Ghostly Murders Page 6

  ‘Who’s there?’ he called.

  The old ruin was filling with mist. Adam replaced the paving-stones, crossing himself against any ill-fortune. He went back into the nave, collected his cloak and staff and walked out of the old priory. He looked down the hill. Despite the mist, he could still make out the lights of the village, the men coming home from the fields. Adam closed his eyes: the new priest would have arrived. He would certainly question Adam about Father Anthony but what could he say? Adam certainly did not want to share his secrets with anyone. He knew great treasure was buried somewhere in the vicinity of Scawsby and Adam intended to find it. He gripped his staff and, with one backward glance at the priory, took the path which wound down the hill through the woods towards the village.

  Adam remembered what Father Anthony had told him, about a great treasure being taken across Kent by the Templars. How the king’s men had caught up with them and killed each and every one of them but not before the Templars had taken refuge and hidden their gold. At the bottom of the hill, Adam paused and glanced back up towards the ruins. Father Anthony was sure the treasure was buried there. Indeed, hadn’t Father Anthony discovered the remains of those poor Templar soldiers? The clerk narrowed his eyes but then jumped: the shifting mist parted. Adam was sure he glimpsed horsemen, cloaked and hooded, just clustered at the top of the hill. Adam controlled his shiver. He had heard the rumours: the French were at sea and, if the stories could be believed, were landing raiding parties along the Kent and Essex coasts. The French were striking inland, pillaging, raping, burning. Adam hastened on. The woods closed in about him. A chilling wind caught his hood and tugged at it like some mischievous imp. Adam stared into the trees on either side. The mist was wrapping itself around branch and trunk, creeping over the undergrowth. Now and again, crows raucously protested and the silence would also be shattered by the snap of twig as some fox, stoat or weasel hunted for its last meal before dusk. Ahead of him the mist was forming into a curtain, closing off the road.

  ‘Spectamus te, semper spectamus te! We are watching you, we are always watching you!’

  Adam froze, eyes starting out of his head. He glanced around. He was sure someone had whispered, someone behind him. Adam whirled round. There was nothing. He walked on, heart beating, mouth dry. He recalled Father Anthony. Hadn’t the old priest complained about that? About whispers? About people watching him? Waldis heard the jingle of harness now quite distinct in the trees to his right. Adam broke into a run dropping his staff. If he could only reach the village, he’d throw himself into the taproom and let a bowl of wine wash away his fears. Adam sobbed as horsemen loomed out of the mist. Five, six, more, all blocking the road. He heard the clop of hooves behind him and turned. The horsemen were cloaked, their faces hidden deep in their cowls. Adam turned and fled; leaving the path, he entered the wood. He knew this would be safe. Horsemen couldn’t ride so fast and he’d escape. He glanced to his left and right. The horsemen were moving through the trees with no difficulty at all. Adam kept on running, lungs fit to burst, heart thudding like a drum. He should have known his way. As a boy he’d played in these woods, he and Roheisia. He swerved, not caring whether he was going backwards or forwards, forgetting everything he had learnt. All he wanted to do was put as much distance between himself and these mysterious horsemen. He crossed another glade. The ground beneath him gave way. Horrorstruck, Waldis realised he had blundered into one of the woodland marshes. He tried to climb out but he was sinking fast. The line of horsemen grouped around him. Waldis stretched out his hands.

  ‘Help me! For the love of God, help me!’

  He sank into the marsh, spluttering and gasping. The horsemen remained impassive, as the parish clerk of St Oswald’s choked slowly to death on the mud and slime of the marsh.

  Chapter 3

  Rockingham Manor house was a stately, luxurious building. About half a mile from the church, it nestled amongst the low-lying hills with woods behind. Within its walls were small orchards, gardens, stables and outhouses. A small village in itself, all serving the great manor house, built four storeys high with a grey and red brick base. The other storeys were of black beam and yellow plaster whilst the thatched roof had long been replaced with gleaming sheets of red and black slate. A testimony to its owner’s wealth, the manor window frames were of gleaming wood and the glass was thick-leaded, stained and coloured so the windows caught the light. The house looked like a church, an impression helped by the imposing front door which Philip and his companions now approached along the white, pebble-dashed pathway. They had followed this from the manor gate, past the gardens and trees across a large lawn, with ornamental bowers and stew ponds, into the front of the house. Philip was surprised by how busy the manor was: horsemen coming and going, bailiffs and other officials gathered in the hallway. There were even men-at-arms carrying the gaudy pennants of the sheriff of Kent; these were now splattered with mud whilst the men looked tired and weary.

  ‘It’s the damn French!’ Lord Montalt explained when they met him in the parlour.

  He ushered them to chairs in front of a fire which roared merrily beneath the great mantelpiece.

  ‘Bloody French!’ Montalt repeated: he shook their hands, half listening to the introductions.

  ‘I heard rumours,’ Philip declared, taking his seat. He fought to hide his smile from this bluff, old soldier who was more concerned with fighting his ancient enemy than he was in welcoming his visitors.

  Montalt went and stared out of the window.

  ‘It will be dark soon,’ he murmured, his white moustache seeming to bristle. He ran his hand over his hair which fell in iron-grey curls to the nape of his neck. Montalt was dressed simply in a lincoln-green tunic and hose, the woollen leggings pushed into short, leather boots. He kept hitching his great war belt strapped round his waist, tapping on the pommel of his sword. He turned and glanced at Philip, icy-blue eyes almost popping out of his head.

  ‘We are in a bad state, priest. The old king’s dead, the Black Prince is dead. King Richard is only a boy. We have been driven out of France and now the French want to follow us home.’

  ‘Father, for goodness’ sake, sit down!’

  Philip turned as a young man entered the room. He had a long, thin, friendly face, clean-shaven and weather-beaten, under an unruly mop of brown hair. He was dressed very similarly to his father but Philip’s attention was taken by the young woman who rested on his arm. The priest had a clear view of his vow of celibacy. He prayed, he fasted, he wanted to do God’s work and knew he could never marry. However, the young woman was strikingly beautiful. She was dressed simply in a blue gown fringed at the neck and collar with white linen, her raven-black hair hidden under a white wimple. Her face, oval-shaped with a creamy complexion, was perfectly proportioned: her nose was small, her mouth full and merry whilst the eyes were sea-grey and full of life.

  ‘This is my son Henry.’ Lord Richard waved the young couple forward. ‘And Isolda, daughter of one of my old war comrades, Henry’s betrothed.’ His smile disappeared. ‘The French have landed on the Kentish coast,’ Lord Richard continued abruptly. ‘They are burning villages, the sheriff has called out the posse.’

  The old manor lord walked back to the window, peering out, as if he dared the French to jump up from behind a bush. Henry and Isolda, fighting hard to control their laughter, introduced themselves to Philip and his two companions.

  ‘He’s an old war horse,’ Henry whispered. ‘He fought at Poitiers. So, for God’s sake, don’t mention that name to him, otherwise you won’t get away before Easter.’

  Philip smiled back. He found he couldn’t stop looking at Lady Isolda. She was so beautiful, so good natured, with none of the simpering coyness or petty flirtatiousness he found in some attractive women. She began to imitate Lord Richard: Stephen put his face in his hands, Edmund just laughed.

  ‘I know what you are doing, young lady.’ Lord Richard came and sat down in the central chair, drumming his fingers on the arm-rest
. ‘I wish the bloody French would come here, to Rockingham or Scawsby!’ He shook a fist. ‘I’d show them cold steel. Like I did at Poitiers.’ He looked at his three visitors. ‘I was there, you know, on the right flank!’

  ‘But, Father,’ Henry intervened quickly. ‘Our visitors have come to introduce themselves. They are our guests, they may have questions to ask.’

  ‘Yes, yes, quite.’ Sir Richard bawled at a servant to bring wine and sweetmeats. ‘And speak we shall. But look, sirs.’ Lord Richard grabbed the tray of sweetmeats from the servant and began to arrange them on the table. ‘This is the English line at Poitiers.’ He popped one sweetmeat into his mouth. ‘That’s the Genoese, I’ve taken care of them. Now, I was over here on the right . . .’

  Lord Richard, despite the protests of his son, launched into a detailed and elaborate description of the battle of Poitiers and how he had fought under the Black Prince. Henry raised his eyes heavenwards. Isolda folded her hands on her lap and sat as if fascinated. Every so often Lord Richard would break off to call her a minx. Outside darkness fell, servants came in to light torches as Lord Richard drew his account to a close, sipping at his wine cup, mournfully shaking his head. He then broke free of his reminiscences and apologised profusely for being so excited when his guests arrived. For a while he chatted to Edmund and Stephen. Philip, still fascinated by the Lady Isolda, soon realised she and Henry were deeply in love.

  ‘So, what do you think?’ Lord Richard turned to him.

  ‘About the parish, my lord?’

  ‘No, man, about the French! Do you think they’ll ride inland?’

  Philip made a face and shook his head. ‘I am a priest, not a soldier, Lord Richard, but, yes, it’s possible. The Kentish coast is flat, only round Scawsby do you get hills and valleys. If they seize horses and ride inland they would create havoc: they’d not necessarily return to the place where they landed but, perhaps, meet their ships further north.’

  ‘Good man! Good man!’ Sir Richard tapped his arm. ‘We’ll make a soldier of you yet.’ He breathed out noisily. ‘I’ve sent out scouts.’

  Somewhere in the house a bell sounded.

  ‘But, come, my seneschal declares the food is ready.’

  Supper was taken in the great hall of the manor, finely furnished with the loot of war and the profits of the wool trade. Dark oaken panelling covered the walls; above these hung gaily coloured banners depicting the Montalt arms as well as those they had married into. Lord Richard took his guests to a prepared table on the dais, a lavishly furnished alcove at the end of the hall. The heads of foxes, stags, deer, boar and other hunting trophies decorated the walls. The table was well furnished, dominated by a great silver salt cellar carved in the shape of a castle. The meal was exquisite, Lord Richard being a generous host: brawn soup, meat pastries, a haunch of venison and gaming birds stuffed with herbs. The wine flowed: Lord Richard did not return to the wars of France but sat quietly letting the others discuss local affairs and the gossip from London.

  At first Philip thought the old man had either drunk too much or was still worried about the French. However, Lord Richard soon proved he was as cunning and as quick as a fox. At the end of the meal, he deftly arranged for Henry and Isolda to take Edmund and Stephen around the manor.

  ‘Show them the scroll room,’ he bellowed, ‘where my ancestors had their library. It’s a fine place. You’ll like it, Edmund, you too, Stephen. If you see anything you like, borrow it.’

  However, as soon as the group had left the hall, his smile faded. He glanced at Philip now sitting on his right, pushed his chair away and turned to face the priest squarely.

  ‘Talking of books, Father Philip, you know the old adage: never judge one by its cover? I may appear a bluff, old warrior, concerned about the French. I chattered like a buffoon because I did not want to alarm my son and my prospective daughter-in-law.’ He smiled thinly. ‘She is as beautiful as she looks. A good woman, sharp-witted and blessed with common sense.’

  ‘So, why did you chatter, my lord? Why didn’t you want to worry them?’

  ‘You are sharp too,’ Lord Richard replied. ‘I can see that. You’ve been down to the parish church.’ He picked at his teeth. ‘Dismal, isn’t it? I can see why you want to build a new one.’ Lord Richard paused. ‘And you’ve talked to Roheisia: I mean about Father Anthony?’

  ‘She told me a little: the priest was old, a scholar. He was deeply interested, if not fascinated, by the history of the village . . .’

  ‘Ah yes, history. And the legends?’

  ‘In the end she told me very little,’ Philip replied.

  ‘Well, let me tell you the truth.’ Lord Montalt eased himself back in his chair. ‘At least the truth as I have been told it in the history of my family. In the winter of 1308, the English king at the time, Edward II, issued an order that all Templars in his kingdom were to be arrested. He was forced to do this at the behest of his father-in-law Philip IV, King of France. You know something about that?’

  Philip nodded.

  ‘Well, according to legend, a group of Templars fled from their church in London. A good baker’s dozen they say, twelve or thirteen. They took with them the treasure of their Order: gold, silver, precious cups and plate. Now my ancestor at the time was, well to put it bluntly, a pirate and a smuggler; a man who feared neither God nor man. He was also a close friend of the local priest, Walter Romanel. Now, so tradition says, my ancestor discovered this treasure was crossing the wilds of Kent, not far from Scawsby: he and Vicar Romanel made a plot. Have you ridden round the district yet?’

  Philip shook his head.

  ‘In winter, the land can be treacherous, pathways can suddenly end, trackways lead into marsh. All the time there’s the mist, boiling like the devil’s stream, sweeping in so quickly that, even if you are born in these parts, you can soon get lost. Now, to cut a long story short, Romanel and my ancestor, God forgive him, organised a party of ruffians from the village. They played the old smugglers’ trick, lighting torches, guiding the unwary off the trackways into the marsh.’

  ‘But armed knights, warriors . . . ?’

  ‘On a battlefield perhaps, Father Philip. However, stuck in a marsh with the mists swirling about, they would be easy victims, quickly brought down by a volley of arrows.’ Lord Richard paused. ‘God knows what happened,’ he whispered. ‘But the legend says these ruffians seized the treasure and brought it back. I think they began to use it. My grandfather bought more land, refurbished this house. Vicar Romanel began work on the church, he had the same ideas as you.’

  ‘I am sorry,’ Philip intervened. ‘But how do you know all this?’

  ‘Word of mouth from father to son. I mean, no one is going to be stupid enough to write down an account. You must remember that the king at the time, Edward II, was furious that he had lost such a great treasure. Royal commissioners came into Scawsby but they went away empty-handed.’ Lord Richard drank from his wine cup, cradling the bowl between his fingers. ‘The years passed. The villains must have thought, and I call them villains, that they would escape unscathed. However, according to the legend, Romanel began to talk of the Spectantes, the Watchers, and the whispering that can be heard in the graveyard and round the house. You have seen the inscriptions?’

  ‘Aye, Lord Richard. The same phrase occurs time and time again: “WE ARE WATCHING YOU, WE ARE ALWAYS WATCHING YOU.” There’s also the eyes painted on the pillars. Anyway, what happened to your grandfather?’

  ‘Something similar to Romanel. Lord George, my forebear, used to wake at night screaming and yelling. He talked of mailed horsemen out in the courtyard. One morning his bed was found empty. He was discovered in the orchard, lying there in his night shirt, dead of an apoplexy. Others say that, by the look of horror on his face, he had stared into the depths of Hell. Sometime later Romanel went mad. He was taken to St Bartholomew’s in London where he died in a cell, screaming that they were still watching him.’ Lord Richard put his wine cup down. ‘Do you believe i
n ghosts, Father?’

  ‘The Church teaches us about the Powers of Darkness, Lord Richard.’

  ‘But are these from Hell?’ the manor lord replied. ‘Let us say it is true that my grandfather and Vicar Romanel slaughtered innocent men, who were also priests and warriors of Christendom and did so to seize the Templar treasure.’ Lord Richard waved a hand. ‘Now these murderers came from Scawsby so the village should be cursed. But you’ve seen the place? The prosperous houses, the fertile fields; people are born, live, marry and die. They are happy, provided the bloody French don’t, return!’

  ‘So, you are saying the place is not cursed?’

  ‘I don’t know. The church certainly is. Oh, I know why the priests don’t stay. They can sense a presence. I suspect Father Anthony, as well as our ne’er-do-well clerk, Waldis, were looking for the gold. I wouldn’t touch it for all the angels in heaven though I suspect it’s buried in the old priory out at High Mount. It’s the one place my grandfather and Romanel never approached, they stayed away from there as if it was cursed.’ The old knight pulled his chair closer. ‘Anyway, I’ve been thinking. Perhaps curses work in a different way. My grandfather was married to a beautiful, young heiress. She gave birth to my father and died within weeks. My own mother died the same way, as did my wife . . .’

  Philip gripped his wine cup tighter. The hall didn’t seem so merry now. The roaring fire lost some of its warmth.

  ‘Can’t you see, Father?’ The old knight’s eyes brimmed with tears. ‘Are you going to tell me it’s a coincidence that three times in successive generations in the Montalt line, a young wife dies immediately she gives birth? Can’t you see what that portends for the future? Henry is handfast to Isolda.’ His voice trembled. ‘Is she going to be punished, Father? Is she going to die for a sin my grandfather committed?’ The old man’s head slumped. ‘Now you know why,’ he mumbled, ‘I act the old war horse. I don’t want to talk about these legends and curses in the presence of Henry or Isolda.’ He raised his face. ‘What can I do, Father?’