The Medieval Murderers - House of Shadows

As Chaucer came out from the shadow of the gatehouse, the mason glanced around, fear and shock on his face. He was little more than a lad, with a round, freckled face. An apprentice, no doubt. His eyes flicked down to Chaucer’s hand. He opened his mouth but no words would come. Geoffrey held up the quill as if to say, ‘Look, it’s harmless,’ but he wasn’t sure whether the lad really took it in. He placed the quill on a nearby block of stone. By now the two monks were bending over the body on the ground. Their black garb reminded Chaucer of crows in a field.

The other mason, the older man, returned. He was panting heavily from the chase, sweat running down his face. His shirt was torn at the shoulder and blood was seeping through. He took off his woollen hat and held it to the wound. He glanced briefly towards the freckle-faced lad but did not look at the body.

‘Scraped me, he did,’ he said to Geoffrey when he’d recovered his breath. ‘I left it to them to catch the bastard. They know the holes and corners of this place – God knows there’re enough of them.’ Chaucer wasn’t sure whether he was referring to the brothers who’d taken off after the one-armed fugitive or to the priory’s holes and corners.

One of the remaining monks made the sign of the cross over the body while the other kneeled down beside it. Chaucer heard the murmur of prayer.

‘What happened? Who did this?’ said Geoffrey.

‘Calls himself Adam,’ said the man. ‘Anyone can call themselves Adam, though, can’t they? Argumentative bastard, looking for trouble from the moment we started this job.’

Both men spoke almost in whispers. The freckle-faced apprentice kept silent but gazed in fascination, it seemed, at the monks, both of whom were now on their knees.

‘You didn’t know him, then? He’s a newcomer?’ said Geoffrey, indicating the direction taken by the fleeing man.

‘We were short-handed. Michael the cellarer wished Adam on us.’

The cellarer or bursar of the priory was responsible not only for provisioning the priory but also kept the office which oversaw the upkeep of the buildings.

‘Adam has only the use of one hand,’ said Geoffrey, reluctant to add that this might seem to disqualify the man from building work.

‘Cellarer said we should show charity. Adam came to him with a sob story of how his hand’d been crushed by some falling scaffolding when he was working over Lewes way. There’s another whatsisname over Lewes way.’

‘St Pancras of Lewes. It’s a Cluniac house,’ said Geoffrey.

‘That’s the one. St Pancras. You’re not a religious?’ said the man, looking at Chaucer’s clothes and apparently surprised at his knowledge of the Cluniac order. He continued to hold his cap over the wound in his upper arm.

‘I am a visitor to the priory. Geoffrey Chaucer is my name. You are…?’

‘I am Andrew. This here is Will and that there on the ground is John.’

He meant the freckled boy and the dead man.

‘Cellarer Michael says we should look after our own,’ continued Andrew, ‘so he takes this Adam on even though he only had the one good hand. Did enough damage to old John Morton, didn’t he, with that one good hand? Though you might say it was a bad hand.’

The two monks who’d been attending to the dead man were joined by other brothers and some lay workers. One of them had brought a makeshift carrier made of coarse cloth fastened to two poles. He placed it on the ground and unfurled it. Several of them half lifted, half rolled the dead man on to the stretcher. The irrelevant thought occurred to Chaucer that at least their black habits would not easily show the blood which must be staining them.

As they lifted up the stretcher holding the body, the apprentice gasped. It was the first sound Will had made.

‘John on the ground is Will’s uncle,’ said Andrew. ‘His father’s sick, which is the reason we were short-handed. Will’s a bit…you know…’

He rolled his eyes in his head. A bit simple, he meant. Geoffrey looked at the boy again. Will was watching as the group made its way towards the corner of the yard, presumably on its way to the infirmary.

‘You know why he’s simple?’ said Andrew.

Geoffrey shook his head. He didn’t know why the man was talking so much. Shock, he guessed.

‘It’s because his mother was sired by a priest. The boy’s state is God’s punishment for her father’s sin, though you wouldn’t know it from the way she carries on. Giving herself airs and all.’

Chaucer said nothing. The comments seemed out of place. He was familiar with the idea that the sins of the fathers might be visited on succeeding generations. It was not an idea that he liked very much, although, looking around at the world, there seemed to be a grain of truth in it. Rather than saying anything in reply, he continued to gaze at the retreating procession carrying the body of the mason. Before they’d gone far, Richard Dunton intercepted them. The carriers paused. The prior stood by the stretcher and bowed his head. His lips moved in silent prayer, then he strode briskly to where Chaucer stood with the mason and the apprentice.

‘This is a bad business, Geoffrey, very bad,’ he said. ‘Did you see it happen?’

‘Not altogether. This man was a witness.’

‘Andrew, isn’t it?’ said Dunton. ‘You are hurt, Andrew.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said the mason, pleased to have been recognized despite everything. ‘It’s nothing much, sir. Just a scratch.’

‘It is your fellow that is dead? John Morton?’

Geoffrey understood that Richard Dunton had the knack, very useful in someone with authority, of knowing the names even of those in lowly positions.

‘The boy here is his nephew,’ said Andrew. ‘John is – he was – brother to the lad’s father.’

The Prior said: ‘I know.’ He reached out and grasped Will by the shoulder. The boy started and blinked as if he had been woken from a dream.

‘Has the villain been caught, sir?’ asked Andrew.

‘He will be,’ said the prior. ‘I understand that he arrived here only recently.’

Andrew nodded and Dunton said: ‘We will scour the grounds and buildings. He will find no home or sanctuary here.’

‘Must go home,’ said Will, picking up on the prior’s last words. The boy’s voice was surprisingly steady. ‘My father, he is sick at home.’

‘In the Morton house? I did not hear of any sickness,’ said the prior.

‘No reason you should hear, sir,’ said Andrew. He removed the woollen cap from his damaged arm. The blood was seeping more slowly now. As he’d said, it wasn’t much more than a scratch.

‘Go to the infirmary, man. Get that wound attended to.’

‘Home,’ Will repeated. He made as if to set off but did no more than walk in a half-circle, as if he’d forgotten his whereabouts.

‘Wait,’ said the prior. ‘You shall not go by yourself.’

Dunton’s glance shifted between Geoffrey Chaucer and Andrew, who hadn’t moved, despite being ordered to the infirmary. The prior said: ‘Geoffrey, would you mind accompanying Will? I must stay here. But the boy should not go alone. There is a bad man on the loose and, besides, it may be necessary to…to give an account…’

Chaucer understood. The prior did not wish the news of John Morton’s death to come from the mouth of the boy, even assuming he was capable of delivering it. Young Will would probably recover soon enough, but at the moment he was still affected by witnessing the mortal violence done to his uncle.

‘Of course,’ he said.

‘The family live outside the main gate, Master Chaucer,’ said Andrew. ‘There is a row of dwellings. Theirs is a house apart. It is Mistress Susanna’s you are looking for.’