The Serpents of Harbledown (Domesday Series Book 5) Read online

  “Who else?”

  “Brother Martin. Have you not heard?”

  “I heard that he died and that the monks brought him back to the priory in a cart but that was all. My mind has been on someone else's death.”

  “I understand.”

  “Do you?”

  “Yes,” sighed Ralph. “I know the grief that fills the mind until it is ready to burst apart at the seams. I lost my own wife and child, Alwin. By natural means, it is true, but the pain is still intense. In some sort, I do understand.”

  The sailor was taken aback. He had never heard a Norman lord speak to him so considerately and he had certainly never heard one confide in him so easily. Ralph had the bearing of a soldier but his battle scars were not only on the outside. Alwin still distrusted him but he was now more ready to talk to his visitor. He spoke in the halting French he had picked up in the course of his seafaring.

  “How was Brother Martin killed?” he asked.

  “Poisoned.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he raised the alarm about Bertha.”

  “Alarm?”

  “Yes, Alwin. Everybody else believed that she had died from snakebite. Helto the Doctor gave that as his medical opinion and Reinbald the Priest accepted it without a qualm. Brother Martin was the man who ferreted out the truth. We are convinced that he was murdered for his pains.”

  Apprehension flooded into Alwin's eyes. He stood up.

  “Who will look after the leper hospital?” he said.

  “It is in good hands.”

  “Brother Martin was their father.”

  “They mourn him with deep sorrow.”

  “But what of those he left behind, my lord?”

  “Two monks were sent from Christ Church Priory.”

  “The lepers are properly cared for?”

  “They are,” assured Ralph. “Do not distress yourself.”

  Alwin relaxed. “I am bound to worry,” he explained. “My daughter devoted her life to that hospital. So did Brother Martin. I would hate to see their work come to nothing.”

  “They lit the torch. Others will carry it on.”

  “Good.”

  There was a lengthy pause. “I did not expect to find you here in Fordwich,” said Ralph.

  “Where else?”

  “Locked up in the privacy of your home.”

  “This is my home.”

  “When my wife died, I did not leave the house for months. I lacked the will to do so.”

  “I have will and need, my lord.”

  “Need?”

  “To find the man who killed Bertha.”

  “We are ready helpers in that quest,” promised Ralph. “Do you have any idea who that man might be?” Alwin shook his head. “Are you sure?”

  “Quite sure.”

  “How will you know where to look for him?”

  “He will turn up.”

  “And you will recognise him?”

  “Yes.”

  Ralph could see that he was lying but there was no point in trying to dig out information that the sailor would never yield. Alwin was a powerful man who was determined to mete out his own justice. The only way to find out what he was hiding from Ralph was to try to extract it from his friends and relatives. Most of them lived there in Fordwich but the one who interested Ralph came from farther afield.

  “This has been a shock to the whole family,” he said.

  “It has ruined our lives.”

  “I saw you all at the funeral.”

  “You were there, my lord?” said Alwin.

  “We were anxious to pay our respects to Bertha.”

  “I thank you for that.”

  “No thanks are needed. She seems to have been a remarkable young woman. I only wish that we could have met her. It was a large congregation,” recalled Ralph. “A real tribute to her popularity.”

  “Bertha had many friends.”

  “Her aunt was there, too, I believe.”

  “Which one? She had a number.”

  “Aunt Juliana from Faversham.”

  “Yes,” groaned Alwin. “Juliana was there.”

  “I hope to talk to her sometime.”

  “Why?”

  “She may be able to tell us something of value.”

  “All that Juliana will give you is a flea in your ear! She has a tongue like a rusty sword and a temper to match.”

  “It does not matter,” said Ralph. “Bertha used to visit her in Faversham. She will know things about your daughter that even you might not know. I will endure a torrent of abuse from Juliana in order to get at them.”

  “Stay away from her!”

  “I am entitled to speak to the woman.”

  “No, my lord. This is family business. Keep out.”

  “But if Bertha and her aunt were close—”

  “This is nothing to do with you!” roared Alwin, losing all control. “You must not speak to Juliana. She will tell you nothing. I hate the woman. I never wish to see her again. Keep away from Juliana and her vile tongue! Leave us alone!”

  CHAPTER TEN

  EADGYTH WAS CARRIED gently back to her bedchamber and left to the ministrations of Helto the Doctor. Golde waited outside the door with the frantic husband, reassuring him as best she could and trying to relieve his sense of guilt. Osbern the Reeve was beyond the help of mere words. Deeply shaken by his wife's collapse, he feared that she might have suffered some irreparable damage. When Helto finally came out of the chamber, Osbern clutched at his arm.

  “Well?” he implored.

  “She is conscious again now, Osbern. I have given her a potion to still the demons inside her head.”

  “Will she recover fully?”

  “It is too soon to say.”

  “What must we do?”

  “Be very tender to her,” advised Helto. “She is in a highly delicate state. Eadgyth has sustained a terrible shock.” He flicked a glance at Golde. “As I warned you she would. Now you will realise why I urged you to protect her from such a discovery. You saw the result for yourselves.”

  “May I go to her?” asked Osbern.

  “Please do. Sit with her and soothe her. Make her feel loved and wanted. Do not upset her in any way. Whatever she asks, humour her wishes. I will call again this evening.”

  “Thank you.”

  When Osbern went into the bedchamber, Golde showed the doctor out of the house. She felt unjustly rebuked by his comments and wanted to defend herself but she bit back the words. Eadgyth was Helto's patient. It was not her place to question his treatment of her or to start an argument with him.

  Helto left the house and Golde repaired to the kitchen to give the servants their orders. She was surprised when Osbern came searching for her. He was pale and harassed.

  “Eadgyth is asking for you.”

  “Now?”

  “She will speak with nobody else, my lady.”

  “Let us go at once.”

  “No,” said Osbern uneasily. “She asks for you alone.”

  “But you are her husband.”

  “Eadgyth insisted. The doctor told me to obey her whims.”

  Golde could see the agony of rejection in his face. After touching his arm in sympathy, she went upstairs to let herself into the chamber. Eadgyth was lying in the bed and staring up at the ceiling. Golde took the stool beside her.

  “How are you?” she asked.

  Eadgyth turned to look at her with large questioning eyes. She held out a hand and Golde took it between her own to squeeze and stroke it. Eadgyth's fingers were icy cold.

  “Why did they lie to me, my lady?” she whispered.

  “They did it for the best.”

  “I could not believe that Osbern would be so false.”

  “He was only trying to save you from pain, Eadgyth.”

  “He deceived me. My own dear husband.”

  “It was on the doctor's advice.”

  “Helto lied to me as well,” said the other in distress. “He told
me that Bertha had died from the venom of a snake.”

  “That is still the opinion to which he holds.”

  “But it is untrue! I am not stupid, my lady. I knew that there was something wrong. Bertha and I grew up together. We played on Harbledown a hundred times. Our parents warned us about snakes and other poisonous creatures. We were careful.” Her eyes grew moist as they widened earnestly. “Bertha would never have been caught unawares.”

  “Not by a snake, perhaps.”

  “Then, by what? By whom?”

  “We do not know, Eadgyth.”

  “Tell me the truth.”

  “I will.”

  “I know that I can trust you,” said Eadgyth. “Osbern loves me but he still fobbed me off with lies. Tell me exactly what happened, my lady. How did Bertha die?”

  “She was strangled.” Eadgyth winced, and Golde gave her a moment to recover before she continued. “A snake did bite her neck but it seems that may have been after she was dead. It was a means to conceal the fact that she was murdered.”

  “Bertha! Of all people!”

  “Nobody deserves to die in that way.”

  “But why her? She never harmed anyone in her life.”

  “Someone had a reason to kill her.”

  “Who?”

  “They will find him.”

  Eadgyth began to weep silently and Golde reached out to hug her. An ugly truth had been kept from the young wife and she had learned it in the most heartrending way. To realise that Bertha had been murdered was an overwhelming horror and it was linked to a second hideous shock. Osbern had lied to her. In losing a dear friend, she also lost something of her love for her husband. Golde sensed her recrimination.

  “Do not blame Osbern,” she said. “He is a good man and he worships you. He only acted on the doctor's counsel. Your husband has been through his own tribulation these past few days. Be kind to him. Understand his pain.”

  She sat back on the stool as Eadgyth dabbed at her tears. Golde looked sadly down at her. It was a paradox. Everyone had kept back knowledge of the murder from her and yet Eadgyth might be the one person who knew the identity of the murderer. It was time to fish in the rivers of her memory.

  “You told me that Bertha had a friend,” whispered Golde.

  “Oh, no, my lady!”

  “You did, Eadgyth. I heard you clear.”

  “Then I was speaking out of turn. Bertha swore me to secrecy. It was a solemn vow.”

  “Her death absolves you. Who was he?”

  “I could never tell you that.”

  “Even if it meant that you were shielding a killer?”

  “He would never lay a finger on her!”

  “How do you know?”

  “He loved her!”

  “Is that what Bertha said?”

  “They were soon to be betrothed.”

  “Then maybe jealousy in the motive here,” opined Golde. “Another of her admirers heard of her plans and murdered her out of envy. Could that be the case?”

  “No, my lady. I was the only person who knew about him.”

  “Then we must start there. What is his name?”

  “She never told me.”

  “What did she confide?”

  “It was a secret, my lady.”

  “And will you let her take it to her grave?” Golde held her hand once more. “Listen, Eadgyth. We must track down this man. He may not even know that she has been killed. If he loved Bertha, he will be desolated by the news. But he has a right to know it. Will you keep the truth from him as it was kept from you?”

  “No, my lady. That would be a cruelty.”

  “Then tell me how to find him.”

  “I do not know.”

  “Does he live in the city?”

  “No, my lady. He hails from France.”

  “Is that where he dwells?”

  “Much of the time,” said Eadgyth. “Bertha only saw him when he came to Kent and he would not stay in Canterbury for long. He travelled around the whole county.”

  “Why? What was his occupation?”

  “Bertha did not say.”

  “How did she describe him?”

  “As the most wonderful person she had ever met. Kind, loving and very handsome. Somewhat older than she. She was entranced by him. It is the first time I have seen Bertha truly happy.”

  “Why such secrecy about her lover?”

  “Because of her father.”

  “Alwin the Sailor?”

  “He would have stopped her at once.” She gave a little shrug. “That is all I know, my lady, I swear. Do not press me further. It distresses me to recall the joy in her voice when she talked about him. All that hope, strangled out of her.”

  “One more question, then. That is all. May I?” Eadgyth gave a reluctant nod of assent. “When did Bertha last speak of her friend to you?”

  “Four or five days ago. She was very excited. Bertha had not seen him for months but word had finally come. It gave her such delight.” Her face was shining at the memory but it soon lost its glow. Eadgyth's voice was dulled by sorrow again. “He was due to arrive here this week.”

  Gervase Bret spent a long time at Christ Church Priory. Having been given permission to speak with Brother Ambrose, he sought out the monk and introduced himself. They adjourned to the privacy of the garden so that they could talk. Ambrosewas a round, red-faced, affable man in his fifties, with a zest for life which was quite unmarked by his regular contact with death.

  When Gervase showed him the flask which had been found at the hospital of St. Nicholas, the monk needed only one sniff to confirm that it had contained the poison which had ended Brother Martin's life. Gervase was not allowed to view the cadaver in the morgue but he was given a most detailed inventory of its contours and its condition by the beaming Brother Ambrose. The bell for Vespers brought the conversation to a close and Gervase watched the monks converge on the chapel for Evensong. Special prayers would be said for the soul of the dear departed, and Canon Hubert and Brother Simon joined the obedientiaries to add their personal supplication.

  Instinct sent Gervase back to Harbledown. In the hope that the scene of the crime might yield more clues about the murder, he rode steadily up the hill in the cool evening air. When he caught sight of a tall, stooping figure far ahead of him, he recognised Alain at once. The leper was dragging himself toward the crest of the hill and Gervase was chastened by the thought that a journey which would take no more than fifteen minutes on a horse had been an excruciating crawl throughout most of the afternoon for Alain.

  Gervase overhauled him and dropped down to walk beside the leper. Alain did not even look up or check his stride.

  “You are back, Master Bret,” he grunted.

  “How did you know that it was me?”

  “Who else would walk so close to a leper?”

  “I came to thank you for your gift.”

  “Gift?”

  “The apple.”

  “Was it of any help?”

  “We think so.”

  “I do not see how.”

  “Where exactly did you find it?” asked Gervase. “Beside the body? Under the holly close by?”

  “It was in her hand.”

  “Of course!” It confirmed his theory. He reached up to take the apple and its wrapping from his saddlebag. “I have brought it back to you, Alain.”

  The leper stopped and turned to him, clearly touched but unable to find the words to express his gratitude. When the apple was handed over, he held it as if it were a bag of gold, then secreted it once more inside his voluminous sleeve. Gervase did not have the heart to tell him that the apple had not belonged to Bertha but had probably been put into her fingers after she was dead. It held a special meaning for Alain and should be allowed to go on doing so until the apple rotted slowly away like the man who coveted it.

  “You must have cared deeply for Bertha,” said Gervase.

  “She was a friend.”

  Alain trudged off again and
Gervase kept pace with him.

  “Did you ever speak to her alone?”

  “Now and then.”

  “What did you like about her?”

  “She was not afraid of me.”

  “How long have you had leprosy?”

  “Most of my life,” said Alain without any trace of self-pity. “I have got used to the effect I have on others. Bertha was different. She did not turn away.”

  They walked on without speaking until they came to the hospital and turned off the track. One of the monks was distributing food to some of the other lepers. Seen from behind, the man looked so like Brother Martin that the two of them came to a sudden halt and blinked. When the monk turned to smile a welcome, they realised their mistake. The incident served as a reminder to Gervase.

  “Were you here when they took Brother Martin away?”

  “I was.”

  “You saw them arrive with the cart?”

  “We stood around the door of the church throughout.”

  “How many monks were there, Alain?”

  “Five or six.”

  “What happened when they went into the church?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “It is important. Did one come out again on his own?”

  “Yes.”

  “And where did he go?”

  “I do not know,” said Alain. “We were only interested in Brother Martin. They put his body on the cart and covered it with a shroud. Then they took him away.”

  Gervase was quietly exhilarated to have his guesswork transformed into fact. He thanked Alain and let him join the others for the meal, watching him shuffle away and knowing that he carried an item of food inside his sleeve which would never be consumed and yet which would provide constant nourishment.

  The door of the church was open. When Gervase went into the empty nave, he stood at the rear and looked at the spot where Brother Martin had been propped against the pillar. He then gazed across at the altar with its crucifix, its flowers and its single candle in an iron holder. By putting an apple in her hand and a serpent beside her, the murderer had used Bertha's death as a means of sending a hidden message. Gervase wondered if a similar sign was contained in the manner and the venue of Brother Martin's demise. He was still standing there when one of the monks joined him.

  “Are you looking for something, my son?” he asked.