This Son Of York

By David Batten-Hill

The biggest killer in history is back...and looking for victims. A 14th Century corpse is unearthed in the name of science, bringing with it a punishing legacy. Dormant underground for hundreds of years, the plague has grown stronger than ever. Once set free, it never sleeps and it takes no prisoners.

Archaeologists released it. Neither doctors, the police nor the army can stop it. Only one man can fight the new Black Death. To win, he must escape the clutches of crazed vigilantes, hell bent on executing him in the name of humanity, and survive two nightmare journeys to salvation.

This Son Of York gives an uncompromising portrayal of modern-day York's trial by pestilence. The accuracy of detail within is just as uncompromising and as unrelenting as the story being told. Will York ever return to normality? The answer lies in This Son Of York's gritty narrative.

• Language: English
• Publisher: David Batten-Hill
• Release date: Dec 17, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465726087

David Batten-Hill

David Batten-Hill was born in 1955, in New Mills, Derbyshire. After a grammar school education, he worked as a photographer/imaging technician, first with the local newspaper and then in the local hospital. He later took up a similar post at Manchester University Medical School. He subsequently gained a Dip SIAD at Hull College. David began writing in the mid '80s, becoming the editor of 'Kit Car' magazine and its sister title, 'Classics and Replicas'. He became a regular contributor to numerous motoring publications. After gaining an MSc in psychology from the Open University, David began working on a freelance basis for national magazines, testing motorhomes. His wife, Fiona, travelled and worked with him and later co-wrote 'Motorhomes: The Complete Guide', which was released in hardback, by Robert Hale, in September 2009. David is one of those unusual individuals who combines a deep technical knowledge with an artistic tendency. He lived near York for over 20 years. A dyed-in-the-wool car enthusiast, David enjoys taking photographs, playing digital keyboards, and appreciating both modern and classic films. Fiona and David now live in the Lake District, in a converted Victorian stable.

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This Son Of York

By David Batten-Hill

Copyright 2011 David Batten-Hill

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Chapter 1

Miles Ryley's long, dark sleep was about to be disturbed. From above where he lay a strange rumbling sound approached, becoming increasingly louder as time went by. Scrabbling, scratching noises began, followed by a deeper thud that shook the woodwork overhead.

Later, the sounds of digging continued for quite some time. Mysterious clunks and scrapings were accompanied by the sound of metal on metal. Then the rumbling came again, much louder this time, with the creaking and twang of tightening ropes. None of this could possibly come as a rude awakening to Miles – he'd lain silent and immobile beneath the ground for nearly 660 disregarded years. But Miles's unwitting legacy was to torment mankind in ways unseen for a period far longer than living memory could recall. Miles's irreversible, malevolent bequest was to be unleashed on his unsuspecting successors.

Chapter 2

A piercing wind scoured Minster Yard in York, plucking at Matt Walsh's jacket as he hurried along the narrow street with its huddled buildings, towards Bootham Bar. Matt knew that York's north western gateway had stood on its Roman foundations since the 12th Century, but he had contemporary matters on his mind. He shivered, more from excitement than from the cold. His backpack weighed heavy on his shoulders but he remained light on his feet. No one would have called Matt burly but his wiry build belied an unusual degree of strength, in the mental, as well as the physical sense.

Matt shouldered his way past other pedestrians as he skirted the solid flank of Bootham Bar, crossed the busy junction and headed across Exhibition Square towards King's Manor. This noble mediaeval building's various occupants over the past five centuries had held their places in York's history but now, through the efforts of its present custodians, a new piece of history was about to be made at King's Manor. Or perhaps it wasn't…time would tell.

King's Manor was now, to give it its full title, the University of York Centre for Mediaeval Studies and Department of Archaeology. Today, a meeting of minds was scheduled to take place at 10.30am. And Matt was on time.

'Hey Matt, ready to rock?' said a voice, as Matt entered the courtyard.

He turned to look at a small, approaching figure. Like Matt, Sally McFarlane was a postgraduate archaeology student, starting out on the road to her master's degree and eager to progress.

'Hello, Sal. Yes, I've got my notes prepared, have you?'

'In a word, nearly. But then I'm not such a swot as you.'

'Flatterer', said Matt.

Matt and Sally had been fellow students for three years. They were never an item but they found, to their mutual satisfaction, that they worked particularly well together. Whether this was because they hailed from opposite ends of the British Isles is a moot point. Sally's down-to-earth border accent was pleasant to Matt's ears. She thought Matt's Home Counties tones a bit on the posh side for her liking but they weren't a major issue.

As they climbed the stairs together to the Principal's Meeting Room, King's Manor's stone-framed, mullioned windows fended off the cold wind. Sally and Matt seated themselves at the long conference table and set out their documents; their notes, sketches, graphs and photos suggested they were prepared. For what they were prepared was another matter. Each knew something was brewing but neither quite knew exactly what it was.

'What do you reckon's got Homer so excited?'

'If I knew that, I'd know what to expect.' said Matt. 'All I know is that the dig to outdo all others is on the cards. And you shouldn't be so disrespectful of our worthy Professor Simpson. His Christian name is Reginald.'

As if summoned by the mention of his name, the Professor entered. Like King's Manor itself, he'd scarcely changed in years. His rumpled suit was entirely at odds with any contemporary concept of dressing well but it sat easily on his slight frame as he took his usual place at the head of the table. His ever-present bulging briefcase was given its customary place on the table and he beamed at his companions.

'Good morning, protégés,' he said, 'Are we ready?'

'Yes, Professor.'

Professor Simpson fished in his briefcase and extracted a bulky file bound with an imposing red ribbon. Sally and Matt were familiar with the Professor's quirky approach to his calling but they also knew that his benevolent and occasionally befuddled manner concealed the sharpest, most logical mind they'd ever encountered. If the Prof had a bee in his bonnet, it would be there for a reason.

'Cast your minds back to the fourteenth century,' he said. 'What can you tell me about it?'

'Long time ago,' said Sally.

'Edward II moved his government here and prepared to fight Lancaster's barons.' said Matt, '…and he held parliament at York in 1322.'

'They added the Chapter House to the Minster around 1340; that was about 100 years after they first started building', said Sally.

'And Scottish raiders tried to attack Queen Isabella but she got away.' Matt grinned at Sally, as he habitually did when her ancestors' misdemeanors came up.

'Very good but all this is small beer. What was on everyone's mind at the time?'

'The Hundred Years War?'

'Yes, Matthew…and what else?' said the Professor.

'I know, said Sally brightly, 'The Plague.'

'Exactly. The Grim Reaper started calling hereabouts in 1349, and made six more visits before the end of the century. It's believed over 5,000 died.'

'It was worse in the 17th century.' said Matt.

'Quite so…in London. However, though the Black Death decimated York in 1604 and again in 1631, the Great Plague of 1655 didn't affect this neck of the woods at all. But we digress. Who was contemporary with the 1349 outbreak?'

Sally answered animatedly, 'Ryley.'

'Oh come on, Sal,' Matt was sneering. 'all that was nonsense. It was just popular myth.'

'Says you.'

'Says me and a lot of scholars.'

'Now, now, children.' said the Professor. 'Many arguments generate more heat than light and this one is beside the point. But something new has been revealed about the so-called Great Ryley'.

'What?' said Matt, 'that this self-proclaimed hero actually wasn't a total charlatan who fathered a string of bastards by different wealthy women throughout the county? That he wasn't at risk of being hung, drawn and quartered for treason, or that he didn't actually escape to France in 1350, to live debauchedly ever after?'

'Scoff away, my young friend, his mortal remains lie on our very doorstep, as it were.'

'With respect, sir, who says so?'

'Not who, what.'

The Professor slipped the ribbon from his file with practised fingers. He opened the file and carefully drew out a clearly ancient document.

'Put these gloves on and read this, very carefully.'

Matt took the document, reflecting that its contents had obviously thrilled the Professor. It was a sizeable parchment, with the tattered remnants of a faded ribbon depending from a cracked wax seal. The expected fragility of the parchment had been increased by its having been folded, rather than rolled. It had evidently been folded for a long, long time.

Laying the brittle sheet with infinite care on the table, Matt began to study it. It was an imposing piece of work, hand-written in a neat cursive script by some unknown calligrapher. Its five paragraphs each began with an illuminated letter and the document ended with a baroque touch. The signature had energetic embellishments; a bold paraph – a flourish – decorated it.

The text was in Latin, of which Matt could understand only a limited amount. He turned to the accompanying translation, and read…

In the name of God. Amen.

In this the year of the Nativity of Our Lord Jesus Christ MCCCL, on the day counted as the fourteenth of the month of May, this is the deposition of Wolfstanus Grenedyk, of Hob Moor Castle…

'It came to my notice at the beginning of this year that my former friend hath taken advantage of not only my good nature but of my lawfully wedded wife. Seemingly in mourning over the passing of this man, she had become affected more than was seemly. In the climax of a bitter argument she, being greatly distressed, confessed that she is with child by Miles Christian Ryley, of this parish.

I am myself bitter, not merely as cuckold, but also for the rightful vengeance I deserve having been denied me. For it is the case that Ryley hath borne the brunt of the rightful vengeance of a like cuckold. On the seventh day of the month of March, the cowardly Ryley was run through in a duel with my true friend Stephen Cherton, also of this parish.

Yet vengeance of a poor sort shall be mine. The claims of Miles Ryley to be of noble extraction are but a sham. He has been naught other than a fraud and a pretender, taking that not his by right and weaving explanatory tales that are nothing other than chicanery. Ever thus, his claim of fleeing to France is but lies, as is vouchsafed by the circumstances of his cowardly demise.

Further, this deposition is also to reveal that the misguided allies of Ryley hath conspired to give him a Christian burial in hallowed ground, although he deserved not even a pauper's grave. Even in death he hath stolen, for the identity on his simple headstone is that of another, a good man and true. The resting place of Henry James, believed murdered by robbers on his travels doth conceal the remains of Miles Ryley. Henry James, I believe, was himself murdered in this parish by the associates of Ryley; where his remains lie God alone knows.

So I beseech just and good men to mock and jeer after the memory of Ryley, for his acts as a miscreant and for his desecration as a Satanist of hallowed ground. Seek his clay at St Lawrence's churchyard, twenty paces east-southeast of the tower. Seek not to declare 'God rot his mortal soul' for he hath no soul. As lief spit on the grave whose ignoble contents beareth a noble name.'

Signed on the 14th day of May, MCCCL.

Wolfstanus Grenedyk

I, as Clerk to the Sheriff, witnesseth on this day of our Lord.

Matt laid the translation down with a sigh.

'So, the Black Death didn't get him…the jealous husband did.'

'And the second jealous husband in line had a go, too,' said Sally.

'But is this genuine?' asked Matt, 'It looks it but we all know about fakes.'

The Professor consulted his notes, ' It seems that the parchment and the ink used belong to the date given and the seal is correct. The style of the script and the illuminations are as expected and the structure of the language used and the nuances within it are believable. Carbon dating places the document within the implied period. We've no reason to doubt its authenticity.'

'What does it mean to us?'

The Professor pursed his lips, 'It means, Matthew, that we may be able to explode the myth of 'The Great Miles Ryley' once and for all.'

'Oh, how? And why?'

'As you said, Ryley was notorious. There's no denying he was, er, colourful and he pulled a good deal of wool over a great many eyes. There's no record of his being sentenced to death for treason and I doubt he had the Royal ear, as it were, though he had connections. More to the point, he had more than merely an eye for the ladies, as well as the knack of relieving honest, if gullible men of their money.'

'How can that be known?' Sally asked.

'Well, Matthew's picturesque allusion to a string of bastards is verifiable. Perhaps it's significant that Prudence Grenedyck took her own life in September 1350.'

'Is it possible Grenedyck had something to do with that?' Sally asked

'Most likely, my dear. But only life was cheap in those days. Ryley was able to finance a lavish lifestyle through – ah, questionable – schemes, from gambling dens to a claimed means of turning lead into gold. It seems that the proverbial fool and his money always were easily parted. However, we can find out a great deal from Ryley's remains. Did he die by the sword? Was he a Satanist? Will the remains really be his? But we must take care.'

'I think, Professor, that even Sally and I know about mediaeval remains' being irreplaceable.'

'Quite so, Matthew, which is why I'm entrusting you and Sally with overseeing the dig.'

Matt goggled slightly at this great honour. He'd been involved in digs before but it was extremely rare for a postgraduate student to be in charge.

'Thank you, Professor. But why the particular need for care?'

'Well, preliminary surveys show the burial is much as we expected. Ground penetrating radar reveals that the coffin is less than two metres below the surface. Interestingly, it's a large, metallic container.'

'Metallic?'

'Yes. As I said, Ryley had connections. In those days – and long after – only the bodies of the rich were buried in coffins with a metal element. Chances are, after all this time, that it's a lead coffin; but for gold, any other metal would have corroded to nothing long ago. Grenedyck hated Ryley but his friends clearly wanted him to be buried in style.'

'And in secret,' mused Sally.

'Obviously – but it's a paradox.'

'Certainly is,' said Matt, 'But I still see no need for more than the usual degree of care during the dig.'

'It's because we must keep it secret at all costs.'

'Why?' asked Sally.

'Really, my young friends. Isn't it obvious? No? That isn't really surprising. After all, given what Grenedyck says, we can suppose that Ryley was unlikely to have been a plague victim. But what feared structures lie outside the walls of our fine city?'

'Plague pits.'

'Quite so, Sally. We know that, throughout what we might call York's Seven Plagues, the bodies were buried outside the city…without the walls, as was said. We also know that the plague itself died out but no plague grave hereabouts has been opened since…and the mortal remains of plague victims lie in St Lawrence's churchyard.'

Matt chuckled, 'I can imagine what the press would make of our plans, then. How do we keep it under wraps?'

'My colleagues and I have devised a perfectly simple solution. You could say that Miles Ryley was murdered, albeit in a duel. So we're going to have a murder investigation 660 years after the crime. North Yorkshire Police are willing to disguise the site as a crime scene.'

'So we'll have the white tent and the overalls?' asked Sally.

'Yes, and squad cars and an obvious police presence. That's why you must work fast, the police can't stay for very long.'

With an expansive gesture, the Professor produced another thick folder from his briefcase, handing it to Matt.

'In here you'll find all the information you need. Grid references, survey reports, soil analyses, and the results of the tests on Grenedyck's deposition. You, as I said, will oversee the dig and Sally will assist. You'll also have the University's excavation team at your disposal…and there's a statement for everyone involved to sign.'

'Statement?'

'Yes, one that promises dire consequences involving the full weight of the law if a single word of the truth is breathed. Even the police officers will be required to sign it! The excavation begins on Monday, March 15th 2010. Now you've been given the good news, I can give you the bad.'

'Which is?'

'It begins at 6am,' the Professor smiled, 'an early start is standard police procedure for an exhumation but I'm sure you'll cope! You both have much to do, good morning.'

Good afternoon, Professor, Matt thought as he and Sally made their slightly bemused way down the stairs. Each was burdened with papers, each was thrilled with the honour of being entrusted with their respective important jobs. And both were also aware of the vast amount of work the responsibility entailed.

Chapter 3

'Idle bastards!'

Mike Ross didn't need the blue lights on his police patrol car but he used them anyway as he drove at speed through the empty, gloomy streets. Ninety nine percent of York's citizens were asleep and Ross envied each and every one of them. He'd surfaced from the warmth and comfort of his bed at 4.30am and was speeding south along Foss Islands Road, York's inner ring road, on his way to (as he put it) 'Babysit a bloody boffin'. He didn't need to drift the car spectacularly, tyres yelping, through the red traffic lights at the turning by Walmgate Bar, York's south eastern gateway, but doing so made him feel marginally better. Reining in his ill temper, he turned the car into the gateway of St. Lawrence's churchyard. More blue lights flashed around him as he drove slowly on past the massed police vehicles.

Mike parked among the blue and yellow-chequered police vans. His car's headlights picked out a chunky stone structure, the stubby tower that was all that remained of the original, 12th century church. Some yards away, an off-white scene of crime tent looked at once incongruous and supernatural; floodlights burning inside it lit it eerily. A generator yammered nearby and spectral figures in white overalls, and wearing biomasks and overboots, stood chatting. In the pallid pre-dawn light, several uniformed officers stood in a small group. The white bars on their reflective jackets looked like ribs, throwing the blue flashes back towards their source. The scene looked like it belonged in a cheap horror film; Ross thought this entirely appropriate.

'Morning, Ross,' said a figure, looming out of the morning mist. Mike never used his Christian name on duty. Once, early in his Student Officer Course, a sarcastic instructor had reprimanded Mike for a minor error. 'Mike Ross to bear,' he'd called him and of course, the jibe had stuck. Not that anyone dared use it now; on duty, he was 'Ross' to one and all.

'Morning, Steve.' he said, 'having fun?'

PC Steven Wyatt, a phlegmatic individual, wasn't at all put out by the strangeness of his allotted task. As always, he was smiling broadly.

'Ours is not to reason why,' he mused, 'ours is but to sort out the stiffs.'

'Very poetic, Steve. Snag is, I can't the see reason why we're sorting out a stiff more than six centuries after the event. Hardly scene of crime, is it?'

'Well, it keeps the high-ups happy, and we won't be needed to find the murderer – he'll be just as long gone.'

'More to the point, has the press been sniffing round yet?'

'Not yet, mate.'

'They will, and you know what your orders say.'

Neither Mike nor Steve agreed with the thinking behind this particular exhumation, but they knew the reason for secrecy. It was, as ever, part of a policeman's lot.

'Well, better get on with it,' said Ross. 'Have Mastermind and his oppo showed?'

'No, but it's only five to…'

'Thought so. As a rule, students get up at five in the evening. Let's have a brew and listen to the sparrows coughing.'

As they sipped at coffee from the on-site catering trailer, an elderly Ford Fiesta clattered up the drive and parked near the police vehicles. They saw a constable challenging the driver; police passes appeared.

'Here we go,' said Steve, 'Eyes down and the devil take the hindmost.'

Judging by the dark shadows under their eyes, the two arrivals were unused to such an early hour. One was thin, the other chubby and both were dressed in the cold weather uniform of students, a fleece and jeans. Their pale faces spoke of long hours of study – or of longer hours at the Student Union bar. But the police personnel didn't know how much work was involved in planning a dig. The students were well prepared…and eager.

'Good morning, Mr. Ross,' said Matthew, politely, 'This is John Simister.'

'Good morning, Mr. Walsh, Mr. Simister,' Ross's equally polite response was laced with a heavy irony, 'where's Miss McFarlane?'

'Tucked up in bed with the flu. She's really upset to be missing the dig.'

'No matter,' said Ross, 'there won't be too much to see, given that we're lifting the coffin intact…if we can.'

'Well, John here can take enough pictures to show Sally exactly what we find.'

'OK, lets get you suited up and we'll get on with the job.'

Matt took in the scene as they strolled towards the tent. At the van nearest to it, he and John were given white overalls, masks and overboots.

'It's great, this. Just like CSI!'

Mike sighed, 'Let's get one thing straight. CSI is an American TV programme – fictional and none too realistic – and also a video game. This is a scene of crime and I'm a SOCO – a Scene of Crime Officer. We aren't playing games or making a TV programme. We do this for real, often every day.'

'I'm sorry.' Matt, realising he'd touched a nerve, desperately changed the subject.

'How are the preparations going?'

'All done,' said Mike. We removed the James headstone and have used that Bobcat to machine dig to within ten centimetres of the coffin's upper surface.'

Matt was worried, 'You didn't hit the coffin?'

'Not risk of that,' said Mike, 'we had the depth to the millimetre from the ground penetrating radar images, and we probed to verify the figures. The coffin's perfectly safe and sound.'

Matt's detailed briefing came into its own as the police set to work. The stark glare of the floodlights made a dramatic vignette in the growing light. The team began carefully removing earth by hand. Using the tiny archaeological tools the university had provided seemed counterproductive but what lay under the soil was unique – it couldn't be damaged for the sake of saving time.

'Shouldn't be long now.' Matt was eyeing the discarded soil as John busied himself with his camera and flash gun. Matt's words were prophetic; everyone heard the hollow sound as his trowel struck the lid of a coffin, Miles Ryley's coffin if Grenedyck's deposition was to be believed. He took a deep breath and continued lifting soil, striving despite his excitement to maintain his all-important cool.

'Somebody's home!' Steve was enjoying every minute of this unusual exhumation.

'We didn't reckon he'd