The Haunted Cathedral Read online

  “Oh, c’mon, don’t be a baby,” Xan said impatiently. “Just get in the middle.”

  John glared, but it was clear that most of the others agreed Leonard had done nothing wrong. “Fine.” John was smirking as usual. He stepped in the circle. “Buzz, buzz. Come get me.”

  Unlike with Leonard, the boys gave John a wide cushion of space. When one of them would dare to approach, John would lash out with an oversized knuckle. A “sting” from John would truly sting.

  Xan didn’t care; he’d quit soon. Games weren’t very fun for him anymore. He reached for John’s shoulder, but too slowly. John seized his left arm, squeezing it. “Ha! You’re stung, Sire Clumsy.” More name-calling from the bully, of course.

  “Fine enough,” Xan said, trying to control his anger. “You can let go now.”

  They stood eye-to-eye, two of the taller orphans at the abbey. But John didn’t let go. Stinging wasn’t enough—John wanted to lord control over him.

  He had borne the loss of Mother and Father and Lucy without any say in the matter. He’d had to watch the abbot be kind to that murderer, Carlo. He’d even put up with John’s smirks and insults and constant threats day after day. Was there nothing he could control about his own life?

  In an impulse, he balled his hand into a fist and swung, striking John hard in the belly. The bully fell to the ground, holding his stomach and moaning.

  “Are you knotty-pated?” Morris shouted, rushing to help John. “’Tis just a friendly game!”

  Xan just shook his head and left. “I quit.” He jogged into the granges toward the sheep pasture while Joshua yelled to him from behind. Maybe he shouldn’t have punched John like that. Sure, the bully had held his arm a bit too long, but those things happened in games sometimes. It wasn’t John’s fault his life was a misery.

  Xan made it to the pasture. Where was the dog? Wulf would understand—he seemed to be the only one who understood anything these days, even though he was just a dumb animal. Last night, he’d been barking loudly out here, over and over, sounding more alarmed than usual. Perhaps a boar had drawn too close to the meadow, or maybe a real wolf had come for the sheep.

  “Wulf!” Xan called out.

  Several puffy sheep meandered about the pasture, and one or two of them lay in the grass in the shade, but the sheepdog wasn’t running about them as usual.

  Wait—there he was, lying by the fence. Normally, the dog would have jumped up and pounced on him, trying to lick his face or trip up his legs.

  “Come on, Wulf!” he said. The dog didn’t move. It lay very still on its side.

  “Nay!” He ran to Wulf. Could hardly believe it. Had to check to make sure of it.

  ’Twas true! Wulf was dead: still and cold. But there was no sign of a bite mark or a tusk wound or anything like that. There wasn’t even any blood—just cold fur and a limp, broken neck.

  What could have done this? Not a wolf or a boar—it had to be a man. No monk would do such a thing; no child would even dare think of it. Only someone vile and evil and strong.

  He laid Wulf’s body gently in the grass and sprinted toward the abbey complex.

  This was the fault of that murderous Carlo! One of his bandit-friends must have come in the night to rescue him—maybe that scar-faced Rummy who had tried to kill Xan in the forest.

  That’s why Wulf had been barking.

  Perhaps Rummy had helped Carlo escape! What if some of the guards had been killed too?

  His tears dropped to the dark soil as he ran to the cobblestone path.

  He had to see for himself. If that bandit had escaped, what then? He’d never rest until Carlo was back in a jail cell or, better yet, dead in a grave. He raced along the cobblestone path and around the bend, past the abbot’s house to the confinement cell where Carlo was still being kept after he’d tried to burn down the abbey.

  There was no guard outside.

  He ran within, but the guards weren’t in the front room, either. Where were they?

  He tiptoed to the doorway of the inner chamber that led to the bandit’s cell. The only other time he’d been in here was when the abbot had tried to get him to forgive that filthy murderer.

  He heard voices. “Please,” someone said in a pleading tone. “Do not touch the prisoner.”

  That must have been one of the guards. Carlo must still be in there. “Would you have told our healing Lord not to touch the leper?” That was the abbot. The old monk was still keeping that killer under his protection. “Now step aside, guard.”

  Xan moved closer to the entrance. He should burst in and yell at the abbot, tell him how that bandit’s friend had killed Wulf, his faithful companion. Unless the abbot already knew.

  “So, what of it, Carlo?” The abbot again. “Will you confess your sins to the Lord today?”

  When the bandit spoke, his voice was raspier than it had been months ago, when he’d first been captured. “You think I can pay for my sins with a mere sorrowful heart? Impossible.” The bandit hadn’t sought God’s forgiveness yet, hadn’t confessed his sins. Good.

  The abbot grunted. “You of all people know that Christ paid a high price for your sins.”

  “Perhaps so, Abbot, but I am unworthy even of the sacrament of confession.” How true that was. That murderer wasn’t worthy of anything except punishment.

  “Speak not the lies of the devil,” the abbot said. “Confess and be saved.”

  Carlo grew silent. Was the bandit thinking about changing his mind?

  Nay! He didn’t deserve to be saved and go to Heaven with people like Mother and Father. If their souls could come down now, they’d be shouting at the abbot not to give him confession.

  Xan rushed into the chamber. “Wait!”

  He’d startled them: the guard in the corner, dressed in chain mail, grasping a spear; Carlo on the floor of his cell, dirty and ragged and still wearing that dragon pendant around his neck; and the frail abbot, head nearly hairless, his beefy hands holding tight to the iron bars.

  “What are you doing here, child?” the abbot said, as the guard moved to confront him.

  He nearly broke into tears, his voice wavering as he told them about the death of poor Wulf. The monk’s gray eyes grew softer as Xan spoke, and Carlo’s old body slumped further down.

  The abbot peered at the bandit, his voice sharp now. “Do you know anything about this?”

  “I do,” the guard said. “Last evening, the night guards left this cell untended for but a few minutes as they changed shifts. When my friend reported for duty here, he spotted a man in black sneaking about the entrance. He called out, but the villain fled. The man must have been spying on us, knowing exactly when the cell would be unguarded.”

  The abbot flashed with anger and glared at Carlo. “Was this one of your companions?”

  The bandit didn’t move. “Perhaps. Rummy would not hesitate to take the life of a dog.”

  “I knew it!” Xan said. “He’s trying to help him escape!”

  Carlo said nothing, would not even look at him.

  “By Adam, tell me why this man comes here,” the abbot ordered. “Is it to free you?”

  Carlo shook his head, as though to reject the holy man’s demand. Yet still he answered. “Not to free me, Abbot—to interrogate me. ’Tis my treasure that Rummy seeks.”

  3

  Head Money

  The monks buried the body of Wulf that afternoon, and Xan kept to himself all evening. But on Saturday morning, a servant interrupted Xan’s chores and escorted him to the chapter house.

  “I do not know what is going on,” the servant admitted. “They just sent me to fetch you.”

  Did this have to do with what he’d seen yesterday? Maybe the monks were having a meeting to decide what to do about Carlo and Rummy and this new threat of bandits.

  Xan knocked and entered the room, which was well-lit by beeswax candles on the corners of a heavy wooden table. At one end perched the old abbot, serious and silent. Brother Andrew sat to his left; the pr
ior, Father Clement, sat to his right, his large belly pressing against the table.

  The monks were dressed in their usual black robes, with black sleeveless scapulars over the top and hooded cowls halfway down their backs. They had the traditional monks’ tonsure: a ring of hair encircling a shaved area of the scalp, like the crown of thorns on the crucified Christ.

  Across from the monks sat a man wearing a blue shirt, deep-black pants that shimmered in the candlelight, and leather shoes with designs on them. His clean-shaven face was youthful and fair, and his cheeks were as shiny and red as the flowers in the convent garden.

  “Xan, come and sit,” the prior said. “This is Sire Baldwin, Lord Godfrey’s new bailiff.”

  This must be the replacement for that evil Sire Roger, whom Godfrey had executed months ago for his role in several murderous plots. This man would surely be a big improvement.

  The men spoke together a while about Lent and Chadwick Manor and the rainy spring weather. Eventually the prior cleared his throat, which meant it was time for official business.

  The prior turned to Xan. “Sire Baldwin has come to speak to you, child.” That seemed odd. Maybe word about yesterday had already made its way to Chadwick Manor. Lord Godfrey might want to know more details to decide what to do with Carlo.

  But when the bailiff spoke, it had nothing to do with Carlo at all. “I must speak with you, boy, about a matter that the reeve at Hardonbury has brought to my attention.”

  “What kind of matter?” Xan said. If the reeve had brought the matter up, it must be bad. Back in Hardonbury, the reeve had never been a welcome guest in Mother and Father’s cottage. That was because he was the one who always made sure the tenants paid their rents to the lord of the manor.

  One day the reeve had come over when Mother and Father were in the fields. Xan had been forced to inventory the chickens in the tofts, and the reeve took three of their best hens for the rent.

  Now that Lord Godfrey ruled Hardonbury, the reeve must be reporting all the tenants’ debts to him. That made sense. Sire Roger’s thieving had nearly run Godfrey’s manors into financial ruin. This new bailiff must want more money to help recover his lord’s estate.

  “You are a serf of Hardonbury, are you not?” Sire Baldwin asked, not quite kindly.

  “I used to be,” Xan said. Father used to say that serfs were little better than slaves, working the land for their lord and paying tribute for everything. Some of the “free” peasant boys in the village used to make fun of the serfs, calling them “cotters” because their parents didn’t even own their old run-down cottages.

  “Yet here you are,” Sire Baldwin said. “Living as a free peasant at this monastery.”

  “The poor boy was orphaned,” Brother Andrew said. “He did not come here by choice.”

  Sire Baldwin raised a palm. “Choice or not, the fact remains he is a serf with no permission to leave Hardonbury. Nor has he paid the reeve his head money to buy his liberty as a free peasant.”

  Xan had no money on his head, or even in his tunic or between his toes.

  “You mean this reeve of Hardonbury would require a poor child to pay his own release?” Brother Andrew said. “Was it not enough that Godfrey’s bailiff was the reason he was orphaned?”

  So, it was true, then. Xan really did have no control over his own life. He was like a slave, a serf of Hardonbury who couldn’t even live at Harwood Abbey without paying his head money. And if he could not pay the reeve this tribute, then what? Must he return to Hardonbury by himself and work as a serf his entire life in a burned-up cottage?

  Sire Baldwin shook his head. “Nay, if he had no family to pay the required fees, perhaps the reeve would have sought a waiver in this case. But the reeve says the boy has an uncle who is perfectly capable of paying his fees if he wishes to become a free peasant and leave Hardonbury.”

  “The boy has an uncle?” The prior pulled at his gray beard. “Had I known this, we would have sought him out months ago. If the man wishes the consortium of his nephew, it would be unjust to stop this family from reuniting. Also, he has legal rights in the boy’s upbringing.”

  “The reeve says this uncle, William, is very much alive in the town of Lincoln as a merchant,” Sire Baldwin said. “We hear he trades fine goods—vases and rugs and other luxuries.”

  Uncle William. Xan hadn’t heard that name in years and hadn’t seen him since he was a little boy. He was Father’s brother, who’d left Hardonbury as a young man to seek a new life. Yet apparently he was alive and might be able to pay Xan’s head money. But to what end?

  “Abbot, what do you think of all this?” Brother Andrew asked. The abbot hadn’t spoken a word in the meeting thus far, apparently leaving it to the prior to conduct this business. Now all eyes turned to him.

  “Of course, the boy’s family must have the say in his upbringing,” the abbot said. “And we will respect the traditional manor customs. Yet in my heart I despise treating this boy as mere property. In his soul, this boy is special—he is no mere serf. All of us can plainly see that.”

  Everyone looked at Xan with admiration.

  But his face was growing hot, and the tightness of anger crushing his chest was almost becoming unbearable. They were talking about his life—his future. The abbot was right: hadn’t he proved he was more than a slave laborer in the fields of Hardonbury?

  He stood. “But what if I don’t want to live with my uncle? What if I decide I like it better here at the abbey and want to stay?” He turned a pleading glance to Brother Andrew.

  The monk winked with his blue eye and then spoke. “If I may be so bold, I share Xan’s concern. He is already twelve and soon could legally marry or even enter the abbey as a novice.”

  “And if I may be so bold,” Sire Baldwin reminded them, “the boy is still a serf of Hardonbury. He must seek his new lord’s leave before a decision on either marriage or monastery. But whatever path the boy takes, his uncle is legally obligated to pay the required head money to free him.”

  The abbot rose. “So be it—you prevail, sire.” How quickly the abbot had surrendered; Brother Andrew would have fought harder.

  The abbot continued, “The boy’s future will be in the hands of his uncle. Indeed, I am now convinced we must send the child to Lincoln to discover God’s will for him.” The monks always spoke about “God’s will,” but what if his uncle had his own will and his own ideas and forced Xan to stay in Lincoln and live at his home with who knows who else?

  There was a thought—Uncle William might have married someone like Mother and started a family. Maybe the abbot’s idea was part of a grander plan, after all. Indeed, could this be a way for Xan to get a new family, perhaps even with brothers and sisters?

  Unless Uncle William didn’t want him; didn’t even want to pay his head money. Then he might be shipped back here to Hardonbury and forced to work as a slave—a serf forever.

  “Now then,” the abbot said. “All this talk of Lincoln brings me to another issue, Sire Baldwin. I wish to address the troubling matter of this bandit, Carlo.”

  “Aye,” Baldwin said. “My lord is anxious for the bandit to have his trial and be punished.” Xan’s chest tightened even more. The abbot should have given Carlo to Lord Godfrey months ago so he could be punished in a real court and thrown into a dungeon forever.

  “Recall,” the abbot said, “that I previously released those two other bandits to your lord’s custody. Yet, despite your lord’s promise to spare their lives, both men have come to harm.”

  “Nay, Abbot. Do not blame my lord for those men. He spared their lives in court so that they might turn to God as penitents, though they should have been hanged in the gallows.”

  “But they both have been killed,” the abbot said.

  Sire Baldwin fidgeted in his seat. “Well, the first bandit was justly punished—his hands chopped from his body with an ax, lest they sin again. That he bled to death was unfortunate.” That sounded like a punishment Carlo should also receive. Wit
hout his hands, he couldn’t possibly cause harm to anyone else’s mother and father.

  “And the other man?” the abbot said. “What happened with him?”

  “Another unfortunate incident, I fear,” Baldwin said sadly. “In the transfer ’twixt cells, that criminal attempted an escape. Some of our guards may have responded too harshly.”

  The abbot threw his beefy hands in the air. “By Adam, they beheaded the man as he ran!”

  Sire Baldwin didn’t respond, but instead picked nervously at the edges of his fingernails.

  “Twice I have trusted your lord, and twice he has failed me,” the abbot said. “There shall not be a third time. This Carlo will not face justice in your lord’s manor court.”

  The bailiff’s face looked puzzled. “But you made a sworn agreement, Abbot. Will you go back on your holy word and let that murderer live forever at your abbey without trial?”

  How terrible that would be if that bandit stayed here year after year, with the abbot visiting him and speaking kindly to him, while Rummy invaded the abbey searching for treasure. All the while, Mother and Father would be peering down from Heaven in horror.

  The abbot shook his head. “Nay, the bandit’s presence here is too perilous. Yet I will not send him to your lord’s court. I have made up my mind to send him to the royal courts for trial.”

  The bailiff’s brow wrinkled in confusion. “But the King would surely hang that murderer.”

  “I have a friend in the King’s courts,” the abbot said, lips upturned. “I have already penned a letter to send with Carlo. The King surely will honor my request to spare the hangman’s noose.”

  Baldwin held up both hands. “Now you have prevailed, Abbot. My lord will not fight the King over this. Except the royal judges may be hard to find; they move from town to town.”

  The abbot glanced at Xan. “Actually, I have it on good authority that one of the King’s courts—by God’s providence—will be spending Easter at Lincoln, where Xan’s uncle also lives.”