The Serpents of Harbledown

CHAPTER TWO

Gervase Bret made good use of his time alone with his host.

He plied him with questions and garnered an immense amount of valuable intelligence about the city. Born and brought up in Canterbury, the reeve had an intimate knowledge of its people and its administration. He volunteered information freely and was clearly impressed that Gervase was able to speak the Saxon tongue so fluently. Osbern would be a key figure in the work of the commissioners, summoning witnesses before them, giving advice on local customs and generally supervising their activities in such a way as to make their visit at once pleasant and productive.

The two men came back downstairs to the solar.

“Our first dispute concerns land in Fordwich,” said Gervase.

“It sets cathedral against abbey.”

“Then you must brace yourself,” warned the other.

“Why?”

“Passions run high between them.”

“Indeed? With two such intelligent parties, I hoped for a fierce legal debate but one conducted in moderate tones.”

“There will be no moderation, Master Bret.”

“Oh?”

“Cathedral and abbey are already locked in combat. A property dispute will only add to the ferocity of that combat. Take care that you are not caught between the two warring factions.”

“What is the nature of their quarrel?”

“The election of the new abbot,” explained Osbern. “St.

Augustine’s Abbey was a place of holy zeal and contentment under the late Abbot Scotland.”

“Tales of his enterprise reached us in Winchester.”

“Then you will know how selflessly he dedicated himself to his mission. When he came here, the abbey itself was in a sorry state and many of its monks were wayward. By the time of his death, Abbot Scotland had rebuilt and refurbished the house and imposed the Rule of St. Benedict strictly upon it. He was deeply loved by all and they mourn him still.”

“I see the problem,” guessed Gervase. “The new abbot is a lesser man than his predecessor.”

“That is inevitable, Master Bret. They would never find another Abbot Scotland. The monks were resigned to that.”

“Then what is their complaint?”

“The successor, Abbot Guy, is being forced upon them.”

“By whom?”

“Archbishop Lanfranc.”

“That is his prerogative.”

“They are challenging it.”

“In what way?”

“Every way at their disposal,” said Osbern. “The abbey is in turmoil, as you will soon discover.”

“Why is Guy so unacceptable to them?”

“I do not know, Master Bret.”

“You must have heard the gossip.”

“It is too wild to be taken seriously,” said the other with a noncommittal smile. “In the heat of the moment, even monks will use intemperate language.”

“Yes,” agreed Gervase ruefully. “I was once destined for the cowl myself. I know that holy brothers can bicker every bit as violently as simple laymen. But how will this argument be resolved?”

“Who can say?”

“What is your own opinion?”

“I take no sides,” said Osbern cautiously. “It is not my place to be drawn into this battle. All I wish to do is to forewarn you of its existence.”

“We are most grateful.”

“It will add heat to your deliberations.”

Gervase smiled. “That may be no bad thing.”

Golde came back into the solar with Ralph Delchard. She was still wearing her travelling clothes but he had removed his hauberk and now wore a long tunic. Osbern waved them to seats, then called to his wife in the kitchen. Eadgyth brought in refreshments on a wooden tray and the guests were soon enjoying warm honey cakes with a cup of tolerable wine.

In the relaxed atmosphere, Ralph casually interrogated the reeve to find out exactly what manner of man he was and how much they could rely on him. Ralph was pleased to have his earlier good impression of Osbern confirmed. Their host was clearly honest, conscientious and discreet. They were qualities not always to be found among town officials.

While the three men conversed, Golde sat in a corner with Eadgyth and tried to dispel her shyness with a show of friendship.

Eadgyth was slowly won over. When she realized how much she and Golde had in common, her defences were gradually lowered.

She was an attentive hostess but she excused herself from time to time to slip away into another part of the house, only to return with a smile of relief. Golde eventually divined the reason for her disappearances.

“How old is your baby?” she asked.

“Barely six months,” said Eadgyth with a faint blush.

“A boy or a girl?”

“A boy, my lady. Named after his father.”

“You must both be very proud of him.”

“We are,” she admitted, throwing a fond glance at Osbern. “But my husband has warned me that we must not let our son disturb you in any way. You are important guests and must not be bothered by our family matters.”

“That may be true for Ralph and Gervase,” said Golde. “They are here on royal business which claims their full attention. But I insist on seeing this wonderful baby.”

“You shall, my lady.”

“I want to see, hold and rock him in my arms.”

“Do you have children of your own?”

“Alas, no.”

“There is still time.”

“We shall see.”

Golde looked wistfully across at Ralph but she was not allowed to dwell on her thoughts. A servant appeared at the door and beckoned Osbern with some urgency, indicating that Eadgyth should also hear the news. The couple excused themselves and followed the man into the next room. A muttered conversation was heard through the door, then Eadgyth let out such a cry of grief that the three guests jumped to their feet in concern.

When Osbern came back in, his face was ashen.

“Bad tidings?” surmised Ralph.

“I fear so, my lord. The death of a close friend.”

“We are sorry to hear it.”

“My wife bears the heavier loss. She and Bertha spent much time together. The girl was almost one of our family.”

“Girl?” repeated Golde.

“She was but seventeen, my lady.”

“So young.”

“What cruel disease carried her off?” said Ralph.

“It was no sickness, my lord. Bertha was here in this house not twenty-four hours ago, as fit and healthy as any of us. No,”

said Osbern with a sigh, “it seems that she was bitten by a snake while gathering herbs in Harbledown.”

“Harbledown?” echoed Gervase. “That place on the hill? We rode through it on our way here.”

“Then you must have passed the spot where her dead body was found. Poor Bertha! I would not wish such a fate on anyone, but least of all on such a gentle creature as her.”

“Where is the girl now?” said Ralph.

“According to our report, they are bringing her down from the hospital of St Nicholas.” He looked up as they heard the front door of the house open and shut. “Please excuse Eadgyth’s rude departure.”

“No excuse is needed, Osbern.”

“My wife feels that she must be there.”

“We understand.”

“She can help to comfort the girl’s father.”

“Father?”

“Yes, my lord. Alwin. He will be utterly destroyed.”

It took them a long time to persuade him. Alwin sat motionless beside the dead body of his daughter and refused to let anyone touch her. Whenever they tried to move the corpse, he crouched protectively over it and let out a strange keening sound. Brother Martin and Brother Bartholomew were patient. Relieved that Alwin’s suicidal rage had spent itself, they now waited until he was ready to surrender his daughter to their care. A horse and cart stood outside. The lepers kept a silent vigil in the shadows.

Brother Martin crouched beside the suffering father.

“Bertha may not stay here, Alwin,” he whispered.

“I know.”

“Then let us carry her to a fitter place.”

“In time, Brother Martin. In time.”

“We leave the decision to you.”

Alwin looked disconsolately around the dank nave.

“Bertha loved this hospital,” he murmured.

“She was an angel of mercy,” said Martin. “She had an affinity with the piteous wretches who lodge here. It is such a brutal irony. Their hold on life is so tenuous and so painful yet it is Bertha who has gone to her Maker first. She will be sadly missed by all the friends she has here.”

“And what of me?”

“You, Alwin?”

“They have only lost a friend.”

“A friend and a benefactor.”

“I have lost everything.”

Alwin fell into a kind of trance. Oblivious to his surroundings, he stared unseeing at one of the stone pillars, his body slack, his mind empty, his mouth open. When they tried to speak to him, he did not hear a word.

Brother Martin decided that their moment had finally come.

He signalled to Bartholomew before crossing to open the heavy oak door. Sunlight flooded in. The two monks moved gingerly into position so that they could lift the body between them but Alwin came out of his reverie at once. Pushing them firmly away, he knelt beside his daughter in order to slip his arms under her, then he lifted her without effort and took her slowly out through the church door.

The waiting congregation of lepers at first stepped back with a gasp of horror. Realising that Bertha was now beyond reach of their contagion, they then moved in closer to take a final look at her, one of them, an old lady, putting out a flaking hand to touch the flimsy shroud as it fluttered past. Another fell to his knees to offer up a prayer for the soul of the departed. The cart was rough-hewn and covered in mud but someone had flung an old woollen blanket over it to hide the worst of its defects and kill some of its noisome stink.

Alwin laid the body in the back of the cart with great reverence before turning to survey the watching lepers. Their cloaks and hoods gave them a fearful anonymity and he could not even discern the male from the female victims, but he accorded each in turn a mute farewell. After glancing back at the corpse, he made a forlorn gesture of apology to everyone.

Brother Martin gave the order and the boy led the horse away from the church. Alwin walked behind it with the monks at his heels, chanting in unison. The little cortege crested the hill and began the long, bumpy downhill journey. As it passed the clump of holly where Bertha had been discovered, a tall, stooping figure seemed to materialise out of the trees. Face still hidden behind the veil, the leper who had found her waited until the cart trundled on out of sight.

Then he took something out of the fold of his sleeve and held it on the palm of his hand to examine it with an almost tentative affection. He felt its smoothness and held it up for the sun to polish its dull sheen. After placing a dry-lipped kiss on it, he opened his sleeve and put the object safely back in its hiding place.

It was his memento.

Ralph Delchard was in such a genial mood that even his protests had a chuckling mildness to them. They were the token complaints of a husband who can deny his wife nothing.

“We will be bored to death!” he said dramatically. “Who on earth could wish to look at a cathedral?”

“I could,” said Golde.

“But you have seen cathedrals before, my love.”

“Not this one.”

“Since you met me, you have visited Winchester, Lincoln and York Minster. They are enough to glut any appetite. When you lived in Hereford, you saw a cathedral every day.”

“Canterbury is different.”

“Why?”

“It is the best.”

“Yet not the biggest.”

“None can match its importance.”

“York Minster would try.”

“And fail. Look, Ralph!” she said, pointing a finger at the looming splendour before them. “From this cathedral, the whole of the English Church is ruled.”

“It is ruled by the whims of King William.”

“This is the spiritual centre of the country.”

“Dear God!” he said in mock alarm. “Have I married a devout Christian? Am I matched with a holy nun? Do I lay with a bride of Christ? Why did you keep this hideous truth from me?”

“I thought to convert you by stealth,” she teased.

“Horror of horrors!”

They shared a laugh and he embraced her warmly. The commission would begin its investigations on the next day and Ralph would be caught up in its activities. This was the only time when they might view the city together and they snatched eagerly at the chance. It was only a short walk from Osbern’s house to the cathedral precinct. While Ralph blustered amiably, she marvelled at what she saw.

“The place had such a sense of power,” she said.

“All I can see is a pretty pile of Caen stone.”

“Are you blind to the beauty before your eyes?”

“No, my love,” he said, holding her face between gentle hands.

“It is what drew me to you in the first place.”

“I talk of the cathedral.”

“A finer edifice stands before me.”

“Be serious, Ralph.”

“I am. Never more so.”

It was difficult to have a private moment in such a public place.

Dozens of people were going past in both directions and others were idling in corners. Golde was conscious that curious eyes were upon them but that did not hold her back from broaching a delicate subject. Ralph was her husband now and she had never felt closer to him than at that precise second.

“Did you know that Eadgyth has a baby?” she said.

“It does not surprise me.”

“She asked me if we had children.”

“What did you tell her?”

“The truth. We do not.”

“Yet.”

She held his gaze, wanting reassurance, hoping for a sign of commitment, searching for a need in him as deep as her own.

“I am somewhat older than Eadgyth,” she warned.

“I am somewhat younger than Osbern.”

“A child never came with my first husband.”

“Perhaps it rebelled against your choice of a father.”

“Do not jest about it, Ralph.”

“It was no jest.”

“This weighs heavily with me.”

“Then so it does with me,” he promised, squeezing her shoulder.

“Whatever touches your heart finds it way straight to mine. Is that plain enough for you?”

She nodded. “We have never talked about this before.”

“I took it for granted.”

“It is not as simple as that.”

“You will have to teach me the way,” he said with a grin.

“If a child comes …”

“It would give me such joy and pride, Golde.”

“But if it does not …?”

He winced slightly as a distant memory jabbed at him. With an arm around her, he looked up at the cathedral.

“Come, my love,” he said. “It is time to go inside.”

When Osbern decided to visit the bereaved man, Gervase Bret immediately offered to bear him company. It would not only allow him to explore part of the city and to glean further information from the reeve on the way, it would help to assuage his keen interest in the circumstances of the girl’s death. The bare facts of the case intrigued and puzzled him.

“She was killed by the venom of a snake?” he said.

“That is my understanding.”

“When? How?”

“I have no details beyond those I have given you,” said Osbern as they strode along. “And they may prove to be wrong. News changes in the telling. I do not know how many hands the report of this tragedy passed through before it reached us, but I would guess at several.”

“Your wife was distressed at the tidings.”

“She had cause, Master Bret. They have known each other many years. Before she wed me, Eadgyth was a near neighbour of Bertha and her father.”

“No mother?”

“She died some years ago.”

“What is the father’s occupation?”

“Alwin is a sailor. The captain of a small boat which brings stone from Normandy for building work. You have seen how much reconstruction there is in Canterbury. Alwin’s vessel has been in constant demand.”

“Tell me about his daughter.”

“The one delight in Alwin’s life. A fair maid in every sense.

Bright, lively, dutiful yet not without an independent spirit. A true friend to Eadgyth. Kindness itself.”

“Why would she be gathering herbs?”

“For the leper hospital of St. Nicholas. Bertha was given to charitable impulse. She was a regular visitor to Harbledown. The lepers came to know and trust her.”

“So young and yet so caring toward others?”

“Her goodness may have cost Bertha her life.”

Alwin the Sailor lived in Worthgate Ward and so the body of his daughter was taken to the tiny morgue at the parish church of St. Mildred. When he saw her bestowed there, he was led back to his home by Eadgyth and by Brother Martin. Both were still trying to comfort him when the visitors arrived. Profoundly moved by Alwin’s plight, but concerned as well about the intensity of his wife’s grief, the considerate Osbern went into the house to lend support to both of them.

Gervase did not wish to intrude. He stayed outside and pondered further on the girl’s demise. It was a long wait but it brought an unexpected reward. Brother Martin came out alone and fell into conversation with him. The duty of helping Alwin through his pain had given the monk little time to express his own sadness. When he left the house of mourning, he was able to confront the enormity of the loss. It made him go weak at the knees. Seeing his distress, Gervase steadied him then eased him down onto the hearth stone.

“Rest here awhile,” he counselled.

“Thank you, my son. Sorrow has taken all my strength.”

“You knew the girl?”

“Knew her well and loved her dearly.”

“Have you heard how she was found?”

“I was there.”

Gervase gave him time to recover before introducing himself to the monk. His bearing and his gentle manner enabled him to win Brother Martin’s confidence and the latter was soon giving a full account of what had happened. Gervase listened with rapt attention as the old man relived the ordeal. Only when Brother Martin had completed his tale did Gervase raise a few queries.

“How long had Bertha been coming to the hospital?”

“A few years or more,” said Brother Martin.

“So she would know Harbledown well?”

“Every tree, bush and blade of grass.”

“And every hazard, too, I think,” said Gervase.

“Hazard?”

“Wild animals or snakes.”

“Bertha knew how to look after herself, Master Bret.”

“Until yesterday, it seems. You mentioned holly.”

“That is where she lay when we stumbled upon her. She was surrounded by it. Caught in a holly wreath, as it were.”

“What herbs would she find there?”

“None that I know of, my friend.”

“Then why subject herself to the scratch of holly?”

“It is a question I have asked myself,” confided the monk. “And it is matched with others that arouse suspicion.”

“Suspicion?”

“That wound upon her. Bertha would have had to be on her back for a snake to sink its fangs into her neck. Why would the girl risk lying down in a place of danger?”

“Perhaps she tripped and fell,” said Gervase.

“She was too strong and surefooted.”

“How, then, do you explain the mark upon her neck?”

“I cannot,” admitted the monk. “There are poisonous snakes in Harbledown and Bertha would not be their first victim. I have treated others who have met with the same misfortune. Treated them, Master Bret, and saved them.”

“What are you telling me?”

“When venom gets into the blood, it can kill as surely as a sword or an arrow. But nowhere near as quickly. Bertha was young and healthy. Had she been bitten by a snake, why did she not run for help before the poison took full effect?”

“Have you raised these matters with anyone else?”

“No, my friend. I dare not.”

“Why?”

“Because I have no proof.”

“Your evidence is sound enough to me.”

“It is only an old man’s foolish instinct,” said Brother Martin.

“And I do not wish to go where it leads me.”

“What do you mean?”

The monk looked around to make sure that they were not overheard, then pulled his companion closer. Gervase saw the watery apprehension in his eyes.

“Bertha may not have died from the snakebite.”

“But you saw the marks upon her neck.”

“The girl was bitten,” confirmed the monk. “No doubt about that. There was poison in her veins. The signs were clear. I begin to think that they were too clear.”

Gervase’s interest quickened. “Are you suggesting that she was killed by other means and bitten by the snake when she was already dead?”

“It is possible. Bertha may have been murdered.”