A Gift of Conscience

By Paul Davis

The chance discovery of a mysterious medieval book with a dark secret captivates the inquisitive mind of Australian scientist Ethan Falkner, drawing him away from his computers and propelling the quiet, unassuming professor headlong into a world of mystery and intrigue.
Enlisting the help of his friend Alex Barton, an idiosyncratic Oxford art conservator, ruffles a few feathers but in her hands the book is skillfully coaxed to reveal the secret that scrivener Sanciere bound up in the volume seven hundred years ago.
But all is not what it seems to be. Why does a Knight of the Realm have an unnatural interest in his book? And why have a Russian oligarchy, a second rate detective agency and the beguiling Susan Travers converged to shape Ethan's destiny?
Ethan wants to trust Susan’s simpatico. It is she who warns that he is in danger; she who understands when his room is ransacked; they’re at her apartment when the armed assailants burst in; and, she’s at the warehouse when the Russians are about to kill him. And, despite a falling out, she turns to him when her apartment is bombed – but can she be trusted? Is there more to the enigmatic Susan than meets the eye?
Exposed to the power of corruption in high places, the ruthlessness of the underworld and the havoc that the fourth estate can wreak, Ethan struggles to sift truth from the lies and reality from subterfuge. He came to London in a quest to understand the provenance of a curious book but in a strange twist of fate staying alive suddenly becomes his main priority.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Paul Davis
• Release date: Jul 18, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301186587

Paul Davis

Paul Davis stands at the intersection of art and science. A sought after technical writer he is now turning his hand to fiction and, like all novelist, aspires to write with the brevity of Steinbeck, the dark intrigue of Le Carre and the complex storytelling skills of Conan Doyle. Accordingly, he is using his penchant for writing and the classics to weave intricate mysteries that exercise the intellect as much as the imagination.

Book preview

Prologue

In the year of our Lord one thousand and thirty eight the Abbot of Aniane in the diocese of Montpellier in the south of France summonsed two of his younger and most devout novices to a private audience. And so it came to be that the postulant Bertramnus and apprentice apothecary Ragno were bound in secrecy and bidden to undertake a task of the utmost urgency.

Within the hour the two young monks left the monastery, their brothers and the safety of their order and headed north by north-east to Saint-Aubin-sur-Mer carrying no more than the Abbot’s blessing, bread and meat for one meal and two missives; one above the signature of the Abbot requesting the safe passage of his emissaries in the name of the most pious Pope Benedict VIII, the other a sealed petition to the Prior at Saint-Aubin-sur-Mer some fourteen days and nine hundred arduous kilometres away.

The trek over the Massif Central and on, across half of France, tested their faith and endurance beyond all reason but safe in the knowledge that God walked with them they made good time. After thirteen gruelling days, many without sustenance or rest, they arrived at the small coastal parish of Saint-Aubin-sur-Mer footsore and depleted. For three days and three nights they rested and recouped their strength, supping on the strange white flesh of fish and drinking the sweet, clear juice of grapes and apples instead of the strong meat of deer and boar and the heavy, dark ales of their monastery.

On reading the Abbot’s petition the Prior made all haste to arrange a small fishing vessel for the journey to Angleterre, an experience for which the two naïve, young monks from simple farming stock and their secluded alpine monastery were totally unprepared. They were at home in the mountains amongst rocky outcrops, verdant grassy slopes and snow covered peaks – they had no knowledge of the ocean with its vast expanse of water, foaming waves and swirling currents or sand that insinuated itself into their open sandals and ground into blistered toes – and they were afeared and sorely tested but driven by the trust that their Abbot vouchsafed, and unshakeable faith in the Lord.

For six, torturous hours they were thrown across the deck from gunwale to gunwale by the surging seas. Driven onto the mast by cutting winds that howled through the rigging they were bruised most savagely and suffered unrelentingly from mal-de-mare. They cowered on the pebble beach at their landfall, wet, cold and nauseous and they prayed for strength so they could continue. Then, for three days, travelling in the dead of night and living on what could be foraged from farms along the river, they rowed the fishing boat’s dinghy up the river that took them west and deep into Suffolk.

On the night that they made their closest approach to Bury St Edmunds, dark heavy clouds scudded across the leaden sky. Occasional silver flashes revealed the eerie, silhouettes of leafless trees, their spidery, black branches reaching skyward to ensnare the waning moon. Bertramnus and Ragno, unspeaking, hooded and stooped against the howling wind, picked their way carefully across the uneven terrain keeping, where they could, to the cover of copse and spinney. Within a stones throw of the rough stone outer wall they stopped and rested. The looming monastery at Bury St Edmunds was one of the richest and largest in England; a shrine to the martyred King Edmund and home to a small but dedicated household of Benedictine monks. There was little danger; this was a house of God, there would be no guard and it was forbidden to carry weapons within the gate, nevertheless they were wary and shivered from nerves as much as cold.

The faint murmur of male voices could be heard during lulls in the wind – Compline – the final dedication of the day. It would finish soon and the hours of vigil would begin; all but aged insomniacs would be asleep. It was then that they would approach, but for now they would wait and rest on the sodden grass, knees drawn up to their chests for warmth, their rough tunics tucked in tight, hoods pulled down to their chests.

Creeping from the cover of the trees at the appointed hour they picked their way along the foot of the massive stone wall, clambering over piles of rough-hewn rocks and rubble till they found what they sought. To the unaware it was a haphazard pile of rocks against the wall; to the two hooded raiders it was their portal – the gift of a disgruntled pilgrim with French ancestry.

The need for silence made for slow progress. For two hours they toiled, removing the stones, one by one, as noiselessly as they could, working together to heft the larger blocks, a harmonious team, labouring constantly without pause or complaint. Eventually they uncovered a crude crawl-way, barely wide enough for the shoulders of a man. Bertramnus, the taller of the two, squeezed into the void and grappled his way through. Behind him Ragno unslung the rough fabric bag from his neck and produced a tinderbox and the stub of a candle. Working blind with his hands inside the tunnel and his tunic spread to hide the light, he deftly struck a flame and lit the candle that he passed to Bertramnus before scrambling through the narrow passage into the cellarium.

The spherically vaulted storeroom was cold and clammy; heavy with the stench of rotting straw, vinegar, yeast, rancid flour and vermin. The thick walls hushed the whistle of the wind and they could hear the scurry of animals; flashing beads of red – refraction from wild rats eyes – fleeted in the gloom beyond the flickering candle glow. Bertramnus set the candle on a barrel while his companion took a crumpled square of cloth from his bag and spread it in the pool of feeble, yellow light. The charcoal lines of the crude map were faint and smudged but he’d studied the floor plan many, many times, burning it indelibly into his mind; this last examination was more for reassurance than enlightenment.

Satisfied, they turned to the heavy oak door. A knotted rope held the door closed: there was no lock – few rooms in this, or any other, monastery were locked. Hinges that were well used and greased with goose fat offered no resistance and made no sound; the door swung open unexpectedly and a shaft of flickering yellow light spilled out into the corridor before they could snuff the candle. They waited anxiously, straining to hear signs that their inadvertent light had given them away. None came.

They knew that to their right were the granary, kitchen and lavatorium, where the monks washed before eating, and the refractory where they ate. To the left the infirmary and calefactory or warming-house, the only two rooms, apart from the kitchen, where a fire was allowed. They could take either route to the apothecary’s workshop but preferred not to pass the infirmary where monks too sick or old to take part in the normal monastic life would throw down straw pallets and sleep near the fire – but few slept soundly.

Their sandalled feet moved silently over the cold, damp flagstones, darkness obscuring their slow, deliberate progress. At the last corner Bertramnus stopped and held out his arm signalling Ragno to wait. A momentary blaze of moonlight had revealed a lone monk, an old man judging by the white, wispy hair around his tonsure, kneeling before a stone cross set into an alcove; a discipline perhaps, for taking too large a portion at the evening meal or for speaking during silence. Bertramnus crossed himself thanking God for the sudden illumination as he stepped back into the darkness. Crouched, they waited, peeking furtively round the corner. The monk made no movement or sign to leave his vigil so slowly, even more carefully than before, they retraced their steps and approached the cloister from the other way – past the infirmary.

The apothecary’s workshop lay apart from the main buildings and off to the side of a small garden used to grow medicinal herbs. The door swung easily, and silently. Bertramnus crouched within and relit the candle revealing a cramped room cluttered with pots and retorts, mortars and pestles and rough wooden benches arranged around the central fire pit where potions and elixirs would be prepared. In the furthest corner sat a bench with a sloping top for writing and a plain wooden chair. Above this a shelf of leather bound books – the apothecary’s library and notebooks. The air was heavy and fetid with the unstirred aromas of herbal unctions, smoke and the stale sweaty tang of unwashed humans.

Ragno fell to his knees beside the desk and groped along the floor for a flagstone with no grout. It was easier to find than he had imagined and his powerful fingers reached under the stone and prised it up. The cavity below – half the size of a grave in area and less than an arm’s length deep – smelt strongly of mould and stagnant water. Within, teetering piles of leather bound books stood on the uneven floor. Lying across the top was the most ornate and magnificent crucifix either had ever seen. Carved from walrus ivory, the terminals, central medallion and arms were skilfully decorated with intricate typological scenes from the old and new testaments but the most breathtaking adornment was the central, golden figurine of Christ gleaming in the candle glow. Ragno tipped the contents of his bag onto the floor, reverently lifted the holy icon using both palms and, as a new father might take his first tentative hold of his newborn child, laid the cross gently on the bag then crossed himself.

One by one they reverently removed the heavy tomes and turned the stiff vellum pages. The Anglo-Saxon calligraphy bewildered them but Ragno was a diligent apprentice and had already mastered the codes and cyphers of his guild. Twice the candle guttered and had to be re-lit from their dwindling supply of tinder. Soft, shuffling sandals in the cloister gave them pause and they sat motionless and silent until well after the sound had died away. Ragno looked up at his companion; stress had deepened the furrows on his gaunt face and he wondered if his countenance reflected the pressure that this most secret task involved; they had become reavers and that troubled him deeply no matter how dutiful the task.

They had removed all but two tomes from the libraria when Rango stopped, gasped and put his hand lightly on Bertramnus’ shoulder. There, lying open in front of them on the stone floor was the document their Abbot had bade them find amongst the secret preparations of the Abbey’s apothecary. The elation was short-lived as they realised that even to accomplished scribes such as they, the task of transcribing the intricate page would take two or three days of constant toil in good light. They had but an hour before Lauds and would have to work in the rough surroundings by the feeble glimmer of a candle stub.

Left with scant alternative, Bertramnus offered up a desperate prayer for forgiveness, took up the small knife that had been spilled from his bag and with careful, deliberate strokes cut the page free from its binding.

They replaced the treasures of the subterranean chamber as carefully as they had removed them, hefted the flagstone back in place and left after stowing their belongings and the precious page in the bag and snuffing the candle. There was no time to replace the masonry obscuring the secret passage into the cellarium so they left it exposed and made haste to the river and their small boat hidden amongst reeds. They knelt in the bilge, gave thanks and beseeched God to grant them a safe return. Cloaked in silence they cast off and slipped into the centre of the river where they slept in watches as they drifted seaward.

With first light came the familiar sounds of rural life and they risked muffled oars. The swift current assisted them and they made speed towards the coastal estuary where they would wait for the return of the fishing boat that would carry them, and their precious cargo, home to France and their Abbot.

* * * * * *

Three centuries later the knight Terrowin and his ward Pulleyn, fleeing from the King’s militia that was routing the ranks of the Templars, made travel along the rough path climbing to the Benedictine monastery of Aniane in the diocese of Montpellier in southern France. A cruel, vicious wind howled through the treetops and drove icy sleet against the man and the boy huddled low in their saddles, chilling them to the bone. Terrowin’s beard was rimed with ice and their hands were numb from gripping the reins. The horse’s flaring nostrils snorted steam and they whinnied as they fought for footing on the uneven stones. They travelled slowly, in solemn silence, one behind the other through the blanket of dense mist that obscured all but a few paces of the rough rocky path beneath their horse’s hooves and the ghostly trunks of the closest trees.

Although strong and of good humour the boy was a spindly stripling of just fifteen years, and Terrowin could see that he oft struggled although in silence with nary a quibble or word of complaint. Without warning Pulleyn's horse fell forward onto its splints and the boy tumbled to the path beside it, a rickle of limbs. Terrowin dismounted and turned to help. The boy’s eyes were vacant, his breath shallow, and his body convulsed disturbingly. Terrowin knew this affliction well; he'd seen men succumb to the ravages of cold as they crossed the Alps; he knew that without care a cruel and sudden death would soon be visited on Pulleyn. The boy needed warmth and rest; all the heat had gone from his body, all but a determined spark of life and his loyal, unrelenting soul remained. The Knight unfastened his tunic and lifted the boy close to the warmth of his own body, then, without consideration for his own exhaustion, carried him forth into the gnawing, engulfing mist.

By his reckoning they had journeyed a full three leagues from the previous nights billet and as much through hope as reason, he believed their destination lay close. So he trudged on, the boy swaddled beneath his coat and bound up in his powerful arms, the rough stones piercing the thin soles of his riding boots and the cold sapping his strength with every step.

Within minutes he came upon a towering stone wall that disappeared into the mist in front and above. A hundred paces more brought him to an alcove, the huge oak door within stood open and inviting. Two monks, framed by the door, heads bowed and hooded, hands held together in front of them waited in silence. The larger of the two reached out and, without speaking, took Pulleyn's enervated body from the knight with a surprising tenderness and care. The other closed and barred the door then assisted Terrowin to unsling his sword and basilard; weapons were forbidden in this place of God.

Pulleyn was carried to the kitchen and placed on a thick straw paillasse in front of the fire. The more usual place would have been the calefactory or warm room – the only other room in the monastery that had a constant fire – but he would need to be tended closely and the cooks could provide this better than old, infirm monks snoozing and jostling for position closer to the fire. A young cook, only a few years older than Pulleyn, roused the trembling boy, held him in the crook of his arm and patiently fed him a hot broth rich with vegetables and barley.

Protocol required that Terrowin pay his respects to the Abbot before entering. He found the reverend father kneeling in prayer in his private room adjacent to the chapel and joined him. Together they offered up a prayer of thanks and a supplication for Pulleyn's recovery. The Abbot was silent as they left his room and crossed the chapel. In the cloister beyond he stopped, turned to Terrowin and asked simply, ‘why are thoust here my son?’

‘Father I seek only your hospitality and the chance to rest a while.’

The Abbot nodded solemnly. ‘The weather is most treacherous; you must replenish your spiritual and bodily needs. And the lad needs rest and warmth to drive out the ague that besets him. I see you wear the sanguine cross.’

‘Yes. If it pleases God, I am Terrowin, a member of the order of the Knights Hospitaller, one of the Sovereign Military Hospitaller Order of St. John of Jerusalem of Rhodes and of Malta. Our crusade is from Angleterre.’

‘And yet you find yourself here; we see none of the crusades here, we are too far to the south.’

‘Alas yes. We were returning from our campaign in the Holy Land. As we made to cross from Italy into France we were beset by a great number of the King's forces and disbanded. Few of us survived, by Gods grace; many did not. Those not killed in the rout were tried for heresy, tortured most cruelly then burnt alive.’ Terrowin bowed his head remembering the legion of friends who had died so savagely.

‘God works in mysterious ways,’ the old Abbot said softly nodding his head. ‘And now; what will you do?’

‘The boy Pulleyn and I have travelled alone and make haste to the north-west where, God willing, we can find passage to home.’

The Abbot nodded sagely and placed his hand on Terrowin’s arm. ‘We live a simple, humble life of devotion here my son, our life is devoted to God and pays little heed to the politics of kings and other men. You are most welcome within these walls and we will provide the respite and succour you need. However, I fear your visit is ill timed; the Grand Inquisitor Manassier is afoot and rumoured to be making haste to Aniane. He is, by all accounts, a most cruel, evil man; a fanatic without reason, a man who destroys what he cannot control. He hunts the gnostic orders of the Cathars and Albigensians from Languedoc in the west and the heretics that spill from the Waldensians in northern Italy. We are not of them, we are of Christ but if he finds a Soldier of God within...’

‘Father, if you are afeared that I bring danger to your monastery I will take my leave immediately but I beseech you, let the boy stay in your care, he lacks the strength to travel again so soon. He is devout and would be an asset to your order.’

‘No my son, our faith is steadfast and we do not bow down in front of those who kill in the name of righteousness.’

Despite his defiant words, Terrowin could see the fear in the aged Abbot's eyes. This man had lived a secluded life of peace and devotion and tales of the inquisition struck fear in his heart because they threatened the natural order and tranquillity of his monastery. His role was to protect his flock; he would be sorely tested when the black force arrived. Terrowin had heard tell of the inquisitor Manassier, he was believed by many to be the devil incarnate. He wondered if this simple, devout Abbot would be equal to the challenge and curious about how news had reached the Abbot. ‘You are well informed for a cloistered order Father. How have you learned of these things?’

‘Ah,’ the cleric ruminated for a moment, ‘there are things of which we dare not speak; Manassier has ways to loosen even the most steadfast of tongues. Save to say that a black and deadly plague beset this riding and our apothecary dispensed preparations to the afflicted with some measure of success. It is by this fortune that we moved amongst the people and heard many things.’ A bell tolled and the Abbot made the sign of the cross, hung his head and walked silently away, the beads of his rosary passing through his fingers.

Terrowin crawled into the cellarium. He hadn't realised how much the day's travel had depleted him and he slept soundly on loose straw against the warm kitchen wall until the muffled bell ringing-in vespers roused him. He was about to rise when the small wooden door opened slowly and a robed monk crawled in with a candle. In the faint light Terrowin could see that the vaulted ceiling was higher than a man and the heavy musty odours came from barrels of yeasty beer wet with seepage and braids of onions and garlic hanging from wooden frames. The visitor set the candle down and removed his hood to reveal a middle-aged face full of kindness and grace; and when he spoke it was clear he was a learned man, one who would be a patient teacher.

‘I break my vow of silence to talk of a matter of great importance.’ He said blessing himself before settling on the flagstones. ‘I am Brother Sanciere, a scrivener. I come to ask a favour of you but first I must beseech you that what I say is said to no another man.’

Terrowin nodded, thumped his clenched fist to his chest over his heart and said solemnly, ‘you have my pledge; your words will not be vouchsafed by me Brother Sanciere.’

Sanciere was an earnest man and he drew close and lowered his voice. ‘You will know that there is more purpose to a monastery than a place where pious men can praise God and live a chaste and simple life. We are the keepers of the church’s memory, the interpreters of Church decree and the source of wisdom to the open church. We are the custodians of the books.’

He looked up to see if this sat well with Terrowin and judged from his expression that it did, so he continued. ‘I am the armarius of this order so ordained by Father Alberic our Abbot, a most devout and Christian man of infinite patience and charity. To me falls the welcome duty of keeping our collection of books safe and in good repair, mentoring my brothers, teaching all to read and write in many tongues. I impart to them what philosophies I know, I give guidance on the interpretation of church canon law, I assist the Abbot in the writing of commentary so that all may understand the way of the church and I keep safe the gifts we hold.’

‘This much I know Brother, and I know the load that your duties and responsibilities must place upon your shoulders but I think your purpose is to do more than impress me with your labours.’

‘It is Master Terrowin; it is,’ the monk sighed. ‘I must tell you that with the title of armarius comes a most secret association; all armarius take an oath of allegiance to ensure the safe keeping of the word of the church. There is a room concealed behind the library where lies all manner of secret missives. Amongst this trove I have discovered that this monastery keeps a manuscript of great importance but something that was ill gotten. And in my shame I have used this knowledge to do what I though was the will of God.’

Terrowin spoke directly, ‘If your heart was true and the Lord guided your hand is this not free from sin?’

‘Perhaps, but it troubles me that we keep something that is not rightfully ours and should be returned.’

‘To Angleterre?’ Terrowin asked.

‘Yes, to the Abbey from where it was so rudely stolen three centuries ago.’

‘And you ask that I should undertake this task?’

‘Yes, if thoust will.’ the monk implored.

‘I’m curious, why me?’ he asked searching the monk’s face in the candle glow.

‘There are but two reasons compelling me. We have so few visitors here that I may not have another chance.’

‘And next, you’re afraid that the inquisition might uncover your secret?’ Terrowin suggested.

‘Yes. I’m not afraid of death or pain but if this place be shut down and sacked because it harboured an evil of my doing I could not bear it.’

‘Then let it be so Brother Sanciere, I will do your bidding and carry your document with me.’

The monk reached under his habit and produced a hefty tome. ‘The manuscript of which I speak has been hidden in this copy of papal law, my copy, carrying my mark. The book is bulky but conceals its charge well – it will take a trained and skilful eye to find the manuscript hidden within.’

‘How will the Abbot know of the secret if I cannot speak of it?’

‘Tell the Abbot, Behold, thou desirest truth in the inward parts and in this gift of conscience, the monk suggested, ‘he will know.’

Terrowin thought for a moment then said, ‘wrap the book well in sacking and leave it with my sword at the gate. When I leave on the morrow I will carry your book as you bid. Trouble yourself no more armarius, your soul will be saved.’

Chapter 1

Desolation hung over the late Matthew Williams’ farm like a hessian bag thrown across a carcass. Ethan Falkner’s mood was becoming dark and disconsolate as he leaned against the car idly kicking at the dust with the toe of his shoe and contemplating the decay that surrounded him. The glare from the scorched, grassless paddocks made him squint but even so he could see that the house needed far more than just a coat of paint to make it good. Like the rest of the place, he thought, as he broadened his gaze; repairing the fences would be a major undertaking and the dams were reduced to windblown dust bowls. The farm itself – not part of today’s auction – was almost beyond salvation; the fierce Australian sun was inexorably desiccating all life from it and neglect was doing the rest. He thought, perhaps, that Williams’ farm was an unusual metaphor for death; a tribute to entropy – the concept that everything declines towards chaos – dust to dust, ashes to ashes.

Somewhere over the ridge a willy-willy broke free of the heavy languor and whipped the parched earth into a column of whirling red dust that teased a derelict windmill into thinking that its rusty blades might yet turn again. The mournful screech of tortured metal sent a shiver down Ethan's spine and he wondered if it was a portent, a sign that Williams, like him, was not best pleased by this cavalier disposal of the things that had decorated his tenuous grip on life. He found the concept of deceased estates repugnant and would rather not have been in this godforsaken place on such incongruous business, but his sister Tess had her eye on a rustic table and wanted help with the heavy lifting.

As he stood there, leaning against the car in the blistering sun while Tess foraged through Matthew Williams’ goods and chattels, he was gripped by the profound sadness that Williams had no heir to benefit, no family to covetously feud over the worldly belongings that had furnished his lonely life. His trappings would be distributed to strangers at the knock of a gavel; sold to the highest bidder, all proceeds to the State less a small commission for the auctioneer. The whole spectacle was an anathema, he reflected, a tough consequence of a solitary life on the land.

Few, it seemed, shared his sentiment; todays auction had drawn a decent crowd but, having inspected the goods on offer, three quarters had drifted away. Those that remained were there for bargains not benevolence, they cared not that this was the last vestige of Matthew Williams’ existence.

Eventually boredom and the heat compelled him to take his hands out of his pockets and join the stalwarts milling around the sheds picking over the assortment of possessions. A clutter of domestic debris heaped on rickety trestle tables or tossed carelessly into cartons on the ground; various sticks of weary