The Serpents of Harbledown

CHAPTER FIVE

Inactivity made Ralph Delchard extremely restive. With everyone else in the house engaged either in soothing Eadgyth, nursing the baby, preparing the food or doing the many other chores, he felt both neglected and in the way. Sensing his discomfort, Golde urged him to take himself out.

“You will not object, my love?” he asked.

“Why should I?”

“For deserting you like this.”

“I will hardly notice that you are gone,” she said. “ Eadgyth’s need takes precedence over all else at this moment. She is in pain. I cannot stand by and watch her torment without doing something. I must help.”

“Then so will I, Golde. You can best help by staying here, and I, by getting out from under your feet.”

“Where will you go?”

“In search of Gervase.”

“It might be a kindness to keep him away for an hour or so at least. Explain the situation and he will understand.”

“We will stay away all night,” he teased. “If you wish.”

“I would only come looking for you.”

“That would be my hope.”

She kissed him lightly on the lips and went back upstairs to continue with her self-appointed duties. There was stabling at the rear of the house, reached from the street by a narrow, rutted lane. When a servant had saddled his horse for him, Ralph went trotting back toward the crowded High Street.

His first visit was to the castle to see if his men were safely lodged and to give them their orders for the morrow. Finding them well-fed, flushed by wine and in noisy good humour, he treated them to a burst of vituperation in order to remind them that marriage had not entirely blunted the edge of his temper. Having asserted his authority, he felt able to go in pursuit of his friend.

His horse moved off at a steady canter toward the rural peace of Harbledown.

Gervase Bret was halfway down the hill when he caught sight of Ralph. The pounding hooves soon closed the gap between them.

Ralph reined in his mount beside Gervase.

“Where the devil have you been?” he demanded.

“To the hospital of St. Nicholas.”

“Consorting with foul lepers when the city is full of comely wenches? Speak to my men. They only arrived at the castle this morning and already they know the whereabouts of every brothel in the city. Seek pleasure for once.”

“I have other things on my mind, Ralph.”

“What is more important than a warm woman in a soft bed?”

“Solving a cruel murder.”

Ralph was jolted. “Murder?”

“The girl they found dead. Bertha.”

“But she was killed by a poisonous snake.”

“It was made to look as if she had been, Ralph.”

“The cause of death has been confirmed. I talked with the doctor myself. He examined the girl’s body and spoke with assurance on the matter.”

“You have met Helto the Doctor?”

“Yes,” said Ralph. “He was called to the house when Eadgyth’s grief was too much for her to bear. His visit calmed her. Helto was going on to perform a like service for Bertha’s father. He, too, is suffering the agonies of the bereaved.”

“How would you describe this doctor?”

“Helto?” Ralph inhaled deeply before giving his judgement.

“Difficult to like but just as difficult not to respect. A sound physician, certainly, and with more compassion than first meets the eye. Osbern the Reeve could not speak too highly of him.”

“An honest man?”

“Honest and straightforward.”

“Capable of dissembling?”

“On my short acquaintance, I think not. Why do you ask?”

“We came to the conclusion that Helto was lying. It may just be that his postmortem examination was careless.”

“I would doubt that.”

“It is the only way to explain his mistake, Ralph.”

“What mistake?”

“Bertha was strangled to death.”

“Who says so?”

“Brother Martin of the hospital of St. Nicholas.”

“On what evidence?”

“Let me show you some of it.”

Ralph dismounted and Gervase took him back up the hill to the clump of holly, recounting on the way how he and the old monk had first begun to question the apparent cause of the girl’s demise. Tethering his horse, Ralph pushed his way down into the hollow to take a close look for himself. Gervase slowly built up the web of detail for him.

“We have another case to judge,” commented Ralph.

“Case?”

“Monk versus doctor. Whom do you favour?”

“Brother Martin. You have heard my reasons.”

“I warrant that Helto is the truer physician.”

“Even the finest doctor can err at times.”

“If that is what he did, Gervase.”

“Rule out dishonesty and it is all that is left. Who knows?

Helto may have been too lax or perfunctory in his work. And the morgue at St. Mildred’s may be partly to blame.”

“In what way?”

“I am told it is a small chamber with no window. Perhaps the candle threw inadequate light for Helto. That was why he did not discern the bruising on the throat.”

“Brother Martin worked by the same flame.”

“True.”

“Helto’s eyes are keener than those of an old monk.”

“Instinct comes into it as well, Ralph.”

“What does yours tell you?”

“There has been foul play.”

Ralph nodded. He remembered what Helto the Doctor had said about a stone hurled into a pool. Bertha’s death had already caused violent ripples to spread. If the girl was indeed the victim of a murder, those ripples would become huge waves and they would wash through the very house where Golde and the two commissioners were staying. It would not advantage their work in Canterbury.

That was a secondary consideration in Ralph’s view. Now that the crime had been brought to light, it had to be reported and investigated. Someone needed to be called to account for what appeared to be a calculated murder.

“The sheriff must be informed, Gervase.”

“I was on my way to do exactly that when we met.”

“Let us go together,” suggested Ralph. “But when you have reported your findings, you must hand over the inquiry to the proper authority.”

“I am bound to retain a keen interest.”

“Your interest must be concentrated on the problems we were sent here to resolve. They will keep us busy for a week or more before we can quit the city. Forget the girl.”

“How can I?”

“You are not involved.”

“I must be, Ralph. He is depending on me.”

“Who is?”

“Brother Martin. He is the crucial figure here and he is ready to speak up before the sheriff and to challenge the opinion of Helto the Doctor. That will place Brother Martin under great strain. He is old and no longer as clear-minded as he would wish to be. I can support him. Encourage him. Buttress his evidence with my own observations.”

“Not while you are sitting in commission with me.”

“I will contrive to help somehow.”

“Gervase-”

“I am sorry,” interrupted the other, “but I cannot turn my back on this crime. There are things that I might learn which would be beyond the reach of the sheriffs officers.”

“Give me an instance.”

“Alain’s testimony.”

“Who is Alain?”

“The leper who found the girl. I am sure that he knows something which may provide a vital clue. I sensed it when I spoke to him. He was holding something back from me.”

“Let the sheriff shake it out of him.”

“He would not dare to go within ten yards of Alain.”

“That sounds like a wise precaution to me.”

“I could do it,” said Gervase. “If I can win Alain’s confidence, I am sure I can draw the truth out of him.”

“And what is happening to affairs of state while you are running off to Harbledown to befriend lepers?”

“You will not find me shirking my duties.”

Ralph held him by the shoulders. “The girl is not your problem, Gervase. Let her go. You did not even know Bertha.”

“I feel as if I have got very close to her in the last few hours.

For someone so young and innocent, she had a profound effect on others. Brother Martin talked at length about her and I saw for myself what she meant to the lepers at the hospital. They looked upon her as a kind of saint.”

“You must speak to Helto the Doctor.”

“Why?”

“He examined the girl’s body at the morgue.”

“And?”

“In one respect, Bertha fell short of sainthood.”

Osbern the Reeve was too responsible a man to allow any domestic problems to interfere with his official duties. Everything was in readiness for the commissioners on the following morning.

The shire hall had been cleaned, a table and four chairs had been set out, and benches had been put in position for the various disputants and witnesses who would come forward. Mindful of the wearying length to which such deliberations could go, Osbern had even organised some interim refreshments for the visitors.

While the reeve was absent, Golde took over the care of his wife.

The sleeping draught had allowed Eadgyth to pass the night in restorative slumber and she awoke in a far less agitated mood.

Rumours of an inquiry into the alleged murder of Bertha were buzzing around the city but Eadgyth was protected from them at this stage, allowing her to mourn the death of a dear friend without the terrifying knowledge of how that death might have been brought about.

The shire hall was a long, shapeless, timber-framed building with low beams and undulating flagstones worn smooth by the regular passage of feet. Canon Hubert and Brother Simon were the first to arrive, the former pleased to see everything conspicuously in order and the latter weighed down by a leather satchel stuffed with documents, rolls of fresh parchment and writing materials.

Ralph Delchard arrived with his men-at-arms, six of whom were left outside as sentries while their fellows took up their station inside the shire hall. Gervase Bret followed them in, carrying his own large satchel of letters and documents. As leader of the commission, Ralph took the chair at the centre of the table with Gervase and Hubert on either side of him. Simon was at a right angle to them, perched at the end of the table so that he could watch them to receive direction while at the same time keeping an eye on those who occupied the benches.

“Are we all ready?” asked Ralph, glancing around and collecting general assent. “Good. We have all studied the material relating to the first dispute. Let us begin.”

Ralph gave a signal and three figures were soon being conducted into the room. Prior Henry was accompanied by two monks who walked deferentially behind him. Their entry coincided with the strident clang of the cathedral bell as it announced Tierce.

“I am glad to see that you are punctual,” said Henry.

“We are punctual and punctilious,” warned Ralph.

“I would expect no less, my lord. I am Prior Henry and I speak for Archbishop Lanfranc. May I know whom I face?”

Ralph introduced himself and his colleagues. The prior’s eyes appraised them each in turn, showing no flicker of recognition when they rested on Canon Hubert. Lowering himself on to the front bench, Prior Henry held out a bony hand. One of the monks handed him a sheaf of letters from his satchel, then sat, with his colleague, on the bench behind the prior. Their role was purely supportive.

“We do not wish this dispute to continue,” said Ralph. “It has already dragged on for far too long.”

“I could not agree with you more,” said Henry. “It is my hope-

and the archbishop’s fervent desire-that we may reach some sort of resolution by the end of the day.”

“It lies within your power to reach it immediately.”

“Does it, my lord?”

“Surrender your claim and the matter is ended.”

“I see that you mean to draw some amusement from this case,”

said Henry, drily. “Do you have any more jests to make before we address this dispute with requisite solemnity?”

“My suggestion was quite serious, Prior Henry.”

“Then make it to the Abbey of St. Augustine. Persuade them to abandon their folly and cede the property to its rightful owner, the Archbishop of Canterbury.”

“King William owns the land,” corrected Canon Hubert with terse pedantry. “His subjects only hold it from him as tenants.”

“A pointless quibble.”

“Not to royal officials, Prior Henry.”

Hubert sat back complacently, feeling that he had just repaid the prior for some of the slights he believed he had suffered at the man’s hands, and grateful to have been given an early opportunity to demonstrate to Ralph Delchard that he showed no favour toward the cathedral. Prior Henry seemed quite unperturbed. Any irritation or discomfort was carefully hidden behind an inscrutable expression and a voice of measured calm.

“Why do you offer such preposterous counsel, my lord?” he asked. “I presume that you have some sort of reason.”

“The desire for a swift and just solution.”

“Swift, it would certainly be-but hardly just.”

“A pointless quibble,” echoed Ralph with irony.

“I see that you are no lawyer, my lord.”

“Gervase fulfills that role,” said Ralph, turning to his colleague.

“He will refresh our minds on this issue.”

Gervase glanced down at the parchment in front of him and translated the Latin abbreviations with practised ease.

“This is the entry for Fordwich Hundred. ‘A small borough which is called Fordwich. King Edward gave two parts of this borough to St. Augustine’s; but the Bishop of Bayeux, with King William’s assent, also assigned to St. Augustine’s the third part, which had belonged to Earl Godwin. It answers for 1 yoke. There were 100 measures of land less 4 there which paid 13 shillings. Now there are 73 dwellings which pay as much. Value before 1066 and later 100 shillings; now?11,2 shillings. There are also 24 acres of land which St. Augustine’s always had, where there were and are six burgesses who pay 22 shillings.’ ”

Ralph smirked. “Note how often the name of St. Augustine’s Abbey is mentioned.”

“There is more,” said Henry. “Allow him to finish.”

“Gervase?”

“One last entry, my lord, ‘In this Borough Archbishop Lanfranc holds seven measures of land which served St. Augustine’s before 1066; now the Archbishop takes their service from it.’ That is a full extract from the returns.”

“There it stands,” said Ralph. “Such are the facts as elicited by our predecessors when they came into Kent to collect all the information germane to the Great Survey. They were exceedingly thorough.”

“They were,” said Prior Henry equably. “Thorough and conscientious. They worked to the best of their limited abilities.

I look for no less of their successors.”

Ralph was jangled. “ ‘Limited abilities’?”

“That is not meant as a criticism.”

“It does not have the ring of praise about it.”

“Let me explain,” said the prior easily. “The first commissioners were trusted laymen of high rank, sent into this county to assess the value of its property and to determine its ownership. Or,” he added, flicking a glance at Canon Hubert, “if that word offends you, to determine which of his tenant-in-chiefs held the land of the King. But your predecessors worked under two huge constraints.”

“Constraints?” said Hubert.

“They were not well versed in the laws of property and they were ordered to collect their evidence quickly and send their returns to the Exchequer. Ignorance and haste are the enemies of fair judgement. You see both reflected in the extract which Master Bret read out to us just now.” He aimed a polite smile at Gervase. “On which subject, may I say that I would have preferred to hear the original Latin so that I could place my own interpretation upon it. Certain words always pale in translation.”

“I am starting to pale under your strictures,” said Ralph in exasperation. “May I remind you that we are here by royal warrant, Prior Henry, and that entitles us to your respect? We sit in judgement on you and will not have our own work, or that of our predecessors, put on trial. You are not in the chapter-house now, talking down to a flock of monastic sheep, too frightened even to bleat in protest. If the meek are set to inherit the earth, you will not find any landholders sitting at this table.” He heard the squeak from the shocked Brother Simon. “Except, perhaps, our scribe.”

Canon Hubert goggled and the two monks from Christ Church Priory were so scandalised that they began to gibber. Gervase smiled inwardly. But the outburst had no discernible effect on Prior Henry. He remained calm and poised. It only served to annoy Ralph even more.

“Let us proceed to the crux of the matter,” he said.

“I am listening, my lord.”

“In the survey of this county, Fordwich is listed as part of the land held by St. Augustine’s Abbey. There is documentary evidence to support this. You have none.”

“The charters were destroyed by fire.”

“What proof do we have that they ever existed?”

“Letters and depositions from some of the brothers who were at the priory before it was caught in the blaze.”

“Saxon monks?” said Hubert.

“Naturally.”

“You accept their word?”

“Without reservation.”

“Then your memory betrays you, Prior Henry,” said the canon with relish. “When Archbishop Lanfranc first came to Canterbury in the year of our Lord, 1070, he was appalled by what he found.

The monks had dwindled in number and strayed disastrously from the Rule. They hunted, fished, bloated themselves on rich food and often drank themselves into a stupor. Some-I am ashamed to recall this-were given to carnal pleasure with women.”

“God protect us!” gasped Brother Simon.

“Duty and reverence were forgotten. They were a stain upon the reputation of the Benedictine Order.”

“All this is true,” confessed Henry. “The archbishop moved swiftly and sternly to remedy this disgrace. Those who stayed within the enclave are truly contrite.”

“I find it difficult to trust them wholeheartedly.”

“Because they are Saxon?” The prior clicked his tongue. “I am disappointed in you, Canon Hubert. The cowl makes us all equal.

Saxon, Norman, Welsh, Irish, Breton, Flemish or Spanish, monks are brothers who make no distinction about nationality.

Archbishop Lanfranc is an Italian. So am I. So, of course, is Anselm of Bec, who became prior there when you felt that you were destined for that office.”

Hubert smouldered. The reproof was all the more wounding for being delivered in such an even-tempered way. Prior Henry’s mild tongue had the power of a lash. It had been painful enough when they were alone together but this public humiliation was far worse.

“Our hopes of a speedy end to this dispute have been dashed,”

sighed Ralph. “You clearly mean to contest this case.”

“What is the alternative, my lord?”

“A sensible compromise.”

“Victory is the only compromise we will accept.”

“That will mean a long and bitter battle.”

“So be it. The abbey is grievously at fault here.”

“Not only here,” intervened Gervase. “I believe that cathedral and abbey have other differences to settle.”

“Other differences?”

“The election of their new abbot.”

“He has already been appointed.”

“Without their endorsement.”

“Abbot Guy is the archbishop’s nominated choice.”

“Why does St. Augustine’s resist it so strongly?”

“Their obstinacy is no concern of yours,” said Henry with his equanimity intact. “It is an internal matter and has no bearing whatsoever on the business in hand.”

“Unless it provides a motive,” added Ralph.

“Motive?”

“Abbey and cathedral are at each other’s throat. The cowl may make you equal brothers but that does not stop you squabbling like fishwives.” Ralph stared him in the eye. “I have heard of this wrangling over the new abbot. Is that why you lay claim to St.

Augustine’s property? Is the archbishop punishing them for daring to defy him? Tell him this, Prior Henry. We will not be used as a stick to beat the abbey into submission.”

“I will report all that has passed between us,” said the other, quite unruffled. “What more can be done now?”

“Nothing, until we have studied your documents.”

“Then I will leave them in your safekeeping.” He rose to his feet and the two monks leaped up obediently, hanging on his command. “When will I be required again?”

“When we send for you, Prior Henry.”

“We must hear from the abbey first,” said Hubert with a placatory note, fearing what might be said about him to the archbishop.

“Prior Gregory is on his way here now.”

“Yes,” said Ralph pointedly. “Had you been more amenable, we might have saved him the journey. But your mind is plainly set on joining battle.”

Prior Henry looked along the table with a quiet smile.

“We mean to fight,” he vowed. “Tooth and nail.”

Golde sat with her beside the crib and gazed down at the sleeping baby. He looked peaceful and contented. Eadgyth had been well enough to feed him and her love had surged when she saw her son guzzling happily at the breast. The needs of the child had pushed her grief aside and concentrated her mind.

Golde sought other ways to deflect her from a brooding sadness.

In the brief time they had known each other, she had grown fond of the young mother. Studying her now, Golde found it hard to believe that someone who looked so robust could really be so delicate.

“You are blessed in your husband,” said Golde.

“I know,” agreed the other, “and I am never likely to forget it.

Osbern is a wonderful man. He is so tolerant of my weaknesses and so uncomplaining about my follies.”

“He is a lucky man to have such a beautiful wife.”

“That is what he tells me.”

“How did you meet him?”

“By chance, Golde. It was in the market. I had been sent to buy some fish. When I looked up from the stall, I saw him not five yards away. Osbern was arguing with one of the stallholders. It was about payment of rent, he later told me. Osbern suddenly caught my eye and gave me such a sweet smile that I carried the memory of it around with me for days.”

“Did you not speak to him?”

“I did not dare, Golde.”

“Nothing else passed between you?”

“Just the look. And the smile. They were enough.”

“When did you see him again?”

“Not for a week or more,” said Eadgyth. “I thought he had forgotten me. Or left Canterbury altogether. For all I knew, he was just a visitor to the city. I had no idea that he was so important. The town reeve, no less.” She gave a girlish laugh. “It seemed impossible. I was so young and silly. Osbern was so mature and serious.”

“But it happened.”

“Yes, Golde! He came looking for me.”

“And all because you went to buy some fish!”

They exchanged a laugh and Eadgyth’s face lit up with joy.

She looked at her son, remembered the loving husband whose name he bore and she basked for a moment in her good fortune.

The clouds soon came. A frown distorted her brow and her lip began to quiver. Golde embraced her and rocked her gently to and fro.

“It is a sin to be so happy,” sobbed Eadgyth.

“No, it is not.”

“Bertha lies dead and I am boasting about my husband.”

“He will help you through your bereavement.”

“I cannot believe I will never see her again.”

“Fate can be very cruel.”

“Bertha was so kind to me. She took such a pleasure in my joy.

At our wedding, Bertha was the first person to rush up to kiss me. She was delighted that I found Osbern. She loved to see me happy. Bertha was never jealous.”

“That is true friendship, Eadgyth. To look on the joy of others and feel no envy. You and she were so close. When you married Osbern and committed yourself to him, there must have been a sense of loss for her.”

“Bertha never complained. She understood.”

“Understood?”

“Yes,” said Eadgyth dreamily. “It happened for her, too. Bertha knew what it was to love a man so completely. She told me about him.” She clutched at Golde as the sobbing started again. “Bertha is dead. He has lost her forever.”

“Who has?”

“Her friend.”