The Serpents of Harbledown d-5 Page 5

  “Where was she lying?” said Gervase.

  “Right here.”

  “On her face, her back or her side?”

  “Her back.”

  “Which way were her feet pointing?”

  “Down the hill, I think,” said the monk, ransacking his brain.

  “No, wait. That was not it. Bertha was stretched out the other way. Or was she? How strange! My memory is playing tricks on me again.” He looked at Gervase. “Is it important for you to know?”

  “It could be.”

  “Then I will try harder.”

  Using his staff, he pushed back the holly and stepped down into the hollow. Prickly leaves attacked his hands and ankles but he was inured to such routine pain. He searched the tufted grass and flicked away the sharpest of the stones with his sandalled foot before lowering himself gently to the ground.

  Gervase watched as the old man lay on his back and experimented with various positions, changing his angle each time. He eventually made up his mind.

  “This is how she was, Master Bret.”

  “Feet pointing this way?”

  “I am certain of it.”

  “Then she must have been dragged backward into her hiding place,” observed Gervase, running his eyes over the bushes. “You can see where some of the leaves have been snapped off. Unless you caused this damage when you reclaimed her body earlier.”

  “No,” said Martin. “We eased her out on the other side with all due care. Bertha had suffered indignities enough.

  We did not want to add to them by pulling her roughly out like a dead cat. Brother Bartholomew and I inflicted no further damage on her or her apparel.”

  “Her apparel?”

  “Yes, Master Bret. It was torn and soiled.”

  “Then there may be a thread or two caught on the leaves,” said Gervase, searching in vain. “What colour was her kirtle?”

  “Blue.”

  Brother Martin groaned as he forced himself upright.

  “Are you hurt?”

  “My old bones do not like this mean bed.”

  “Let me help you up.”

  “Stay there and I will teach you how.”

  Holding his staff in both hands, Martin extended it toward Gervase so that the latter could grasp it and haul his companion to his feet. The monk shouldered his way through the bushes and collected a few vengeful leaves in his cowl. A sudden thought made him swing round to stare back into the hollow.

  “It is gone,” he said. “I knew something was missing.”

  “Missing?”

  “The snake. The adder curled up beside Bertha.”

  “You told me that the swineherd killed it.”

  “He did. And left it in two parts on the ground. There is no sign of it now. Where can it have gone?”

  They got their answer within moments. The delighted screams of children hit their ears and they walked quickly past the bushes to witness an impromptu game. Two small boys were running around in happy terror, pursued by a third with the carcase of the snake in his hand, whirling it like a whip as he tried to strike his friends. When he failed to catch them, he instead hurled the severed head of the creature after them, hitting one boy on the side of the face and producing howls of ghoulish glee.

  Brother Martin shook his head philosophically.

  “The young show no respect for the dead,” he said without rancour. “It was ever thus. When I was their age, I found a human skull in a field. No thought of who he or she might have been or what form of death they had endured. It was a plaything to me. I kicked the skull along the ground for sport until it fell into a stream.” He gave a mirthless chuckle. “I often wonder if I became a monk by way of penance for my childhood sin.”

  “It was only the sin of ignorance, Brother Martin.”

  “That is no excuse.”

  Gervase stopped to watch the three boys, haring down the hill together before vanishing out of sight among the trees. They had lost interest in the snake and it had been hurled with cruel indifference into the bracken. Excited laughter showed that they had found a new game.

  “What now?” asked Brother Martin.

  “I would like to speak to the man who found the body.”

  “But he is a leper.”

  “That will make no difference.”

  “It would to most people.” He regarded Gervase with a mixture of admiration and curiosity. “You are an unusual man. When you have pressing business of your own, you give time and energy to something that is of no real concern to you. Why?”

  “Because of the girl.”

  “You have never met Bertha.”

  “No, Brother Martin, but I have seen her through the eyes of those who did. She was deeply loved by all who knew her. Osbern the Reeve told me much about Bertha. He fed my interest.”

  “What did he say?”

  “That she was an exceptional person. Young, fair, full of sweetness, generous toward others.” He became wistful. “I have someone like that in my own life. We are betrothed and she waits for me even now in Winchester. When the reeve talked about Bertha, he might almost have been describing my beloved Alys.” He put a palm on his chest. “I am here to help. Make what use of me you see fit.”

  “I am most grateful to you.”

  “Let us go on.” The monk fell in beside him and they continued on up the hill. “We passed your hospital on our way here and offered up a prayer for the souls within.”

  “Leprosy is a dreadful affliction. Its victims deserve the utmost sympathy and yet their very condition provokes disgust. Many turn away in horror.”

  “Bertha did not.”

  “No more do I. The lepers are my flock.”

  “Which one of them discovered the body?”

  “His name is Alain.”

  “French?”

  “Of mixed blood.”

  “Then he and I will have something in common.”

  “It will be the only thing, I fear.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Be warned, Master Bret. He is an odd fellow. Withdrawn and often unfriendly. Even I cannot reach him at times. Alain is not liked by the others. Talk to him, if you must.”

  “He may have seen something that nobody else noticed.”

  “He may, indeed,” said Martin. “But will he tell you what it was? That is the question. Alain is very stubborn. The likelihood is that he will refuse to say a single word.”

  Golde was saddened by the turn of events and anxious to do all she could to relieve the distress. She sat at Eadgyth’s bedside to console her, she helped to tend the baby, she took charge of the servants and she shouldered the household cares as if they were her own. Osbern the Reeve was struck by her maternal warmth and loving kindness. Ralph looked on with proud approval.

  Canon Hubert, finding the house too full and too preoccupied, returned to the prior after asking that Gervase should send the requested documents after him in due course.

  Eadgyth was patently unwell. When the first shock of the tragedy had worn off, it was replaced by a deep and agonising sense of loss. The effort of comforting Bertha’s father had also told on her. She was pale, distracted and very queasy. It was after she had been sick for the third time that her anxious husband sent for the doctor.

  “How is she?” asked Ralph.

  “As well as can be expected.”

  “Have you given her physic?”

  “I have prepared a sleeping draught for her. Eadgyth needs rest.

  Grief is a form of illness. It taxes the mind and debilitates the body. Sleep is the only cure.”

  Helto the Doctor was a tall, thin, angular man with a peremptory manner which did nothing to recommend him to Ralph. The doctor was used to talking to patients who were too unwell to answer back and too weak to resist any medicine he prescribed or any course of treatment he advocated. Five minutes alone with Eadgyth had been followed by some clipped orders to Osbern. Intercepting him as he was about to leave, Ralph was less inclined to defer to him
or to tolerate his professional brusqueness.

  “Is there no more you can do for her?” he demanded.

  “No, my lord.”

  “Could you not at least show the woman some sympathy?”

  “I do,” said Helto, bridling at the implied criticism. “I have the greatest sympathy for Eadgyth and by far the most understanding of her condition. She has been a patient of mine for many years and it was I who helped to bring her child into the world.”

  “I am sure you are an able midwife,” said Ralph.

  “Do I detect a note of sarcasm, my lord?”

  “You hear only a slight irritation.”

  “With me? What is the cause?”

  “Your haste, for one thing. The lady of the house lies in obvious distress yet you do little more than look at her before you are rushing out of the house again.”

  Helto was checked. There was an authority and firmness of purpose about Ralph that he did not care to challenge. A Norman lord who was the guest of the town reeve had to be a person of some consequence. The doctor rubbed his palms and swiftly adopted a more respectful tone.

  “I am sorry, my lord,” he said. “My haste must not be taken as indifference. There are facts about the patient that you do not know and cannot be expected to know. Eadgyth is not in robust health,” he confided. “She may look plump and rosy-cheeked to you but she is still sickening. When the baby was born, there were … complications. I can say no more than that. Childbirth is always an ordeal. I thank God that I was able to save both mother and son.”

  Ralph felt a sharp twinge of remorse. His own wife had died in childbirth and their son had followed his mother to the grave soon after. It had been a devastating experience. He was thankful that it had not been visited on Osbern.

  “Eadgyth is fragile,” continued Helto. “A blow like this has reminded us how far her recovery still has to go. Now you will understand why I did not need to spend an hour in her bedchamber to determine what was ailing her. I am a frequent caller at this house. One look at her is enough.”

  Ralph warmed to the man. There was a genuine concern in his voice. Helto the Doctor must have spent at least twenty years in his profession and he was well-regarded enough to be the physician of the town reeve’s wife. It was wrong to doubt his ability or to question his methods.

  “I have done all that is needful here,” said Helto. “If I was speeding away, it is because I have to call on someone else who has been laid low by this melancholy event.”

  “Oh?”

  “The dead girl’s father. Alwin the Sailor.”

  “Eadgyth went to offer him solace.”

  “Yes, my lord. And she is now in need of it herself. I begin to wonder where they will end.”

  “ ‘They’?”

  “These ever-widening circles of grief,” explained the doctor.

  “Bertha’s death is like a stone dropped into a pool. Her father is distraught. In comforting him, Eadgyth is crushed by the weight of a double suffering. Osbern is anxious about her and the lady Golde is troubled by his evident distress. You, in turn, are no doubt worried that your wife will take on too great a burden.”

  “She did that when she married me,” said Ralph easily. “But I take your point. One stone. Endless circles.”

  “That snake has poisoned the lives of many people.”

  “Is that how the girl died?”

  “It is, my lord.”

  “Has that been confirmed?”

  “I examined the body myself at St. Mildred’s Church. The fatal marks were upon her neck.”

  “Her neck?” said Ralph in surprise. “How so? The snake could surely not have dropped down on her from a tree. And she would hardly have lain on the ground to offer it so enticing a target.”

  “She may have done so. Unintentionally.”

  “Explain.”

  “Come, my lord,” said Helto with a knowing smile. “We have both been young. The summer sun has warmed our blood. Bertha was a comely girl. When she lay down on the grass yesterday, it is possible that she was not alone.”

  “A lover?”

  “She had many admirers.”

  Ralph tensed. “Then why did the rogue not come to her aid when the snake bit the girl? Why did he not carry her at once to a doctor? What sort of lover abandons his mistress like that?”

  “He may already have left her.”

  “Would she stay on the ground alone?”

  “Why not?” argued Helto. “Musing on her lover. Or even falling into a light sleep that left her off guard. I am not saying that it did happen that way but it could have. It would certainly account for the wound upon her neck.”

  Ralph was unconvinced. “Other girls might have come to grief that way but not this one. Bertha was by report devout and caring.

  Look at the work she did at the leper hospital. That was a martyrdom. Here was no normal, carefree, amorous girl.”

  “That is true.”

  “Bertha had all the attributes of a nun.”

  Helto the Doctor whispered a discreet contradiction.

  “Not all, my lord. I do assure you.”

  When they reached the leper hospital, Brother Martin first showed him around the little church. He drew particular attention to the medicine cupboard, which was filled with oils, lotions and ointments. Bound by cord, various herbs were hanging from hooks to dry or lying in jars to be ground and mixed. The monk did not only care for the souls of his tiny community. He was its father, its teacher, its cook, its doctor and its link with the outside world.

  Gervase Bret was deeply impressed by his dedication.

  “What sorts of herbs did Bertha bring you?” he said.

  “Whatever was in season. Rosemary, rue, mint, figwort. I use them all. Parsley, lavender, thyme, sage, mustard seed and a dozen more besides. A lotion of pellitory will soothe the skin.

  Crushed lavender will sweeten the air. A mustard poultice will draw the sting of an ulcer. And so on. Bertha knew them and their properties as well as I.”

  “How will you manage without her?”

  “We will not.”

  “Can nobody else take on her office?”

  “I may scrounge a boy from the Master of the Novices for one day a week but what use will he be? It would take me an age to teach him which herbs to pick and where to find them. And what boy could match the medicine that Bertha brought?”

  “Medicine?”

  “Herself, Master Bret,” said the monk, closing the door of his cupboard. “Leprosy is not simply a foul disease. It is a steep and twisting staircase into the grave. Its victims know that. There is no escape. Their hope is eaten away just as mercilessly as their bodies.” He led Gervase outside. “Bertha could not arrest their decay but she was a salve to their minds. She offered friendship and understanding to wretches who have seen little of either.”

  He pointed to the wattle huts, primitive dwellings into which the lepers crawled at night like dogs into their kennels. Their fetid lodgings might provide shelter from the elements but scant comfort and only the most meagre decoration. Some of the occupants were asleep in their huts, others were sitting outside the door, others again were talking in a somnolent group. The whole place was still dazed by the shock of Bertha’s death.

  Alain was not at the hospital and it took some while to track him down. They found him propped up against the trunk of an elm, brooding in the shade of its foliage. When he saw them approaching, he pulled his hood even further forward and sank back defensively into his cloak.

  “You have a visitor, Alain,” said Brother Martin softly. “His name is Master Bret and he is eager to meet you.”

  “Good day,” said Gervase, stopping a few yards away.

  “He wishes to ask you about Bertha.”

  Alain turned to scrutinise the stranger through his veil and Gervase felt the hostility of his glare. The visitor was at a disadvantage. Unable to see anything of the leper’s face or body, he had no idea of the age, character and build of the man sit
ting before him and he could not decide if the concealment was a weapon used against him or an essential mask over hideously corrupted flesh.

  “I was sorry to hear the sad tidings about Bertha,” he began.

  “Brother Martin has told me how important and loved a figure she was at the hospital.” There was no response. “I believe that you were the person who found her body.”

  “Is that not so, Alain?” prompted the monk.

  “We have just been examining the spot ourselves.”

  “Please help us.”

  “We are acting on Bertha’s behalf.”

  Alain gave no indication that he had even heard them. He remained deep in his hooded cloak like a snail in its shell, watchful against danger, looking no further than its own immediate needs.

  Brother Martin turned to Gervase and arched his eyebrows in apology, gesturing that they might as well withdraw from the uncommunicative leper. Gervase held his ground and instead politely waved the monk away.

  When he was left on his own with Alain, he first took a step nearer to him, then squatted on the ground. Since most of the lepers were native Saxons, theirs was the tongue used at the hospital of St. Nicholas. Gervase now spoke in French in an attempt to prise something out of the dumb and resentful figure before him.

  “Where were you born, Alain?” A strained silence ensued.

  “Brother Martin tells me you are of mixed parentage. My mother was a Saxon but my father hailed from Brittany. I grew up with a foot in both camps.” The leper was in no mood for personal reminiscence. Gervase plunged straight in. “We do not believe that Bertha died from snakebite. Do you?”

  A faint, hesitant, parched voice eventually emerged.

  “Who are you?” asked Alain.

  “My name is Gervase Bret. I am a Chancery clerk in the royal household at Winchester. I have come to Canterbury on business.”

  “Then go your way and discharge your duty.”

  “I have vowed to help Brother Martin.”

  “This is nothing to do with you.”

  “It is. I can help.”

  “Bertha was our friend. Not yours.”

  “That is true.”

  “Leave us alone.”

  “But I care.”

  “And leave Bertha alone.”