The Serpents of Harbledown

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Dawn lifted the black shroud of night and the oppression of the curfew from Canterbury. Soldiers still guarded the various gates, questioning all who came and went, but the citizens no longer felt incarcerated in their own homes and the stallholders who brought in their produce from the surrounding farms were allowed to set up the market. An air of normality returned, though it was still a city on edge.

Searches had been thorough and security tight yet the wanted man was still at liberty. The common opinion was that he was still somewhere in Canterbury itself, hidden by friends or lurking in some secret refuge of his own. It would not be easy to find him among a population of a few thousand or more. Several hundred houses and countless other buildings offered a bewildering array of places where he might shelter. Canterbury would need to be systematically combed.

Ralph Delchard was determined that he would not miss out on the action. He was up at first light, putting his hauberk on over his tunic and strapping on his sword-belt. Gervase had given him full details of the manpower which had been assembled for the hunt but Ralph was not surprised when a new day rose with Philippe Berbizier still at large. The Frenchman was too cunning to be caught easily and the hullabaloo of his pursuers was so loud that it gave him ample forewarning of their approach.

“A troop of soldiers will never catch him,” he said.

“Then who will?”

“One or two, moving in subtler ways.”

“You and Gervase?”

“For preference, it would be me alone. I would love to meet this villain face to face.” Ralph reached for his helm. “But I am not greedy, my love. I will let Gervase have his share of the honours.”

“Where will you go now?”

“To check the sentries, confer with my men, see if anything untoward occurred in the night. I hope that they do not ask that question of me or I would blush.”

Golde laughed. “Be off with you!”

“Pine for me.”

“Just take care, Ralph,” she said, giving him a kiss. “This man is dangerous. He will not scruple to kill.”

“Nor will I.”

He let himself out of the house and she waved him off through the open shutters. Golde was about to go into the kitchen when she heard the baby crying upstairs again. It was a noise which had punctuated much of the night. Osbern came down the stairs in a state of consternation.

“What is the matter?” she asked.

“The baby. Something ails him.”

“Do you wish me to go to him?”

“Eadgyth is nursing him in her arms. That seems to soothe him from time to time. But the pain returns.”

“Pain?”

“In his ear,” said Osbern. “He keeps putting his little hand up to it. I slept in a chair beside Eadgyth. The crib was in the bedchamber with us. We must have woken a dozen times in the night to see to the baby.”

“Poor little child!”

“I’ll send a servant for Helto the Doctor.”

“There are none here, Osbern,” she said. “Two have gone to market to buy food and the third is saddling my husband’s horse in the stables. Let me go for Helto.”

“You do not know the way, my lady.”

“Teach me.”

“This is too menial a task for you. I’ll go myself.”

“You are needed here,” argued Golde as a fresh burst of noise came from above. “Stay with your wife and child. Now, where does Helto live?”

“At the end of King Street. It is not far.”

“Give me directions.”

When the reeve had explained the route to her, Golde put on her gown, adjusted her wimple and slipped out of the house. She was soon caught up in the morning throng. Anxious to do what she could to relieve the recurring anxieties in the household, she thought only of Eadgyth and the baby. After such a disturbed night, both would need the services of a doctor. Golde was so preoccupied with helping them that she forgot to consider herself.

As she pushed her way through the gathering crowds, it never occurred to her that she was being followed.

Fortune favoured them. They had not expected to get their opportunity so soon. Instead of having to contrive a way to lure Golde out of the house, they found her a willing accomplice in their scheme. They moved in closer. She had almost reached King Street when they struck. Stopping to check her bearings, Golde was suddenly grabbed from behind by strong hands and shoved down a muddy alleyway. Her struggles were pointless against two burly men and her scream went unheard as a large hand was clamped over her mouth.

They were proficient at their trade. She was bound and gagged in less than a minute and an evil-smelling sack was dropped over her head. One of them lifted her bodily and carried her over his shoulder while the other led the way down the alleyway and into a narrow lane to avoid being seen. Hundreds of people were within earshot but Golde could call to none of them. When a bell rang nearby in the parish church of St. Alphege, it sounded to her like a death knell.

Golde had been kidnapped. She did not know why or by whom but she was in serious danger. Yet even in the blind panic of her abduction, the thought that was uppermost in her mind concerned others. What would they think at the house when the doctor did not come to attend to the baby?

Alain heard the commotion from a mile away. It was not just the daily tumult of the city. It had a military ring to it. As he got closer, he could pick out the jingle of harness and the march of feet. Westgate seemed to have been turned into a small garrison.

A troop of soldiers came trotting toward him and he scurried off the road at once, hiding his face from them as they passed, and being spattered by the lumps of mud thrown up by uncaring hooves. He struggled on his way.

He was forty yards from Westgate when the soldier ambled toward him with his hands on his hips. The man spat on the ground with contempt.

“Be off with you!” he snarled. “We want none of your filth here!

Go to the wood and graze with the other swine.”

Alain was not unused to such abuse. It went hand in hand with the fear of leprosy that everyone felt. Some gave alms to assuage their conscience, some passed by on the other side of the street and some took pleasure in treating him like a stray dog who had to be chased away. Alain felt no anger. Resignation was an easier way to cope.

The soldier took a few menacing steps toward him.

“Take your rotting arse away from here!” he yelled.

“I have come to see someone,” said Alain.

The man was taken aback at first to hear the sound of French coming from a creature he assumed must be Saxon. It did not increase his sympathy or lessen his scorn.

“Find somewhere else to beg!”

“But I have to see a friend in Canterbury.”

“You have no friends.”

“His name is Master Gervase Bret.”

“Crawl away, you cur!”

“He is a royal commissioner.”

“Ha!” The man let out a peal of mocking laughter. “You’ll be asking for the Archbishop of Canterbury next!”

“I must see Master Bret.”

“Meet him at court in Winchester.”

“I have an important message for him.”

“I have one for you-fart off!”

“Let me wait at the gate until he comes out.”

“And infect the rest of us?” sneered the man, taking his sword from his scabbard. “Disappear before I help you on your way. Go!

Go!”

He rushed at Alain with his sword flailing and the leper turned tail at once, rushing away so fast that he tripped and fell headlong into the mud. The soldier bellowed his coarse amusement. When Alain got up painfully to skulk away, the man hurled a final taunt at him.

“I’ll give your regards to the royal commissioner!”

Alain had never missed Bertha more than at that moment.

Concern set in after thirty minutes. When there was no sign of Golde or the doctor after an hour, that concern turned to great agitation. Osbern the Reeve stood outside his front door to look up and down the street. Gervase Bret was with him.

“They should have been here long ago,” he said.

“Perhaps Golde lost her way,” suggested Gervase.

“It would be difficult.”

“What if Helto was not at home? She might be waiting for him at his house.”

“She is much more likely to have left a message for him and come back here to explain the delay. I am worried, Master Bret.

I’ll hasten to King Street this minute.”

“Then I’ll keep you company.”

On the hurried journey to the doctor’s house, Gervase tried to reassure Osbern but he knew that he was really hoping to reassure himself. Golde’s disappearance was ominous. When Eadgyth vanished, it was on impulse. This was very different.

Golde was running an errand which should have taken her no more than ten or fifteen minutes.

When they got to Helto’s house, neither she nor the doctor was there. The servant told them that his master was making his first call of the day on Alwin the Sailor in Worthgate Ward because of the seriousness of the patient’s condition. Nobody had come in search of the doctor while he was away.

Gervase and Osbern were baffled. They left instructions that Helto was to be sent to the reeve’s house immediately on his return, then they made their way slowly back, scouring every street, lane and alleyway they passed in case Golde had strayed into one of them by mistake. The search was fruitless. When they reached the house in Burgate Ward, they were more dismayed than ever.

“This is dreadful!” said Osbern, wringing his hands. “I cannot believe that any harm would befall her on the short journey to Helto. Unless she herself was taken ill.”

“No,” said Gervase. “Golde was in the best of health.”

“Could she have met with some accident?”

“I think it unlikely.”

“Then what is the explanation?”

“I do not know.”

“Assault? Foul play?”

Gervase turned over the possibilities in his mind. None of them brought comfort and most induced deep apprehension. The conclusion seemed inescapable. On her way to the doctor’s house, Golde had been intercepted.

“I’ll find Ralph,” he said.

When Prior Gregory arrived, his usual combative demeanour had been replaced by a deep distress. His head was down, his brow troubled and his hands clasped inside his sleeves. He all but collided with Canon Hubert. Greetings were exchanged, then Hubert tried to detach himself in order to evade yet another outburst on the subject of the abbey’s property dispute with the cathedral. But a new imperative had brought the prior on this occasion and it pushed his differences with the archbishop into the background.

“Heresy in our midst, Canon Hubert!”

“It is profoundly alarming.”

“We must all be thankful to you for helping to bring it out into the open. The archbishop sent word of what has transpired and I have been summoned to discuss how the whole monastic community of Canterbury can best meet this crisis.”

Hubert relaxed, enjoying the unexpected flattery. “We have taken decisive steps already, Prior Gregory,” he said easily. “Archbishop Lanfranc and I were equally appalled by this shocking development.”

“Who is this Philippe Berbizier?”

“A proselytising Gnostic.”

“Has that been established without question?”

“Why do you ask?”

“The archbishop’s letter gave little detail of the man’s heretical opinions, stating only that his sect taught that the body of Christ was an illusion and rejecting the notion of a resurrection.”

“That is at the heart of Gnosticism.”

“And part of the Bogomil tradition, too,” reminded the prior.

“Their dissidence has spread to many parts of the Byzantine Empire and-who knows? — may have insinuated itself into France.

Bogomils could easily be confused by the untutored eye with Gnostics.”

“Not in this case,” explained Hubert. “Berbizier formed a sect in Orleans which was exposed and destroyed. He alone escaped the sentence of death.”

“How was the sect denounced?”

“From the inside, Prior Gregory. When rumours of its existence began to grow, a spy was introduced into their circle as a neophyte.

He gathered sufficient information, then revealed it to the secular and ecclesiastical authorities. Arrest and trial were immediate.”

“That is heartening.”

“It will happen here when Philippe Berbizier is taken. Every member of his sect will be hunted down but he is the prime target. This priory has a special reason to see the man brought to justice. Brother Martin was buried here only yesterday.”

“His death was a warning to us all, Canon Hubert.”

“The manner of it was so calculated.”

“That is what I mean,” said Gregory. “It serves as an image of the heresy which threatens us.”

“I do not follow.”

“Brother Martin was poisoned inside a church.”

“The ultimate desecration!”

“That is their way, Canon Hubert. What else is heresy but a poison which spreads through the body of Christianity? That message is inherent in the nature of the murder. Why was he not stabbed, bludgeoned or strangled to death? Why was the crime perpetrated in that particular place?” The prior’s voice darkened.

“Heresy is a poison that works from within.”

Canon Hubert was so impressed with the vivid phrasing that he made a mental note to use it himself in conversation with others. It dawned on him that he had misjudged both Prior Henry and Prior Gregory. The former had been almost supercilious toward him and the latter overtly truculent. Under the pressure of a crisis, however, both men had emerged as committed Christians with a horror of any threat to their beliefs. It superseded all other considerations. Like Hubert himself, they were true defenders of the word of God and that gave all three men a solidarity which was quite invigorating.

“I will not detain you,” said Hubert, ushering him on his way and falling in beside him. “This will be a critical discussion with Archbishop Lanfranc.”

“That is why I came so promptly.”

“What steps have been taken at St. Augustine’s Abbey?”

“Prayer and vigilance. The whole community has been praying for the early capture of this fiend. And those holy brothers who leave the enclave will use their eyes and ears in support of the swords and spears. Philippe Berbizier must have made more than one visit to Canterbury.”

“A number, Prior Gregory. That is evident.”

“Then somebody must have seen him come and go.”

“Tell me all that you know about him,” said Ralph Delchard.

“I know nothing at all, my lord.”

“Is that the truth?”

“I swear it.”

“Your memory must be at fault.”

“No, my lord.”

“It will come back in the castle dungeon.”

The man blenched. “Dungeon?”

“That is where I’ll have you thrown.”

“But I must sail for Sandwich this afternoon.”

“You will be lying in chains instead.”

“My boat is expected.”

“I’ll have it impounded,” warned Ralph. “If the stench of the castle dungeon does not revive your memory, I’ll burn the boat and send the ashes to you. Speak, you vermin!”

The sailor’s name was Leofstand. His face still bore the evidence of Alwin’s fist but he had sustained nothing like the injuries of the man who had attacked him. He was fit enough to work at his trade and was loading baskets into his boat when Ralph arrived with his men-at-arms. The assault on Leofstand was only verbal this time but it was just as effective.

“I hate liars,” said Ralph, fixing him with a glare. “Everybody in Fordwich knows what Alwin was trying to beat out of you. And you must have told him something or you would not be standing before me. Now, Leofstand. Let us try once more, shall we? If you want to spend a month in the dungeon, inhaling the stink of your own excrement, I will make sure that the castellan can accommodate you. But he, too, has a wayward memory.” Ralph put his face inches from the sailor. “He may forget completely that you are there.”

Leofstand’s resistance turned to dust. Ralph had the power to do all that he warned and he was obviously not a man who made empty threats. The sailor capitulated.

“I brought the man from Normandy,” he admitted.

“When?”

“We sailed into harbour on Monday morning.”

“Did he say why he was coming here?”

“He said nothing, my lord. He never did. I was not paid to hold a conversation with him. Safe passage was all he craved. I gave him that.”

“How many times?”

“Three or four.”

“When was the last occasion?”

“A month ago, my lord.”

“You carried him here and back?”

“Each time.”

“So you were his chosen captain.”

Ralph could see why. Leofstand was a big, solid, taciturn man who scraped a living from the sea. Money would easily buy his loyalty and seal his lips. Philippe Berbizier had used Alwin the Sailor on his first voyage but the friendship with Bertha made it impossible for her father’s boat to be brought into service again.

It was crucial that Alwin had no idea of the Frenchman’s whereabouts or of his deepening involvement with the girl.

“This last voyage,” resumed Ralph. “Was it from Caen?”

“Nearby, my lord. My boat sprung a leak. I had it repaired in the shipyard at Dives-sur-Mer. My passenger joined me there.”

Ralph knew the area well. The invasion fleet had sailed from the mouth of the River Dives. He had been part of a large and impatient army which waited for a favourable wind.

“Did he always embark there?”

“No,” said Leofstand. “I twice picked him up at St. Valery at the mouth of the Somme. And once returned him there. He pays me well enough to nominate the port.”

St. Valery was another name Ralph heard with displeasure.

Duke William’s army had anchored off there on its way to England, held up once more by unhelpful winds and contrary tides. One difficult voyage had been enough to convince Ralph he was no sailor. If Philippe Berbizier could cross the Channel so readily, he must either enjoy sailing or be impelled by a purpose which made light of any discomfort at sea.

“Did you agree to take him back?” said Ralph.

“No, my lord.”

“Then how will he return?”

“I do not know.”

“I think you do, Leofstand. That is what Alwin came to knock out of your skull. The date of Berbizier’s departure. Alwin wanted to be here to bid him farewell.”

“He will not do that now,” said the other with a grin.

“Tell me about your passenger.”

Leofstand hesitated again. “My lord …”

“Take him away to the castle!” ordered Ralph.

“No!” yelled the sailor as he was seized.

“You are lying to me.”

“I’ll tell you all you wish to know.”

On a signal from Ralph, his men-at-arms released Leofstand but stayed in menacing proximity. There was no hope of escape.

Ralph understood the man’s quandary.

“It is not just a question of money, is it?” he said.

“No, my lord.”

“What did Berbizier say to you?”

“If I betrayed him, he would have me killed. And he will, my lord. Look what happened to Alwin. When he asked too many questions, they tried to silence him forever.”

“We are on the alert now. You have more protection.”

“I do not feel that.”

“When is he leaving Canterbury?” barked Ralph.

“On Wednesday next.”

“To sail back to Normandy?”

“No, my lord. Boulogne.”

“What time will he arrive in Fordwich?”

“At first light.”

Ralph was satisfied. Philippe Berbizier was still somewhere in the vicinity. If all else failed, an ambush could be set for him when he tried to set sail. Deciding that Leofstand had told him all that he knew, Ralph turned on his heel to walk away. The sailor grabbed at his arm. The bruises from his beating still hurt.

His attacker had been severely punished but Leofstand wanted more vengeance.

“Talk to Alwin again,” he suggested.

“About this villain, Philippe Berbizier?”

“No, my lord. About another passenger of his.”

“From France?”

“Yes.”

“A disciple? Another heretic?”

Leofstand shook his head. “Alwin will tell you.”

“What should I say to him?”

“Ask him about Boulogne.”

Gervase Bret had some difficulty in tracking him down. It was only when he thought to call at the castle that he established where Ralph had gone. His turned his horse toward Fordwich.

The ride gave him time to reflect more deeply on Golde’s predicament. It had to be linked to the investigations that he and Ralph were conducting. No other explanation served. To halt their inquiry, someone had lain in wait outside the house to abduct Ralph’s wife.

It was proof that they had got close enough to Philippe Berbizier to force him to strike back but that was little consolation in the present circumstances. Golde’s safety was paramount. A man who would strangle a young woman and poison an old monk would not draw back from a third murder. If Golde were still alive-and he prayed that she was-she had to be rescued with the utmost urgency. Dozens of armed soldiers were patrolling the streets of the city and yet she had been kidnapped under their noses. That argued skill and preparation on the part of her captors.

The five of them were just leaving the quayside when Gervase arrived at Fordwich. He reined in his horse without acknowledging Ralph’s cheerful wave.

“More progress at last, Gervase!” he announced.

“At some cost, I fear.”

“Cost?”

“Golde has disappeared.”

“What!” growled Ralph, his smile congealing.

“The baby was sick,” explained Gervase. “Golde went to fetch the doctor. It is only a short walk but she had not returned after an hour. Osbern and I rushed to the house ourselves to discover that she never arrived there.”

“Could she not have got lost?”

“In the event, she would surely have asked the way.”

“What was she doing in the streets alone?” demanded Ralph.

“Why did Osbern not send one of the servants?”

“I will tell you on the way.”

“Do, Gervase. There is nothing to keep us here.”

The destrier felt his spurs and galloped away. All six of them kept up a fast pace in the road to the city. It made conversation difficult but Gervase managed to give his friend all the relevant details. Their madcap route took them past St. Augustine’s Abbey and in through Burgate, where they slowed to a canter but still scattered the people who thronged Burh Street. Ralph led them toward Osbern’s house and dismounted to hammer on the front door. The reeve opened it himself and his expression told them that Golde had still not returned.

“Where is my wife?” howled Ralph.

“We do not know, my lord.”

“Why did you send her on a servant’s errand?”

“I did not. It was her own decision. She insisted.”

“Is this the way to treat your guests, Osbern? By giving them chores that lead them into danger?”

“My lord …”

Gervase interrupted to point out that their host was not to blame. The reeve was mortified by the turn of events. On top of the other blows he had suffered, this one was crippling. Ralph was calmed enough to shift his ire to the abductors themselves and he warned what would happen to them if his wife came to the slightest harm. Blind rage was then replaced by speedy action.

His men were ordered to search every turning on the way to King Street and to question people along the route to see if anyone remembered seeing Golde earlier on. He turned back to Osbern.

“What was she wearing when she went out?” he asked.

The reeve looked more uncomfortable than ever. Stepping back into the house for a second, he reappeared with Golde’s gown in his hands and held it up.

“She was wearing this, my lord.”

“Where did you get it?” said Ralph, snatching it away.

“They sent it back. To let you know.”

Golde tried to control her fear in order to work out where she might be. On the journey to her prison, she had kicked and fought in protest, taking no note of the twisting route her captors followed. She was bundled through a door and taken down some steps. Dropped into a chair, she was tied securely to its arms.

When the sack was lifted from her head, a blindfold was quickly put in place. It was pulled very tight and dug into her but the gag on her mouth smothered her complaint.

The dank smell and the sense of oppression told her that she was in a cellar. When the two men left, she heard a trap door close. A heavy bolt slid into position. She was still inside the city and close enough to the cathedral for its bell to reach her, albeit with muffled effect. What it gave her was a purchase on time. If the bell was ringing for Tierce, she had been held captive for over two hours.

They had taken her gown but made no attempt to harm her.

Once she had been restrained, their job was done and that was a faint reassurance. Had they meant to kill her, they would already have done so. The chair was another tiny source of consolation.

Instead of flinging her down on the bare earth, they had thought about her comfort. Not many houses in Canterbury would have such a stout chair with carved arms. The property above her head belonged to a man with a degree of wealth.

Something ran across her foot to bring her speculation to a sudden halt. She could not work out if it was a mouse or a rat but the contact unnerved her. Golde braced herself for more evidence that she was sharing the cellar with vermin. To take her mind off her own plight, she tried to think about others who would now be suffering. Ralph and Gervase would be distraught.

Osbern and Eadgyth would be skewered by guilt, blaming themselves for having been indirectly responsible for her disappearance. The baby caused her less worry. Helto the Doctor must have been summoned by now and he would have treated the child.

A snuffling noise at her feet showed her that the animal had returned and she kicked out. Above her head, the bolt slid back and the door to the cellar was lifted. Footsteps descended the stone steps. Someone came to stand over her and she flinched when she felt the touch of cold steel on her cheek. But no wound was inflicted. The dagger was used to cut her wimple free from the encircling gag and blindfold. Her braided hair was exposed.

The warmth of a flame kissed her face as it was held up for someone to inspect her.

An admiring sigh came. Her visitor stroked her hair.

“My lord Ralph is fortunate,” said a voice. “Let us hope that he has the sense to protect his good fortune.”