Ghostly Murders Page 2

  None of the pilgrims protested, only too willing to follow the Knight out of danger. They must have journeyed for at least an hour when the Miller gave a whoop of joy followed by a blast on his bagpipes.

  ‘Look!’ he yelled. ‘The mist is lifting!’

  And so it was. As if, according to the Pardoner, the blessed Thomas himself had come and brought back the sun. The mist disappeared but, as they came to the foot of a small hill, the Knight let his reins drop. He scratched his head and stared back over the wild Kent countryside.

  ‘We are away from the marsh,’ he declared. ‘But, Pilgrims all, I beg your pardon, we are lost.’ He pointed to the sun, still hidden by a haze, now drooping like a molten light into the west. ‘It will soon be sunset. When darkness falls the mists might return.’ He stared round and shrugged. ‘I’m sorry but we’ll have to camp out in the open. We have provisions, we have wine, fresh meat as well as pastries bought at Singlewell . . .’

  ‘We can go there.’ The Squire who had ridden to the brow of the hill was pointing down the other side.

  The others joined him. The ruins lay at the bottom of the hill: a derelict church, a parson’s house, further along the overgrown high street were the shabby remains of a tavern with decaying houses on either side.

  ‘A ruined village,’ the Poor Priest breathed. He pointed to the birds clustered on the old roofs. ‘No sign of any habitation,’ he added.

  ‘What happened there?’ the Prioress spoke up. ‘Qu’est-ce que?’ she added in her Stratford-Le-Bow French.

  ‘The plague, my lady,’ the Poor Priest answered.

  The Prioress glanced at him in surprise. ‘I did not know you understood French.’ She pouted.

  ‘Madam, you didn’t ask.’

  His brother came up beside him. ‘It brings back memories, Brother.’

  ‘Yes, yes, it does,’ the Poor Priest murmured.

  ‘Well, we can’t stand here talking,’ Mine Host declared, now reassuming leadership of the group once the mist had lifted. ‘Sir Godfrey is right: soon it will be dark and I don’t fancy roaming the wilds of Kent and blundering into another marsh.’

  They slowly descended the overgrown path into the derelict village. From the top of the hill, bathed in sunlight and surrounded by green fields, the village had appeared comely, even welcoming. Now, as they made their way along the desolate high street, the pilgrims were not so sure. The sun became hidden behind a cloud and a light breeze whipped up the dust and rattled the drooping shutters or creaked a battered door. They gathered in the centre of the village near the well, its surrounding wall crumbling. On the other side of it a gallows, driven into the earth, had slid sideways so it looked like some accusing finger pointing at the sky. A piece of rotting rope hung from its rusting hook; this danced in the evening wind as if some ghostly corpse still hung there.

  ‘What did happen here?’ the Prioress repeated. ‘Why is it desolate?’

  ‘Over thirty years ago,’ the Poor Priest replied, ‘the Black Death visited!’

  His words stilled all clamour, even the horses seemed cowed by the mention of the ghastly pestilence which had swept across England, killing two out of three in every town.

  ‘It’s true.’ The Knight spoke up. ‘You can find such villages the length and breadth of the kingdom. Ghostly houses, empty taverns, rotting churches. The people just died; those who survived, fled.’ He looked around. ‘Somewhere here must lie the communal burial pit.’

  ‘Is it safe to stay here?’ the Reeve squeaked, his bulbous eyes full of fear. He stared across through the empty doorway of the old tavern as if the Plague lurked there, watching them all, ready to strike.

  ‘Of course it is.’ The Physician spoke up, hitching his furred robes around his shoulder. ‘The Death has gone: the constellation and stars have dispersed the malignant humours. Moreover, I have, in my fardel, a powerful potion against its return. It only costs—’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ the Knight interrupted. ‘The village is empty because the people died. Such places are avoided even by outlaws, so we’ll be safe here tonight.’ He pointed towards the ruined steeple of the church. ‘We’ll stay there, collect some wood, build a fire and make comfortable beds. It will be cleaner and better than staying in any tavern. Come on.’

  They rode on down. The pilgrims were still subdued: the desolate village had an eerie, macabre atmosphere. A banging door or a bird bursting out of some open window would make them jump, then they’d laugh to cover their nervousness.

  ‘Perhaps the ghosts still live here?’ the Poor Priest muttered out of the corner of his mouth. ‘They may resent our presence.’

  ‘Then, Brother, we will say our prayers,’ the Ploughman replied. ‘We have nothing to fear. We have atoned for our sins.’

  They reached the church, crossed the overgrown cemetery and went in through the shabby corpse door. The nave of the church was in fairly good repair: a few holes in the roof, some rubble on the floor but otherwise a comfortable enough place to spend the night. The horses were unsaddled and taken to a nearby house. The Miller and the Reeve offered to collect grass and ensure each animal had its portion of oats. The Knight ordered the Yeoman and the Squire to collect brushwood for fires. The Prioress, of course, had to have a corner all to herself, though she didn’t object to her handsome, sallow-faced priest joining her there for discussions. The Poor Priest and his brother walked off through the crumbling rood screen and into the sanctuary. They wanted to convince themselves that no blasphemy could occur but the altar had gone: only a hook in the ceiling showed where the pyx, containing the Body of Christ, had once hung.

  Whilst the rest busied themselves, the Poor Priest and his brother, usually so eager to help, wandered around the church looking at the faded wall paintings, scenes from the life of Christ or those of the prophets. The one above the main door showed St Michael driving Satan and his angels, monkey-faced imps, into the roaring fires of hell. The Poor Priest shivered.

  ‘It brings back memories, Brother.’ He breathed in deeply. ‘A desolate village, a ruined church. It reminds me of Scawsby.’

  ‘No, Brother,’ the Ploughman reassured him. ‘The Spectantes . . .’

  ‘Speak in English,’ his brother interrupted. ‘Lest someone overhears us.’ He grinned. ‘Hedge priests and ploughmen are not supposed to understand Latin!’

  ‘Whatever,’ the Ploughman replied. ‘The Watchers are not here!’

  ‘Come on! Come on!’ the Miller shouted.

  They walked back to the centre of the nave. The Reeve had lit a fire and the flames caught the dry branches and leapt boisterously, providing warmth and light. The pilgrims gathered round. The Yeoman returned with a pheasant and two rabbits. The Cook took these and, in the twinkling of an eye, had gutted and prepared them for roasting. He packed the soft flesh with herbs and placed them on makeshift spits above the flames. Soon the nave was filled with the savoury smell of roasting flesh. The Pardoner and Summoner brought across the supplies, pannikins of wine and a small hogs-head of ale whilst each pilgrim brought a cup from their own small saddlebags. The meat was shared out on makeshift platters with bread, cheese and a little dry bacon. Wine warmed their bellies and everyone relaxed, chattering merrily, telling each other that the nave was as good as any tavern or hostelry. Nevertheless, as the evening wore on, the fire began to die: the pilgrims began to be aware of the shadows dancing against the walls, of the pressing loneliness outside, broken now and again by the mournful hooting of an owl, the yip yip of a fox and, on one occasion, the shrill scream of some animal in its death throes.

  ‘The mist is returning,’ the Manciple called out.

  They stared through the glassless window at the wispy tendrils seeping into the church.

  ‘Build the fire up,’ the Knight, ordered. ‘Keep it vigorous and merry. We’ll sleep around it. No harm will befall us, I am sure. The sun will rise bright and strong and we’ll find our path again.’

  The Miller lifted himself up and gave a huge fart.
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  ‘I’m not sleeping near you,’ the Prioress protested bitterly. She fingered her silver brooch bearing the words AMOR VINCIT OMNIA which hung round her neck. She caressed her little lap dog which she always kept warm in the folds of her robes. ‘You are disgusting!’ she continued.

  The Miller, who had drunk deeply, just burped.

  ‘Like some nuns I know!’ he muttered.

  ‘What was that?’ Dame Eglantine the Prioress snapped, angry that this oaf would not move away.

  ‘Just like some nuns I know.’ The Miller staggered to his feet, his bagpipes in his hand, the fire lighting up his craggy face and broad, spade-like beard. ‘I’ll tell you a story about nuns. There’s a house in London just overlooking the Steelyard. My aunt, who was a very old nun and blunt in speech, was sent there. The little ladies,’ he added maliciously, glancing at the Prioress, ‘didn’t like her rough tongue and coarse language, so they protested to Mother Superior. She told them that if they were in a room when my aunt used such language they were to leave immediately.’

  ‘Oh, stop this!’ the Prioress interrupted.

  ‘No, go on!’ the Reeve shouted. ‘Let’s hear the story.’

  ‘Well, one day,’ the Miller continued, bubbling with laughter. ‘The King’s fleet came up the Thames and anchored within bowshot of the convent. My old aunt came in: “Satan’s bollocks!” she cried, peering out of the window. “The King’s ships have berthed and his lusty men will soon be ashore!” At this the young nuns fled the room.’ The Miller began to laugh. “Come back, you noddlepates!” my aunt shouted. “There’s no need to rush! The sailors are hot and lusty but they’ll be here for at least a week!”’

  The Miller and Reeve began to crow with laughter. Dame Eglantine got up and walked to the other side of the fire. The rest of the pilgrims began to tell similar funny stories. The Poor Priest, his belly now full, his mind still absorbed in the past, got up and walked to the corpse door and stared out into the night. The mist hung like smoke over the overgrown cemetery. The Poor Priest walked outside. The sky was hidden. Only the twisted trees and bushes could be seen, like bodies writhing in pain. The Priest closed his eyes. Just like Scawsby, he thought, yet everything had begun so well . . . He heard a sound deep in the mist, as if someone was walking across the graveyard towards him.

  ‘Who is there?’ he called out.

  No answer. The sound now came from his left. The Priest whirled round. The mist shifted. His heart skipped a beat. He was sure he had seen a cowled figure there and a pair of eyes, like red coals, glowing in the darkness. A breeze, cold and sharp, caught at the Priest’s face. He was about to step back when he heard the whisper.

  ‘Spectamus te! Semper spectabimus te! We are watching you! We shall always be watching you!’

  The Priest went back into the church, almost colliding with his brother.

  ‘It’s time,’ the Priest muttered.

  ‘Time for what?’

  ‘Time I exorcised the ghosts.’

  The Priest shook off his brother’s hand and walked towards the fire. The pilgrims looked up expectantly. The Priest was usually as timid and quiet as a mouse, now he walked, shoulders back, head held up. His face had lost that soft, easy smile. He was gaunt and pale, fixed-gazed and thin-lipped.

  ‘Mine Host. This is a sombre place!’

  ‘It is indeed, Father,’ Mine Host replied curiously.

  ‘And a tale should be told?’

  ‘Why, of course,’ the taverner replied. ‘I doubt if anyone will really sleep tonight. Now, remember.’ He held a finger up. ‘Whatever the weather, wherever we are, we all promised to tell two tales. One during the day and one at night. The latter must always be one of mischief: of dark things in hidden places. Tonight is to be no exception!’

  ‘Oh, I like to be frightened.’ The Wife of Bath spoke up. ‘And what a place for it?’

  She stared round and her smile faded. Perhaps it wasn’t. The church looked more forbidding: the flames lit up the lurid paintings on the walls. The Wife of Bath swallowed hard and moved closer to the clerk sitting next to her.

  ‘I’ll tell you a tale,’ the Poor Priest began. ‘But I must warn you. It will chill the heart and curdle the blood. It’s about a village called Scawsby here in Kent.’ His eyes took on a faraway look. He glanced over the heads of the pilgrims. ‘A tale of ghosts, of sorcery, of the Spectantes.’

  ‘The who?’ the Summoner shouted.

  ‘The Watchers,’ the Priest replied. ‘Oh, don’t worry, you’ll meet them soon. However, before I begin, I must give you a prologue about events that happened many years ago. About a small Templar force under Sir William Chasny. He, too, was crossing the wilds of Kent on a dark, wintry night. He, too, became lost. He, too, saw the corpse candles. What happened next is the beginning of a tragedy which cost the lives and souls of many.’

  ‘The Templars?’ the Knight interrupted. ‘Scawsby?’

  ‘Yes, I have heard about that,’ the Man of Law added. ‘Legends about a great treasure trove?’

  ‘Who are the Templars?’ the Cook asked.

  ‘They were a religious order,’ the Knight replied. ‘Warrior monks, sworn to defend the Holy Sepulchre. In 1307, yes that’s the year, Philip of France accused them of witchcraft, sodomy.’ He lowered his voice. ‘And other terrible crimes.’

  ‘The Order was spread all across Europe,’ the Friar added. ‘It was even greater than my own. They owned vast treasures and were said to possess magical powers.’

  ‘Is your story about these?’ the Wife of Bath asked.

  ‘The Templars are the source of my story,’ the Poor Priest replied. ‘They play a role.’

  ‘And this treasure?’ the Pardoner asked. ‘What are the legends? Do you know about that, Sir Godfrey?’

  ‘From the little I know,’ the Knight scratched his chin and stretched his hand out towards the fire, ‘the English crown was reluctant to believe the stories against the Templars. For a while they were given a respite. Now, if you have been to London, you will have seen the Templar church?’

  Many of the pilgrims nodded and said they had.

  ‘It lies between Fleet Street and the Thames,’ Sir Geoffrey Chaucer explained. ‘Near Whitefriars.’

  ‘Well,’ Sir Godfrey continued. ‘The Templars stored their wealth there. It was really a treasure house as well as a church. Eventually the English king had to obey the orders of the Pope so a group of Templars gathered up their treasure and left London, travelling south across the Thames and into Kent. They were led by one of their most holy and redoubtable fighters, Sir William Chasny.’

  ‘And what happened to them?’ the Cook asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Sir Godfrey replied. ‘They just disappeared. Some people claim they slipped in disguise out of the kingdom. Others that they were spirited away by angels.’

  ‘But you, Sir Godfrey?’ the Franklin asked.

  ‘Oh, different kings and princes have searched for that treasure but no one has ever found it. There are many legends. One that they were attacked and massacred: that the treasure lies somewhere in the wilds of Kent.’ He laughed harshly. ‘Perhaps even here.’

  The Yeoman, who had left the fire and been walking round the church half listening to the conversation, now came back.

  ‘Sir Godfrey?’

  ‘What is it, man?’

  ‘You talk of the Templars?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How did they dress?’

  ‘Oh, like any knight except for their surcoats, white with a great six-sided cross upon it. Sometimes they wore the same cross on the shoulder of their tunics.’

  The Yeoman pursed his lips. ‘I think you should see this.’

  ‘See what?’ the Squire asked.

  ‘I’d just like Sir Godfrey to see it,’ the Yeoman replied.

  The pilgrims stirred. The crop-headed, weather-beaten face of the Yeoman was always a source of strength: dressed in his lincoln green, with his jaunty dirk pushed into his belt, his long bow
and quiver on his back, the pilgrims regarded the Yeoman as their fighting man. Now he was pale and agitated.

  ‘There’s something on the wall in the sanctuary,’ he declared. ‘Something you should all see.’ He pointed to the darkness outside. ‘And I do not wish to alarm you but I’m certain, sir, I heard a sound . . .’

  Sir Godfrey clambered to his feet. He took a burning brand from the fire and told his squire to do likewise. They all followed the Yeoman up into the sanctuary, turning left into a small enclave which led into the dark, crumbling sacristy. The air was dank and cold. The pilgrims shivered and looked longingly over their shoulders at the merry fire they had left.

  ‘Well, what is it?’ the Poor Priest asked.

  The Yeoman held up the brand against the wall. The Priest’s heart skipped a beat. The Ploughman groaned, his fingers going to his lips. There, on each side of the wall leading into the sacristy, were the Templar crosses. The red paint was beginning to fade, the plaster on which they were painted crumbling and wet. Nevertheless, the insignia could be clearly seen.

  ‘This must have been a Templar manor?’ the Man of Law spoke up. ‘Probably the church and the village were once owned by the Order. When the Templars disappeared, their possessions were sold to the highest bidder.’

  ‘It’s true,’ the Priest exclaimed.

  He crouched down, asking Sir Godfrey to lower the torch. He pointed at the fading picture beneath the cross, two knights, swords drawn, making obeisance to the crucifix above them.

  ‘And these sounds outside?’ Sir Godfrey asked.

  Everyone scampered back into the nave. The pilgrims gathered round the fire. Mine Host said he would stay and look after the ladies. Sir Godfrey, sword drawn and accompanied by his son, the Yeoman and Sir Geoffrey Chaucer, who had also drawn sword and dagger, went out into the darkness. The Poor Priest took a brand from the fire and, accompanied by his brother, followed them. They clustered just outside the door, ears straining as the mist swirled about them.

  ‘Silent as the grave,’ the Squire murmured. ‘Not even an owl hoot.’