Ghostly Murders

by Paul Doherty

Genres: Historical Fiction; Historical Mysteries; Traditional Mysteries

Synopsis

To escape an evil curse, a terrible price must be paid... Paul Doherty relates the Priest's tale in Ghostly Murders - a tale of mystery and murder as he goes on pilgrimage from London to Canterbury. Perfect for fans of Ellis Peters and Susanna Gregory. As Chaucer's pilgrims shelter in the ruins of a church, the poor Priest narrates his mysterious tale. Young Philip Trumpington, the new Scawsby parish priest, finds that the old church harbours shocking secrets. Years earlier, some Templars were massacred on the marshes, their attackers led by Romenal, a former Scawsby vicar. Philip discovers the old church is haunted by 'The Watchers' and the villagers are scarred by a terrible curse. An ancient evil must be resolved and reparation made. But the price will be great... What readers are saying about Canterbury Tales Mysteries: 'I found it a brilliant, mystifying tale and was hooked from beginning to end' 'Mr Doherty excels himself with this spine chilling medieval ghost story' ' Spellbinding '

Release date: November 27, 2012

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 260

Sample

The Weald of Kent, near Scawsby, February 1308

Sir William Chasny, knight commander in the Order of the Templars, reined in and looked back through the driving snow at his companions: nine brother knights and two serjeants-at-arms from the Templar headquarters in London. They all huddled on their horses, great war cloaks protecting the icy, gleaming mail beneath. Cowls were pulled as far across their heads as possible, anything to protect their faces from the biting wind and driving snow.

‘Sir William.’ One of the knights pushed his horse forward. ‘We must camp. The horses are beaten and, if we go on, some of the men will collapse.’ He lowered his voice. ‘And there’s the treasure, surely . . .’

Sir William, his face burnt almost black by the fierce sun of North Africa, lifted his hand for silence. He stared along the line of men and horses. He studied the sumpter ponies waiting so patiently and the little palfrey with its precious burden. Sir William glanced up at the sky. No stars. The clouds were full of snow yet to fall. He looked round. The land was harsh: not a tree to sit under, not a barn or a cottage, or even a shepherd’s bothie, where his men could shelter to build a fire and warm themselves.

‘We must go on a little more,’ he declared.

The man made to protest. Sir William leaned across and grasped his wrist. ‘We must go on,’ he repeated. ‘Brother, we are no longer Knights Templar. We are fugitives. In France all our companions are either dead or lie in dungeons awaiting execution. Our Grand Master is the prisoner of Philip IV. Edward II has followed suit. Warrants have been issued for our arrest and the seizure of our treasure.’ Sir William pointed down to the palfrey. ‘If we are taken, that is lost. If we go on, we might find shelter, some food, some heat. Tomorrow, God willing, we may reach port and go—’

‘And go where?’ his companion asked bitterly. ‘Where can a Templar go, Sir William? Heaven is closed, Hell awaits. A year ago we were the most puissant Order in Christendom. Now, look at us, felons in our own country! We can be cut down by any peasant with a hoe or scythe.’

‘People are good,’ Sir William replied. ‘People here are good, they will take pity.’ He smiled, brushing the snowflakes from his moustache and beard. ‘Well, as long as they don’t know about the treasure we carry.’ He raised himself in the stirrups and shouted down the line of men. The wind snatched at his words. ‘We go on!’ he yelled. ‘Soon, I know, we’ll be in Scawsby. We can shelter there. Food and wine for our bellies and a roaring fire to burn away the cold.’ He turned his horse and led his men on.

Nevertheless, Sir William was worried. Earlier in the day, before the snow had begun to fall in earnest, they had passed through a small hamlet and stopped at an ale-house for some greasy food and watered wine. The villagers had been suspicious. One man in particular, a tinker who said he was going on to Scawsby, had studied them, narrow-eyed. Sir William and his companions had not worn their Templar cloaks with the tell-tale cross. However, the rat-faced trader seemed able to read their thoughts: one of the serjeants had found him out in the stable looking at their horses. Sir William pulled his cowl over his face. Head down, reins loose in his hands, he let his horse plod on.

The man had not, thankfully, been up to the hayloft. He’d run away but where to? Had he gone further along the road to warn others? After all, the fall of the Templars was now well known and every sheriff, constable, bailiff, harbour master and port reeve had been warned to stop and arrest any Templars and seize their goods. Sir William closed his eyes, praying for his brothers now awaiting the scaffold in prisons in London, Paris, Rome and Cologne. For what? For charges that weren’t worth the parchment they were written on? Nothing more than the ruses of cunning and avaricious princes to seize Templar wealth and lands. Sir William was determined that the holy and precious treasure from the Templar church in London would not fall into the greedy hands of such despicable men. He and his companions, hands extended over the sacrament in a secret chapel beneath the church in London, had sworn great oaths.

‘We will guard this treasure,’ they had intoned. ‘By day and night. With body, mind and soul. May God, His Angels, Saints and all the Heavenly Court witness that we shall do all in our power to protect this sacred gift of the Temple!’

They had slipped out of London two days later and made their way south, hoping they’d find someone to help them. A merchant; a fisherman, anyone who’d transport them across the seas to the Chasny ancestral home in France. But would they find such a person, or just more treachery? Sir William recalled the words of the psalm.

‘Out of the depths have I cried to thee, oh Lord, Lord hear my voice. Let thine ears be attentive to the voice of my supplication.’

‘A light!’ someone shouted. ‘Look, Sir William, a light!’

The commander lifted his head and searched the blackness: he glimpsed the pinprick of light. Then another. His men were already turning their horses. Sir William did likewise, thanking God his prayers had been heard. They left the trackway, a protective line of jingling harness and clopping hooves around the still figure on the palfrey. The lights became more distinct. Despite the iron discipline of the Temple, Sir William could not have stopped his men if he had wanted to. They were tired, dispirited, starving and freezing. One of the serjeants spurred on almost to a charge. The snow was not too thick and the ground was iron-hard, easy to cross. Sir William could see that the lights were now torches. His heart leapt with joy. If they could rest tonight, if they could eat and sleep by a warm fire. He recalled the maps in the Templar library showing the trackways and paths of Kent. Too late, he remembered the warning given to him about the marshes and the strange lights which also shimmered above them. What had the old archivist called them? Corpse candles! Were these them?

‘Be careful!’ he shouted.

But his men rode on.

‘They are torches!’ a knight shouted. ‘There are men!’

The thunder of hooves grew. The sumpter ponies, despite their weariness, picked up their legs as if they, too, could smell sweet oats and soft, warm straw. Sir William heard a scream from the blackness. The serjeant who had ridden ahead was now struggling.

‘It’s a marsh!’ he shouted. ‘Oh, Christ, help me!’

Sir William tried to rein in, but his own horse was also mired in the mud. The night air was now rent by shrieks and cries of his men. The neigh of horses, the braying of the sumpter ponies. Sir William slipped from the saddle. The icy cold mud crept up his leg but he kept his nerve. He drew his sword and poked at the ground around him, soft, oozing with mud, but then he struck hard earth. He waded towards this. A small path, a trackway through the marshes. Gasping for breath, Sir William dragged himself towards it and began to shout at his men.

‘Towards me!’ he screamed. ‘Towards me! Bring the palfrey!’

Some of his men reached him but Sir William’s heart sank. Only six or seven and the rest? The Virgin and her precious treasure? He could still hear those awful screams and shrieks from the darkness. The snow was falling thicker now. Heavy flakes, as if heaven itself was weeping at what was happening. Chasny knew he was going to die. This was where it would end. For a few seconds he recalled his childhood, playing in golden fields outside a small village in the vale of York. His parents, hand in hand, laughing as they searched for him. His admission to the Templar Order, his novitiate. He had spent his life fighting for the faith. Now he was to be treacherously killed in this God-forsaken marsh. Sir William stretched his sword towards the sky.

‘Avenge me, God!’ he cried. ‘Avenge me!’

His men were now grouped around him, swords out, staring at the torches which surrounded them.

‘We have been trapped,’ one of the knights whispered. ‘They have led us into a marsh.’

‘There must be paths!’ Sir William exclaimed. ‘Just like the one we are standing on.’ He grasped his sword tighter. ‘The Virgin, the Veronica?’

‘God knows, Sir William,’ the Templar commander groaned.

‘Well, we can’t stand here all night,’ one of his companions whispered.

‘Murderers!’ Sir William screamed. ‘Traitors! Close with us now! Sword to sword! Dagger to dagger!’

An arrow whipped out of the darkness and took him full in the shoulder. Chasny dropped to one knee. More arrows fell, his companions began to die. Some silently as the deadly shafts took them in the neck or the chest. Others were knocked off the narrow pathway into the marsh and died screaming as they were buried alive. Sir William dragged himself to his feet but his legs felt like lead, his whole body devoid of strength. He crouched back down and, being a priest as well as a soldier, began to recite the words of absolution for himself and his companions.

‘Absolve, Domine, nos a peccatis nostris.’

He heard sounds along the path and looked up. The assassins were closing in. He stayed still as a stone, head slightly to one side. Out of the corner of his eye he watched the shapes slip through the darkness. He smiled in satisfaction as he recognised the tinker he had seen earlier in the day.

‘Come on!’ a villain shouted, lifting him gently. ‘They are all dead!’

‘But the sumpter ponies are in the marsh. They have the treasure!’

‘The marsh can be dragged: it’s not so deep!’

The tinker drew closer. Sir William lunged with all his might and drove his sword straight into the man’s midriff.

‘Deus vult!’ Sir William shouted the cry of the Crusaders. ‘Deus vult! God wills it!’ He withdrew his sword and the man toppled into the marsh.

Sir William felt new strength course through his body.

‘Before heaven and earth!’ he shouted, his voice booming through the wind. ‘I curse you all before the Lord and His Angels! I summon you before His court to answer for your crimes. I curse you with all the power my Order has given me! We shall return! Do you hear me? We shall return! We shall be watching you! We shall always be watching you!’

He was still shouting when the arrows shot out of the darkness, piercing his body. Still the old knight shouted his curses, in English, in Latin, in French.

‘We shall be watching you! We shall always be watching you!’

At last they saw him tumble, fall to his knees on the path. Head bowed, he keeled to the ground. They ran forward. One man drew his dagger and tentatively turned Sir William’s body over. He heaved a sigh of relief but then jumped as the Templar’s dagger took him full in the belly with hot searing pain. Locked together in death, the knight and his assailant, faces only a few inches apart, stared in their dying agonies at each other.

‘Remember!’ Sir William whispered. ‘We shall return! We shall be watching you!’

The pilgrims were lost. They had passed St Thomas’ well on the ancient route to Canterbury but, late in the afternoon, a sudden mist had come swirling in over the flat Kent countryside. At first this had caused laughter and a little merriment as the Summoner took advantage of the confusion to clutch the generous thigh of the Wife of Bath. The Man of Law and the Prioress hung back in the confusion and, when Mine Host turned round, he was sure the lawyer and the nun were kissing each other, albeit chastely.

‘By Satan’s cock!’ he growled to the Knight. ‘We must not become separated.’

The Knight shifted in the saddle, easing his sword out of his scabbard. He did not like such mists. They awoke nightmares in his soul from when he had campaigned in Anatolia: they’d be crossing the floor of some heavily wooded valley when the devil’s fog boiled up. He would ride ahead of his troops listening for any strange sounds: the clink of steel, or the creaking of harness; the only signs that the ghostly silence was to be broken by blood-curdling screams just before the Turckopoles, on their nimble horses, burst like demons out of the swirling mists.

‘We must keep together,’ the Knight declared. ‘Yeoman!’ He turned to his bodyguard. ‘Sound the horn!’ The Knight stood up in his stirrups. ‘Listen now!’ His voice boomed through the mist. ‘Follow the sounds of the horn!’

The Yeoman rode up to the head of the column.

‘Oh, pray we don’t get lost!’ Mine Host moaned. He raised his voice. ‘Let’s pray,’ he said, ‘to St Thomas à Becket whose blessed bones we go to venerate at Canterbury!’

The Miller gave a loud fart in answer, making the Carpenter snigger and giggle. Nevertheless, the pilgrims grouped closer. The Summoner moved his fat, little horse behind that of the Franklin. He was not just interested in the Franklin’s costly silk purse, white as the morning milk. Oh no, the Summoner smiled to himself: he, like some others, was increasingly fascinated by this motley group of pilgrims making their way to Canterbury in the year of Our Lord 1389. All seemed to be acquainted with each other and he definitely knew the Franklin. They had met many years ago on a blood-soaked island. He was sure of it, as he was that the Franklin had had a hand in his father’s death. He would have liked to have talked to his colleague the Pardoner but he was now suspicious for the Summoner had recently discovered that the Franklin and the Pardoner were close friends. Indeed, this cunning man, with his bag full of relics and the bones of saints slung on a string round his neck, was certainly not what he claimed to be.

Behind the Summoner, the Friar, nervous of the cloying mist, plucked at the harp slung over his saddle horn. As he played, the Friar glanced furtively at the Monk, riding alongside him. The Friar closed his eyes and strummed at the harp strings, calling up a little ditty he had learnt, anything to drive away the fears. He did not like the Monk sitting so arrogantly on his berry-brown palfrey: that smooth, fat face, those dark, soulless eyes and that smile, wolfish, the eye-teeth hanging down like jagged daggers. Who was the Monk? Why was the Knight so wary of him? And the latter’s son? The young, golden-haired Squire, he always kept an eye on the Monk, hand on the pommel of his sword, as if he expected the Monk to launch a sudden assault upon his father the Knight. Was the Monk, the Friar wondered, one of those Strigoi mentioned by the Knight in his tale? Did the Monk belong to the Undead? Those damned souls who wandered the face of the earth, finding their sustenance in human blood?

The Yeoman issued another loud blast on his hunting horn. The sound was not comforting; it pierced the mist like the wail of a lost soul.

‘The mist is getting thicker!’ the Reeve exclaimed. And so it was, billowing like clouds around them.

‘Where does it come from?’ the Merchant asked.

‘It’s the devil’s fog!’ the Pardoner screeched.

‘It’s a sea mist,’ the Sea Captain interrupted. He held up his hand. ‘Kent is flat, smooth as a piece of well-shorn wood bounded by the sea and, after rain or when the wind shifts to the east, the mist boils in like steam from a cauldron.’

‘I wish I was with my cauldron now,’ the Cook moaned. ‘Stirring some sweet pottage.’

The Reeve looked away in disgust as the Cook pulled up his hose and scratched the ulcer on his shin.

‘I could make a lovely blancmange,’ the Cook continued.

The Reeve hawked, spat and spurred on.

Another wail from the hunting horn.

‘Stop!’ the Yeoman shouted. ‘No further, look!’

Mine Host, joined by the Knight and the cheery-faced, merry-eyed customs collector Sir Geoffrey Chaucer, rode to the front of the column.

‘What’s the matter?’ the Knight asked.

‘Listen!’ the Yeoman replied.

The Knight did. ‘I can hear nothing. Nothing at all.’

‘Exactly!’ the Yeoman declared. ‘There should be bird song, even the crows and rooks will not be silenced by a mist. What is more, the path has petered out.’

The Knight looked down: the beaten trackway had vanished. He dismounted and walked tentatively forward. Immediately he felt as if the earth was giving way beneath him: his high-heeled hunting boots became stuck in the cloying mud.

‘It’s a marsh!’ he yelled.

Already the mud was creeping up his leg. Chaucer took off his broad leather belt, threw one end at the Knight and, turning his horse round, moved backwards, scattering the pilgrims as he dragged the Knight out of the mire.

‘Thank you.’

Sir Godfrey ran his fingers through his iron-grey hair. Even then, despite his narrow escape from the marsh, he glanced quickly around making sure where the Monk was: his enemy just sat upon his horse, face hidden deep in the cowl of his cloak. Nevertheless, Sir Godfrey glimpsed the sinister smile: those eyes gleaming at him, lips bared like a dog. I’ll kill him, Sir Godfrey thought. God be my witness, he is a Strigoi. When we reach Canterbury, perhaps before we go to the shrine, I’ll challenge him.

‘Where to now, Sir Godfrey?’ Mine Host shouted.

The Knight, helped by his son, remounted. He raised himself high in the stirrups.

‘We cannot go on,’ he declared, ‘whilst to move sideways could invite disaster.’

‘Oh, my goodness, look!’ The Miller pointed where the mists swirled over the marsh. ‘Look, there’s a light!’

All the pilgrims turned, their hearts beating a little faster, mouths dry. At first they thought the Miller had been drinking. The Carpenter was about to tell him to go and play his bagpipes when the mist swirled again and he glimpsed the pinpricks of light, like torches shimmering through the mist. The Carpenter was about to go forward but the Poor Priest, that gentle-eyed man, caught him by the shoulder.

‘Don’t be foolish!’ he said. ‘They are not human lights.’

His words only increased the pilgrims’ fears.

‘What are they?’ The Wife of Bath turned, fingers fluttering to her generous lips.

‘Corpse candles!’

The Ploughman, the Poor Priest’s brother, clutching the bridle of his brother’s skinny horse, stared anxiously up at the Priest.

‘Corpse candles?’ the Miller asked. ‘Bugger that!’ He drew his rusty sword.

‘They are called corpse candles,’ the Poor Priest explained. ‘According to some, they are gases from the marsh which ignite like fire-flies above a pond. Others claim they are the Devil’s lights, candles lit in hell and brought by the fiends to lure poor souls to their deaths.’

‘Oh, Lord save us!’ The Wife of Bath pushed down her broad-brimmed hat more firmly on her head. Her cheeks were no longer red but pale. She forced a gap-toothed smile at the Knight. ‘Oh, Sir Godfrey, save us!’

The Knight gently dug his heels into his horse. The pilgrims parted though none of them wished to be forced off the trackway.

‘Follow me,’ the Knight ordered. ‘Ride in single file. Mine Host, Sir Geoffrey, keep to the back. Yeoman, at my signal, blow your horn!’

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 . . .’ . . .