The Lost Prophecies (16 page)

‘I had to think again. Ulan didn’t know the true course of events either. So it could have been him who killed Eldegai. As indeed with Tetuak or Taulubeg, for other reasons. But there was one stumbling block. They all spoke the truth to me. Everyone spoke the truth to me, except one. And I was reminded of a prophetic bit of doggerel.’

In fact, it was that verse at the end of the Black Book written as a warning by the copyist to anyone taking the prophecies too seriously. It went:

‘Only Karakuchuk lied. He implied he’d never been to Cathay, when Ulan spoke in admiration of the place. He had clearly forgotten about telling me where he learned Sic Bo, the game we played much earlier in the evening. He had fought on campaign in Cathay, and he hated the place and all it stood for. He would stop at nothing to aid Arigh-Boke’s cause against his brother. He did stop at nothing, murdering Eldegai, and gouging out the eyes to make it look as if a demon had done it. He even hinted that I might be that demon. But to show I do not place my trust in portents and magic—’

I draw the slim black book from my jacket and with only a small hesitation toss it into the stove. The flames hungrily consume the dry pages, burning like the fires of hell. Each section flares up before curling into a blackened leaf that drifts up the chimney in the hot air currents. In truth, I am glad to get rid of the cursed book. Despite the aid the last quatrain gave me, I feel that no one should have an insight into their future. It is too dangerous and fearful a thing. As I watch the pages blacken, I briefly wonder if this is the only copy. Or if the original still exists, and whether it will continue to puzzle and vex others down the years. I turn back to Sartakh.

‘You know, it would not surprise me if Karakuchuk also drugged the kumiss skin he offered up that had us all so drunk. I truly have never experienced so swift a response to such a skinful.’

Sartakh laughs and slaps me on the shoulder.

‘You are a veritable demon. From now on I shall call you not Zuliani but Zhong Kui.’ He pauses. ‘Listen. The storm has ended.’

It is true. The hut no longer shakes and twists, and sweet silence hangs over the encampment. Sartakh unfastens the door, and we both stoop through the low entrance and emerge into a peaceful world. The sky has cleared, and the morning sun is staining the snow a blood red. It feels good to be alive and no longer suspected of murder. Sartakh is gazing out towards the sunrise.

‘You will have to replan your route, it seems. Your real goal is further east than you had thought.’

He means the Cathay-loving brother’s domain. And he is right. I have already determined to return to Sudak and Friar Giovanni Alberoni. I am certain I can wheedle my way back into his favour and convince him that the Black Book of Brân was no more than a faker’s scam. I recall the place which the good friar wanted to go to from the very beginning.

‘Yes. I am bound to the court of Kubilai Khan, to the summer palace of Shang-tu, that some call by the name of Xanadu.’

When three Popes all murdered lie,
And Christ’s own kingdom desecrated,
The third age then shall hasten by,
And Antichrist with bloody slaughter sated.

Feast Day of the Translation of St Thomas
,
²
Eighteenth year of the reign of King Edward II

When his fingers touched it, he grunted with satisfaction.

Teetering tiptoed, precariously balanced on three stacked chests that wobbled alarmingly as he pried each crevice, he found a moving stone. Even as his grin widened, the topmost step of his makeshift ladder moved, and the smile was snatched away. He clung to the great pillar, cheek pressed to the stonework in a desperate embrace.

Heart beating like a war-drum, he closed his eyes and blew out his breath, a shiver of pure ice running through his spine as he gently set his feet flat once more. Dear God, but this was fearsome. He daren’t fail – and to fall
would
be to fail. He’d be damned if he’d do that.

But there was no possibility of success up here like this. Brother Alexander relinquished his hold on the pillar and cautiously returned to the crypt’s floor. There, he eyed the chests with a frowning contemplation. It was clear enough that they weren’t high enough, all set square on the ground like that – but if he were to put the longest one on end, and a smaller on top of that, he may gain an extra foot of height, as well as being granted the comfort of knowing that the boxes were resting more squarely.

The longer chest was soon lifted, not without effort, grunting, and two curses for which he would have to make penance later, and then he lifted the smallest chest atop. Glancing up at the pillar again, he started to climb.

A few moments later he had it. The mortar between two stones of the pillar had been eased away, leaving a narrow gap into which his book would just fit.

It was a scuffed, tatty old book, yet if half of what Alexander had heard was true, it was one of the most dangerous tomes in all Christendom. If he could, he would have taken it to the calefactory and hurled it on the fire. The flames would quickly destroy its malevolent messages. Not that he could. Books were his life.

He remained for some while sitting on the larger chest, his hands on the ancient marked covers. He had his instructions, and he was keen to complete his mission, but, even as he tried to rise, his lips set in a stubborn line, he felt his hands move almost of their own volition towards the pages of pure, yellowed vellum. He shouldn’t look. He’d been warned about the danger. Yet there was something that drove him on. His fingers felt the roughened edges, feeling how the years had scraped at them. Then his eyes caught the first quatrain, and he frowned in the lousy candlelight, peering to make sense of the words.

The first was incomprehensible; and the second and third. He began to frown with perplexity as he riffled through, searching for something that would make sense, but none did.

It was then, his bewilderment growing, that he heard the noise.

At first he told himself it must be rats. God alone knew how many of the cursed creatures lived here. The damned things were all over the place, coming in from the sewer that led out to the river Tyburn near the wall encircling the Palace of Westminster, right next to the abbey. Novices were told that the scrabbling sounds were excommunicated souls seeking an entrance so they might find their way to the altar, thence to heaven. It was ballocks, of course. They all knew the sound of a rat gnawing – but still, there were moments when even a farmer’s son could almost believe he heard the voices of the damned in the middle of a wintry night when the wind blew and the rats gnawed more furiously. A little imagination was a terrible thing to a novice.

This wasn’t a rat, though. It was a measured, steady tread. And – oh, Christ’s cods – it was coming this way!

He hurriedly moved to the door. From here he would have to pass along the corridor, and a man coming this way must see him. He hesitated, and in that moment his life was forfeit.

It was some while later that his screams woke the community of the abbey at Westminster.

Sir Baldwin de Furnshill was breaking his fast in a leisurely manner when the young man appeared in Bishop Walter Stapledon’s hall.

‘My Lord Bishop!’

Motioning to the fellow, Bishop Walter indicated that he should approach the table. Baldwin cast a glance over the fellow. He was of middle height and clad in a worn habit. Baldwin assumed he was a clerk – but then he saw that the man had a tonsure. A young monk, then. Perhaps a novice. There seemed little of interest about the fellow, as he was introduced as a messenger from the monks of Westminster. Only a remarkable pallor about his thin, pinched features. But many monks were half-starved. It was no surprise that this one looked hungry.

Baldwin shot a look at his friend, Simon Puttock, who sat on the other side of the bishop. Lately the Keeper of the Port of Dartmouth under his patron, Abbot Robert of Tavistock, Simon had for many years before been Abbot Robert’s leading bailiff on the waste known as Dartmoor. He was the chief law officer in that wild and dangerous land. Now, though, like Baldwin, he was bored. Neither wished to be in London.

They had arrived here in the bishop’s entourage, helping him on his journey, and Baldwin in particular was itching to return home.

Bishop Walter peered short-sightedly at the messenger, who spoke urgently in a low whisper, his mouth almost at the bishop’s ear. Bishop Walter chewed slowly but then stopped, apparently startled, and glanced up at him. ‘Say that again!’ he commanded in a quiet but firm tone.

The messenger, clearly numbed with shock at being sent to converse with the King’s treasurer, stammered as he tried to respond.

‘Very well. I understand. Please tell your abbot that I shall send him assistance as I may.’

The man was dismissed. He stood upright and glanced about him at all the servants eating, and was gone.

‘Trouble, my lord?’ Baldwin asked.

Simon looked from one to the other, then nodded to the bottler and held his empty mazer aloft. The bottler grinned quickly and hurried to the top table with a jug of the bishop’s best wine.

The bishop eyed the level in Simon’s mazer. ‘You should drink that quickly.’

‘Are we late?’ Simon asked.

‘No. But you will need to be fortified.’

‘Why?’ Simon chuckled.

The bishop turned to him, and now Simon could see how pale he had become. His voice was low, quiet, but certain. ‘Because if what this messenger says is right, you are about to see something that will turn the strongest stomach, Simon.’

The Prior of Westminster Abbey, commonly called Old Stephen by the less respectful members of his Chapter, sat back at his desk and shook his head. His goblet of wine had already been emptied for the fourth time, and he set himself to refilling it from the jug, releasing the breath from his lungs slowly, trying desperately to calm his shattered nerves.

Alex. Poor, stupid Alex. He had been there to fetch the book. Well, no one would say that Stephen would be able to. Not now, not in his sixtieth year. A fall from that great pillar would incapacitate him. So he’d sent Alex. Bright, quick-witted little Alex. The boy who’d raised the intelligence of the whole abbey when he arrived here six years ago . . . and who was dead.

‘It was terrible, prior,’ the Franciscan said.

Ach, God! There were times when he was happy to entertain guests, but not today. Stephen nodded agreement as Friar Martin sighed. He was a tall fellow, this young mendicant. Not yet eight and twenty, if he had to guess, yet Martin’s robes were already ancient and patched, his feet unshod, his face streaked with filth. Yet for all his outward signs of poverty, he had a quiet confidence. Quite unlike most of the humble beggar-types, he exuded calmness.

Stephen took up his goblet and slurped wine in the hope he could avert . . . Too late! The shaking had taken hold of him again, and now his hands were trembling so much he thought that the cup must fall. There was nothing –
nothing
– that could have prepared him for that sight. The blood . . .

‘Can I help you, prior?’ Friar Martin enquired.

Yes, Stephen thought. You can leave my convent. Right now. But aloud he merely said: ‘No, my friend. I am just saddened to think of my assistant.’

In his room, the abbot knelt in prayer before his small altar, his forehead resting on his clasped hands, and as he muttered his prayers he shivered, the tears falling in a steady trickle down his sallow cheeks.

Friar Martin walked silently along the flags to the altar, where he saw the slim, stooped figure of Friar James.

James did not glance at him. ‘How is the
good
prior?’

‘As good as may be expected. Deeply shocked.’

‘Hardly surprising.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘There is gossip even here. You should know that. The men who live in grand institutions are often diverted from the path of contemplation and their order. Some form attachments with each other.’

‘You mean the prior . . . ?’

‘Aye. The dead lad was his catamite. A vile practice. Some could almost say the prior is lucky not to be there with the lad. Are you not shocked and disgusted, brother?’

Friar Martin tilted his head a little and peered speculatively towards the altar. ‘Yes. I think I am, rather. You will not speak of such matters before me again. You understand?
Never
.’

‘Prior, my Lord Bishop Walter is here to see you.’

‘Oh, my lord, I am grateful you could come!’ Stephen said. He rose and gripped his staff before shuffling towards the bishop. ‘I didn’t know whom to call . . . and my abbot refused to call for the coroner or . . .’

His voice faltered as he noticed the men behind the bishop.

‘My good prior, this is my good friend Sir Baldwin de Furnshill. He is the Keeper of the King’s Peace in Crediton. I asked him to join me here to see if he may help.’

‘Oh, my brothers will be most distressed if a king’s officer were to invade our precinct,’ Stephen said unhappily.

‘Do not concern yourself,’ the bishop said. ‘Simon Puttock here has been bailiff to Abbot Robert for these nine years past.’

‘Ah, a man who is used to discretion in dealing with religious offences?’

Simon glanced at the bishop and Baldwin before nodding slowly. ‘I’ve had some experience.’

‘That is excellent. Excellent! But my manners! Please, let me offer you wine?’

With surprising alacrity for a man who needs must use a staff, the prior moved to his table and picked up a small bell. It rang clearly, and a shuffling gait was soon heard outside. A young, tonsured head appeared about the door, and Simon recognized the young messenger.

‘Robert, please fetch goblets and wine.’

The boy nodded – with his soulful eyes he reminded Baldwin of a mastiff deprived of its meal – and disappeared.