The Serpents of Harbledown (Domesday Series Book 5) Page 2

  “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, Harble-down 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 stoneflagged 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.”

  “Put her needs first.”

  “Spare yourself this rude assault.”

  “It will not bring her back.”

  “Hold, Alwin!”

  The grieving father suddenly went limp in their arms. They rolled him over on his back and saw the blood streaming down his face from the self-inflicted wounds on his brow. At first, they thought he might have expired, and frantically sought to revive him, but he was only gathering his strength for a long, loud, heartrending howl of anguish.

  “BERTHA!”

  The cry brought him up into a sitting position and he saw his daughter not five yards away. It set him off into a fresh paroxysm and the two monks wrestled with him once more. The dead girl lay beneath a shroud on the cold and unforgiving stone. Rough hands had carried her into the church with astonishing gentleness. A boy had been sent to the nearest farm to beg the loan of a cart so that Bertha might make the grisly journey down to Canterbury with a modicum of comfort and dignity.

  The search party had dispersed and gone its separate ways. There were souls to cure and pigs to herd. Only Brother Martin and Brother Bartholomew remained to struggle with Alwin. Both monks were now panting stertorously.

  “In God's name, I beg you—stop!” gasped Martin.

  “Mourn your child with decency!” said Bartholomew.

  “This is unseemly, Alwin!”

  “Madness!”

  “Calm down, my son.”

  “I want to die,” hissed Alwin. “Leave me be.”

  “No!”

  “I have nothing to live for, Brother Martin.”

  “But you have.”

  “Let me go. Let me follow my daughter.”

  “We will not!”

  “No,” added Bartholomew, tightening his grip. “To take one's own life is a sin. To commit such a sin before the altar is an act of blasphemy. You will not follow Bertha this way. While she has a Christian burial, you will lie in unconsecrated ground. While she soars to heaven, you will sink into the pit of Hell. You will spend eternity apart from her.”

  “Is that what you want?” challenged Martin.

  “Think, Alwin. Think.”

  Alwin stopped trying to fling them off. Gleaming with sweat and dripping with blood, he sat on the floor and took the measure of their words. The impulse of self-destruction which had overwhelmed him now weakened beneath the power of reason and the fear of consequences. What would be gained? What purpose would be served? Would his gruesome death really be a suitable epitaph for his daughter?

  He allowed himself to be soothed by their kindness and persuaded by their argument. When Brother Martin fetched water to bathe his wounds, Alwin did not complain. When Brother Bartholomew helped him to stand up, he did not resist. The fire in his veins had burned itself out and a cold dread had settled upon him.

  Alwin looked down sadly at the body of his daughter. The shroud concealed her but the marks of doom on her neck were a vivid memory. She had left the world in agony.

  “This is a judgement upon me,” he said.

  “No,” insisted Martin. “This was not your doing. Bertha was called to God. Only He knows why.”

  The father made his simple confession before the altar.

  “I killed her,” he affirmed. “In a sense I killed my own daughter.”

  The weary travellers conspired in their own deception. They were so relieved to see their destination at last that they invested it with qualities that were largely illusory. Viewed from the hilltop, Canterbury appeared to them to be a golden city, its great cathedral of white stone dominating the prospect with massive towers at the west end, topped by gilded pinnacles, and a central tower at the junction of nave and choir that was surmounted by a shimmering seraph. The adjoining priory, with the same arresting style and the same generous proportions, reinforced the sense of magnificence and authority commensurate with the headquarters of the English Church.

  Shops, houses and civic buildings clutched at the hem of the cathedral precinct like children around their mother's skirt. Small churches served the outer wards. On the glistening back of the River Stour, mills had been built to make use of its swift passage through the city. A high wall enclosed the whole community with solid reassurance. Outside the ramparts, the newly built rotunda of St. Augustine's Abbey displayed a gleaming whiteness. Canterbury seemed to throb with religiosity.

  Canon Hubert was transfigured. His bulbous heels kicked more life into the donkey and it went scurrying down the hill with its precarious cargo. The rest of the cavalcade followed at a more sedate pace. After passing the church of St. Dunstan, they rode on to Westgate, went under the cross above it and entered Canterbury. Disenchantment set in at once.

  Its rowdy populace encumbered them, its haphazard streets confused them, its filth disgusted them and its stench invaded their nostrils with a suddenness that took them unawares. They quickly understood why Lanfranc had broken with archiepiscopal tradition and built his home outside the city in the cleaner air of Harbledown.

  Canterbury was a dirty, smelly, boisterous place which made few concessions to order and tidiness. Luxury was cheek by jowl with squalor. Fine new houses stood beside the charred remains of old ones. The neat little church of St. Peter was surrounded by beggars. The bridge at the King's Mill was littered with offal. Knights and their ladies wore bright apparel among the dull homespun of most citizens. Market stalls were laden with food while skeletal urchins searched the ground for scraps.

  Ralph Delchard observed it all with a mixture of curi
osity and disappointment. There was a pervasive air of neglect and decay. The majestic cathedral was a pounding heart in a rotting body. Gazing at its stark contrasts, Ralph was struck by the thought that Canterbury had not yet fully accepted the Conquest. After twenty years, it still reflected an uneasy and unconsummated marriage between Norman power and Saxon resentment. The thought made Ralph slip an involuntary arm around Golde's waist.

  Disillusion made no impact on Canon Hubert. Alone of the company, he was inspired by what he saw and bestowed a beaming condescension on all around him.

  “We have reached the Promised Land!” he declared.

  “Yes,” said Brother Simon meekly. “But I had hoped to find more milk and honey awaiting us.”

  “There is food for the soul,” chided the other, adjusting his paunch with a flabby hand. “That is true nourishment. Look inward and praise God for his goodness.”

  Ralph trotted to the head of the column and called a halt. It was time to separate. During their stay in the city, Hubert and Simon would be guests at the priory. The men-at-arms were lodging at the timber castle which stood outside the wall. Had not Golde been with them, Ralph and Gervase would have joined the soldiers, but his wife had such unhappy memories of staying in a similar motte-and-bailey structure in York, during their last assignment, that Ralph sought alternative accommodation.

  He, Golde and Gervase made their way to the home of Osbern the Reeve. It was a long, low, timber-framed house in Burgate Ward, occupying a corner site which gave it greater space and significance while exposing it to the passing tumult on two sides. Ralph had severe reservations about taking up residence in a Saxon household but most of them vanished when he met his host.

  “Welcome!” said the reeve, answering the door in person and bowing politely. “I am Osbern and it is a privilege to offer you the hospitality of our humble abode. Step inside, pray. A servant will stable your horses and fetch your belongings.”

  The visitors were conducted into the solar and introduced to Eadgyth, the reeve's wife, a plump but attractive young woman with a shy smile and a submissive manner. Osbern himself was fifteen years older, a short, neat, compact individual with a wellgroomed beard. His tunic and cap gave him a touch of elegance and Ralph admired the precision of his movements. The reeve exuded a quiet confidence. He would be helpful without being obsequious.

  What really appealed to Ralph was the fact that Osbern spoke in Norman French to him, revealing an easy command of the language of his masters. Refreshment was at hand and Eadgyth went off into the kitchen to supervise it. Her husband took the opportunity to show his guests to their chambers on the floor above. Gervase Bret was tactful. Conscious of their need for privacy, he took his host aside so that Ralph and Golde could have a moment alone together.

  The chamber was small but spotlessly clean and the bed was invitingly soft. Ralph held her in his arms to place a first long kiss on her lips.

  “At last!” he said.

  “Are you glad that I came with you?”

  “I am in a state of delirium, my love.”

  “You must not let me become a distraction.”

  “That is exactly what I hope you will be.”

  “You have obligations as a royal commissioner,” reminded Golde. “They must be fulfilled.”

  “Even royal commissioners are allowed to sleep.”

  “Then I will do my best not to keep you awake.”

  He grinned happily and reached for her again but the hubbub from the street below came in through the open window. Ralph closed the shutters to lock out the disturbance. He embraced Golde in the half-dark and kissed her with the ardour of a bridegroom. She responded with equal passion and they moved closer to the bed. Before they could tumble into it, however, a booming sound rocked the building and reverberated around the chamber. The bell for Tierce was chiming in the nearby cathedral.

  The sudden noise made them leap guiltily apart. Golde recovered at once and burst out laughing. Ralph did not share in the amusement.

  “The Church has come between us,” he said bitterly.

  It was an omen.

  CHAPTER TWO

  GERVASE BRET MADE good use of his time alone with his host. He plied him with questions and garnered an immense amount of valuable intelligence about the city. Born and brought up in Canterbury, the reeve had an intimate knowledge of its people and its administration. He volunteered information freely and was clearly impressed that Gervase was able to speak the Saxon tongue so fluently. Osbern would be a key figure in the work of the commissioners, summoning witnesses before them, giving advice on local customs and generally supervising their activities in such a way as to make their visit at once pleasant and productive.

  The two men came back downstairs to the solar.

  “Our first dispute concerns land in Fordwich,” said Gervase. “It sets cathedral against abbey.”

  “Then you must brace yourself,” warned the other.

  “Why?”

  “Passions run high between them.”

  “Indeed? With two such intelligent parties, I hoped for a fierce legal debate but one conducted in moderate tones.”

  “There will be no moderation, Master Bret.”

  “Oh?”

  “Cathedral and abbey are already locked in combat. A property dispute will only add to the ferocity of that combat. Take care that you are not caught between the two warring factions.”

  “What is the nature of their quarrel?”

  “The election of the new abbot,” explained Osbern. “St. Augustine's Abbey was a place of holy zeal and contentment under the late Abbot Scotland.”

  “Tales of his enterprise reached us in Winchester.”

  “Then you will know how selflessly he dedicated himself to his mission. When he came here, the abbey itself was in a sorry state and many of its monks were wayward. By the time of his death, Abbot Scotland had rebuilt and refurbished the house and imposed the Rule of St. Benedict strictly upon it. He was deeply loved by all and they mourn him still.”

  “I see the problem,” guessed Gervase. “The new abbot is a lesser man than his predecessor.”

  “That is inevitable, Master Bret. They would never find another Abbot Scotland. The monks were resigned to that.”

  “Then what is their complaint?”

  “The successor, Abbot Guy, is being forced upon them.”

  “By whom?”

  “Archbishop Lanfranc.”

  “That is his prerogative.”

  “They are challenging it.”

  “In what way?”

  “Every way at their disposal,” said Osbern. “The abbey is in turmoil, as you will soon discover.”

  “Why is Guy so unacceptable to them?”

  “I do not know, Master Bret.”

  “You must have heard the gossip.”

  “It is too wild to be taken seriously,” said the other with a noncommittal smile. “In the heat of the moment, even monks will use intemperate language.”

  “Yes,” agreed Gervase ruefully. “I was once destined for the cowl myself. I know that holy brothers can bicker every bit as violently as simple laymen. But how will this argument be resolved?”

  “Who can say?”

  “What is your own opinion?”

  “I take no sides,” said Osbern cautiously. “It is not my place to be drawn into this battle. All I wish to do is to forewarn you of its existence.”

  “We are most grateful.”

  “It will add heat to your deliberations.”

  Gervase smiled. “That may be no bad thing.”

  Golde came back into the solar with Ralph Delchard. She was still wearing her travelling clothes but he had removed his hauberk and now wore a long tunic. Osbern waved them to seats, then called to his wife in the kitchen. Eadgyth brought in refreshments on a wooden tray and the guests were soon enjoying warm honey cakes with a cup of tolerable wine.

  In the relaxed atmosphere, Ralph casually interrogated the reeve to find out exactly wh
at manner of man he was and how much they could rely on him. Ralph was pleased to have his earlier good impression of Osbern confirmed. Their host was clearly honest, conscientious and discreet. They were qualities not always to be found among town officials.

  While the three men conversed, Golde sat in a corner with Eadgyth and tried to dispel her shyness with a show of friendship. Eadgyth was slowly won over. When she realized how much she and Golde had in common, her defences were gradually lowered. She was an attentive hostess but she excused herself from time to time to slip away into another part of the house, only to return with a smile of relief. Golde eventually divined the reason for her disappearances.

  “How old is your baby?” she asked.

  “Barely six months,” said Eadgyth with a faint blush.

  “A boy or a girl?”

  “A boy, my lady. Named after his father.”

  “You must both be very proud of him.”

  “We are,” she admitted, throwing a fond glance at Osbern. “But my husband has warned me that we must not let our son disturb you in any way. You are important guests and must not be bothered by our family matters.”

  “That may be true for Ralph and Gervase,” said Golde. “They are here on royal business which claims their full attention. But I insist on seeing this wonderful baby.”

  “You shall, my lady.”

  “I want to see, hold and rock him in my arms.”

  “Do you have children of your own?”

  “Alas, no.”

  “There is still time.”

  “We shall see.”

  Golde looked wistfully across at Ralph but she was not allowed to dwell on her thoughts. A servant appeared at the door and beckoned Osbern with some urgency, indicating that Eadgyth should also hear the news. The couple excused themselves and followed the man into the next room. A muttered conversation was heard through the door, then Eadgyth let out such a cry of grief that the three guests jumped to their feet in concern.

  When Osbern came back in, his face was ashen.

  “Bad tidings?” surmised Ralph.