The Lost Prophecies (8 page)

Gwyn, who was sitting on a window ledge whittling a piece of stick with his dagger, raised another question. ‘How could they have known that Thomas had taken the book home that evening?’

De Wolfe stopped loping around the chamber to stare Thomas in the face. ‘Did you tell anyone about it?’ he demanded.

Defensively, the clerk stammered that all the other clerks in the scriptorium knew about it and any of them could have seen him put the book into his shoulder bag when he left for the day.

‘So this is another priestly connection!’ snapped the coroner. ‘You clerks all gossip like fishwives in a gutting-shed, so any of them might be our clerical thief.’

Thomas shrugged. ‘I doubt if any of the scribes in the library were involved, for they could have stolen the book there or even taken the copy that I left in the press. But, of course, they could have told others outside the Chapter House about it.’

John smacked one hand into his palm. ‘I’m sure we’re looking for a priest, one who has a pair of accomplices. Whether he is one of the cathedral crowd or a parish vicar from the city, there’s a bloody priest behind all this!’

He stalked to his stool on the other side of the table and sat down, his face screwed up into an expression of deep concentration.

‘Thomas, take a leaf of old, used parchment and write in Latin something to this effect!’

Half an hour later Thomas de Peyne left the gatehouse tower with a creased and grubby palimpsest in his hand – and a sly grin on his face.

Later that morning Thomas returned to the library chamber over the Chapter House and took his newly bound copy of the book from the press. He was pleased with the result, the leather having bonded firmly to the boards without bubbles and the covers opening easily to display the neatly inscribed pages. He took it to his desk and began to study the verses once again but was soon disturbed by several of the other clerks, who sidled up and began enquiring about his well-being after ‘the awful experience’ of the night before. Inevitably, the word had got around about the attack upon him and the theft of the book, as several of the young clerics also lodged in Priest Street.

Though their protestations of concern were mostly genuine, Thomas sensed that they were also fishing for any news of his interpretation of the Black Book, all being well aware that he had made a copy. Conscious of the fact that any of them might have taken the news of the original, deliberately or inadvertently, to whoever had stolen it, he played the role that the coroner had suggested to him.

‘I have made some progress, I admit,’ he said rather coyly. ‘I cannot divulge what it is, of course. It’s a matter only for the ears of the coroner and the sheriff.’

Ignoring their wheedling to give them some hint of what he may have found in relation to hidden treasure, he went back to the study of his new copy, concealing the pages from their avaricious eyes by hunching his arm over them. Then, with the eyes of his colleagues flicking over him at frequent intervals, he covertly began writing on a sheet of parchment laid alongside the book – though no one could see that he failed to dip his quill deeply enough into the ink pot, as the document had already been written earlier, back in the gatehouse of Rougemont.

After almost an hour, during which he usefully employed his time by once more puzzling over the obscure quatrains, Thomas rose from his stool and, with Brân’s copy ostentatiously tucked under his arm, moved to the head of the steps.

‘I need the privy,’ he murmured to a young secondary sitting nearby as he left the scriptorium for the nether regions. As he went, he made sure that the piece of parchment slipped from between the pages of the book and fluttered to the floor.

When he returned a few minutes later, the apprentice priest handed him the fallen sheet with a mumbled explanation that he had dropped it on the way out. Thomas knew from his furtive expression that he had read it and probably already shared the contents with the other clerks. With a secret smile, the coroner’s scribe went back to his place and this time returned to his study of the verses in earnest, as they had by now become a challenge to him that he could not resist.

‘Do you really think this is going to work, Crowner?’

Gwyn sounded grumpy, as faithful though he was he would much rather be sitting by the fire in the Bush, with a mutton chop and a quart of Nesta’s best ale, than crouched in St Bartholomew’s churchyard in the biting frost. Alongside him in the lee of the little wooden church were John de Wolfe and Sergeant Gabriel, who had hidden four of his men-at-arms at strategic points around the edge of the enclosure.

‘We can but try, as I can think of no other way of catching these bastards red-handed,’ replied John in a low voice.

It was about the middle of the evening and the moon was showing itself fitfully between the masses of cloud that an east wind blew across the sky.

The churchyard was mainly rough grass and a few trees, as no burials had taken place here since the cathedral had long ago appropriated all the lucrative funerals to itself. In the centre stood an old plinth on which were the remains of a Saxon cross and this John had used as his bait, reckoning that a similar one in Alphington was now well known as the hiding-place of treasure.

‘But why tonight, sir?’ asked Gabriel, his voice like a rusty file on a blunt axe. ‘They may leave it a week before searching.’

‘Never, not in this present mood of hysteria,’ said de Wolfe confidently. ‘By now those Chapter House gossips will have spread the news amongst all their priestly friends. If any clerical treasure-hunter in Exeter has heard it, he’ll be down here hotfoot before any other thieving swine can beat him to it – and that means tonight!’

They settled down again to wait, shivering under their cloaks and jerkins. Gwyn had a striped woollen cap on his unruly ginger hair and a sack wrapped around his shoulders, while the coroner wore an old gambeson under his wolf-skin mantle. The gambeson was a legacy of his fighting days, a quilted coat of padded wool, worn under his chain mail to absorb the blows from a lance or sword.

St Bartholomew’s was in the poorest section of the city, down in the north-western corner called Bretayne, named after the surviving Britons who had been driven down into a slum area by the invading Saxons centuries before. The churchyard was the only open space in a maze of sordid lanes and alleys, lined by mean huts and hovels, infested by rats, hogs and goats. Realistically, it was probably the least likely place in Exeter where a rich Saxon would have hidden his treasure from the next wave of invaders, but de Wolfe felt that the lure of gold and silver would overrule such logical appraisal.

An hour passed and, with limbs becoming cramped and frozen, John began to wonder if his reasoning might have been too optimistic. Gwyn was blowing on his fingers to get some feeling back into them, and the sergeant’s teeth were chattering audibly.

The coroner was beginning to consider calling off their attempt to trap the treasure-seekers when he heard the creaking of the old gate that led into the churchyard from the lane. Nudging Gwyn and Gabriel to keep quiet, he stared into the blackness under an oak tree that overshadowed the gate, waiting until whoever it was came into the open, where a transient glimmer of moonlight fell upon the path.

Like moving shadows, three black figures glided into the light, one smaller than the other two. A tiny crack of yellow light revealed that this man carried a horn lantern whose ill-fitting door failed to mask every glimmer. Many less hard-bitten persons than the trio of old soldiers might have fled at the sight of these silent black figures flitting through an abandoned graveyard.

De Wolfe put a restraining hand on each of his companions and hoped that the hidden soldiers would obey their sergeant’s orders not to move until commanded. The three ghostly shapes moved silently towards the centre of the overgrown area where the base of the broken cross was half-hidden in weeds.

Suddenly, a dim shaft of light fell upon the old stones as the door of the lantern was opened. Faint scraping noises began as shovels were used to push aside the rampant undergrowth around the cross. This was the signal for action, and de Wolfe rapped Gabriel on the shoulder as he and Gwyn stood up.

‘Right, men! Seize these fellows!’ roared the sergeant.

As they began running towards the centre of the churchyard, four other figures erupted from the bushes and converged on the startled men. They attempted a dash for the gate, but were met by solid muscles and were forced down upon the ground amid strident curses and protests. Gwyn grabbed the lantern and held it up as the soldiers pinned the robbers down.

‘Who the hell are these knaves?’ he roared, giving a hefty kick in the ribs to one who was wriggling violently.

The coroner hovered over them like some black hawk, as Gabriel pulled away the hoods from their faces. John did not recognize any of them, but he felt that they did not have the coarse features or rough dress of the usual violent robber.

‘I know who this one is, sergeant!’ cried one of the men-at-arms in surprise. ‘He’s the priest from St Lawrence’s.’

John felt a glow of satisfaction as his theory about a thieving priest was vindicated. If the soldier was right, this was the incumbent of the church of St Lawrence, in the eastern part of High Street.

At that moment the man in question was unable to confirm or deny his identity, as Gwyn was helping to pin him to the ground with a large foot placed on his throat. When he was released, he began gasping and gurgling, then launched into a series of lurid oaths unbecoming of a man of the cloth, until the coroner snarled at him. ‘What’s your name, villain?’

‘I am Ranulf de Fougères, an ordained priest of this diocese, damn you!’ howled the man. ‘Release me and my cousins this instant or the bishop will hear of this!’

Gwyn gave a roar of laughter. ‘He’ll hear of it right enough! Perhaps he’ll also attend your hanging.’

De Wolfe was more interested in what Ranulf had said. ‘Your cousins, eh? Are they both priests as well?’

The other two were still struggling in the grip of the soldiers, and John saw in the dim light that one had a shaven tonsure. They were both big men and had an equally large vocabulary of foul language.

At a sign from de Wolfe, Gabriel and Gwyn hauled the vicar of St Lawrence back on to his feet but kept a firm grip on his arms as he spluttered a reply to John’s question.

‘They are most certainly in lower orders of the Holy Church and like me claim benefit of clergy! We demand to be released at once; you have no jurisdiction over us.’

Ranulf was a narrow-faced weasel of a fellow, full of bluster and self-righteousness. ‘We are on consecrated ground here in Church property. You are trespassing!’

It was the coroner’s turn to laugh now. ‘You bloody fool! Just accept that you’ve been caught! We’ll gladly turn you over to the bishop. There are still enough proctors in the cathedral precinct to keep you locked up, even though you killed one of them!’

At this, one of the cousins let out a howl. ‘It wasn’t me, it was Simon here . . . though he says the proctor fell down the stairs.’

The other man struggled anew, this time trying to get at his relative. ‘Shut up, you lying bastard! I wasn’t even there. It was you that Ranulf sent to ransack the books!’

A barrage of accusations and insults began between the three miscreants, until the men-at-arms cuffed them into grumbling silence. De Wolfe, frozen to his bones and out of patience with the squabbling clerics, told Gabriel to march the prisoners back to Rougement and put them in the cells.

‘A night in that hellhole under the keep will cool their tempers!’ he growled. ‘Then in the morning the sheriff can negotiate with the bishop or the archdeacon about what happens to them. They won’t be very happy with a bunch of renegade clerics who have murdered one of their proctors!’

The next afternoon John called upon his friend John de Alençon to learn what the episcopal authorities had decided. As he had expected, the Church had closed ranks and refused to let the secular powers deal with the charges of murder and two assaults, as well as the theft of the Black Book and the illegal digging into a mound at Clyst St Mary.

Over a cup of wine in the archdeacon’s house, the wiry cleric told the coroner of that day’s meeting between Bishop Henry Marshal and the sheriff, which he had attended.

‘It was fortunate that His Grace was present in Exeter today, for much of the time he is away dealing with his various political interests,’ said de Alençon with a touch of sarcasm.

It was well known that the bishop was one of Prince John’s supporters in his long-running campaign to unseat his brother Richard from the throne. Henry Marshal had come perilously near a charge of treason over the prince’s abortive rebellion when the Lion-heart was imprisoned in Germany.

However, today’s problem was untainted by politics, and the bishop had no hesitation in requiring the sheriff to hand over the three clerical culprits to his custody for trial by his consistory court, instead of the usual machinery of the criminal law.

‘So they’ll not hang, that’s for sure,’ said de Alençon. ‘But our court will undoubtedly be hard on them, for the dead victim was one of our tonsured servants – and, of course, they also assaulted a priest, your clerk Thomas. My poor nephew always seems to be in trouble of some sort!’

‘He spends much of his time trying to make sense of that damned book that is partly at the root of this trouble,’ observed de Wolfe. ‘What happened to it, by the way?’

‘It was found in Ranulf’s house when it was searched early this morning,’ replied the archdeacon. ‘It proves that they were the ones who robbed little Thomas. The book is back in the archives, now locked away by Jordan le Brent, who seems frightened by it.’

‘What will happen to it, I wonder?’

‘Canon Jordan intends to dispatch it to Westminster as soon as possible. It seems the bishop has decided that Hubert Walter should see it first, as he spends more time there running the country than attending to the affairs of God in Canterbury.’

Once again a sarcastic note entered de Alençon’s voice.