Abbot Stephen would pause and the brothers seated round the great, oval-shaped oaken table would quietly groan to themselves. They’d look at each other and raise their eyes heavenwards. On this matter they could agree with their abbot. Lady Margaret Harcourt was a recluse, a widow lost in her own memories and dreams but, she was a fearsome opponent to Abbot Stephen. If the abbey cattle or sheep grazed on her lands, if an abbey servant wandered onto her fields, she would cry trespass. She may live like a grieving widow but Lady Margaret had the ear of skilful lawyers in both Lincoln and Ely. Finally, Abbot Stephen would come to his most telling argument.
‘And then there is the tumulus, the King’s grave in the centre of the meadow. Is it right for us to desecrate such a tomb?’
‘Abbot Stephen,’ Prior Cuthbert would retort. ‘How do we know it is a royal burial place?’
‘We don’t,’ Abbot Stephen would respond. ‘But, according to the ancient chronicles kept in our library, this was the last resting place of Sigbert, formerly King of these parts, who fought the heathen Northmen. He protected Holy Mother Church and was captured and martyred, clubbed to death. According to tradition, Sigbert’s corpse was later rescued by his followers and given honourable burial in our meadow. I consider it unseemly to disturb such a grave.’
‘But can’t we find out for sure?’ Prior Cuthbert had protested. ‘How do we know anyone is really buried there? The meadow is owned by us, the tumulus is on abbey property. Surely there is nothing wrong if we dug a tunnel into the tumulus to discover the truth? If Sigbert is truly buried there,’ Prior Cuthbert would continue triumphantly, ‘then, as a saint and a martyr, shouldn’t his holy remains be transferred to a consecrated burial place like our abbey church? Our monastery would then truly become a place of pilgrimage.’
Abbot Stephen would shake his head. ‘It is not our task to do that. Whilst I am Abbot of St Martin’s, it shall not be done.’
Prior Cuthbert leaned against the Judas gate, stared up at the sky and prayed for patience. The words kept echoing through his mind.
‘As long as I am Abbot of St Martin’s.’
How long would Abbot Stephen remain? A former soldier, a tall, vigorous man, he could be their Abbot for the next twenty or thirty years. Prior Cuthbert’s dream would become a nightmare, years of frustration, failed expectations and dashed hopes. Prior Cuthbert could imagine in his mind’s eye the new guesthouse with its stately buildings, small cloister and rose garden. He had pored over the plans of Brother Gildas, their architect and stonemason. He had sought private interviews with Abbot Stephen but the response was always the same.
‘As long as I am Abbot of St Martin’s, Bloody Meadow will be used only for our cattle and sheep.’
Prior Cuthbert stamped his sandalled foot. It was well named Bloody Meadow! According to local lore, as well as the ancient chronicles, this was where Sigbert had met the heathen Northmen and fought them from dawn till dusk. His army had broken but Sigbert had stood and fought with his house carls until they had died, one by one. Sigbert had been captured and offered his life if he rejected Christ and accepted the heathen gods. Sigbert had rejected this and been cruelly clubbed to death. Prior Cuthbert stared across at the huge tumulus in the centre of the meadow. Was that truly Sigbert’s burial mound? He would love to find out. He walked across the frosty grass and stopped before the disputed tumulus. He ignored the call of a screech owl and the yelp of some animal caught in the bracken down near Falcon Brook. Prior Cuthbert felt slightly anxious. He did not believe in goblins and sprites, hideous woodmen or the ghosts of the dead. Yet, this was Sigbert’s last resting place. Did his ghost haunt this meadow? Or worse, those of his killers? Prior Cuthbert shook himself free from this sombre reverie. He once again measured out the tumulus: it was about three yards high, a rectangle sloping at the top. He’d already measured the sides, top and base: five yards long, three yards wide. What could it be? The Prior started as he heard an animal screech and felt the sweat break out between his shoulder blades. He gazed round. In the moonlight, the shadows round the oaks seemed deeper, darker, longer. He really should return to his community. But what about the future? He clasped his hands and closed his eyes. In many ways he admired Abbot Stephen but he would not hesitate to use any weapons he was given in his fight for the new guesthouse. The Prior had hinted at what he’d seen here in Bloody Meadow but Abbot Stephen had only stared coldly back.
Prior Cuthbert turned back. He was halfway across the meadow when he heard a sound and whirled round. Surely not? Then he heard it again — the haunting blast of a hunting horn! He paused, holding his breath. Again the sound echoed, braying through the night. Prior Cuthbert’s stomach lurched and his sweat ran cold. So the stories were true! Yet who could be blowing a hunting horn at the dead of night? The sound had seemed to echo across Falcon Brook from Lady Margaret’s place: perhaps a retainer who had drunk too much? It couldn’t be a ghost! Prior Cuthbert did not believe in spectral horsemen or the Mandeville demon. He glared back at the tumulus. Soon the sun would rise and the night would disappear. The abbey of St Martin’s would remain, as would this meadow, but the dreams Prior Cuthbert had nourished would fade into nothing. Perhaps it was a time for action? The Prior turned back, went through the Judas gate and down by the side of the church towards his lodgings. He paused in the courtyard and stared up at the great bay windows of the Abbot’s lodgings. The shutters were open and he glimpsed the glow of candlelight. He smiled grimly to himself. Abbot Stephen, too, was thinking. Perhaps in time he might bow to the sound arguments and ominous threats of his prior.
Abbot Stephen had also heard the hunting horn. He sighed, got up, walked to the bay window and stared out into the night.
‘Go away!’ he prayed. ‘Please stop that!’
The final blast of the hunting horn seemed to mock him. It invoked memories long hidden, buried beneath years of service as a monk: the hours of prayer, the fasting, the hair shirts, the private pilgrimages on bruised knees up the long nave of the abbey church. Oh yes, Abbot Stephen thought of the past with its nightmares, haunting dreams, soul-wrestling anguish and heartbreak. Wasn’t his reparation accepted? Hadn’t God forgiven him for his sins? Couldn’t he be allowed to continue his great work? Was there a God who listened? Was there a God at all? Abbot Stephen heard a footstep from the courtyard below and peered quickly through the mullioned glass. He couldn’t make out the shadowy form but he knew it must be Prior Cuthbert. Abbot Stephen stepped away and crossed to the small wood fire burning in the canopied hearth. The Abbot crouched down and stretched his hands towards the flames.
‘Perhaps I should resign?’ he whispered.
He stared at the small gargoyles on either side of the hearth, the wizened faces of monkeys each surmounted by a pair of horns.
I could resign, he reflected, but what then? He was not only Father Abbot but also Exorcist in the dioceses of Lincoln and Ely. He had work to do, both as a monk and a priest, so why should he give it up? Especially now, when Prior Cuthbert was so concerned about that meadow and his new guesthouse! His hands now warm, Abbot Stephen returned to his long polished desk and sat down. Before him was a triptych, the central scene showing Christ on the cross and the side panels, Mary and St John. It was the Abbot’s favourite picture. He looked at the great book before him which he had taken from the library. Beside it was a sheet of vellum where he made his own notes. This was his world; prayer and study, ink horn and quill, pumice stone and freshly prepared parchment. Abbot Stephen was a great letter writer. In the past two years he had been engaged in academic debate with his old adversary Archdeacon Adrian and the great Dominican Order at Blackfriars in London over the nature of demonic possession and the rite of exorcism. The debate had been sharp but scholarly. The Dominicans supported the Archdeacon of St Paul’s, Master Adrian Wallasby maintaining that exorcism was much exaggerated and those described as possessed, were more sick in mind than in the possession of the Lords of the Air, the demons of Hell. Abbot Stephen had been vigorously challenged so, in three days’ time, he planned to hold an exorcism in his own abbey church. The candidate had been chosen, a man who’d sought the Abbot’s help and was now kept in close quarters in a private chamber adjoining the infirmary. Five days ago Archdeacon Adrian had arrived at St Martin’s. He seemed to have relinquished his longstanding grudges against the Abbot, insisting that he only wished to interrogate the possessed man and witness the exorcism. Abbot Stephen had been concentrating on that until the past had intruded in a harsh and brutal way.