The Serpents of Harbledown

CHAPTER SIX

The confrontation took place in the parish church of St.

Mildred’s. Reinbald the Priest was there with two of the sheriff’s officers but they were largely silent witnesses. Monk and doctor went into the morgue together with a candle apiece. Earnest discussion was heard in the cramped chamber where the girl’s body lay under its shroud. When the two finally emerged into the nave, each was firmly convinced that he was in the right.

“Will you agree with me now?” asked Brother Martin.

“Indeed I will not,” said Helto the Doctor. “My initial diagnosis was correct. Bertha was bitten by a snake.”

“After she was dead.”

“That is an absurd suggestion, Brother Martin.”

“All the evidence points to it.”

“Only in your mind. And that, with respect, is befuddled by the natural grief you feel at this terrible loss. You knew Bertha as a dear friend and a loyal assistant at the hospital. Her death is bound to affect you deeply.”

“Her murder affects me even more.”

“The girl was killed by snakebite.”

“Then how do you explain the bruising on her neck?”

“The result of the poison.”

“The throat would not be so discoloured.”

“Strange things happen to a body after death. They can be very misleading to the untutored eye. I see nothing here to indicate foul play.”

“Then you are badly mistaken!” insisted the old man.

“And you are very confused!”

The priest stepped in. “Do not raise your voices in the house of the Lord,” he chided. “If you want an argument, take it outside into the street.”

“It is no argument, Father Reinbald,” said Helto. “It is just an honest difference of opinion. Brother Martin and I have viewed the body together. He sees one thing, I see another.”

“Who is right?” asked one of the officers.

“I am,” said the doctor peremptorily.

“No, I am,” argued the monk. “Helto the Doctor may know more about medicine than I do. I accept that. He looks on corpses in this city every week and recognises death in its various guises.

His reputation is high.”

“Then why do you challenge him?” asked Reinbald.

“Because he is mistaken for once.”

“Impossible!”

“You are wrong, Helto!”

“Not so, Brother Martin!”

“It is! I would take an oath on it!”

“Who is the physician here!”

“Peace, sirs!” implored Reinbald, moving between them to push them gently apart. “Remember the poor creature who lies not ten yards away from us. She is entitled to respect.”

“Respect and reverence,” added the monk sadly. “We are justly rebuked, Father Reinbald. I beg your forgiveness.”

“We are both to blame here,” said Helto, regaining his composure.

“Nothing is served by altercation. Let us take this discussion out into the fresh air where it belongs.” He led the way to the door. “I am sorry if I spoke harshly, Brother Martin. It was unpardonable.

I am simply not used to having my opinion questioned.”

“I can see that,” murmured the old man.

Reinbald and the two officers followed them out. They found it difficult to decide whose word to trust. Helto spoke with more authority but Brother Martin’s cowl, his longer experience and his luminous honesty were powerful factors. The onlookers waited for the debate to start once more.

Helto the Doctor tried to seize the initiative at once.

“Let us begin afresh,” he suggested calmly. “We know where we differ. What are the points on which we actually agree?”

Martin shrugged. “The girl is dead. Everybody can agree on that.

Beyond that fact, we have no common ground.”

“That is not so, Brother Martin,” mollified the other. “Will you accept that she was bitten by a snake?”

“Bitten by it, yes. But not killed.”

“Will you confirm that the creature was poisonous?”

“Yes. We saw it curled up beside her.”

“And had you not seen it?” pressed Helto. “How could you tell whether or not it had been venomous?”

“From the nature of the bite. Two small puncture marks on the neck where the fangs went in. If Bertha had been bitten by a harmless grass snake, she would have had a set of tooth-marks in the shape of a crescent moon.”

“Correct.”

“I have suffered such a wound on my own hand.”

“What are the symptoms of a fatal snakebite?”

“A swelling near the fang-marks and some bruising around the affected area.”

“And the more sensitive that area-the soft and delicate white skin of a girl, for example-the worse the bruising is likely to be.

Will you concede that as well?”

“Gladly.”

“We are making progress at last.”

“Hardly,” said Brother Martin. “Instead of talking about the body, you must first look at the circumstances in which it was found. Hidden away behind a clump of holly. Bertha had no reason to be in such a place.”

“Except the obvious one, perhaps?”

“What is that, Helto?”

The doctor spoke discreetly. “Even a lovely young girl like Bertha had to satisfy the wants of nature.”

“Lying down?”

The two officers laughed coarsely but checked their mirth when Reinbald reproached them with a glance. They turned to Helto for his reply but the doctor sighed wearily and shook his head.

“We will never come to composition here,” he decided. “It is a waste of breath. If you insist on believing that she was murdered, I will try to dissuade you no longer. Let the sheriff and his men search for this phantom killer. When they find him, they can ask him a question from me.”

“What is that?” wondered Reinbald.

“Harbledown is full of places where a dead body could be concealed and never found. The earth is soft at this time of year.

It would not take long to bury her.” His voice took on a sarcastic edge. “Ask the murderer this on my behalf. When he killed Bertha-from motives I could not even guess at-why was he foolish enough to leave the body where a search was bound to discover it?”

Helto the Doctor turned on his heel and marched away. It was a dramatic exit and it had the desired effect. Both Reinbald and the two officers tilted toward an acceptance of the physician’s medical opinion. There was an unassailable confidence about him which gave his words the ring of truth.

Brother Martin was completely unabashed.

“She was strangled,” he said. “I’d stake my life on it.”

In character and appearance, Prior Gregory was very different from his counterpart at Christ Church Priory. He had none of Henry’s studied poise and cold spirituality. His face was no impassive mask. The prior of St. Augustine’s Abbey was instead a short, sturdy, bustling man with hands toughened by early years of manual labour and shoulders rounded by long hours of study over a desk. The bulbous nose and the rubicund cheeks were the salient features of a large, round, mobile countenance.

Concealment was an art which he had never cultivated.

Whatever his mind thought or his heart felt showed in his expression.

Ralph liked him on sight. He usually treated anyone from a monastic community with an amiable irreverence but Prior Gregory somehow appealed to him. There was a refreshing openness about the man and a total lack of pomposity. Here was a combative Christian who had to be admired.

When greetings were exchanged, Prior Gregory sank down onto the bench vacated by his adversary. Bearing a satchel of charters, a young monk sat beside him. The prior did not need to bolster his importance by relegating his companion to an inferior position behind him.

“We come to Canterbury at an awkward time,” said Ralph. “It seems that relations between abbey and cathedral are somewhat strained at the moment.”

“That situation is not, alas, an unusual one,” explained Prior Gregory. “We pray daily for deliverance.”

“From what?”

“The dilemma that confronts us.”

“This row over the new abbot?”

“That is certainly one part of the problem.”

“What are the others?”

“We are met here to address the main issue. The abbey holds the borough of Fordwich yet the archbishop claims that much of the property rightfully belongs to him.”

“Why does he do that, Prior Gregory?”

“Ask him.”

“I would prefer to hear your assessment.”

“May I speak freely, my lord?”

“Of course,” encouraged Ralph. “You have my personal assurance that nothing you say will be repeated outside these four walls.”

“Very well,” said the prior forcefully. “You ask me why Archbishop Lanfranc contests this land when he already holds vast amounts of property in Canterbury and elsewhere. I will tell you in one word. Pique.”

“That is a serious charge to level,” said Canon Hubert.

“It is justified.”

“Pique is alien to his character.”

“Judge for yourself.” He turned to his companion and extracted a roll of parchment from the satchel. “With your permission,” he said, standing up, “I would like to show you a map I have drawn.

It is very crude but it may explain things which are not clear from mere description.”

He unrolled the map on the table and Ralph placed a cup and a heavy hand on it to hold it flat. Prior Gregory had poor skill as an artist but they could recognise the rough outline of Canterbury and the oblong shape with a cross inside it, which represented St. Augustine’s Abbey, outside the eastern wall of the city.

“Here is Fordwich,” explained the prior, using a stubby finger to point to a blob of ink in the far corner. “It is our port. This thick line on which it stands is the River Stour. The port is never idle. Apart from coastal trade, it handles regular imports of stone from Normandy. Canterbury not only gained its archbishop from Caen but huge quantities of building materials as well.”

Gervase thought of Alwin the Sailor, steering his little vessel across the Channel and returning with a full load of Caen stone.

Cathedral, abbey and churches had benefitted from the industry of Alwin and his kind. Fordwich had thrived.

“After the Conquest,” continued their guide, jabbing his finger at another portion of the map, “Bishop Odo of Bayeux seized property in and around the city, including two sulungs above Fordwich, where he cut out a deer park.”

“Sulungs?” said Ralph. “Why do you not measure your land in hides like most other counties? Two sulungs, you say?”

“It amounts to over three hundred acres,” said Gervase.

“Odo was always fond of hunting.”

“Thanks to Abbot Scotland,” said the prior, “we reclaimed the property, and other land in the area of Fordwich, for the abbey.

Nobody disputed our holding until now. Until Archbishop Lanfranc turned on us in a fit of pique.”

“Because you resist his choice of abbot?” said Ralph.

“Chiefly for that reason.”

“Are holy relics also a factor here?” said Gervase. “I spoke with Reinbald the Priest on that matter. He tells me that the archbishop found the bones of St. Mildred.”

“The abbey houses the true relics,” asserted the prior. “Some were sent abroad but we retain the better part of them. But you are right, Master Bret. It is another source of friction between cathedral and abbey. There are more besides and all help to ignite the archbishop’s enmity.”

Canon Hubert erupted. “I cannot let these aspersions go unchallenged,” he said. “Archbishop Lanfranc is too noble a man to allow any pettiness to creep into his dealings. You say that Abbot Scotland reclaimed that land for you?”

“He did,” consented the prior.

“On whose advice?”

“Archbishop Lanfranc’s.”

“And who brought the good abbot from Mont St. Michel?”

“Archbishop Lanfranc.”

“Who consecrated him?”

“Archbishop Lanfranc.”

“Who directed him to rebuild the abbey and restore the full rigour of the Benedictine Rule within it?”

“Archbishop Lanfranc.”

“And who worked so closely and effectively over the years with Abbot Scotland?”

“The answer is the same, Canon Hubert.”

“But the person is not,” retorted the other. “I have just talked about one Archbishop Lanfranc but you have told us about something completely different. Are there two?”

“Why not?” said Ralph mischievously. “We have two matching skeletons of St. Mildred here. Why not a pair of identical archbishops?”

“Canon Hubert raises a valid point,” said Gervase. “If a man is to be judged by his deeds, then the archbishop must be venerated for his great vision and holy endeavour. He has been an exemplary primate of the English Church. It is difficult to believe him capable of vengeful behaviour.”

“We are all subject to human frailty,” said the prior.

Hubert still chafed. “The archbishop must be absolved of acting out of pique.”

“What else would make him lay claim to that land?”

“A legitimate right.”

“We have brought the abbey’s charters with us.”

“Prior Henry will contest their validity.”

“Let him do so.”

“It will be a bloody battle,” warned Ralph.

“We are ready, my lord,” said Prior Gregory with a note of fierce pride. “The abbey has been bullied and intimidated by the cathedral. On many issues, we have been forced to yield. Not on this one.” He snatched up the map and held it high. “We will not cede one square inch of our land. The archbishop has chosen this fight, not the abbey. Let him come on. We will give no quarter.”

Alwin the Sailor was so stunned by the death of his daughter that he did not stir out of his house. A sleeping draught prescribed by Helto the Doctor had given him rest but it did not ease the agony of loss. When he awoke, the searing pain was still embedded in him like a knife in his chest. A neighbour called to offer help and comfort but he waved her away. When a second knock came on his door, Alwin did not even answer it. Head in hands, he sat on a wooden stool and brooded on the misery of his future.

The visitor eventually let himself into the house.

“How are you, my son?” asked Brother Martin softly.

“Go away,” murmured the other.

“I wanted to see how you are. Did you manage to sleep last night? Have you eaten today? Is someone looking after you?”

“I want to be left alone.”

“I know, Alwin,” said the priest, putting a hand on his shoulder.

“And I promise that I will not stay long. But I felt that it was my duty to come. I am sure that you would rather hear it from me than from one of the sheriff’s officers. They would be more blunt with the tidings.”

Alwin looked up. “What tidings?”

“Something I can hardly bring myself to tell you. But it is your right as her father to know it.”

“Something to do with Bertha?”

“I fear so.”

“What? Tell me, Brother Martin.”

“It is grim news. Prepare yourself.”

“Why?”

“You will soon see.” He took a deep breath but the words would not come. He shook his head in despair. “God help me! I do not like this office. Truly, I do not. I feel as if I am hitting a man who has already had blows enough.”

“What do you mean?” said Alwin, rising to his feet in concern.

“If you have any news about Bertha, I must know it instantly.

She was my daughter. Tell me, man!”

“Be brave, Alwin.”

“Tell me!”

He grabbed the old monk and shook him hard but stopped when he saw the tears forming in his eyes. Brother Martin was suffering enough on his own account. It had clearly cost him an enormous effort to come to the house. His whole body was limp with despair.

“I must know!” pleaded Alwin with quiet intensity.

“Bertha was murdered.”

The father reeled. “Murdered? No, this cannot be.”

“She was strangled to death.”

“Bertha was bitten by a poisonous snake. You were there when we found here. We all saw the marks upon her neck.”

“We were meant to, Alwin.”

“I do not understand.”

Brother Martin relayed the evidence as gently and as concisely as he could. He explained that Helto the Doctor held a contrary opinion but the monk himself had no whisper of doubt. The sheriff had set an investigation in motion.

“They will need to speak to you,” cautioned Martin. “I begged them to let me see you first.” He heaved a deep sigh. “A lovable creature like Bertha. A girl with no enemies. Who could possibly have wanted to kill her?”

Alwin said nothing. As the horror slowly faded, it was replaced by a lust for vengeance which made his whole body shake. He let out a roar of anger. When Brother Martin tried to calm him, he was pushed roughly away. Alwin snatched up the dagger which lay on the table.

“I want him!” he snarled. “He is mine!”

“Did she not at least give you his name?” asked Ralph.

“No,” said Golde. “She would tell me nothing more.”

“You pressed her on the matter, surely?”

“I did not feel that I could, Ralph. She is still not well. Eadgyth was distressed enough that she had confided as much as she did. She has been racked with guilt ever since. Bertha made her promise to tell nobody.”

“I can understand why,” said Ralph. “Everyone thought that Bertha was a fount of innocence and she was careful to preserve that image. It would have cracked in two had people realised the girl had a lover.”

“ ‘A friend.’ That is what Eadgyth called him.”

“Friends are not kept hidden.”

“A lover? Bertha?”

“Is that not what every young girl dreams of, Golde?”

“Dreams, perhaps. But rarely more than that.”

“Bertha was luckier than most, then.”

“We do not know that.”

“I think we do,” said Ralph to himself.

They were alone in the solar of Osbern the Reeve’s house.

Ralph had just returned from a long and testing day in the shire hall and Golde was delighted to see him again. She threw her arms around him and kissed him on the lips. He responded warmly.

“That was worth every minute of the boredom I have endured today,” he said, holding her by the hands to look at her. “No, that is unfair,” he corrected. “There were some lively moments, even some amusing ones.”

“Have you been mocking Canon Hubert again?”

“He deserves mockery. So does Brother Simon.”

“Spare him, at least,” said Golde. “Canon Hubert can strike back but Brother Simon has no defence against you. He is such a gentle, harmless, virtuous creature. I like him.”

“Do not tell him that or we will never get him out of the priory.

You terrify him, Golde. All women do.”

“Why?”

“He feels threatened,” explained Ralph. “Brother Simon’s body is a temple of purity. He would die rather than let any monstrous females break into that temple.”

“Is that what I am? A monstrous female?”

“Only in his eyes.” He squeezed her hands. “Simon took the cowl in flight from feminine charms. He turned white with horror today when he discovered that the monks in Christ Church Priory had held wild orgies at one time.”

“Orgies?”

“Apparently. Wine in quantity and women in abundance. A potent mixture. Archbishop Lanfranc put a stop to all that. He has even enforced celibacy among the secular clergy now. That is why you see so many sad faces in Canterbury.” He chuckled, then gave her another kiss before abruptly changing the subject.

“I am hungry. When will we eat?”

“They are preparing the meal now.”

“Good.”

“But we cannot sit down without Gervase.”

“Forget him. He may be an hour or more.”

“Where has he gone?”

“Harbledown,” said Ralph. “I have told him he must not get drawn into this business but my words fall on deaf ears. Under that self-effacing manner, Gervase Bret has an iron will. When he wishes to do something, a whole army could not stop him.”

Released from the business of the day, Gervase rode out through Westgate and took a more wide-ranging look at Harbledown.

When he came to the archbishop’s palace, he slowed his horse to a trot so that he could survey the rambling manor house with its commodious interior and substantial, well-tended garden. It was built of timber and stone on a choice site.

Twenty-seven dwellings had been destroyed to make way for Lanfranc’s imposing new home and Gervase paused to wonder what had happened to all those luckless families who had been summarily evicted by religion. A day in the shire hall had given him an insight into the politics of Christ Church Priory and it occurred to him that some of its older monks must have been dismayed when the archbishop first arrived in the city and, instead of living in the enclave himself and sharing in its austerities, sacked their dean, installed Prior Henry in his place, then constructed the palace in Harbledown. The community at St.

Augustine’s Abbey were probably not alone in harbouring a grudge against Lanfranc.

Gervase rode off at a canter. Having mused on the small human imperfections of the archbishop, he was overwhelmed by a consideration of his good works. Lanfranc had brought a new zest and organisation to the religious life of the city. Centered in the cathedral and the priory, it reached out in all directions and spread slowly throughout the whole kingdom. It was churlish to criticise a man for living in a comfortable house when he had shown such compassion for the poor, the sick and the aged. The hospital of St. Nicholas was only one small monument to Lanfranc’s abiding charity.

Alain was sitting outside his hut when Gervase rode up. The leper watched as the newcomer tethered his horse to a yew tree and walked across to him.

“Good day to you, Alain!”

“There is no goodness in any of my days.”

“That is not true,” said Gervase. “I think that Bertha brought a species of goodness here. Do you miss her?”

“We must learn to live without Bertha.”

“Do you not pine?”

Alain fell silent but his sagging shoulders and downcast head were an eloquent answer. Gervase felt a rush of sympathy. The plight of the lepers was piteous. They would not easily find another friend like Bertha.

“We spoke yesterday,” Gervase reminded him.

“Not at my behest.”

“Do you remember what I said?”

“No.”

“You do, Alain. I asked you what you saw when you found Bertha.

You wouldn’t tell me. I need to know.”

“I saw only what you saw.”

“Nothing more?”

An insolent pause. “Nothing more.”

Gervase nodded. Alain was still unready to trust him. The only person who might get through to him was Brother Martin. It was time to enlist his help to win over Alain. When Gervase looked around, the leper lifted a hand to point.

“Brother Martin is in the church.”

“Thank you.”

“Do not come back.”

Gervase gave up for the second time and strolled up to the litle church, lifting the iron latch on the door. The place seemed empty as he stepped inside and his footsteps echoed in the hollow nave. Brother Martin was not there. Gervase was just about to leave when he caught sight of him at last, seated on a bench up a pillar. With his hood pulled up, his black cowl merged with the dark shadow. The old monk had evidently drifted off to sleep.

It was not surprising. Brother Martin had been like a second father to Bertha and his grief was intense. What made it even more unbearable was the knowledge that the girl had been murdered while returning from the leper hospital. The old monk was bound to reflect that she might still be alive if she had remained in the safety of the city instead of walking alone through the countryside. Loss and guilt were heavy burdens.

Gervase sought to lift some of them from his friend.

“Brother Martin!” he whispered. “It is Gervase.”

The monk did not stir. Gervase touched his arm.

“Brother Martin,” he said, giving him a firm shake.

Making no sound, the black-clad figure fell softly forward to land in an undignified heap on the floor. Gervase bent down to turn him over, and shook him again. But he was far too late.

Sightless eyes gazed up at him and the mouth hung open.

Brother Martin’s selfless life was over.