for a couple of figures who were kneeling in prayer. It was between the hours for vespers and compline, the final prayers for the day. Inside, it struck chill after the warmth of the evening. The mighty stone columns seemed to pass into dusk as they climbed towards the vaulted roof. The stained glass in the great rose window at the end of the nave burned with the last of the day. The prior once again guided Chaucer by the elbow until they reached a side chapel. A small cross, made of brass or latten by the look of it and studded with little gems, stood in a niche behind a grille flanked by burning tapers. Richard Dunton unlatched the grille so that they could see the cross more clearly. It was delicately fashioned and stood scarcely more than the height of a man’s hand.

‘I have heard of this,’ said Geoffrey. ‘The Bermondsey cross. There is a story that goes with it.’

‘It was found during the time of the first King Henry by members of our order. You know the story, you say?’

‘Not the details of it,’ said Geoffrey, sensing Dunton’s eagerness to tell the tale. As the two men gazed at the crucifix, the prior recounted how three of the Cluniac monks had been walking and debating by the banks of the River Thames one morning all those centuries before. It was a cloudy, workaday morning. Of course, the brothers should not have been outside the bounds of the priory, nor should they have been engaged in a theological discussion – given their vow of silence they should not have been talking at all, in fact. But perhaps things were not so strict in those days. Legend had it that they were discussing miracles and whether any such wonders were possible in these late times. One of the three monks, Brother James, was especially vociferous in his belief that the age of miracles had passed. At that instant they heard a flap of wings and looked up to see a great bird passing overhead, flying towards the river.

Fear struck deep into their hearts, for it was a larger bird than they had ever seen in their lives, larger even than the largest eagle. They clutched each other in their fear and watched as the bird reached the river. Some object appeared to fall from its beak before it began to climb higher and higher until it was no more than a speck against the clouds. Where before the brothers had been disputing noisily, they were now struck dumb. They were about to return, silent and chastened, to the priory when a narrow ray of sun shot through a hole in the cloud – at the very spot where the bird had disappeared – and seemed to fasten on a muddy stretch of the foreshore. ‘Like a finger,’ said Richard Dunton. ‘That is how it is described in the account left by Brother James. Like a celestial finger directing him and his brothers to this particular point.’

Curiosity got the better of their alarm. They saw something glinting on the foreshore. They picked their way across the mud and muck of the shore until they reached the place. There, planted perpendicular in the mud, was the cross that now stood in front of Geoffrey Chaucer. The gems crusting its arms were untarnished, said Richard Dunton. There was no trace of mud or water on the cross. This, surely, was the very item dropped by the great bird. It was the strongest reproof to Brother James’s words about miracles. When the brothers had recovered a little from their astonishment, they left him to guard the cross and ran back to the priory to get the prior who, like the present librarian, went by the name of Peter.