The Serpents of Harbledown

CHAPTER THREE

Canon Hubert was in his element. The visit to Canterbury was both a duty and a form of pilgrimage and it never occurred to him that these might be in any way contradictory. His status as a royal commissioner gave him a thrusting self-importance while his presence in Christ Church Priory brought out an ostentatious humility. Within the safety and sanctity of the cloister, Brother Simon was able to accommodate both aspects of his colleague with relative ease.

“Seven years!” boomed Hubert.

“A miracle in stone.”

“Seven years. When Archbishop Lanfranc first came here from Caen, he found the cathedral in ruins and this priory in disarray.

Behold what seven years of prayer and planning and ceaseless labour can achieve.”

“It is a monument to the archbishop’s genius.”

“It is an inspiration, Brother Simon!”

“Yes, Canon Hubert.”

“I see the hand of the blessed Lanfranc everywhere.”

“You would recognise its character.”

“That is why I am so grateful that my work has at last brought me to Canterbury,” said Hubert, looking around with a proprietary air. “This is truly uplifting. I belong.”

Simon was also experiencing a sense of joyous kinship but he was too mild-mannered even to mention it. When Hubert was in such a state of spiritual replenishment, his buoyancy left no room for the thoughts and feelings of others. Simon did not complain.

At the heart of the community, the priory was yet gloriously isolated from it, high walls and a protective austerity allowing its monks to serve God without any worldly distraction. No woman could ever penetrate the enclave. Brother Simon was at home.

Christ Church Priory was built on a scale which showed vision and high aspiration. As they perambulated around the spacious cloister garth, the visitors noted the large chapter house, the sizeable refectory and a dorter range capable of housing a hundred and fifty monks. Particular care had been lavished on the scriptorium so that it could in time become a centre of learning unrivalled in England. Canon Hubert might dream of high office within this monastic community but Brother Simon’s ambition stretched no further than the wish to be shackled in perpetuity to a desk in the scriptorium like one of the great chained Bibles.

The two men were still luxuriating in their respective fantasies when they were joined by a fresh-faced young monk with a message for Hubert. Abandoning his companion without a word, the canon followed his guide to the prior’s lodging.

“Welcome to Canterbury!”

“Thank you,” said Hubert deferentially. “This visit is the fulfillment of a long-held wish.”

“I trust that you will enjoy and benefit from your time here in the city.”

“That is a foregone conclusion.”

“You might be wiser to reserve your judgement.”

“There is no need.”

“There is always need for caution.”

Prior Henry was a striking man of medium height and middle years. The slim, intelligent face had a swarthy complexion which showed his Italian ancestry and the remains of a handsomeness which was at odds with his tight-lipped asceticism. Dark eyes probed from beneath black eyebrows and the high forehead had a quizzical frown. It was almost as if he were assessing the strengths of a possible adversary.

They were in his private parlour, the chamber from which the whole monastic community was administered. Henry sat behind a table which was covered with letters, documents and accounts.

Hubert was irresistibly reminded of his time at the famous abbey of Bee when a conference with the prior was a daily event. Across just such a table, he and Lanfranc had discussed every aspect of monastic business in exhaustive detail. Those memories were cherished afresh now.

Prior Henry read his thoughts. Indicating a chair so that his guest might sit down, he sounded an apologetic note.

“Archbishop Lanfranc sends his greetings to you and regrets that he is not able to meet you in person.”

“I understand,” said Hubert, lowering his bulk onto the carved oak chair. “The archbishop is extremely busy. When he has the affairs of the entire Church of England to conduct, he cannot easily break off to see an old friend.”

“Indeed not,” agreed the other. “If he did that, he would never begin to address the huge volume of work that confronts him. He has rather too many old friends, I fear.”

Hubert was momentarily stung. Feeling that he was being both rebuked and patronised, he displayed his credentials at once.

“I was sub-prior at Bec under Prior Lanfranc.”

“I am aware of your brief tenure of that office.”

“He and I worked closely and harmoniously together.”

“That was over a quarter of a century ago.”

“It gave us a deep and lasting mutual respect. Prior Lanfranc, as he then was, paid me the highest compliment when he left to be abbot of Caen.”

“Not quite, Canon Hubert.”

“His praise was unstinting.”

“Yet it still fell short of the highest accolade,” said Henry coolly.

“That would have been to take you with him to Caen to occupy a higher station. As it was, you did not even succeed him as prior of Bee. That honour fell to Anselm.”

“I approved wholeheartedly.”

“You had no choice.”

Hubert was even more annoyed. There was no enmity or malice in Henry’s voice. It was his cold statement of facts which discomfited his guest. Hubert had indeed never risen above the position of sub-prior at Bec. Having leapfrogged over him, Anselm had gone on to become abbot of the house.

“There is another reason,” continued Henry.

“For what?”

“The archbishop’s reluctance to give you an audience.”

“Reluctance? He has a personal objection?”

“No, Canon Hubert. He spoke well of you. But he is also mindful of the role in which you have come back to him.”

“I do not follow.”

“You are part of a royal commission. One of the disputes to come before you concerns Archbishop Lanfranc. He does not wish to meet you beforehand in case the renewed ties of friendship might influence your judgement.”

“I would be wholly impartial,” asserted Hubert.

“You must also be seen to be impartial,” emphasized the other,

“and that would not be possible if it were known that you had a private audience with the archbishop. When your work is complete-and the cathedral no longer implicated-the situation will be different. Archbishop Lanfranc may well be able to create some small space in his day for you.”

Prior Henry rose to his feet with a dismissive smile to signal that the interview was at an end. Bristling with dissatisfaction, Hubert struggled out of his chair. Contact with his revered friend would only be through the agency of Prior Henry and he sensed that the latter would be an obstructive interlocutor. Hubert eyed him warily.

“I may, then, still hope to meet the archbishop?”

“When this issue is resolved.”

“Even if the judgement goes against him?”

“There is no chance of that, Canon Hubert,” said Prior Henry, briskly. He forced a thin smile. “Is there?”

“Why did you not raise these doubts earlier?” asked Gervase.

“I had no chance, my son,” said Brother Martin. “And I must stress that they still are lingering doubts rather than firm convictions. I did not examine the body closely.”

“Why not?”

“Her father would not permit it. Alwin is a powerful man. He was in no mood to be resisted. All I saw of Bertha was the glimpse I had when we first discovered her.”

“But that was enough to feed your suspicion?”

“To plant a tiny seed of doubt, Master Bret.”

“More than that, I think.”

Brother Martin was in a quandary. Having confided his worries to Gervase, he was now deeply troubled by regret and uncertainty, wondering if he should have spoken so openly to a complete stranger and questioning the suppositions he had made about Bertha’s untimely death. He felt that he needed far more evidence before he made accusations of foul play.

Gervase persuaded him to go in search of that evidence and the two of them were now walking towards the parish church of St. Mildred. When it came into view, the hesitant monk stopped in his tracks and shook his head.

“We should not be doing this,” he complained.

“Would you let Bertha’s murderer go unpunished?”

“I am not at all sure that she was murdered.”

“Inspect the body and you will satisfy yourself on that score,”

argued Gervase. “If you then decide that she was killed by the venom of a snake, you can let the burial take place and no harm will have been done. If, however, you detect any signs of foul play, we can take appropriate action.”

“I am not happy about this, Master Bret.”

“You owe it to Bertha to find out the truth.”

“Do I?”

“Of course. And you owe it to her father.”

“Alwin concerns me the most,” sighed Martin. “He was so crazed by the death of his daughter that he sought to kill himself in a fit of grief. Brother Bartholomew and I had to fight to keep him alive.

I still bear the bruises about me. Think how much more violently he will react if he is told that Bertha was slain by a human hand.”

“It would be a sin to keep that intelligence from him.”

Brother Martin thought long and hard before coming to his decision. The image of Bertha, assisting him at the hospital, was at the forefront of his mind throughout. Drawing himself up, he set his jaw and nodded.

“You are right,” he said firmly. “Truth is paramount here. I must know if my old eyes deceived me or if those lingering doubts of mine are justified.”

“Let us go.”

St. Mildred’s Church stood in the southwest of the city near the town wall. A Saxon foundation, it was built of flint and local stone and comprised a long, narrow, aisleless nave, a small vestry and an even smaller morgue. When they let themselves into the church, they found Reinbald the Priest kneeling before the altar in an attitude of submission. They waited for some minutes until he rose, genuflected, then turned toward them.

“Brother Martin,” he said, recognising the familiar face. “What brings you back to St. Mildred’s?”

“I came to pay my respects to Bertha.”

“But you delivered her up to me only an hour ago.”

“I would value a moment alone with her,” said the monk. “When I came earlier, her father’s grief was my main concern. I fear I have neglected the girl herself.”

“She lies in the morgue. You know the way.”

Brother Martin first introduced Gervase to the priest, then slipped quietly away. Reinbald came slowly down the nave toward the stranger, regarding him with trepidation. Gervase spoke in Saxon to put him at his ease.

“Where do the bones of St. Mildred lie?” he asked.

Reinbald was surprised. “You have heard of St. Mildred?”

“Indeed I have. She was the abbess of Minster-in-Thanet, not far from Canterbury. Her mother, as I recall, was Princess of Kent. Ermenburga. Am I correct?”

“You already know more than my parishioners.”

“Mildred was a virtuous lady. Her charity toward widows and children was legendary. When she died, her tomb became a place of pilgrimage. Her relics were translated to St. Augustine’s Abbey.”

“That is true. Some fifty years ago.”

“A portion of those relics was sent to Holland. Is that not so, Father Reinbald?” The priest nodded. “How, then, did Archbishop Lanfranc come to bestow her relics at the hospital of St. Gregory, here in the city?”

“That is a vexed question, Master Bret.”

“Hospital, abbey or foreign shrine? Which, if any, holds the true bones of St. Mildred?”

“Nobody can be certain.”

“The archbishop is. So, I understand, is the abbey.”

“It is a source of friction between them,” lamented the other.

“I hesitate to call it a bone of contention.” He repented of his levity at once. “Forgive me. That was unseemly. Our thoughts should be with that poor girl in the mortuary. God rest her soul!”

Reinbald the Priest was young, earnest and open-faced. He had the look of someone who had found his desired place in life and who would serve his flock with diligence for the rest of his days. There was a slightly defensive air about him but Gervase put that down to his own presence. Being the servant of the King always created unease and distrust among the Saxon populace.

“To answer your question honestly,” said Reinbald with quiet dignity. “Wherever her relics lie, we believe that the spirit of St.

Mildred is here in the church which bears her name. We celebrate her Feast Day with great joy.” He cocked his head to one side and studied his guest. “How do you come to know Brother Martin?

Is he an old friend?”

“A new acquaintance,” said Gervase. “We met outside the home of Alwin the Sailor. I was taken there by Osbern the Reeve with whom we are lodging while in Canterbury.”

“You have a fine host. Osbern is a good man.”

“So I have noticed.”

“His wife, Eadgyth, was very close to Bertha. She was here when the body was brought in from Harbledown. Then she helped to convey Alwin back to his house.”

“Has anyone else been here since?”

“Been here?”

“To view the body.”

“None save Brother Martin. And Helto, of course.”

“Helto?”

“The doctor. He came to verify the cause of death. He examined the girl with great care before he pronounced.”

“And what was his verdict?”

“Snakebite.”

“Is he sure?”

“He was absolutely certain.”

Gervase found himself curiously disappointed but he was ready to accept the diagnosis of a doctor. Their visit to the church had been in vain. Brother Martin’s reappearance seemed to confirm this. His head was low, his face expressionless and his gait unhurried. After a nod of farewell to the priest, he led Gervase back out into the street. They were several yards away before the monk stopped.

“I owe a debt of gratitude to you,” he said softly.

“Why?”

“Your voice compelled me to go back to the mortuary.”

“Unnecessarily, Brother Martin.”

“Not so.”

“The girl died from snakebite.”

“Who told you that?”

“It is medical opinion,” said Gervase. “Bertha was examined by one Helto the Doctor. He was adamant that she had been killed by the venom of a snake.”

Martin was outraged. “Is that what Helto said?”

“Apparently.”

“Then he was lying.”

Ralph Delchard was peeved. When he dispatched Canon Hubert into the cathedral precinct that morning, he thought he had seen the last of him for that day. Since his colleague had sung the praises of Lanfranc all the way from Winchester, it was a reasonable assumption that he would not stir from the proximity of the archbishop until it was unavoidable. Yet there he was, red with indignation, banging on the door of Osbern’s house and interrupting what had been for Ralph and Golde an idyllic few hours.

Having seen the sights of Canterbury, they returned to Burgate Ward to find that the baby had just awoken. A servant girl was rocking the child in his crib but Golde swiftly took over the duties of surrogate mother. With Ralph watching fondly over her shoulder, she cooed and hummed the baby slowly back to sleep.

It was then that the unwelcome Hubert arrived. He was shown into the solar.

“Whatever are you doing here?” demanded Ralph.

“I need something.”

“Could it not wait until morning?”

“No, my lord.”

“Why not?”

“Because it concerns tomorrow’s deliberations.”

“The property in Fordwich?”

“Even so,” said Hubert. “The relevant documents are in Gervase’s satchel. I wish to study them with care before we sit in judgement on the case.”

“For what reason?”

“I need to be well prepared.”

“Then why did you not ask Gervase for those documents at an earlier stage? You have had many opportunities.”

“I want them now, my lord. That is all that matters.”

“But it is not, Hubert,” countered the other. “You go into the priory without the slightest interest in that case. Then you come charging out in search of material relating to it. What brought about this sudden conversion?”

“Please hand the documents over. It is all I ask.”

“They are in Gervase’s possession and he alone can pass them on to you. Like me, I am sure, he will first want to dig below the surface of your request.”

“What do you mean?”

“May I speak bluntly?”

“You have always done so before,” said Hubert ruefully.

“Who is going to read these confidential documents?”

“I am, my lord.”

“No other eyes?”

“Brother Simon might usefully peruse them as well.”

“So might someone else,” said Ralph, standing close to bark his accusation in the other’s face. “Someone in rather higher authority than our humble scribe. Have you been sent here on an errand by Archbishop Lanfranc?”

Hubert turned puce. “No, my lord!” he exclaimed.

“Doing a favour for an old friend? Serving the head of the English Church? Sniffing your way to preferment?”

“These are gross calumnies!”

“Are they?” pressed Ralph. “The cathedral lays claim to land that is held by the abbey. It would advantage Lanfranc greatly to have sight of the evidence we have collected and the questions we have agreed to put to him. I’ll not stand by and condone such vile injustice.”

“The vileness lies in your charges against me.”

“Then defend yourself.”

“I hoped that my record would to that for me,” said Hubert with quivering indignation. “Impartiality has been my touchstone throughout. We have sat in commission together in Wiltshire, in Essex, in Herefordshire and in Yorkshire. Have you ever seen one hint of prejudice in me, my lord? Can you recall one instance when I did not embrace and embody judicial independence?”

“No,” admitted Ralph. “Not one.”

“Then why insult me with such an accusation now?”

“Because a new element exists. Friendship with one of the claimants. By rights, you should not act as judge in this case.

You should declare an interest and withdraw.”

Hubert struck a dignified pose. “My only interest is in securing a just and fair settlement,” he said. “Were my own mother to appear before us, I would not yield to promptings of affection. It is so with Archbishop Lanfranc. Heaven forfend! Even if I did try to assist his case, I could not materially influence the outcome.

Mine is but one voice. You and Gervase together can shout me down.”

It was a sound argument. Ralph scratched his head and moved away for a moment to ponder. When he came back to Hubert, his tone was more conciliatory.

“I may have spoken too hastily,” he conceded.

“Hastily and hurtfully, my lord.”

“We have to be on guard at all times.”

“From me? Your fellow commissioner?”

“Perhaps not.” An awkward pause. “What did he say?”

“Who?”

“Archbishop Lanfranc. Was he pleased to see you?”

“I was not given an audience with him.”

“An old friend like you?”

“The archbishop is a busy man,” said Hubert sadly. His ire rekindled. “And he knew that he would not get me to divulge one syllable about our work in Canterbury.”

“He did consider asking you, then?”

“No, my lord. He is above such things. This is a minor dispute to him and hardly merits his attention. When he was first made archbishop, he discovered that a vast amount of church property had been seized by no less a person than Odo, the King’s own half-brother, Bishop of Bayeux, and then Earl of Kent. Do you know what Archbishop Lanfranc did?”

“He brought a lawsuit against Odo.”

“He took on one of the most powerful men in the kingdom in a trial that lasted three days. Lanfranc won. Everything that was purloined is now restored to the church.” He wagged an admonitory finger. “We are talking about one of the finest jurists in Europe. He does not need my help.”

Ralph smarted under the reprimand but felt that he deserved it. Hubert’s outbursts usually amused him but this one earned his respect. The request could not be denied.

“You may have the documents when Gervase returns.”

“And when will that be?”

“Soon.”

Canon Hubert clasped his hands in his lap and settled down in a chair like a hen brooding on some eggs. He did not have long to wait before he heard the latch lifting on the front door.

“That may be Gervase now,” said Ralph.

“At least he will not hurl wild accusations at me,” said the other, excavating himself from the chair. “Gervase appreciates my true merit.”

“I will send him in to you.”

Ralph went out of the room to be met by a worried Osbern.

“I have brought Eadgyth home,” he said sadly. “You will have to forgive my wife if she is not able to attend to your needs. She is heartbroken at Bertha’s death. I think it best if she keeps to our bedchamber.”

“Of course,” approved Ralph. “But this tragedy makes our own presence here a burden to you. We will find some other lodging and leave you to mourn in peace.”

“That would distress Eadgyth even more, my lord. And it would certainly disappoint me. You are our honoured guests. We have servants enough to look after you.” The sound of weeping came from upstairs. “Eadgyth needs me. I must go.” He paused on the first step. “Oh, I almost forgot. I have a message for you. It is from Master Bret.”

“Where is Gervase? We need him here.”

“You may have to wait, my lord.”

“Why?”

“He has gone to Harbledown.”