The Serpents of Harbledown d-5 Page 8

  “We come to Canterbury at an awkward time,” said Ralph. “It seems that relations between abbey and cathedral are somewhat strained at the moment.”

  “That situation is not, alas, an unusual one,” explained Prior Gregory. “We pray daily for deliverance.”

  “From what?”

  “The dilemma that confronts us.”

  “This row over the new abbot?”

  “That is certainly one part of the problem.”

  “What are the others?”

  “We are met here to address the main issue. The abbey holds the borough of Fordwich yet the archbishop claims that much of the property rightfully belongs to him.”

  “Why does he do that, Prior Gregory?”

  “Ask him.”

  “I would prefer to hear your assessment.”

  “May I speak freely, my lord?”

  “Of course,” encouraged Ralph. “You have my personal assurance that nothing you say will be repeated outside these four walls.”

  “Very well,” said the prior forcefully. “You ask me why Archbishop Lanfranc contests this land when he already holds vast amounts of property in Canterbury and elsewhere. I will tell you in one word. Pique.”

  “That is a serious charge to level,” said Canon Hubert.

  “It is justified.”

  “Pique is alien to his character.”

  “Judge for yourself.” He turned to his companion and extracted a roll of parchment from the satchel. “With your permission,” he said, standing up, “I would like to show you a map I have drawn.

  It is very crude but it may explain things which are not clear from mere description.”

  He unrolled the map on the table and Ralph placed a cup and a heavy hand on it to hold it flat. Prior Gregory had poor skill as an artist but they could recognise the rough outline of Canterbury and the oblong shape with a cross inside it, which represented St. Augustine’s Abbey, outside the eastern wall of the city.

  “Here is Fordwich,” explained the prior, using a stubby finger to point to a blob of ink in the far corner. “It is our port. This thick line on which it stands is the River Stour. The port is never idle. Apart from coastal trade, it handles regular imports of stone from Normandy. Canterbury not only gained its archbishop from Caen but huge quantities of building materials as well.”

  Gervase thought of Alwin the Sailor, steering his little vessel across the Channel and returning with a full load of Caen stone.

  Cathedral, abbey and churches had benefitted from the industry of Alwin and his kind. Fordwich had thrived.

  “After the Conquest,” continued their guide, jabbing his finger at another portion of the map, “Bishop Odo of Bayeux seized property in and around the city, including two sulungs above Fordwich, where he cut out a deer park.”

  “Sulungs?” said Ralph. “Why do you not measure your land in hides like most other counties? Two sulungs, you say?”

  “It amounts to over three hundred acres,” said Gervase.

  “Odo was always fond of hunting.”

  “Thanks to Abbot Scotland,” said the prior, “we reclaimed the property, and other land in the area of Fordwich, for the abbey.

  Nobody disputed our holding until now. Until Archbishop Lanfranc turned on us in a fit of pique.”

  “Because you resist his choice of abbot?” said Ralph.

  “Chiefly for that reason.”

  “Are holy relics also a factor here?” said Gervase. “I spoke with Reinbald the Priest on that matter. He tells me that the archbishop found the bones of St. Mildred.”

  “The abbey houses the true relics,” asserted the prior. “Some were sent abroad but we retain the better part of them. But you are right, Master Bret. It is another source of friction between cathedral and abbey. There are more besides and all help to ignite the archbishop’s enmity.”

  Canon Hubert erupted. “I cannot let these aspersions go unchallenged,” he said. “Archbishop Lanfranc is too noble a man to allow any pettiness to creep into his dealings. You say that Abbot Scotland reclaimed that land for you?”

  “He did,” consented the prior.

  “On whose advice?”

  “Archbishop Lanfranc’s.”

  “And who brought the good abbot from Mont St. Michel?”

  “Archbishop Lanfranc.”

  “Who consecrated him?”

  “Archbishop Lanfranc.”

  “Who directed him to rebuild the abbey and restore the full rigour of the Benedictine Rule within it?”

  “Archbishop Lanfranc.”

  “And who worked so closely and effectively over the years with Abbot Scotland?”

  “The answer is the same, Canon Hubert.”

  “But the person is not,” retorted the other. “I have just talked about one Archbishop Lanfranc but you have told us about something completely different. Are there two?”

  “Why not?” said Ralph mischievously. “We have two matching skeletons of St. Mildred here. Why not a pair of identical archbishops?”

  “Canon Hubert raises a valid point,” said Gervase. “If a man is to be judged by his deeds, then the archbishop must be venerated for his great vision and holy endeavour. He has been an exemplary primate of the English Church. It is difficult to believe him capable of vengeful behaviour.”

  “We are all subject to human frailty,” said the prior.

  Hubert still chafed. “The archbishop must be absolved of acting out of pique.”

  “What else would make him lay claim to that land?”

  “A legitimate right.”

  “We have brought the abbey’s charters with us.”

  “Prior Henry will contest their validity.”

  “Let him do so.”

  “It will be a bloody battle,” warned Ralph.

  “We are ready, my lord,” said Prior Gregory with a note of fierce pride. “The abbey has been bullied and intimidated by the cathedral. On many issues, we have been forced to yield. Not on this one.” He snatched up the map and held it high. “We will not cede one square inch of our land. The archbishop has chosen this fight, not the abbey. Let him come on. We will give no quarter.”

  Alwin the Sailor was so stunned by the death of his daughter that he did not stir out of his house. A sleeping draught prescribed by Helto the Doctor had given him rest but it did not ease the agony of loss. When he awoke, the searing pain was still embedded in him like a knife in his chest. A neighbour called to offer help and comfort but he waved her away. When a second knock came on his door, Alwin did not even answer it. Head in hands, he sat on a wooden stool and brooded on the misery of his future.

  The visitor eventually let himself into the house.

  “How are you, my son?” asked Brother Martin softly.

  “Go away,” murmured the other.

  “I wanted to see how you are. Did you manage to sleep last night? Have you eaten today? Is someone looking after you?”

  “I want to be left alone.”

  “I know, Alwin,” said the priest, putting a hand on his shoulder.

  “And I promise that I will not stay long. But I felt that it was my duty to come. I am sure that you would rather hear it from me than from one of the sheriff’s officers. They would be more blunt with the tidings.”

  Alwin looked up. “What tidings?”

  “Something I can hardly bring myself to tell you. But it is your right as her father to know it.”

  “Something to do with Bertha?”

  “I fear so.”

  “What? Tell me, Brother Martin.”

  “It is grim news. Prepare yourself.”

  “Why?”

  “You will soon see.” He took a deep breath but the words would not come. He shook his head in despair. “God help me! I do not like this office. Truly, I do not. I feel as if I am hitting a man who has already had blows enough.”

  “What do you mean?” said Alwin, rising to his feet in concern.

  “If you have any news about Bertha, I must know it instantl
y.

  She was my daughter. Tell me, man!”

  “Be brave, Alwin.”

  “Tell me!”

  He grabbed the old monk and shook him hard but stopped when he saw the tears forming in his eyes. Brother Martin was suffering enough on his own account. It had clearly cost him an enormous effort to come to the house. His whole body was limp with despair.

  “I must know!” pleaded Alwin with quiet intensity.

  “Bertha was murdered.”

  The father reeled. “Murdered? No, this cannot be.”

  “She was strangled to death.”

  “Bertha was bitten by a poisonous snake. You were there when we found here. We all saw the marks upon her neck.”

  “We were meant to, Alwin.”

  “I do not understand.”

  Brother Martin relayed the evidence as gently and as concisely as he could. He explained that Helto the Doctor held a contrary opinion but the monk himself had no whisper of doubt. The sheriff had set an investigation in motion.

  “They will need to speak to you,” cautioned Martin. “I begged them to let me see you first.” He heaved a deep sigh. “A lovable creature like Bertha. A girl with no enemies. Who could possibly have wanted to kill her?”

  Alwin said nothing. As the horror slowly faded, it was replaced by a lust for vengeance which made his whole body shake. He let out a roar of anger. When Brother Martin tried to calm him, he was pushed roughly away. Alwin snatched up the dagger which lay on the table.

  “I want him!” he snarled. “He is mine!”

  “Did she not at least give you his name?” asked Ralph.

  “No,” said Golde. “She would tell me nothing more.”

  “You pressed her on the matter, surely?”

  “I did not feel that I could, Ralph. She is still not well. Eadgyth was distressed enough that she had confided as much as she did. She has been racked with guilt ever since. Bertha made her promise to tell nobody.”

  “I can understand why,” said Ralph. “Everyone thought that Bertha was a fount of innocence and she was careful to preserve that image. It would have cracked in two had people realised the girl had a lover.”

  “ ‘A friend.’ That is what Eadgyth called him.”

  “Friends are not kept hidden.”

  “A lover? Bertha?”

  “Is that not what every young girl dreams of, Golde?”

  “Dreams, perhaps. But rarely more than that.”

  “Bertha was luckier than most, then.”

  “We do not know that.”

  “I think we do,” said Ralph to himself.

  They were alone in the solar of Osbern the Reeve’s house.

  Ralph had just returned from a long and testing day in the shire hall and Golde was delighted to see him again. She threw her arms around him and kissed him on the lips. He responded warmly.

  “That was worth every minute of the boredom I have endured today,” he said, holding her by the hands to look at her. “No, that is unfair,” he corrected. “There were some lively moments, even some amusing ones.”

  “Have you been mocking Canon Hubert again?”

  “He deserves mockery. So does Brother Simon.”

  “Spare him, at least,” said Golde. “Canon Hubert can strike back but Brother Simon has no defence against you. He is such a gentle, harmless, virtuous creature. I like him.”

  “Do not tell him that or we will never get him out of the priory.

  You terrify him, Golde. All women do.”

  “Why?”

  “He feels threatened,” explained Ralph. “Brother Simon’s body is a temple of purity. He would die rather than let any monstrous females break into that temple.”

  “Is that what I am? A monstrous female?”

  “Only in his eyes.” He squeezed her hands. “Simon took the cowl in flight from feminine charms. He turned white with horror today when he discovered that the monks in Christ Church Priory had held wild orgies at one time.”

  “Orgies?”

  “Apparently. Wine in quantity and women in abundance. A potent mixture. Archbishop Lanfranc put a stop to all that. He has even enforced celibacy among the secular clergy now. That is why you see so many sad faces in Canterbury.” He chuckled, then gave her another kiss before abruptly changing the subject.

  “I am hungry. When will we eat?”

  “They are preparing the meal now.”

  “Good.”

  “But we cannot sit down without Gervase.”

  “Forget him. He may be an hour or more.”

  “Where has he gone?”

  “Harbledown,” said Ralph. “I have told him he must not get drawn into this business but my words fall on deaf ears. Under that self-effacing manner, Gervase Bret has an iron will. When he wishes to do something, a whole army could not stop him.”

  Released from the business of the day, Gervase rode out through Westgate and took a more wide-ranging look at Harbledown.

  When he came to the archbishop’s palace, he slowed his horse to a trot so that he could survey the rambling manor house with its commodious interior and substantial, well-tended garden. It was built of timber and stone on a choice site.

  Twenty-seven dwellings had been destroyed to make way for Lanfranc’s imposing new home and Gervase paused to wonder what had happened to all those luckless families who had been summarily evicted by religion. A day in the shire hall had given him an insight into the politics of Christ Church Priory and it occurred to him that some of its older monks must have been dismayed when the archbishop first arrived in the city and, instead of living in the enclave himself and sharing in its austerities, sacked their dean, installed Prior Henry in his place, then constructed the palace in Harbledown. The community at St.

  Augustine’s Abbey were probably not alone in harbouring a grudge against Lanfranc.

  Gervase rode off at a canter. Having mused on the small human imperfections of the archbishop, he was overwhelmed by a consideration of his good works. Lanfranc had brought a new zest and organisation to the religious life of the city. Centered in the cathedral and the priory, it reached out in all directions and spread slowly throughout the whole kingdom. It was churlish to criticise a man for living in a comfortable house when he had shown such compassion for the poor, the sick and the aged. The hospital of St. Nicholas was only one small monument to Lanfranc’s abiding charity.

  Alain was sitting outside his hut when Gervase rode up. The leper watched as the newcomer tethered his horse to a yew tree and walked across to him.

  “Good day to you, Alain!”

  “There is no goodness in any of my days.”

  “That is not true,” said Gervase. “I think that Bertha brought a species of goodness here. Do you miss her?”

  “We must learn to live without Bertha.”

  “Do you not pine?”

  Alain fell silent but his sagging shoulders and downcast head were an eloquent answer. Gervase felt a rush of sympathy. The plight of the lepers was piteous. They would not easily find another friend like Bertha.

  “We spoke yesterday,” Gervase reminded him.

  “Not at my behest.”

  “Do you remember what I said?”

  “No.”

  “You do, Alain. I asked you what you saw when you found Bertha.

  You wouldn’t tell me. I need to know.”

  “I saw only what you saw.”

  “Nothing more?”

  An insolent pause. “Nothing more.”

  Gervase nodded. Alain was still unready to trust him. The only person who might get through to him was Brother Martin. It was time to enlist his help to win over Alain. When Gervase looked around, the leper lifted a hand to point.

  “Brother Martin is in the church.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Do not come back.”

  Gervase gave up for the second time and strolled up to the litle church, lifting the iron latch on the door. The place seemed empty as he stepped inside and his footsteps ec
hoed in the hollow nave. Brother Martin was not there. Gervase was just about to leave when he caught sight of him at last, seated on a bench up a pillar. With his hood pulled up, his black cowl merged with the dark shadow. The old monk had evidently drifted off to sleep.

  It was not surprising. Brother Martin had been like a second father to Bertha and his grief was intense. What made it even more unbearable was the knowledge that the girl had been murdered while returning from the leper hospital. The old monk was bound to reflect that she might still be alive if she had remained in the safety of the city instead of walking alone through the countryside. Loss and guilt were heavy burdens.

  Gervase sought to lift some of them from his friend.

  “Brother Martin!” he whispered. “It is Gervase.”

  The monk did not stir. Gervase touched his arm.

  “Brother Martin,” he said, giving him a firm shake.

  Making no sound, the black-clad figure fell softly forward to land in an undignified heap on the floor. Gervase bent down to turn him over, and shook him again. But he was far too late.

  Sightless eyes gazed up at him and the mouth hung open.

  Brother Martin’s selfless life was over.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Gervase was completely numbed. He shook his head in disbelief. Brother Martin could not possibly be dead. The monk was old and weary but he had an inner spark which drove him on and which defied the nudging deteriorations of time. He would never leave his charges at the hospital without even the courtesy of a farewell. Brother Martin lived for his work. It animated his whole being. Surrounded by the ugliness of lepers, he showed the true beauty of God’s work. The Almighty would never call him so soon from his labours.

  That thought made Gervase’s mind race. If Brother Martin had gone before his time, it had to be by the hand of another. Unnatural death had taken place in the church. Murder and sacrilege had worked cunningly together. Gervase knelt beside the prostrate form but his own shadow simply deepened the pool of gloom around the monk. Low in the sky, the evening sun was throwing only a meagre handful of light in through the small windows.

  A single candle burned on the altar. Gervase swiftly retrieved it and held it close to the face of the fallen man, carefully peeling back the hood until his tonsured head was completely exposed.