Comp 09 Highly Commended

The Well at Wilentrap by Michael Lloyd

Synopsis
Daniel has travelled to an old chateau in France to translate an ancient manuscript into English. He finds some heretics, some hidden treasure, a local hero and a violent death.


The Well at Wilentrap

Didst thou see the Dragobar?
Hear the trumpet from Afar?
Hear the trumpet? Hear the herald? Trumpet sounds better, less alliteration Daniel thought, he completed the sentence and put down his pen. Why is Mediaeval French so difficult to translate? To get it to rhyme is all but impossible, and what on earth is a Dragobar? Professor Daniel Trockleberry pushed the sketch of the Ante Bastilleri Library to one side, according to the plan you could not see up the road from the library anyway. He stretched himself out and looked around the large vaulted room that was once the castle library. He took in the big heavy door, the coat of arms over the doorway and the windows high above the stone floor.
So why did this poem tell the reader to look at the Dragobar, unless it was something inside the library? Then why link it to a distant trumpet? Had the writer placed the reader on the south turret, the famous Torre Quebada, or even the postern on the other side of the draw-bridge, then you could see all the way up the road. Added to which was the question why the castle gates faced west anyway, that deprived the guards from seeing who was approaching the entrance until the last moment.
Daniel had considered that the library, the place of books, might be elsewhere in the castle. But few of the other rooms were big enough, and those that were, like the Grand Hall and the huge Armoury below ground where the treasure once lay, either faced north over the steep valley which was impassable, or had no windows. Moreover, the lady curator had assured him this was certainly the library in medieval times.
Smell the bronze and molten tin
Taste the fear rise up within
Yes, he thought, that’s 4 of the senses, only the sense of Touch remains. He looked at the high walls again and studied the windows. If you heard a trumpet and pushed a table or bench against the wall, then put a chair on it and a pile of books you could stand on top and just about see out of the window. You couldn’t see the road to the south and tell who was coming, but you could look down to the main gate and see who had arrived. By then of course it would be too late to stop anyone. The windows were high up to stop the monks from looking out and being distracted. Scribes and novice clerics would sit at their benches copying the divine word and seeking penance. A simple life devoted to their god and his commands, and collecting tithes to meet their simple needs. A small share of the harvest from hundreds of peasants and land owners over hundreds of years. It came to quite a lot of money.
Where the poor and the abandoned
Meet their fellow wanderers.
Daniel had worked out that the poor and abandoned were the books, the parchments, the documents the scrolls and letters. But why wanderers, or travellers? Did they move around from place to place, hiding maybe? And where did they come from? In those days the church used its powers very effectively to enforce its message of peace and goodwill.
A crash there came upon the door
The laurel from my dress I tore
An invading army? If so it was not likely they would go to the library, the kitchens maybe, the nave or the chancellery even, the armoury certainly. If not an attack, then perhaps the raucous homecoming of the Duke’s men, a returning army of hungry husbands, sons and lovers. Which is it to be? The laurel, a sign of respect or honour; and the dress, a poetic reference to an official robe of state, or maybe a woman? That’s a possibility, could the writer be female?
Saligado turned the tide
A hundred kings he cast aside
Turned aside a hundred Kings/Dukes/Bishops - which is it? A fresh picture began to emerge in Daniel’s mind, images to help locate some missing parts of early history. That was his job after all, and this was what he was here for. That heroic reference fits in with what was known about Saligado d’Asplin: a Medieval Prince from the Dordogne, a Périgordien knight who fought the Moors in Spain, travelled across France, the Middle East, maybe even reached Damascus. Then suddenly, no more was heard about him. The curator said he is a local hero here, almost a saint. Once a year there is a weekend of Saligado festivities. But there is no record to show he ever returned, maybe he perished in some noble battle far away and disappeared from the history books. There was no progeny, no tomb has been discovered, no monument to his valour, yet at the time he was one of the richest demi-sovereigns in France. The Monks and Friars wrote the chronicles, and those were all he had to go on, until Daniel found this little poem written in blood.
In the 12th century students of English descent were banned from attending the University at Paris, and they went to England, to Oxford and carried their volumes with them. This little poem was thought to have travelled with the books and letters, pressed between the pages of important official volumes and thereby escaped any notice. Apart from this trivial slip of parchment, that Daniel had photocopied from the Bodleian Library, there were few secular records from those days.
Took everything that he could see
Now Saligado conquers/overcomes/taketh me
Daniel had brought the poem to the old chateau in the Dordogne at the end of the summer holidays, in the hope that the ambience of the locality would help him with the translation. He was only doing what he told his students, go and live there if you want to understand the message behind the words. Live and absorb the atmosphere, imbibe the simple life, become a denizen of the place and time.
His body/shape/form rested/lay spent across my body/chest/breast
The fresh/thick blooded dagger/blade/knife in my trembling/frail hand/palm
The blow/stab/thrust I aimed/brought down upon/unto myself/mine own heart
Hath missed/strayed/sinned and fatal struck him in the neck/throat/nape
That was more difficult but it seems the writer was attacked, possibly raped on the floor of the library by an intruder, she seizes the attacker’s dagger and strikes at herself but somehow misses and the assailant is fatally wounded. But who was it?
Salubrians arise, avenge my fate
Drive/eject/expel this intruder/demon/fiend from our gate
The Salubrians, in the castle, Daniel nodded. They were the women, not nuns, far from Rome geographically and spiritually, who turned against the calumny and greed of the church and sheltered other heretics, other female heretics that is. They found places of safety outside the cities away from rampant knights, corrupt priests and mendacious monks. A ‘kettle of mischief’ Descartes had called them. But that was now believed to have been a cover, as recent research showed him to be something of a sympathiser, even a supporter of the Salubrians. Daniel realised who the poor and abandoned were.
So what was a lady of high birth doing with the Salubrians? Certain to be a lady, common folk had no education and could neither read nor write. Maybe she was hiding other Salubrians in the castle. Either way, if the writer had just slain a mighty warrior such as Saligado, she would not have long to live when his comrades discovered them. She would be swiftly despatched, unless she despatched herself as she intended. Then why wait? Why spend precious minutes writing a poem, unless there was a message there.
No more he takes/secure/steals that golden/wealthy horde
Treasure/plunder/gold he took we carefully/cautiously concealed/hid/stored
There is a climb of forty drop
Beneath the road/earthway/well at Wilanthrop
He was translating quickly now, the light was fading, nearly 6 o’clock, the castle museum would close soon, his last chance. His flight booked for the morning, and back to work on Monday. He had classes to prepare for as well, fresh students of medieval history need something they can get their teeth into on the first week.
Beneath the earth at Wilanthrop, Under the way at Wilanthrop, Below the well at Wilanthrop.
Daniel knew a ‘Throp’ to be a village, a small town or hamlet. ‘Below’ did that mean under the ground, or down a steep valley or riverbed from where a path rose up to this Wilanthrop place? A ‘climb of forty drop’ must mean climbing down forty steps or forty metres, a climb down a well. Just then the curator appeared by his desk, a serious young lady with fair hair and the ubiquitous scarf.
“Excusez moi monsieur, but the library it is soon closed.”
Daniel put his pen down and looked up. “Can I ask something about Saligado?” He knew she shared his enthusiasm for ancient history. “You say he never returned?”
“It is nice you are interested, he is someone very important to us. No, he did not return, there is no grave or tombstone.”
Daniel rolled the pen in his hand and recalled a detail of medieval chivalry “Unless?”
“Oui, Unless?” She asked.
“If a knight was killed by a woman, then there would be no grave, no memorial.”
The curator paused before replying. “Yes, that was true, it was a matter of honour. First, by fighting a woman you lose your right to be a true knight, and second you lose your right to a gravestone if you are killed by a woman.” She gave a light shrug. “But that is impossible, he was a man of honour and a great warrior.”
“But it may help explain, if he ever came back,” Daniel went on. “No tomb, no monument, no pilgrimage.”
“But there is no evidence.” The curator continued. “Remember the men here have fought the enemies of France for him, and to the children he is a conqueror.”
“And for the women?”
“Monsieur. For the women he was a legend, a protector.” She pointed to the heraldic arms above the giant door. “His crest is included on the arms of the city.”
“Of course, thank you.” Daniel stood up and started to put his things away. “One more thing, is there a place near here called Wilanthrop? After King William maybe, an old town or village.”
“There is Wil-en-trap, round an ancient well on the road to La Santa Broma, where they burned the witches.”
“That is interesting, thank you,” he smiled. “I must come back next year and take a closer look.”
She walked with him to the door “That will be a good time monsieur, there is much going on there.”
Daniel stopped to look at her. “Oh, really, why is that?”
“Two boys last summer were lost in the caves, the cluzeaux, a search team was sent. They found the boys and much treasure as well.” She smiled.
Daniel’s resisted the temptation to say he was not surprised. “Is that so, fancy that.”
The librarian continued as they walked on. “Early next year they open the Exhibition Centre. It is the treasure without doubt from the chateau.” She gave a Gallic shrug. “Why anyone would hide it there we have no idea.”
“Tell me mam’selle, how far was the treasure, the boys, were they very far below ground?”
“I suppose, it depends what you mean by very far, 30 or 40 metres perhaps.”
“Saligado’s treasury.” Daniel replied. “And no Saligado, that is quite a mystery.”
“It is sir, a great mystery. No one will ever know what happened.”
“I suppose not.” They reached the doorway and Daniel looked up at the coat of arms, it was quartered with four crests.
“Which part is Saligado’s emblem?”
“Just there,” she said raising her hand. “The dagger surrounded by a necklace of pearls. It is called the Dragobar.”

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