The Serpents of Harbledown d-5

  The Serpents of Harbledown

  ( Domesday - 5 )

  Edward Marston

  Edward Marston

  The Serpents of Harbledown

  …the way of a serpent upon a rock; the way of a ship in the midst of the sea; and the way of a man with a maid.

  PROVERBS 30.19

  PROLOGUE

  The search began at dawn. It was led by Alwin, the distraught father of the missing girl, a big, brawny man with a dark beard fringing his weathered face. No sleep had relieved his anxiety that night. He simply stood at the open shutters and gazed up at the heavens in mute supplication. Alwin was an experienced sailor.

  He had endured hostile elements a hundred times in his small vessel and shown the routine bravery of his occupation. But he also had the strange fatalism of the seafaring man.

  “She is gone, Brother Martin. I know it.”

  “Do not believe that,” said the monk with a consoling hand on his arm. “Have faith, Alwin. We will find her.”

  “Alive or dead?”

  “Alive-God willing!”

  “Why did she not come home last night?”

  “We will chide her with that very question.”

  “It can only be that she was prevented by force.”

  “No, my son.”

  “Bertha met with some terrible accident. I sense it.”

  “Be calm. There may yet be another explanation for her disappearance. The girl is young and sometimes headstrong.

  Adventure may have directed her feet farther than she intended to go. Finding herself lost, Bertha sheltered for the night and is even now taking her bearings.”

  Alwin was beyond comfort. “She is gone,” he said with a shudder of resignation. “My daughter is dead.”

  They left Canterbury as the first faint beams of light were being heralded by cockcrow. Alwin strode purposefully along but the ancient monk kept pace without difficulty. Time had robbed Brother Martin of many things but it had left his vigour untouched.

  Beneath the black cowl of the Benedictine Order, his sinewy legs had a tireless rhythm. It was in the wrinkled benevolence of his face that sixty years had scrawled a larger signature.

  He sought in vain to soothe his companion with words.

  “She may have spent the night with friends.”

  “Bertha made no mention of it to me,” grunted Alwin.

  “What if she met someone on her way home?”

  “That is my fear, Brother Martin.”

  “Someone she knew,” said the monk. “A chance encounter with a close acquaintance. They fell into conversation, time raced by, the friend’s house was nearer than yours …”

  “No,” insisted Alwin. “Bertha would have sent word.”

  “Has she stayed out before?”

  “Only once.”

  “With whom, pray?”

  “Her aunt. In Faversham.”

  “Then that is where she is now,” decided Martin with a surge of hope. “Instead of returning to Canterbury, she first went on to visit her aunt. Bertha is in Faversham. Even for legs as brisk as hers, it is a tidy walk and left her no time to get home before dark. Is this not possible, Alwin?”

  “Possible,” conceded the other. “But unlikely.”

  “Why?”

  The question hung unanswered in the air. Alwin’s gaze had been distracted by a group of figures conjured out of the gloom.

  They were waiting at the base of the hill and stiffened at the approach of the two men. A voice rang out.

  “We are ready, Brother Martin.”

  “God bless you, Bartholomew!”

  “Tell us what we must do.”

  “First, we will offer up a prayer.”

  “Who are they?” whispered Alwin, looking around the faces that now took on shape and character.

  “Friends,” said Martin.

  “But I do not recognise any of them. Do they know Bertha?”

  “They know that she has gone astray. It is enough.”

  Alwin was touched. There were over a dozen of them. Three monks, two novices, a priest, a woodcutter, a shepherd, a couple of yawning boys, a blacksmith and three men with vacant grins, whose distinctive garb and pungent smell identified them as swineherds. All had heard and all had come to help in the search, asking for no reward beyond that of finding the girl safe and well.

  Brother Martin led them in a short prayer. Brother Bartholomew, a square-jawed monk in his thirties, gave Alwin an encouraging smile.

  “Take heart, my friend,” he said. “We are with you.”

  “I thank you all.”

  “Brother Martin will teach us where to look but you must lend some guidance. We know your daughter by name but not by sight.

  Describe her to us that we may recognise Bertha, if and when we find her.”

  “As assuredly we will,” added Martin. “Alwin?”

  They waited a full minute as the tormented father wrestled with his tongue. It was ironic. In the midst of biting rain and howling tempest, Alwin never lacked voice. When his boat was tossed helplessly on the waves, he would rant and curse for hours on end. Put his own life in danger and his defiance was ear-splitting. Yet now that his daughter was at risk, now that he was caught up in another crisis, now that he had equal cause to hurl profanities at a malign twist of destiny, he was numbed into silence. Shrugging his shoulders, he threw a helpless glance at Brother Martin and the monk came to his aid.

  “Bertha is seventeen,” he explained. “Tall, fair and as comely as any young maid. Dressed in a blue that matches her eyes and a white wimple. Thus it stands. Bertha gathered herbs for me yesterday and brought them to the hospital of St. Nicholas, as she had done many times before. She talked with me then lingered to speak to my charges, for she is the soul of compassion and her very presence is a medicine to the minds of our poor guests.” He took a deep breath. “At what time she left Harbledown, we do not know but one thing is certain. She did not return to Canterbury by nightfall.”

  “We searched,” said Alwin, finding his voice at last and eager to dispel any suspicion of lack of paternal concern. “Brother Martin and I searched in the darkness with a torch but it was hopeless.

  We need daylight.”

  “You have it,” noted Bartholomew, as the sky slowly cleared above them. “And you have several pairs of eyes to make best use of it. Let us begin.”

  Alwin nodded with gratitude. “Spread out,” he urged. “Move forward together. And I beg of you, search thoroughly.”

  They fanned out in a line that covered well over a hundred yards then ascended the hill with careful footsteps. Most of them used a stick or a staff to push back the brambles or prod among the bushes.

  One of the swineherds had brought a mattock and he sang tunelessly to himself as he hacked a way through thick undergrowth.

  A long iron poker was pressed into service by the blacksmith.

  Alwin and Brother Martin were at the centre of the search party, moving upward either side of the track which Bertha habitually used on her way home from Harbledown. Trees and shrubs offered countless hiding places but none disclosed any trace of the girl.

  Progress was slow and painstaking. A shout of alarm from one of the novices brought them all running but Bertha had not been found. The boy had simply stumbled on the half-eaten remains of a dead dog. When the line formed again, they picked their way steadily on.

  Morning dew glistened as the sun took its first full look at the day. Birdsong covered the hillside. Far below them, Canterbury had come noisily to life and carts trundled into the city with produce for the market. Alwin searched on with mounting desperation, his fear now mixed with a scalding guilt. As they got nearer to the crest of the
hill, he felt as if his heart were about to burst asunder.

  His mind was a furnace of recrimination. Pain forced him to drop down on one knee. Brother Martin came across to the stricken father at once.

  “What ails you, my son?” he asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “Is the sorrow too heavy to bear?”

  “I am well now,” said Alwin, struggling upright again.

  “Rest here awhile and leave the search to us.”

  “No, Brother Martin. She is my daughter. I must be there.”

  The old monk saw the haunted eyes in the grim face.

  “Is there something you have not told me?” he said.

  Alwin winced then shook his head firmly in denial. He could not share his thoughts even with the kindly Brother Martin.

  Remorse was stifled. Using his staff to ease hack some bushes, Alwin continued the search.

  Appropriately, it was the leper who found her. Nobody had even noticed him, emerging from the trees like a ghost to join the end of the line. He was a tall, stooping figure in a leper’s cloak with his wooden begging bowl and clapper dangling from the cord at his waist. His head was enveloped by the hood and his face shrouded by a veil. The sound that came from his throat was high and piercing, like that of an animal caught in a snare.

  Pointing with horror, the leper was standing beside a clump of holly. His withered hand seemed to feel no pain as it pushed through the sharp leaves. He let out another cry before shuffling away in the direction of the hospital. By the time they reached the holly, the leper had vanished.

  Bertha was there. Lying on her back in the moist grass, she looked at first as if she were sleeping peacefully. Her apparel was slightly torn and soiled but there were no marks of violence upon her. The ring of faces watched as Alwin pushed his way through to her. Torn between hope and despair, he crouched beside his beloved daughter.

  “Bertha,” he called softly. “Wake up, Bertha.”

  He reached out to shake her arm but a sudden movement in the grass made him draw quickly back. Gasps went up from the watching group. A long, thick, gleaming snake darted from the shadow behind the girl’s head to make a bid for freedom. One savage blow from the mattock killed it instantly but its venom had already claimed a victim.

  The telltale marks of fangs showed on Bertha’s exposed neck, dark spots of doom on white alabaster innocence. Alwin collapsed in tears beside his daughter. Her young life had been snatched away by one of the serpents of Harbledown.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Marriage had definitely mellowed him. There was no outward difference in Ralph Delchard but his attitudes subtly changed, his manner softened perceptibly and he even became acquainted with such virtues as patience and consideration for others. A quiet wedding had suited them both. He and Golde exchanged their vows in the tiny chapel at his manor house in Hampshire. Gervase Bret and Aelgar, the bride’s younger sister, were among the handful of witnesses, though a service of holy matrimony before a large congregation at a cathedral could not have bound the couple more indissolubly together. Ralph and Golde found an even deeper contentment. Only one shadow lay across their happiness.

  “I am eternally sorry, my love,” sighed Ralph.

  “You have been saying that since we left Winchester.”

  “Had my wishes prevailed, we would never have stirred out of Hampshire. Nor out of the bedchamber. The delights of marriage are there to be savoured to the full.”

  “They will be.”

  “Not while we are riding across three counties.”

  “The King’s orders must be obeyed,” said Golde.

  “Even when they countermand our pleasure?”

  “Being with you is pleasure enough, Ralph.”

  She held out a hand and he squeezed it affectionately.

  They were on the last stage of their journey into Kent, riding at the rear of the little cavalcade as it wended its way between trees in full leaf, hedgerows in their summer radiance and wildflowers in colourful abundance. Sheep and cattle grazed on rich pastures. Orchards blossomed. The warm air clung to them like familiar garments.

  Golde looked around her with wonder and approval.

  “Kent is one huge garden,” she observed.

  “That is why we have been sent here,” he said sourly. “To pluck up weeds. To cut back brambles. To clear away stones. I yearn to be a lusty bridegroom and am instead employed as a royal gardner.”

  “I will wait.”

  “You will have to, my love. So will I. The King’s acres must be tended.” They rode on in companionable silence for a few minutes, then his shoulder accidentally brushed hers. He turned to smile down at her. “Are you happy?”

  A deliberate pause. “I think so,” she teased.

  “You only think? You do not feel it in your bones?”

  “It will take time to grow accustomed to the shock.”

  “Shock!” he exclaimed. “Becoming my wife was a kind of shock to you? Is that what you are saying?”

  “I never expected to marry a Norman lord.”

  “No more did I look to wed a Saxon brewer.”

  “Then we have each surprised the other.”

  “That is certainly true,” he agreed cheerily. “We are a portent of the future. Enemies blending into friendship. The conqueror reconciled with the conquered. The wolf lying down with the lamb.”

  He gave a wry chuckle. “When time and the call of duty permit him that joy.”

  They were seventeen in number. Apart from the newlyweds, there were twelve men-at-arms from Ralph’s own retinue, a vital escort through open country where bands of robbers and masterless men lurked in wait for prey. The sight of so many helms and hauberks, moving in disciplined formation, would deter any attack and lend status to the embassy when it reached its destination. Sumpter horses were pulled along on lead reins, though most of the provisions they carried had already been eaten on the previous day.

  Ralph usually rode at the head of the column to set the pace, lead the way and attest his status. Pride of place on this occasion had been yielded to Canon Hubert, face aglow with missionary zeal, voluminous body overflowing and all but concealing the little donkey who toiled so gallantly beneath its holy burden. Behind Hubert was Gervase Bret, the shrewd young lawyer, riding beside the gaunt figure of Brother Simon, who sat astride a horse almost as frail and emaciated as himself. Plucked from the cloister against his will and suffering extreme embarrassment whenever he was thrust into lay company, Simon had nevertheless proved himself a loyal and efficient scribe to the commissioners.

  Though a wedding ceremony had absolved Ralph and Golde of the sin of cohabitation, and made their love acceptable in the eyes of God, the monk still found the mere presence of a woman unnerving and he preferred to travel in the wake of the huge undulating buttocks of Canon Hubert rather than risk any contact with the gracious lady behind him. Simon also drew strength from the friendship of Gervase Bret, whose intelligent conversation was a blessed relief after the robust mockery to which Ralph Delchard often subjected the monk.

  Hubert goaded a steady trot out of the hapless beast beneath him. Ordinarily, the canon was a reluctant traveller who punctuated even the shortest excursion with a series of harsh complaints but he was now beaming with satisfaction and making light of any bodily discomfort. He tossed words of explanation over his shoulder.

  “Canterbury is not far away now,” he said excitedly. “I long to meet my old friend and mentor. Archbishop Lanfranc will be pleased to see me again.”

  “He holds you in high regard,” said the admiring Simon. “And with good reason, Canon Hubert.”

  “I was his sub-prior when he held sway at Bec.”

  A memory nudged Gervase. “Was not Abbot Herluin the father of the house in your time?”

  “He was indeed,” confirmed Hubert, “and held the office worthily.

  But he was much troubled by sickness. Abbot Herluin was the first to admit that it was Prior Lanfranc who gave the house its spiritual
lustre and its scholastic reputation. That is what drew me to Bee as it attracted so many others.” A fond smile danced around his lips. “I revere the man. He is an example to us all. A saint in human guise.”

  Scattered copses thickened into woodland before giving way to pasture and stream. Canon Hubert pointed with almost childlike glee at the hill which came into view in the middle distance. It rose sharply toward a straggle of thatched cottages. Nestled cosily into the hillside, like a cat in a basket, was a small stone church with a steep roof and windows with rounded arches. Wattle huts were clustered below it in a crude semicircle.

  “Harbledown!” announced Hubert. “That must be the leper hospital of St. Nicholas, built by the archbishop to care for the diseased and the dying.”

  “A truly Christian deed,” remarked Simon.

  “Poor wretches!” murmured Gervase.

  “They are all God’s creatures,” said Hubert with brusque compassion. “Lanfranc has opened his arms wide to embrace them.”

  He feasted his eyes on the scene. Buttered by the sun and stroked by the soft fingers of a light breeze, Harbledown looked tranquil and innocuous. The little church with its makeshift dwellings was a private world, a self-contained community with a charitable purpose. The hospital of St. Nicholas seemed completely at ease with itself. As they rode up the incline, the newcomers had no idea of the sorrow and the turbulence within it.

  Alwin was inconsolable. As he lay facedown in the nave, he twitched violently and beat his forehead hard against the stone-flagged floor. It was all that Brother Martin and Brother Bartholomew could do to prevent him from dashing out his brains.

  They clung to the tortured body as it threshed about with renewed wildness. Alwin would not be subdued.

  “Peace, peace, my son!” urged Martin. “Desist!”

  “Remember where you are,” added Bartholomew sternly. “This is the house of God. Show due reverence.”

  “Bertha would not have wanted this, Alwin.”

  “Think of your daughter, man.”