Murder in the Cloister

It was a bitterly cold and clear night. Standing on the balcony on the upper level of the monastery, the inquisitor Pietro Ruffio gazed down at the courtyard where a lone novice was walking towards the well. The monastery was otherwise quiet and still. He then looked up at the brightly speckled pelt of the heavens, a foil against which the silhouettes of rugged mountains appeared black and massive. As he gazed, he noticed something odd: a bright orange serpent that seemed to be slowly slithering down one of the slopes. At first he thought it was a miraculous vision.

A novice monk passed respectfully along the balcony, bringing light and fresh linen to the inquisitor’s bedroom.

“Tell me, child,” said Ruffia suddenly. “Do you see that bright shape on the mountain?”

The boy looked and the candlelight showed his eyes grow wide, his pupils small. He seemed frozen to the spot.

“Well?” Ruffia said, with some iron in his tone.

“Yes, I see it.”

“Do you know what it is?”

“Father, it is a wicked thing. I am afraid to tell you.”

“Don’t be afraid. Whatever you say, I won’t blame you…if it is the truth.”

“It’s a procession, father.”

“Go on, child, tell me all. What of the procession?”

“It is every year on this day, Candlemass Eve. Some ignorant people dress in strange costumes to look like wild beasts: wolfskins and stag antlers, squirrel tails and goat skins. They make frightful masks out of wood. Dressed in this way they climb to the peak of Mount Cinghiale and make their way down the path singing and making a terrible noise with horns, whistles, drums and rattles.”

“And what is the meaning of it?”

The boy did not speak; it looked as if he could not.

“Well, never mind,” said Ruffia kindly. “Hurry along. It’s late. I’m sure you have plenty of duties to carry out tomorrow.”

“Yes father,” the boy whispered and scurried away.

The inquisitor remained for a while, watching the progress of that bright serpent. He wore a worried expression. Suddenly he shivered and felt the need to descend to the cloister, to pace, to pray, to think. Tomorrow he would interrogate the barba, the Waldensian preacher who was being held in the dungeon in the city. The man freely admitted his guilt, almost seemed to glory in it. If he didn’t repent, if he failed to convert to the true path, Ruffia would have to condemn the man to death. These barbe rarely repented. It was an unpleasant business but heresy had spread far enough in this mountain enclave and he had to do something. It had become a problem. Yes, a considerable problem…

***

Just before dawn a bleary-eyed novice went out to fetch water at the well. He laboriously used a stick to break the icy surface and eventually managed to haul up a bucketful. He was just going to take it to the kitchen when he spied a huddled black form lying on the covered walkway that skirted the courtyard. The novice approached, expecting he would have to kick a begger out—sometimes it happened. Then he saw a red frozen pool around the form. He realized it was a man, and a dead man at that. The black stuff was a robe, the robe of a Dominican…The novice suddenly dropped his wooden pail and yelled, his voice breaking: “Sanctu Jesu! Murder! Murder!”

In the center of the cloister, next to the well, there was a bare apple tree and a bushy shrub. The sound of the boy’s voice, high and urgent, prompted three choughs to rise from its branches, complaining with loud and lazy croaks.

The novice rushed, almost tripping over his robes, into the chapel on his way to the bell tower. A minute later the welkin rang with the sound of bells. Roused by the clamour, the whole community of monks rose and rushed out barefoot despite the hard frost.

Horror piled on horror. Murder in the cloister! It was unheard of. How could it be? The monastery was always locked at nights. An intruder would have been noticed immediately. In an instant, almost as one mind, the community realized that the killer could be, probably was, among them.

Even worse, the victim was no less than Pietro Ruffia, the inquisitor who had arrived that very week. His Holiness the Pope had personally nominated Ruffia to visit their monastery, to bring heretics and pagans back to the flock. Now this. What would the harvest be? Would the monastery be blamed? Dread settled over them all like the shadow of Monte Cinghiale itself.

***

When the sindaco Giacamo Corvino heard the bells, he knew that something was wrong. It was not the right time for the bells to ring and nor was it the right sound. It was disorderly. Life in the village was usually sleepy but it also had a very reliable rhythm and order. Any variation from this order signalled a problem: disaster, death, bad weather, drunkenness…He knew from experience that if problems were not dealt with immediately, they had a way of growing fast.

He decided to go to the monastery at once.

Giacamo was a short man of about forty-five with thick lips and a pronounced limp that lent him a grotesque aspect. He was a figure of fun in the town for his appearance, his stutter and his fussiness. At the same time, he was also the first person anyone went to in times of trouble. He had a way of smoothing things over and solving problems that was reassuring. The townspeople regarded him almost as a kind of grotesque mascot with quasi-magical powers.

Outside the monastery door, which was (unusually) closed, a crowd of townspeople had gathered muttering among themselves and waiting for news. They knew someone had died but no one had told them anything else.

“It was the witch Berenice, I’ll stake my eye on it,” said Chiara the laundress. “She looked askance at my little niece last year; not two months later the child was dead. Walls would be no obstacle for her.”

“Mark my words it was the Waldensians—they knew Ruffia was to condemn the barba today,” argued the blacksmith. “They scaled the walls and murdered him in cold blood—to send a message.”

“Don’t you all realize what day it is?” The baker’s wife said. “He was murdered on Candlemass Eve, the night of the Black Mass! What better way to celebrate than to sacrifice the holiest man in the city? They crucified the poor man then drank his blood!”

“And how was that lot of drunken fools going to get over those walls with no one noticing a thing, I’d like to know?”

“No, no, it was that team of bandits. They’ve already killed seven pilgrims this month coming over the pass. Now they’ve decided to ransack the church.”

“Has no one wondered about the monks themselves? That’s the likeliest explanation,” said the cooper.

Giacamo clicked his tongue with annoyance, limped up to the monastery door, turned to the crowd, whistled loudly and raised his hands. They fell silent and looked at him expectantly.

“Go back to your work. I’m going to talk to the abbot now to find out what I can. I’ll give an announcement in the square later today. What’s needed here is not useless chatter but common sense. Each of us should stick to our god-given tasks.”

His word, as usual, was accepted as authority and the motley crowd dispersed reluctantly. Giacamo called one ragged little boy over to him, whispered something in his ear and put a gold coin in the boy’s palm. The boy stared at him, wide eyed, and then ran as fast as he could back to the town.

The mayor waited until the crowd was a good way off before knocking. He heard small feet running and then, after some time, the slow, pain-informed footsteps of an older man. A pair of bloodshot eyes regarded him through the slit and he heard the bolt shift in its slot. The friar was as thin and gawky as a heron, his tonsured grey hair spiky in a way very reminiscent of that bird. His hand was trembling visibly.

The mayor kissed his hand and gave the clergyman a shrewd, questioning look.

Wiping his brow with a trembling hand, the friar shook his head, distraught.

“A terrible business. Thank God you’re here. Come in, come in.”

The friar led him to the vestry, where two other men stood with grave expressions: the abbot of the nearby Cathedral of St. Justus and Lord de Serverie, who owned the castle on the hill behind the monastery.

The abbot was small, sleek and beautifully dressed. He wore jewelled rings, shoes of soft blue leather and both his cloak and cap were trimmed with ermine. His cheeks were smooth and his person emanated an exotic scent—frankincense and musk. His habitual smugness had dissipated and he now seemed subdued, even scared. He shifted from foot to foot and fiddled with a chain of amber rosary beads.

Lord de Serverie stood tall and proud. He was a young man—about thirty—built on a monumental scale. There was something leonine about him—his mane was wavy and long. His face had an angry white scar from the corner of his right mouth to the right ear, which had a way of looking like a sardonic smile. His clothes were of fine quality but worn. He wore a sword in its scabbard, as did his page, an exceptionally pretty boy of about 10 who was dressed in the rich robes typical of eastern lands. Giacamo Corvino looked at the pair with interest—the knight had only recently returned to his family seat from the Holy Lands and did not usually mingle with the townsfolk. The boy’s face had a long scratch down his right cheek that looked like a dainty imitation of Lord de Serverie’s scar.

“Pietro Ruffia is dead,” said the friar without preamble. “He was ambushed in the cloister some time after midnight. A novice spoke to him around midnight, that was the last time anyone saw him. The wounds were grievous—he was stabbed viciously and repeatedly with something sharp”.

“Any idea who did it or why?” asked Giacomo.

“That’s just the trouble!” squawked the abbot. “No one knows. The outer door was locked. No one could have entered from the outside—without wings, that is. No one saw or heard a thing. It’s a dreadful embarrassment! This will get all the way to Avignon. We’ll be a byword! They’ll send troops.”

“The abbot is right, I’m afraid,” said the friar, “It’s a complete mystery. I’m at a loss to understand it,” he ruffled his hair so that it became even spikier. “Corvino, what do you suggest?”

Lord de Serverie emitted a barely perceptible snort and stared at the sindaco with amused disdain. With burning ears, Giacamo felt those haughty eyes on his crippled leg and ugly features, but he held his chin up high.

“You are asking him?” he said. “He looks like the court jester, not a sage!”

Giacamo bowed. He was used to this sort of thing.

“You are perceptive, Your Grace. I am a humble man, my appearance is comical and I am very far from being a grand scholar. Nevertheless, just as the humble worm and ponderous snail have their divinely chosen purpose, so I do mine.”

“And what is that purpose?” the aristocrat sneered.

“Giacamo Corvino is the sindaco of the comune, my Lord,” said the friar, anxious to smooth over any bumps. “He has the ear of the people and a sense for…”

“A sense for?” Lord de Serverie raised a quizzing eyebrow, pouncing on the hesitation.

“A sense for nonsense, my lord.” said Giacamo, bowing again.

The great man threw back his head and laughed, showing very white teeth.

The other three did not laugh but only waited it out. The abbot smiled nervously. The friar looked distracted. Giacomo Corvino looked intently at one of the statues in the chapel—a painted Madonna and child. The baby Jesus had a crown with sharp points. On one of these points was a swatch of pink cloth.

“You are a jester then!” the Lord clapped Giacomo on the back, ensuring a future bruise. “Excellent. Meanwhile, it is quite clear to me who did this. The inquisitor was just about condemn that damned Waldensian barba, the travelling wizard. The barba escaped from prison. We should execute him immediately.”

The abbot nodded.

“This is a sensible idea. After all, it will show Avignon that we are doing something! The murder of an inquisitor is a very serious matter.”

“The barba is in the city prison,” said Giacamo, “He would have had to have been exceptionally crafty to break out of that underground cell. He’d also have to have been exceptionally stupid to return after having escaped and killed an inquisitor.”

“Well then he got one of those heretics from up the hill to do it!” scowled the Lord. “Why don’t we simply burn their huts and kill the lot? The murderer will be among them, most likely. And it will send a clear message. With any luck the rest of them will up sticks and move on to become someone else’s problem.”

Giacamo inclined his head and addressed the friar.

“You say the novice went to ring the bells? It seems to me that in order to reach the bell tower he would have had to unlock the chapel door that connects to the courtyard?”

“Yes. He had the keys with him because it was his task both to fetch the water and to sweep out the chapel.”

“When you came into the courtyard, after hearing the bells. Was the door still open?”

“Yes it was.”

“And the other door? The one where worshippers enter from outside the monastery—was it locked?”

“It’s strange that you should ask. Last night, I personally checked that it was locked and barred. This morning, it was unlocked, the bar was removed and it was even slightly open.”

“But it didn’t appear to have been forced or damaged?”

“No.”

Giacamo nodded thoughtfully.

“Very good. Tell me, friar, where was that key to the outside door kept?”

“You can see it there, it hangs on a chain next to the inside of the door.”

“When is the chapel usually closed to the public?” Giacomo asked.

“After vespers.”

“And no one else entered after vespers yesterday?”

“No, I would have known it.”

“Look here, abbot,” exploded Lord de Serverie. “I don’t see why we are frittering away precious time,” said the Lord, “The Waldensians did it—that’s apparent. What use is there standing here like old women quibbling over the best cut of fish?”

“You are quite right my lord.”

“What we need here is action, fast action at that! I have several good men in my household, it may be possible to make up a militia…”

As the three others were engrossed in conversation, Giacomo drifted away and started to look at the decorations in the chapel: beautiful wooden statues, an elaborate chest fashioned out of walnut wood, a marble sarcophagus, a cabinet. He opened it to see a pile of folded brown woolen robes, such as were worn by the monks. They were rumpled and, clicking his tongue, he proceeded to straighten them up.

“Whatever is that damned jester doing now?” said the Lord irritably. “Can’t he keep his mind on the business at hand?”

“Lord de Serverie has asked how many men you can muster for a raid on the Waldensians this evening.”

“I have already given orders for all able-bodied men to gather outside they will be here soon.”

The lord looked surprised and mollified.

“Very good. Perhaps you have some sense after all.”

“Thank you my lord. Now tell me, for I am a curious fellow, do you have a pet cat at your castle?”

“A pet--! Zounds! The man appears not to be in his right mind after all.”

“I only ask because your page seems to have had a bad scratch on his face and some on his hands.”

The boy started and looked at Giacomo with wide eyes.

“Ah no,” said Giacomo softly in arabic. “I was mistaken. It was a blackberry bush that did it, was it not?”

The boy nodded. Lord de Serverie glared at him.

“Don’t speak to my servant, peasant!”

“I have no need to speak to the boy. I found this piece of damascene silk caught on the statue. There are not many people who can afford such fine stuff in this town. That tells me that a member of your household was here. There are not many places for a full-grown man to hide in this chapel, but there are plenty of places for a boy. He changed into the monks’ robes, hid in that chest probably, waited until the last bells of the day. When the bell ringer had unlocked the door he went out into the courtyard pretending he was

“No, I do not need to speak to him. After all, you were the one who directed him to commit that dreadful crime, on pain of death. In the eyes of the law you may be innocent but in the eyes of God…who knows? It was you who told him to hide in the church, where to find the robes that would disguise him as a monk. It was you who gave him the dagger that spilled Ruffia’s blood.”

“Be careful about what you say, gargoyle!” roared the Lord.

“I am always careful about that. Might I suggest that you be careful what you do, my lord?” Giacomo saw the man’s knuckles were white on the hand that gripped the sword hilt. “You are, after all, living in a lawless town. We are a gaggle of heretics, pagans and sinners. It may be that your coat of arms will not necessarily save you. Especially if we find you are disrupting our peace.” Giacomo’s face was serious.

“It is a strange coincidence, but ever since you and your household have been living here, there have been bandits on the pilgrim road. These bandits have been killing people, stealing their merchandise, creating havoc. This is the reason the inquisitor was sent here, though he was under the impression it was the Waldensians doing it. Well, the Waldensians have been here for a century or more and they have never been in the habit of making such trouble before. I knew it must have been otherwise, and who else had the means to do it?”

“How dare you speak to your betters in this way. Your Holiness!” he appealed to the Abbot, “This insolence must not be allowed!”

“Well, eh…” the Abbot demurred. “The unfortunate thing is, that—"

Giacomo whistled loudly and through the door a group of townsmen entered, dressed in animal skins and masks, antlers and drums. They carried make-shift weapons like hammers and scythes. The two biggest men stood at the front of the group, staring at the Lord

“One innocent man has died today,” said Giacomo. “I didn’t want any more blood to be shed unnecessarily. So what I suggest, Lord de Serverie, is that you and your servant depart very quietly and that you do everything in your power to stop the banditry. If it continues or if anything should happen to me, the Pope will be far from pleased to learn that Pietro Ruffia was killed by a so-called Christian knight.”

Still pop-eyed, and clearly furious, Lord de Serverie and his page stalked out of the church.

It was not long after that that the knight and his household departed once again for the Holy Land and were never seen in the area again. The Waldensians continued to practice their own variety of Christianity until the Reformation, which was another story.