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- Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Sprache: Englisch
When seventeen-year-old Bertha is found in a holly patch, dead from a snakebite, her premature death shocks and stresses the entire town of Canterbury. Her father succumbs to a suicidal rage, and the news devastates the leper colony at Harbledown, where Bertha had charitably spent much of her time. On the day that Bertha's body is discovered, Norman soldier Ralph Delchard and lawyer Gervase Bret arrive in Canterbury to settle a land dispute between the archbishop and the head of the abbey. Newly married Ralph hopes to tour the famous cathedral and surrounding countryside with his bride, Golde, a beautiful Saxon. But their honeymoon is cut short, and Delchard's investigation into the property claim is upended when astonishing clues demonstrate that Bertha was in fact murdered. Ultimately, Ralph Delchard and Gervase Bret must look for a force more vicious than a mere snake.
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020
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4
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
5
THE SERPENTS OF HARBLEDOWN
EDWARD MARSTON
7To Elizabeth Peters Scholar, scribe and friend Fellow toiler in the scriptorium of history8
9
… the way of a serpent upon a rock; the way of a ship in the midst of the sea; and the way of a man with a maid.
Proverbs 30.19
10
Contents
Prologue
The search began at dawn. It was led by Alwin, the distraught father of the missing girl, a big, brawny man with a dark beard fringing his weathered face. No sleep had relieved his anxiety that night. He simply stood at the open shutters and gazed up at the heavens in mute supplication. Alwin was an experienced sailor. He had endured hostile elements a hundred times in his small vessel and shown the routine bravery of his occupation. But he also had the strange fatalism of the seafaring man.
‘She is gone, Brother Martin. I know it.’
‘Do not believe that,’ said the monk with a consoling hand on his arm. ‘Have faith, Alwin. We will find her.’
‘Alive or dead?’ 12
‘Alive – God willing!’
‘Why did she not come home last night?’
‘We will chide her with that very question.’
‘It can only be that she was prevented by force.’
‘No, my son.’
‘Bertha met with some terrible accident. I sense it.’
‘Be calm. There may yet be another explanation for her disappearance. The girl is young and sometimes headstrong. Adventure may have directed her feet farther than she intended to go. Finding herself lost, Bertha sheltered for the night and is even now taking her bearings.’
Alwin was beyond comfort. ‘She is gone,’ he said with a shudder of resignation. ‘My daughter is dead.’
They left Canterbury as the first faint beams of light were being heralded by cockcrow. Alwin strode purposefully along but the ancient monk kept pace without difficulty. Time had robbed Brother Martin of many things but it had left his vigour untouched. Beneath the black cowl of the Benedictine Order, his sinewy legs had a tireless rhythm. It was in the wrinkled benevolence of his face that sixty years had scrawled a larger signature.
He sought in vain to soothe his companion with words.
‘She may have spent the night with friends.’
‘Bertha made no mention of it to me,’ grunted Alwin.
‘What if she met someone on her way home?’
‘That is my fear, Brother Martin.’
‘Someone she knew,’ said the monk. ‘A chance encounter with a close acquaintance. They fell into conversation, time raced by, the friend’s house was nearer than yours …’ 13
‘No,’ insisted Alwin. ‘Bertha would have sent word.’
‘Has she stayed out before?’
‘Only once.’
‘With whom, pray?’
‘Her aunt. In Faversham.’
‘Then that is where she is now,’ decided Martin with a surge of hope. ‘Instead of returning to Canterbury, she first went on to visit her aunt. Bertha is in Faversham. Even for legs as brisk as hers, it is a tidy walk and left her no time to get home before dark. Is this not possible, Alwin?’
‘Possible,’ conceded the other. ‘But unlikely.’
‘Why?’
The question hung unanswered in the air. Alwin’s gaze had been distracted by a group of figures conjured out of the gloom. They were waiting at the base of the hill and stiffened at the approach of the two men. A voice rang out.
‘We are ready, Brother Martin.’
‘God bless you, Bartholomew!’
‘Tell us what we must do.’
‘First, we will offer up a prayer.’
‘Who are they?’ whispered Alwin, looking around the faces that now took on shape and character.
‘Friends,’ said Martin.
‘But I do not recognise any of them. Do they know Bertha?’
‘They know that she has gone astray. It is enough.’
Alwin was touched. There were over a dozen of them. Three monks, two novices, a priest, a woodcutter, a shepherd, a couple of yawning boys, a blacksmith and three men with vacant grins, whose distinctive garb and pungent smell 14identified them as swineherds. All had heard and all had come to help in the search, asking for no reward beyond that of finding the girl safe and well.
Brother Martin led them in a short prayer. Brother Bartholomew, a square-jawed monk in his thirties, gave Alwin an encouraging smile.
‘Take heart, my friend,’ he said. ‘We are with you.’
‘I thank you all.’
‘Brother Martin will teach us where to look but you must lend some guidance. We know your daughter by name but not by sight. Describe her to us that we may recognise Bertha, if and when we find her.’
‘As assuredly we will,’ added Martin. ‘Alwin?’
They waited a full minute as the tormented father wrestled with his tongue. It was ironic. In the midst of biting rain and howling tempest, Alwin never lacked voice. When his boat was tossed helplessly on the waves, he would rant and curse for hours on end. Put his own life in danger and his defiance was ear-splitting. Yet now that his daughter was at risk, now that he was caught up in another crisis, now that he had equal cause to hurl profanities at a malign twist of destiny, he was numbed into silence. Shrugging his shoulders, he threw a helpless glance at Brother Martin and the monk came to his aid.
‘Bertha is seventeen,’ he explained. ‘Tall, fair and as comely as any young maid. Dressed in a blue that matches her eyes and a white wimple. Thus it stands. Bertha gathered herbs for me yesterday and brought them to the hospital of St Nicholas, as she had done many times before. She talked with me then lingered to speak to my charges, for she is the soul of compassion and 15her very presence is a medicine to the minds of our poor guests.’ He took a deep breath. ‘At what time she left Harbledown, we do not know but one thing is certain. She did not return to Canterbury by nightfall.’
‘We searched,’ said Alwin, finding his voice at last and eager to dispel any suspicion of lack of paternal concern. ‘Brother Martin and I searched in the darkness with a burning torch but it was hopeless. We need daylight.’
‘You have it,’ noted Bartholomew, as the sky slowly cleared above them. ‘And you have several pairs of eyes to make best use of it. Let us begin.’
Alwin nodded with gratitude. ‘Spread out,’ he urged. ‘Move forward together. And I beg of you, search thoroughly.’
They fanned out in a line that covered well over a hundred yards then ascended the hill with careful footsteps. Most of them used a stick or a staff to push back the brambles or prod among the bushes. One of the swineherds had brought a mattock and he sang tunelessly to himself as he hacked a way through thick undergrowth. A long iron poker was pressed into service by the blacksmith.
Alwin and Brother Martin were at the centre of the search party, moving upward either side of the track which Bertha habitually used on her way home from Harbledown. Trees and shrubs offered countless hiding places but none disclosed any trace of the girl. Progress was slow and painstaking. A shout of alarm from one of the novices brought them all running but Bertha had not been found. The boy had simply stumbled on the half-eaten remains of a dead dog. When the line formed again, they picked their way steadily on. 16
Morning dew glistened as the sun took its first full look at the day. Birdsong covered the hillside. Far below them, Canterbury had come noisily to life and carts trundled into the city with produce for the market. Alwin searched on with mounting desperation, his fear now mixed with a scalding guilt. As they got nearer to the crest of the hill, he felt as if his heart were about to burst asunder.
His mind was a furnace of recrimination. Pain forced him to drop down on one knee. Brother Martin came across to the stricken father at once.
‘What ails you, my son?’ he asked.
‘Nothing.’
‘Is the sorrow too heavy to bear?’
‘I am well now,’ said Alwin, struggling upright again.
‘Rest here awhile and leave the search to us.’
‘No, Brother Martin. She is my daughter. I must be there.’
The old monk saw the haunted eyes in the grim face.
‘Is there something you have not told me?’ he said.
Alwin winced then shook his head firmly in denial. He could not share his thoughts even with the kindly Brother Martin. Remorse was stifled. Using his staff to ease back some bushes, Alwin continued the search.
Appropriately, it was the leper who found her. Nobody had even noticed him, emerging from the trees like a ghost to join the end of the line. He was a tall, stooping figure in a leper’s cloak with his wooden begging bowl and clapper dangling from the cord at his waist. His head was enveloped by the hood and his face shrouded by a veil. The sound that came from his throat was high and piercing, like that of an animal caught in a snare. 17
Pointing with horror, the leper was standing beside a clump of holly. His withered hand seemed to feel no pain as it pushed through the sharp leaves. He let out another cry before shuffling away in the direction of the hospital. By the time they reached the holly, the leper had vanished.
Bertha was there. Lying on her back in the moist grass, she looked at first as if she were sleeping peacefully. Her apparel was slightly torn and soiled but there were no marks of violence upon her. The ring of faces watched as Alwin pushed his way through to her. Torn between hope and despair, he crouched beside his beloved daughter.
‘Bertha,’ he called softly. ‘Wake up, Bertha.’
He reached out to shake her arm but a sudden movement in the grass made him draw quickly back. Gasps went up from the watching group. A long, thick, gleaming snake darted from the shadow behind the girl’s head to make a bid for freedom. One savage blow from the mattock killed it instantly but its venom had already claimed a victim.
The tell-tale marks of fangs showed on Bertha’s exposed neck, dark spots of doom on white alabaster innocence. Alwin collapsed in tears beside his daughter. Her young life had been snatched away by one of the serpents of Harbledown. 18
Chapter One
Marriage had definitely mellowed him. There was no outward difference in Ralph Delchard but his attitudes subtly changed, his manner softened perceptibly and he even became acquainted with such virtues as patience and consideration for others. A quiet wedding had suited them both. He and Golde exchanged their vows in the tiny chapel at his manor house in Hampshire. Gervase Bret and Aelgar, the bride’s younger sister, were among the handful of witnesses, though a service of holy matrimony before a large congregation at a cathedral could not have bound the couple more indissolubly together. Ralph and Golde found an even deeper contentment. Only one shadow lay across their happiness. 20
‘I am eternally sorry, my love,’ sighed Ralph.
‘You have been saying that since we left Winchester.’
‘Had my wishes prevailed, we would never have stirred out of Hampshire. Nor out of the bedchamber. The delights of marriage are there to be savoured to the full.’
‘They will be.’
‘Not while we are riding across three counties.’
‘The king’s orders must be obeyed,’ said Golde.
‘Even when they countermand our pleasure?’
‘Being with you is pleasure enough, Ralph.’
She held out a hand and he squeezed it affectionately.
They were on the last stage of their journey into Kent, riding at the rear of the little cavalcade as it wended its way between trees in full leaf, hedgerows in their summer radiance and wildflowers in colourful abundance. Sheep and cattle grazed on rich pastures. Orchards blossomed. The warm air clung to them like familiar garments.
Golde looked around her with wonder and approval.
‘Kent is one huge garden,’ she observed.
‘That is why we have been sent here,’ he said sourly. ‘To pluck up weeds. To cut back brambles. To clear away stones. I yearn to be a lusty bridegroom and am instead employed as a royal gardener.’
‘I will wait.’
‘You will have to, my love. So will I. The king’s acres must be tended.’ They rode on in companionable silence for a few minutes, then his shoulder accidentally brushed hers. He turned to smile down at her. ‘Are you happy?’
A deliberate pause. ‘I think so,’ she teased. 21
‘You only think? You do not feel it in your bones?’
‘It will take time to grow accustomed to the shock.’
‘Shock!’ he exclaimed. ‘Becoming my wife was a kind of shock to you? Is that what you are saying?’
‘I never expected to marry a Norman lord.’
‘No more did I look to wed a Saxon brewer.’
‘Then we have each surprised the other.’
‘That is certainly true,’ he agreed cheerily. ‘We are a portent of the future. Enemies blending into friendship. The conqueror reconciled with the conquered. The wolf lying down with the lamb.’ He gave a wry chuckle. ‘When time and the call of duty permit him that joy.’
They were seventeen in number. Apart from the newly-weds, there were twelve men-at-arms from Ralph’s own retinue, a vital escort through open country where bands of robbers and masterless men lurked in wait for prey. The sight of so many helms and hauberks, moving in disciplined formation, would deter any attack and lend status to the embassy when it reached its destination. Sumpter horses were pulled along on lead reins, though most of the provisions they carried had already been eaten on the previous day.
Ralph usually rode at the head of the column to set the pace, lead the way and attest his status. Pride of place on this occasion had been yielded to Canon Hubert, face aglow with missionary zeal, voluminous body overflowing and all but concealing the little donkey who toiled so gallantly beneath its holy burden. Behind Hubert was Gervase Bret, the shrewd young lawyer, riding beside the gaunt figure of Brother Simon, who sat astride a horse almost as frail and emaciated as himself. 22Plucked from the cloister against his will and suffering extreme embarrassment whenever he was thrust into lay company, Simon had nevertheless proved himself a loyal and efficient scribe to the commissioners.
Though a wedding ceremony had absolved Ralph and Golde of the sin of cohabitation, and made their love acceptable in the eyes of God, the monk still found the mere presence of a woman unnerving and he preferred to travel in the wake of the huge undulating buttocks of Canon Hubert rather than risk any contact with the gracious lady behind him. Simon also drew strength from the friendship of Gervase Bret, whose intelligent conversation was a blessed relief after the robust mockery to which Ralph Delchard often subjected the monk.
Hubert goaded a steady trot out of the hapless beast beneath him. Ordinarily, the canon was a reluctant traveller who punctuated even the shortest excursion with a series of harsh complaints but he was now beaming with satisfaction and making light of any bodily discomfort. He tossed words of explanation over his shoulder.
‘Canterbury is not far away now,’ he said excitedly. ‘I long to meet my old friend and mentor. Archbishop Lanfranc will be pleased to see me again.’
‘He holds you in high regard,’ said the admiring Simon. ‘And with good reason, Canon Hubert.’
‘I was his sub-prior when he held sway at Bec.’
A memory nudged Gervase. ‘Was not Abbot Herluin the father of the house in your time?’
‘He was indeed,’ confirmed Hubert, ‘and held the office worthily. But he was much troubled by sickness. Abbot Herluin 23was the first to admit that it was Prior Lanfranc who gave the house its spiritual lustre and its scholastic reputation. That is what drew me to Bec as it attracted so many others.’ A fond smile danced around his lips. ‘I revere the man. He is an example to us all. A saint in human guise.’
Scattered copses thickened into woodland before giving way to pasture and stream. Canon Hubert pointed with almost childlike glee at the hill which came into view in the middle distance. It rose sharply towards a straggle of thatched cottages. Nestled cosily into the hillside, like a cat in a basket, was a small stone church with a steep roof and windows with rounded arches. Wattle huts were clustered below it in a crude semicircle.
‘Harbledown!’ announced Hubert. ‘That must be the leper hospital of St Nicholas, built by the archbishop to care for the diseased and the dying.’
‘A truly Christian deed,’ remarked Simon.
‘Poor wretches!’ murmured Gervase.
‘They are all God’s creatures,’ said Hubert with brusque compassion. ‘Lanfranc has opened his arms wide to embrace them.’
He feasted his eyes on the scene. Buttered by the sun and stroked by the soft fingers of a light breeze, Harbledown looked tranquil and innocuous. The little church with its makeshift dwellings was a private world, a self-contained community with a charitable purpose. The hospital of St Nicholas seemed completely at ease with itself. As they rode up the incline, the newcomers had no idea of the sorrow and the turbulence within it.
Alwin was inconsolable. As he lay face down in the nave, he twitched violently and beat his forehead hard against the 24stone-flagged floor. It was all that Brother Martin and Brother Bartholomew could do to prevent him from dashing out his brains. They clung to the tortured body as it threshed about with renewed wildness. Alwin would not be subdued.
‘Peace, peace, my son!’ urged Martin. ‘Desist!’
‘Remember where you are,’ added Bartholomew sternly. ‘This is the house of God. Show due reverence.’
‘Bertha would not have wanted this, Alwin.’
‘Think of your daughter, man.’
‘Put her needs first.’
‘Spare yourself this rude assault.’
‘It will not bring her back.’
‘Hold, Alwin!’
The grieving father suddenly went limp in their arms. They rolled him over on his back and saw the blood streaming down his face from the self-inflicted wounds on his brow. At first, they thought he might have expired, and frantically sought to revive him, but he was only gathering his strength for a long, loud, heart-rending howl of anguish.
‘BERTHA!’
The cry brought him up into a sitting position and he saw his daughter not five yards away. It set him off into a fresh paroxysm and the two monks wrestled with him once more. The dead girl lay beneath a shroud on the cold and unforgiving stone. Rough hands had carried her into the church with astonishing gentleness. A boy had been sent to the nearest farm to beg the loan of a cart so that Bertha might make the grisly journey down to Canterbury with a modicum of comfort and dignity. 25
The search party had dispersed and gone its separate ways. There were souls to cure and pigs to herd. Only Brother Martin and Brother Bartholomew remained to struggle with Alwin. Both monks were now panting stertorously.
‘In God’s name,’ gasped Martin. ‘Stop – I beg you!’
‘Mourn your child with decency!’ said Bartholomew.
‘This is unseemly, Alwin!’
‘Madness!’
‘Calm down, my son.’
‘I want to die,’ hissed Alwin. ‘Leave me be.’
‘No!’
‘I have nothing to live for, Brother Martin.’
‘But you have.’
‘Let me go. Let me follow my daughter.’
‘We will not!’
‘No,’ added Bartholomew, tightening his grip. ‘To take one’s own life is a sin. To commit such a sin before the altar is an act of blasphemy. You will not follow Bertha this way. While she has a Christian burial, you will lie in unconsecrated ground. While she soars to heaven, you will sink into the pit of Hell. You will spend eternity apart from her.’
‘Is that what you want?’ challenged Martin.
‘Think, Alwin. Think.’
Alwin stopped trying to fling them off. Gleaming with sweat and dripping with blood, he sat on the floor and took the measure of their words. The impulse of self-destruction which had overwhelmed him now weakened beneath the power of reason and the fear of consequences. What would be gained? What purpose would be served? Would his 26gruesome death really be a suitable epitaph for his daughter?
He allowed himself to be soothed by their kindness and persuaded by their argument. When Brother Martin fetched water to bathe his wounds, Alwin did not complain. When Brother Bartholomew helped him to stand up, he did not resist. The fire in his veins had burnt itself out and a cold dread had settled upon him.
Alwin looked down sadly at the body of his daughter. The shroud concealed her but the marks of doom on her neck were a vivid memory. She had left the world in agony.
‘This is a judgement upon me,’ he said.
‘No,’ insisted Martin. ‘This was not your doing. Bertha was called to God. Only He knows why.’
The father made his simple confession before the altar.
‘I killed her,’ he affirmed. ‘In a sense I killed my own daughter.’
The weary travellers conspired in their own deception. They were so relieved to see their destination at last that they invested it with qualities that were largely illusory. Viewed from the hilltop, Canterbury appeared to them to be a golden city, its great cathedral of white stone dominating the prospect with massive towers at the west end, topped by gilded pinnacles, and a central tower at the junction of nave and choir that was surmounted by a shimmering seraph. The adjoining priory, with the same arresting style and the same generous proportions, reinforced the sense of magnificence and authority commensurate with the headquarters of the English Church.
Shops, houses and civic buildings clutched at the hem of the cathedral precinct like children around their mother’s 27skirt. Small churches served the outer wards. On the glistening back of the River Stour, mills had been built to make use of its swift passage through the city. A high wall enclosed the whole community with solid reassurance. Outside the ramparts, the newly built rotunda of St Augustine’s Abbey displayed a gleaming whiteness. Canterbury seemed to throb with religiosity.
Canon Hubert was transfigured. His bulbous heels kicked more life into the donkey and it went scurrying down the hill with its precarious cargo. The rest of the cavalcade followed at a more sedate pace. After passing the church of St Dunstan, they rode on to Westgate, went under the cross above it and entered Canterbury. Disenchantment set in at once.
Its rowdy populace encumbered them, its haphazard streets confused them, its filth disgusted them and its stench invaded their nostrils with a suddenness that took them unawares. They quickly understood why Lanfranc had broken with archiepiscopal tradition and built his home outside the city in the cleaner air of Harbledown.
Canterbury was a dirty, smelly, boisterous place which made few concessions to order and tidiness. Luxury was cheek by jowl with squalor. Fine new houses stood beside the charred remains of old ones. The neat little church of St Peter was surrounded by beggars. The bridge at the King’s Mill was littered with offal. Knights and their ladies wore bright apparel among the dull homespun of most citizens. Market stalls were laden with food while skeletal urchins searched the ground for scraps.
Ralph Delchard observed it all with a mixture of curiosity and disappointment. There was a pervasive air of neglect and decay. The majestic cathedral was a pounding heart in a 28rotting body. Gazing at its stark contrasts, Ralph was struck by the thought that Canterbury had not yet fully accepted the Conquest. After twenty years, it still reflected an uneasy and unconsummated marriage between Norman power and Saxon resentment. The thought made Ralph slip an involuntary arm around Golde’s waist.
Disillusion made no impact on Canon Hubert. Alone of the company, he was inspired by what he saw and bestowed a beaming condescension on all around him.
‘We have reached the Promised Land!’ he declared.
‘Yes,’ said Brother Simon meekly. ‘But I had hoped to find more milk and honey awaiting us.’
‘There is food for the soul,’ chided the other, adjusting his paunch with a flabby hand. ‘That is true nourishment. Look inward and praise God for his goodness.’
Ralph trotted to the head of the column and called a halt. It was time to separate. During their stay in the city, Hubert and Simon would be guests at the priory. The men-at-arms were lodging at the timber castle which stood outside the wall. Had not Golde been with them, Ralph and Gervase would have joined the soldiers, but his wife had such unhappy memories of staying in a similar motte-and-bailey structure in York, during their last assignment, that Ralph sought alternative accommodation.
He, Golde and Gervase made their way to the home of Osbern the Reeve. It was a long, low, timber-framed house in Burgate Ward, occupying a corner site which gave it greater space and significance while exposing it to the passing tumult on two sides. Ralph had severe reservations about taking up 29residence in a Saxon household but most of them vanished when he met his host.
‘Welcome!’ said the reeve, answering the door in person and bowing politely. ‘I am Osbern and it is a privilege to offer you the hospitality of our humble abode. Step inside, pray. A servant will stable your horses and fetch your belongings.’
The visitors were conducted into the solar and introduced to Eadgyth, the reeve’s wife, a plump but attractive young woman with a shy smile and a submissive manner. Osbern himself was fifteen years older, a short, neat, compact individual with a well-groomed beard. His tunic and cap gave him a touch of elegance and Ralph admired the precision of his movements. The reeve exuded a quiet confidence. He would be helpful without being obsequious.
What really appealed to Ralph was the fact that Osbern spoke in Norman French to him, revealing an easy command of the language of his masters. Refreshment was at hand and Eadgyth went off into the kitchen to supervise it. Her husband took the opportunity to show his guests to their chambers on the floor above. Gervase Bret was tactful. Conscious of their need for privacy, he took his host aside so that Ralph and Golde could have a moment alone together.
The chamber was small but spotlessly clean and the bed was invitingly soft. Ralph held her in his arms to place a first long kiss on her lips.
‘At last!’ he said.
‘Are you glad that I came with you?’
‘I am in a state of delirium, my love.’
‘You must not let me become a distraction.’ 30
‘That is exactly what I hope you will be.’
‘You have obligations as a royal commissioner,’ reminded Golde. ‘They must be fulfilled.’
‘Even royal commissioners are allowed to sleep.’
‘Then I will do my best not to keep you awake.’
He grinned happily and reached for her again but the hubbub from the street below came in through the open window. Ralph closed the shutters to lock out the disturbance. He embraced Golde in the half-dark and kissed her with the ardour of a bridegroom. She responded with equal passion and they moved closer to the bed. Before they could tumble into it, however, a booming sound rocked the building and reverberated around the chamber. The bell for Terce was chiming in the nearby cathedral.
The sudden noise made them leap guiltily apart. Golde recovered at once and burst out laughing. Ralph did not share in the amusement.
‘The Church has come between us,’ he said bitterly.
It was an omen.
Chapter Two
Gervase Bret made good use of his time alone with his host. He plied him with questions and garnered an immense amount of valuable intelligence about the city. Born and brought up in Canterbury, the reeve had an intimate knowledge of its people and its administration. He volunteered information freely and was clearly impressed that Gervase was able to speak the Saxon tongue so fluently. Osbern would be a key figure in the work of the commissioners, summoning witnesses before them, giving advice on local customs and generally supervising their activities in such a way as to make their visit at once pleasant and productive.
The two men came back downstairs to the solar. 32
‘Our first dispute concerns land in Fordwich,’ said Gervase. ‘It sets cathedral against abbey.’
‘Then you must brace yourself,’ warned the other.
‘Why?’
‘Passions run high between them.’
‘Indeed? With two such intelligent parties, I hoped for a fierce legal debate but one conducted in moderate tones.’
‘There will be no moderation, Master Bret.’
‘Oh?’
‘Cathedral and abbey are already locked in combat. A property dispute will only add to the ferocity of that combat. Take care that you are not caught between the two warring factions.’
‘What is the nature of their quarrel?’
‘The election of the new abbot,’ explained Osbern. ‘St Augustine’s Abbey was a place of holy zeal and contentment under the late Abbot Scotland.’
‘Tales of his enterprise reached us in Winchester.’
‘Then you will know how selflessly he dedicated himself to his mission. When he came here, the abbey itself was in a sorry state and many of its monks were wayward. By the time of his death, Abbot Scotland had rebuilt and refurbished the house and imposed the Rule of St Benedict strictly upon it. He was deeply loved by all and they mourn him still.’
‘I see the problem,’ guessed Gervase. ‘The new abbot is a lesser man than his predecessor.’
‘That is inevitable, Master Bret. They would never find another Abbot Scotland. The monks were resigned to that.’
‘Then what is their complaint?’
‘The successor, Abbot Guy, is being forced upon them.’ 33
‘By whom?’
‘Archbishop Lanfranc.’
‘That is his prerogative.’
‘They are challenging it.’
‘In what way?’
‘Every way at their disposal,’ said Osbern. ‘The abbey is in turmoil, as you will soon discover.’
‘Why is Guy so unacceptable to them?’
‘I do not know, Master Bret.’
‘You must have heard the gossip.’
‘It is too wild to be taken seriously,’ said the other with a non-committal smile. ‘In the heat of the moment, even monks will use intemperate language.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Gervase ruefully. ‘I was once destined for the cowl myself. I know that holy brothers can bicker every bit as violently as simple laymen. But how will this argument be resolved?’
‘Who can say?’
‘What is your own opinion?’
‘I take no sides,’ said Osbern cautiously. ‘It is not my place to be drawn into this battle. All I wish to do is to forewarn you of its existence.’
‘We are most grateful.’
‘It will add heat to your deliberations.’
Gervase smiled. ‘That may be no bad thing.’
Golde came back into the solar with Ralph Delchard. She was still wearing her travelling clothes but he had removed his hauberk and now wore a long tunic. Osbern waved them to seats, then called to his wife in the kitchen. Eadgyth brought 34in refreshments on a wooden tray and the guests were soon enjoying warm honey cakes with a cup of tolerable wine.
In the relaxed atmosphere, Ralph casually interrogated the reeve to find out exactly what manner of man he was and how much they could rely on him. Ralph was pleased to have his earlier good impression of Osbern confirmed. Their host was clearly honest, conscientious and discreet. They were qualities not always to be found among town officials.
While the three men conversed, Golde sat in a corner with Eadgyth and tried to dispel her shyness with a show of friendship. Eadgyth was slowly won over. When she realised how much she and Golde had in common, her defences were gradually lowered. She was an attentive hostess but she excused herself from time to time to slip away into another part of the house, only to return with a smile of relief. Golde eventually divined the reason for her disappearances.
‘How old is your baby?’ she asked.
‘Barely six months,’ said Eadgyth with a faint blush.
‘A boy or a girl?’
‘A boy, my lady. Named after his father.’
‘You must both be very proud of him.’
‘We are,’ she admitted, throwing a fond glance at Osbern. ‘But my husband has warned me that we must not let our son disturb you in any way. You are important guests and must not be bothered by our family matters.’
‘That may be true for Ralph and Gervase,’ said Golde. ‘They are here on royal business which claims their full attention. But I insist on seeing this wonderful baby.’
‘You shall, my lady.’ 35
‘I want to see, hold and rock him in my arms.’
‘Do you have children of your own?’
‘Alas, no.’
‘There is still time.’
‘We shall see.’
Golde looked wistfully across at Ralph but she was not allowed to dwell on her thoughts. A servant appeared at the door and beckoned Osbern with some urgency, indicating that Eadgyth should also hear the news. The couple excused themselves and followed the man into the next room. A muttered conversation was heard through the door, then Eadgyth let out such a cry of grief that the three guests jumped to their feet in concern.
When Osbern came back in, his face was ashen.
‘Bad tidings?’ surmised Ralph.
‘I fear so, my lord. The death of a close friend.’
‘We are sorry to hear it.’
‘My wife bears the heavier loss. She and Bertha spent much time together. The girl was almost one of our family.’
‘Girl?’ repeated Golde.
‘She was but seventeen, my lady.’
‘So young.’
‘What cruel disease carried her off?’ said Ralph.
