The Lychgate Page 4

  Cissa watched the lad go. “Did God say why, Pega?”

  The anchoress shook her head. “He has His reasons, no doubt. Does not Job make it clear that the mysteries of God are above our understanding?”

  “I meant no disrespect.”

  “Dear Cissa. Worthy governor of Croyland. I too questioned The Lord when His vision began. Who am I to say? Other commandments have I received for my brother’s relics. Even the most lowly among them. Will you help me in this task?”

  “Gladly, Sister Pega.”

  3

  Discovery at Midnight

  OCTOBER 2018.

  Halloween decorations of crepe paper ghosts, witches and pumpkins dangled from the dark, low wooden ceiling beams of ‘The Swan’ on the road from Peterborough to Peakirk. A wood-burning stove danced with quiet flames on the stone plinth of a solid, square fireplace. Padded settles and plush round stools provided comfortable seats at rectangular tables polished to a reflective sheen. Appropriate - if dated - faux candle bulb holders nurtured a cosy atmosphere, the warmth of which was enhanced by a tartan grey, blue and maroon carpet.

  Robert Mason squatted on one stool, taking a moment to regard the other patrons cramming into the pub for a mid-week evening meal. He rubbed grey eyes that matched his ageing hair: a short crop - wavy on top - in which the last hurrah of black was fading fast. The square head and firm chin suited his toned frame; unusually toned for an academic, though not muscular or showy in an athletic way. Across the table from him on one of the settles, a woman eight years senior to the forty-eight-year-old history lecturer, eyed that frame with soft, moist eyes. Those hazel lamps shone out from a semi-pudgy, cherub-like head with centre-parted white-blonde hair to her shoulders in straight ends. She stroked his right ankle under the table with one playful foot.

  “It’s busy for a Wednesday, Bob.”

  “What do you expect on Halloween? I guess this lot either don’t have kids, or they’ve left them at home to get on with it.”

  “Didn’t you and Janice ever consider starting a family?”

  Bob shook his head in a slow, deliberate motion; eyes darting across to the bar and a staff member who bore an uncomfortable resemblance to his ex-wife. “No. Good job. We didn’t settle down until our early thirties. They’d still have been young when Mummy’s roving eye led her astray.”

  The woman sipped from a long-stemmed glass of Pinot Grigio; focus never leaving her dinner companion. “I find it hard to believe you couldn’t keep her satisfied. I’ve had no complaints.”

  Bob caught the twinkle. Great. Abigail’s feeling horny again. Wonder if I can downplay it or change the subject? I hate it when we go on these ‘quests’ at night. “A marriage requires more than sex to keep it together. I’m surprised you never took the plunge. You’re an attractive woman with a big personality.”

  Abigail snorted. “Thanks for the backhanded compliment. You mean I was once, before I became a mid-fifties, jaded spinster with a loud mouth. How many times have you shut your eyes and imagined one of your doe-eyed, nubile female students, while your balls were slapping against my arse?”

  Bob cleared his throat in a pronounced series of coughs. He jerked his head at the diners on the nearest table. “Do you want to keep it down, Abigail?”

  The woman examined a middle-aged couple who had hesitated over their steaks. The wife dangled an onion ring from her fork, the shape of which matched her open-mouthed shock. Abigail looked from husband to wife and raised an eyebrow. “How’s the meat?”

  Bob rubbed his brow and grimaced, then gripped his dining partner’s hand to get her attention. “I can’t take you anywhere, can I?” He twisted to face the astounded couple, ears reddening. “Please excuse us.”

  The pair gave a polite acknowledgement and returned to their food.

  Abigail shrugged. “I call things as I see them. Always have. Always will.”

  Bob looked up as a female server appeared with their platters of food.

  The girl made a subtle juggling motion with her burden. “Who gets the pork belly?”

  Abigail grinned. “Mr Piggy is right there. Do you think he’ll pork me later, if I play my cards right?”

  Their waitress turned an instant shade of crimson as she placed Bob’s dinner on the table. She blinked at the outrageous woman. “You must be the trout then?”

  Abigail grunted. “I’m sure you enjoyed saying that.”

  The girl swallowed. “Can I get you any more drinks?”

  Abigail drained her glass. “I’ll have another large Pinot Grigio, if you please.”

  “Very good. And you, Sir?”

  Bob waved a flat hand over his pint of beer. “I’m fine. Thank you.”

  The waitress left.

  Abigail caught an expression black as thunder, aimed at her across the table. “Okay, Okay. I’ll behave. Jeez, Bob. Were you this uptight when you were married? No wonder Janice left.” As soon as the words popped out of her mouth, she bit her lip. It was a step too far, and Abigail knew it. “I’m sorry. That came out wrong. It saddens me to see you living in your own little world the whole time, that’s all. You’re a catch. Or you would be if you lightened up a bit.”

  Bob swallowed a mouthful of beer, in lieu of taking a deep breath and responding to a hurtful comment with anger. His eyes became distant. “That was the reason Janice and I drifted apart. She wanted to do more. I wanted to stay in with my books. Not even that. I couldn’t stand parties and insincere chit-chat, I suppose. The books became an excuse. A justifiable place for me to hide away, as a university lecturer.”

  Abigail sighed. “I know she hurt you. Maybe she did what you couldn’t? Something you both needed.”

  Bob raised a sarcastic eyebrow. “You mean banging every tradesman who came to call?”

  The woman snickered behind a raised hand. “That’s a little better. We need to hang loose if things are going to play out right this evening.”

  The historian applied significant pressure with a knife and fork to break off a piece of crackling from his pork belly. He smeared it into a splodge of apple sauce. Those smoky eyes drifted back to his partner. “So what’s this new vibration you’ve been picking up on? Where are we off to after dinner?”

  “Peakirk.”

  “Okay. Whereabouts? Not that there’s a lot of choice. Nice village though.”

  “The church.” Abigail lifted a forkful of trout to her lips.

  Bob crunched his crackling with a thoughtful expression. “That would have been my second guess.”

  Abigail gulped. “Second? Whatever would have been your first?”

  “The Hermitage. I believe it’s a private house now. Not that I’m keen on prowling around St. Pega’s after dark either. Why can’t we do this in daylight?”

  “Too conspicuous. The images I received involved us moving stones and earth.”

  “Great. Why do I get a nasty feeling we’ll be spending the last part of the evening at the police station, trying to explain ourselves?”

  Abigail gave a nod to the waitress as she deposited a fresh glass of wine on the table, then walked off. “Have I ever steered you wrong?”

  Bob rubbed his chin. “No. No, you haven’t.”

  “Have we always found something of interest to advance your career?”

  “Yes. Are you sure we can’t talk to the vicar of St. Pega’s about this? He might be sympathetic.”

  Abigail stuck out her chest and tightened her jaw. “I can imagine the conversation now: ‘Good morning, I’m Doctor Robert Mason, professor of history, and this is my semi-alcoholic, chain-smoking, psychic bit of skirt, Abigail Walters. Abby has amazing visions which often lead us to uncover lost items of historical interest. Is it okay if we dismantle your church?’ And that’s the point the door slams in your face.”

  Bob tucked into his food, speaking with a half-full mouth. “All right. Point taken. I hope we’re not going to damage anything. It’s a little more serious than digging a hole in a farmer’s field. So
what are we after?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What, no idea at all?”

  She shook her head. “The church appears in the images. I see signs for Peakirk. But there’s no clarity to any of it. I'll need some help with my focus tonight. If I’m not sharp, Bob…”

  The historian sighed. ‘Help with my focus’ was Abigail’s way of saying she needed to experience a flow or release of sexual energy to see things clearly. At first he’d suspected this was a ruse, or that she was playing with him. But there were moments from their past encounters (and the resulting discovered treasures) that quietened that cynical assessment. “Couldn’t you have sorted yourself out before I picked you up this evening?”

  The woman stroked his ankle under the table again, the cheeky twinkle returning to her eyes. “You know it has to be right on top of the search itself. Besides, that’s no fun.”

  “So you want to go all the way home and back again?”

  She shook her head. “No. Too far. It would take too long. The effect will have worn off.” She sipped her wine. “I’m sure there’s a quiet spot near the village we can pull over.”

  Bob sucked in a heartless laugh. “Parked up in the dark? I feel like I’m seventeen again.”

  Abigail grinned. “You’re welcome.”

  The academic bit his lip. “That wasn’t meant as a compliment.”

  The woman shrugged. “So who was this St. Pega? Any ideas?”

  “Pega was an anchorite.”

  “A what?”

  “An anchorite; or anchoress in her case. Someone who withdraws from the world in seclusion to commune with God.”

  “Sounds like a party girl.”

  Bob ignored the comment. “She came to the fens with her brother Guthlac at the end of the seventh century. Long before the land around here was drained. Back then, the area formed a series of islands.”

  “It’s criss-crossed with rivers and waterways now.”

  “True. But they were proper islands then. Anyway, the pair settled with a helper called Beccelm, on the island of Croyland. The spot where the nearby town of Crowland lies today, with its impressive abbey. Guthlac was a Mercian nobleman and soldier, who saw the light and became a monk. They built an oratory into the side of a plundered burial mound. After a time, Pega left to find her own place of seclusion.”

  “Because being stranded on a damp lump of mud with her brother and another bloke wasn’t lonely enough? Was she older or younger?”

  “A year younger. Pega settled on another island.”

  “Let me guess: it’s where Peakirk sits now?”

  Bob shovelled some food in while she was speaking. “No flies on you. That’s why I suspected we were off to the hermitage.”

  “How come?”

  “Many believe it’s the site of her cell. The only problem with that assumption, is a lack of foundations from before the twelfth century. It was a religious site, but St. Pega’s church is more likely to have been the spot she dwelt. That’s what I believe.”

  “Cool. You mean we could be about to dig her up? Is she buried there?”

  “No.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  Bob sipped his beer. “Because she died on a pilgrimage to Rome in AD 719, five years after her brother passed away at Croyland.”

  “Bummer. Did they bring her body back home?”

  “No. There’s a popular story that her heart was returned to Peakirk in a heart stone and kept in the church as a relic. Cromwell’s troops smashed it. The broken remains are in the south aisle window.”

  “I may not have your knowledge of history, but Cromwell was another kill-joy, wasn’t he?”

  “The guy who cancelled Christmas? You bet.”

  “Cancelled Christmas?”

  “The Puritans weren’t party people either. Did you know it’s still illegal to give or receive presents on Christmas day in this country?”

  “Fuck off. For real?”

  Bob gave a nonchalant wave. “Nobody enforces those unrepealed laws, of course. It’s also illegal not to shoot a quiver of arrows on a Sunday, to take a pebble from Brighton beach, or beat a rug before eight AM.”

  A saucy half-smile crept across Abigail’s countenance. “I love beating my rug before eight AM.”

  At the next table, the middle-aged couple cleared their throats and tried talking louder to drown out the licentious woman’s quips.

  Bob was keen to steer her back onto the topic of history. “So, if you ever meet someone who claims never to have broken the law…”

  Abigail finished her trout. “You’re a mine of information. Not just a cute butt. I like that.”

  Bob thought about saying ‘the butt or the mine,’ but the last thing she needed was encouragement.

  “So did this Pega woman ever see her brother again?”

  “Yes. One story goes that Guthlac knew he would die and sent for her. She is supposed to have sailed down the River Welland and cured a blind man at Wisbech on the way. It’s said she inherited Guthlac’s psalter and scourge, which she later gave to Crowland Abbey. Other stories have her arriving the day after he died, spending three days in prayer at Croyland and then burying him on the island. A year later she returned, moved his body to a chapel and re-distributed some of his possessions. The church told everyone his body remained uncorrupted and glowing, marking him as a saint.”

  “A glow-in-the-dark corpse? Lovely. I’m not brilliant with maps, but even I know Wisbech isn’t on the way from Peakirk to Crowland.”

  Bob chuckled. “They’re stories. But like much of history and mythology, there’s some basis in fact to them.”

  “So how come Guthlac got an abbey built at his gaff, and his poor sister only had a crummy church?”

  “Well that’s another story.”

  “Thought it might be. Listen, if we’re going to get a dessert before last orders, we’d better ask for it now.” She caught the attention of their waitress. “Do you fancy sorbet, Bob? Something quick and easy?”

  “Sure. Lemon, if they’ve got it.”

  The waitress lifted their plates. “Can I get-”

  Abigail interrupted. “Two lemon sorbets, please.”

  “Coming up.”

  Abigail grabbed her dining partner’s hand. “Go on then. Tell me about the abbey.”

  “Right. While Guthlac and Beccelm were living at Croyland, Æthelbald, son of Alweo fled there in exile with some of his men.”

  “Who from?”

  “His second cousin, Ceolred, who was King of Mercia from AD 709 - 716. After Ceolred died during a fit while feasting, Æthelbald returned home and became ruler. Legend has it Guthlac prophesied Æthelbald would become King of Mercia, who told him if that came to pass he would build the monk an abbey at Croyland. Even though Guthlac had been dead two years at the time of his coronation, Æthelbald kept his word. Work began on the abbey in AD 716.”

  “Æthelbald sounds like an honourable man. So that’s why Guthlac got an abbey and Pega only a church?”

  “You’ve got it. The abbey became part of the Benedictine Order. Unfortunately there aren’t many records left before the twelfth century, thanks to a series of fires. Guthlac’s remains were moved a couple more times. Once in 1136 and again in 1196 when they placed his shrine above the altar. A couple of Anglo-Saxon poems survive about him. The British Museum have a pictorial record of his life from the early thirteenth century. If you’re interested, I have prints of ‘The Guthlac Roll’ I can show you sometime.”

  “Does his sister get a mention?”

  “Yes. The fifteenth roundel depicts Beccelm going to tell Pega of Guthlac’s death. You can see her in his funeral scene in the sixteenth. The roll has Æthelbald discovering the monk’s uncorrupted body and moving the tomb a year after his death. But the story I told you about Pega is more likely.”

  “I don’t know how you remember all these facts and dates about people who’ve been dead for centuries.”

  The waitress deposited
their sorbets.

  Abigail smiled at her. “Thanks. Can we get the bill please?”

  “Sure.”

  Bob watched the brash psychic suffer an instant brain freeze from diving into her dessert with gusto. “Don’t you think we have time for a coffee?”

  The barmaid who resembled Janice Mason, rang a large brass bell. “Last orders. Last orders, please.”

  Abigail winked. “No.”

  “I didn’t mean Irish Coffees.”

  “You’re going to take me somewhere quiet for ‘coffee,’ remember? Shit, I hope you came prepared.”

  Bob frowned. “I need to visit the gent’s anyway. Sure they’ll…”

  Abigail slurped on her sorbet to lessen its chilly bite. “I assume you’re taking care of the bill.”

  “Unless you’ve come into some money. How’s business?”

  “Spinning, textiles, basketry and herbalism? I’m paying the rent. You want to talk about miracles…”

  Bob tried some of his own dessert. “Bet you hate the question about what you do for a living.”

  Abigail sniffed. “I tell people I’m a professional drunk. They leave me alone after that.” She downed the rest of her wine in a single gulp. “Drink up, you sexy walking history book, you." She tapped a pack of cigarettes in her pocket. "I’m bursting for a fag. See you back at the car?”

  “Okay.”

  Bob settled up with the waitress and wandered down a tight corridor to the gent’s loo. It was your classic pub convenience: Half-tiled white walls, a urinal that didn’t appear to have been cleaned in fifty years (with dissolving yellow soap in its drain), and a cubicle door that refused to shut and bolt. Its present occupant delivered a series of exaggerated coughs, anytime someone entered the room. Better that than a door in the face and an embarrassing encounter. The historian took a leak and washed his hands. A chilly Halloween breeze blasted through a rusty fanlight above the sink. Bob noticed Abigail hanging around in the car park, a faint glow pulsing from the cigarette between her fingers. He fished around in his purse for change. A wonky condom machine hung on the wall. It appeared as old as the urinal. Bob hoped its contents weren’t of similar vintage. He inserted some coins and pulled out the tray on a suitable brand of prophylactic. The cubicle door banged open and a red-faced man of obese appearance staggered out. He caught sight of Bob standing at the dispenser. Both men averted their eyes. Why did it always feel embarrassing to be discovered buying condoms in a pub toilet? Bob made a mental note to always have protection in his wallet whenever Abigail claimed to have psychic impressions leading to another treasure hunt.