The Lost Prophecies

ACT THREE

When three Popes all murdered lie,

And Christ’s own kingdom desecrated,

The third age then shall hasten by,

And Antichrist with bloody slaughter sated.

Feast Day of the Translation of St Thomas,²

Eighteenth year of the reign of King Edward II

When his fingers touched it, he grunted with satisfaction.

Teetering tiptoed, precariously balanced on three stacked chests that wobbled alarmingly as he pried each crevice, he found a moving stone. Even as his grin widened, the topmost step of his makeshift ladder moved, and the smile was snatched away. He clung to the great pillar, cheek pressed to the stonework in a desperate embrace.

Heart beating like a war-drum, he closed his eyes and blew out his breath, a shiver of pure ice running through his spine as he gently set his feet flat once more. Dear God, but this was fearsome. He daren’t fail – and to fall would be to fail. He’d be damned if he’d do that.

But there was no possibility of success up here like this. Brother Alexander relinquished his hold on the pillar and cautiously returned to the crypt’s floor. There, he eyed the chests with a frowning contemplation. It was clear enough that they weren’t high enough, all set square on the ground like that – but if he were to put the longest one on end, and a smaller on top of that, he may gain an extra foot of height, as well as being granted the comfort of knowing that the boxes were resting more squarely.

The longer chest was soon lifted, not without effort, grunting, and two curses for which he would have to make penance later, and then he lifted the smallest chest atop. Glancing up at the pillar again, he started to climb.

A few moments later he had it. The mortar between two stones of the pillar had been eased away, leaving a narrow gap into which his book would just fit.

It was a scuffed, tatty old book, yet if half of what Alexander had heard was true, it was one of the most dangerous tomes in all Christendom. If he could, he would have taken it to the calefactory and hurled it on the fire. The flames would quickly destroy its malevolent messages. Not that he could. Books were his life.

He remained for some while sitting on the larger chest, his hands on the ancient marked covers. He had his instructions, and he was keen to complete his mission, but, even as he tried to rise, his lips set in a stubborn line, he felt his hands move almost of their own volition towards the pages of pure, yellowed vellum. He shouldn’t look. He’d been warned about the danger. Yet there was something that drove him on. His fingers felt the roughened edges, feeling how the years had scraped at them. Then his eyes caught the first quatrain, and he frowned in the lousy candlelight, peering to make sense of the words.

The first was incomprehensible; and the second and third. He began to frown with perplexity as he riffled through, searching for something that would make sense, but none did.

It was then, his bewilderment growing, that he heard the noise.

At first he told himself it must be rats. God alone knew how many of the cursed creatures lived here. The damned things were all over the place, coming in from the sewer that led out to the river Tyburn near the wall encircling the Palace of Westminster, right next to the abbey. Novices were told that the scrabbling sounds were excommunicated souls seeking an entrance so they might find their way to the altar, thence to heaven. It was ballocks, of course. They all knew the sound of a rat gnawing – but still, there were moments when even a farmer’s son could almost believe he heard the voices of the damned in the middle of a wintry night when the wind blew and the rats gnawed more furiously. A little imagination was a terrible thing to a novice.

This wasn’t a rat, though. It was a measured, steady tread. And – oh, Christ’s cods – it was coming this way!

He hurriedly moved to the door. From here he would have to pass along the corridor, and a man coming this way must see him. He hesitated, and in that moment his life was forfeit.

It was some while later that his screams woke the community of the abbey at Westminster.

Sir Baldwin de Furnshill was breaking his fast in a leisurely manner when the young man appeared in Bishop Walter Stapledon’s hall.

‘My Lord Bishop!’

Motioning to the fellow, Bishop Walter indicated that he should approach the table. Baldwin cast a glance over the fellow. He was of middle height and clad in a worn habit. Baldwin assumed he was a clerk – but then he saw that the man had a tonsure. A young monk, then. Perhaps a novice. There seemed little of interest about the fellow, as he was introduced as a messenger from the monks of Westminster. Only a remarkable pallor about his thin, pinched features. But many monks were half-starved. It was no surprise that this one looked hungry.

Baldwin shot a look at his friend, Simon Puttock, who sat on the other side of the bishop. Lately the Keeper of the Port of Dartmouth under his patron, Abbot Robert of Tavistock, Simon had for many years before been Abbot Robert’s leading bailiff on the waste known as Dartmoor. He was the chief law officer in that wild and dangerous land. Now, though, like Baldwin, he was bored. Neither wished to be in London.

They had arrived here in the bishop’s entourage, helping him on his journey, and Baldwin in particular was itching to return home.

Bishop Walter peered short-sightedly at the messenger, who spoke urgently in a low whisper, his mouth almost at the bishop’s ear. Bishop Walter chewed slowly but then stopped, apparently startled, and glanced up at him. ‘Say that again!’ he commanded in a quiet but firm tone.

The messenger, clearly numbed with shock at being sent to converse with the King’s treasurer, stammered as he tried to respond.

‘Very well. I understand. Please tell your abbot that I shall send him assistance as I may.’

The man was dismissed. He stood upright and glanced about him at all the servants eating, and was gone.

‘Trouble, my lord?’ Baldwin asked.

Simon looked from one to the other, then nodded to the bottler and held his empty mazer aloft. The bottler grinned quickly and hurried to the top table with a jug of the bishop’s best wine.

The bishop eyed the level in Simon’s mazer. ‘You should drink that quickly.’

‘Are we late?’ Simon asked.

‘No. But you will need to be fortified.’

‘Why?’ Simon chuckled.

The bishop turned to him, and now Simon could see how pale he had become. His voice was low, quiet, but certain. ‘Because if what this messenger says is right, you are about to see something that will turn the strongest stomach, Simon.’

The Prior of Westminster Abbey, commonly called Old Stephen by the less respectful members of his Chapter, sat back at his desk and shook his head. His goblet of wine had already been emptied for the fourth time, and he set himself to refilling it from the jug, releasing the breath from his lungs slowly, trying desperately to calm his shattered nerves.

Alex. Poor, stupid Alex. He had been there to fetch the book. Well, no one would say that Stephen would be able to. Not now, not in his sixtieth year. A fall from that great pillar would incapacitate him. So he’d sent Alex. Bright, quick-witted little Alex. The boy who’d raised the intelligence of the whole abbey when he arrived here six years ago… and who was dead.

‘It was terrible, prior,’ the Franciscan said.

Ach, God! There were times when he was happy to entertain guests, but not today. Stephen nodded agreement as Friar Martin sighed. He was a tall fellow, this young mendicant. Not yet eight and twenty, if he had to guess, yet Martin’s robes were already ancient and patched, his feet unshod, his face streaked with filth. Yet for all his outward signs of poverty, he had a quiet confidence. Quite unlike most of the humble beggar-types, he exuded calmness.

Stephen took up his goblet and slurped wine in the hope he could avert… Too late! The shaking had taken hold of him again, and now his hands were trembling so much he thought that the cup must fall. There was nothing – nothing – that could have prepared him for that sight. The blood…

‘Can I help you, prior?’ Friar Martin enquired.

Yes, Stephen thought. You can leave my convent. Right now. But aloud he merely said: ‘No, my friend. I am just saddened to think of my assistant.’

In his room, the abbot knelt in prayer before his small altar, his forehead resting on his clasped hands, and as he muttered his prayers he shivered, the tears falling in a steady trickle down his sallow cheeks.

Friar Martin walked silently along the flags to the altar, where he saw the slim, stooped figure of Friar James.

James did not glance at him. ‘How is the good prior?’

‘As good as may be expected. Deeply shocked.’

‘Hardly surprising.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘There is gossip even here. You should know that. The men who live in grand institutions are often diverted from the path of contemplation and their order. Some form attachments with each other.’

‘You mean the prior…?’

‘Aye. The dead lad was his catamite. A vile practice. Some could almost say the prior is lucky not to be there with the lad. Are you not shocked and disgusted, brother?’

Friar Martin tilted his head a little and peered speculatively towards the altar. ‘Yes. I think I am, rather. You will not speak of such matters before me again. You understand? Never.’

‘Prior, my Lord Bishop Walter is here to see you.’

‘Oh, my lord, I am grateful you could come!’ Stephen said. He rose and gripped his staff before shuffling towards the bishop. ‘I didn’t know whom to call… and my abbot refused to call for the coroner or…’

His voice faltered as he noticed the men behind the bishop.

‘My good prior, this is my good friend Sir Baldwin de Furnshill. He is the Keeper of the King’s Peace in Crediton. I asked him to join me here to see if he may help.’

‘Oh, my brothers will be most distressed if a king’s officer were to invade our precinct,’ Stephen said unhappily.

‘Do not concern yourself,’ the bishop said. ‘Simon Puttock here has been bailiff to Abbot Robert for these nine years past.’

‘Ah, a man who is used to discretion in dealing with religious offences?’

Simon glanced at the bishop and Baldwin before nodding slowly. ‘I’ve had some experience.’

‘That is excellent. Excellent! But my manners! Please, let me offer you wine?’

With surprising alacrity for a man who needs must use a staff, the prior moved to his table and picked up a small bell. It rang clearly, and a shuffling gait was soon heard outside. A young, tonsured head appeared about the door, and Simon recognized the young messenger.

‘Robert, please fetch goblets and wine.’

The boy nodded – with his soulful eyes he reminded Baldwin of a mastiff deprived of its meal – and disappeared.

‘Would you care for some food as well?’

‘The body, prior,’ Bishop Walter said gently. ‘Where is it?’

Prior Stephen gazed down at his table. ‘It’s down in the crypt.’

‘We shall need to see it,’ Baldwin said.

The prior was clearly distressed by the death of this man. Violence was rare and naturally disturbing to a man like Prior Stephen. Few would expect murder in a great abbey – except violence was natural in any large foundation. It was not so many years ago that the Dean of Exeter had conspired in the death of a political enemy in the Chapter, hiring the vicars of Heavitree and Ottery St Mary to murder the cathedral’s precentor. Where there was money, privilege and power, there were motives for murder.

Still… ‘You are sure that this was murder?’ he asked.

To his shock, Stephen began to laugh shrilly, like a man sent suddenly lunatic.

‘Faugh!’ Simon exclaimed. ‘What’s that?’

They were being taken down into the crypt along a dank, dingy corridor under the abbey’s Chapter House when the smell caught at his throat. It was there, over the odour of burning pitch from the torch in the hand of the old lay brother who was taking them along the narrow stone passageways.

Bishop Walter had remained with the prior, and Simon could see why. Prior Stephen was in a dreadful state. He would say nothing about the dead fellow, only that he was most certainly murdered. More than that he would not say, but instead his eyes filmed over, and he started to shake uncontrollably, wine spilling from his goblet and showering his table and lap.

‘Did the bishop say anything to you about the body?’ Simon asked in a muted voice.

‘No more than he told you. He was silent all the way here,’ Baldwin said. ‘It is most peculiar. I have never known him to be so close before.’

Simon wrinkled his nose in disgust. ‘Can you smell that?’

Baldwin shot him a disdainful look. ‘My sense of smell is fine, Simon. I can detect excrement – but that is no surprise. I dare say we are close to the sewers.’

‘Not here,’ the lay brother said.

‘Then why that odour?’ Baldwin asked.

‘I was told not to say.’

‘Who told you not to say?’ Baldwin asked.

‘The prior. You’ll see soon enough anyway.’

‘See what?’ Simon said.

And then they turned a corner, and he saw a flickering light ahead of them. It glinted from the moisture on the stone walls, from puddles on the ground – and from something else.

‘Sweet Jesus!’ Simon blurted.

‘Yes. The poor boy died badly,’ the lay brother said tonelessly.

‘I could not tell you. I didn’t want the messenger to hear of it.’

‘In Christ’s own name!’ the bishop swore.

‘It was concealed. I swear by the Gospels, my lord, I did all I could to keep it hidden. No one knew it was there, so far as I can tell.’

‘Someone clearly did,’ Bishop Walter said. ‘What was the lad doing there if he didn’t know about it?’

‘I asked him to fetch it to me.’

‘Why?’

‘The Franciscans. They are deeply spiritual men, I am sure, but one of them tried to engage me in conversation about books. He asked to see the abbey’s works, and when I had shown him he enquired about others. Books that might be more… contentious. It made me anxious, so I sent young Alexander to fetch it. Someone found him there and killed him for it.’

‘But he was not merely killed, was he?’

‘I would that he had been!’

Scarcely a man, Baldwin thought. The youth’s face was unlined, the flesh pale and smooth.

Simon called: ‘Baldwin, I can’t…’

‘I understand, Simon,’ Baldwin said with some asperity. In the last few years Simon had grown more accustomed to the reality of sudden, violent death, but with a murder like this even Baldwin felt more than a shade of queasiness.

‘Did no one hear him?’ he asked the torchbearer.

‘Of course they did. Loads of us heard the screaming.’

Killing him in this manner must have taken an age, Baldwin told himself. ‘Nobody sought him?’

‘The man who did this knew his way about, I’d think. He knew how to get here, knew enough to close doors and all. And all the noise we heard, well, we heard it through the windows. All of us came piling out to help the poor soul, but we were in the yard outside. No one could hear anything through these walls.’

Baldwin looked about him briefly. It was easily believable. The walls down here were enormously thick. The crypt itself was beneath the main Chapter House, and so some distance from the sleeping accommodation. The monks would all have been sleeping in their dormitory some distance away, and although they could have heard a man’s screams through their own open windows it was unlikely that the sound could have been heard through the walls. Here, they must have been three feet thick or more.

But considerations of how the noise travelled were less compelling than the sight of the dead man.

He was slumped with his back to the pillar in the middle of the room. The enormous stones were there to support the weight of the massive ceiling above, and it was not wide enough for the man’s arms to span the masonry, but someone had done their best to make him, binding his hands with a thong so tightly that the leather had cut into both wrists.

As the bearer said, he had died badly.

A strip of leather on the ground showed how he had been gagged. The cloth holding the gag in his mouth had been wrenched aside at some point. Perhaps in the poor man’s agonized struggles, trying to escape even as the skin was flayed from his living body and rolled aside like an opened shirt.

The bishop left the prior and marched to the abbey church. There, at least, he hoped, he would be able to gain a little solitude for contemplation.

Entering, he saw that there were already other men up near the altar, both kneeling in prayer, and he recognized them as Franciscans. So these were the men who the prior had said were strangers to the convent. Bishop Walter strode to the front of the church and bent to kneel, feeling his old joints complain as he did so. Always the same: as he grew older, his ancient frame had started to fail him. First it was the piles when he spent too many hours in the saddle, then his eyes had begun to weaken, so he must use spectacles to read even in good light, and now his legs were complaining at the regular kneeling on cold stone. Even the callouses on both knees did not help any more.

The other men had fallen silent as he walked in, and now, as he remained kneeling quietly, he was sure that at least one of them was eyeing him. But he would not be distracted from his communion with God. To his relief, soon after he had closed his eyes he heard the rustle as they both stood, then the firm slap of their bare feet as they made their way from the church.

That was when Bishop Walter began to pray in earnest for the return of the book, the cursed Black Book of Brân.

Simon was relieved when Baldwin had apparently completed his investigation of the body and they could leave the noisome passageway leading to that foul chamber.

‘Who knew the lad best of all?’ Baldwin asked the torchbearer.

‘Don’t know. I’m a lay brother, and they don’t always tell us much. You know, we’re just menials and servants. We don’t matter,’ the man said in a surly tone.

‘You have served the abbey long?’

‘No. I served the king, but now I am retired here. A corrodian.’

‘A pensioner? And yet they do not treat you well?’

‘The abbot has a book about all the things he wants and expects, and God save the man who gets it wrong. It’s all listed in his book. And so are all the people who don’t measure up to his standard.’

‘Did that boy?’

‘Hmm?’

‘Come, now. I am seeking his murderer. A man who could do that either must have hated the boy a great deal or must have had some reason to want to punish him. What can you tell me?’

‘The lad was a pleasant enough fellow. Friendly, but no slacker. Hard worker, from all I’ve heard. And he had a good brain on his shoulders. Could read Latin, Greek, French and other languages. He was a good student. No wonder the prior was proud of him.’

‘Not the abbot?’

‘The abbot has his own ideas about what is right and wrong.’

‘What is your name?’

With a display of reluctance the man grudgingly admitted, ‘Peter.’

‘Thank you, Peter. You disagree with him?’

‘No. Why should I? He is trying to bring back honour to the abbey.’

Simon was still wiping at his mouth. Now he looked up, his face still sour after the sight in that chamber. ‘Why mention that? Has there been a loss of honour here?’

‘Didn’t you know?’ Peter demanded. ‘About the thefts? The insult to the king? No man would insult our King Edward, God save his soul! But they did his father.’

‘Who would have insulted the king?’ Simon scoffed. ‘No man would dare offend a king.’

They had climbed a winding stair and now were approaching the door to the Chapter House. In answer to Simon’s comment, Peter turned to it and pointed. ‘See that?’

‘It is a parchment, isn’t it? Not good quality,’ Simon said, studying the skins nailed over the door. There were three sheets he could see, stretched over the door’s frame. He prodded them. ‘It’s pretty rough, though. No wonder it wasn’t used for writing.’ He leaned closer to sniff at it, but then withdrew sharply when Peter shrugged and responded.

‘It’s not very good, no. But I doubt many tanners wanted to cure the hide of Master Puddlicott once he was skinned.’

Bishop Walter left the church feeling a little calmed by his prayers. As he entered the passageway that gave out to the cloister, he glanced up into the Chapter House and saw the other men standing at the door.

‘Had you heard this tale?’ Baldwin asked as the bishop walked towards them.

‘The skin? Oh, yes. I remember the matter very clearly. Twenty years ago, was it not?’

Peter nodded. ‘Aye.’

‘Were you in the old king’s service then?’ Bishop Walter asked.

‘Me? No, I was in his son’s household. Our present king. I was a man-at-arms. A sergeant,’ he added proudly. But then he shook his head and sighed. ‘I was hurt fighting the traitors at Boroughbridge, and that is why he bought my place here – to let me rest before my death.’

‘Really?’ Baldwin said, eyeing him doubtfully.

‘I have been injured, and I grow lame sitting in a saddle or marching,’ Peter said.

‘Why was this flesh left here?’ Simon demanded, his lip curled as he stared at the leathery hide.

‘He had robbed the king,’ the bishop said. ‘What else would you have had him do? Puddlicott and others took the king’s most prized possessions. King Edward used to leave them here in Westminster’s crypt for safety. When the thieves were caught, he was determined to make an example. Puddlicott claimed to have benefit of clergy. He was held in the Tower for two years before he confessed that he lied. His skin, and the skin of the other robbers, was nailed here as a deterrent to stop other monks aiding felons.’

Simon winced. ‘That was the old king, then?’

‘Yes. King Edward I, our king’s father.’

‘You say the monks abetted the thieves?’ Baldwin prompted.

‘That was the suggestion. The king’s treasury down in the crypt was secure, with locks on all doors, but the felons clambered in through a window. It took them days, I heard tell – they had to work at the bars first, breaking the sill to remove them, and then climbed inside, where they broke open the strongboxes and took all of value. The guards apparently heard nothing, the brothers said they heard nothing – and yet a mason worked two nights to break open the window! And some of the felons were harboured within the abbey.’

Baldwin was studying the door with a speculative eye. ‘And last night another man was flayed alive. That is a curious coincidence, is it not?’

Simon coughed to cover his urge to throw up again. ‘You call it “curious”, Baldwin? I just call it sick. Whoever did that was mad!’

Abbot John of Malvern swore to himself as he marched from his lodgings along the pathway to the abbey, his arms wrapped about him against the morning’s chill.

The fool! He had no damned doubts what Alexander had been doing, and for the abbot’s money he deserved all he had got. No. No, that was too harsh. But the lad had taken the keys to the crypt, he’d gone in there at dead of night and according to that priggish twit, Prior Stephen, he had been looking for the book.

Damn the book! It should have been destroyed an age ago. The bishop himself shouldn’t have brought it here. That was stupid in the extreme. As was sticking the thing down there under the Chapter House. There had been a number of attempts on that chamber in the past. Only a few years ago the crown jewels had been stolen from there. The blasted place wasn’t secure. Who could have been stupid enough to leave that book there? Only the son of a hog – Prior Stephen. He was too dim to see the dangers, the idiot!

‘Abbot.’

Bloody rudeness! ‘Bishop.’

Bishop Walter peered at him short-sightedly. ‘I am sorry to hear of the death of the fellow during the night.’

‘It was a shame. Yes. Poor Alexander.’

The bearded knight at the bishop’s right shoulder leaned forward. ‘Have you found the murderer?’

‘Me? Why, no.’

‘Whom have you set to finding the killer?’

‘That is hardly my responsibility. I have asked the prior to look into it. It is more his province than mine.’

The knight had the impudence to eye him askance at that. ‘Not yours? Is this not your abbey?’

‘It is my abbey. And as such I have a duty of care over all-’ he held up a hand to cut off the knight ‘-over all the living within my community. As prior, he is responsible for the men within the abbey, the lay and the ecclesiastical, and maintaining order. I find your interest in the matter impertinent, master.’

‘You do realize that the young fellow down there in the crypt has been murdered by having the flesh torn from his body?’

‘Enough, Baldwin,’ Bishop Walter said, holding up his hand. ‘My lord abbot, I have spoken to the prior already. I would be very keen to ask my two friends here to help you to investigate the death. They would be most happy to do so.’

‘These two?’ the abbot said. He looked from the bishop to the knight, and then to the heavy-set man behind them. ‘And what exactly could they do to help us?’

The bishop smiled thinly. ‘They would at least be active in searching for the murderer.’

After they had gone on their way, and by some miracle Abbot John had managed to hold his tongue even when the bishop had been so insolent as to suggest that the two scruffy churls – being dubbed knight did not confer honour and breeding on a man, plainly – should aid him in seeking the killer, he stormed off into the cloister.

Seeing the novice Robert, he bellowed at the lad for a jug of his best ale and marched to the Chapter House.

The leather at the door had been there all his time here in the abbey. When he had been elected the leader of the community he had been here only a year or so. That, so he believed, was because he was untainted by the implications of the fiasco of the years before. He had been picked for his resolution and his integrity. No more would his monks be consorting with worldly fools from the king’s palace over the walls, no more flirting with wenches and buying their own favourite foods. No, they were monks, and they had best remember that they should live by the holy order that was granted to them.

There had been many who had been hanged for those misdemeanours, so he had heard. Some for the actual robbery, others because they had received the stolen items. Like William of the Palace, William Palmer. He had been the procurer of women for the abbey back in those appalling days of misdeeds and misbehaviour. One of these strips of flesh was probably his. So John had heard, all the leading felons involved had been hanged and then flayed.

Interesting, he thought, running a finger down the nearest panel of leather nailed roughly to the timbers. Such a lot of emotion represented here. The rage of an elderly king, the anguish of the felons caught for the offence, the jealousy of those who sought to take the king’s money… and the shame of the holy community when these obscene leathers were installed.

Prior Stephen had been here then. A young man, he had ignored the obvious, just as had so many. Weak, ineffectual, a discredit to the whole community, he should be removed. The abbot wouldn’t help him. He was a reminder of past shame.

And now there was cause for more shame and anguish, he told himself. And the prior was involved.

Well, the abbot would prevent any more rumours of an embarrassing nature from escaping. He would not permit anything to harm his abbey. Not again.

‘Do you think you may be able to learn who was responsible?’ Bishop Walter asked.

‘Of course we can,’ Baldwin said instantly. ‘A man who is capable of such reckless brutality will be easy to find. My fear is that it could be someone motivated by ferocious hatred – perhaps a relative of one of those whose skin is nailed to the door? Can you tell me anything about them?’

‘Do you really believe that a lad as young as poor Alexander could have been selected for such a punishment? That robbery was four years before our king began his reign. Twenty-three years ago.³ And I would guess that the lad himself was younger than that.’

‘You would be correct. How did you guess?’

The bishop smiled. ‘I have my own methods of enquiry.’ Actually, the prior had told him that Alexander would have made a good vicar but was still too young for a role of that kind, so he must have been less than two and twenty years.

‘If that is correct, then why would someone seek to flay him?’ Baldwin wondered aloud.

It was Simon who noticed the look in the bishop’s face. ‘Bishop? Do you know something about this lad which would help us?’

‘I greatly fear I may,’ Bishop Walter agreed. ‘I think that this is another robbery. But it is far more dangerous than the last.’

‘Please tell us,’ Baldwin said.

The bishop nodded, and the three continued walking slowly about the grounds between the abbey church and the palace wall.

‘It is called the Black Book of Brân,’ he began. ‘It was given to me early on in my reign as bishop. My predecessors hinted that it contained foul predictions. I have to confess, I did not pay them much heed. I had enough to do with maintaining the building works at the cathedral. In those early days it was hardly certain that we would be able to finish the rebuilding started so long ago.’

‘Did you look into it?’ Simon asked.

‘I did. And I saw at once what made the book so inflammatory. There are predictions in there, you see. Predictions that are so dangerous… well, I decided to bring it up here to Westminster and see that the book was locked away securely. There was nowhere quite so safe in Exeter.’

‘Predictions such as what?’ Baldwin enquired.

‘You recall the name Joachim of Fiore?’

Baldwin frowned. ‘He predicted that the third age of man was about to begin, did he not? He said that there were three ages, all defined by the span of years…’

‘Yes. The first was the age of the Father, which was the period of the Old Testament; the second was the age of the Son, which was the New Testament. But he proposed that there might be a glorious third age, which would be the age of the Holy Spirit. In that, mankind would become ever more spiritual. It would be the age of monks, with all praising God and His glory until the end of the world would come.’

‘And Joachim and his believers were disappointed,’ Baldwin said with a small smile.

The bishop’s face remained stern. ‘They made calculations that said that the third age was surely forty-two generations after the birth of Christ. And because the average generation is thirty years, he saw that the beginning of the end of the second age must be in the year of Our Lord twelve hundred and sixty.’

‘Which must have been a strange morning for Joachim’s followers when they awoke and realized that the world was still all about them,’ Baldwin said lightly.

‘No. Because it was the end of the second age. There was not to be a great change overnight. First, Joachim foresaw that there would be a great ruler who would be the Antichrist, and he would throw down the existing corrupt order of the Church in order that a new, fresh, more holy church might be born.’

‘Yes.’ Baldwin nodded.

‘Joachists believed that the great ruler was the Holy Roman Emperor, Frederick II. But I think that they were wrong.’

‘So was Joachim. The end of the world has not come,’ Baldwin pointed out.

‘Except his teaching showed that for each age there must be a stage of incubation. He did not state how long for.’

‘What of it?’

‘Just this: he foretold that there would be three Popes murdered, Christ’s kingdom desecrated, and then there would come the time of the third age.’

‘Well, then,’ Simon said, shrugging. ‘There’s no need to worry about that until three Popes have been murdered, is there?’

Baldwin was nodding slowly, his eyes fixed on the bishop.

‘Well? Is there?’ Simon said, looking from one to the other.

It was Baldwin who answered quietly. ‘Pope Celestine V was murdered by Boniface VIII; Boniface was assaulted and died from his wounds; and then Benedict XI was himself murdered. And we have lost the Holy Land, Simon. Christ’s own land, desecrated by the Moors.’

‘“And Antichrist with bloody slaughter sated”,’ Bishop Walter quoted. ‘That is a part of the prophecy, and why it is vital that we find that book. I think that someone sought to steal it for his own purposes, and Alexander happened to be in the way.’

Prior Stephen was in the cloister at a desk when Baldwin and Simon saw him.

‘What now?’ he muttered to himself as he noticed the two striding towards him. Reluctantly, he set aside his rule and lead.

‘Prior, I should like to ask you some questions about the dead monk. I understand that you had a copy of the Black Book of-’

‘Hush!’ Prior Stephen flushed to hear Baldwin mention the thing. ‘In God’s name, Sir Baldwin, that is something I do not wish to hear even named. It is a hideous thing.’

‘Can you tell us a little about it?’

‘I would not.’

‘The bishop himself told us that he brought it here. I would like to know what happened to it.’

‘It was stored securely.’

‘In the crypt?’

‘Yes. It was supposed to be safe in there.’

‘Who knew of the book?’

The prior looked away. ‘It should have been me alone, but I didn’t feel safe with so great a work as that. I told the abbot, of course, and I think he made a note of it, for future abbots to be warned.’

‘And then it was installed safely in the crypt. Except it wasn’t safe, was it?’

‘It was as secure as I could contrive.’

‘This boy Alexander learned of it.’

‘That must have been misfortune. The poor boy did not realize what a treasure – and curse – the book was.’

‘What sort of a fellow was he, this Alexander?’ Simon asked.

‘He was a very bright boy. Clever, good with his hands, very astute, quick to see the best means of illustrating a point or… Look here. Let me show you.’

Prior Stephen reached under his desk to where he kept some sheets of parchment. ‘Look – when a scribe is practising, he will use old offcuts of parchment. Only when he is sure of the illustration does he set to putting it down on vellum.’

Simon looked down and saw a magnificent picture of a dragon. It was green, with flames of red and orange that were so realistic he felt they might scorch him. Red, enraged eyes met his own, and he could see each talon on the terrible feet. ‘My… It’s so lifelike!’

‘That was his skill. Look, here is another. A boar. Any man who has seen a boar suddenly appear from a thicket would see that and recognize the brute. The tusks, the coarse hair, the malevolent appearance… It is a marvellous piece of work. That was Alexander, though. He was capable of great artistic skill. That was his own means of honouring God. By setting down the things he saw in his head on to parchment or vellum.’

‘Vellum is the more expensive?’ Simon asked.

‘It is the most prized material. It is the best calf’s leather. Only the very best. Not sheep or goat, only calf. Four sheets of skin will make only eight leaves for a book, so sixteen pages. It is the rarity of perfect leather that makes it so expensive. Most leathers have some imperfections, but good vellum must be perfect. Like this.’

He held up a sheet. It had pinpricks running along each side, and connecting them, from left to right, were a series of pale lines. Baldwin nodded. ‘Those are the lines for the scribe, so that he knows where to set the characters.’

‘Exactly. It is vital that the lines be straight. To make them roughly would be an insult to the work within the book. An insult to God.’

‘And the book of… which we discussed?’ Baldwin said. ‘Was that good quality?’

‘For its age. About two hand-lengths long, with wooden boards covered in black leather. There were some inconsistencies in the quality of the vellum, but the writing was of very good quality – although some parts were hard to read, even for an educated reader. The characters were quite archaic. It was Irish, and very ancient.’

‘Would Alexander have been able to read it?’

Prior Stephen looked at Baldwin very directly. ‘He could perhaps read it. But it was not his place to do so. In the first place, the book was denied him. In the second, he was an artist. A marvellous illustrator, yes, but still only an illustrator.’

‘So you do not think he could have read it?’ Baldwin pressed him.

‘I… If you push me, then, yes, I would think he probably could. He was a very well-read fellow. But that does not say he definitely could.’

‘So you do not think he was there for his own benefit?’ Simon said.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Simply this: what was he doing there? If not seeking the book for his own purposes, was he there for someone else?’

‘You suggest he was there for…?’

Baldwin answered sharply. ‘Do you propose to tell us that he was there on legitimate business? What is kept in the crypt? Cold meats? We have been there, remember, and seen all the strongboxes. But none was opened. Where was the book kept?’

‘I have said enough on that. But I would swear that he was not a felon. Alexander was a good monk.’

To Simon’s dismay, Baldwin was soon taking them back down into the crypt again.

‘It is clear that if there is a clue to the murderer’s identity, it will be down here, Simon,’ he explained as he bent to study the floor.

‘At least the body’s gone,’ Simon said. He looked about him in the glimmering light without enthusiasm. ‘I will never forget how the man’s flesh had been peeled away.’

‘It reminded me rather of an execution,’ Baldwin said, looking across at him, frowning. ‘The men who have been accused of treason against their king are often treated in like manner, their breasts torn open so that their heart may be cut out and burned.’

‘Yes. But his breast wasn’t torn open. His heart remained. He was merely skinned and left to bleed to death, or die of shock and horror,’ Simon pointed out. ‘And there was nothing about Alexander to suggest treason, was there?’

‘It is a consideration, nonetheless. There was something so appalling in the way that the man was left there to die that there must have been something symbolic about it. Perhaps he was viewed as a traitor by the man who killed him?’

‘Because of this book? What on earth could there have been about the book that would make someone kill him?’

‘That depends on what he was doing here,’ Baldwin said. He had stopped near the pillar at the middle of the room and was eyeing the ground with interest.

The blood had been left in thick clotting pools. No one had yet come to wash the flags clean, and there were two trails leading from the pillar to the doorway, where the lay brothers had dragged Alexander out, his heels making those sweeping lines on the stone.

‘Look here, Simon,’ Baldwin said, pointing.

Swallowing his revulsion as best he could, Simon walked to join his friend. ‘Dust?’

‘Too gritty. Mortar, I’d guess,’ Baldwin corrected him, rubbing a pinch of the bloody mess between finger and thumb and gazing up at the pillar. ‘A fair amount scraped from between two stones.’

‘Your point?’

‘I wanted to see why that fellow was killed. Now I feel sure that either he was unfortunate enough to come here and see the book being stolen or he himself had taken the book and was punished for his crime.’

‘What of it?’

‘Think! Simon, if another stole the book and Alexander merely interrupted the felon, why rip his flesh from his body? If another found him here stealing the book himself, then perhaps that would have deserved punishment, in the killer’s eyes. The boy was here and must have somehow heard of the presence of the book, I assume.’

‘What about the mortar?’

‘If I had a precious item to conceal, I would not install it in a chest,’ Baldwin said, nodding towards all the steel-bound boxes about them. ‘Look at them! They would be astonishingly hard to open. A thief might spend hours down here and open only one or two. It would be daunting, but it would still be possible. And a thief who came here to win a prize, such as a cup of gold or a jewel-encrusted cross, might try any box to win something of that kind. It would be embarrassing were he simultaneously to find himself the proud discoverer of the Black Book of Brân! But a man who managed to acquire a key to the crypt’s door may also find a key to a chest. So a prudent man may seek another place of concealment. Often when a monastery has an object so valuable and rare, they will install it in their own little hiding-place.’

‘Somewhere more secure than a strongbox?’ Simon asked disbelievingly.

‘Yes. Somewhere where not even the most ardent felon would consider looking,’ Baldwin said, pulling a couple of boxes over to the pillar. ‘Like the interstices between stones. Look up there.’

He had climbed on to the largest box and was reaching up into the gaps between stones, testing the mortar and pressing and pulling, trying to see where one could be moved. ‘Ach! They are all fixed!’

‘There’s a gap above you, there,’ Simon said.

‘Where?’ But even as he asked, Baldwin saw the dark shadow. It was a good few inches higher than he could reach, but he was sure that he could test it with his dagger. He tugged the weapon free of its tight sheath and probed the gap about him. To his surprise the stone moved easily to one side, leaving a larger gap, and when he pushed the blade in it slipped inside for more than ten inches. ‘Nothing there now,’ he grunted, sheathing his knife and jumping down to the ground again. ‘Whatever was there is certainly stolen now.’

‘You think that’s where they installed it for safety?’ Simon asked, staring aghast at the narrow space.

‘If you were a thief come to ransack the place, would you have looked there, or just kept your eyes to the obvious? It was a mark of brilliance to hide it up there,’ Baldwin said.

‘So now we know where it was, what do we do?’

Baldwin was staring at the ground. ‘We ask who it was who came to take the body away.’

‘For what purpose?’

‘To see if the men who fetched him wore sandals, Simon. Because there has been someone in here without them,’ Baldwin said, pointing to the footprints that led from the crypt to the main door. ‘And who do we know who walks barefoot?’

‘The Franciscans, if they are particularly pious.’

‘That is correct,’ Baldwin said. He was pulling the strongboxes away from the pillar, to place them back where he had found them, but as he set the first down he paused and stared. ‘That is strange.’

‘What?’

‘Well, I don’t remember seeing any strongboxes by the body this morning – do you? And yet one of these other boxes has also been set upright in the blood. The gore is all over the handle and side, as though this too has been standing there at the pillar for someone to look for the book. But Alexander wouldn’t have been setting the box in blood if he found Brân’s book. The blood was Alexander’s own, shed when someone caught him with the book. So does that mean another man found the book and killed Alexander, and then put the box away, even though he knew the screams must have woken the whole community? That would show considerable courage. Or perhaps someone saw Alexander and pulled the boxes away before we saw him-’

‘Or someone came here like us to see whether the book had gone?’

‘Yes. Quite. Which may mean someone else is searching for the book too. And that could be dangerous.’

Friar Martin bent his head at the sight of the dead man before the altar. It was fortunate that the monks had already tidied up his body before installing him beneath the hearse here, but there were still streaks of blood showing on the man’s face.

He could not feel much sympathy. The fool was meddling with things he’d no knowledge of, nor the intellect to understand. It was enormously dangerous for him. As he had learned.

At the end of the Mass the monks filed out silently, their leather soles crunching on the stone and tiles. The only men who remained were the prior, Friar Martin and Friar James, and as Friar Martin rose to leave he was surprised to see the prior approach them. ‘Brother prior,’ he said, ducking his head.

‘Brothers. I am most sorry about this appalling desecration in our community.’

It was a dreadful event, there was no doubt. The church would have to be reconsecrated to take away the stain of murder, although fortunately it would not be long before such a ceremony would be held. No one would wish to hold up the reconsecration. The king was enormously proud of his church, and he was jealous of any who might seek to harm it.

‘It was a terrible crime,’ Friar Martin said.

‘I am most sorry for the man who died. It must have been an awful discovery,’ Friar James said.

‘Naturally.’

‘And yet it appears so motiveless. That is what is so truly alarming,’ Friar Martin said. ‘Is there any conclusion as to why the brother was slaughtered in so revolting a manner?’

‘What reason could there be for such a foul deed?’ the prior demanded, turning his pale eyes upon Martin.

Friar Martin smiled thinly. He was not so foolish as to attribute motives. ‘Whatever the reason, it must surely lie within the abbey. Unless, of course, the felon has fled?’

‘No man has fled the abbey that I know of.’

‘Then beware!’ Friar James intoned. He leaned forward, his hawk-like features fixed into a scowl. ‘The man must still remain within the walls. And he is evil!’ His lips parted in a sneering grimace. ‘The man who killed the lad is the harbinger of slaughter. The bringer of death to all.’

Simon and Baldwin took a little while tracking down Peter, the lay brother who had earlier been their torchbearer.

He was sitting in the calefactory, warming his feet before the fire, a quart pot of ale at his elbow, while he rubbed some oil into his temples.

‘I get these headaches,’ he admitted when asked.

‘We will try to be as quick as we may,’ Baldwin said soothingly. ‘It is about the dead monk.’

‘Alexander. Poor fellow.’

‘Yes. Was he particularly devoted to any master here? You know what I mean – was he…?’

‘He was the prior’s man. No doubt about that. He was the man Prior Stephen trusted more than any other.’

‘They had similar interests?’ Simon asked.

‘Yes. Both were very bookish. If Prior Stephen needed something, he’d always ask Alexander, because Alexander would always know which book he needed. They were natural allies.’

Baldwin nodded. ‘Did they often work together?’

‘Yes. Whenever there was a special book to work on. They’d often work together then. I think the prior looked on Alexander as being a natural copyist. Prior Stephen was himself an expert. Easily the best in our scriptorium.’

‘I see,’ Baldwin muttered. ‘Tell me – you brought us to see the body. Had many others been there before us?’

‘Almost all the brothers in the convent, I would say. It is not so common that we have a dead monk in the crypt.’

‘No. And the fact that he was one of your own would mean that many would want to go to see him, I suppose.’

It wasn’t a question. Baldwin had been a warrior monk, a Knight Templar, and he knew the tedium of living in a monastery. The early rising, steady days of prayer and work, always the same, with minor changes of emphasis depending upon the Church calendar. It was no surprise if something like this would attract some of those who had lived here for many years without even the hint of excitement.

‘I would think so.’

‘How many of them were barefoot?’ Simon asked.

‘I don’t know – I wasn’t looking at their feet,’ Peter said with bemusement. ‘But I will tell you this, though. There were plenty who’d have had bare feet in all likelihood. They’d all been woken from their beds. Not all would have thought to put on sandals.’

‘That is fair,’ Baldwin said, nodding. ‘Another thing – do you know if anyone moved any boxes around in there? After the body was found, were the items in the crypt moved about?’

Peter stared at him for a moment. ‘You think anyone would want to tidy up in there? We’d found a body, Sir Knight. We aren’t all that used to finding our own brothers opened like that!’

Bishop Stapledon met them as they stood out in the yard before the Chapter House again, discussing the matter. ‘Have you discovered anything new?’

‘I’m afraid not, bishop,’ Simon said. ‘The trouble is, it could easily have been anyone within the abbey. The only reassuring factor is, it is unlikely that it’d be someone from outside. The guards all swear that there was no sign of forced entry, and the porters are content that their gates were not opened. So it is someone within the precinct.’

‘Which is scarcely reassuring to those who live here,’ the bishop pointed out acidly.

‘What can you tell us of the Franciscans here?’ Baldwin asked. ‘Do you know them?’

‘No. I do not think that I have met them… There are many thousands of Franciscans.’

‘Yes. And many hundreds are Spirituals.’

‘Who are they?’ Simon demanded.

‘An extreme faction of Franciscans,’ Baldwin said.

‘That is a harsh description!’ the bishop protested.

‘How would you describe them?’

‘As highly dedicated aesthetes, perhaps.’

‘I am not sure that it makes them sound any more sympathetic.’

Simon was baffled. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘These men, Simon, believed the Joachist view of the world – that the world’s third age was coming. There would be need of a new religious order, one that was uniquely pure. These men believed in following Christ’s path of poverty. Nothing could be owned and held by them – their food must be begged from others, they should labour and count on God’s mercy to feed them, clothe them, give them beds at night. Everything. But because these ideas were so powerful, they were also unworkable.’

‘Why?’ Simon asked.

Bishop Walter sighed. ‘Because the Franciscans were too successful. They began to infiltrate universities. They had to teach their men how to work, how to argue and debate, and most of all how to preach to the masses. But to do that they needed buildings. And they wanted many thousands of men to be out in the world doing God’s work – well, how do you organize thousands of men without even the certainty of ink and pen? You cannot expect God to provide a bureaucracy. Friars need organization as much as monks. The whole argument has been debated ad nauseam, and the Pope has decreed that individuals can maintain their poverty while the order can hold property.’

‘But the Spirituals, Simon, disagreed. They saw this as another step towards the end of the world. Because what they believe is that they will be needed to save the world in the third age. As the Antichrist takes on the Church and pulls it apart, so the Spirituals will be there to pick up the pieces and be the foundation of a new Church, one free from the corruption and profligacy which they say the existing Holy Church is guilty of.’

‘I do not understand. You said that this Joachim predicted that the end of the world would have been sixty or more years ago. So surely these “Spirituals” will have no credibility?’ Simon protested.

‘A prophecy may be correct in its import, and be… hazy as to the precise time it will become so,’ the bishop said.

‘The Spirituals believe very firmly in the prophecy – but if the time is a little out, they will be able to manipulate the prophecies to suit them. It’s been done before… but only by the unscrupulous, of course,’ Baldwin added hastily.

‘I am glad you added that,’ the bishop said ironically. ‘I should not like to think that you could accuse anyone in the Church of such heretical behaviour.’

‘Of course not, Bishop,’ Baldwin said smoothly.

‘But why should this all become relevant now?’

‘The prophecy about our king,’ Baldwin said quietly. ‘And his son.’

‘What?’

‘You have heard it – it has been about ever since Prince Edward’s birth. The prophecy told of the six kings of England after John – Henry would be a lamb, Edward I a dragon, our king was a goat, his son will be a boar. All these have come to pass in their own way for the first three. Now we wonder what our next king may be like. But you know who was termed “the boar who came from Cornwall”? King Arthur. Some say our next king will be similar, with the heart of a lion, but strong, relentless and cunning. They already say he may become Holy Roman Emperor. Perhaps he will be the man to bring down the old, corrupt Church and help to set up a new order, based on the Friars Minor, the Franciscans.’

‘You should be cautious to whom you tell that tale,’ Bishop Walter said in a low growl.

‘I shall. But first I need to speak to the Franciscans here to see what they were doing last night.’

‘Very well. Go with God. And be careful, Sir Baldwin. Do not accuse these men of any crimes. You are on Church ground here. It is not safe for you to jump to conclusions too directly.’

‘I am grateful to you for your warning.’

Baldwin nodded to himself as he watched the bishop stride away, peering about him with that short-sighted frown that was so habitual to him now.

‘Sweet Christ’s cods, Baldwin – is that right? You just accused our king’s son of being the Antichrist.’

Walking about the cloister garth, his hands clenched before him, Friar Martin avoided Friar James’s look.

He had seen that expression so often. The man had heavy lids, which gave the impression that he was contemptuous of others. Today he was watching Martin with keen attention, but Martin was not going to admit to being aware.

‘Brother friars. Do you mind if we speak to you for a little while?’

Martin faced the men as Baldwin introduced himself and Simon. ‘I am honoured you wish to speak with us,’ Martin said. ‘But I presume this is no social meeting?’

‘We have been charged with seeking the murderer of the unfortunate monk.’

‘A shocking thing. Especially here, so close to the palace of the king.’

‘Yes,’ James said. ‘That adds a distinct ghastliness to the whole matter.’

‘The only ghastliness lies in the cruel death inflicted on the man who was slain,’ Baldwin said shortly.

‘You think so? I should have thought that the idea that a religious man on this side of the wall is a savage murderer, while on the other is the king, who considers this house of God as his personal chapel, was itself quite appalling. The juxtaposition of the man who seeks to elevate this church, and here, subsidized by that same king, is a lunatic who can kill in that manner. That to me is ghastly. Or is it merely sordid that I can attach such mean thoughts to such a foul extinction?’

‘You are too educated for me to comprehend,’ Baldwin said shortly. ‘Do you know of any reason why the lad should have been murdered?’

‘Me? What would I know?’ James sneered. ‘I am a stranger here.’

‘You have travelled much. You are a man of experience.’

‘Perhaps. Well, I will tell you this: the boy was handsome.’

‘You imply that he was-’

‘You know what I mean. Repulsive, foul, evil sins were perpetrated. Perhaps his lover killed him.’

‘Why do you think this?’

‘I saw the look in his eye. I have been a monk and friar much of my life. I can recognize the signs. The prior and that boy were too… affectionate.’

‘You have proof?’

James glanced at Martin. ‘It is a matter for the abbot. You should tell him and demand that his prior makes a full confession.’

‘Perhaps we should allow the rumour to die with the boy, eh?’ Martin said with quiet firmness. ‘This is gossip-mongering. I ask you to be more cautious with your accusations, Friend James.’

‘I will-’

‘You will please be silent.’

James subsided, pale with anger.

Baldwin glanced at Martin. The man had authority, which was surprising when used against a man so much older than him. ‘Where were you when you heard the screams, Friar James?’

‘In my chamber. The abbot has provided us with a pleasant room.’

‘In his house?’

‘No, in a room there.’

Here in the cloister they were surrounded by abbey buildings. North was the church itself, while west lay the abbot’s house, the prior’s standing next door to it. From the prior’s stretched a long building that bounded the garth on the southern side.

‘There?’ Baldwin asked, following his pointing finger.

‘That is the refectory, but the guest quarters are beyond that, yes.’

‘So your room would connect with the corridor to the crypt’s entrance?’ Baldwin noted.

‘Would it?’

‘Were you both woken by the murder?’

‘I was not asleep,’ James said. ‘I heard a shout, then a shriek. After that there was just a terrible sound of anguish. I think the poor boy went mad before the end, mercifully.’

‘What did you do?’ Baldwin asked.

‘I went to wake Martin, and then hurried to see if I could help.’

‘What of you?’ Baldwin asked Martin.

‘Me? I took heed of the screams and ran straightway to the source as speedily as I might.’

‘You knew where the sounds came from?’

‘The man’s voice echoed along the passageways to the guest rooms, so I followed the noise until I came to the crypt.’

‘By which time the killer had gone?’

‘Yes. The boy was slumped there against the pillar… But you saw him, of course.’

‘Who else was there?’

‘No one. Only me. So I ran back to fetch help,’ Martin said. He held Baldwin’s gaze boldly.

‘Interesting,’ Baldwin said. ‘Why was James not with you?’

James said: ‘My legs are not so young, nor my blood so warm, as those of a man five and twenty years my junior.’

‘What of others?’ Simon interrupted. ‘Surely someone else realized where the screams were coming from?’

‘I think that because they sleep in the main dormitory, they heard the lad through their windows, which give out on to the pasture by the wall to the palace. We heard the noise from within, which was why we were so quickly on the scene.’

James added: ‘The brothers were all scrambling about in the dirt out there. They had no idea.’

‘I thank you for that. Tell me, Friar Martin, why did you drag the chest to the pillar?’

‘Me?’ Martin said calmly, but his world had tottered. How could this man have known that?

‘There is still blood on your ankle. And at the hem of your robes.’

‘I collected that as I tried to help the fellow, and as I tried to shrive him. I knelt at his side, in the gore. I had no boxes there. Why should I?’

‘Was he alive?’

‘His soul was there, but his body had failed. I did what I could.’

‘I see. Is there anything else you would like to tell me?’

‘I should like to help you, but no. I fear there is nothing I may tell you,’ Martin said.

‘And what of you, Friar James?’

‘Me?’ James said, and shot a look at Martin. ‘There is nothing I can add to my young master’s words.’

‘That made little sense,’ Simon said as the two left the friars in the garth. ‘The older man deferred to the younger.’

‘Yes. And there was little friendship between them, for all their protestations,’ Baldwin said. ‘I wonder why they are here? They are unlikely companions – one old and set in his ways, the younger more comfortable with his position. I wonder what set them to travel together.’

‘Don’t Franciscans have a duty to wander the country together?’

‘As mendicants, yes. Yet surely James is a little old for such work?’

‘He did not seem a very amiable man,’ Simon noted.

‘Hardly,’ Baldwin agreed.

‘What did you think of his observations about the dead brother and the prior?’

Baldwin was silent for a moment. Then he said: ‘I dislike malicious rumours. But they can on occasion serve to help a man find the truth. Let us go and speak to the prior.’

‘You dislike my sharing that with them?’ James said.

Martin was coldly furious. ‘If I hear you talking about catamites and homosexuals, I will have you transported to preach in the mountains.’

James shivered. He had travelled through the mountains, and the idea of remaining there in perpetual cold was hideous enough to silence him.

‘You made it up, did you not?’ Martin hissed after a pause.

‘No. I was told by a lay brother. They all know it here.’

‘Well, you will not mention it again. I won’t have that lad’s memory poisoned. Leave it, James.’

‘Yes.’ James bent his head, but if Martin had seen his eyes he would have noticed the resentment flaming in them.

So you would deny your own loves, would you? he sneered to himself.

It took little time for them to return to the cloister, where they found the prior bent over a bowl of sand. It was set upon a small brazier, and he was stirring a pot of milk in which two quills had been set.

‘Yes?’ he asked brusquely.

‘Please finish what you are doing,’ Baldwin said suavely. ‘We would not wish to disturb you.’

The prior gave him a surly glower, then returned to a small basket of goose flight-feathers. He had a small knife, with which he stripped the quill, and then he cut off the top and the bottom, before throwing the long middle section into his pot of milk. From the milk he withdrew the two quills and held them carefully, plunging them into the hot sand to temper them. Withdrawing them after a moment, he studied them before setting them aside and turning to Baldwin. ‘Well?’

Baldwin wrinkled his nose. The odour of scorched feathers was repulsive. ‘The two Franciscans. Can you tell us what they are doing here?’

‘Friar James and Friar Martin? They arrived here a couple of days ago. Why? They are surely above suspicion.’

‘You think so? In that case, it must be someone here in the abbey who is guilty of the murder. That does at least narrow the field for us.’

‘What?’ In his surprise the prior almost upset his pot of hot sand.

‘You are no fool, prior. You must know that unless you wish to explain the murder by means of some form of miracle, then a man from within the abbey last night must have killed the lad. And that means someone who was living here – so a member of your community or one of your guests. It seems unlikely that someone could have broken into the abbey overnight to do this and slip away while all the monks were outside.’

‘You cannot be suggesting that monks or friars could have done something like that?’

‘Persuade me how someone else might have done it and I will be keen to learn,’ Baldwin said.

‘But this is ridiculous!’

‘Not ridiculous, no. There is some method behind this madness. Who on earth would dream of murdering a lad in so gruesome a manner, other than a madman? Yet there is some intellect behind it.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Whoever killed the boy did after all have him produce the book in the first place.’

‘So whoever killed him didn’t know where it was until poor Alexander showed him?’

‘That is very likely the case,’ Baldwin agreed. ‘Which leads one to wonder: how did Alexander learn where he could find it?’

The prior pulled a face. ‘I shall be candid.’

‘I would be most grateful,’ Baldwin said sarcastically.

‘He put it there for me in the first place. But he swore he would tell no one about it.’

‘Why? Because it was too high for you to reach?’ Simon guessed.

‘What was too high?’ the prior demanded, glowering.

‘We know where you hid it,’ Baldwin said. ‘And it was high in the pillar. So if the lad went there to fetch the book down, why should he have done so? Was he accepting a bribe to seek it out, or was there some other motive for him to get it?’

‘What sort of lad was he, would you say?’ Simon asked before the prior could answer Baldwin.

‘Well, as I said, he was a good worker.’

‘But was he fanciful? You often find that fellows of his age are daydreamers – especially those who spend much of their time drawing.’

‘He had a wonderful imagination, yes, but his mind was fixed mostly on more serious matters. He was always looking for the next piece of work to illustrate, and his sketches and rough outlines were always of the highest order.’

‘So he was reliable? He wouldn’t be likely to take money for stealing the book?’

‘No! Certainly not! He was always a most devoted lad, to the abbey… and to me.’

‘Was he really?’ Baldwin said quietly.

It was late that afternoon when Simon and Baldwin returned finally to the bishop’s hall and sat at the bench, jugs of wine at hand, stretching their legs out towards the fire.

‘Have you been fortunate with your enquiries?’ Bishop Walter asked at last.

Baldwin wiped his moustache with his hand. ‘It is intriguing, I confess. The dead monk was not disliked by anybody. He knew where the book had been secreted, but that means nothing. Either he went there to the crypt to steal it himself, to look at it, or he passed the crypt and found another man in there robbing the chamber. We cannot tell which. Yet it is certainly true that he was there in the dead of night, when he ought to have been in his cot, as the other monks were. Or most of them.’

‘You have had no more joy than that?’

‘I fear not.’ Baldwin considered for a moment, wondering whether to tell the bishop of the accusation laid against Alexander and the prior by Friar James, but decided against. ‘I should like to learn more, though. Perhaps it would help were I to find out a little about the Franciscans there at the abbey. Is it possible to enquire about them surreptitiously?’

The bishop eyed him narrowly. ‘You think that there is something about them that rings false?’

‘Perhaps. I know this: it would be peculiar for one of the monks to suddenly take it upon himself to steal this book. What would be the urgency? But someone who was here as a guest, now that would be different. A man who was visiting for a couple of days only, and who had only limited time in which to take the book – that is more likely.’

‘I shall make my own investigations about them. Friar Martin and Friar James, they are called, I think?’

‘That is right. Why are they in the abbey? That is what I should like to know.’

When Simon awoke the following morning, his head mildly sore from the bishop’s good Bordeaux wine, he was surprised to see that Baldwin was already out of his bed.

He felt bad, but not because of his head. No, it was more than that. Gradually, his memory returned to him, and he had recollections of waking in the night, visions of a skinned man walking towards him holding a book that dripped with blood, the pages all made of fresh, human flesh, with no writing upon them, but only gorgeous, illuminated pictures that flashed with fire and violence. It was a terrifying memory, made still more fearsome by the eyes. Eyes that begged for aid, when none could be given to him. No. He had not slept well last night.

Simon hadn’t wanted to go to bed. He’d known that he was going to suffer a sleepless night. From memory, he recalled sitting up until late with Baldwin, discussing the murder only briefly, mostly chatting about the book and the kind of predictions that could be held within it.

The picture that kept returning to Simon’s mind was that of the boy’s body, but at the same time he was afflicted by visions of the book itself. A work that must surely rank amongst the most foul in history, from its reputation. The way that the bishop had described it had been enough to make Simon averse to seeing it. If he were to come across it, he would not touch it, he decided.

The thought of the lad in that foul little crypt reaching up to the book and bringing it down, only to have it wrenched from his grasp and then…

That was where his imagination failed him. Alexander had been bound to the pillar in which he had hidden the book. Who could have done that to him? And how? The lad wasn’t incapable. He had looked quite strong enough to protect himself. Perhaps the assailant had a partner? Again, the vision of the two Franciscans sprang into his mind. He could easily envisage one holding a knife to Alexander’s throat, while the other gripped his hands and bound them behind the pillar, only to have the first begin to cut with his blade at the poor lad’s breast, slowly slicing to peel back the flesh.

It was a repellent idea, and yet Simon was unable to eradicate it from his mind. He could imagine the poignant agony of the point of the knife settling on his breastbone, then slipping slowly downwards…

What had the lad done to deserve such a foul death? Merely pick up a book. That was insane! No one deserved death from touching a book.

‘Ah, awake at last?’

‘Baldwin, I didn’t sleep very well last night.’

‘Nor did I as a result!’ Baldwin said grinning.

‘My head feels a little strange, as though it has been filled with feathers,’ Simon confessed.

‘There is a strange thing, now. And you hardly finished your fourth jug of wine.’

It was a terrible thing to admit, but there were times, especially when Baldwin was at his most righteous, when Simon could dislike his old friend. This reaction had much to do with the fact that the knight preferred to avoid strong drink and only supped sparingly of wine. Last night Baldwin had drunk little, from the sight of him.

Suddenly Simon’s belly felt uncomfortable. There was a feeling that his head was hotter than the rest of his body, and he had a roiling sensation in his gut. ‘I think I need a little water,’ he said.

After breakfast, which comprised bacon, cold beef, some thick slices of bread soaked in gravy and four eggs fried in the bacon’s fat, Simon felt considerably better.

‘You don’t deserve to be able to eat all that,’ Baldwin muttered after toying with his own cold meat.

‘I have managed to learn a little about our friends the Franciscans,’ Bishop Walter murmured. ‘This morning I spoke to a friend who is close to the order.’

‘And?’ Baldwin asked, leaning forward keenly.

‘It would appear that they have come from the Pope himself,’ Walter said.

Baldwin’s eyes narrowed as he absorbed this. ‘Why should they be at the abbey, then? Are they on an embassy for the Pope? But then they would be going to the palace to discuss the matter with the king. Yet here they are, remaining in the abbey itself.’

‘Perhaps they have business elsewhere?’ Simon said.

‘If that is the case, surely they would have continued on their way until they came to the place where they should conduct their affairs? There is no reason for them to break their journey.’

‘Unless, of course, their business is to be conducted at the abbey itself,’ the bishop said.

‘Such as acquiring a book which the Pope wants?’ Baldwin guessed.

‘That is a thoroughly scurrilous comment,’ the bishop said with finality.

‘But what else could they be doing?’

‘I do not know, but I have been told that Martin is one of the most highly regarded friars in his order.’

‘What of James?’

‘His reputation is more… ambivalent.’

‘Interesting,’ Baldwin murmured.

‘Why?’ Simon asked.

‘If they are truly on an embassy from the Pope, surely he would pick two men of equal integrity? Not one above reproach and one who was less than spotless?’

They were soon at the abbey, and Baldwin led the way into the abbey’s grounds. Once there, they crossed the northern tip of the abbey church and went down to the abbot’s house.

The young novice, Robert, who had served them wine the day before, was at the abbot’s door when they knocked.

‘He is very busy, Sir Baldwin.’

‘Ask him if he could make a little time to speak to us.’

The boy looked reluctant, but he did as he was bid and soon returned to take them up to the abbot’s hall. Here they found the abbot standing near his fire, head jutting pugnaciously. ‘Well?’

‘Abbot John, we do not wish to make your life more difficult,’ Baldwin said soothingly. ‘As you know, we have been asked to find out who was responsible for the murder of Alexander. Is there anything you can tell us which could help us?’

‘What on earth could I know? Do you suspect me of the murder?’

‘Abbot, please. We have heard nothing but good about your ministry here. No, I do not accuse you.’

‘That is good. I have spent all my waking hours doing the very best possible for this house since I was elected to the abbacy. I will not tolerate any insinuations about my work. How could anyone think that I would do anything to harm this house? I love it with all my heart.’

‘It has been through hard troubles in the last years, I think?’

‘Under Abbot Wenlock it was sorely tested. He was… well, he was a weakly man. Many of us are. He misused his position, and that meant his monks could misbehave as well. They were involved in frolics with whores, they consorted with gamblers and gamers, and then there were the robberies.’

‘More than one?’ Simon asked. ‘We heard only of the attempt on the crown jewels.’

‘Which attempt? There were many. Once a short while after the loss of Acre, again at the turn of the century. And did you know that a hundred pounds were stolen from the money given to the abbey for the chantry Masses to be held for Queen Eleanor on her death? Can you imagine that? Monks stealing from money donated for the good of a woman’s soul!’

‘Is that why the king had the men skinned and set their hides on the door?’ Baldwin asked.

‘Probably. It was a good reminder to the monks about the sort of treatment they could expect if they were to misbehave again. Not that the king trusted them after that, and nor did his son. The crown jewels were removed after the last attempt, and now they’re stored in the Tower of London, I believe.’

‘At least that must have been the end of the problems here, though,’ Simon said.

‘Would that that was true! After the disaster of the robbery, many of the monks were held in the Tower, and even when they were released the king never forgave them. They fell to internal squabbles. Disputes that could serve no useful purpose, but led only to the diminishment of the abbey. It did not stop until the old abbot died. Fortunately, since then we have had a period of calm and have re-established some sense of purpose.’

‘Only to see it savaged by this latest disaster,’ Baldwin finished for him.

‘Exactly! How can I possibly hope to protect my community from news of a terrible murder like this?’

‘You cannot save it entirely, but if the killer is located and brought to some kind of justice then at least there will be some resolution. If the killer is not found, matters will be a great deal worse.’

‘Why?’

‘All will think that the murderer remains here within your walls. Not only outsiders, but those within your community will remain distrustful of their own brothers. Lay brothers will look askance at the brethren in the choir; those in the choir will be doubtful of their companions; all those outside the abbey will wonder who was responsible. It will never be possible to clear the taint unless you help us to find the actual murderer.’

It did make sense. The abbot was silent for a period, staring hard at Baldwin. Then he turned away and gazed through his window. It was all very perplexing. The abbey was his responsibility, as was the community within. The book was very important. It had to be kept from the eyes of those who could not understand it. It was too provocative, too sensational. Too dangerous. But he had another duty. As the abbot, he had to protect the abbey itself. The abbey was more than merely a collection of monks – it was a small outpost of God’s on this very tainted soil. Monks had a duty to serve and save souls, but the abbey was more than merely the sum of their efforts. Eventually, he sighed. ‘Very well. I will do all I may.’

‘We know of the book already. Do you think that Alexander could have been selling it for his own benefit?’

Now he had chosen the path of honesty, it was easier to answer. ‘No. I think that the lad was incapable of such an action. I tell you plainly, I never acted as confessor to him, and so can be honest: he never struck me as particularly bright. He was a good illuminator, true, but no more than that. He would never have plotted anything, I believe, to the detriment of the abbey. He did not have the imagination, and he was not evil.’

‘Unlike the man who killed him.’

‘Quite so.’

‘Why should he have been slain in so foul a manner?’

‘The boy was skinned, just as the earlier thieves were. Master Puddlicott was the instigator of the robbery of the crown jewels, I believe, and he was hanged and skinned. One could almost imagine that poor Alexander was looked upon in the same light by someone who saw him in the crypt.’

‘Do you mean to suggest that one of your monks saw him there and decided to punish him?’

‘I make no suggestion. I merely reflect on the facts and wonder.’

‘Is there anyone in the abbey whom you could suspect of such an offence?’

The abbot turned and stared at him. ‘Do you seriously believe that if I knew a man here who was capable of such an appalling act I would conceal him?’

‘He was speaking from his heart,’ Simon said as they left the abbot’s chamber.

‘He gave that impression,’ Baldwin agreed. ‘And yet I am sure he has suspicions. I refuse to believe that he would not have his own idea about who could be guilty.’

‘Perhaps he is fearful to admit to them.’

‘Why should he fear any man here? Within the community he has full powers. Any man he thought could be responsible could be arrested in an instant and held securely in gaol.’

‘That is true if he feared a death, but he could be more anxious about damage of another sort. The danger of the book, for example.’

‘What sort of danger could that book hold?’ Baldwin wondered aloud.

‘If all that we have heard is true, and if it is thought to promote the prince as the Antichrist, do you not think that it could bring retribution upon the abbey itself? The king may accuse the abbot of harbouring the book to the detriment of his son and thus the realm?’

‘That is possible. Although the abbot could hardly be blamed for something written long ago by someone in Ireland, surely?’

‘When the king is involved, it is best not to be too confident,’ Simon said.

Baldwin nodded. King Edward II had a reputation for brutality which was unequalled.

Simon noticed the novice Robert near the entrance to the buttery as they walked to the door. He nodded, and Baldwin peered. The novice appeared to have been weeping.

‘Are you all right, boy?’ Simon asked.

‘Yes. Yes, I am well.’

‘You knew the dead monk, did you?’

‘Yes. He was a good man. Kind and generous.’

It looked as though he was going to burst into tears again. Baldwin beckoned him over. ‘Is there anyone who could have wanted to harm him? He appears to have had no enemies here, and yet he was killed in a particularly foul manner.’

‘No one in the abbey could have wanted him dead. All loved him. He was respected by the prior, and his work was highly praised by all who saw it. No one could have wanted to do that to him!’

‘But someone did,’ Simon muttered.

‘It must have been someone from outside the abbey, then. No one in our community could have wanted to see him dead.’

‘Do you mean to accuse the Franciscans?’ Baldwin asked sharply.

‘I accuse nobody!’ the lad blurted anxiously. ‘I am only a lowly…’

‘Did you hear anything the night he died?’

‘We all heard his screams.’

‘You know that is not what I meant. Was there anything specific you heard which would lead you to believe that the Franciscans might have been guilty?’

Simon interrupted before the boy could respond. ‘This is a matter of murder, Robert. Not some novice’s prank. If I want I can ask the abbot to command you to answer.’

‘I heard them.’

‘Who?’

‘The Franciscans. On the night he died. I heard them talking in the passage. They were talking about the book, saying that they must get it.’

‘They knew about it, then?’ Baldwin said.

Simon was frowning at Robert. ‘You knew about it too, didn’t you?’

‘All of us know of the Black Book of Brân. It is not the sort of thing that could be kept quiet. How could you keep a thing like that secret? We all knew that it was there.’

‘You all knew it was in the crypt?’

‘Yes. In one of the boxes.’

‘I see. What did the friars say?’

‘They were angry that they couldn’t find it. I heard the younger one say that they would have to search again.’

‘What did his friend say?’

‘I didn’t hear,’ the lad admitted. ‘I suppose he spoke more quietly.’

‘And this was in the corridor near the dormitory?’ Baldwin said.

‘Yes.’

Simon was frowning. ‘But before or after the screams?’

‘Oh, before. I went out with the others as soon as we heard the screams. They were terrible.’

‘If that’s so,’ Simon said, ‘you must have seen Alexander rise and go out?’

‘I just thought he was going for a piss. It didn’t occur to me that he was going to the crypt,’ Robert protested.

‘We accuse you of nothing,’ Baldwin said soothingly. ‘But tell me: it was after you had heard the voices?’

‘Yes. He must have heard them too, I think.’

‘Why?’

‘It was almost immediately afterwards that he rose. He was as quiet as possible, and I looked at him, but he was going so quietly I assumed he didn’t want to speak to me. And I didn’t want to wake the others.’

‘Where did he go? Straight out into the corridor?’

‘No. Not at first. First he went to the prior’s house. I could tell. I heard the doors over at the far end of the dormitory, and then the door to the prior’s house.’

Baldwin and Simon exchanged a look. Both recalled Friar James’s accusations about homosexuality against Alexander and the prior.

Simon said: ‘You can tell that? It couldn’t have been the abbot’s house?’

‘No. I’ve heard all the doors. The abbot’s house has a door with a pronounced squeak in the hinge. It wasn’t his.’

‘What then?’

‘He came out again, for I heard the door close, and walked along the corridor towards the church. I could hear his sandals.’

‘So you heard him go to the crypt?’

‘God save me, yes!’ Robert said quietly.

‘Was it long before you heard the screams?’

‘A while, yes. But in the dark time passes slowly. You imagine things, don’t you?’

‘Yes,’ Simon agreed, but then he frowned quickly as he remembered his dream of the night before. And there had been something else. ‘Tell me, Alexander was a good illuminator. Did he share his pictures?’

‘Sometimes when he was proud of a picture he would show it, yes. There was nothing wrong in that. He would ask for advice about making it more realistic.’

‘I have had an idea, Baldwin. We need to speak again to the prior.’

Simon led the way at a trot, and Baldwin was forced to keep up.

‘What is it, Simon?’

‘The pictures the prior showed us yesterday. There was a dragon and a boar, you remember? And those are two of the animals which are held in the prophecy about the six kings you spoke of.’

‘Of course!’ Baldwin said with anger. ‘Why didn’t I think of that? So the boy was aware of the prophecy too, and was drawing pictures to illustrate it, you think?’

‘What if he wasn’t only interested in that prophecy? If the bishop is right, and there are prophecies in this evil book, perhaps the lad Alexander was seeking to bring them together into one, larger book?’

‘Why should he do that?’ Baldwin said, but he was not scoffing.

‘Any artist likes to create work that will be important. If there are linked prophecies that affect our prince and tell of him pursuing a terrible destiny, wouldn’t that fire an artist’s imagination?’

The prior’s desk in the cloister was empty, but Simon reached beneath it for the rough drawings he had shown them the day before. ‘They’ve gone!’

‘He must have realized what he had done and has hidden them,’ Baldwin said.

‘Let’s-’

The rest of his words were forgotten as they heard the screams from the Chapter House.

They were not alone in running at full tilt to the chamber. Lay brothers and monks all dropped their work and pelted across the yards to the corridor and into the meeting place for the brothers.

‘What is it?’ Simon demanded as he came to halt at the entrance, but then his voice was stilled at the sight within. He had to swallow and turn away.

‘My God!’ Baldwin said, and then he was bawling for the monks and others to leave the room and not disturb anything. ‘Simon! Simon, keep them all out. We don’t want anyone in here.’

Simon agreed and stood in the doorway while Baldwin studied the room, an arm about his breast, his chin cupped in his left hand.

‘Is he dead, Baldwin?’

Baldwin saw no need to respond to that.

The prior sat sprawled in a mess of blood and urine, his back to a pillar, both arms about it. His eyes were wide in a horrified stare, and were it not for the fact that his lips were stopped with a thick roll of parchment his mouth would have been wide in agonized terror, Baldwin felt sure.

He walked about the body. Like Alexander, his hands were bound tightly about the pillar, and there was a bloody mess where his belly lay. ‘He’s been stabbed in the gut and left to die,’ he concluded.

‘Why do this to him?’ Simon spat.

Baldwin was pulling the parchment from his mouth. ‘Because this fool and his friend Alexander were copying the Black Book of Brân. These are pages they were taking from it and, unless I am much deceived, these were some examples of drawings that Alexander had created to illustrate the prophecy of the six kings.’

‘So who killed them both? Surely they were killed by the same man?’

‘It seems most probable. And the motivation was something to do with this copy of the book. And the original, perhaps.’

‘So when we find the original, we shall also know who was responsible for both murders,’ Simon said. ‘But if the book is so dangerous and must be concealed, why leave the parchments there for anyone to find?’

‘Yes,’ Baldwin said, but more pensively as he leafed through the parchment he had taken from Prior Stephen’s mouth. ‘Why leave these here?’

Friar James was walking along the northern wall of the abbey, peering up at the great belfry, when he saw the two men. They were walking towards him at an amble, clearly involved so much in talking to each other that they had no heed for anyone else.

Well, he had little desire to speak to them. He bent his head and tried to avoid looking at them at all as he passed by them, and as soon as their legs had disappeared behind him he looked up again.

And found himself jerked backwards.

Before he could shout for help, a gloved hand was clapped over his mouth, and he was dragged, his arms gripped tightly, an arm about his breast, at enough speed to make it impossible for him to regain his footing. He was pulled so far that he began to wonder whether they would fling him into the Thames or the Tyburn, and he had just decided that they would when the hands supporting him suddenly released him, and he found himself on his back staring up at the knight and bailiff.

‘Sir Baldwin, you will pay dearly for this assault,’ he spat, struggling to rise to his feet.

‘Calm yourself, James,’ Baldwin said, planting a foot on his chest and pushing him on to his back with ease. ‘You are not accused of any crimes yet. But I would hear more about the book. And Martin’s and your plan to find it on the night that the boy died. And what you were doing this morning, of course.’

‘I don’t know what you mean. I have the protection of the Church and the Pope himself. You cannot keep me here against my will!’

‘It will be your will, I am sure, to help the relevant authorities to discover who killed the prior and his monk? What other action would a man of God decide to-’ His face suddenly hardened. ‘What do you mean, you have the protection of the Pope himself?’

‘That is none of your business.’

‘You hear that, Simon? So he doesn’t bluster, saying that the Pope’s protection is always granted to a man of his order. No, rather he seeks to warn us off because the Pope has given him special protection.’

‘Release me immediately, or you will pay a terrible penalty! You cannot hold me. You will feel the authority of my order, and I shall have no hesitation in demanding that you be held for-’

His voice was cut off as the knight drew his sword. It gleamed wickedly blue and came to rest upon James’s throat.

‘I am grateful that you have become quiet, James. Now, friar, I would know what happened that night, first. And before you invoke the power of the Pope, let me warn you that his writ does not run here just now.’

‘You are a heretic!’ James hissed, shocked.

‘No. But I have the king’s writ to investigate murder, and the king would be keen to know all about this book and the two friars who sought to remove it from his realm. Just as he would be keen to know about the prophecy of the six kings.’

There was a slow clap from behind them, and Friar Martin slowly approached. ‘Very well, Sir Knight. An impressive display of force. Perhaps, though, you could release my companion? He is prey to piles, and the cold grass here will be sure to bring on an attack. Pray, let him up, else my ears will suffer immeasurably all the long walk home!’

There was a small alehouse a short distance from the main gate to the abbey, and it was to this that they repaired. Once they were seated, James still eyeing Baldwin with deep suspicion and dislike, Friar Martin ordered wine for them all and sat back on a stool, contemplating Baldwin with some interest and amusement.

‘That was a most bold display. I was almost concerned when I saw you draw your sword.’

‘I was in earnest.’

‘I think not. There are king’s officers who would take off a man’s head, and others who profess to believe in the rule of justice. I feel sure you are one of the latter.’

‘You think I profess to believe in justice?’

‘I am prepared to think you may believe in it,’ Martin said with a smile, and after a moment Baldwin smiled in return.

‘Will you tell me what happened on the night Alexander died, then?’

‘I cannot tell you all…’

‘Then let me tell you. You were sent here by the Pope to recover a book.’

‘Written by an astonishingly unremarkable monk in Ireland.’ His tone betrayed his contempt for the Irish. ‘He went mad and disappeared. Hardly surprising in a land like his. His book, however, is as remarkable as he was not.’

Baldwin nodded. ‘And some believe the book is dangerous.’

‘There may be consequences, were a book with prophecies that could be manipulated by the unscrupulous to be discovered just now.’ Martin smiled.

‘Quite so. And there can be few books of prophecies so easily manipulable as these. Add to them the still more inflammatory prophecy of the six kings, and you have a veritable Greek fire of incendiary forecasts. How is my guess?’

‘Accurate enough. The Pope would prefer the book to be taken into his care. Here, it is possible that it could be discovered. If the king’s jewels could be robbed from that crypt, a book could as easily be removed. And there are delicate negotiations afoot in France – the Pope wants peace between the English and French kingdoms, and this… nonsense could impair those negotiations.’

‘How did the Pope hear of the book?’

‘How? A copy was to be sent to him many years ago. We have known of it for many years.’

‘And I expect the good abbot told of the book when it arrived here?’

‘I should not be surprised. The Pope cares about inflammatory material of this nature.’

‘I care about dead men appearing in the abbey.’

‘We were seeking the book, it is true, but that is all.’

‘Very well. What did you see, though? You were the first on the scene after Alexander’s murder.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘Your footprints. No one else walks about without sandals all day long, friar. It makes your feet flatter and broader, and that makes the footprints wider and smoother too. If you want, we can go and test the theory – the prints remain there.’

‘Prints hardly prove I was there.’

‘They are not the only proof.’

Martin set his head to one side and smiled. ‘I doubt it, but I have no reason to conceal the truth. Very well, I heard the screams and was quickly there. I had hoped that the book would also be there, but when I arrived there was no sign of it. I have to confess, I had made use of a little deception in the hope of learning where it was. I stood outside the dormitory, and spoke in a loud enough voice to wake the dead that I was desperate to find the book and would go and search for it that moment.’

‘Where was James?’ Simon asked, casting a baleful look at the friar.

‘He was in our chamber. I left him snoring.’

‘What of the prior?’ Baldwin continued.

‘You know as much of his death as I do myself. There is no reason for him to be killed, so far as I know.’

‘Nor was there for the boy Alexander.’

‘No, indeed. But the man who killed him clearly saw him bring out the book, and killed him to take it.’

‘Perhaps.’

‘What other motive could there be, other than theft?’

‘Concealment? Punishment? The parchments in the prior’s mouth were from the six kings’ prophecy. None bore on the prophecies from Brân’s book.’

‘So?’

‘Perhaps the man who killed both acted from an urge to conceal the book. Rather as you would have,’ Baldwin said.

‘But you cannot believe we were responsible for the deaths?’

Baldwin drank his wine and smiled. ‘Do I not?’

‘No, not seriously. Someone else must have killed them.’

‘Who?’

James could not restrain himself any longer. He spat: ‘They deserved it! The prior and his catamite! Sodomy is the worst sin for a monk. Unbridled passion… Any man could have killed them and be praised for his action!’

‘So who do you accuse, friar?’ Baldwin asked.

‘The abbot himself, perhaps! He wants to protect his abbey from the poison of sodomy, I am sure! If he sought to defend his institution against such behaviour, he would be serving God!’

Simon strolled with Baldwin back into the abbey’s grounds. ‘Why don’t you like friars, Baldwin?’

‘It is not all friars, only the Franciscans. They are often untrustworthy. Some say that they will manipulate the truth in order to promote their own perfection.’

‘I seem to recall that it was you who said that.’

‘Really? Then perhaps it is my prejudice which is coming to the fore, then,’ Baldwin said with a short grin. ‘But it is still true, nonetheless. There are some in that order who consider themselves superior to everyone else. In their warped view, they matter more than all others, because they are hastening the third age of the world into being. That means they are sanctioned to do anything to bring about the arrival of the Antichrist.’

Simon shivered. ‘Do you think that he is truly coming now?’

‘Simon, Simon, do you know how many men have predicted the end of the world? Do you know how many have been disappointed in their predictions? There were those who thought the end of the world would come in the year of Our Lord 1000. More predicted it would be a few years later. Joachim said it would be 1260 when the Antichrist would appear. Others said that when Acre fell, four and thirty years ago, the end of the world was coming, because God had taken His lands away from His people and given them to the Muslims.’

‘Don’t you believe that Christ will return?’

‘Of course I do – but I believe that it will be at a time of His choosing, and not predicted by a monk hundreds of years ago wearing a hair shirt and sitting in a draughty room on a bog in Ireland!’

‘What do we do now?’

‘It’s clear enough that the two friars wish us to believe that the abbot was responsible.’

‘Yes.’ Simon nodded grimly. ‘You are not sure?’

‘No. But James is convinced.’

‘Or he wishes to divert our attention from him. Let us go and confront the abbot, then. Perhaps he will confess?’

‘I doubt it greatly,’ Baldwin said. ‘And yet there is merit in speaking to him again. If nothing else, to warn him of James’s suspicions.’

They had come to the outer wall of the abbot’s house, and Baldwin knocked.

‘Of course, all we need to do is find the book, and we shall have our felon.’

‘But who has it? That is the question,’ Simon agreed mournfully.

They were ushered into the abbot’s hall a few moments later.

‘What now? I thought I’d told you all I could.’

‘I wanted to enquire about the Franciscans. Are they here to take the book away?’

Abbot John leaned back in his chair and growled. ‘They are not. They were sent by the Pope to discuss other matters. Matters of international importance.’

Baldwin nodded. Martin had said that the Pope was attempting to smooth over the diplomatic chasm that had opened in English and French relations. ‘I see. And Martin is a papal envoy, then?’

‘Yes. I have been discussing matters with him.’

‘You realize he knows all about the book?’

‘What if he does?’

‘Perhaps he wished to acquire it for his own purposes?’

‘What possible reason could he have for wanting it? No. He is here for other business which does not concern you.’

‘His companion, James. Do you know much of him?’

‘No, in truth. I know that he has been well regarded by his confrères, though.’

‘He is old and experienced.’

‘Yes.’

‘While his companion is a great deal younger,’ Baldwin said reflectively.

‘What of it? In this age, men of ability will rise.’

‘Absolutely. And there is greatness in a Church that rewards merit.’

‘Quite so.’

‘And yet… To have a man of James’s ability relegated to the post of clerk to a man half his age must surely be galling to his sensibilities?’

‘He is a man who has grown old in the service of God. He will not feel such jealousy, if that is your inference.’

‘Perhaps you are right.’

‘And what of it? A man like him would scarce kill two because he wished for recognition.’

Baldwin was quiet for a moment, and gradually his eyes narrowed as though he had suddenly thought of a fresh and uniquely unwholesome aspect to the mystery. ‘But would another man kill for that, I wonder?’

‘What do you mean?’

Baldwin was suddenly on his feet. ‘Simon, come! I have some thoughts I need to consider.’

Friar James could see his friend’s eyes on him all the way from the refectory to the guest chamber.

‘So, then. Are we ready to depart?’

‘Oh, I think so. There is little more to discuss here, after all,’ Martin said. He crossed the chamber to their bed and took up his leather scrip. ‘We have done all we may here.’

‘The abbey is in a ferment,’ James growled. ‘Should we not remain here for a little longer?’

‘For what purpose?’ Martin snapped. ‘There are two already dead. Would you have us remain here? In faith, my friend, I swear it would be best for both of us to depart and report to our master.’

It was at that moment that Baldwin opened the door and entered.

‘Sir Baldwin, you do have a habit of appearing when least expected.’

‘You are to leave?’

‘You overheard us?’ James growled.

‘You were not hiding your conversation. Now, tell me, to which master do you return to report?’

‘We have only one master – God!’

‘Ah,’ Baldwin said and nodded sagely. ‘That is true in general, but here on earth you make reports to the Pope – and to your own general, of course.’

Friar Martin was smiling now. ‘And you suggest that this is unfortunate? We are loyal servants.’

‘Loyal enough, perhaps, to kill in your service.’

‘That is a disgraceful suggestion!’ James blurted loudly. ‘You dare accuse Friar Martin of murder?’

‘You suspect it already, my friend,’ Baldwin said mildly.

James opened his mouth to deny it, but then he slowly allowed his head to droop, and his eyes would not meet Baldwin’s.

‘Besides,’ Baldwin continued, ‘if I were to suspect you, I should only have to accuse you, and you would confirm or deny the crime. And no matter which the case was, you would escape punishment, because you are in possession of benefit of clergy. You could confess here and now and no English king would dare to take you. Not since the death of St Thomas has a secular officer brought justice to a priest. Neither priest, vicar, monk nor friar can be held under the laws of England, save by his own Church master.’

‘So? Then why do you persecute us?’

‘Hmm? I do not mean to. No, I merely wished to know what you would do with the Black Book of Brân were you to discover it.’

Martin smiled gently. ‘You are an intelligent man, Sir Knight. I am surprised you never sought to ask me before. But I fear I have to be honest. I would take it. My general would dearly love to read it.’

‘And amend a few predictions to more fully suit and benefit your order?’ Baldwin asked cynically.

‘Our order has a duty to help to bring about the new age, in which all the world shall be as a monastery, with all people singing the praises of God all day.’

‘So you would be keen to bring about that blessed day, then,’ Baldwin said.

‘It is our duty.’

‘Which is why you persuaded a young lad to seek it for you and bring it to you,’ Baldwin said.

Martin’s smile was frozen. ‘You were not there.’

‘You do not deny it. I believe that the suggestion was plain enough, that the boy should find the book and bring it, because it was so evil that it would pollute the minds of all who read it. And then you went to the prior and let him know by a deliberate slip of the tongue that you were here to learn all about it.’

‘There was no subterfuge. I told the prior and asked for the copy, because my master wished to see it.’

‘But you were sure he would not allow you to take it.’

‘It was clear enough by his attitude that he did not consider us suitable porters for his prized book. He preferred to keep it hidden here.’

‘How did you arrange for the boy to fetch it, then?’

‘The prior was not very trusting. After we spoke to him, we rested, and we went to see whether we could find it ourselves. But there was no sign of it. We had to give up. James here returned to our room, after we discussed the thing a while in the corridor outside the monks’ dorter, and then I walked back to the crypt for a brief search.’

‘And Alexander appeared while you were there?’

‘No.’ And at last the mask of confidence slipped. ‘No, I sought high and low, but no sign could I see. So I returned to our chamber to sleep. But as I was about to open the door, there was the scream, and it chilled my blood, Sir Baldwin. It chilled my blood.’

‘So you ran there, saw he had placed boxes-’

Martin sighed. ‘Yes. I saw the boxes and guessed at the hiding-place. I confess, my greed overwhelmed me. I clambered up and felt in all the cracks, but there was nothing there. The book was stolen. So I went to the poor boy and said the paternoster and prayed for him a little. And then moved the chests back with the rest.’

‘Why?’

‘If someone had been there, I did not want them to think that I knew where the place of concealment lay.’

‘And you guessed that if the book were recovered, you may have another chance to seek it,’ Baldwin reasoned. ‘So from all you say, your companion could not have been the killer?’

‘No.’

‘But he did suspect you.’

‘Did you?’ Martin asked.

James had no need to answer. He hung his head like a whipped hound, then said: ‘My companion was away from me for some while, and when I hurried to the crypt after the screaming I found him there with the boy. It was a great shock to me.’

‘Perhaps. Well, Friar James, have no fear. You are safe in your bed,’ Baldwin said. ‘It was not your master who killed these two.’

‘Then who did?’

Baldwin grunted to himself. ‘First, tell me: how did you gain access to the crypt? Where did your key come from that you may search the room?’

‘There was a man who had a key. He let me borrow it,’ Martin said, smiling.

‘I see.’ Baldwin considered a moment, then shook his head. ‘It is a pathetic tale, in truth. I wish I did not have to tell it. But I think there is no merit in leaving matters to fester. Please, friars, come with us.’

He walked slowly along the passageway to the cloister, and thence to the abbot’s hall. On the way he saw Peter, their torchbearer of the day before, and asked him to fetch wine to the abbot’s hall.

‘Abbot, I am sorry to disturb you once more,’ he said.

‘Of course you are,’ the abbot said thinly.

‘These are matters which require care. Bringing to justice a murderer is a serious matter. However, consequences can be serious even when lesser crimes are committed. Especially when the man who may be offended is immensely powerful.’

‘Please, Sir Baldwin, come to the point and stop honing the edge.’

‘Very well. You, abbot, wield power of life and death, within certain boundaries. You can arrest your brethren for misconduct, punish lay brothers and others, can you not? And were I to find a murderer in your midst, I should be powerless to capture and punish him. This is your precinct. My authority is left at your door.’

‘I know all this.’

‘Yes. And yet you have to be cautious in the presence of your neighbour, the king. His own father came in here and punished a thief by flaying his body and leaving the skin nailed to your Chapter House door as a reminder to your brethren that you should be more careful in future.’

‘There were allegations that brothers from this abbey were complicit in the robbery of the crown jewels,’ the abbot admitted.

‘Just as they were in stealing this book,’ Baldwin said. ‘A brother from the abbey here allowed Friar Martin to use the key to the crypt to search inside for the book. How many keys are there?’

‘Only one.’ The abbot frowned. He reached under his robes and brought out a heavy key ring. ‘It is this one,’ he said, indicating a long, heavy key. ‘It is always with me.’

‘The crypt was open. Plainly another man has a key,’ Baldwin said. Then he grinned. ‘And I know who he is.’

Peter entered apologetically, a tray with goblets and jugs of wine in his hands. ‘Sir Baldwin asked for wine, my Lord Abbot.’

‘Bring it in, then,’ the abbot said tersely.

‘So, abbot, you have here a problem: the book, which this friar would be most glad to remove from your possession and take with him to his master; you may deny him the opportunity, but there is another key. So even if you find the book and return it to your crypt, you will still need to find that key. Or change the lock, which would be expensive.’

‘I do not understand what you mean,’ the abbot said.

‘I had thought that the book was the target of the robbery. Now I think that it was an accident. It was not the book itself which was wanted. It was a copy being created, a copy that incorporated pieces of the strange prophecy of the six kings of England.’

‘Who would want to kill to recover that?’ Brother Martin demanded.

‘Think of the two dead men. One killed and flayed like the thief of the crown jewels, the other stabbed, but with works stuffed in his mouth as though the words and pictures were designed to choke him.’

‘Well?’

In answer, Baldwin turned to Peter, who was serving wine to Simon. ‘A man loyal to the king may take the prophecy of the six kings as an insult to his master. If he learned that this prophecy was to be bruited abroad, might he not take it into his head to prevent it? A royalist may well decide that this prophecy, which alleged that the present king was little more than a goat, while his first-born son would be an Arthur, bringing new realms under his sway, was a slur on his master. A man who sought to break into the crypt and spread such tales deserved to die in the same way as that earlier thief. Skinned.’

‘What of the prior?’

‘He had sought to have Alexander work with him on a copy of the Black Book of Brân and incorporate in it the prophecies of the six kings. He was guilty too. And because the killer was in the pay of the king himself, and the king possessed a key which gave access to the crypt – from the days when the crown jewels were stored there – it was easy for this man to open it for Alexander. You see, I was surprised that Alexander should be able to gain entry. Prior Stephen himself told me that valuables were stored there. Clearly, the door was kept locked. Yet Alexander entered. More, I was astonished that his voice was heard mostly from the open windows. Little sound penetrated from the crypt along the corridors. Perhaps that was because the man who killed Alexander had already locked them both inside, to prevent any risk of their being discovered until he was ready. That door barred the sound of the screams.’

Peter eyed him with a wry grimace. ‘You accuse me?’

‘Yes, Peter. I believe you are still in the pay of the king. You were never truly a corrodian. You are not old; you have no injury. No, you are a king’s spy in here. And when you saw that there was a risk to his reputation, you took it upon yourself to destroy utterly those who threatened him.’

Peter gave a dry chuckle, then bent over Simon’s goblet. Suddenly he whirled and hurled the heavy jug at Baldwin. He turned and pelted for the door, slamming it behind him.

The wine had drenched Baldwin, the heavy pewter slamming into the wall behind him, but he was already on his feet and making for the door. Simon got to it first and wrenched it open, and then the two were running along the corridor towards the cloister.

Peter was some distance before them, and Simon caught a glimpse of his heels as he rounded a corner. The lay brother was hurtling into a wall to slow himself, then setting off to the right, towards the lay brothers’ dorter.

‘This way!’ Baldwin nodded, and the two pounded on, their heavy boots echoing on the slabs.

There was a door open. Simon saw it, saw movement, and drew his sword. Inside he saw Peter rummaging in a chest. He stood with a long knife in one hand, a heavy-looking book with ancient wooden board covers in the other. Seeing Simon and Baldwin, he rushed at them, knife held close to his breast, the book over his heart like a buckler.

Baldwin caught the gleam of steel as he reached the door and threw himself sideways, but his ankle turned on a loose stone. He hit the wall, his temple catching a protruding stone, and suddenly all went white, silver stars shining in his face as he slumped to the floor.

Simon leaped before him and, before Peter could stab downwards, Simon’s sword clashed. Peter gripped the book tightly, but he could wield his sword with skill with his right, and Simon was reminded of his story of being in the king’s host. This was a man who had fought before.

So had Simon. He was trained in the basic English fighting techniques, but his training had been supplemented by his years on the moors, dealing with the miners. They had shown him rougher methods of fighting with steel. More serious, more dangerous, more unexpected. When Peter suddenly dropped to one knee and thrust upwards, Simon was able to parry with ease; when Peter feinted a slash from the right, only to slip sideways and thrust again, Simon blocked and darted to Peter’s right, trying to stab under his armpit. Peter was wily too, and retreated sharply, blocking the manoeuvre. But he brought up the book at the same time, and it snagged his blade for a moment. It left a brief opportunity, and Simon took it. He sprang forward and right, and thrust.

The first caught the book on the point. It skittered on the hard, age-blackened wood of the cover as though meeting steel and slipped over the cover, making a long slash, then slid over the top, where it met Peter’s throat. The blade slid in effortlessly, grating slightly on Peter’s spine, slicing through his windpipe, and on until Simon’s hand was on Peter’s chin, while he grabbed Peter’s own fist and kept his blade away.

His furious advance knocked Peter backwards, Simon’s sword rattling over the stone of the walls. And then, as Peter collapsed, dropping his own sword and clutching at his throat, Simon saw bubbles emerge from the huge wound, and he heard the rattling of breath gargling in Peter’s blood. Simon rolled away and vomited.

Monday before the Feast of St John the Baptist,⁴ Twenty-Second year of the reign of King Edward III of England (Ninth year of the reign of King Edward of France)

The prior leaned back in his chair and set down the spectacles. At his age it was unsurprising that he should need such instruments, for men of his age often did, but it yet rankled that he was forced to use them.

This chill morning it seemed as though the world was dying. Much as it had seemed all those years ago when the strange knight from Devon and his friend had found the king’s spy and killed him. The man who had killed poor Stephen.

There had been so much pain and suffering in those far-off days. Prior Stephen being slaughtered just after poor Alexander, and all because that fellow Peter wanted to save the king from some little embarrassment. Not that the new king would have minded. From all that had happened since then, with the civil war, the irruption of King Edward III into the void left by the death of his poor father, the new war with the French, even the king’s declaration that he was the true King of France a decade ago, his restless ambition had become all too clear. He had made all those events seem so far distant they were like a dream. And for a man who was almost fifty years old, with failing eyesight, sore limbs and a memory that was not to be trusted with matters that happened a scant five minutes ago, their dreamlike quality was more real than more recent events.

Peter had died, of course. There had been talk about skinning him like an ox and having his skin held up on the door, but the old king wouldn’t hear of it. Refused to accept that the man had been in the wrong – even tried to deny aiding him. But the presentation of the crypt’s key, which had been discovered in Peter’s room, had silenced his negotiator. Peter’s body was removed, and the book remained where it had been left, in the safekeeping of the abbey.

Not that it was safe there. After that attempt, Bishop Walter of Exeter had suggested a safer place in which to store it, and it had come here, with the prior, when he was elected to this house. There were some who still wondered about it. No doubt those Franciscans would dearly have loved to have handled it, just so that they could copy the more outrageous prophecies and use them to the greater glory of their order. But no. Abbot John had insisted upon keeping it. If the Pope himself ordered it, he would give it up, he said, but no one else’s command would be heeded. But the Pope didn’t want to command that it be given up. And the Pope had more important matters to concern him by then. War between France and England – yet again. But there were some in the papal Curia who thought that the mad jottings in that book may have some relevance. It was not so heretical as to deserve destruction and should be kept safe in case it proved useful. The Franciscans were probably responsible for that. They always believed they could manipulate books to suit themselves. Maybe they’d try to get it again and rewrite pieces to better fit their view of the world.

Never mind. Here it was, and here it would remain. All those prophecies… Perhaps some had come to pass. Certainly, there was war enough to sate the most bloodthirsty Antichrist. But there was no man who appeared to fit that description. And what of the other prophecies? They were the merest nonsense.

Prior Robert stood and stretched, preparing for the Mass. Once a youthful novice in a great, bustling abbey, now he was prior in his own right in this little house at Hemel Hempstead, and he was content.

He left his room, and as he did so, unknown to him, the little taper, which had illuminated his work, fell. A spark alighted upon a fragment of dandelion seed lying amongst the rushes, and it combusted as he closed his door behind him, flaring into some dog hairs. They were enough, just, to light a few fragments of straw and rush.

The prior entered his priory church with his hands clasped, singing. For some reason, as his eyes caught a glimpse of the cross on the altar before him, he was struck with a shiver of horror. Into his mind came another prophecy from that damned book: Then plague and war will scour the land.

No, that was nonsense. Just like all the rest, he told himself. He was glad that the damned book was well concealed, down beneath the altar here, in a chest under a heavy stone. It would take a man of unusual foresight and wit to discover it there. Long may it remain, for no man should ever read it again.