The Haunted Cathedral Read online

  The Haunted

  Cathedral

  The Harwood Mysteries

  Book 2

  Antony Barone Kolenc

  Contents

  How to Read Historical FictionBefore Reading

  During Reading

  After Reading

  Map: Xan’s World, 12th-Century England

  1 Foul Farewells

  2 The Bandit

  3 Head Money

  4 Travel Plans

  5 Rough Roads

  6 The Attack

  7 The Storm

  8 Hard Choices

  9 The Escape

  10 The Gift

  11 New Friends

  12 Ghost Story

  13 The Cathedral

  14 Family Reunion

  15 Burial Ground

  16 The Dungeon

  17 Uncle William

  18 The Haunting

  19 Palm Sunday

  20 Night Terrors

  21 The Crypt

  22 The Ghost

  23 God’s Thunder

  24 Holy Monday

  25 Carlo’s Doom

  26 The Forgiven

  27 Journey’s End

  Epilogue

  Author’s Historical NoteLincoln Castle and Lincoln Cathedral

  Abbeys and Benedictine Monks

  Peasant Children and Feudalism

  Glossary

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  For my son, A.J.

  “All that is gold does not glitter . . .”

  How to Read Historical Fiction

  The Haunted Cathedral is a work of historical fiction. This type of book differs from nonfiction because the story is imagined by the author and does more than simply tell you “what happened.” Rather, this type of book helps you, the reader, understand what happened in history while drawing you in and entertaining you. The story invites you to make connections with situations and characters and to discover what stays the same for people of any period and also determine what might have changed over time.

  Even though the characters and events are imagined, an author of historical fiction tries to be accurate when presenting what it might have been like for a specific group of people to live and work in a particular time and place. That’s why an author might present scenes and dialogue that differ greatly from what we experience today.

  These differences are also why some of what you read might feel foreign or even shocking. As you read, remember that in some cases, the characters aren’t doing something “wrong”; they are simply doing what was considered acceptable at that time. As the reader, it’s important for you to read critically throughout. If you’re interested in learning more about the historical context of The Haunted Cathedral, you’ll find more information in the back of the book, in the Author’s Historical Note.

  Here are some tips for making the most of The Haunted Cathedral.

  Before Reading

  Do some brief Internet research about life in twelthth-century England and in a typical abbey of that time. Watch a video, view illustrations, or read an article to gain some historical context.

  During Reading

  Ask yourself questions such as the following:

  In what ways are the actions and reactions of young characters like those of kids today? In what ways are they different?

  God and religion played a significant role in the lives of people during the Middle Ages. What religious terms and ideas in The Haunted Cathedral seem strange to you, and why? What aspects of religion in the story are more familiar to you, and why?

  The bandit Carlo had once been a good man, although he ended life as a criminal. What evidence do you see that he had a change of heart for the better? How might someone in today’s time display the same sort of change of heart?

  After Reading

  Ask yourself questions such as the following:

  In what ways do people now think and act differently from during Xan’s time? Do you think today’s ways are better or not? Why?

  People were convinced that a ghost haunted Lincoln Cathedral. Yet Brother Andrew had strong objections to the idea of a person’s spirit haunting us after death. What do you think of his argument?

  Xan cannot be free until someone pays his “head money” to the estate on which he and his parents were serfs. What might prevent a person today from being free to choose his or her life path?

  1

  Foul Farewells

  Not many boys could point to the exact spot where their lives had changed forever, but Xan could.

  He kicked uselessly at the twisted root that jutted from the trail like the back of a serpent—one of the winding roots coming from that old beech tree on the side of the path.

  “This is the place, Joshua,” he said.

  He walked in the woodland with Joshua and Wulf, the abbey’s black-and-white sheepdog, on the first sunny morning after a long and snowy winter.

  “Really?” Joshua dropped to touch the root, adding a kneeful of dirt to his filthy tunic.

  Xan rubbed the head of the dog by his side—higher than his waist and fluffier than a sheep’s back. If only his itchy tunic could feel that soft; instead, it scratched at his arms and knees.

  Wulf pounced on Joshua while he knelt, licking all over the freckles on his cheek.

  “Aw, yuck! Stop it!” Joshua shouted, giggling as the dog slobbered on his red hair.

  “Wulf, come!” Xan ordered. The dog obeyed, returning to his side for another round of pets on its furry head. It had taken two months for Xan to earn that dog’s respect.

  “So you threw the rock at that bandit, Rummy,” Joshua said, re-enacting with his hands. “Then you ran from him into the forest all the way out here and tripped on this root. And that’s when he came out of nowhere and hit you with a mace?”

  Xan nodded, putting his hand to the mat of thick brown hair hiding his scar: the injury that had caused him to lose his memory for a while. On that awful day, so many months ago, the black monks of Harwood Abbey had saved him, giving him a new home and a new name.

  “That must’ve hurt,” Joshua said.

  “I can’t remember, but I’m sure you’re right.”

  “But you’re better now.” Joshua sounded hopeful.

  Xan hesitated. “I suppose.” But what exactly did it mean to be “better”?

  He’d lost Mother and Father forever—killed either by the bandits or the flames that had turned Hardonbury Manor into a charred wasteland. True, Lord Godfrey was rebuilding the village now that he was lord of the manor, but it wasn’t being rebuilt for Xan.

  Though Hardonbury had been his home for almost his entire twelve years of life, he couldn’t possibly go back there now. Not to live in the shadow of that grassy hill with the thirteen crosses, where a lone sycamore tree watched solemnly over his parents’ graves.

  Where are you, Mother and Father?

  Brother Andrew had said their spirits were in Heaven with Jesus. That must be nice for Jesus, but Xan needed them more, right here on earth. If only he could speak to Father again, give Mother a hug. He had no brothers or sisters, no family—just a distant uncle, if he still lived.

  So what did “better” really mean these days?

  There wasn’t anything “better” about Rummy escaping capture; nothing good about his vile leader—that old bandit, Carlo—having the privilege to still be alive, cared for in the abbey’s confinement cell, while all the people he had killed rotted under the dirt. The abbot should have let Lord Godfrey hang Carlo by the neck until dead, as he’d deserved.

  There wasn’t anything “better” about having to share a dormitory room with the likes of John, the arrogant bully, always good for an insult or a threat. Tho
ugh they hadn’t come to blows since Xan had solved the mystery of the Shadow, they’d come close at least once a week.

  And there was nothing “better” about the fact that today was Lucy’s final day at the abbey.

  Last month, Lucy had shown him the dispatch her father had sent, telling her about his new duties with the lord of their manor. Apparently, their lord had taken a temporary position with King Henry’s royal courts. Her father was permitted to take one older child on the journey. She might even get to visit her three brothers, whom her father had left as apprentices with a miller in Leeds.

  Xan had supposedly found his new family: Brother Andrew and Sister Regina and Joshua and Lucy. But now he was going to lose the most important member of that family.

  “C’mon, Joshua.” He kicked the root again, this time in anger. “We need to get back home.”

  They marched the rest of the woodland trail until they reached the clearing in the trees that led to Harwood Abbey. Joshua had chattered the entire way back, barely noticing Xan’s silence.

  They climbed the gentle hill in the meadow by the granges, where new wheat would soon sprout from the soil. Wulf bounded off toward the sheep pasture where he normally kept guard. Below, small stone buildings surrounded the grand abbey church: the library and scriptorium, the refectory and monks’ dormitory, the chapter house and abbot’s dwelling, the confinement cell where the bandit Carlo unfortunately still breathed.

  There was the boys’ dormitory at the bottom of the grassy hill, where Brother Leo was probably paddling one of the boys for doing a lousy job on his chores. And there was the path that led to the convent, where Lucy was probably finishing her packing, waiting for her father to arrive.

  They took the convent path, passing a few small girls sitting in the dirt with their cloth dolls. The road ended at an oak door, which Xan knocked upon softly.

  Sister Regina answered, as usual, wearing a black habit made of the same material as the monks’ robes. Her golden hair—similar to Mother’s, actually—was almost entirely covered by her habit, but for a small patch visible near her forehead. Except something was different today. Her youthful cheeks were sunken beneath two puffy red eyes, still wet with tears.

  She forced a smile. “Xan, we have been expecting you.” She patted Joshua on the head.

  “Good morrow, Sister,” Xan said.

  “Lucy is out back in the garden, waiting.” She took his arm and led them around the cobblestone path that snaked along the side of the convent. Joshua inhaled loudly, taking in the sweet aroma of flowering new life in the air.

  “These weeks of Lent try our strength, do they not?” the nun said, still sniffling. “Forty days of fasting and prayer are good for the soul but tough on the stomach.”

  Indeed, the Lenten fast meant no food for any of them all day until supper. “Don’t worry, Sister,” Xan said. “Easter will be here soon. Then we can eat again.”

  The nun’s smile made it only halfway up her cheeks. “Our Lord’s Resurrection is reason for joy, yet how hard ’twill be to celebrate without Lucy here.”

  He wouldn’t be alone in his grief today. When a family loses one of its members, all the others suffer together. Still, the nun didn’t seem angry as he was—just sad.

  They reached the green convent garden where several nuns and younger girls tended the flowers: purple, yellow, white, and red. There was Lucy, sniffing at a red bud. Her black hair and tan face seemed perfectly matched, and the speck of a mole on her cheek was her only defect.

  That day Xan had saved her from John and his gang of rascals had been one of the luckiest in his life. Today—the first day of spring in the Year of our Lord 1185—was one of the unluckiest.

  Lucy noticed their arrival and rushed over, her white tunic brushing across the grass. “Where have you been?” she said. “Father could arrive at any moment.”

  He frowned. “Sister Regina said to come after midday prayers were over.” In fact, he’d taken Joshua onto the woodland trail to keep from going dotie having to wait that long.

  “Aye, Lucy,” the nun said. “You needed time to finish your packing.”

  Lucy’s brown eyes softened. “Very well, then.” She made a motion as though to pat Xan’s shoulder in forgiveness, but her hand stopped halfway. That probably would have violated one of the convent’s many rules about boys.

  “Joshua,” the nun said. “Can you help me fetch a bucket of water for the flowers?”

  “Sure, Sister.”

  He followed her off toward the well, leaving Xan and Lucy alone.

  They sat together on the stone garden wall, which was covered with stretching arms of green ivy. There they spoke a few minutes, sharing bits of news and talking about Lucy’s coming journey.

  “What will I do when you’re gone?” he said at last. That’s what he’d really wanted to say this whole time anyhow. That, and to tell her that he’d miss her terribly.

  Her lips pursed together. “You’ll be fine. You’ll have your studies in the library with Brother Andrew, and your games in the meadow, and maybe even visits back to Hardonbury.”

  He shook his head harshly. “Nay. There’s nothing there for me now.” Hardonbury had become dead to him, like “Stephen”—the name of his birth—and like everything else that had mattered in this world. He’d returned to his village only once since the mystery of the Shadow; just long enough to discover that his neighbor was buried on the hill with Mother and Father, and that his other friend had fled the village on the day of the bandits’ attack.

  There’d be no more rowdy games in the common pasture or kind words from Father in the toolshed or gentle kisses on the forehead from Mother at bedtime. He’d no longer toil in the East Field, harvesting in the cold fall mornings and tilling the soil in the warm spring afternoons. Nor would he ever revel in the fiery glow and smoky aroma of the family hearth.

  “Nothing left,” he said. “God took them all away, and now He’s making you leave too.”

  They sat in stillness for a minute, listening to the wind rustle through the garden and the other girls chatter while their small metal tools chipped away at the soil.

  “We may see each other again one day,” she said. “When the time is right. Father is taking me on this journey, but who knows how long it will last? Then maybe I’ll return here.”

  “Or maybe you won’t return,” he said, his voice hard.

  Lucy’s hand didn’t halt this time. She touched his shoulder and didn’t even prevent their eyes from meeting. “If ’tis God’s will, Xan, we shall meet again.”

  God could will anything He wanted. Yet Mother and Father were dead while their murderer still lived; Xan’s village would never be the same; and now his closest friend was leaving.

  Brother Andrew and Sister Regina often talked about trusting God’s will. Maybe they were right: some good had come from all the evil. He’d solved the mystery of the Shadow; he’d saved the abbey; he’d learned his letters. But was that enough good to justify all the bad things?

  A lone set of hooves echoed from the front of the convent.

  “I think that’s Father,” she said, a tear streaming down her cheek.

  He turned his head away; she shouldn’t see his face right now. Not like this. “This is farewell, then,” he said, his voice trembling and bitter. He squeezed her hand tightly and hopped from the wall with a thud.

  Then he ran from the garden, up the path to the boys’ dorm. He refused to look back—to look upon Lucy’s sorrowful face, or her father’s joy at seeing his daughter again, or that wicked horse that would carry her from this place.

  Perhaps forever.

  2

  The Bandit

  The next few weeks without Lucy passed like the long winter months: cold, wet, and miserable.

  Then, one Friday afternoon, when the chores had been done and the sun had broken free of clouds, Xan sat on the grass outside the boys’ dormitory, his back against its cool stone wall.

  Where was Lucy now? She
’d talked of traveling south with her father and their lord, down to Westminster, where the King’s judges were meeting. Then they’d be heading north with some of the judges, traveling from one city to the next to hold court. Was she thinking about Xan, or had she already forgotten him, taken up with thoughts about kings and courts and all the wide world?

  In the meadow beside Xan, the other boys from the dorm were organizing another game. One of the novice boys, studying to take vows as a monk, stared at the orphans as he strolled by, as though recalling a time when he could play before coming to this abbey to pray and learn.

  “Come play Bee in the Middle with us!” Joshua said, running over and pulling Xan’s arm.

  The last thing he wanted to do right now was play a game. Still, if Lucy were here, she’d tell him to play for Joshua’s sake, wouldn’t she? She’d always been kind to the boy.

  “All right,” he said, trudging over to the others, who were standing in a circle on the grass.

  Morris, the tallest orphan at the abbey, stood in the center like a giant.

  “So you’re all in a circle—Xan, join them over there,” Morris said, pointing to an empty place. “Then one of you—give me a volunteer. Not all at once, I can hardly hear you.” Morris pointed to a heavier boy in a gray tunic. “All right, then: Leonard. Get up here. You go in the middle. You’re the bee. We’ll all try to touch your shoulder, but if you grab one of our arms, then you’ll ‘sting’ us, and that person will have to take your place. Got it?”

  Leonard made a buzzing sound in his throat. “C’mon, slugs! I’ll sting you to death.” He dodged and reached as several of the boys poked at his shoulder. It took a while, but the slow boy eventually got a lucky grab. Unfortunately, his prey was none other than the bully, John, who waved his big hairy arms and shouted, “You cheated! Did you all see him? He grabbed me ere I even tried to touch him. You’re cheating, Leonard!”