The Serpents of Harbledown

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Ralph Delchard had been shaped in the warrior mould of his ancestors. When faced with an enemy, his first instinct was always for attack. Diplomacy was something he left to others, believing that a sword and a lance were the best weapons with which to negotiate a peace. Seated astride his destrier, he would ride into battle against any foe and had yet to be on the losing side. But his opponents had always been visible before, flesh-and-blood soldiers with blades as keen as his own and a simple urge to vanquish by means of superior strength and skill.

This time it was different. He was pitted against a shadow. He knew its name, its reputation and something of its appearance but nothing more substantial. The shadow had already moved across the face of Harbledown and killed twice without mercy.

Golde might well become the third victim if she were not soon released. How could Ralph lead an assault on an enemy he could not see, who was holding his wife hostage in a place he could not find? It was an unfair fight. Keyed-up to lead a charge, he felt as if his warhorse had been hobbled and his sword arm tied behind his back. Thick fog was obscuring the whole battlefield.

“God’s tits!” he yelled in frustration.

“Try to stay calm, Ralph.”

“How can I when Golde is in their hands?”

“That is one of the reasons they abducted her,” said Gervase.

“To provoke your ire. To make you act in wild and unconsidered ways. Taking a decision in anger is like firing an arrow without first taking aim. It will never hit its target.”

“We have no target, Gervase. That is the trouble.”

“We do and we are closer to it than we think.”

“Is that why he is trying to frighten us off?”

“Why else?”

“I’ll tear him to shreds when I catch him!”

The council of war was held in the solar at the house. While Ralph’s men-at-arms searched in the streets, Gervase tried to urge stealth. Ralph sat with Golde’s gown across his lap, stroking it absentmindedly and shifting between rage and nostalgia. It was a gown he had bought as part of the wardrobe for her wedding.

Having been offered as a token of his love, it had now come back as a token of hate and dire warning.

“Where can she be?” he whispered.

“Still in the city. Of that we can be certain.”

“Can we?”

“Yes,” said Gervase. “Golde was seized somewhere between here and King Street. They would not have taken her far in case they were seen. And how could they smuggle her out of Canterbury when every gate is guarded and every person arriving or leaving is challenged to identify themselves? No, she is here. And not too great a distance from where we are now.”

“I’ll pull down every house in the city to find her!” vowed Ralph, bunching a fist for emphasis. He put the gown aside and got up.

“I cannot sit here. I must get out there and direct the search.”

“No, Ralph. Stay where you are.”

“It irks me so.”

“Leave the house and you will be watched. Do you want them to know exactly what your movements are? Besides,” said Gervase, “you must be here to receive the message.”

“What message?”

“From Philippe Berbizier. His terms.”

“Ransom?”

“All I know is that he will be in touch. The gown merely told you that he held the advantage. He will want to use that advantage to dictate the situation. To make you call off the hunt.”

“It is not within my power, Gervase. The sheriff’s officers and the archbishop’s knights are outside my command. I cannot stay their swords.”

“They are no threat to Berbizier. We are.”

“So what must we do?”

“You remain here. I continue the search alone.”

“That puts you at too great a risk.”

“No,” said Gervase. “He does not fear me. I have ridden to Harbledown more than once. He has spurned the chance to ambush me. You are the one who troubles him. Since he cannot attack you directly, he strikes at your Achilles’ heel.”

“My dear wife!”

“I will find her.”

There was a tap on the front door and they both turned expectantly as they heard the servant open it. But it was no missive from Philippe Berbizier. Helto the Doctor had called back.

Gervase slipped out into the passage to speak to him.

“How is baby Osbern?” he asked.

“Grievously sick,” sighed Helto. “He has an infection in his ear, which causes him pain and upsets his balance. I fear that his night in a cold churchyard may be to blame.”

“Can he be cured?”

“I hope so, Master Bret. When I came earlier, I gave him a draught to make him sleep through the discomfort. I went back to my house to mix a potion that must be administered with care into the ear itself.”

“I will not keep you from your patient.”

Helto thanked him and trotted up the stairs. Gervase went back into the solar to find Ralph holding the gown against the side of his face. Even the finest doctor could not mix a potion to remedy his ills. Only the safe return of Golde would effect a cure for him.

“Tell me about Fordwich,” said Gervase.

“Fordwich?”

“You said that you had learned much there this morning. If I am to follow the trail alone, I will need every signpost that you can give me. Whom did you see at the port?”

“His name was Leofstand.”

Ralph described everything which had passed between him and the sailor. Gervase absorbed the information readily. He was especially glad of an excuse to visit Alwin the Sailor because he felt there was still much to be gleaned from him that had a bearing on the murder of his daughter.

The second knock at the front door was louder and more authoritative. Certain that news had come for him, Ralph reached for his sword but Gervase held up his arms to prevent him from leaving the room. The front door was opened, voices spoke, then Brother Simon was admitted to the solar. He was trembling beneath the weight of the message he bore. It was directed at Gervase.

“He wishes to see you at the cathedral.”

“Canon Hubert?”

“No,” said Simon, barely able to get the summons out. “His Grace the Archbishop of Canterbury.”

Oblivious to the presence of his companions, Lanfranc sat in his chair and pondered, his eyelids drawn down, his lips pursed and his brow striped with concentration. He toyed with a large ring on his left hand as if fumbling with a device to open some secret compartment in his mind. But the compartment remained shut and its contents inaccessible. His lids suddenly lifted and a distant despair showed in his eyes.

“We have so far failed,” he announced gloomily. “Hundreds of men were committed to a manhunt yesterday but they have had no sight of their quarry. The sheriff’s officers have searched in vain, my own knights have made equally fruitless forays into the city’s environs, and the concerted prayers of our priory and St.

Augustine’s Abbey have not produced one glimmer of assistance from above. I make no criticism of divine disposition,” he added solemnly. “God wishes us to make amends on His behalf. To do that, we must be more sedulous in our pursuit of this heretic and more subtle in gathering the clues that will lead us to him and his foul sect.”

“We are doing our best, Your Grace,” said Prior Henry.

“It is inadequate.”

“If you say so, Your Grace.”

“If heresy thrives, we are all inadequate. This man has been prosyletising at the very gates of the cathedral and we did not detect him until it was too late. How many has he led from the paths of righteousness? How many has he shown into the valley of sin?” His voice croaked. “How many has he debauched?”

“Too many, Your Grace,” said Canon Hubert.

“One is too many. One reproves our vigilance.”

“Philippe Berbizier is very cunning.”

“Heretics always are.”

Prior Henry nodded in agreement and Hubert quickly followed suit but Prior Gregroy stood motionless between them, his features grey with a swirling anguish and his pugnacity drained completely away. Lanfranc toyed with the ring once more as his reminiscences flowed.

“When I was at Caen,” he began, “that dear, beautiful abbey which I loved so much, there were faint rumblings of heresy in Rouen. Members of a sect were caught, practising some fearful rituals in a wood. Fire was involved. And bestiality of a kind I dare not mention within this hallowed place.” His jaw tightened.

“When I was asked to determine whether it was unorthodoxy or witchcraft, I argued that it might be some hideous mixture of the two, for heresy and necromancy have always gone hand in hand like illicit lovers, proud of their lasciviousness. I examined him.”

There was a long pause. Canon Hubert and Prior Henry were eager to hear more. Prior Gregory remained subdued and detached.

The recollections started up again.

“I do not remember his name,” said Lanfranc. “But he was their leader and their unholy priest, just as Philippe Berbizier is-the two, I imagine, hewn from the same tree of falsehood. I examined him closely but his answers were guileful. He hid behind such a shield of words that I could scarce get at him. The man was like a veritable serpent which more easily eludes the grasp the more tightly it is held in the hands.”

“What happened, Your Grace?”

“God came to my aid. He gave me the strength to wrestle with the serpent until I squeezed a confession out him.” He mimed the action then became peremptory. “We must treat this serpent of our own with the same show of might!”

Henry and Hubert agreed in unison. A monk interrupted the audience to bring a whispered message to Lanfranc. The archbishop snapped his fingers and the monk scuttled away to fetch in Gervase Bret. Canon Hubert seized on the opportunity to ingratiate himself with Lanfranc by introducing his fellow commissioner. Gervase was poised but humble in the presence of the archbishop. Lanfranc’s reputation towered over ecclesiastical affairs, as solid and massive as the cathedral he had rebuilt in Canterbury. Even at his advanced age, he exuded an awesome intellectuality.

“Canon Hubert has spoken well of you, Master Bret.”

“I am flattered, Your Grace.”

“You are a lawyer like me, I hear.”

“A poor replica of one beside Your Grace.”

“There is a beauty and a logic in the law which has always appealed to me. Order. Purpose. Symmetry. Just like the heavens themselves as created by the Almighty.” He saw the defensive look in Gervase’s eye. “No, Master Bret. I have not brought you here for a legal confrontation. Though Canon Hubert stands beside you as your companion on the tribunal and though Prior Henry and Prior Gregory contest the respective rights of cathedral and abbey, this audience will not concern itself with a minor property dispute. Especially when it no longer exists.”

Prior Henry was startled. “No longer exists?”

“I cede the land in question to the abbey.”

“But it is ours, Your Grace.”

“Say no more, Henry. My decision is made.”

The prior bowed and backed slightly away, dismayed by a decision in which he had no part and which he strongly opposed. Gervase was pleased to hear that days of wrangling in the shire hall had now been obviated and he expected Prior Gregory to be showing the satisfaction of a victor. All that Gregory could raise, however, was a mild interest. Instead of wishing to race back to the abbey with the glad tidings, he looked as if he might forget to mention them.

“It is a gesture of goodwill toward the abbey,” explained Lanfranc.

“I look for a reciprocal gesture.”

They all knew what he meant. In return for the right to retain the controversial land, the abbey had to reconcile itself to their new abbot. Prior Gregory was dismissed with a gracious smile and bowed to the archbishop before leaving the chamber. Hubert sensed an archiepiscopal reprimand.

“Prior Gregory was unusually quiescent, Your Grace.”

“We discussed his future, Canon Hubert.”

“His future?”

“He has been such an effective prior at the abbey that I felt his abilities could be put to excellent use here. Needless to say, it will be in a less-exalted office, as we already have a prior.” He indicated Henry. “I am sure that Gregory will soon learn the ways of Christ Church Priory and give us the loyalty he has shown to St. Augustine’s Abbey.”

The soft plausibility of Lanfranc’s voice disguised the ruthlessness of his action. Because the abbey opposed his wishes, he removed its recalcitrant prior. Invited to discuss heretics with the archbishop, Gregory found himself treated like one. He had been examined, reproved, stripped of his monastic rank and removed summarily from the abbey. Gervase was chastened by the sight of such chilling brutality.

Archbishop Lanfranc appraised his young visitor.

“I wish to talk to you about Harbledown,” he said.

“Harbledown, Your Grace?”

“A place so green and tranquil that I chose to build my own palace there. But its grass has been stained with blood and its tranquillity has been violated. You, I believe, know the exact spot where the poor young girl was found.”

“I do, Your Grace.”

“And it was you who first saw the fallen body of Brother Martin at the hospital of St. Nicholas. Is that not so?”

“It grieves me to recall it, Your Grace.”

“Accompany Prior Henry to the scenes of both these crimes.

Show him, if you will, what you revealed earlier to Canon Hubert.

There is a sound reason for this request.”

“No reason is needed, Your Grace,” said Gervase with a polite nod. “Your request justifies itself. I had thought to visit Harbledown again on my own account. My journey now has a double purpose and value.”

“I am ready to leave instantly,” said Prior Henry.

“Then I am at your service.”

“Thank you, Master Bret,” said Lanfranc. “We are indebted to you. The scourge of heresy must be burned to cinders. Help us to light the torch that will do it.” He rose from his chair and held his arms wide. “My blessing goes with you.”

Gervase and Prior Gregory bowed, then moved toward the door.

The archbishop’s voice made them come to a brief halt.

“Abbot Guy is due to arrive here tomorrow,” he said. “I want him to come into a city that is cleansed and purified.

What will he think if he discovers that Canterbury is a den of heresy? When he rides over Harbledown Hill, he must not hear the hiss of this vile serpent. Two innocent people have been killed already. I do not wish to welcome Abbot Guy with a third dead body lying near my palace.”

Gervase thought at once of Golde and his resolve stiffened.

“That will not happen, Your Grace,” he promised.

“Deo volente!” added Prior Henry.

Patience did not come easily to Ralph Delchard. When it was forced upon him by a turn of events, he was even less likely to embrace it. Strutting up and down the solar at the house in Burgate Street, he cursed royally and banged one fist into the palm of his other hand.

“There must be something I can do!” he insisted.

“Watch and pray,” suggested Osbern, tentatively.

“I have watched too long and prayer has never gained me anything more than a crick in my neck and a pain in my knees.

Hell’s teeth, man. My wife is in danger! How would you feel in that situation?”

“I know only too well, my lord.”

Ralph’s anger was checked. While bemoaning his personal quandary, he had completely forgotten the reeve’s own suffering.

Osbern, too, was a husband whose wife had mysteriously disappeared and left him on tenterhooks. Eadgyth was still unwell and their son was also seriously ill. Osbern’s anxiety was divided between his wife and child. The fact that Helto had already made two visits to the house that morning showed how concerned he was at the condition of the baby. The child was in jeopardy.

“My apologies, Osbern,” said Ralph. “I am too full of self-affairs.

You will understand why.”

“I share your worries, my lord.”

“If only I knew that Golde was safe!”

He paused at the window to peer out yet again. Ralph had been surveying the street at regular intervals, waiting for word to come from Philippe Berbizier and hoping to pounce on the messenger to beat information out of him. All he saw was the normal human traffic of the day, moving past on its way to and from the main thoroughfare of Burh Street. Ralph stamped his foot to relieve his tension, then stalked away from the window. He was beginning to believe that no further message would arrive. His wife’s gown had been an explicit-enough missive in itself.

There was a soft tap on the door and Osbern opened it to admit his manservant. When Ralph saw what he was carrying in his hand, he snatched the item at once to examine it. Golde’s wimple was slit to ribbons.

“Where did you find this?” he demanded.

“In the stables, my lord.”

“When?”

“Even now,” said the man nervously. “I saddled Master Bret’s horse for him, then saw him off. As I was cleaning out the stables, I discovered the wimple.” He held up a scroll. “This was wrapped inside it, my lord.”

Ralph grabbed the letter from his hand and unfolded it. The message it contained was short and unequivocal.

Call your men off and your wife will stay alive.

While Ralph assimilated the warning with glowering rage, Osbern dismissed the servant. The reeve waited in silence until Ralph had scrunched the letter up, hurled it at the wall, then paced restlessly up and down.

“Why did nobody see this delivered?” he asked.

“I do not mount a guard on my stables, my lord,” said Osbern.

“Seeing you standing at that window, they knew that it was dangerous to come to the front door. That is why the message was delivered unseen to the rear of the house. You are up against a clever adversary here.”

“Yes,” conceded Ralph. “He is one step ahead of me.”

“May I know the contents of the letter?”

When Ralph nodded, the reeve picked up the missive and carefully unrolled it. He saw the crumb of comfort at once.

“Your wife is still alive, my lord.”

“But for how long?”

“Until this man has made his escape,” said Osbern. “But he cannot do that if your men are breathing down his neck.”

“No,” said Ralph grimly. “They are clearly searching in the right area. Do I call them off and let this villain go?”

“What is the alternative?”

Ralph took the letter from him and read it once more.

“Two things are clear,” he concluded. “Golde is alive and Philippe Berbizier himself is still inside the city. A cordon of steel has been thrown around it. There is no way that he will be able to get out of Canterbury.”

The troop of soldiers trotted along the High Street and went over Eastbridge in ragged formation. The citizens were so used to the swaggering presence of Norman soldiers that they simply stepped out of their way and swore under their breaths. When they reached Westgate, the soldiers were allowed through at once by the armed guards. They swung left and headed toward the castle.

Nobody stopped to notice that one of the men in helm and hauberk detached himself cleverly from his fellows and rode in a different direction.

Philippe Berbizier was soon ascending Harbledown Hill.

The lepers at the hospital of St. Nicholas were puzzled and alarmed at the sight which confronted them. Led by Prior Henry and Gervase Bret, a dozen monks came riding up to the church with six men-at-arms in their wake. A deputation of that size could only betoken something of great importance and the lepers watched apprehensively from their huts. Brother Bartholomew and Brother Vitalis, who had taken over the running of the hospital, showed a proper deference to their prior and conducted him to the nave.

As soon as he stepped into the church, Henry felt the throbbing presence of evil and he identified its source just as Canon Hubert had done before him. Every monk was ordered into the church and the door was locked from inside. While the soldiers stood on guard outside and the lepers waited in trepidation, the service began. Prior Henry set about the task of reclaiming the house for God. Exorcism took place.

Gervase went in search of Alain and found him some distance away, perched on a tree stump as he fed crumbs from a hunk of bread to a bold robin. Alain’s hood was down and his veil drawn back so that he could feel the play of the cool breeze on his face.

Leprosy did not deter the bird. A source of food brought him within inches of Alain. When Gervase approached, the robin did not even look up from its meal.

Alain showed a degree of animation for once, standing up from the tree and raising a hand in greeting. When the leper went to pull up his hood, Gervase shook his head to indicate that it was not necessary. Alain did not have to hide his affliction.

“I hoped you would come,” said the leper.

“Why?”

“I wanted to see you. I went down to the city but he stopped me at the gate and drove me away.”

“Who did?”

“A soldier. One of the guards.”

“A big search has been mounted for the killer.”

“I gathered that.”

“They are trying to pen him within the city.”

“If he is there,” said Alain.

“Nobody can be sure of that,” said Gervase. “But why did you wish to see me, Alain?”

“I brought something to give you.”

He took the piece of blue material from his sleeve and went to place it on the log beside the bread. Gervase moved in to take it directly from his hand, unafraid of the contact. He studied the material and felt its texture.

“I think it came from Bertha’s attire,” said Alain.

“Where did you find it?”

“A mile away. Caught on a twig.”

“Would Bertha have had cause to be in that vicinity?”

“I do not know, Master Bret. She would not have been collecting herbs there, I am certain, because there were none. That torn material was in the orchard of a manor house.”

“Who owns it?”

“I have no idea.”

“Could you direct me there?”

“Yes.” He looked at the blue threads. “You will need to match it against her kirtle. What happened to her attire?”

“It was given to her father.”

“Will he let you see it?”

“If he is still alive.”

Alain looked shaken. “He is ill?”

“Two men assaulted him at Fordwich and left him for dead. He lies abed. The doctor is not sure that Alwin the Sailor will survive the injuries.”

Alain said nothing. He continued to stare at the tiny piece of blue material, reluctant to part with another keepsake and yet desperate to help Gervase trace the man who had murdered Bertha. Gervase examined the material again.

“Describe this manor house and orchard to me.”

“It lies due north of here.”

Alain gave rough directions and described everything that he could remember about his brief visit to the place. Gervase heard enough to warrant further investigation but first he had to establish whether the material had indeed been torn from Bertha’s apparel. His gaze travelled in the direction of Canterbury.

“I believe that the killer is still in the city,” he said. “Keep him in there long enough and we are bound to find him. One thing we can guarantee.”

“What is that?”

“He will not slip past the guards. They are too alert and too numerous. Even at night, the security is intense. Nobody could possibly breach it.”

“He did, Master Bret.”

“Who?”

“The man I saw sneak past the hospital last night. He came from the city because he lives and works there. You know him yourself. You met him at Bertha’s funeral.”

“Did I?”

“He conducted the burial service.”

“Reinbald the Priest?” said Gervase in amazement.

“Yes,” confirmed the leper. “He was as close to me as you are.

Even in the dark, I could not mistake him. What was he doing out at that time of night?”

Gervase could think of only one answer.

Reinbald the Priest spent an hour with Eadgyth and left her much comforted. The doctor’s potion seemed to be combatting the baby’s ear infection. When the child awoke, it did not instantly cry. The boy even permitted the priest to cradle him for a short while. When Reinbald quit the bedchamber, he left mother and child in a less fretful state. Osbern thanked him and showed him out.

Through the window of the solar, Ralph watched him leave.

After first looking in on his wife, Osbern the Reeve joined his guest, feeling both reassured and disturbed. Ralph saw the confusion in his face.

“What is the matter?” he said.

“Reinbald was able to offer much solace to her.”

“That is good news, surely?”

“Yes, my lord. But it comes with more awkward tidings.”

“Awkward?”

“Eadgyth is asking for your wife.”

“Has she not been told?”

“No, my lord,” said the reeve, “and nor has Reinbald. He could not tell her what he did not know himself. Eadgyth is under enough stress at the moment. I did not wish to put her under more strain by drawing her into this latest crisis.”

“Your memory is wondrous short, Osbert.”

“Short?”

“Yes,” said Ralph sharply. “You kept the truth about Bertha’s murder from your wife in order to spare her more pain and what happened? Will you repeat this madness? She has a right to know. Golde has been a friend to her.”

“That is why she would be so alarmed, my lord.”

“How much more alarmed will she be if she finds out that she has been deceived yet again? Are you intent on driving a wedge between yourself and your wife?”

“No, my lord! I love her.”

“Then stop treating her like a child.”

Osbern nodded. “You are right,” he said. “She ought to know.

The truth is that I could not find the words to tell her.”

“You will not need to,” said Ralph. “I will.”

“You, my lord?”

“Yes. Eadgyth must not be kept in the dark any longer. She may be able help me. At a time like this, I need a woman to talk to me about Golde.” When Osbern stepped forward, he held up a hand. “No. I wish to be alone with her.”

Ralph was in the bedchamber for some time. He broke the news gently and Eadgyth wept. She knew that something was amiss because Golde had not been to see her, but it had never crossed her mind that her friend might have been kidnapped.

Instead of needing consolation herself, Eadgyth offered it freely to Ralph, telling him how kind and unselfish Golde had been toward her and praising her many good qualities. It was a salutary reminder to him of just how much he would lose if his wife did not come back to him.

While each was helping the other, a visitor called at the house and was admitted to the solar. Ralph took his leave of Eadgyth, rocked the baby in his crib, then stole out of the room and closed the door behind him. Two voices came up the staircase toward him and he froze in his tracks. With the door of the solar only slightly ajar, it was possible to hear a conversation quite clearly from the landing. Sound was funnelled up the staircase with extraordinary clarity.

Ralph suddenly had the revelation that he needed. He went quickly down the stairs and into the solar. Canon Hubert rushed across to greet him.

“Forgive my delay, my lord,” he said breathlessly. “I came as soon as I heard. Archbishop Lanfranc and I were in conference this morning. It was only when the audience came to a close that Brother Simon was able to convey these frightful tidings.”

“Thank you, Canon Hubert,” said Ralph.

“Your men have called off their search, I hear.”

“They were forced to.”

“We are dealing with a Son of Satan here.”

“And with his confederates,” added Ralph. “No man could have done this without help from friends who live in the city. I think I know who one of them might be.”

“Pursue him, my lord. Bring him to justice.”

“In order to do that, I need your help.”

“It is yours for the asking. The safe return of your dear wife is a priority. I would do anything to assist you.”

“Anything? ” said Ralph.

The familiar twinkle was back in his eye.