From Chapter One
Wintanceastre Castle
Sunday, 14 April 1213
Dragged from the cart and up the steps — they propped the prisoner like a bag against the gibbet. This is where he’d find death and rot, hanging in an iron cage long after.
The Sheriff read the charges: murder, heresy, Church theft. He announced the verdict and sentence and asked the prisoner to speak, but he could not — nor when a priest pleaded with him to atone, could he.
And the crowd understood his journey to the afterlife would bypass heaven.
Then the Sheriff passed the warrant to the executioner. His permit to carry out the execution, releasing him from liability for the death of the prisoner.
A noose around the neck, arms tied behind the back and hoisted by his wrists. His shoulders gave no resistance to the torturous pull, already dislocated and torn by an earlier racking.
When they lowered his body, the noose tightened, hanging the boy. But before passing out they pulled his wrists — leaving him gasping, heaving, contorting to breathe. Over and over, up and down, from choking to sheer terror and back. The torture could last hours. And the people cheered and laughed and drank and feasted.
No one knew where the arrows came from. Four entered the prisoner on the gibbet. He hung lifeless and never moved again, his agony over. The other two hit the Archdeacon’s chair on either side of his head, inches from his ears.
From festive the crowd went quiet.
From Chapter Nine
Sudweca
Thursday, 12 July 1212
King John rebuilt London Bridge in 1209 as a stone bridge, replacing the wooden Roman Bridge which burned in 1186. He permitted shops and homes on the new foundation, levying tithes to pay for the construction.
And with grand success. London Bridge thrived. A community packed with shops and stores and theaters and alehouses and chapels and homes and apartments, six and seven stories high. Extending on either side another seven feet out over the river. And all made of wood and cod and thatch.
Like a city within a city, it attracted the wealthy and snobbish and artists and musician — and Clergy and Nobility and thieves and cons and children from all over. Booming, a place where one wanted to live, to see and be seen.
Even after nightfall, when streets and homes went dark, the bridge was full of light and life. Spilling over into Sudweca with the stew houses and taverns and any pleasures one could imagine.
†††
Nobody knows how it started, but by nightfall Thursday, the twelfth of July 1212, an inferno erupted in Sudweca. A kitchen in a Bankside home caught fire and in minutes engulfed the house. Unable to stem the blaze, the structures on either side ignited.
But by then the futility dousing the wooden buildings with pails of water became clear and people ran to safety into the streets and to the Church. Made from stone, they thought the House of God would protect them, but then that too burst into flames.
And then it turned into a monster, jumping from house to house, crossing streets, leaping alleyways, feeding on the packed homes.
The heat so intense, entire blocks would not catch fire but exploded in fireballs. A dragon’s breath, flames hundreds of feet tall, the roar deafening and terrifying. Stoked by a southern wind, it forced people in a panicked frenzy to escape across the bridge — at the same time as droves of help and onlookers swarmed in from the other side. And pandemonium followed.
Windblown burning ash crossed the river, and on the north the City of London went up in flames, trapping all on the bridge. And then the bridge caught fire.
Their escapes cut off, this is where most died. Trapped and in absolute terror, many jumped and drowned. Others perished a frightful death, and burned in sheer horror.
And in Sudweca, the blaze consumed the Saint-Marie-Overie Church, the Priory and the hospital and all the surrounding homes. In the midst of it, none of Morvran’s buildings survived.
After the fire died, the devastation was total. Morvran couldn’t imagine the size of the destruction. Where once there was a thriving town, all that remained was a smoldering heap smelling of burnt wood and death. His archives and library and home gone and there was no guessing on lives lost.
Unrecognizable in the debris, cadavers were buried in mass graves.
But miraculously, the fire spared Wintanceastre Palace, the Bishop of Wintanceastre’s home in Sudweca. And did his neighbor’s, the Bishop of Rovescester townhome.
From Chapter Twelve
Campsey Priory
Monday 06 August 1212
Morvran told Sister Maria about the agreement with the Bishop to produce one Bible. And he told her about the Paris condition. “I already have the vellum and we’re ready to go. My wish is you join me.” Then, hesitating he added, “If you can, or want to.”
Sister Maria thought about what to say. Reluctant to commit to anything when she hadn’t left the Priory yet, she said, “I’m leaving the Priory.”
Morvran caught his breath. His heart jumped, looked at her, took her hands and asked, “When?” And moments later, apprehensive, “Where you going?” Suddenly afraid she was going away, away from him. And as if she’d read his mind, she said, “Not you, the Priory,” and smiled at him. And relief washed over him like spring rain.
But he could not let her into his life without her knowing the truth. And then let her make up her mind. Not before. So he told her.
Brother Jacob, who’d otherwise gave them space to be alone, stood in the doorway between the rooms, listening.
Morvran told her about his travels, about Tolosa. Meeting Count Raymond and the communes in the Languedoc and Paris. The spiritual freedom and lifestyles he experienced. About the mysticism and teachings and redemption. And the church’s reaction, their cruelty.
Morvran said, “So when I returned I started a commune in Sudweca. And we did well for some years. But the Bishop had spies and burned the place down, and half of London with it.”
And he talked about Prior Henry’s hostility to him and his urge to drive a wedge between them. The danger he may find out more.
When Morvran stopped talking he looked at Sister Maria.
And she watched him as he spoke. Saw his lips and eyes and heard his words. Amazed at what she learned, touched by his honesty. Revealing himself and risking her wanting to be with him. “And now Morvran, now what?” she asked.
“I’m going to Paris to make our Bible. And I’m going to meet my friends. In France there’s a Crusade against us and it’s brutal. I want to give them a choice to come here and join us and perhaps find a safer home.”
He looked at her, gently touched her cheek and neck. “Will you come with me?” A simple question without a simple answer.
Sister Maria closed her eyes, curving her neck on the hand touching it. And she knew. It was the flick of an eye, a few words, the unrestrained emotion and honesty. She wanted to know this man and find out the depth of him. But she could not yet.
“You go to Paris. Do what you need to do. Make the Bible, find your friends. And when you’re done, come find me here. I’ll be here. I will.”
