Curse of Weyrmouth (Curse of Weyrmouth Series Book 1) Read online

  Curse of Weyrmouth

  Written by David Longhorn

  Edited by Emma Salam

  Copyright © 2017 by ScareStreet.com

  All rights reserved

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  Table of Contents

  Prologue: Weyrmouth, 1314 AD

  Chapter 1: The Mystery and the Ghosts

  Chapter 2: Holy Joe Knows It, Erin Blows It

  Chapter 3: Encounters in the Rain

  Chapter 4: The Morning After

  Chapter 5: A Woman's Place

  Chapter 6: Origin Stories

  Chapter 7: Children of the Quincunx

  Chapter 8: Patterns, Emerging

  Chapter 9: The Mystery and the Storm

  Chapter 10: Interludes

  Chapter 11: The Hungry Stones

  Epilogue: Scars

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  Prologue: Weyrmouth, 1314 AD

  Brother Justin was roused from his prayers by the tolling of the monastery bell. For a terrible moment, he feared that the city was about to be attacked by the Scots. Justin, a timid soul, was well aware that the great English army had recently been annihilated by Robert the Bruce, at a place called Bannockburn. King Edward was rumored to be dead or held captive, though some said he had fled the field like a coward and was now in hiding. Whatever the truth, Justin lived in dread of the Scottish warlord's army sweeping south, laying waste to Weyrmouth, leaving his beloved city a smoking ruin.

  However, it only took a few seconds of sober reflection to realize that this was no ordinary alarm. As he left his cell and rushed along the corridor towards the main quadrangle, he heard snatches of conversation between other monks. No one spoke of the Scots, of enemies, or the defense of the city. Justin cursed the vow of silence he had made just a few weeks earlier. It still had over eleven months to run, and meant he could not ask anyone what was going on.

  What are they talking about, though? Why so much concern for the cathedral?

  The novice looked up at the great bulk of Weyrmouth Cathedral. In the uncertain light of dawn, it loomed over the monastery like some great beast of myth, dark and inscrutable. Justin paused, staring up at the vast edifice. There was something wrong. For a moment, Justin wondered if some of the scaffolding around the half-finished structure had fallen down.

  No, it's more than that. The angles seem wrong, as if the tower itself was askew.

  A heavy blow struck him in the small of the back as another monk collided with Justin.

  “So sorry, Brother! Let me help you up!”

  It was Brother Michael, one of the older monks, nearly fifty. Michael was a gruff but kindly soul who had ensured Justin was properly fed and clad when he first entered the monastery. Michael lifted Justin back to his feet easily. The old man was strong. Rumor had it that he had been a knight and even fought on a Crusade before taking monkish orders.

  “Cat got your tongue, lad?” asked Michael, and slapped his forehead. “Of course! What a fool I am. Well, come with me and perhaps the Abbot will explain. We are to assemble in the quad.”

  Taking Justin's arm Michael hastened onto the rectangle of turf at the heart of the monastic complex. The area was crowded with brown-robed men of all ages, milling uncertainly, waiting for someone of authority to speak. The Abbott, white-haired and wearing a splendid golden crucifix, emerged. He looked flustered, clearly just woken from his bed.

  “Now we'll find out what all this fuss is–” began Michael, but then stopped, gawping up at the cathedral. There was a collective gasp, a few shouts of panic, some cries of 'No!' and even a few blasphemies.

  The great tower was falling.

  Even in the pre-dawn light, it was clear now that the incomplete tower had started to keel over to the left. Like a ponderous drunk collapsing in the street, the splendid structure reeled, and now Justin could hear the sound of its demise. There was a terrible roar, growing ever louder, punctuated by sharp cracks as the wooden scaffolding shattered under the strain. Then the tower started to disintegrate, losing its splendid shape to become a great avalanche of disparate stones. It seemed to take an eternity from the shattered remnants of the tower to strike the earth. When it did, Justin felt the impact through his sandaled feet long before the deafening crash reached his ears.

  “You can get up lad, it's over.”

  Again, Justin felt Brother Michael's strong hand on his arm. The young man had been crouching, cringing in terror.

  “It is the Devil's Work!” declared another Brother, falling to his knees. Looking around, Justin realized that most of his fellow monks were praying frantically and felt a pang of guilt for not having done so.

  “Devil my arse!” rasped Brother Michael. “They built it on bad foundations. And it's not over yet, come on lad!”

  The older man dragged Justin away from the rest, back the way they had come. Justin almost broke his vow, but instead grasped the front of Michael's robe and looked questioningly at him. Justin struggled to break free but the former warrior was too strong.

  “Don't fight lad, just run! There's a cloud of filth on its way.”

  Justin glanced over his shoulder and almost fell, shock weakening his legs. A huge cloud of dust was rising from the area where the tower had stood, looming over the wall of the monastery. He stopped struggling against Michael and started to run. They had just dodged inside the refectory when the cloud of choking dust descended onto the quadrangle. Michael helped a few other brothers into the room then slammed the door, coughing. He had not been quick enough to keep out all the dust.

  “What happened?” demanded another novice, eyes wide with terror.

  “You saw it, son,” replied Michael, rushing to secure the shutters facing outward into the city. “Bloody this should never have been built.”

  “But how can the house of God fail so disastrously?” demanded the frightened monk. Justin recalled his name was Philip.

  “Because God gave us brains and eyes and hands to use wisely, lad!” snapped Michael. “And if we are foolish, He does not help us. Folly on the scale of that tower – well, it was an accident waiting to happen. Too big, too heavy, thousands of tons of stone set on soft earth, not proper bedrock.”

  “Too big?” asked Philip, clearly disappointed by Michael's pragmatic explanation. “But the Bishop commanded that it be the highest in the land!”

  “Indeed,” said Michael, bitterly. “It's easy to command the impossible. Rather more difficult to achieve it.”

  From outside came the sounds of coughing. Fists began to beat at the refectory door. At first, the blows were frantic, loud, but after a minute, they grew weak, and then faded to nothing.

  “Give it until dawn,” said Michael to the others. “Then we'll go out and see if any survived. You never know.”

  Then, looking around, the eldest monk added, “God is sometimes merciful, after all.”

  ***

  “Do not tell me that it can't be done!”

  Simon de Beauville, Bishop of Northumbria, slammed his fist down on the table. The scale model of the new Weyrmouth Cathedral jumped. For a terrible moment, Brother Justin thought that the small tower would fall just as the real one had done. He caught the bis
hop's eye as the prelate swept his gaze around the assembled company. Justin looked down at the table.

  Michael had taken the novice to the meeting at the Bishop's palace. The old campaigner had become Abbot after most of the senior monks had died in the catastrophe. His vow of silence still had eight months to run, but as Abbot Michael had pointed out 'one does not need to speak in order to fill one's guts with wine and meat'.

  “Besides,” he had added, “it will do you good to get away from prayers and piety, if only for one night.”

  However, while Justin had enjoyed the meal, rubbing shoulders with the most powerful men in the region had not been so pleasant. The atmosphere had been strained. No one had been able to keep an eye off the painted wooden model of the cathedral. It was like a specter at the feast.

  “Failure is unacceptable,” said Simon, lowering his voice slightly. “The death of the Master Mason and his team in the – in the accident merely spared me the trouble of punishing them for their incompetence! I have sent word to London, Paris, Rome, and all the great cities of Christendom – yea, even to mighty Constantinople! All men of learning shall know that we have a vacancy. We need the greatest expertise in the construction of splendid buildings. Soon a replacement will be found and work can recommence.”

  The chief of the city's Stonemasons Guild cleared his throat quietly.

  “You have doubts, Master Hugh?” said the Bishop. “If so, feel free to express them.”

  The expert did not meet the Bishop's eye, but spoke clearly enough.

  “Your Grace,” he began, “the site chosen for the cathedral is unstable. Most of the structure is sound, but the tower – your Grace, there is simply too much weight concentrated in too small an area. The soil will give way again and the tower will collapse. Perhaps a less ambitious plan?”

  The Guild Master tailed off. The Bishop's reply came in a surprisingly mild voice.

  “What Man's mind can conceive, Man's hand can create. This, I firmly believe. And I also believe that when the tower is finished, it will remain the tallest in the land for many decades. The refurbished cathedral will once more ensure that Weyrmouth draws pilgrims from far and wide to wonder at the house of the Lord. And this, Master Hugh, will ensure the continuing prosperity of your guildsmen. And all the other tradesmen and merchants of the city, for that matter.”

  That is such a powerful argument, thought Justin. Why, then, do I feel it is wrong?

  “Such a worldly motive seems to me impure,” said Abbot Michael. “Does your Grace not in fact put Mammon before God?”

  There were sharp intakes of breath around the table. The new abbot had earned a reputation for bluntness, but this was taking plain speaking to unprecedented levels Bishop Simon did not seem as if he had heard Michael's remarks. The prelate continued to stare at the model of his precious cathedral, as if it would offer him an answer to the question. Then Simon drew himself up his full height, his arm shot out, a be-ringed finger pointed in accusation.

  “You dare to judge me, monk?” he bellowed. “I am God's anointed representative, and I say it is right that his house should be a place of glory, of beauty, of wealth. Nothing is too good for the church! I am only sorry that I approved your promotion to Abbot so quickly. Had I known your pestiferous nature then I would have found a better man. Let me make my intentions clear for your benefit, Lord Abbot. I would hire the Devil himself if I thought he could keep that tower standing.”

  The Bishop was about to continue his tirade when there was a scraping of metal and the doors of the great hall opened. A gust of winter wind caused torches and candles to gutter, sending shadows flickering across the chamber. Heads turned, and Bishop Simon raised his eyes to glare at the intruder. Justin screwed up his eyes to try and make out who had opened the door. But all he could see was a tall, spare form framed by the red blaze of the December sunset. The newcomer was wearing a hooded cloak, his feet encased in riding boots.

  “What is it? Who dares intrude here?”

  “One who comes to answer your summons.”

  The stranger's voice was strange. Brother Justin could not quite make sense of it. Though the intruder spoke softly, his words seemed to echo in the monk's head.

  He stands a good twenty feet away, thought Justin, yet he might be whispering in my ear.

  “Summons?”

  For the first time, Bishop Simon seemed unsure of himself. But then the prelate recovered his composure.

  “Ah, you are a master mason, perhaps? You come to offer help for gold?”

  The figure stepped forward into the room. A servant who had been waiting at a table recovered from her surprise and rushed forward to close the door. At the last minute, the servant hesitated, changed direction, and skirted around the newcomer to keep a good three feet between them.

  Yet there is nothing menacing in the man's demeanor, thought Justin. At least, nothing apparent to me at this distance.

  “I will build your tower and it will stand firm for seven centuries – not a year longer, not a year less,” said the stranger.

  “Seven hundred years?” said the Bishop. “Make it solid for ten and I will give you your weight in gold! But yes, seven hundred years is more than enough.”

  The stranger shook his head.

  “I have no use for gold. Where I come from, it has no currency.”

  “Silver, then, or perhaps diamonds, pearls, rubies!” roared the bishop. “By Our Lady, you may claim any reward within my power!”

  The stranger raised a slender, rather feminine hand and removed his hood. The face revealed was unlined by age or cares and framed by thick golden hair. There was a collective sigh of relief. Justin realized that he, too, had been holding his breath.

  What did we expect? I have no idea, thought Justin. But not this.

  “You are young, sirrah!” exclaimed the bishop in a voice tinged with dismay. “Surely a mere stripling cannot have mastered the great skills you claim?”

  The stranger walked forward to the far end of the long table, and stood facing the bishop. Again, Justin noticed the two local dignitaries nearest the newcomer flinched, much as the servant had done.

  “I am far more experienced than I look,” declared the youth. “And more knowledgeable in matters of this world than any of your graybeard masons.”

  “Well, we shall see,” said the Bishop, raising a hand to quell mutterings of indignation among the guildsmen. “You do not expect me to simply hand this great enterprise to you without any proof of your claims?”

  The golden-haired youth shook his head.

  “You will have all the proof you desire, Simon.”

  More mutterings, now, at the insolence of anyone addressing the kingdom's third-highest clergyman in such familiar terms.

  “Since you know my name,” growled the Bishop, “perhaps you will honor me by vouchsafing yours?”

  The youth smiled, then. His teeth were extraordinary – shining white and even, devoid of any gaps or signs of rot.

  And yet it is somehow an old man's smile, thought Justin. And now that he could see the incomer more closely, he found it difficult to decide what color the stranger's eyes were. Brown, black, blue, green? They resisted understanding. Perhaps they were gray, no color at all?

  “I answer to Master Nicholas,” said the stranger. “It will suffice.”

  A pause, as the company waited in vain for the youth to add 'your Grace'. Eventually the Bishop grunted, gestured at a servant. An extra chair was brought and the mayor of Weyrmouth was made to vacate his seat at Simon's right hand.

  “Well, young Master Nick, sit and break bread with us. Take some of this fine Rhenish wine, and tell me of your plans.”

  The young man took his seat, and the banquet recommenced. But, as before, talk was subdued. This time, it was the colorless eyes of the strange young man that the Bishop's guests feared to meet. Every time he looked up from his close discussions with Bishop Simon, a dozen or more pairs of eyes would quickly look down, or up into the shadow
s of the rafters.

  Even if I could speak, I would not, thought Justin, and spent the rest of the evening focused on his mutton.

  ***

  Months passed, and Brother Justin's vow of silence ended. He was promoted from novice to true monk. The cathedral site was cleared once more and work recommenced on the foundations. Expectations ran high for a while that some strange innovations would be introduced. But little was seen of the mysterious Master Nicholas, who was seldom seen on the site and then only after dark. Most of his instructions were conveyed to the dozens of workmen via the Bishop's secretaries. It seemed that Simon de Beauville was in frequent conclave with the youthful expert, and eager to ensure that his every instruction was followed.

  A year passed, and then another, as the tower began to rise once more. By the winter of 1316, it had surpassed the height of the cathedral's imposing roof. Once more, the old masons of the city's guild began to mutter about too much weight on shaky foundations. As November turned to December and the great holiday of Christmas approached, passersby once more cast anxious eyes on the great tower.

  Then came the first incident.

  It was just after evening prayers and a gentle fall of snow had begun. Justin crossed the quadrangle, little feeling the cold, to meet with Abbot Michael. He had been summoned on short notice and feared some reprimand. But, try as he might, the young man could not think of anything he had done wrong.

  “Don't worry lad,” said the abbot as soon as Justin entered. The old man coughed for a few moments, huddled a little closer to his blazing fire. It was common knowledge that the old warrior's health had taken a turn for the worse recently.

  “I need your help, that's all,” Michael went on. “I only wish it were on a more … a more seemly matter.”

  Taking a seat by the fire as he was bidden, Justin sat opposite his superior and broke bread with the old man. The abbot was troubled, and it soon became clear why. Justin listened as Michael outlined a strange command just received by Bishop Simon.