The Medieval Murderers - House of Shadows

‘Peter was an old man by then,’ said Richard Dunton, ‘but witnesses say that he ran to the spot. No one had ever seen him run before. And not just him, but the other brothers and the lay workers, too, since word spread fast that something remarkable had happened. Well, to shorten my tale, everyone agreed that this was a miraculous event beyond question. Brother James and the others were forgiven for their wilful wandering outside the priory, and they were even forgiven for breaking their vows of silence, since the results had been so happy…so extraordinary. The cross was retrieved from the mud. Even that part of it which had been sunk into the river mud emerged fresh and shining. It was as if the metal had been freshly beaten and polished and the gems newly cut. It was ceremoniously carried to this place, and here it has stood for more than two hundred and fifty years.’

As if to mark the close of his story, the prior reached out and latched the grille in front of the cross. While he’d been speaking, Geoffrey had been examining the crucifix more closely. If he hadn’t just heard this strange account, he probably wouldn’t have spared the cross a second glance. It was a handsome enough item but not much different from what you might find in any religious house or church.

‘You do not keep it locked away?’ he said. ‘Many people must wish to see this and even a priory may receive a thief unawares.’

‘We welcome many guests here and there may be thieves among them. But who would dare to take it?’ said Dunton, with a rare flash of unworldliness. ‘Besides, this place is always occupied. And the cross will guard itself.’

Geoffrey wasn’t so sure about that, but he said nothing. The two men turned away from the niche in the wall. The darkness in the nave had grown deeper, relieved only by the pinprick of scattered candles elsewhere and the embers of light in the western window. Geoffrey wasn’t sure either how far the prior believed in the story he’d just told. There had been no trace of doubt or irony in his tones. When it came to miracles, Geoffrey put himself in the sceptics’ camp. He didn’t think they happened nowadays, or at least not with such convenient timing.

It was easy enough to see how the legend of the miraculous Bermondsey cross might have developed. The object was small enough to be carried in the beak of a large bird, which had probably been attracted by its bright sheen. But a bird wouldn’t see much purpose in carrying it far and would soon drop it. By pure chance the cross had landed not in the water but on the Thames foreshore. Probably the monks had witnessed this straightforward event and, wittingly or otherwise, had transformed it into something wondrous. It couldn’t be denied that the cross, like any relic and quite apart from its religious significance, must be useful to the priory. With such a history, it would draw pilgrims and the devout to this marshy spot south of the river.

After the tour, Geoffrey shared the monks’ supper in the fraterhouse or refectory in the south cloister. The meal, simple but adequate, was eaten in silence while one of the brothers read from the Scriptures. Accustomed to the constant noise of his own house in Aldgate, Geoffrey relished the peace of it all. Even so, he suspected that after a few days such ordered calm would become tedious. He’d never been tempted by the religious life; he belonged too much to this world.

But, he reflected now, sitting in his guest-chamber on a bright summer’s morning, such a life would do very well for a while. And he wasn’t so much out of the world after all. The dispute among the artisans working at the foot of the gatehouse showed that. He dipped his quill in the ink pot and prepared himself to blot the white sheet in front of him. He’d had an idea!

All at once there was a violent shout from below, followed by grunts and the sounds of a scuffle. Geoffrey cursed under his breath, rose from his stool and went to the window once more. He was readying himself to call out when he saw that the situation had gone beyond that.

Again two of the masons were standing at a distance from the scene, but this time their faces registered not tension but horror. The man with the claw-like hand was crouching over the fellow he’d been exchanging words with earlier. This man was lying on the ground, and for an instant Geoffrey thought that the other was trying to help him to his feet, since his good hand seemed to be cradled about the other’s neck. Irrelevantly he noted that the man lying down had lost his cap. He had prominent black eyebrows.

The crouching man leaped back. In his fist was clenched the chisel he had been wielding before. Chaucer’s gaze flicked from the blood clearly visible on the chisel blade to the blood that was pooling on the ground beneath the fallen man’s head. He was shaking violently, his heels thudding against the dry earth. He had no implement in his clenched hands, not even the trowel. If he’d been equipped for a fight, then he had either dropped or been disarmed of his makeshift weapon. Geoffrey had seen enough of death in battle to recognize that this unfortunate person had only a very short time to live.

For some seconds nobody moved. The two onlookers stood transfixed by the shock of what they were seeing, and by fear of the individual with the chisel who remained at a half-crouch a couple of yards from the body whose tremors were even now subsiding. The man held the bloody chisel out as if to ward off an attack, but neither of the others was going to approach him. Though Geoffrey hadn’t moved or spoken, the killer must have sensed that he was being watched from the upper window. His covered head shifted upwards and he squinted as before. His black hole of a mouth widened in a type of grin, and Geoffrey felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickling. At the same time an inner voice told him that he must act, he must get down to the inner court and do something…Still he did not budge.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw flickers of black. The crooked-hand man must have noticed Chaucer’s gaze shift, for he turned his head. Half a dozen monks, fresh from their devotions, were rounding the corner of the kitchen, which lay on the eastern side of the court next to the refectory. As one, like soldiers given a command, they stopped when they saw the scene before them: a man on his back on the ground, another crouched with his arm extended and two more standing by stiff as statues.

Then, as if to make up for the absence of movement, everyone started to act at once. The monks began to pace rapidly towards the group, their habits flapping. Either they were brave or they hadn’t fully grasped what was happening. Simultaneously, one of the fellows of the dead man – he must be dead by now; he had stopped shaking, though the blood continued to flow from the wound in his neck – made to close in on the killer, but with great caution.

The claw-handed man was quicker. He darted through the tightening circle, lashing out to left and right with the chisel. Geoffrey turned from the window and left the room at a half-run. When he was halfway down the spiral staircase, which led to the ground floor, he realized he was still clutching the quill pen. For an absurd instant he debated returning to replace the pen on the table. Then he clattered down the stone steps, through the lobby and emerged blinking into the sun of the courtyard.

He skirted the pile of stones and wheelbarrows and leathern buckets and other equipment which was being used to repair the cavity in the wall. No one noticed him. Either they were staring at the corner of the yard by the kitchen or they were themselves moving in that direction. The murderer had evidently slipped around the corner moments before while Geoffrey was descending. A couple of the monks remained behind, together with one of the masons. No one had yet gone near the body.