The Serpents of Harbledown

CHAPTER ONE

Marriage had definitely mellowed him. There was no outward difference in Ralph Delchard but his attitudes subtly changed, his manner softened perceptibly and he even became acquainted with such virtues as patience and consideration for others. A quiet wedding had suited them both. He and Golde exchanged their vows in the tiny chapel at his manor house in Hampshire. Gervase Bret and Aelgar, the bride’s younger sister, were among the handful of witnesses, though a service of holy matrimony before a large congregation at a cathedral could not have bound the couple more indissolubly together. Ralph and Golde found an even deeper contentment. Only one shadow lay across their happiness.

“I am eternally sorry, my love,” sighed Ralph.

“You have been saying that since we left Winchester.”

“Had my wishes prevailed, we would never have stirred out of Hampshire. Nor out of the bedchamber. The delights of marriage are there to be savoured to the full.”

“They will be.”

“Not while we are riding across three counties.”

“The King’s orders must be obeyed,” said Golde.

“Even when they countermand our pleasure?”

“Being with you is pleasure enough, Ralph.”

She held out a hand and he squeezed it affectionately.

They were on the last stage of their journey into Kent, riding at the rear of the little cavalcade as it wended its way between trees in full leaf, hedgerows in their summer radiance and wildflowers in colourful abundance. Sheep and cattle grazed on rich pastures. Orchards blossomed. The warm air clung to them like familiar garments.

Golde looked around her with wonder and approval.

“Kent is one huge garden,” she observed.

“That is why we have been sent here,” he said sourly. “To pluck up weeds. To cut back brambles. To clear away stones. I yearn to be a lusty bridegroom and am instead employed as a royal gardner.”

“I will wait.”

“You will have to, my love. So will I. The King’s acres must be tended.” They rode on in companionable silence for a few minutes, then his shoulder accidentally brushed hers. He turned to smile down at her. “Are you happy?”

A deliberate pause. “I think so,” she teased.

“You only think? You do not feel it in your bones?”

“It will take time to grow accustomed to the shock.”

“Shock!” he exclaimed. “Becoming my wife was a kind of shock to you? Is that what you are saying?”

“I never expected to marry a Norman lord.”

“No more did I look to wed a Saxon brewer.”

“Then we have each surprised the other.”

“That is certainly true,” he agreed cheerily. “We are a portent of the future. Enemies blending into friendship. The conqueror reconciled with the conquered. The wolf lying down with the lamb.”

He gave a wry chuckle. “When time and the call of duty permit him that joy.”

They were seventeen in number. Apart from the newlyweds, there were twelve men-at-arms from Ralph’s own retinue, a vital escort through open country where bands of robbers and masterless men lurked in wait for prey. The sight of so many helms and hauberks, moving in disciplined formation, would deter any attack and lend status to the embassy when it reached its destination. Sumpter horses were pulled along on lead reins, though most of the provisions they carried had already been eaten on the previous day.

Ralph usually rode at the head of the column to set the pace, lead the way and attest his status. Pride of place on this occasion had been yielded to Canon Hubert, face aglow with missionary zeal, voluminous body overflowing and all but concealing the little donkey who toiled so gallantly beneath its holy burden. Behind Hubert was Gervase Bret, the shrewd young lawyer, riding beside the gaunt figure of Brother Simon, who sat astride a horse almost as frail and emaciated as himself. Plucked from the cloister against his will and suffering extreme embarrassment whenever he was thrust into lay company, Simon had nevertheless proved himself a loyal and efficient scribe to the commissioners.

Though a wedding ceremony had absolved Ralph and Golde of the sin of cohabitation, and made their love acceptable in the eyes of God, the monk still found the mere presence of a woman unnerving and he preferred to travel in the wake of the huge undulating buttocks of Canon Hubert rather than risk any contact with the gracious lady behind him. Simon also drew strength from the friendship of Gervase Bret, whose intelligent conversation was a blessed relief after the robust mockery to which Ralph Delchard often subjected the monk.

Hubert goaded a steady trot out of the hapless beast beneath him. Ordinarily, the canon was a reluctant traveller who punctuated even the shortest excursion with a series of harsh complaints but he was now beaming with satisfaction and making light of any bodily discomfort. He tossed words of explanation over his shoulder.

“Canterbury is not far away now,” he said excitedly. “I long to meet my old friend and mentor. Archbishop Lanfranc will be pleased to see me again.”

“He holds you in high regard,” said the admiring Simon. “And with good reason, Canon Hubert.”

“I was his sub-prior when he held sway at Bec.”

A memory nudged Gervase. “Was not Abbot Herluin the father of the house in your time?”

“He was indeed,” confirmed Hubert, “and held the office worthily.

But he was much troubled by sickness. Abbot Herluin was the first to admit that it was Prior Lanfranc who gave the house its spiritual lustre and its scholastic reputation. That is what drew me to Bee as it attracted so many others.” A fond smile danced around his lips. “I revere the man. He is an example to us all. A saint in human guise.”

Scattered copses thickened into woodland before giving way to pasture and stream. Canon Hubert pointed with almost childlike glee at the hill which came into view in the middle distance. It rose sharply toward a straggle of thatched cottages. Nestled cosily into the hillside, like a cat in a basket, was a small stone church with a steep roof and windows with rounded arches. Wattle huts were clustered below it in a crude semicircle.

“Harbledown!” announced Hubert. “That must be the leper hospital of St. Nicholas, built by the archbishop to care for the diseased and the dying.”

“A truly Christian deed,” remarked Simon.

“Poor wretches!” murmured Gervase.

“They are all God’s creatures,” said Hubert with brusque compassion. “Lanfranc has opened his arms wide to embrace them.”

He feasted his eyes on the scene. Buttered by the sun and stroked by the soft fingers of a light breeze, Harbledown looked tranquil and innocuous. The little church with its makeshift dwellings was a private world, a self-contained community with a charitable purpose. The hospital of St. Nicholas seemed completely at ease with itself. As they rode up the incline, the newcomers had no idea of the sorrow and the turbulence within it.

Alwin was inconsolable. As he lay facedown in the nave, he twitched violently and beat his forehead hard against the stone-flagged floor. It was all that Brother Martin and Brother Bartholomew could do to prevent him from dashing out his brains.

They clung to the tortured body as it threshed about with renewed wildness. Alwin would not be subdued.

“Peace, peace, my son!” urged Martin. “Desist!”

“Remember where you are,” added Bartholomew sternly. “This is the house of God. Show due reverence.”

“Bertha would not have wanted this, Alwin.”

“Think of your daughter, man.”

“Put her needs first.”

“Spare yourself this rude assault.”

“It will not bring her back.”

“Hold, Alwin!”

The grieving father suddenly went limp in their arms. They rolled him over on his back and saw the blood streaming down his face from the self-inflicted wounds on his brow. At first, they thought he might have expired, and frantically sought to revive him, but he was only gathering his strength for a long, loud, heartrending howl of anguish.

“BERTHA!”

The cry brought him up into a sitting position and he saw his daughter not five yards away. It set him off into a fresh paroxysm and the two monks wrestled with him once more. The dead girl lay beneath a shroud on the cold and unforgiving stone. Rough hands had carried her into the church with astonishing gentleness. A boy had been sent to the nearest farm to beg the loan of a cart so that Bertha might make the grisly journey down to Canterbury with a modicum of comfort and dignity.

The search party had dispersed and gone its separate ways.

There were souls to cure and pigs to herd. Only Brother Martin and Brother Bartholomew remained to struggle with Alwin. Both monks were now panting stertorously.

“In God’s name, I beg you-stop!” gasped Martin.

“Mourn your child with decency!” said Bartholomew.

“This is unseemly, Alwin!”

“Madness!”

“Calm down, my son.”

“I want to die,” hissed Alwin. “Leave me be.”

“No!”

“I have nothing to live for, Brother Martin.”

“But you have.”

“Let me go. Let me follow my daughter.”

“We will not!”

“No,” added Bartholomew, tightening his grip. “To take one’s own life is a sin. To commit such a sin before the altar is an act of blasphemy. You will not follow Bertha this way. While she has a Christian burial, you will lie in unconsecrated ground. While she soars to heaven, you will sink into the pit of Hell. You will spend eternity apart from her.”

“Is that what you want?” challenged Martin.

“Think, Alwin. Think.”

Alwin stopped trying to fling them off. Gleaming with sweat and dripping with blood, he sat on the floor and took the measure of their words. The impulse of self-destruction which had overwhelmed him now weakened beneath the power of reason and the fear of consequences. What would be gained? What purpose would be served? Would his gruesome death really be a suitable epitaph for his daughter?

He allowed himself to be soothed by their kindness and persuaded by their argument. When Brother Martin fetched water to bathe his wounds, Alwin did not complain. When Brother Bartholomew helped him to stand up, he did not resist. The fire in his veins had burned itself out and a cold dread had settled upon him.

Alwin looked down sadly at the body of his daughter. The shroud concealed her but the marks of doom on her neck were a vivid memory. She had left the world in agony.

“This is a judgement upon me,” he said.

“No,” insisted Martin. “This was not your doing. Bertha was called to God. Only He knows why.”

The father made his simple confession before the altar.

“I killed her,” he affirmed. “In a sense I killed my own daughter.”

The weary travellers conspired in their own deception. They were so relieved to see their destination at last that they invested it with qualities that were largely illusory. Viewed from the hilltop, Canterbury appeared to them to be a golden city, its great cathedral of white stone dominating the prospect with massive towers at the west end, topped by gilded pinnacles, and a central tower at the junction of nave and choir that was surmounted by a shimmering seraph. The adjoining priory, with the same arresting style and the same generous proportions, reinforced the sense of magnificence and authority commensurate with the headquarters of the English Church.

Shops, houses and civic buildings clutched at the hem of the cathedral precinct like children around their mother’s skirt. Small churches served the outer wards. On the glistening back of the River Stour, mills had been built to make use of its swift passage through the city. A high wall enclosed the whole community with solid reassurance. Outside the ramparts, the newly built rotunda of St. Augustine’s Abbey displayed a gleaming whiteness.

Canterbury seemed to throb with religiosity.

Canon Hubert was transfigured. His bulbous heels kicked more life into the donkey and it went scurrying down the hill with its precarious cargo. The rest of the cavalcade followed at a more sedate pace. After passing the church of St. Dunstan, they rode on to Westgate, went under the cross above it and entered Canterbury. Disenchantment set in at once.

Its rowdy populace encumbered them, its haphazard streets confused them, its filth disgusted them and its stench invaded their nostrils with a suddenness that took them unawares. They quickly understood why Lanfranc had broken with archiepiscopal tradition and built his home outside the city in the cleaner air of Harbledown.

Canterbury was a dirty, smelly, boisterous place which made few concessions to order and tidiness. Luxury was cheek by jowl with squalor. Fine new houses stood beside the charred remains of old ones. The neat little church of St. Peter was surrounded by beggars. The bridge at the King’s Mill was littered with offal.

Knights and their ladies wore bright apparel among the dull homespun of most citizens. Market stalls were laden with food while skeletal urchins searched the ground for scraps.

Ralph Delchard observed it all with a mixture of curiosity and disappointment. There was a pervasive air of neglect and decay.

The majestic cathedral was a pounding heart in a rotting body.

Gazing at its stark contrasts, Ralph was struck by the thought that Canterbury had not yet fully accepted the Conquest. After twenty years, it still reflected an uneasy and unconsummated marriage between Norman power and Saxon resentment. The thought made Ralph slip an involuntary arm around Golde’s waist.

Disillusion made no impact on Canon Hubert. Alone of the company, he was inspired by what he saw and bestowed a beaming condescension on all around him.

“We have reached the Promised Land!” he declared.

“Yes,” said Brother Simon meekly. “But I had hoped to find more milk and honey awaiting us.”

“There is food for the soul,” chided the other, adjusting his paunch with a flabby hand. “That is true nourishment. Look inward and praise God for his goodness.”

Ralph trotted to the head of the column and called a halt. It was time to separate. During their stay in the city, Hubert and Simon would be guests at the priory. The men-at-arms were lodging at the timber castle which stood outside the wall. Had not Golde been with them, Ralph and Gervase would have joined the soldiers, but his wife had such unhappy memories of staying in a similar motte-and-bailey structure in York, during their last assignment, that Ralph sought alternative accommodation.

He, Golde and Gervase made their way to the home of Osbern the Reeve. It was a long, low, timber-framed house in Burgate Ward, occupying a corner site which gave it greater space and significance while exposing it to the passing tumult on two sides.

Ralph had severe reservations about taking up residence in a Saxon household but most of them vanished when he met his host.

“Welcome!” said the reeve, answering the door in person and bowing politely. “I am Osbern and it is a privilege to offer you the hospitality of our humble abode. Step inside, pray. A servant will stable your horses and fetch your belongings.”

The visitors were conducted into the solar and introduced to Eadgyth, the reeve’s wife, a plump but attractive young woman with a shy smile and a submissive manner. Osbern himself was fifteen years older, a short, neat, compact individual with a well-groomed beard. His tunic and cap gave him a touch of elegance and Ralph admired the precision of his movements. The reeve exuded a quiet confidence. He would be helpful without being obsequious.

What really appealed to Ralph was the fact that Osbern spoke in Norman French to him, revealing an easy command of the language of his masters. Refreshment was at hand and Eadgyth went off into the kitchen to supervise it. Her husband took the opportunity to show his guests to their chambers on the floor above. Gervase Bret was tactful. Conscious of their need for privacy, he took his host aside so that Ralph and Golde could have a moment alone together.

The chamber was small but spotlessly clean and the bed was invitingly soft. Ralph held her in his arms to place a first long kiss on her lips.

“At last!” he said.

“Are you glad that I came with you?”

“I am in a state of delirium, my love.”

“You must not let me become a distraction.”

“That is exactly what I hope you will be.”

“You have obligations as a royal commissioner,” reminded Golde. “They must be fulfilled.”

“Even royal commissioners are allowed to sleep.”

“Then I will do my best not to keep you awake.”

He grinned happily and reached for her again but the hubbub from the street below came in through the open window. Ralph closed the shutters to lock out the disturbance. He embraced Golde in the half-dark and kissed her with the ardour of a bridegroom. She responded with equal passion and they moved closer to the bed. Before they could tumble into it, however, a booming sound rocked the building and reverberated around the chamber. The bell for Tierce was chiming in the nearby cathedral.

The sudden noise made them leap guiltily apart. Golde recovered at once and burst out laughing. Ralph did not share in the amusement.

“The Church has come between us,” he said bitterly.

It was an omen.