The Serpents of Harbledown

CHAPTER TEN

Eadgyth was carried gently back to her bedchamber and left to the ministrations of Helto the Doctor. Golde waited outside the door with the frantic husband, reassuring him as best she could and trying to relieve his sense of guilt. Osbern the Reeve was beyond the help of mere words. Deeply shaken by his wife’s collapse, he feared that she might have suffered some irreparable damage. When Helto finally came out of the chamber, Osbern clutched at his arm.

“Well?” he implored.

“She is conscious again now, Osbern. I have given her a potion to still the demons inside her head.”

“Will she recover fully?”

“It is too soon to say.”

“What must we do?”

“Be very tender to her,” advised Helto. “She is in a highly delicate state. Eadgyth has sustained a terrible shock.” He flicked a glance at Golde. “As I warned you she would. Now you will realise why I urged you to protect her from such a discovery. You saw the result for yourselves.”

“May I go to her?” asked Osbern.

“Please do. Sit with her and soothe her. Make her feel loved and wanted. Do not upset her in any way. Whatever she asks, humour her wishes. I will call again this evening.”

“Thank you.”

When Osbern went into the bedchamber, Golde showed the doctor out of the house. She felt unjustly rebuked by his comments and wanted to defend herself but she bit back the words. Eadgyth was Helto’s patient. It was not her place to question his treatment of her or to start an argument with him.

Helto left the house and Golde repaired to the kitchen to give the servants their orders. She was surprised when Osbern came searching for her. He was pale and harassed.

“Eadgyth is asking for you.”

“Now?”

“She will speak with nobody else, my lady.”

“Let us go at once.”

“No,” said Osbern uneasily. “She asks for you alone.”

“But you are her husband.”

“Eadgyth insisted. The doctor told me to obey her whims.”

Golde could see the agony of rejection in his face. After touching his arm in sympathy, she went upstairs to let herself into the chamber. Eadgyth was lying in the bed and staring up at the ceiling. Golde took the stool beside her.

“How are you?” she asked.

Eadgyth turned to look at her with large questioning eyes. She held out a hand and Golde took it between her own to squeeze and stroke it. Eadgyth’s fingers were icy cold.

“Why did they lie to me, my lady?” she whispered.

“They did it for the best.”

“I could not believe that Osbern would be so false.”

“He was only trying to save you from pain, Eadgyth.”

“He deceived me. My own dear husband.”

“It was on the doctor’s advice.”

“Helto lied to me as well,” said the other in distress. “He told me that Bertha had died from the venom of a snake.”

“That is still the opinion to which he holds.”

“But it is untrue! I am not stupid, my lady. I knew that there was something wrong. Bertha and I grew up together. We played on Harbledown a hundred times. Our parents warned us about snakes and other poisonous creatures. We were careful.” Her eyes grew moist as they widened earnestly. “Bertha would never have been caught unawares.”

“Not by a snake, perhaps.”

“Then, by what? By whom?”

“We do not know, Eadgyth.”

“Tell me the truth.”

“I will.”

“I know that I can trust you,” said Eadgyth. “Osbern loves me but he still fobbed me off with lies. Tell me exactly what happened, my lady. How did Bertha die?”

“She was strangled.” Eadgyth winced, and Golde gave her a moment to recover before she continued. “A snake did bite her neck but it seems that may have been after she was dead. It was a means to conceal the fact that she was murdered.”

“Bertha! Of all people!”

“Nobody deserves to die in that way.”

“But why her? She never harmed anyone in her life.”

“Someone had a reason to kill her.”

“Who?”

“They will find him.”

Eadgyth began to weep silently and Golde reached out to hug her. An ugly truth had been kept from the young wife and she had learned it in the most heartrending way. To realise that Bertha had been murdered was an overwhelming horror and it was linked to a second hideous shock. Osbern had lied to her. In losing a dear friend, she also lost something of her love for her husband.

Golde sensed her recrimination.

“Do not blame Osbern,” she said. “He is a good man and he worships you. He only acted on the doctor’s counsel. Your husband has been through his own tribulation these past few days. Be kind to him. Understand his pain.”

She sat back on the stool as Eadgyth dabbed at her tears. Golde looked sadly down at her. It was a paradox. Everyone had kept back knowledge of the murder from her and yet Eadgyth might be the one person who knew the identity of the murderer. It was time to fish in the rivers of her memory.

“You told me that Bertha had a friend,” whispered Golde.

“Oh, no, my lady!”

“You did, Eadgyth. I heard you clear.”

“Then I was speaking out of turn. Bertha swore me to secrecy.

It was a solemn vow.”

“Her death absolves you. Who was he?”

“I could never tell you that.”

“Even if it meant that you were shielding a killer?”

“He would never lay a finger on her!”

“How do you know?”

“He loved her!”

“Is that what Bertha said?”

“They were soon to be betrothed.”

“Then maybe jealousy in the motive here,” opined Golde.

“Another of her admirers heard of her plans and murdered her out of envy. Could that be the case?”

“No, my lady. I was the only person who knew about him.”

“Then we must start there. What is his name?”

“She never told me.”

“What did she confide?”

“It was a secret, my lady.”

“And will you let her take it to her grave?” Golde held her hand once more. “Listen, Eadgyth. We must track down this man. He may not even know that she has been killed. If he loved Bertha, he will be desolated by the news. But he has a right to know it. Will you keep the truth from him as it was kept from you?”

“No, my lady. That would be a cruelty.”

“Then tell me how to find him.”

“I do not know.”

“Does he live in the city?”

“No, my lady. He hails from France.”

“Is that where he dwells?”

“Much of the time,” said Eadgyth. “Bertha only saw him when he came to Kent and he would not stay in Canterbury for long.

He travelled around the whole county.”

“Why? What was his occupation?”

“Bertha did not say.”

“How did she describe him?”

“As the most wonderful person she had ever met. Kind, loving and very handsome. Somewhat older than she. She was entranced by him. It is the first time I have seen Bertha truly happy.”

“Why such secrecy about her lover?”

“Because of her father.”

“Alwin the Sailor?”

“He would have stopped her at once.” She gave a little shrug.

“That is all I know, my lady, I swear. Do not press me further. It distresses me to recall the joy in her voice when she talked about him. All that hope, strangled out of her.”

“One more question, then. That is all. May I?” Eadgyth gave a reluctant nod of assent. “When did Bertha last speak of her friend to you?”

“Four or five days ago. She was very excited. Bertha had not seen him for months but word had finally come. It gave her such delight.” Her face was shining at the memory but it soon lost its glow. Eadgyth’s voice was dulled by sorrow again. “He was due to arrive here this week.”

Gervase Bret spent a long time at Christ Church Priory. Having been given permission to speak with Brother Ambrose, he sought out the monk and introduced himself. They adjourned to the privacy of the garden so that they could talk. Ambrose was a round, red-faced, affable man in his fifties, with a zest for life which was quite unmarked by his regular contact with death.

When Gervase showed him the flask which had been found at the hospital of St. Nicholas, the monk needed only one sniff to confirm that it had contained the poison which had ended Brother Martin’s life. Gervase was not allowed to view the cadaver in the morgue but he was given a most detailed inventory of its contours and its condition by the beaming Brother Ambrose. The bell for Vespers brought the conversation to a close and Gervase watched the monks converge on the chapel for Evensong. Special prayers would be said for the soul of the dear departed, and Canon Hubert and Brother Simon joined the obedientiaries to add their personal supplication.

Instinct sent Gervase back to Harbledown. In the hope that the scene of the crime might yield more clues about the murder, he rode steadily up the hill in the cool evening air. When he caught sight of a tall, stooping figure far ahead of him, he recognised Alain at once. The leper was dragging himself toward the crest of the hill and Gervase was chastened by the thought that a journey which would take no more than fifteen minutes on a horse had been an excruciating crawl throughout most of the afternoon for Alain.

Gervase overhauled him and dropped down to walk beside the leper. Alain did not even look up or check his stride.

“You are back, Master Bret,” he grunted.

“How did you know that it was me?”

“Who else would walk so close to a leper?”

“I came to thank you for your gift.”

“Gift?”

“The apple.”

“Was it of any help?”

“We think so.”

“I do not see how.”

“Where exactly did you find it?” asked Gervase. “Beside the body? Under the holly close by?”

“It was in her hand.”

“Of course!” It confirmed his theory. He reached up to take the apple and its wrapping from his saddlebag. “I have brought it back to you, Alain.”

The leper stopped and turned to him, clearly touched but unable to find the words to express his gratitude. When the apple was handed over, he held it as if it were a bag of gold, then secreted it once more inside his voluminous sleeve. Gervase did not have the heart to tell him that the apple had not belonged to Bertha but had probably been put into her fingers after she was dead. It held a special meaning for Alain and should be allowed to go on doing so until the apple rotted slowly away like the man who coveted it.

“You must have cared deeply for Bertha,” said Gervase.

“She was a friend.”

Alain trudged off again and Gervase kept pace with him.

“Did you ever speak to her alone?”

“Now and then.”

“What did you like about her?”

“She was not afraid of me.”

“How long have you had leprosy?”

“Most of my life,” said Alain without any trace of self-pity. “I have got used to the effect I have on others. Bertha was different.

She did not turn away.”

They walked on without speaking until they came to the hospital and turned off the track. One of the monks was distributing food to some of the other lepers. Seen from behind, the man looked so like Brother Martin that the two of them came to a sudden halt and blinked. When the monk turned to smile a welcome, they realised their mistake. The incident served as a reminder to Gervase.

“Were you here when they took Brother Martin away?”

“I was.”

“You saw them arrive with the cart?”

“We stood around the door of the church throughout.”

“How many monks were there, Alain?”

“Five or six.”

“What happened when they went into the church?”

“Why do you ask?”

“It is important. Did one come out again on his own?”

“Yes.”

“And where did he go?”

“I do not know,” said Alain. “We were only interested in Brother Martin. They put his body on the cart and covered it with a shroud.

Then they took him away.”

Gervase was quietly exhilarated to have his guesswork transformed into fact. He thanked Alain and let him join the others for the meal, watching him shuffle away and knowing that he carried an item of food inside his sleeve which would never be consumed and yet which would provide constant nourishment.

The door of the church was open. When Gervase went into the empty nave, he stood at the rear and looked at the spot where Brother Martin had been propped against the pillar. He then gazed across at the altar with its crucifix, its flowers and its single candle in an iron holder. By putting an apple in her hand and a serpent beside her, the murderer had used Bertha’s death as a means of sending a hidden message. Gervase wondered if a similar sign was contained in the manner and the venue of Brother Martin’s demise. He was still standing there when one of the monks joined him.

“Are you looking for something, my son?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Gervase. “A scene from the Bible.”

Cradled in his arms, Golde lay naked in bed beside her husband.

It seemed to her almost sinful to share so much love in a house filled with so much pain and remorse, but Ralph was plainly untroubled by any feelings of guilt. He caressed her hair before running his hand down the smooth skin of her back. There was no responsive purr.

“What is the matter, my love?” he asked.

“Nothing.”

“You are unhappy.”

“After that? Of course not.”

“I know you too well, Golde.”

“I am tired, that is all.”

“Your mind is elsewhere. So is your heart. Is it my fault?

Something that I did or said? What ails you?”

“Nothing that cannot wait until morning,” she said, snuggling into him and placing an apologetic kiss on his chest. “I am sorry if I was not as welcoming as you have every right to expect.”

“You were miles away, Golde.”

“Was I?”

“Or maybe only five yards or so.”

“Five yards?”

“In the next bedchamber. With Eadgyth.”

Golde sighed. “She is much in my thoughts, Ralph.”

“Can she not move over and leave some room for me?”

“There is always room for you,” she said, rolling on top of him to kiss him on the lips. “Have I not proved that to you time and again?” He rubbed his nose against hers by way of reply. “But I fret about Eadgyth.”

“She has a husband and doctor to look after her.”

“After today, she will not trust them so implicitly. That is one of the sad consequences of Bertha’s death. It has come between husband and wife. Osbern is a devoted husband yet she now views him with suspicion.”

“That will change in time.”

“I hope so. For both their sakes. When we stepped into this house, it was brimming with happiness. Where has it all gone, Ralph?”

“Right here,” he said, hugging her close. “Have you so soon forgotten? Besides,” he continued, “Osbern’s loss has been our gain. When his wife felt betrayed by him, she turned to you and confided things we would never otherwise have known. Bertha did have a lover, after all. We have no name and no occupation for him as yet but we know he exists. My own information supports that.”

“What did you find out at Fordwich?”

“That I could never be a sailor.”

“Why?”

“The very sight of water makes me feel seasick.”

“Even this far inland?”

“Yes,” he said. “I went to Fordwich and was astonished to chance upon Alwin himself, sitting on the quay. He told me little enough and his brothers were even less forthcoming. They had obviously been warned to say nothing.”

“What did you do?”

“I hung around the harbour and spoke to people who were not his kith and kin. My helm and hauberk made them reticent but I coaxed it out of them eventually.”

“‘It’?”

“There was a man in Bertha’s life and Alwin has been hunting him. He was down at the harbour only yesterday, accosting all and sundry and demanding to know if anyone had seen him.”

“Was a name given?”

“No, Golde. Only a description. But it tallies with the one that Eadgyth gave you. A handsome Frenchman in his thirties, who might recently have arrived at Fordwich by boat. Alwin was most anxious to trace him.”

“I can understand why.”

“Nobody had seen him.”

“But he was due to land here this week.”

“He may well have done so,” said Ralph, “and one of those captains may well have ferried him across the Channel on his boat.”

“Why did he not admit as much to Alwin?”

“His passenger probably bribed him into silence. Bertha’s lover-

or killer, or whatever he is-likes to cover his tracks. I will take up the search again tomorrow.”

“Where?”

“In Faversham. With the girl’s aunt.”

“How will you find the way?” she asked.

“Reinbald the Priest is my navigator,” said Ralph with a chuckle.

“You see how desperate I have become, my love? I have to turn for help to the Church!”

He picked his way through the undergrowth with the surefooted confidence of someone who was very familiar with the terrain.

Moonlight gave him some assistance but he did not really need it. When he passed the leper hospital, he did so in a wide arc so that there was no possibility of his being seen by anyone spending a sleepless night outside one of the huts. Leprosy kept different hours from the rest of world.

His route brought him back to a narrow track that meandered down the hill through thickening woodland. The sound of an approaching horse made him step quickly into the bushes nearby.

Crouched in his hiding place, he waited until the rider had cantered past, wondering why anybody should be out so late and why he was going toward Harbledown. The question soon faded from his mind as more immediate and inspiring thoughts rushed to take its place. He allowed himself a smile.

There was not far to go now. After half a mile at a steady jog, he came around the edge of a copse to catch his first glimpse of the light in the distance. He quickened his pace at once. An owl hooted, a wildcat screeched and some other animal darted across his path but he was neither distracted nor dismayed.

Reinbald the Priest ran on toward Faversham.

Osbern the Reeve lay on the straw pallet in extreme discomfort and wondered why the master of the house was occupying one of its meanest rooms. He had done so at the suggestion of Helto the Doctor, who felt that Eadgyth’s condition would become less volatile if she were allowed to spend the night alone. Her husband offered to keep a vigil in a chair at her bedside but he was overruled. Eadgyth refused to take the sleeping draught prescribed for her, and Osbern’s presence, it was felt, might incite rather than soothe. Helto believed that a combination of isolation and fatigue would ensure a restful night for his patient.

That same combination had the opposite effect on her evicted husband.

What had he done wrong? That was what he kept asking himself.

Why did Eadgyth look at him in such accusatory silence? Would they ever recapture the joy which had brought them together and made their home such a haven of peace and love? He was still reflecting on his misfortunes when sleep stole up on him and, taking pity on him at last, claimed him for a couple of short hours.

He came awake with a start. His body was still aching and his pride was still wounded by the fact that he had been relegated to a chamber normally used by the most menial of the servants.

During the trials of childbirth, it was natural for him to vacate the marriage bed for a short duration but this was a very different situation. Eadgyth was unwell and in need of succour. His place was beside her.

A distant bang made him sit up. As he tried to work out if the noise had come from inside or outside the house, a second bang was heard, louder and closer. It sounded like the front door. He swung his legs off the pallet and pulled himself upright, striking his head against the rafter as he did so and almost losing his balance. Groping his way out into the passage, he strained his eyes against the darkness. A board creaked beneath his foot but the rest of the house was in silence.

He crept across to the bedchamber he shared with his wife and put his ear to the door. There was no sound from within. Helto’s advice had been wise. Left alone, Eadgyth was enjoying a deep and untroubled sleep. Osbern could not resist the opportunity to look in upon her and he eased her door open as gently as he could. When the aperture was wide enough, he peered through it to take some comfort from the sight of his slumbering wife.

His blood congealed. Eadgyth was not there. A finger of moonlight came in through the gap between the shutters to point down at an empty bed. Flinging the door open, he lunged into the room to see if she had fallen to the floor but there was no sign of her. Panic deprived him of all consideration for the guests in the household.

“Eadgyth!” he yelled. “Where are you, Eadgyth!”

He went stumbling out into the passage and felt his way down the oaken staircase, creating even more disturbance.

“Eadgyth! Are you downstairs? Answer me, Eadgyth!”

A servant was the first to react, trotting down from the attic room with a lighted candle and confirming Osbern’s worst fear.

The little flame illumined the front door and showed that its bolts had been drawn back. The reeve pulled it open and stepped out into the street.

“Eadgyth! Come back! Please, Eadgyth!”

It was Ralph Delchard who brought him back into the house and rescued him from the protests of his neighbours. Another servant brought a second candle, then Golde came downstairs with a third. Gervase Bret was behind her.

“What has happened?” he said.

“My wife has disappeared,” gasped Osbern.

“We do not know that for sure,” argued Ralph. “Let the house be searched from top to bottom before we raise any alarm.” He pointed to a servant. “Take the candle and scour every room with care. Bring a report at once.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“I’ll help,” said Golde, following him upstairs.

“She is gone,” moaned the Reeve. “I know it.”

“At this time of night?” said Gervase.

“Eadgyth has run away.”

“That is foolish talk,” said Ralph, trying to calm him. “She has no cause to run away. This is her home.”

“My wife is sick. She does not know what she is doing.”

“We must find her at once,” said Gervase, lighting another candle from the one held by the servant. “I’ll try the kitchen and the solar.”

“Do not forget the stables,” said Ralph.

“Where is she?” demanded Osbern.

Snatching the candle from his servant, he went off on his own wild inspection of the ground floor, running from room to room and even climbing down the cellar to search for his wife. The frenetic activity was in vain. Eadgyth was definitely not in the house. As her husband was trying to cope with the horror of one loss, another was forced upon him.

Golde came hurrying down the stairs in consternation.

“Dear God!” she said. “The baby has gone as well!”

Still in her night attire, Eadgyth clutched her son to her breast and walked unsteadily along a rutted thoroughfare. Her hair hung loose and her feet were bare. Darkness took away the Canterbury she knew and replaced it with a bewildering maze of streets and lanes that led her in every direction but the one which she wanted.

When she paused at a corner to take her bearings, the baby awoke and cried its disapproval of the cool breeze around its head. Hugging him tight, she hummed a lullaby and rocked the child to and fro until it dozed off.

Night had its own collection of unexplained noises but she heard none of them. Even the occasional yelp of a dog did not penetrate her ears. Eadgyth blundered on, stopping from time to time to study the silhouette of a building which she thought she recognised, then choosing another wrong direction. Frustration only made her walk faster, impervious to the pain in her feet as they trampled indiscriminately over hard stones, discarded animal bones and the accumulated refuse of the city.

The impulse which drove her on eventually became a more reliable compass and guided her toward her destination.

Familiar houses loomed up, shops acknowledged her acquaintance and a horse trough was a reassuring landmark.

She was back home.

“We are coming!” she called. “We are here!”

Her cry woke the baby again and its complaints were more boisterous this time. It took her several minutes to lull it back to sleep with gentle rocking and warm kisses. As she moved on, the boy still in her arms, her words came out in an urgent whisper.

“Wait for us! We have not forgotten you!”

She was back in the Canterbury of her youth now, lifted by its memories and reassured by its certainties. The baby was her future but she carried him back into the safety of the past. When she turned a corner, Eadgyth saw the solid mass of the parish church of St. Mildred’s against the night sky. She paused to stare up at it with simple awe.

Most of her life had been circumscribed by its stone walls.

Baptised in its font and married before its altar, she had been an ardent member of its congregation for all the years in between and, although she now worshipped beside her husband in the daunting glory of the cathedral, it was the little church which still held her in thrall.

“We are here,” she murmured. “Do you see? We have come.”

It was almost dawn when they found her. Eadgyth was fast asleep in the middle of the churchyard, her back against a tombstone, her feet almost touching the fresh mound of earth beside it. The baby was fretful in her arms. Golde took it gently from her to wrap in a warm blanket. Osbern the Reeve knelt down to enfold his wife in the tenderest embrace.

Her eyes opened and she gave a smile of explanation.

“Bertha wanted me,” she said.