B
rother Francis opened his eyes. Confused, he blinked around in the sunshine, and then realised he was lying on a dead naked woman; not the best situation for a man of the cloth to be found in. The corpse was Genet. He rolled off her, and disinterestedly considered the vicious cut on her shoulder. She had died of blood loss of course, but more than that, she had died, and given him something in return. Francis was in his mid-thirties, and prone to aches and pains and bad teeth, but things seemed different. He felt as though he was in a dream, as though he was looking at the world through a fine curtain. He looked at where he had cut his wrist. There was nothing there; no sign of any damage. He poked it with a finger and felt nothing. He stood up, and was as strong as ever he had been.
Francis quickly covered the sad body of the dead woman with her cloak; his first thought being that if he was seen, he might be accused of killing her. With that in mind, his eyes lighted on his knife, still lying on the turf where it had fallen. His hand gripped the carved bone hilt, and he stuffed it into the pouch on his belt. Genet’s book was lying, open, on the grass. He expected it to be damp with dew, but it was dry as he turned the pages. He stared at the illustrations, both offended and fascinated. Until recently, the thought of a woman having anything under her clothing had not occurred to him. It seemed that since his mission to Siwaldston, there was depravity and lewdness queuing up to appal him at every opportunity. Francis closed the book and put it under his arm. “This should not fall into any other hands,” he muttered. “Such blasphemy should be destroyed.”
He heard voices in the distance. The abbey was coming alive as the canons began to stir for their daily routine of relaxation and overindulgence. Some however were known to take their morning constitutionals up the hill, so it was not a time, place or situation to be caught in. He lifted the hem of his robe and jogged away in the opposite direction.
It was when he tried to talk to the individuals he met on the road, that he realised things were slightly amiss. Nobody seemed to see him, and nor could he touch them. It was very strange; he could feel the earth and the grass and the trees, and the occasional cat would fuss around him, but the people themselves were blind to his presence. He still carried the book, but vowed to destroy it. His route took him to Siwaldston. This time his feet did not hurt.
“Is there anybody inside?” There was no answer at Genet’s hut, and as Francis expected when he pushed past the door-curtain, it was empty. What he didn’t expect was a note for him, pinned to one of the wooden wall supports. He took it down and read, neat writing in English:
Brother Francis,
I imagine that our attempt to rescue the Lady Ankerita has failed. I have been frustrated, and you will now have the Book of Ghosts in your possession...
“How does she know?” muttered Francis under his breath, as he continued trying to make out the words.
The book you carry gives you the ability to see this writing. To other eyes it would appear as a blank sheet...
“Right, I suppose she is, or rather was, a witch.”
I will return, but it may be some time before I am able. Until then, I want to you make sure the Book is in safe hands.
Deliver it to the first of the lady’s relatives who turn up at the grave and charge them with passing it on down the family. It cannot be destroyed until the souls are all laid to rest, and that cannot happen before I return, so do not waste your time attempting.
Leave the scrying ball for me in the fire pit.
I remain in your debt,
Genet of Siwaldston.
“She does not know what has happened to me,” mused Francis. He turned the paper over. There was hasty writing scribbled on the back. He was sure it was not there when he first found the note.
By the by, for you to be reading this, I see you have partially left the crude world you inhabited. You are on your own journey to the next life, but you cannot leave this one until the Book is returned. I gave you the last of my life essence in the final enchantment, but you will need to take further renewal from other living souls in order to prolong your existence. You will need to drain that life, and this will mean that others must die for you.
“No. I will not take lives in order to save myself,” avowed the monk. “Amongst other things, my holy declarations forbid it!”
I know you also have the blade that the lady used to free herself from matrimony, now a simple dull rondel. Bury it near the midden, where I can find it when I need.
“How the...?” Francis stared in shock as the cold embers in the centre of the room burst into flames. “A trick?”
His heart stopped as he saw fiery writing on the sandy floor.
You must survive.
His heart did not start again.
T
he cloisters were silent. Francis stood in the shadows. It had been over a week since the lady died, and he was waiting. He desperately hoped that he would see Genet’s shade, but she did not return, and he was wondering if this was ever going to happen.
He had watched his fellow canons dump the witch’s body, wrapped only in her cloak, into an unmarked grave outside the abbey walls. There had been a brief service, given by Prior Thomas, but nobody mentioned the sword-cut that was the cause of her death. The nobleman, Henry Mynde, also was in attendance. He paid the gravediggers and the cleric, and rode away after the formalities.
As his horse made the steep descent into the valley, the saddle girth split. Henry’s foot caught in the stirrup, and he plunged, head first, into the stream. Francis was sure he heard a snigger from somewhere in the trees, but the nobleman was on his feet again, and cursing his mount before the monk could investigate.
There was a commotion at the main door to the complex. Francis heard a voice, a voice that was accustomed to being obeyed.
“Open up, you lazy fat friars, in the name of the King.”
Francis hurried along behind a few monks who had decided to throw off their bedcovers to investigate. In the lead was the Prior Thomas Corveser, who shouted through the stout wooden door. “Who knocks at this late hour?”
“Sir John Leighton,” came an angry voice, “High Sheriff of Salop, and I want to know what you have done to my daughter.”
“Silence!” Corveser whispered to the men behind him. “I will speak to the Sheriff. Go about your business.”
He threw open the door. Sir John strode in, pushing his way through a new gaggle of latecomers, into the abbot’s main reception hall.
“Where is that reprobate abbot?” the knight shouted, throwing his cloak into the mass to be dealt with. “Why is he not here to greet me in person?”
“I will get him, my lord,” said Corveser, bowing repeatedly. “See to Sir John, brothers. Make him comfortable, bank up the fire, find him food and drink, while I rouse the abbot.”
Corveser disappeared through a small door in one corner of the room, and squeezed himself up a narrow stairway, a passage unused by the abbot, partially in favour of a wider staircase in the adjacent building, but mainly because he was too large on good living and little exercise to fit anymore. Corveser brushed off spiders’ webs and general dirt as he banged on the door leading to the private bedroom on the upper floor.
“Father Abbot, Sir John is here to see you.”
A key turned in the lock. “I have been expecting him.” The abbot opened the door and peered groggily at his deputy. “Tell him I will be down in a moment.”
“Now, you great lump of pigswill,” roared Sir John’s voice from below, “or I’ll have you spitted on the end of my blade.”
“He can’t do that, can he?” said the abbot, reddening.
“He has come from the king, Father,” said Corveser. “He is the high sheriff. I expect he can do anything he likes.”
“You are lucky, Abbot,” said Sir John, as the rotund clergyman puffed his way into the hall. “You can send off those annoying flies fussing around me; I need to talk to you urgently, and I don’t want an audience.”
The abbot waved away his acolytes, who were attempting to complete the final stages of his robing. He genuflected to the high sheriff. “My Lord, it is good to see you.”
“No it isn’t, you lying degenerate,” said Sir John. “You are worried about what I’m going to say regarding the death of my daughter. You will tell me everything.”
“Yes, my lord. But how fares King Henry?”
Sir John scratched his head. “Still no male heir I’m afraid. He is in discussions with Pope Clement, and it is looking hopeful that he will be granted a divorce. Cardinal Campeggio has been granted the necessary rights to make it happen. The king already has a new wife in mind. One of the Boleyn girls, pretty, and young enough to give him many heirs; the succession must be assured.”
“I have sympathy for Queen Katherine,” said the abbot, “but she has been unable to give him a son. Judgement on him taking his dead brother’s wife I expect. I have to take a stance against divorce in any form, but we must consider the country. Without succession, we could return to civil war.”
“I was only sixteen at Bosworth fields, when our beloved king’s father took his rightful place on the throne,” said Sir John, “and was never called upon to fight, but you are correct. We do not want another crisis like that, especially as the peace with France is a little unstable.”
“Are you expecting Charles to declare another war?”
The knight snorted. “Don’t attempt to prevaricate. I am not here to bring news to you. You nearly had me side-tracked. Yes, yes, politics is rife at court, and we spend too much time talking, and not enough time doing, but that’s irrelevant. I want to see my daughter’s grave, and you can tell me what happened.”
The two men stood, gazing at the slab covering Ankerita’s final resting place. Sir john frowned with disbelief. “You have already carved the slab?”
“It has been ready a long time, my lord. For an anchoress, the honour of being buried in the abbey church is forgone.”
“But no likeness on her face?”
“We did not know how long she would live, and we wanted to reproduce her features exactly. We thought we would have more time before her passing.”
“Then you plan to complete the tomb ere long?”
“We do, my lord, if it pleases you.”
“It does. I loved my daughter, you know,” said Sir John. “It nearly broke my heart when she was caged.”
“I think she was lucky you were sheriff. A commoner would have been executed for her crime...” Abbot Hunt’s statement tailed off as he saw the expression in his companion’s eyes.
“You know the cruelty of her husband. It was most likely an accident. The judgement was fair I think, and no favouritism.”
“Of course it was, my lord, of course it was.” The abbot hastily tried to cover up his bias. “But the Almighty has reclaimed her, so sadly, the matter is settled.”
“And tell me, how did the Almighty claim her? The last I heard, she was in good health.” Sir John looked doubtfully at the abbot.
Hunt took a breath. He knew the sheriff was suspicious about the circumstances reported. It was time to bring on his scapegoat. “We have fears that it was not a natural death.”
“What do you mean?” Sir John straightened, and towered over the sweating clergyman.
“I believe she was poisoned.”
“Poisoned?” Sir John’s face went red. “By whom? Tell me, you eater of broken meats.” He gripped the abbot by his robes and shook him. “Don’t bother; I can guess. It was that sheep worrier, Henry Mynde. How did he get to her? You were under strict instructions to keep him away.”
“We did, my lord,” stuttered Hunt, “but he had inside help.”
“From whom? I will roast him over the fire, before I slit his throat.”
“It was one of our canons, Brother Francis.”
Sir John’s hand went to the hilt of his sword. “You lie. Brother Francis was our family chaplain. He was devoted to Lady Ankerita. Too much so, some say. Are you serious? Why would he want to kill her?”
“We can only assume,” lied the abbot, going through the scenario he had played in his head many times, “that there was some sort of pact between them. My lady was so full of remorse, that she wanted to escape her imprisonment, and he helped her. I think there may have been a witch involved.”
Both men crossed themselves.
“Where is Brother Francis?” said Sir John icily. “I would speak with him. I presume you have him under arrest?”
“I’m afraid he has disappeared, my lord,” muttered the abbot. “We think he is dead though—killed himself.”
“Think? You are not sure?”
“We found the body of the witch who helped him with the poisons. There was too much blood for one person. We believe he was hurt, and went away to die.”
“That is convenient,” said the knight. “No witnesses. Have you questioned Mynde?”
“It is not my place,” said the abbot. “And as far as I can see, he is blameless.”
“Yes, he would be,” mused Sir John. “If, as you say, it was a pact, and Francis helped her with her plan, then Mynde can only be pleased at the circumstances. Unfortunately that isn’t a crime I can pursue, much though I would like to.”
“Sorry, my lord.”
“So we have, what you are saying is, ‘a closed offense’, the crime being that of suicide.”
“Or murder, my lord, or natural death. There is no hard evidence either way. With your permission, we would like to treat it as a natural death, to ensure there is no suspicion of a crime against God. And you recognise that we could not bury the lady here in the abbey church if it was proved to be suicide.”
“I understand.” Sir John’s face was dark. “I will have to leave it as that. Anything else would lead to scandal. The lady has suffered enough. She must rest.”
“For all eternity.” The abbot crossed himself again. “I will pray for her soul.”
“Eternity, or as long as the Church lasts,” said Sir John ominously. “Now leave me. I wish to be alone with my daughter.”
The building was again silent at this late hour. Sir John stood with his head bowed. “My dear Ankerita,” he said, fighting the tears. “I remember us playing together when you were young. I always wished for a son, but your sister, dear Elizabeth, tried to make amends, and you always insisted on keeping up with the games and trying to fill that void. And Brother Francis, always there, joining in when he thought I wasn’t looking; we were a happy family. I am sorry I betrothed you to Mynde. I did not realise what a cruel man he was, but we needed the money he could bring into the family. You tried to warn me, but I didn’t listen. I let you down, my dear daughter. Oh why didn’t I listen? And why did that cursed priest decide to end your life?”
“I did not, my lord. There has been a miscarriage of justice here.”
“What?” Sir John twisted around in shock. “Who speaks? Who dares disturb my private grieving?” The sheriff drew his sword as he straightened up.
“It is I, Brother Francis.” The figure came into the light.
“You will explain.” Sir John flicked his sword toward Francis’ throat.
“Put away your blade,” said the monk. “You cannot hurt me. I will tell you all you want to know, without threats.”
“You look terrible.” The sheriff relaxed and sheathed his weapon. “You are innocent of any wrongdoing, I presume, otherwise you would not be here.”
“It is a muddied tale,” said the monk.
“I’m listening.”
Brother Francis outlined the events, and his discoveries. The sheriff listened without interruption.
“But they told me you were dead,” said Sir John.
“I am,” said the monk, simply. “I cannot leave this earth until I have entrusted this to you.” He handed over the book. “As you love your daughter, you must ensure that this gets passed on to your family. One day it will be needed.”
“For what?” Sir John took the tome without looking at it.
“I do not know for sure, but I believe it will help to revive Lady Ankerita when the time is right.”
“Then, let us use it.” Sir John crossed himself again.
“I do not deem we can, my lord. The thraldom was locked in place by the enchantress, Genet of Siwaldston. She was to act it out, but was slain by Henry Mynde. She says she will return.”
“Curse the Mynde! Curse the witch.” The sheriff crossed himself for the third time. “Sorcery and devilry. I will have nothing to do with this.”
“You must, my lord, you must, if you truly love your daughter. There is no evil here.”
Sir John regarded the book in his hands. He rubbed his palm on the soft cover. “I do not need to read it, but simply store it until the witch should return?”
“That is correct,” said Francis. “As I understand, the volume should remain in the family. In the unconceivable event of your death, you should pass it on to another member and charge them to keep it safe.”
“Yes, I am weary of life.” The sheriff sighed. “I feel every year of it in my poor bones. This journey from Court has exhausted me, and put me in ill humour. To pass the book on, I need a male heir? My son, Edward, is only three.”
“I trust you will have much more life to come. You will see him grow up to take the load.” Francis was lying. He knew that Sir John had only a few years more. He could see the life force inside the sheriff, ready for the taking. With the sheriff’s inner grief, Francis felt an overwhelming urge to steal that essence for himself, and spare the old man further pain. He fought the craving.
“I am of advancing years,” said the sheriff. “I cannot have long to go, even in the natural run of things. I will charge Elizabeth with passing it down to Edward.”
“Your firstborn is a practical girl. She will do your bidding.”
“Yes she will,” agreed the sheriff. “Does she know about this disaster?”
“I don’t know if the abbot has contacted her. I heard her husband was ailing.”
“Mmmm.” Sir John gazed absently down at the grave. “Now what’s all this nonsense about you being dead? I will have a word with the abbot and get you absolved of any crime... Francis?”
The monk had disappeared. From the end of the room came a faint snigger, but when Sir John investigated, he found nothing.