Book Description
Publication Date: December 8, 2011
A time of plague, murder and mayhem. A time when
neighbour fears neighbour and even shuns his own wife and family. Yet, it is
also a time of hope, of friendships newly forged in the fires of adversity.
Truth and evil battle for supremacy in 17th C Italy. Can it be that
even the highest authority in Rome is complicit?
The first book in a trilogy will introduce you to the
world of Father Morterilli, as he searches for answers to questions, that will
challenge the most scared of his beliefs. And here's the first chapter just to get you started:
Death in Holy Orders
The
First Book in the Father Morterilli Historical Murder Mystery Series
2
July, 1630
Bergamo,
Lombardy, Northern Italy
“They will come to you in sheep’s clothing, but
inwardly they are ferocious wolves.”
Matthew
7:15
1
The murder of crows flew from the body of the priest
like a cascade of black confetti thrown skyward at a wedding for the dead. They
were startled by the loud ringing of the church bells calling the faithful to
early morning service. The dead priest’s hand and arm slipped involuntarily down
the marble steps, which led to the awe-inspiring entrance of the Cappella Colleoni positioned in the
centre of the old town of Bergamo, Italy.
The front of the church, with its statues of famous
bygone heroes and geometric complexity, took not one jot of notice towards the
dead priest, lying as if in offering from some twisted sense of blood
sacrifice. His ‘eyes’ were chasms of dried blood staring blankly at the rise of
a pagan sun. His sweet light flesh was now gone and safely tucked away in the
bellies of the distant cawing crows, or at the least one or two of them. St.
Francis of Assisi’s small friends had not waited to be asked, meat was meat and
breakfast had to be won.
The slight tang of death in the air had attracted a
feral cat to the scene. Its delicate moist nasal cells had chanced upon the rich
aroma coming from the body as it floated on the early morning breeze. It spied
as it turned the corner the folds of the priest’s habit lying untidily as if he
had merely fallen awkwardly whilst running. Perhaps he was late for early
morning-prayer and meditation, or had the ‘fall’ occurred the night before as
the good people of the town had slept.
Meanwhile below the city walls an old man, a church official,
an Inquisitor, breathed heavily as he proceeded along the steep winding
approach road to the city gates of Bergamo. The red herringbone stones seemed to
rise up in order to trip him as he tried with some effort to halt the unease
that threatened to spill from his abused stomach. Last night’s wining and
dining with the bishop on fresh Mediterranean oysters and gold goblets brimming
with the local rustic red wine were not suitable to early morning walks in
search of the not so late departed. He passed early morning citizens going upon
their business of the day.
“Good morning Father!” called out one as he cheerily
made his way down to where the priest Father Morterilli had come from, a sack
of unknown bounty thrown across his back. Father Morterilli failed to even look
up, but in response he muttered under his breath “Is it?” then spat upon the
stones to his left, his faced curdled into a knot of disgust.
He struggled up the hill road that led to the Citta Alta
of Bergamo- the old mountain town. He stopped briefly outside the great gate of
San Giacomo that gave access through to the interior, protected by thick high
stone walls, safe and secure. In the upper stonework was a fresco of St Mark's
symbol - the winged lion - strength through spirit, the spirit of God the Holy
Ghost, the symbol of Venice. It faced out to greet all comers to the city as if
to say 'Turn away all you that come with evil intent, for this place is guarded
and secured with power through faith'.
Gazing at the mountains to his right, half hidden
between newly constructed buildings, Morterilli’s mind turned to thoughts of
the people who worked and struggled in the mountain’s shadows. Life was indeed
short, bloody and brutal for the majority. Local conflict, merciless plagues
and hard soul-destroying life cut the population down in swathes. It did
however make the remainder, like him, stubborn survivors. With an average life
span being less than forty God given years, it was no wonder that the people
were a cautious lot, not easily given to trust, not willing to talk to
strangers. The Bergamask people themselves, like the mountains in which they
lived, were closed and guarded, solid and unforgiving.
A young child,
a girl standing just outside the gate, followed closely behind her mother
hugging her dress as if in search of security, ignorant of the strength of
Saint Mark’s protective lion. The mother's face turned toward Morterilli and
acknowledged his presence with grudging respect. The priest recognized her
granite personality as it reflected in her cobalt blue eyes. His attention
taken in by the passing scene he failed to anticipate the voice that awoke him
from his thoughts. It made him jump slightly.
‘Wake Up!’
Morterilli looked but there was no one around to give
such a command that he could see. Fearing he was beginning to hear voices in
his old age he shivered a little. Was he losing his mind? He shrugged his
shoulders in an attempt to ward off the feeling but it still clung to his
shadow. He spat again as he urged himself forward and left a foul smell that
escaped from his backside, just for good measure.
Once inside the walls he entered the church Santa
Maria Maggiore, there were a number situated around the old town, each had
their own character but all were a paradox. The insides were spacious, large
stone columns holding up heavy arched stone ceilings as if by some ancient
magic. Morterilli’s usual heavy moods would lift every time he entered any
church. He couldn’t grasp how it was possible for such massive weight to be kept
perfectly in place for so long, for what he felt was an eternity?
Yet still with such a large space each and every
church had the effect of suffocation. The lingering smell of centuries of incense
use seemed to clog the atmosphere, even getting into the stone itself, leaving
a Christian short of breath and a painful irritation deep within his lungs. At
one and the same time the church offered the spirit release from the body, yet
still imprisoned that same spirit by polluting the air essential to life.
Morterilli shuffled along the aisle until he reached the
entrance to the altar. His eyes looked up at a carved wooden figure of Christ
on the cross. Below Christ’s bleeding feet the master carpenter had placed a
large skull and crossbones, black and shining. No room here for the gentle blue
of Mary her face uplifted in deep emotional agony. Christ with his head down
and chin heavily lain upon his chest was very alone. Here the carpenter seemed
to say ‘The Son of God suffered directly for the sinful being that you are’.
Not far from Morterilli, seated in thought, a nun crossed
herself and made her way with some difficulty out of the cramped seats, where
she had spent over three hours in prayer. As of late it seemed to be getting
more difficult to rise onto her feet and off her knees. She never complained.
As she made her way shuffling back along the center aisle she caught a glimpse
of the Morterilli in his Dominican Order habit, his head bowed low in front of
the crucifix. At first she thought he had fallen to sleep on his feet, but then
she saw the slight shaking of his clasped hands. As she looked closer she saw
small beads of perspiration gathering on the forehead of his leathered face.
His nose she observed was so typical of the sort on old Roman statues. It
jutted out daring all comers to make a joke at their mortal peril. The face as
a whole was old and sagged but still it retained strength of purpose, an inner
discipline.
Deep within his own mind Morterilli enjoyed the
serenity of meditation. He willed all thought to leave as he reached deeper
inward to God. He gently rocked back and forth, the small movement aiding him.
It came as no surprise that due to the condition of his mind an image rose up
from the depths. However, the image was not what he could have anticipated.
There stood before him was Christ dressed in a luminous white robe, his palms faced
outward showing his wounds red and running freely with his blood. Then from behind
Christ a golden cross appeared floating freely in the air.
“Morterilli,
wake up! There are wolves” The voice came as if from nowhere and everywhere.
Christ smiled at him and then turned away, leaving Morterilli cold and feeling
as alone as he had ever felt in his whole life.
As Christ and his cross faded away, a large coffin
with a heavy glass lid appeared. The walnut brown of the coffin shone as if it
were highly polished bronze. He peered in through the glass and saw the
bleached bones of a skeleton laid at rest with its bony hands across its chest.
The voice called out again ‘Here lie the remains of our Lord and Saviour Jesus
the Christ. May God’s blessing be upon his soul.’ And a choir of angels sang.
Morterilli was shaken from his thoughts by the gentle
nudging of a hand on his shoulder. He stirred slowly taking in the heady smell
of the incense that made him feel dizzy. He turned his head towards the hand on
his right shoulder. His blurred eyes focused on a young face. ‘As with all
things it is relative’ Morterilli thought ‘here this young priest shaking me back
into this world of pain and suffering thinks he is quite old but how old is he,
thirty perhaps? No more than thirty-five, but he is still a young man, green
and immature. What little does he know of the world, yet how the people look to
him for guidance in their lives. I now am in my sixty-third year and seasoned
like an old oak and through the passage of the years know of things that may
never be published, never be allowed the light of day.’
“Father Morterilli, Father they want to move the body
before the pilgrims arrive. Will you come, Father?”
“Yes brother, I will come” he replied tired but still
willing. ‘What else should or can I do?’ he thought as he rose heavily to his
feet. He stopped and glanced back at the figure of Christ raised high upon the
cross. No thought troubled him. He believed that the mysteries of life were
difficult enough without pondering on the mysteries that dreams or visions
presented. However he had an uncanny feeling that the vision he had just experienced
would somehow come back to haunt him.
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