The Serpents of Harbledown

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Ralph Delchard was shocked at the state in which he found the man. Alwin the Sailor was a hideous mass of bruises and swellings. One arm was in a splint, one leg heavily bound up.

Bandages covered part of his face and head but the swollen eyes and the shattered nose were dramatic reminders of the ruthless beating he had taken. They had brought him home from Fordwich in a cart, wrapped in old sacks which were now crimson with blood. At one point they thought he had died.

Helto the Doctor cleaned him off and tended his wounds. The patient revived slightly but was far too weak to protest when his arm was reset. The pain rendered him unconscious again. By the time that Ralph arrived, the doctor had gone and Alwin was being cared for by the old woman who lived in the adjacent house. She sat beside the bed, watching her neighbour in frightened silence, wondering why a new calamity had befallen a household which had already suffered the death of a wife and the murder of a beloved daughter.

After letting Ralph in, she withdrew to the kitchen to leave him alone in the bedroom with Alwin. There was nowhere to sit and the low ceiling obliged the visitor to duck his head but he ignored the discomfort. In the presence of such extensive injuries, it was churlish to complain about a crick in his neck. As Ralph’s shadow fell across him, Alwin half opened his eyes and made a gurgling sound in his throat. Ralph knelt down beside him and gave him time to come fully awake.

“Who did this to you?” he said at length.

“I … don’t … Know.”

Each word was a separate effort, forced out between lips that had been split open by teeth which were now knocked out of his mouth. Alwin experimented with the same answer until he found a way to speak without moving his lips at all.

“I don’t know.”

“How many were there?”

“Two.”

“Here?”

“Fordwich. On my boat.”

“In broad daylight?” said Ralph. “Were there not witnesses at the quayside? Did nobody come to your aid?”

“No.”

“What about your friends?”

“Nobody.”

The pain of recollection sent him into a long bruised silence but Ralph waited. Alwin could not be rushed. Judging the moment, the visitor tried again.

“This is something to do with him, is it not?” he said.

“Him?”

“The man you are after.” Alwin closed his eyes. “Do not pretend to fall asleep,” warned Ralph with soft jocularity. “I know that you can hear me perfectly well. When I saw you in Fordwich, you were lurking in the harbour, hoping to catch news of a certain person. You were saving him for yourself. That was your plan, was it not?” He gestured at the injuries. “You are in no state to crawl out of this bed, let alone to conduct a search. You need me, Alwin. We must work together.”

The eyes opened to regard him with a suspicion that was tempered with a reluctant admiration. Alwin could never bring himself wholly to trust a Norman but Ralph had earned his respect. The murder investigation was nominally headed by the sheriff. His officers had been diligent in their inquiries but they had so far achieved little success. With no reason to be personally involved, Ralph Delchard had taken it upon himself to pursue the killer and to brave the dangers that that would obviously entail.

Harsh truths had to be faced. Alwin could never wreak revenge on his own. He would not be fit to intercept a passenger on a boat the following Wednesday. Helto had talked about keeping the splint on his arm for a month at least and warned him that the damage might leave him with a permanent limp. The way he felt at that moment, Alwin began to wonder if he would ever recover.

“He killed Bertha,” Ralph reminded him. “Are you going to let him get away with it?”

“No, my lord.”

“Then let me help. Who is he?”

“I’m not sure.”

“I think you are.”

“It could be him. There is nobody else. She liked him.”

“Bertha?”

“Yes.”

“How did she meet him?”

“On my boat. In Normandy.”

“You were collecting more stone from Caen?” Alwin gave a perceptible nod. “Who was this man?”

“A stranger. He wanted to cross the Channel.”

“In that old boat of yours?” said Ralph in surprise. “Why did he wish to sail with a cargo of stone when he could have taken a bigger and faster vessel that would have offered more comfort?”

“I did not ask. He paid well.”

“You brought him to Fordwich?”

“He had business in the area.”

“What kind of business?”

“He did not say.”

“Can you describe him?”

A rueful sigh. “Tall, fine-looking, dark beard.”

“A Frenchman, I hear.”

“And well-dressed. In the French fashion.”

“What did you learn from him?”

“Very little. He hardly spoke.”

“He talked to Bertha. You said she liked him.”

“Yes.”

“What did you do?”

“Pulled her from him. Spoke sharply.”

“Why?” said Ralph. “Did you not trust her?”

“Him. The passenger.”

“Was he too attentive?”

“Bertha was young, innocent.”

“What happened when you landed at Fordwich? Did he pay you his money and come ashore?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Where did he go?”

“I don’t know.”

“And you never saw him again?”

“No.”

“What about Bertha?” The swollen eyes closed in agony. “You assumed that she had never seen him again, either, but now you think differently. Is that it?” Alwin’s pain was answer enough.

“He must have been a remarkable man if he had such an effect on her. A brief meeting. Few words. Only smiles and glances passing between them. Yet he somehow persuaded her to defy her own father.”

“No!”

Anger made the sailor roar and squirm for a few moments but he soon subsided once more, wracked by physical anguish and tortured by remorse. Ralph had pushed him to the limit of his strength and endurance. It would be a cruelty to continue. When he asked a final question, Ralph felt as if he were jabbing the man with a sword but it had to be done.

“What was his name, Alwin?”

The sailor was sobbing quietly. He turned his head away to escape. Ralph leaned over to him to whisper in his ear.

“Give me his name, man. His name. ”

It came out through the shredded lips as a distorted grunt.

“Philippe.”

“Philippe Berbizier,” said Lanfranc. “Have you heard the name?”

“No, Your Grace.”

“It is one they have cause to loathe in Orleans.”

“Who is he?”

“A renegade priest. A notorious felon. A heretic.”

“And this man is here in England?”

“We believe so, Hubert.”

For the first ten minutes of the audience, Canon Hubert was too overwhelmed to do anything more than stand, listen and nod in agreement. The situation in which he found himself surpassed his most ambitious imaginings. In company with Prior Henry, he was in the exalted presence of no less a personage than Archbishop Lanfranc, primate of the Holy Church of Canterbury and the appointed voice of Christianity in the kingdom. Hubert was in a state of high exhilaration.

There had been nothing formal about Lanfranc’s welcome. He had risen from his seat to embrace Canon Hubert with warm affection, apologising for not being able to see him before and assuring him that their happy days together at Bec were often in his mind. Hubert was overjoyed. Lanfranc had aged considerably since their last meeting but he was still recognisable as the inspirational prior of Bec under whom Hubert had served with such love and alacrity.

Now in his late seventies, he was worn down by the cares of state and by the immense ecclesiastical responsibilities which he carried. Rounded shoulders, a curving spine and silver hair told one tale but it was contradicted by the vitality in the wrinkled face and by the astonishing power of his mind.

They were in his parlour. While his visitors stood before him, Lanfranc was sitting in his high-backed carved chair, a large gold crucifix on the wall behind his head. He made the self-effacing gesture which Hubert remembered so well.

“I was content as prior of Bec,” he said. “I was even more content as abbot of Caen. What more could a man want on this earth?

Nothing! Why should I choose to leave all that and come to Canterbury? When the King invited me, I tried to decline. When Pope Alexander, of blessed memory, sent his legates to enforce that invitation, I pleaded in vain my incapacity and unworthiness, my ignorance of the language and of the barbarous people here.

King William would have me.”

“The English Church has been the beneficiary,” said Henry.

“I have done my best, ill-suited as I am.”

“No man could have done more, Your Grace.”

“They could, they could, Prior Henry.” He held his palms up to heaven. “The miseries I endured when I came here! The suffering, the harshness, the avarice, the lust and the baseness I saw all around me! Why was I dragged from the monastic life I love into this wilderness? Without Henry as my prior and Ernulf of Beauvais to teach scholarship, I never could have survived. Yet by the grace of God, and by His divine mercy, I did.”

“With honour, Your Grace,” said Hubert.

“We tried. And there have been successes. We have built and we have educated. We have brought the fruits of civilisation and culture to a land devoid of both when we first arrived. When I depart this world-and God cannot put off the call much longer- I wish to leave the English Church in a far healthier state than when I found it.” A note of rancour was injected. “And I cannot do that when it is threatened by the worm of heresy.”

“Tell Canon Hubert about Orleans,” suggested Henry.

“Oh, dear! Yes, Orleans. Philippe Berbizier.”

“They drove him out in time.”

“He should have been caught and burned to death like the rest of them. Fire consumes evil. It is the only way to rid ourselves of it.” The furrows deepened in his brow. “Philipe Berbizier is a monster. Orleans is a centre of learning and a city of great spiritual worth. It was into this place of beauty that Philippe Berbizier crawled like a serpent, tempting the weak-minded and corrupting the young. He even drew one of the canons of the church of Holy Cross into his circle of damnation.”

“What was the nature of their heresy?” asked Hubert.

“They spurned orthodoxy,” said Lanfranc. “They claimed that Christ was not born of the Virgin Mary.”

“God preserve us!”

“They said that Christ did not suffer on the Cross for mankind.

He was not buried in the sepulchre or raised from the dead.

And,” he continued, grasping the arms of his chair, “that the sacraments themselves had no validity.”

“This is intolerable.”

“There is worse, Canon Hubert. It involves carnal acts with young women as part of their ritual. One of the accused even talked about the ashes of a murdered baby, born to a woman who had been unwittingly drawn into the circle.”

“Horrors!” gasped Hubert, swaying at the contemplation of such wickedness. “These are abominations!”

“But exposed,” said Lanfranc. “The heretics were caught and interrogated in chains in Holy Cross before an assembly of king, queen and bishops. Confessions were wrung out of them. They were condemned and properly burned to death.”

“All but Philippe Berbizier,” noted Prior Henry.

“All but him.”

“He looked elsewhere for converts.”

“Here in Canterbury, it seems,” said Lanfranc with foreboding.

“That is what has brought him to the city. The search for those he can convert to heresy.”

“Converts,” added Henry. “And unsuspecting young women.”

Canon Hubert thought of Bertha and shuddered.

The girl dressed without once raising her eyes to him. When she knelt before him, he offered his hand and she kissed it with reverence before leaving the room. Philippe Berbizier got up from the bed and yawned with satisfaction. He kept them waiting for a long time before he finished his glass of wine, put on the white robe and went back into the parlour.

The girl had taken her place in the circle and sat, like the others, with her head bowed. Berbizier brushed a hand against her shoulder as he stepped back into the centre of his followers.

Restored to his place, his power was stronger than ever, flowing out like waves to lap over each one of them. When he chanted a prayer, they sang the responses in unison. The service ended with his benediction.

As the members of the circle left the house, Berbizier stood at the door to bid them farewell and to have a private moment with each. The last man to arrive at the service was also the last to depart. Berbizier waited until everyone was completely out of earshot.

“I have been meditating on our problem,” he said.

“It will not easily go away.”

“What are their names?”

“Ralph Delchard and Gervase Bret.”

“Who is the greater threat to us?”

“The lord Ralph. He is the soldier of the two.”

“How many men does he have?”

“Twelve,” said the other. “Eight of them are helping the sheriff while four stay with their master.”

“He is well-protected, then?”

“Yes, Philippe. That is not the way. The lord Ralph is impregnable. You would tangle with him at your peril.”

“Every man has a weak spot.”

“That is true.”

“Every woman, too,” said Berbizier with a smile. “That is their attraction. However well-defended they may seem, any woman can be conquered if you know how to lay a siege.”

“You have taught me much in that respect, Philippe.”

“You will learn much more before I have finished.”

“My eyes have been opened to the flames of passion.”

“Good. This turbulent soldier …”

“Ralph Delchard?”

“We must divert his attention.”

“How?”

“Where is his weakness?”

Golde was deeply grateful to Reinbald the Priest. His arrival was a surprise and his time spent alone with Eadgyth was immensely beneficial. He was not only able to offer her a sustenance and understanding outside the capacity of any doctor, his presence in the house reassured Osbern the Reeve and released Golde to get on with the domestic management. She liked Reinbald. His relative inexperience was offset by a dedication to his ministry which bordered on obsession. Before he left, Golde made sure that she spoke to him.

“Thank you for coming, Father Reinbald.”

“It was a duty which brought me pleasure, my lady. I have known Eadgyth since the time when I became a deacon at St. Mildred’s.

She is a decent, honest, God-fearing person. I only wish that all members of my congregation were so.”

“How is she now?”

“Becalmed by my visit and that is very heartening.”

“Your words were a much-needed balm.”

“I said little,” explained Reinbald. “It was Eadgyth herself who did most of the talking. She wanted to tell me about her youth in Worthgate Ward and I encouraged her reminiscences. Anything which touches on St. Mildred’s is of great interest to me and I was moved to see how steadying an influence my church has had on Eadgyth’s life.”

“And on Bertha’s, presumably.”

“Yes, my lady. Until this last few months.”

“Oh?”

“Her attendance was not as regular as it had been.”

“Did you not tax her about that?”

“Eventually, my lady.”

“Eventually?”

“I do not stand at the porch to count my parishioners in. That office I leave to my churchwarden. It was one of them who first called Bertha to account.”

“Did she explain her absences?”

“Yes,” said Reinbald. “She told him that she was spending more time at the leper hospital and taking part in services there. I had no complaint about that. Evensong led by Brother Martin at St.

Nicholas is every bit as valid as my own service at St. Mildred’s.

I thought no more of the matter until I chanced to meet Brother Martin himself.”

“Had Bertha lied?”

“I fear so, my lady. When I teased Brother Martin about stealing one of my parishioners, he took it in good part. But he also denied that she was spending quite as much time at Harbledown as she claimed.”

“It was then you taxed her?”

“Sternly.”

“What did she say?”

“She promised to mend her ways.”

“No explanation of where she had been when she was neither at St. Mildred’s nor at the hospital?”

“None, my lady. Just an urgent plea.”

“Not to tell her father,” she guessed.

“Yes,” he said. “I acceded to her request on condition that we saw her in St. Mildred’s more often. And I held a warning over her head. If she strayed from us again, I would tell her father all.

Fear is a powerful weapon. It worked on Bertha. Alwin never knew the truth about her absences.” A haunted look came into his face. “In the light of what has occurred since, I think I was wrong to deceive him.”

“You spared her certain punishment at his hands.”

“But helped to forfeit her young life.”

“No, Father Reinbald!”

“Had her father known the truth, his vigilance would have been increased, Bertha would never have been allowed the licence to climb up Harbledown Hill to the hospital whenever she chose.

She would still be alive, my lady.”

“You cannot be sure of that,” said Golde.

“It gnaws at my conscience.”

“You did what you felt was best at the time.”

“Yes,” he said dolefully. “I knew how Alwin would react and I did not want to introduce any more discord into a house that has had more than enough.” He opened the front door, then turned back. “Family is the most blessed thing. But it can sometimes be a curse. Look how this little family here has been blighted. Eadgyth sick, Osbern anxious and their dear child without their mutual love to enfold it.”

“The baby has not been neglected.”

“I know. You have been mother and father to him these past couple of days. But it is not the same, my lady.”

“I accept that,” said Golde. “My role is temporary. Eadgyth improves. With your help and that of Helto the Doctor, she will recover completely and this family will soon knit back together again.”

“I earnestly hope so, my lady. We will do all we can. But there is one thing that a priest and a doctor can never do.”

“What is that?”

“Find Bertha’s killer,” he said. “Until that is done, Eadgyth will never fully recover and this family will suffer more woe.”

Gervase Bret responded to the summons immediately. When the message came from Canon Hubert, he hurried to the priory and was admitted by the porter. The still trembling Hubert and the ghostly Brother Simon were waiting for him inside the gate. They conducted him to the garden and sought out a quiet corner where they might pass on their frightful tidings. Hubert had already confided in his companion and it had made Brother Simon wish that he never had to stir outside the safety of the enclave again.

“What is the problem, Canon Hubert?” asked Gervase.

“Greater even than we feared.”

“In what way?”

Hubert took a deep breath. “I had an audience with Archbishop Lanfranc himself,” he said, managing to combine a fulsome boast, a reverential whisper and a statement of fact into one short sentence. “Prior Henry was also present. Our discussion was long and intense.”

“Did it concern our visit to Harbledown?”

“It did, Gervase. My instinct was sound.”

“As ever, Canon Hubert,” praised Brother Simon.

“We are dealing with heresy!”

“Is that what the archbishop confirmed?”

“He did more than that,” said Hubert. “He gave me details of this man’s immoral, criminal and profane history.”

“This man?”

“Philippe Berbizier.”

“Who is he?”

“An ogre who corrupts minds and hearts.”

“A devil incarnate,” added Simon.

“He formed a sect in Orleans and led them in rites which were almost satanic. And now, Archbishop Lanfranc fears, this creature is searching for converts here.”

“At the heart of the Christian Church?”

“Where better to strike?” replied Hubert, rolling his eyes. “Do you see the boldness of the villain?”

Simon shivered. “Nothing is sacred to him!”

“At the hospital of St. Nicholas, you will only see leprosy of the body. A disease which attacks from outside. Philippe Berbizier is far more insidious. He works from within. He infects his converts with a leprosy of the soul.”

“How?” asked Gervase. “Be more specific, please. You call him a heretic without first defining his heresy. What sect did he form in Orleans? Who were they?”

“Gnostics!” boomed Hubert.

“Pagans!” bleated Simon.

“That is not so,” said Gervase. “Correct me if I am wrong, but is not Gnosticism a crude mix of Paganism and Christianity?

They do not deny the existence of Jesus Christ. They teach that he was a mere mortal and not the Son of God.”

“Blasphemy!” said Simon with his hands over his ears.

“Gnostics are the caterpillars of Christianity,” Gervase said, borrowing a phrase from Lanfranc. “They eat their way through it and leave only the remnants behind. If we do not stamp them out, they will crawl over all of us.”

Gervase let him find his way through the extended metaphor and rid himself of more vituperation against the sect. He then pressed for details.

“What exactly did Philippe Berbizier preach in Orleans?”

“That divine truth is only revealed to the select few,” said the scowling Hubert. “Berbizier claimed to be one of that elite. He argued that neophytes could only attain illumination through him, leaving the darkness and opening their eyes to the light of the true faith.”

“That is Christianity!” affirmed Simon.

“Gnosticism is a perversion of it, shot through with Paganism and mixed with other heathen elements. Philippe Berbizier, it seems, adopted the view of the Docetics, a Gnostic sect, that Christ did not die upon the Cross at all. According to Berbizier, he was a mere phantom upon which Jews and Romans alike wreaked an ineffectual vengeance.”

“What happened to the sect in Orleans?” said Gervase.

Canon Hubert was delighted to have another chance to haul in the name of Archbishop Lanfranc and to remind them that it was his evidence which provided conclusive proof to the primate that Philippe Berbizier was in England. He told Gervase about the arrest and burning of the heretics in Orleans, and of the escape of their leader. Rumors about Berbizier had surfaced in other parts of France and many sightings were reported but he could never be caught.

“He will stop at nothing to further his aims,” said Hubert.

“Intimidation, theft, seduction, even murder. Prior Henry told me that one of the accused confessed, under torture, that it was Berbizier who killed the infant whose body was used in one of their macabre rituals.”

Brother Simon yelped and resolved to hear no more. Closing his ears, he began to recite the Credo to himself. Gervase’s mind was on Bertha, an innocent and impressionable girl who might well have been drawn to the amalgam of charm and spiritual intensity which Philippe Berbizier patently had. A heretic who could convert nobles, commoners and even a member of the clergy in Orleans, would find a defenceless creature like Bertha an easy target.

The more he heard, the more convinced he became that Berbizier was indeed the man they sought. To the essentials of Gnosticism, he seemed to have added refinements of his own, which bound his neophytes ineluctably to him and allowed him to reap a harvest of sexual favours from the female members.

Gervase feared that Bertha had yielded up her virginity to him before she surrendered her life.

“What action is Archbishop Lanfranc taking?” he asked.

“The strongest,” said Hubert. “He has alerted the sheriff and he has summoned his own knights. They will scour the city and the surrounding towns and villages. Berbizier has gone to ground somewhere in or near to Canterbury and must be smoked out at once.”

“Will he not try to flee?”

“Sentries have been posted on the roads and a watch has been put on the port. He will not sneak away as easily as he did at Orleans.”

“Did you warn the archbishop about his disguise?”

“Yes, Gervase.”

“He may use that black cowl of his again.”

“It will not advantage him. The villain will not escape under the pretext of Christianity. The archbishop’s men have orders to stop and question everybody, including monks of the Benedictine Order.”

“These are swift precautions.”

“A net has been thrown around the whole area. Philippe Berbizier must be caught and arraigned as soon as possible. He tears at the whole fabric of the Church.”

“And he has two murders to answer for,” said Gervase. “It is a strange kind of faith that condones the killing of blameless people. How does he justify that?”

“He is above the need to justify anything.”

“A man with no moral precepts. Above the law.”

“That is how he sees himself and convinces others to perceive him. A true heretic. But we will get him. Well over a hundred man have been committed to the pursuit. With so many chasing at his heels, he is bound to be taken. God will not be mocked.

His vengeance will be terrible.”

He had to wait until night to make his escape. Soldiers patrolled the streets. The city gates were closed and guarded. He had never seen such activity in Canterbury and it made him extremely wary.

When he finally ventured out from his hiding place, his black garb blended with the darkness to make him no more than a fleeting shadow. He picked his way along streets and down lanes until he came to the town wall.

Having reached it, he cowered quickly against it as a patrol passed nearby, six mounted men-at-arms with bright torches to pierce the darkest void and the promise of a bounty if they took their quarry. Their eyes were paid to be keen. They did not see him this time but his luck could not hold. He had to get out of the city at once. The wall was high but earth was banked against it farther along. Clambering up the mound, he got within reach of the top. Long arms reached up and he got a strong enough purchase on the top to haul himself slowly up.

He took a furtive inventory. More soldiers were circling the perimeter of the city with torches. Crouched on the wall like a cat, he waited until the coast was clear then hung by his fingers before dropping into oblivion. The ground came sooner than he expected and he was jolted badly by the impact. But he was quite uninjured. After stretching his back a few times, he was able to move on. Making his way to the northwest, he kept to the shadows and walked with great stealth. When he got within sight of Westgate, he saw the brazier lighting up the faces of a dozen men. Avoiding action was needed. If they caught him, they would strike first with the swords and spears. He swung left in a wide and cautious semicircle, falling to his knees at one point to grope his way along the ground like an animal.

It was a harrowing experience and it brought cold perspiration out all over him. He was accustomed to a life of secret movement and had developed his skills but he had never encountered such a vast search party. Escape was vital. Once clear of the patrols, he broke into a gentle trot, using trees and bushes as continuous cover. It was only when he was halfway up Harbledown Hill that he paused to catch his breath and dared to look back. The city lay below him, ringed with fires, lit by torches and bristling with armed men. Only someone with real audacity could have eluded the watching soldiers. He could afford to take satisfaction from that. Lanfranc’s knights and the sheriff’s officers had failed to imprison him in the city. It gave him a sense of quiet triumph.

He moved off again.

Confidence gradually returned. Freed from what lay behind, he could reflect on what waited for him ahead. His mind raced and his concentration wavered. Ears and eyes were no longer as keen as they had been. He was off guard. Stars speckled the sky to give him a measure of guidance. A drizzle began to fall. It did not dampen his expectation in any way.

He did not even see him. As he descended the hill, he started to trot once more and hit an easy rhythm. He noticed the tree but not the figure hunched up against it. Passing within a yard of the man, he was still totally unaware of his presence. But his own approach had not gone unremarked. The man looked up, caught a glimpse of his face, then retreated back inside his hood.

Alain had something to think about during a long, wet night.