Ken Follett - World Without End

Caris said: “Do you recall Juley and John being absent a second time? Godwyn and Philemon would have needed help again.”

“Not necessarily,” Merthin said. “It’s much easier to re-excavate ground that has already been loosened. Godwyn is forty-three and Philemon is only thirty-four. They could have done it without help, if they really wanted to.”

That night, Godwyn began to rave. Some of the time he seemed to be quoting from the Bible, sometimes preaching, and sometimes making excuses. Caris listened for a while, hoping for clues. “Great Babylon is fallen, and all the nations have drunk of the wrath of her fornication; and out of the throne proceeded fire, and thunder; and all the merchants of the earth shall weep. Repent, oh, repent, all ye who have committed fornication with the mother of harlots! It was all done for a higher purpose, all done for the glory of God, because the end justifies the means. Give me something to drink, for the love of God.” The apocalyptic tone of his delirium was probably suggested by the wall painting, with its graphic depiction of the tortures of hell.

Caris held a cup to his mouth. “Where are the cathedral ornaments, Godwyn?”

“I saw seven golden candlesticks, all covered with pearls, and precious stones, and wrapped in fine linen, and purple, and scarlet, and lying in an ark made of cedar wood, and sandalwood, and silver. I saw a woman riding upon a scarlet beast, having seven heads and ten horns, and full of the names of blasphemy.” The nave rang with the echoes of his ranting.

On the following day the two novices died. That afternoon, Thomas and Merthin buried them in the graveyard to the north of the priory. It was a cold, damp day, but they sweated with the effort of digging. Thomas performed the funeral service. Caris stood at the grave with Merthin. When everything was falling apart, the rituals helped to maintain a semblance of normality. Around them were the new graves of all the other monks except Godwyn and Saul. Saul’s body lay under the little chancel of the church, an honour reserved for the most highly regarded priors.

Afterwards Caris came back into the church and stared at Saul’s grave in the chancel. That part of the church was paved with flagstones. Obviously the flags had been lifted so that the grave could be dug. When they had been put back, one of the stones had been polished and carved with an inscription.

It was hard to concentrate, with Godwyn in the corner raving about beasts with seven heads.

Merthin noticed her thoughtful look and followed her gaze. He immediately guessed what she was thinking. In a horrified voice he said: “Surely Godwyn can’t have hidden the treasure in Saul Whitehead’s coffin?”

“It’s hard to imagine monks desecrating a tomb,” she said. “On the other hand, the ornaments wouldn’t have had to leave the church.”

Thomas said: “Saul died a week before you arrived. Philemon disappeared two days later.”

“So Philemon could have helped Godwyn dig up the grave.”

“Yes.”

The three of them looked at one another, trying to ignore the mad mumblings of Godwyn.

“There’s only one way to find out,” Merthin said.

Merthin and Thomas got their wooden shovels. They lifted the memorial slab and the paving stones around it, and started digging.

Thomas had developed a one-handed technique. He pushed the shovel into the earth with his good arm, tilted it, then ran his hand all the way down the shaft to the blade and lifted it. His right arm had become very muscular as a result of this kind of adaptation.

Nevertheless, it took a long time. Many graves were shallow, nowadays, but for Prior Saul they had dug down the full six feet. Night was falling outside, and Caris fetched candles. The devils in the wall painting seemed to move in the flickering light.

Both Thomas and Merthin were standing in the hole, with only their heads visible above floor level, when Merthin said: “Wait. Something’s here.”

Caris saw some muddy white material that looked like the oiled linen sometimes used for shrouds. “You’ve found the body,” she said.

Thomas said: “But where’s the coffin?”

“Was he buried in a box?” Coffins were only for the elite: poor people were interred in a shroud.

Thomas said: “Saul was buried in a coffin – I saw it. There’s plenty of wood here in the middle of the forest. All the monks were put in coffins, right up until Brother Silas fell ill – he was the carpenter.”

“Wait,” said Merthin. He pushed his shovel through the earth at the feet of the shroud and lifted a shovelful. Then he tapped with the blade, and Caris heard the dull thud of wood on wood. “Here’s the coffin, underneath,” he said.

Thomas said: “How did the body get out?”

Caris felt a shiver of fear.

Over in the corner, Godwyn raised his voice. “And he shall be tormented with fire and brimstone in the sight of the holy angels, and the smoke of his torment will rise up for ever and ever.”

Thomas said to Caris: “Can’t you shut him up?”

“I’ve got no drugs with me.”

Merthin said: “There’s nothing supernatural here. My guess is that Godwyn and Philemon took the body out – and filled the coffin with their stolen treasures.”

Thomas pulled himself together. “We’d better look in the coffin, then.”

First they had to move the shrouded corpse. Merthin and Thomas bent down, grabbed it by the shoulders and knees, and lifted it. When they had raised it to the level of their shoulders, the only way they could get it farther was to toss it out on to the floor. It landed with a thump. They both looked fearful. Even Caris, who did not believe much of what she was told about the spirit world, felt frightened by what they were doing, and found herself glancing nervously over her shoulder into the shadowed corners of the church.

Merthin cleared the earth from the top of the coffin while Thomas went to fetch an iron bar. Then they lifted the lid of the casket.

Caris held two candles over the grave so that they could see better.

Inside the coffin was another shrouded body.

Thomas said: “This is very strange!” His voice was distinctly shaky.

“Let’s just think sensibly about this,” Merthin said. He was sounding calm and collected, but Caris – who knew him extraordinarily well – could tell that his composure was taking a big effort. “Who is in the coffin?” he said. “Let’s look.”

He bent down, grabbed the shroud in two hands, and ripped it open along the stitched seam at the head. The corpse was a week dead, and there was a bad smell, but it had not deteriorated much in the cold ground under the unheated church. Even in the unsteady light from Caris’s candles, there was no doubt about the identity of the dead man: the head was fringed with distinctively ash-blond hair.

Thomas said: “That’s Saul Whitehead.”

“In his rightful coffin,” said Merthin.

Caris said: “So who is the other corpse?”

Merthin closed the shroud around Saul’s blond head and replaced the coffin lid.

Caris knelt by the other corpse. She had dealt with many dead bodies, but she had never brought one up from its grave, and her hands were shaky. Nevertheless she opened the shroud and exposed the face. To her horror, the eyes were open and seemed to be staring. She forced herself to close the cold eyelids.

It was a big young monk she did not recognize. Thomas stood on tiptoe to look out of the grave and said: “That’s Brother Jonquil. He died the day after Prior Saul.”

Caris said: “And he was buried…?”

“In the cemetery… we all thought.”

“In a coffin?”

“Yes.”

“Except that he’s here.”

“His coffin weighed enough,” Thomas said. “I helped carry it…”