Cuthbert's Way (DCI Ryan Mysteries, #17)
L.J. Ross
“Even if I could possibly hide myself in a tiny dwelling on a rock, where the waves of the swelling ocean surrounded me on all sides, and shut me in equally from the sight and knowledge of men, not even thus should I consider myself to be free from the snares of a deceptive world…”
—St. Cuthbert, from Bede’s Life of St. Cuthbert
PROLOGUE
Priory of St Cuthbert, Durham Cathedral
December, 1537
“Fetch the chaplain—quickly, now!”
The novice bowed to the words of his elder and then, with a parting glance across the infirmary room to where Brother Edward lay pale and inert, left quickly to do his bidding.
As the young man’s echoing footsteps receded along the flagstone cloisters, the two who remained spoke in hushed voices, their faces lit only by the dying embers of a meagre fire.
“The Commissioners left York last week,” Brother William murmured. “It’s said they spent a night and a day at Selby and will ride to Durham with all speed, if they’re to return to London afore the New Year.”
There was a small, crackling silence while they considered the threat that was, even now, thundering towards them from the south. By the King’s order, Catholic monasteries throughout the land had been sacked; their authority dissolved, their riches and treasures confiscated or destroyed on behalf of the Crown, all in the name of a new, Protestant order. Thus far, the bishopric of Durham had escaped that fate which had befallen so many, but it seemed their period of grace was almost at an end.
Yet they feared the loss of something far more precious than gold or silver.
“They say the doctors amongst them are of lowly skill,” Brother William continued, casting an anxious glance towards the doorway, lest anyone should overhear. “Given to destructive method—”
“Then we must act.”
The Prior’s voice was calm; its tone resigned. Hugh Whitehead was known as a fair and pious man, not prone to immorality of any sort; indeed, a model of monastic virtue. There had been temptations—siren maidservants to test his resolve and worldly accolades to test his vanity—all of which he had overcome. Yet only now, as an old and wizened man, had the Lord delivered his greatest test of all.
Prior Whitehead drew in a deep breath, his rough, weather-beaten hands forming a steeple as he sent up a silent prayer and sought forgiveness.
“Brother Edward must be afforded every rite,” he said quietly. “As befits the passing of so devout a friend and son of God.”
Brother William nodded, watching the laboured rise and fall of the man’s chest as he fought the final stages of what would, one day, come to be known as pneumonia.
“The chaplain has been sent for, and will stay with him until the end—”
“He must die tonight, if aught is to be done.”
William gave a strangled gasp. “Father—?”
“Think of the higher cause with which we are entrusted,” the Prior said, as much for himself as for the other monk, whose hands had begun to shake beneath the cuffs of his habit. “Our brother would have borne this sacrifice proudly, had he the strength to choose.”
Just then, they heard the sound of returning footsteps.
No further words were spoken. Brother William gathered himself and crossed the small infirmary room in three quick strides, pausing only to remove the thin pillow of duck feathers upon which Brother Edward’s head rested. With a strength borne of righteousness, he held it over the man’s face, shedding a single tear as the monk’s body convulsed briefly before sagging back against the bed, barely offering a token resistance. He tucked the pillow beneath Edward’s head again and closed his mouth, which gaped open in horrified accusation.
By the time the novice returned with the chaplain, the Prior and Brother William stood at the back of the infirmary, their heads bent in solemn prayer.
*
Brother Edward’s body was dispatched to the Dead Man’s Chamber, in the very bowels of the Cathedral, and thence to the Chapel, where it lay shrouded within the heavy folds of his habit. Two monks who had been closest to him in life now took it upon themselves to keep a silent vigil by his side in death, and knelt on the cold stone floor at his stiffening feet to pray for the departed’s immortal soul.
Their prayers could not prevent the merciless advance of the Commissioners, who crossed the River Wear at sundown and entered the city of Durham bearing the King’s banner. They made their way through its foul-smelling streets, past the miserable huts of townsfolk beaten down by pestilence and poverty, and wound their way upward to the summit of the hill upon which the cathedral had been built. Hundreds of years earlier, monks carrying the sacred body of Saint Cuthbert had built a modest ‘white church’ of wood, wherein they laid their charge to rest. Now, in its place there stood a towering edifice of carved stone, its Norman arches and columns a reminder to all who looked upon them of the wealth and power that lay within.
The men who entered its hallowed walls looked upon the architectural masterpiece with open stares, cataloguing and calculating its worth.
Doctor Ley was the first to speak, having drunk his fill from a cup of ale the Prior had, solicitously, delivered with his own hands.
“We will look to the book of accounts soon enough,” he said. “But, first, by the King’s order, we demand to see the body of Cuthbert.”