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- Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Serie: Domesday
- Sprache: Englisch
'A master storyteller' Daily Mail The ordered calm of Gloucester Abbey is shattered by the murder of one of the monks. The Abbey becomes paralyzed with fear and the Abbot is ill-equipped to deal with such a heinous crime, especially as suspicion inevitably falls on the brothers themselves. Ralph Delchard, a former soldier in the era-defining Battle of Hastings, and Gervase Bret, an accomplished lawyer, are investigating a local land dispute when news of the vicious murder reaches them. Before long, Delchard and Bret realise that the killing is just a symptom of a sinister presence that threatens the whole community and must be stopped at any cost.
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Seitenzahl: 412
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021
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PRAISE FOR EDWARD MARSTON
‘A master storyteller’
Daily Mail
‘Packed with characters Dickens would have been proud of. Wonderful [and] well-written’
Time Out
‘Once again Marston has created a credible atmosphere within an intriguing story’
Sunday Telegraph
‘Filled with period detail, the pace is steady and the plot is thick with suspects, solutions and clues. Marston has a real knack for blending detail, character and story with great skill’
Historical Novels Review
‘The past is brought to life with brilliant colours, combined with a perfect whodunnit. Who needs more?’
The Guardian
THE OWLS OF GLOUCESTER
EDWARD MARSTON
To the Cooksons of Gloucestershire in memory of many happy times spent with them in their beautiful county over the past thirty years
Before 1066 the City of Gloucester paid £36 at face value, 12 sesters of honey at that Borough’s measure, 36 dickers of iron, 100 drawn iron rods for nails for the King’s ships, and certain other petty customary dues in the hall and the King’s chamber. Now the City pays to the King £60 at 20 (pence) to the ora. The King has £20 from the mint.
Domesday Book, Gloucestershire, 1086
Contents
Prologue
‘Do you want to be beaten again?’ asked Brother Frewine quietly.
‘No, no!’ they cried in unison.
‘Well, that is what will happen if I report this to Brother Paul. You know what a dim view the Master of the Novices takes of any laxity or disobedience among his charges.’ The monk looked meaningfully at the two boys. ‘You also know how strong an arm Brother Paul has. When someone has once been flogged by him, they rarely wish to invite a second punishment. Yet the two of you seem to be almost imploring a further touch of his rod.’
‘That is not so, Brother Frewine,’ said Kenelm quickly. ‘Please do not report us to Brother Paul. Punish us yourself, if you must, but do not hand us over to our master. He is ruthless. My body ached for a fortnight after his last chastisement. It was vicious.’
‘Brother Paul was only doing his duty.’
‘We will do our duty from now on,’ promised Kenelm, turning to his companion. ‘Is that not so, Elaf?’
‘Yes!’ vowed the other boy. ‘Spare us, Brother Frewine.’
‘We did not mean to offend you,’ said Elaf.
‘It is God who was offended,’ chided the monk, wagging a finger. ‘You fell asleep during choir practice. It is an insult to the Almighty to doze off like that when you are singing His praises.’
Kenelm shrugged. ‘We were tired.’
‘It will not happen again,’ added Elaf in an apologetic whisper.
‘I will make sure of that,’ warned Frewine. ‘If I see so much as a flicker of an eyelid from either of you again, I will drag you out of the church by the scruff of your unworthy necks and hand you over to Brother Paul without mercy. Is that understood?’
The boys paled with fear and nodded meekly.
Brother Frewine did not enjoy scolding them. He was the Precentor at the Abbey of St Peter and, like the novices, a Saxon who had been born and brought up in Gloucester. A kindly old man who inclined to leniency, he had neither the voice nor the manner for stern rebuke. The boys liked him enormously, but that did not stop them from mocking him in private. His round face featured two large, dark-rimmed eyes separated by a small, beak-like nose, giving him an unmistakable resemblance to an owl. The Precentor was well aware that his nickname among the novices was Brother Owl. He bore the title without complaint and liked to think that he had acquired some of the bird’s fabled wisdom. While the muscular Brother Paul imposed his will by means of a birch rod, the owl could only inflict a sharp peck.
‘Are you truly penitent?’ he demanded.
‘Yes, Brother Frewine,’ they chorused.
‘This is not the first time you have earned my disfavour but it had better be the last. Remember the words of the great St Benedict himself. “Listen, my son, to the precepts of your master and hear them in your heart; receive with gladness the charge of a loving master and perform it fully so that by the hard road of obedience, you may return to him from whom you strayed along the easy paths of disobedience.” Yes, it is a hard road you must follow. I know the temptations which beckon you on every side. But you must ignore them. You must learn obedience.’
Brother Owl delivered a sermon on the virtues of the monastic life and the benefits of true humility. The two boys listened patiently, sensing that this was part of their punishment, and stifling the yawns that would have seen them delivered up to their fearful master. Both were finding life within the enclave too full of constraints. Kenelm was a high-spirited lad with a mischievous nature which had not been entirely curbed by the swing of a birch rod. Elaf, smaller and more tentative, was easily led by his friend, often against his better judgement.
The three of them were standing outside the church in which choir practice had just been supervised by the Precentor. Proud of the high musical standards of the abbey, Brother Frewine worked hard to maintain them. Sleeping novices were not tolerated, especially when, as he suspected, their tiredness was due to the same kind of nocturnal antics which had brought them their earlier beating.
‘You are blessed,’ he told them softly. ‘This abbey is admired and respected throughout the whole realm. It was not always so. When Abbot Wilstan ruled this house, there were only two monks and eight novices here to do God’s work. I should know. I was one of those two monks.’ He let out a wheeze as ancient memories flooded back. ‘Gloucester Abbey was a sorry place in those days. But now, under the inspired leadership of Abbot Serlo, we have a vigorous community with almost fifty monks to follow true Benedictine traditions. You are very fortunate to be part of this community. Show me that you appreciate your good fortune.’
‘We will, Brother Frewine,’ said Kenelm solemnly.
‘We know that we are blessed,’ murmured Elaf.
‘Remind yourselves of that while you fast for the rest of the day. That is the punishment I order. If your eyes cannot stay open, your bellies will remain unfed.’ He saw them wince. ‘Now go back into the church and kneel in prayer until you hear the bell for Sext. Give thanks to God that He has chosen you to do His work on this earth. Commit yourselves to Him and beg His forgiveness for your shameful misbehaviour during choir practice.’ They were about to move off when he detained them with a raised palm. ‘Do not forget Brother Nicholas in your prayers. He has been missing for two days now. Pray earnestly for his safe return.’
The boys nodded and let themselves into the church. Frewine watched them go and smiled. They were twin portraits of obedience. He believed that his sage counsel had brought them both to heel.
As soon as they were alone, however, Kenelm turned apostate. ‘I will not pray for his safe return,’ he said with vehemence.
‘But we must,’ said Elaf. ‘Even though we don’t like him.’
‘Not me. I hate him.’
‘Kenelm!’
‘All the novices do. Pray for him? No, Elaf. I hope that Brother Nicholas never comes back to the abbey!’
The monastic day continued at its steady, unhurried, unvarying pace. Vespers was sung in church, followed by a light supper of bread, baked on the premises, and fruit, picked from the abbey garden. The meal was washed down with a glass of ale.
Kenelm and Elaf were absent from the table, however. Hungry by the time of Vespers, they were famished when the bell for Compline summoned the monks to the last service of the day. As they shuffled off to the dormitory with the other novices, they were feeling the pangs with great intensity. Elaf gritted his teeth and accepted the discomfort. It was far preferable to a severe flogging by Brother Paul. He lay in the darkness until fatigue finally got the better of him.
But Elaf was not allowed to sleep for long. His arm was tugged. ‘Wake up!’ whispered Kenelm.
‘Go to sleep,’ said the other drowsily.
‘Come on, Elaf. Wake up.’
‘What do you want?’
‘I’m starving!’
‘Wait until breakfast.’
‘I can’t hold out that long.’
‘You have to, Kenelm.’
‘No I don’t. Neither do you. Follow me.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘To find something to eat.’
‘Kenelm!’
‘And you’re coming with me.’
Elafs protests were brushed aside and he was more or less dragged from his bed. The other novices were fast asleep, tired out by the rigours of the day and wanting to enjoy as much slumber as they could before they were roused in the early hours of the next morning. Kenelm led his friend along the bare boards of the dormitory, moving furtively in the gloom, one hand on his empty stomach. Elaf followed with the greatest reluctance, wanting food as much as his companion but fearful of the consequences of trying to find it.
They descended the day stairs and slipped out into the cloisters. Moonlight dappled the garth. Keeping to the shadows, they crept along the south walk side by side. Both of them started when an owl hooted. Kenelm was the first to recover. He gave a snigger.
‘Brother Frewine!’
‘He was good to us, Kenelm.’
‘Starving us to death? You call that being good?’
‘We could have been reported to Brother Paul.’
‘He’d have beaten us and starved us.’
‘Be thankful for Brother Frewine’s kindness.’
‘The only thing I’ll be thankful for is food and drink.’
Kenelm led the way past the refectory to the kitchen. Its door was unlocked and he opened it as silently as he could. Elaf darted inside after his friend then put his back to the door as it was shut again. Their eyes needed a few moments to adjust to the darkness. Vague shapes began to emerge. Kenelm let out a chuckle but Elaf was having second thoughts about the enterprise.
‘What if we are caught?’ he said anxiously.
‘Nobody will catch us.’
‘But they’ll see that the food has gone, Kenelm.’
‘Not if we choose carefully. Who is going to miss a few apples from the basket? Or some bread from the bakehouse?’
‘It is stealing.’
‘No, Elaf,’ reasoned the other. ‘It is taking what we should have enjoyed at supper. There is no theft involved. Come on.’
‘I’m not happy about this.’
‘Then stay hungry, you little coward!’
Elaf was stung. ‘I’m no coward.’
‘Prove it!’
‘I’ve done that by taking the risk of coming here.’
‘You’ve been shaking like a leaf all the way,’ said Kenelm, growing in confidence. ‘But for me, you wouldn’t have dreamt of taking what’s rightfully yours. Out of my way.’
He pushed Elaf aside and crossed to a basket of apples, picking two at random and sinking his teeth voraciously into each one alternately. His friend could not hold back. Hunger got the better of caution and he dived forward to grab his own share of the bounty. The two of them were soon gobbling food as fast as they could grab it and swilling it down with a generous swig of ale. It was a midnight feast that was all the more satisfying because of the daring circumstances in which it was being consumed. As his stomach filled and the ale made its impact, Kenelm’s high spirits increased. He wanted more than a meal. It was time to shake off the strictures of the abbey and play.
The first apple core hit Elaf on the back of the head.
‘Aouw!’ he cried, turning around. A second missile struck him full in the face. ‘Stop it, Kenelm!’
‘Make me stop,’ taunted the other.
‘I will!’
Taking a last bite from the apple in his hand, Elaf hurled the core at his friend and secured a direct hit. Success emboldened him and he searched for more ammunition. Caution was now thrown to the wind. Laughing aloud, the two of them ran around the kitchen, hurling fruit, bread and anything else which came to hand. It was only when Elaf backed into a table that the game was brought to a sudden halt. The table overturned and its rows of wooden bowls scattered noisily over the stone floor. From the empty kitchen, the sound reverberated tenfold. Keen ears picked it up and within minutes a monk came to investigate. A lighted candle in his hand, he flung open the door of the kitchen.
The two novices were hiding behind the fallen table.
‘What do we do now?’ whispered Elaf, trembling with fear.
‘Get out quickly.’
‘How?’
‘This way.’
Kenelm threw a last apple core to distract the monk then dashed through the door of the bakehouse with Elaf at his heels. They ran into the adjoining brewhouse with its cloying stink and dived behind a barrel to see if they were being followed. Pursuit was vengeful.
‘Where are you?’ roared a voice.
Elaf quailed. ‘It’s Brother Paul!’
‘Come here, you little devils!’
‘No thank you,’ said Kenelm under his breath.
Pulling his friend in his wake, he groped his way to the back door and eased it open. The Master of the Novices saw their silhouettes and lumbered after them, tripping over a wooden pail on the way and cursing inwardly. Pain served to add extra speed and urgency to his pursuit. Hauling himself up, he charged after the miscreants and reached the cloister garth in time to see two shadowy figures vanishing swiftly in the direction of the abbey church.
Elaf was now panic-stricken.
‘We’re trapped!’ he said as they entered the church.
‘Not if we can find a hiding place.’
‘I can’t see a thing!’
‘Keep quiet!’ ordered Kenelm. ‘Hold on to me!’
Desperate to elude Brother Paul, he felt his way along the nave and tried to work out where they could best take refuge. Their master was thorough. Aided by his candle, he would search every nook and cranny until he found them. The repercussions were unthinkable. Elaf was now sobbing in despair and Kenelm shook him to instil some courage.
‘I know where we can go!’ he announced.
‘Where?’
‘The one place he’ll never think of looking.’
Still holding Elaf, he headed towards the bell tower and groped around until his fingers met the steps of the ladder. He made his friend go up first then scrambled after him. The west door clanged open as their pursuer arrived in a tiny pool of light. Elaf hurried through the trap door, Kenelm after him. Clutching each other tightly, they hardly dared to breathe as they crouched on the wooden platform beside the huge iron bell. They ignored the stench of their refuge. Footsteps moved about below them. The candle flickered in all parts of the church as a systematic search was carried out. When the footsteps approached the base of the ladder, Elaf finally lost his nerve and jerked backwards. Something blocked his way and he fell across the obstruction, letting out an involuntary cry of alarm. It turned to a yell of sheer terror when he realised that he was lying across the stiff, stinking body of a man.
Kenelm was as horrified as his friend. As the two of them tried to scramble out of their hiding place, they collided violently with the bell and sent its sonorous voice booming throughout the abbey to tell everyone the grim news.
The missing Brother Nicholas had at last been found.
Chapter One
Ralph Delchard reined in his horse and held up an imperious hand to bring the cavalcade to a halt. Shading his eyes against the afternoon sun, he gazed into the distance. A rueful smile surfaced.
‘There it is,’ he said, pointing an accusing finger. ‘Gloucester. That’s where this whole sorry business started. That’s where the King, in his wisdom or folly, had his deep speech with his Council and announced the Great Survey which has been the bane of my life for so long. Consider this: if the Conqueror had not spent Christmas at Gloucester, I might not have been forced to wear the skin off my arse riding from one end of the kingdom to the other.’
‘Do not take it so personally,’ said Gervase Bret, mounted beside him. ‘The King did not order the creation of this Domesday Book simply to irritate Ralph Delchard.’
‘I am more than irritated, Gervase.’
‘You’ve made that clear.’
‘I am appalled. Disgusted. Enraged.’
‘Think of our predecessors. They did most of the work. The first commissioners to visit this fair county toiled long and hard without complaint. All that we have to deal with are the irregularities they uncovered. In this case, they are few in number.’
‘How many times have I heard you say that?’
‘Our task should be completed in less than a week.’
‘That, too, has a familiar ring.’
‘I have studied the documents, Ralph. Only one major dispute confronts us. It will not tax us overmuch.’
‘What about the things that do not appear in the documents?’
‘Do not appear?’
‘Yes,’ said Ralph wearily. ‘Contingencies. Unforeseen hazards. Like the skulduggery we found in Warwick. The dangers we met in Oxford. The small matter of border warfare in Chester. The foul murder of our dear colleague in Exeter. Our documents failed to warn us about any of those things.’
‘Unfortunate mishaps.’
‘They were disasters, Gervase. Cunningly devised by Fate itself to torment me. Have you forgotten Wiltshire?’ he added, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. ‘I shuddered when we rode past the Savernake Forest again. Think of the problems we had there. And in Canterbury. And York. And Maldon. And every other damnable place it has pleased the King to send us.’
‘Including Hereford?’
Ralph was checked. ‘That was different,’ he conceded.
‘Very different,’ Gervase reminded him with a grin. ‘You went to Hereford to expose villainy and found yourself a wife into the bargain.’ He glanced behind him. ‘And an excellent bargain she was.’
‘The best I ever made.’
Golde, the lady in question, was riding at the rear of the column with Canon Hubert, the portly commissioner whose donkey always seemed too small and spindly to bear his excessive weight. While her husband led the way, Golde enjoyed a conversation with Hubert and even managed to prise an occasional word out of Brother Simon, the emaciated monk who acted as scribe to the commission and whose fear of the female sex was so profound that he usually retreated into anguished silence in the presence of a woman. It was a tribute to Golde that she had finally broken through the invisible wall Simon had constructed around himself. He remained wary but no longer felt that the sanctity of his manhood was threatened.
Ten knights from Ralph’s own retinue acted as an escort and towed the sumpter horses along with them. Like their lord, they wore helm and hauberk and bore swords and lances. On their latest assignment fine weather had favoured them all the way from Winchester and their hosts along the route had provided good accommodation and a cordial welcome. The pleasant journey had lifted the spirits of all but one of them. Ralph Delchard was the odd man out.
‘Hereford was the exception,’ he agreed for a second time. ‘It gave me the most precious thing I have. My beloved wife. Though there’s a strange irony in the fact that I spend most of my life fighting the Saxons then end up marrying one of them.’ He gave a wry smile. ‘Not that I regret the decision for one moment. It has brought me true happiness. Or it would do, if the Conqueror allowed me the time to enjoy it.’ His gaze travelled back to the city on the horizon. ‘The one saving grace of Gloucester is that it can be reached easily from Hereford. We have sent word for Golde’s sister to meet us there.’
‘I look forward to seeing Aelgar once more,’ said Gervase.
‘As long as she is our only visitor from Hereford!’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Don’t you recall who else we first met there?’
‘Archdeacon Idwal?’
‘Do not mention that accursed name!’ said Ralph with a grimace. ‘He was a Welsh demon. Summoned from hell to make my life a misery. He stalked me both in Hereford and in Chester. Now can you see why I did not wish to come to Gloucester? Whenever we get near the Welsh border, that fiend of hell pops up in front of me.’
‘ldwal is no fiend of hell.’
‘His very name unnerves me! Do not mention it!’
‘The archdeacon was a devout man.’
‘He was living proof that the Devil speaks in Welsh.’
‘I liked him,’ said Gervase. ‘We had some lively discussions. But you’re quite safe, Ralph. I doubt very much that we shall encounter him in Gloucester. He is Archdeacon of St David’s now. Far away in west Wales. What possible reason can he have to come to Gloucester?’
‘I will be there.’
Ralph yelled a command then set the troop in motion once more.
Gervase had more reason than any of them to want a swift end to their latest assignment. Ralph preferred to take Golde with him on the King’s business, but Gervase had left his own wife, Alys, alone at home in Winchester, pining for her husband and praying for his quick return. Devoted as he was to her, Gervase never even considered the notion of bringing Alys with him because he knew that he would be so concerned for her safety and comfort that he would be unable to give his work the concentration it needed. Ralph was different, seemingly able to separate his private life from his public responsibilities without any effort.
Marriage was still too fresh an experience for Gervase for him to be able to put its joys aside when his wife was with him, and he knew that Alys, so young and vulnerable, lacked Golde’s ability to fade into the background while her husband discharged his duties as a commissioner. And there was another significant factor. Ralph and his wife had both been married before. They were seasoned in the art of togetherness, skilled in the nuances of love, sure enough to give each other space and freedom. Compared to them, Gervase was a raw beginner. He had vowed that Alys would be his one and only wife and he was still learning to understand the limitations of that vow.
Like Golde, and the two Benedictine monks in their black habits, he was an incongruous figure among the armed soldiers. Wearing the sober attire of a Chancery clerk, Gervase Bret was the lawyer in the party, a clever advocate with a subtle mind. He was also the recognised diplomat, able to relate easily to everyone and to reach each of them on their own terms. Ralph Delchard revelled in his mockery of both Canon Hubert and Brother Simon and it was left to Gervase to smooth ruffled monastic feathers on a regular basis. By the same token, he could act on behalf of his fellow commissioner or scribe with the acknowledged leader of the commission, representing their point of view in a way which made Ralph take it seriously. Golde was also very fond of him, not least because he could speak her native language fluently, having been born of a Saxon mother. Ralph Delchard might be nominally in charge but it was Gervase Bret who really bonded the group together.
A steady canter was bringing Gloucester ever nearer. Situated in border country between England and Wales, it occupied a strategic position on the River Severn, a fiercely tidal waterway which swept down to the estuary and made Gloucester a thriving port as well as a crucial Norman garrison.
Ralph came out of his reverie and turned to his young friend.
‘We should all stay at the castle,’ he said brusquely.
‘Hubert and Simon have elected to go to the abbey.’
‘Our business can be dispatched more readily if we are all under the same roof. Make that point to them, Gervase.’
‘They already appreciate it.’
‘Then why must they escape into the abbey?’
‘For the same reason that a soldier like you turns instinctively to a fortress. They feel at home there just as you do in a castle. Besides,’ said Gervase, ‘Hubert is anxious to renew his acquaintance with Abbot Serlo. It is something we should encourage.’
‘Why?’
‘Because the abbey will be a useful source of intelligence. Nothing eludes the sharp eyes of a monastic community. What we fail to find out at the castle, Hubert and Simon will assuredly learn within the enclave.’
‘Two holy spies, eh?’
‘No, Ralph. Two Benedictine monks mixing with their brothers.’
‘Relishing the latest scandal. Whatever it may be.’
‘Picking up useful gossip. Canon Hubert is well known to the abbot. He will be taken into his confidence.’
‘You are right, Gervase. Let them go to the abbey.’
‘Not that there will be much for them to find out, mark you.’
‘How can you be so sure?’
‘I sense it,’ said Gervase confidently. ‘Gloucester will be a benign place for us to visit. No hidden menaces this time – not even a Welsh archdeacon to yap at your heels.’
‘God forbid!’
‘Take my word for it, Ralph. You may relax.’
‘I have lost the art of doing so.’
‘Rediscover it again in Gloucester. Trust me. It will turn out to be the least troublesome city we have visited.’
Abbot Serlo stared down at the naked body of Brother Nicholas with a mixture of sadness and anger. In life, the monk had been a plump man of middle height with an abnormally large head.
Death seemed to have shrunk him. It was as if the knife that had slit his throat had let out half of his substance. The blood had been washed away and the wound covered but there was still an expression of horror on Nicholas’s face. Herbs were scattered on the mortuary floor to sweeten the atmosphere, but the stench of death rose powerfully to the nostrils. Serlo gave a nod and Brother Frewine drew the shroud back over the corpse. The two men left the mortuary and went out into the fresh air.
‘This is an outrage,’ said Serlo quietly. ‘The whole abbey is in a state of shock.’
‘One of our holy brothers. Murdered on consecrated ground.’
‘It is shameful, Father Abbot.’
‘It is abominable, Frewine. A heinous crime. I have schooled myself not to be vengeful, but I do look for justice. Swift and unrelenting justice. I have impressed that upon the sheriff.’
‘Who could wish to kill Brother Nicholas?’ said the Precentor, shaking his head in bewilderment. ‘And for what possible reason?’
‘That will emerge in the fullness of time. Meanwhile, we must mourn his death with all due solemnity and assist the sheriff in every way that we can.’ He heaved a sigh. ‘It will mean that the abbey is invaded by Durand and his men but that cannot be helped. Vital clues may lie here. They must be sought.’
A small, elderly, ascetic man with silver hair encircling his bald pate, Serlo had an extraordinary dignity. He looked around him with proprietary affection. A moribund abbey had been brought back to life by his arrival. It had been testing work and there had been many setbacks along the way, but the abbot had persisted, imposing discipline, raising morale, increasing the number of monks, enlarging the range of their duties and spreading the influence of the abbey throughout the whole county. Within a period of fourteen long years, Serlo had transformed Gloucester Abbey into a highly effective and respected institution, and what pleased him most was the sense of common purpose he had instilled in his monks. But one of them had now been brutally murdered, leaving an ugly stain on the purity of his vision for the abbey. It was a severe personal blow.
Brother Frewine hovered, shoulders hunched, owlish features puckered with concern. He knew better than to interrupt the meditative silences into which the abbot was accustomed to drop, particularly as he knew what thoughts must be racing through the other’s mind at this moment. The Precentor had his own grief to nurse, tempered as it was by the very faintest sense of relief that, if any monk had had to be killed, it had been the unpopular Brother Nicholas rather than someone encompassed by the unconditional love he gave to the other monks.
Abbot Serlo understood exactly what he was thinking.
‘This loss could not be more grievous,’ he said in a chiding tone. ‘Thrust aside any bad memories of Brother Nicholas. They have no place here. When one monk dies – whoever he is – a little piece of all of us perishes with him. Nicholas was a conscientious man. Pray earnestly for the salvation of his soul.’
‘I will, Father Abbot.’
‘Remember what I said during Chapter.’
‘The words are engraved on my heart.’
‘Consult them often.’
‘Yes,’ said Frewine, bowing his head in humility. ‘There is one matter still to be discussed,’ he added, looking up again. ‘The two novices, Kenelm and Elaf. Their punishment has not been determined.’
‘Punishment?’
‘Brother Paul thinks that they should be flogged.’
‘And what do you think, Frewine?’
‘It is not my decision, Father Abbot. I am not the Master of the Novices. Only you and Brother Paul can pronounce sentence.’
‘I would still like to take your counsel.’
‘So be it.’
‘What punishment should we mete out to these boys?’
Brother Frewine took a deep breath before he plunged in. ‘I think that they have had punishment enough already,’ he said. ‘It was wrong of them to leave the dormitory at night and even more wrong of them to take food from the kitchens. I do not excuse them and feel that they should be given the sternest reprimand. But they are both very young, Father Abbot, still trying to fit their minds to the notion of obedience.’
‘Go on.’
‘The experience of finding Brother Nicholas has put the fear of God into them. It is something that will live with them for the rest of their days and will, in my view, serve to shape them into true members of the Order. They are in pain, they are in distress. Kenelm and Elaf are covered in contrition.’ The black-rimmed eyes widened hopefully. ‘I know that Brother Paul feels that the birch rod is called for but they have already been lacerated by the events of last night. Spare them, Father Abbot. Show the mercy for which you are justly admired.’
Serlo ran a contemplative finger across his lower lip.
‘Sound advice,’ he said at length. ‘I will speak with Brother Paul.’ He sensed the Precentor’s fear. ‘Do not worry, Frewine. I will not tell him that I am acting at your behest. My decision is my own. I had already taken the same path as yourself. I merely needed confirmation that I was going in the right direction. Flogging two novices may give Brother Paul’s arm some practice but it will not bring back a murder victim.’
‘I could not agree more, Father Abbot.’
‘Good. That contents me.’ He set off in the direction of his lodgings with Frewine beside him. ‘This is a poor advertisement for the abbey.’
‘Advertisement?’
‘I take such pride in this community. It is a joy to be part of it. But pride and joy have both fled now. I was ready to welcome his visit but now I face it with some trepidation.’
‘We have a visitor, Father Abbot?’
‘Two, in fact. Members of a royal commission, returning to the city to deal with unfinished business. I am well acquainted with one of them, Canon Hubert of Winchester, a learned man brought to God, like me, in our native Normandy.’ He pursed his lips. ‘I had thought to show him the beauty of the Benedictine Order here in Gloucester. Instead of that, he will be walking straight into a murder scene.’
‘Murder!’ exclaimed Canon Hubert, his fat cheeks whitening and his body trembling. ‘Murder inside the abbey church?’
‘Alas, yes,’ said Durand.
‘Can this be true, my lord sheriff?’
‘Unhappily, it is. The body was discovered last night.’
‘How? Where?’ gibbered Hubert. ‘Has any arrest been made?’
‘Not as yet.’
‘But we are due to stay at the abbey, Brother Simon and I.’
‘That is why I thought it a kindness to warn you.’
‘There is no kindness in these tidings, my lord sheriff. They are the unkindest words you could have uttered. I am shaken to the core.’
On their arrival at the castle, Durand the Sheriff had been waiting for them. Ralph Delchard performed the introductions and was pleased with the courteous way in which Golde was immediately conducted to their apartment by a servant. He was also impressed when his men were led off to stable the horses before going to their lodging. They were expected. Preparations had been made. The sheriff himself, a big, brawny, smiling man with a rough handsomeness, was in the bailey to give them a warm greeting after their ride. He was evidently pleased to see them.
Left alone with the commissioners, however, Durand became a different person. The smile was replaced by a scowl, the pleasant manner by a preoccupied air. Instead of actually wanting them there, he was plainly exasperated by their presence. The sheriffs mind was on something else. When he told them what it was, he elicited a variety of reactions. Brother Simon fell to his knees in alarm and began to pray for deliverance. Ralph listened grimly then flung Gervase a look of sharp reproof. After answering it with a shrug of apology, Gervase made a mental note of all the details of the crime. Canon Hubert, quivering all over, needed everything repeated at least three times before he could accept it.
Durand the Sheriff forced himself to sound hospitable.
‘It may be better if you and the scribe were to stay here.’
‘We will not hear of it,’ said Hubert, grabbing Simon by the arm to haul him upright. ‘It sounds to me as if the abbey has need of us.’
‘It will be a mean lodging at such a time as this.’
‘Nevertheless, my lord sheriff, we will seek it out.’
‘Will we?’ asked Simon, stricken with doubt.
‘Most certainly!’ asserted Hubert.
The monks took their leave and headed for the abbey. Ralph was pleased to see them go. It enabled him to press the sheriff for more detail about the murder, but Durand had no time for further conversation.
‘A crime has been committed, my lord,’ he said peremptorily. ‘It is my duty to investigate it as quickly and thoroughly as I may.’
‘Where will you start?’ wondered Ralph.
‘In the place where the body was found.’
‘The bell tower? How on earth did the victim come to be there?’
‘It is too late to ask him.’
‘Tell us more, my lord sheriff,’ said Gervase. ‘We bring fresh minds to this problem. We may be able to help you.’
‘I have all the help I need, Master Bret.’
‘You have a suspect, then?’
‘Dozens of them.’
‘How have you identified so many in so short a time?’
‘By accepting the obvious solution.’
‘What obvious solution?’ asked Ralph.
The sheriff spoke with conviction. ‘Brother Nicholas was killed by one or more of the other monks,’ he declared. ‘He was, it transpires, always something of an outsider. Nobody really liked him, not even the sanctimonious Abbot Serlo who purports to like everyone. Brother Nicholas was the rent collector for the abbey, a task which kept him away from it for most of the time. It was no accident. They deliberately wanted him out of the way.’
‘Why was he so disliked?’
‘That is what I am trying to find out, my lord.’
‘I am not convinced by this,’ said Gervase. ‘I was raised in an abbey myself and almost took the cowl. I know the strong currents of feeling that can run in such places. But I find it very hard to believe that a Benedictine monk could be guilty of murder.’
‘Look at the facts,’ said Durand coldly. ‘The victim’s throat was slit within the abbey precincts and his body stowed in the abbey church. Who else would have had access to him there? Who else would know where to hide the corpse? Who else would have had a motive to kill a monk? No,’ he decided, mounting his horse, ‘there is no shadow of a doubt in my mind. The killer wears the black habit of the Order. Finding him is another matter, however. It is a labour of Hercules. How do you solve a murder when almost any monk in that abbey might have committed it?’
‘These are holy men,’ argued Gervase. ‘They deserve your respect, my lord sheriff, not your derision.’
‘I speak as I find. Monks are all alike to me. They look the same, talk the same, think the same, and, when they break wind, smell the same. How am I to pick out the man or men I am after? Monks are trained in deceit. How do I get behind those blank faces and those lying tongues? How do I catch the one who cut the throat of Brother Nicholas?’
He rode off quickly before they could even speak.
Chapter Two
From its vantage point in the south-west of the city, the castle controlled not only Gloucester itself, but the river crossing and the whole of the surrounding countryside. This geographical fact served to increase the power of Durand of Pitres, constable of the castle, sheriff of the county and collector of the King’s revenues, offices which his late brother held before him and which made Durand, in effect, the gatekeeper to Wales and the west. The stronghold followed the established Norman pattern of motte and bailey, making use, in this case, of remaining Roman fortifications. Surmounting the high mound of tightly compacted soil was a wooden tower which commanded a superb view in all directions and would be the final point of defence in the event of an attack. The bailey looped out on the eastern side of the motte and was enclosed by a ditch and a timber palisade which boasted a fortified gate and a heavy drawbridge.
Clearly visible from any part of the city, the fortress was a vivid symbol of foreign domination and a reminder that sixteen Saxon dwellings had been demolished to make way for it. A small forest had also been cut down to provide the timber needed for its construction. The Normans were not temporary visitors; they were there to stay.
It was a thought which had often troubled Golde in younger days, and even now, though married to a member of the Norman nobility, she felt the dull resentment of a conquered nation. As she looked out across the city, she remembered the visit she had once made there as a young girl when her father was a thegn in the neighbouring county of Herefordshire and her family had real standing in the Saxon community. Domestic buildings had changed little since then. There were no stone houses in Gloucester; they were either built in the time-honoured fashion with posts hammered into the ground then linked by interwoven wattle, or they were timber-framed. The same sunken floors and thatched roofs predominated.
What differed from her first trip was the fact that the citizens now lived in the shadow of Norman rule as epitomised by its castle. Not for the first time a twinge of guilt unsettled Golde.
Marriage to Ralph Delchard brought many benefits and untold pleasures, but it did not leave her conscience unmolested. Gloucester was bigger than Hereford but there were many similarities between the two. But for a happy accident, she would still be working in the family brewhouse or haggling in the market like the crowds she could see in the streets below. Golde turned away from the window. She was in an upper room in the square tower. It was small and cluttered but extremely clean and would be a far more comfortable place to pass the day than on the back of her palfrey. Having shivered in so many draughty Norman castles in wintertime, she was grateful that they were staying at Gloucester during warm weather. It was a great solace.
Footsteps pounded up the steps outside the room, then the door opened and Ralph came bursting in. Golde saw the vexation on his face.
‘What is the matter, Ralph?’
‘Everything.’
‘I thought you would be glad to reach Gloucester.’
‘I was, Golde. The sooner we reach the place, the sooner we can leave. At least, that is what I thought. But it seems as if our stay may be longer than I hoped. Gervase has let me down.’
‘Surely not.’
‘He has, my love. He promised me that we would encounter no problems here. It was a confident prophecy. So much for Gervase Bret’s reputation as a fortune teller! I’ll never trust him again.’
‘Why not?’
‘Two unheralded blows have already struck us.’
‘Blows?’
‘Yes, Golde,’ said Ralph, pacing up and down the little chamber. ‘While you were being conducted up here, the sheriff confided that we have arrived in the middle of a murder investigation.’
‘Heavens! Who was the victim?’
‘One of the monks at the abbey.’
‘Never!’
‘That is what Durand told us – in fairly blunt terms at that. His tone was less than friendly to us and I mean to point that out to him when he returns.’
‘What exactly happened, Ralph?’
‘Don’t worry yourself about it.’
‘But I want to know.’
‘The details are quite distressing.’
‘So?’
‘Better that you don’t hear them.’
‘I’m not a child.’
He gave a tired smile. ‘I can vouch for that.’
‘Then you know that I don’t need to be protected from unpleasant facts. And I’d much rather hear them from you. Since we’re staying in the castle, I’m bound to pick them up elsewhere sooner or later.’
‘True, my love.’
‘Tell me all.’
He nodded. ‘Thus it stands.’
Ralph gave her a shortened version of what the sheriff had told him and produced a long sigh of regret. Golde was shocked that murder had occurred within a monastic community. Her questions came thick and fast and Ralph took her by the shoulders to stem the flow.
‘Don’t interrogate me. I’ve told you all I know.’
‘What of Canon Hubert and Brother Simon?’
‘Forget them.’
‘Are they aware of this?’
‘Durand warned them about it in my hearing.’
‘It will make the abbey a frightening place to be.’
‘Simon was shaking at the prospect.’
‘I don’t blame him, Ralph. It’s the one place where you would expect to be completely safe. Are there any clues? Any suspects? Does the sheriff think the murderer is still in Gloucester?’
He put a finger to her lips. ‘No more questions.’
‘What else did he say?’
‘Enough!’
He silenced her with a kiss and she responded warmly, sinking into his embrace and enjoying their first moment alone since dawn. Ralph stood back and beamed at her.
‘That’s the nicest thing that’s happened to me all day.’
‘There is ample time for improvement on a solitary kiss.’
‘I will remind you of that later on, my love.’
‘Do you think that I will need reminding?’ They exchanged a knowing smile. ‘But you said that there were two of them.’
‘Two what?’
‘Unheralded blows.’
‘Yes!’ he groaned. ‘And the second may be worse than the first.’
‘What could be worse than murder?’
‘Being haunted by a ghost.’
‘A ghost?’
‘The most terrifying kind, Golde. A Welsh ghost.’
‘Stop talking in riddles.’
‘He has come back from the dead to harry me.’
‘Who has?’
‘A certain archdeacon.’
‘Idwal?’
Ralph recoiled as if struck by an arrow and clutched at his chest. ‘I’ve asked you not to speak his foul name.’
‘But I grew quite fond of Archdeacon Id—’ She checked herself just in time. ‘Of that prelate from the other side of the border.’
‘If only he would stay there!’ said Ralph bitterly. ‘Gervase assured me that he would. He insisted that I would be completely safe from that garrulous little goat. Yet what happens? No sooner do we reach the castle to be told of the murder at the abbey than a second avalanche falls on me. A letter is handed to us regarding the major dispute we have come here to resolve. We thought we would be sitting in judgement on only three people, but a fourth has now declared himself.’
‘A fourth?’
‘The Archdeacon of Gwent.’
‘But that is not Idwal,’ she said, inflicting another wound with the unguarded mention of his name. ‘When we met him in Chester, he was Archdeacon of St David’s. Before that, during your stay in Hereford, he spoke as Archdeacon of Llandaff.’
‘Exactly!’ said Ralph, on the move again. ‘He changes his title at will in order to pursue me. He is Archdeacon of Gwent now.’
‘Are you certain of that?’
‘I feel it in my bones.’
‘The aches and pains of travel.’
‘He is haunting me, Golde. Wherever I go that ugly face of his is leering at me. We all have our cross to bear and mine is hewn from the heaviest Welsh timber. When I first read that letter, I wanted to turn tail and ride back home, but he would follow me even there.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’d probably arrive back to find him Archdeacon of Winchester.’
Golde laughed. ‘That’s ridiculous!’ she said. ‘And you know it. I’m surprised at you, Ralph. You’re the most fearless man I’ve ever met. You fought bravely in many battles and would take on a giant in single combat. Yet a harmless Welsh churchman can make you tremble.’
‘There is nothing harmless about him.’
‘You alarm yourself without necessity. Id—’ She bit back the name once again. ‘The person we’re talking about is not the Archdeacon of Gwent.’
‘He could be, Golde.’
‘Impossible. Gwent is too small a county for a man of his high ambition. It would be a much lowlier office than the one he already occupies. On that account alone, he would spurn it.’
‘I had not thought of that.’
‘Rest easy.’
‘We are too close to Wales for me to do that.’
‘Forget this new archdeacon until you have to confront him at the shire hall. You’ve been so busy unburdening your bad news that I’ve been unable to tell you my good tidings.’
‘Good tidings?’
‘You and Gervase are not the only ones to receive a letter. Mine was waiting for me here,’ she said, crossing to the little table to pick up the missive and hand it to him. ‘It’s from my sister. Aelgar expects to be here within a day or two.’
‘These are indeed good tidings.’
‘There’s more yet, Ralph. She is betrothed.’
‘It was only a matter of time.’
‘Her future husband will be travelling with her.’
‘Then we must give them both a worthy welcome. Gloucester may yet have some joy to offer us.’ He enfolded her in his arms. ‘I’m sorry to get into such a state, my love. It was the sheriff’s manner which put me out of sorts. That and the threat of the mad archdeacon.’ A sudden fear made him tighten his grasp. ‘Your sister is betrothed, you say?’
‘Yes.’
‘To whom?’
‘A young man from Archenfield.’
‘Saints preserve us!’ he gasped. ‘Is he Welsh?’
Golde shook with mirth until he kissed her into submission.
The abbey was smothered under a blanket of sadness. When the guests arrived, they were given only a token welcome by the Hospitaller, who conducted them in silence to their lodgings. Hardly a monk looked up as they passed, hardly a spark of curiosity was ignited; a melancholy air pervaded the whole community. Those who padded across the cloister garth, shoulders hunched, chins on their chest, were deep in mourning. Even the novices, taking instruction from their master as the visitors went past, were figures of dejection. The atmosphere was in marked contrast to that of the abbey that Canon Hubert and Brother Simon had recently quit on the King’s business. Winchester throbbed with a subdued vitality; Gloucester was a charnel house.
‘I have never felt so uneasy inside the walls of a religious house,’ admitted Simon. ‘It is eerie.’
‘Sacrilege has taken place here,’ boomed Hubert as they followed their mute guide. ‘A spiritual refuge has been despoiled.’
‘I wish that we had not come, Canon Hubert.’
‘Nonsense! We are needed here.’
‘By whom?’
‘By the abbot, by the brothers, by God. A terrible crime has been committed. Our footsteps have been guided here so that we may help to track down the villain responsible.’
Simon blanched. ‘What can we do against a violent killer?’
‘Expose him.’
‘But we are strangers here, Canon Hubert.’
