The Serpents of Harbledown d-5 Read online

  “And what of me?”

  “You, Alwin?”

  “They have only lost a friend.”

  “A friend and a benefactor.”

  “I have lost everything.”

  Alwin fell into a kind of trance. Oblivious to his surroundings, he stared unseeing at one of the stone pillars, his body slack, his mind empty, his mouth open. When they tried to speak to him, he did not hear a word.

  Brother Martin decided that their moment had finally come.

  He signalled to Bartholomew before crossing to open the heavy oak door. Sunlight flooded in. The two monks moved gingerly into position so that they could lift the body between them but Alwin came out of his reverie at once. Pushing them firmly away, he knelt beside his daughter in order to slip his arms under her, then he lifted her without effort and took her slowly out through the church door.

  The waiting congregation of lepers at first stepped back with a gasp of horror. Realising that Bertha was now beyond reach of their contagion, they then moved in closer to take a final look at her, one of them, an old lady, putting out a flaking hand to touch the flimsy shroud as it fluttered past. Another fell to his knees to offer up a prayer for the soul of the departed. The cart was rough-hewn and covered in mud but someone had flung an old woollen blanket over it to hide the worst of its defects and kill some of its noisome stink.

  Alwin laid the body in the back of the cart with great reverence before turning to survey the watching lepers. Their cloaks and hoods gave them a fearful anonymity and he could not even discern the male from the female victims, but he accorded each in turn a mute farewell. After glancing back at the corpse, he made a forlorn gesture of apology to everyone.

  Brother Martin gave the order and the boy led the horse away from the church. Alwin walked behind it with the monks at his heels, chanting in unison. The little cortege crested the hill and began the long, bumpy downhill journey. As it passed the clump of holly where Bertha had been discovered, a tall, stooping figure seemed to materialise out of the trees. Face still hidden behind the veil, the leper who had found her waited until the cart trundled on out of sight.

  Then he took something out of the fold of his sleeve and held it on the palm of his hand to examine it with an almost tentative affection. He felt its smoothness and held it up for the sun to polish its dull sheen. After placing a dry-lipped kiss on it, he opened his sleeve and put the object safely back in its hiding place.

  It was his memento.

  Ralph Delchard was in such a genial mood that even his protests had a chuckling mildness to them. They were the token complaints of a husband who can deny his wife nothing.

  “We will be bored to death!” he said dramatically. “Who on earth could wish to look at a cathedral?”

  “I could,” said Golde.

  “But you have seen cathedrals before, my love.”

  “Not this one.”

  “Since you met me, you have visited Winchester, Lincoln and York Minster. They are enough to glut any appetite. When you lived in Hereford, you saw a cathedral every day.”

  “Canterbury is different.”

  “Why?”

  “It is the best.”

  “Yet not the biggest.”

  “None can match its importance.”

  “York Minster would try.”

  “And fail. Look, Ralph!” she said, pointing a finger at the looming splendour before them. “From this cathedral, the whole of the English Church is ruled.”

  “It is ruled by the whims of King William.”

  “This is the spiritual centre of the country.”

  “Dear God!” he said in mock alarm. “Have I married a devout Christian? Am I matched with a holy nun? Do I lay with a bride of Christ? Why did you keep this hideous truth from me?”

  “I thought to convert you by stealth,” she teased.

  “Horror of horrors!”

  They shared a laugh and he embraced her warmly. The commission would begin its investigations on the next day and Ralph would be caught up in its activities. This was the only time when they might view the city together and they snatched eagerly at the chance. It was only a short walk from Osbern’s house to the cathedral precinct. While Ralph blustered amiably, she marvelled at what she saw.

  “The place had such a sense of power,” she said.

  “All I can see is a pretty pile of Caen stone.”

  “Are you blind to the beauty before your eyes?”

  “No, my love,” he said, holding her face between gentle hands.

  “It is what drew me to you in the first place.”

  “I talk of the cathedral.”

  “A finer edifice stands before me.”

  “Be serious, Ralph.”

  “I am. Never more so.”

  It was difficult to have a private moment in such a public place.

  Dozens of people were going past in both directions and others were idling in corners. Golde was conscious that curious eyes were upon them but that did not hold her back from broaching a delicate subject. Ralph was her husband now and she had never felt closer to him than at that precise second.

  “Did you know that Eadgyth has a baby?” she said.

  “It does not surprise me.”

  “She asked me if we had children.”

  “What did you tell her?”

  “The truth. We do not.”

  “Yet.”

  She held his gaze, wanting reassurance, hoping for a sign of commitment, searching for a need in him as deep as her own.

  “I am somewhat older than Eadgyth,” she warned.

  “I am somewhat younger than Osbern.”

  “A child never came with my first husband.”

  “Perhaps it rebelled against your choice of a father.”

  “Do not jest about it, Ralph.”

  “It was no jest.”

  “This weighs heavily with me.”

  “Then so it does with me,” he promised, squeezing her shoulder.

  “Whatever touches your heart finds it way straight to mine. Is that plain enough for you?”

  She nodded. “We have never talked about this before.”

  “I took it for granted.”

  “It is not as simple as that.”

  “You will have to teach me the way,” he said with a grin.

  “If a child comes …”

  “It would give me such joy and pride, Golde.”

  “But if it does not …?”

  He winced slightly as a distant memory jabbed at him. With an arm around her, he looked up at the cathedral.

  “Come, my love,” he said. “It is time to go inside.”

  When Osbern decided to visit the bereaved man, Gervase Bret immediately offered to bear him company. It would not only allow him to explore part of the city and to glean further information from the reeve on the way, it would help to assuage his keen interest in the circumstances of the girl’s death. The bare facts of the case intrigued and puzzled him.

  “She was killed by the venom of a snake?” he said.

  “That is my understanding.”

  “When? How?”

  “I have no details beyond those I have given you,” said Osbern as they strode along. “And they may prove to be wrong. News changes in the telling. I do not know how many hands the report of this tragedy passed through before it reached us, but I would guess at several.”

  “Your wife was distressed at the tidings.”

  “She had cause, Master Bret. They have known each other many years. Before she wed me, Eadgyth was a near neighbour of Bertha and her father.”

  “No mother?”

  “She died some years ago.”

  “What is the father’s occupation?”

  “Alwin is a sailor. The captain of a small boat which brings stone from Normandy for building work. You have seen how much reconstruction there is in Canterbury. Alwin’s vessel has been in constant demand.”

  “Tell me about his daughter.”

  “The one delight
in Alwin’s life. A fair maid in every sense.

  Bright, lively, dutiful yet not without an independent spirit. A true friend to Eadgyth. Kindness itself.”

  “Why would she be gathering herbs?”

  “For the leper hospital of St. Nicholas. Bertha was given to charitable impulse. She was a regular visitor to Harbledown. The lepers came to know and trust her.”

  “So young and yet so caring toward others?”

  “Her goodness may have cost Bertha her life.”

  Alwin the Sailor lived in Worthgate Ward and so the body of his daughter was taken to the tiny morgue at the parish church of St. Mildred. When he saw her bestowed there, he was led back to his home by Eadgyth and by Brother Martin. Both were still trying to comfort him when the visitors arrived. Profoundly moved by Alwin’s plight, but concerned as well about the intensity of his wife’s grief, the considerate Osbern went into the house to lend support to both of them.

  Gervase did not wish to intrude. He stayed outside and pondered further on the girl’s demise. It was a long wait but it brought an unexpected reward. Brother Martin came out alone and fell into conversation with him. The duty of helping Alwin through his pain had given the monk little time to express his own sadness. When he left the house of mourning, he was able to confront the enormity of the loss. It made him go weak at the knees. Seeing his distress, Gervase steadied him then eased him down onto the hearth stone.

  “Rest here awhile,” he counselled.

  “Thank you, my son. Sorrow has taken all my strength.”

  “You knew the girl?”

  “Knew her well and loved her dearly.”

  “Have you heard how she was found?”

  “I was there.”

  Gervase gave him time to recover before introducing himself to the monk. His bearing and his gentle manner enabled him to win Brother Martin’s confidence and the latter was soon giving a full account of what had happened. Gervase listened with rapt attention as the old man relived the ordeal. Only when Brother Martin had completed his tale did Gervase raise a few queries.

  “How long had Bertha been coming to the hospital?”

  “A few years or more,” said Brother Martin.

  “So she would know Harbledown well?”

  “Every tree, bush and blade of grass.”

  “And every hazard, too, I think,” said Gervase.

  “Hazard?”

  “Wild animals or snakes.”

  “Bertha knew how to look after herself, Master Bret.”

  “Until yesterday, it seems. You mentioned holly.”

  “That is where she lay when we stumbled upon her. She was surrounded by it. Caught in a holly wreath, as it were.”

  “What herbs would she find there?”

  “None that I know of, my friend.”

  “Then why subject herself to the scratch of holly?”

  “It is a question I have asked myself,” confided the monk. “And it is matched with others that arouse suspicion.”

  “Suspicion?”

  “That wound upon her. Bertha would have had to be on her back for a snake to sink its fangs into her neck. Why would the girl risk lying down in a place of danger?”

  “Perhaps she tripped and fell,” said Gervase.

  “She was too strong and surefooted.”

  “How, then, do you explain the mark upon her neck?”

  “I cannot,” admitted the monk. “There are poisonous snakes in Harbledown and Bertha would not be their first victim. I have treated others who have met with the same misfortune. Treated them, Master Bret, and saved them.”

  “What are you telling me?”

  “When venom gets into the blood, it can kill as surely as a sword or an arrow. But nowhere near as quickly. Bertha was young and healthy. Had she been bitten by a snake, why did she not run for help before the poison took full effect?”

  “Have you raised these matters with anyone else?”

  “No, my friend. I dare not.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I have no proof.”

  “Your evidence is sound enough to me.”

  “It is only an old man’s foolish instinct,” said Brother Martin.

  “And I do not wish to go where it leads me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  The monk looked around to make sure that they were not overheard, then pulled his companion closer. Gervase saw the watery apprehension in his eyes.

  “Bertha may not have died from the snakebite.”

  “But you saw the marks upon her neck.”

  “The girl was bitten,” confirmed the monk. “No doubt about that. There was poison in her veins. The signs were clear. I begin to think that they were too clear.”

  Gervase’s interest quickened. “Are you suggesting that she was killed by other means and bitten by the snake when she was already dead?”

  “It is possible. Bertha may have been murdered.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Canon Hubert was in his element. The visit to Canterbury was both a duty and a form of pilgrimage and it never occurred to him that these might be in any way contradictory. His status as a royal commissioner gave him a thrusting self-importance while his presence in Christ Church Priory brought out an ostentatious humility. Within the safety and sanctity of the cloister, Brother Simon was able to accommodate both aspects of his colleague with relative ease.

  “Seven years!” boomed Hubert.

  “A miracle in stone.”

  “Seven years. When Archbishop Lanfranc first came here from Caen, he found the cathedral in ruins and this priory in disarray.

  Behold what seven years of prayer and planning and ceaseless labour can achieve.”

  “It is a monument to the archbishop’s genius.”

  “It is an inspiration, Brother Simon!”

  “Yes, Canon Hubert.”

  “I see the hand of the blessed Lanfranc everywhere.”

  “You would recognise its character.”

  “That is why I am so grateful that my work has at last brought me to Canterbury,” said Hubert, looking around with a proprietary air. “This is truly uplifting. I belong.”

  Simon was also experiencing a sense of joyous kinship but he was too mild-mannered even to mention it. When Hubert was in such a state of spiritual replenishment, his buoyancy left no room for the thoughts and feelings of others. Simon did not complain.

  At the heart of the community, the priory was yet gloriously isolated from it, high walls and a protective austerity allowing its monks to serve God without any worldly distraction. No woman could ever penetrate the enclave. Brother Simon was at home.

  Christ Church Priory was built on a scale which showed vision and high aspiration. As they perambulated around the spacious cloister garth, the visitors noted the large chapter house, the sizeable refectory and a dorter range capable of housing a hundred and fifty monks. Particular care had been lavished on the scriptorium so that it could in time become a centre of learning unrivalled in England. Canon Hubert might dream of high office within this monastic community but Brother Simon’s ambition stretched no further than the wish to be shackled in perpetuity to a desk in the scriptorium like one of the great chained Bibles.

  The two men were still luxuriating in their respective fantasies when they were joined by a fresh-faced young monk with a message for Hubert. Abandoning his companion without a word, the canon followed his guide to the prior’s lodging.

  “Welcome to Canterbury!”

  “Thank you,” said Hubert deferentially. “This visit is the fulfillment of a long-held wish.”

  “I trust that you will enjoy and benefit from your time here in the city.”

  “That is a foregone conclusion.”

  “You might be wiser to reserve your judgement.”

  “There is no need.”

  “There is always need for caution.”

  Prior Henry was a striking man of medium height and middle years. The slim, intelligent face had a swarthy complexi
on which showed his Italian ancestry and the remains of a handsomeness which was at odds with his tight-lipped asceticism. Dark eyes probed from beneath black eyebrows and the high forehead had a quizzical frown. It was almost as if he were assessing the strengths of a possible adversary.

  They were in his private parlour, the chamber from which the whole monastic community was administered. Henry sat behind a table which was covered with letters, documents and accounts.

  Hubert was irresistibly reminded of his time at the famous abbey of Bee when a conference with the prior was a daily event. Across just such a table, he and Lanfranc had discussed every aspect of monastic business in exhaustive detail. Those memories were cherished afresh now.

  Prior Henry read his thoughts. Indicating a chair so that his guest might sit down, he sounded an apologetic note.

  “Archbishop Lanfranc sends his greetings to you and regrets that he is not able to meet you in person.”

  “I understand,” said Hubert, lowering his bulk onto the carved oak chair. “The archbishop is extremely busy. When he has the affairs of the entire Church of England to conduct, he cannot easily break off to see an old friend.”

  “Indeed not,” agreed the other. “If he did that, he would never begin to address the huge volume of work that confronts him. He has rather too many old friends, I fear.”

  Hubert was momentarily stung. Feeling that he was being both rebuked and patronised, he displayed his credentials at once.

  “I was sub-prior at Bec under Prior Lanfranc.”

  “I am aware of your brief tenure of that office.”

  “He and I worked closely and harmoniously together.”

  “That was over a quarter of a century ago.”

  “It gave us a deep and lasting mutual respect. Prior Lanfranc, as he then was, paid me the highest compliment when he left to be abbot of Caen.”

  “Not quite, Canon Hubert.”

  “His praise was unstinting.”

  “Yet it still fell short of the highest accolade,” said Henry coolly.

  “That would have been to take you with him to Caen to occupy a higher station. As it was, you did not even succeed him as prior of Bee. That honour fell to Anselm.”