The Lost Prophecies (18 page)

‘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.’