The Serpents of Harbledown d-5 Read online

  “No!”

  Anger made the sailor roar and squirm for a few moments but he soon subsided once more, wracked by physical anguish and tortured by remorse. Ralph had pushed him to the limit of his strength and endurance. It would be a cruelty to continue. When he asked a final question, Ralph felt as if he were jabbing the man with a sword but it had to be done.

  “What was his name, Alwin?”

  The sailor was sobbing quietly. He turned his head away to escape. Ralph leaned over to him to whisper in his ear.

  “Give me his name, man. His name. ”

  It came out through the shredded lips as a distorted grunt.

  “Philippe.”

  “Philippe Berbizier,” said Lanfranc. “Have you heard the name?”

  “No, Your Grace.”

  “It is one they have cause to loathe in Orleans.”

  “Who is he?”

  “A renegade priest. A notorious felon. A heretic.”

  “And this man is here in England?”

  “We believe so, Hubert.”

  For the first ten minutes of the audience, Canon Hubert was too overwhelmed to do anything more than stand, listen and nod in agreement. The situation in which he found himself surpassed his most ambitious imaginings. In company with Prior Henry, he was in the exalted presence of no less a personage than Archbishop Lanfranc, primate of the Holy Church of Canterbury and the appointed voice of Christianity in the kingdom. Hubert was in a state of high exhilaration.

  There had been nothing formal about Lanfranc’s welcome. He had risen from his seat to embrace Canon Hubert with warm affection, apologising for not being able to see him before and assuring him that their happy days together at Bec were often in his mind. Hubert was overjoyed. Lanfranc had aged considerably since their last meeting but he was still recognisable as the inspirational prior of Bec under whom Hubert had served with such love and alacrity.

  Now in his late seventies, he was worn down by the cares of state and by the immense ecclesiastical responsibilities which he carried. Rounded shoulders, a curving spine and silver hair told one tale but it was contradicted by the vitality in the wrinkled face and by the astonishing power of his mind.

  They were in his parlour. While his visitors stood before him, Lanfranc was sitting in his high-backed carved chair, a large gold crucifix on the wall behind his head. He made the self-effacing gesture which Hubert remembered so well.

  “I was content as prior of Bec,” he said. “I was even more content as abbot of Caen. What more could a man want on this earth?

  Nothing! Why should I choose to leave all that and come to Canterbury? When the King invited me, I tried to decline. When Pope Alexander, of blessed memory, sent his legates to enforce that invitation, I pleaded in vain my incapacity and unworthiness, my ignorance of the language and of the barbarous people here.

  King William would have me.”

  “The English Church has been the beneficiary,” said Henry.

  “I have done my best, ill-suited as I am.”

  “No man could have done more, Your Grace.”

  “They could, they could, Prior Henry.” He held his palms up to heaven. “The miseries I endured when I came here! The suffering, the harshness, the avarice, the lust and the baseness I saw all around me! Why was I dragged from the monastic life I love into this wilderness? Without Henry as my prior and Ernulf of Beauvais to teach scholarship, I never could have survived. Yet by the grace of God, and by His divine mercy, I did.”

  “With honour, Your Grace,” said Hubert.

  “We tried. And there have been successes. We have built and we have educated. We have brought the fruits of civilisation and culture to a land devoid of both when we first arrived. When I depart this world-and God cannot put off the call much longer- I wish to leave the English Church in a far healthier state than when I found it.” A note of rancour was injected. “And I cannot do that when it is threatened by the worm of heresy.”

  “Tell Canon Hubert about Orleans,” suggested Henry.

  “Oh, dear! Yes, Orleans. Philippe Berbizier.”

  “They drove him out in time.”

  “He should have been caught and burned to death like the rest of them. Fire consumes evil. It is the only way to rid ourselves of it.” The furrows deepened in his brow. “Philipe Berbizier is a monster. Orleans is a centre of learning and a city of great spiritual worth. It was into this place of beauty that Philippe Berbizier crawled like a serpent, tempting the weak-minded and corrupting the young. He even drew one of the canons of the church of Holy Cross into his circle of damnation.”

  “What was the nature of their heresy?” asked Hubert.

  “They spurned orthodoxy,” said Lanfranc. “They claimed that Christ was not born of the Virgin Mary.”

  “God preserve us!”

  “They said that Christ did not suffer on the Cross for mankind.

  He was not buried in the sepulchre or raised from the dead.

  And,” he continued, grasping the arms of his chair, “that the sacraments themselves had no validity.”

  “This is intolerable.”

  “There is worse, Canon Hubert. It involves carnal acts with young women as part of their ritual. One of the accused even talked about the ashes of a murdered baby, born to a woman who had been unwittingly drawn into the circle.”

  “Horrors!” gasped Hubert, swaying at the contemplation of such wickedness. “These are abominations!”

  “But exposed,” said Lanfranc. “The heretics were caught and interrogated in chains in Holy Cross before an assembly of king, queen and bishops. Confessions were wrung out of them. They were condemned and properly burned to death.”

  “All but Philippe Berbizier,” noted Prior Henry.

  “All but him.”

  “He looked elsewhere for converts.”

  “Here in Canterbury, it seems,” said Lanfranc with foreboding.

  “That is what has brought him to the city. The search for those he can convert to heresy.”

  “Converts,” added Henry. “And unsuspecting young women.”

  Canon Hubert thought of Bertha and shuddered.

  The girl dressed without once raising her eyes to him. When she knelt before him, he offered his hand and she kissed it with reverence before leaving the room. Philippe Berbizier got up from the bed and yawned with satisfaction. He kept them waiting for a long time before he finished his glass of wine, put on the white robe and went back into the parlour.

  The girl had taken her place in the circle and sat, like the others, with her head bowed. Berbizier brushed a hand against her shoulder as he stepped back into the centre of his followers.

  Restored to his place, his power was stronger than ever, flowing out like waves to lap over each one of them. When he chanted a prayer, they sang the responses in unison. The service ended with his benediction.

  As the members of the circle left the house, Berbizier stood at the door to bid them farewell and to have a private moment with each. The last man to arrive at the service was also the last to depart. Berbizier waited until everyone was completely out of earshot.

  “I have been meditating on our problem,” he said.

  “It will not easily go away.”

  “What are their names?”

  “Ralph Delchard and Gervase Bret.”

  “Who is the greater threat to us?”

  “The lord Ralph. He is the soldier of the two.”

  “How many men does he have?”

  “Twelve,” said the other. “Eight of them are helping the sheriff while four stay with their master.”

  “He is well-protected, then?”

  “Yes, Philippe. That is not the way. The lord Ralph is impregnable. You would tangle with him at your peril.”

  “Every man has a weak spot.”

  “That is true.”

  “Every woman, too,” said Berbizier with a smile. “That is their attraction. However well-defended they may seem, any woman can be conquered if you know ho
w to lay a siege.”

  “You have taught me much in that respect, Philippe.”

  “You will learn much more before I have finished.”

  “My eyes have been opened to the flames of passion.”

  “Good. This turbulent soldier …”

  “Ralph Delchard?”

  “We must divert his attention.”

  “How?”

  “Where is his weakness?”

  Golde was deeply grateful to Reinbald the Priest. His arrival was a surprise and his time spent alone with Eadgyth was immensely beneficial. He was not only able to offer her a sustenance and understanding outside the capacity of any doctor, his presence in the house reassured Osbern the Reeve and released Golde to get on with the domestic management. She liked Reinbald. His relative inexperience was offset by a dedication to his ministry which bordered on obsession. Before he left, Golde made sure that she spoke to him.

  “Thank you for coming, Father Reinbald.”

  “It was a duty which brought me pleasure, my lady. I have known Eadgyth since the time when I became a deacon at St. Mildred’s.

  She is a decent, honest, God-fearing person. I only wish that all members of my congregation were so.”

  “How is she now?”

  “Becalmed by my visit and that is very heartening.”

  “Your words were a much-needed balm.”

  “I said little,” explained Reinbald. “It was Eadgyth herself who did most of the talking. She wanted to tell me about her youth in Worthgate Ward and I encouraged her reminiscences. Anything which touches on St. Mildred’s is of great interest to me and I was moved to see how steadying an influence my church has had on Eadgyth’s life.”

  “And on Bertha’s, presumably.”

  “Yes, my lady. Until this last few months.”

  “Oh?”

  “Her attendance was not as regular as it had been.”

  “Did you not tax her about that?”

  “Eventually, my lady.”

  “Eventually?”

  “I do not stand at the porch to count my parishioners in. That office I leave to my churchwarden. It was one of them who first called Bertha to account.”

  “Did she explain her absences?”

  “Yes,” said Reinbald. “She told him that she was spending more time at the leper hospital and taking part in services there. I had no complaint about that. Evensong led by Brother Martin at St.

  Nicholas is every bit as valid as my own service at St. Mildred’s.

  I thought no more of the matter until I chanced to meet Brother Martin himself.”

  “Had Bertha lied?”

  “I fear so, my lady. When I teased Brother Martin about stealing one of my parishioners, he took it in good part. But he also denied that she was spending quite as much time at Harbledown as she claimed.”

  “It was then you taxed her?”

  “Sternly.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She promised to mend her ways.”

  “No explanation of where she had been when she was neither at St. Mildred’s nor at the hospital?”

  “None, my lady. Just an urgent plea.”

  “Not to tell her father,” she guessed.

  “Yes,” he said. “I acceded to her request on condition that we saw her in St. Mildred’s more often. And I held a warning over her head. If she strayed from us again, I would tell her father all.

  Fear is a powerful weapon. It worked on Bertha. Alwin never knew the truth about her absences.” A haunted look came into his face. “In the light of what has occurred since, I think I was wrong to deceive him.”

  “You spared her certain punishment at his hands.”

  “But helped to forfeit her young life.”

  “No, Father Reinbald!”

  “Had her father known the truth, his vigilance would have been increased, Bertha would never have been allowed the licence to climb up Harbledown Hill to the hospital whenever she chose.

  She would still be alive, my lady.”

  “You cannot be sure of that,” said Golde.

  “It gnaws at my conscience.”

  “You did what you felt was best at the time.”

  “Yes,” he said dolefully. “I knew how Alwin would react and I did not want to introduce any more discord into a house that has had more than enough.” He opened the front door, then turned back. “Family is the most blessed thing. But it can sometimes be a curse. Look how this little family here has been blighted. Eadgyth sick, Osbern anxious and their dear child without their mutual love to enfold it.”

  “The baby has not been neglected.”

  “I know. You have been mother and father to him these past couple of days. But it is not the same, my lady.”

  “I accept that,” said Golde. “My role is temporary. Eadgyth improves. With your help and that of Helto the Doctor, she will recover completely and this family will soon knit back together again.”

  “I earnestly hope so, my lady. We will do all we can. But there is one thing that a priest and a doctor can never do.”

  “What is that?”

  “Find Bertha’s killer,” he said. “Until that is done, Eadgyth will never fully recover and this family will suffer more woe.”

  Gervase Bret responded to the summons immediately. When the message came from Canon Hubert, he hurried to the priory and was admitted by the porter. The still trembling Hubert and the ghostly Brother Simon were waiting for him inside the gate. They conducted him to the garden and sought out a quiet corner where they might pass on their frightful tidings. Hubert had already confided in his companion and it had made Brother Simon wish that he never had to stir outside the safety of the enclave again.

  “What is the problem, Canon Hubert?” asked Gervase.

  “Greater even than we feared.”

  “In what way?”

  Hubert took a deep breath. “I had an audience with Archbishop Lanfranc himself,” he said, managing to combine a fulsome boast, a reverential whisper and a statement of fact into one short sentence. “Prior Henry was also present. Our discussion was long and intense.”

  “Did it concern our visit to Harbledown?”

  “It did, Gervase. My instinct was sound.”

  “As ever, Canon Hubert,” praised Brother Simon.

  “We are dealing with heresy!”

  “Is that what the archbishop confirmed?”

  “He did more than that,” said Hubert. “He gave me details of this man’s immoral, criminal and profane history.”

  “This man?”

  “Philippe Berbizier.”

  “Who is he?”

  “An ogre who corrupts minds and hearts.”

  “A devil incarnate,” added Simon.

  “He formed a sect in Orleans and led them in rites which were almost satanic. And now, Archbishop Lanfranc fears, this creature is searching for converts here.”

  “At the heart of the Christian Church?”

  “Where better to strike?” replied Hubert, rolling his eyes. “Do you see the boldness of the villain?”

  Simon shivered. “Nothing is sacred to him!”

  “At the hospital of St. Nicholas, you will only see leprosy of the body. A disease which attacks from outside. Philippe Berbizier is far more insidious. He works from within. He infects his converts with a leprosy of the soul.”

  “How?” asked Gervase. “Be more specific, please. You call him a heretic without first defining his heresy. What sect did he form in Orleans? Who were they?”

  “Gnostics!” boomed Hubert.

  “Pagans!” bleated Simon.

  “That is not so,” said Gervase. “Correct me if I am wrong, but is not Gnosticism a crude mix of Paganism and Christianity?

  They do not deny the existence of Jesus Christ. They teach that he was a mere mortal and not the Son of God.”

  “Blasphemy!” said Simon with his hands over his ears.

  “Gnostics are the caterpillars of Christianity,” Gervase said, borrowing
a phrase from Lanfranc. “They eat their way through it and leave only the remnants behind. If we do not stamp them out, they will crawl over all of us.”

  Gervase let him find his way through the extended metaphor and rid himself of more vituperation against the sect. He then pressed for details.

  “What exactly did Philippe Berbizier preach in Orleans?”

  “That divine truth is only revealed to the select few,” said the scowling Hubert. “Berbizier claimed to be one of that elite. He argued that neophytes could only attain illumination through him, leaving the darkness and opening their eyes to the light of the true faith.”

  “That is Christianity!” affirmed Simon.

  “Gnosticism is a perversion of it, shot through with Paganism and mixed with other heathen elements. Philippe Berbizier, it seems, adopted the view of the Docetics, a Gnostic sect, that Christ did not die upon the Cross at all. According to Berbizier, he was a mere phantom upon which Jews and Romans alike wreaked an ineffectual vengeance.”

  “What happened to the sect in Orleans?” said Gervase.

  Canon Hubert was delighted to have another chance to haul in the name of Archbishop Lanfranc and to remind them that it was his evidence which provided conclusive proof to the primate that Philippe Berbizier was in England. He told Gervase about the arrest and burning of the heretics in Orleans, and of the escape of their leader. Rumors about Berbizier had surfaced in other parts of France and many sightings were reported but he could never be caught.

  “He will stop at nothing to further his aims,” said Hubert.

  “Intimidation, theft, seduction, even murder. Prior Henry told me that one of the accused confessed, under torture, that it was Berbizier who killed the infant whose body was used in one of their macabre rituals.”

  Brother Simon yelped and resolved to hear no more. Closing his ears, he began to recite the Credo to himself. Gervase’s mind was on Bertha, an innocent and impressionable girl who might well have been drawn to the amalgam of charm and spiritual intensity which Philippe Berbizier patently had. A heretic who could convert nobles, commoners and even a member of the clergy in Orleans, would find a defenceless creature like Bertha an easy target.

  The more he heard, the more convinced he became that Berbizier was indeed the man they sought. To the essentials of Gnosticism, he seemed to have added refinements of his own, which bound his neophytes ineluctably to him and allowed him to reap a harvest of sexual favours from the female members.