Abbot's Passion (21 page)

‘No!’ said Jocelin tapping my arm. ‘Look! Th-there he is!’

He was right. Chrétien was still in the ring but was now astride the giant’s back clinging to him like a little devil. Sterk seemed confused. He faltered trying to throw the boy off. But restricted by his armour he couldn’t raise his arm high enough to reach him. Chrétien leaned this way and twisted that unbalancing the giant who stumbled about but still unable to dislodge his passenger. Now what was he doing? Chrétien had reached inside his shirt and pulled out a small bag. Opening it he smeared some of the contents over those two eye-slits, something white and sticky.

‘G-goose fat!’ exclaimed Jocelin clapping his hands together excitedly.

Whatever the stuff was it completely obliterated those eye-slits. Blinded by the stuff Sterk dropped his weapons and thrust about trying to wipe the greasy gunge out of his eyes as Chrétien leapt to the ground again. Now deliberately, almost carelessly, the boy picked up Sterk’s discarded mace. The crowd waited. Then drawing back, with one mighty swing he smashed the club into Sterk’s left kneecap - I heard the crack as it exploded. Sterk roared in pain and went down on the injured knee. Chrétien swung the club again and the right knee exploded. Now the giant was rolling on his back clutching both knees in agony his weapons discarded and completely forgotten. But Chrétien hadn’t finished with him yet. He took a knife from his belt and approached the squirming giant. The crowd began to chant again: “Kill! Kill! Kill!” but instead of slitting Sterk’s throat Chrétien took another bag from inside his shirt, sliced the top off it and started to pour the contents onto the giant’s helmet. What was this, more goose fat? No, not this time. It looked, incongruously, like honey - but honey with almonds mixed into it. Except these almonds were wriggling.

‘Urrgh!’ shuddered Jocelin pulling back. ‘C-cockroaches!’

With a deft hand Chrétien smeared the writhing sticky mess over the giant’s neck and under that great iron helm forcing the little creatures inside. In horror and revulsion the crowd went silent to watch. At first Sterk lay still seeming not to know what was happening to him. Then when he did he jolted, he jerked, and then he screamed trying desperately to get the helmet off his head. But Chrétien had put all his weight into holding it on. Sterk rolled manically on the ground trying to dislodge him but Chrétien held on tight. And then finally came the sound that everyone had been waiting to hear:

‘Craven!’ cried Sterk. ‘Craven I say - get them off me! Craven! Craven! CRAVEN!’

Chapter Twenty-six

THE END OF THE AFFAIR

The
crowd bore Hamo away to the nearest tavern to celebrate his triumph. Still dazed from his faint, I don’t think he had any idea what had happened to him. Technically, of course, he’d won nothing, but the rules of the game were clear: all it took was for one or other of the combatants to cry “Craven” for the other to be declared the winner. By rights Chrétien should have declared his intention before the fight began, but the achievement of this slight boy in bringing down the giant Sterk impressed the crowd so much that no-one dare deny him his victory. Hamo was thus free to go as the coroner grudgingly confirmed. Had Sir Henry tried to do otherwise he would probably have been lynched himself. The one person who was not cheering, of course, was Abbot Eustache who protested vociferously to the coroner, but to no avail. No Englishman likes a bad loser, least of all a French one.

Sterk, too, was borne away but on a door between six strong men and weeping like a baby as he went - to the evident disgust of the town whores who duly re-tied their bodices. I would have liked to have joined in the celebrations myself but I had to follow Sterk to the infirmary to attend to his injuries, and I’m ashamed to say that rarely was a patient more keenly anticipated. Not because I relished his suffering particularly - well, not all that much - but I would be lying if I didn’t admit to a certain satisfaction on behalf of Cathrin and the countless other women and girls he had abused in his time. I doubt if he would be chasing anyone again. After what Chrétien had done to him a one-legged cripple could have run faster than he could hobble. But I am a doctor and so I did my best for him as my oath requires me to do without fear or favour. Not that there was much I could do. I cleaned away the remaining cockroaches still adhering to his face - dead and alive ones - and bound his shattered knees to splints.

‘Who was the
vechter
who defeated me?’ he asked once we were alone together.

‘I really have no idea,’ I lied. ‘His face was hidden by a mask.’

‘He must have been a professional fighter, I am thinking. No one has ever beaten Sterk Wolff in battle before.’

‘I’m sure you’re right.’

‘There is no shame in losing to such a man.’

‘Indeed not. Now, hold still while I tie off these bandages.’

I left Gilbert to sort out some crutches for the man - not an easy task for a seven foot giant. But at least he managed to keep his head, unlike the biblical Goliath who lost his. I never saw what happened to our own David. He vanished as suddenly as he appeared just as he had that day in the forest two years earlier. If I ever doubted Chrétien was my rescuer then, I did so no longer.

None of which, however, answered the question of who really did kill Fidele - a fact not lost on Samson when Jocelin and I met up with him in his study.

‘I’ve asked Sheriff Peter to keep the matter open although without a credible alternative suspect I’m not sure how we can proceed.’

‘You sound as though you still think Hamo is the murderer, father,’ I said.

‘On the contrary. Hamo is the one person who is completely exonerated. He has stood in the furnace of divine judgement and emerged unscathed.’

‘Truly God’s v-voice has been heard this day,’ nodded Jocelin sagely.

‘Yes indeed,’ I said. ‘Hamo has come away completely untouched - apart, that is, from a hole in the head, a crippled leg, nearly being starved to death, the loss of his business. Oh, and not forgetting his wife being raped.’

‘Cynical as ever, Walter,’ tutted Samson. ‘He still has his neck - which is more than Abbot Eustache would have left him.’

‘H-how exactly did Abbot Eustache receive the v-verdict?’ asked Jocelin. ‘O-out of interest.’

‘Oh, he was delighted. You should have been here ten minutes ago. He was marching up and down my study promising everything from the Apocalypse to a plague of lice.’

‘Is he not willing to accept God’s adjudication, father?’ I asked.

‘Only when it agrees with his own.’

‘Really? That’s not what he said before the contest - before, that is, the intervention of Hamo’s acrobatic champion.’

‘Yes, who was that, I wonder?’ said Samson. ‘You wouldn’t happen to know would you, Walter?’

I gave him what I hoped was my enigmatic smile.

‘Wh-what about Jocellus?’ asked Jocelin. ‘What’s g-going to happen to him now?’

‘Ah well, you won’t be surprised to hear that the moment he heard the verdict Brother Cellarer withdrew his confession.’

‘S-so he’s free too? Heaven b-be thanked!’ Jocelin crossed himself.

‘Not entirely,’ said Samson. ‘Bearing false witness to a coroner is still a serious matter.’

‘Fortunately the coroner is no longer here, father,’ I said.

‘But the abbot-legate is and he’s determined to make someone pay.’

‘I see,’ I nodded. ‘So you’re still dancing to the abbot-legate’s tune despite what you said about no longer needing his support.’

Samson grimaced. ‘You have to understand, Walter, Abbot Eustache is no ordinary cleric. He is the pope’s personal emissary. Jocellus has made a fool of him. That cannot go unanswered.’

‘H-how will you answer it?’ asked Jocelin nervously.

‘I’m going to make an example of him. I’m going to withdraw all his privileges.’ Then he added: ‘Possibly for the rest of the day.’

I gave a wry grin. ‘The abbot-legate won’t like that.’

‘He’ll live with it,’ sniffed Samson.

‘Will we ever kn-know the truth of what happened to p-poor Brother Fidele do you think, f-father?’ asked Jocelin.

Samson shook his head. ‘I doubt it. My opinion, for what it’s worth, is that Brother Fidele was the victim of a freak accident and no-one was to blame. We’ll give him a decent burial and a sung requiem mass. But that, I’m afraid, will have to be the end of the affair.’

The end of the affair. Was it? There was still a number of unanswered questions. Apart from the obvious one of what really happened to Fidele, there was Chrétien’s dramatic intervention. Skilful fighter or not, he’d risked his own life to defend a complete stranger. Why would he do that unless he - or more likely Joseph - knew something the rest of us didn’t? Then there was the fire in Joseph’s shop. Chrétien had insisted it was an accident, but I wasn’t so sure. Might the murderer - and unlike Samson I was still convinced there was one - try again and maybe next time succeed? All the while he was free he posed a threat. And finally, why exactly did Alice Nevus disappear so suddenly after our visit? I refused to believe it had anything do with the hue and cry. What had she seen that frightened her so much that she could not answer our questions or give evidence at the inquest?

The trouble was that I didn’t know where to begin to answer any of these questions. Maybe Samson was right and it was best to let matters lie. Hamo had been acquitted and could go home to his wife and family and hopefully begin to rebuild his life. In a day or two Abbot Eustache would be leaving to pursue his twin campaigns: for war in the Holy Land and against Sunday trading in this. Lucky Ely was next on his itinerary. The market here was about to re-open again. Even my toothache had been cured and I could get back to dealing with my neglected patients. It did look as though things were starting to return to normal. Why stir them up again?

As Jocelin and I left Samson’s study there were people waiting in the antechamber to see him as usual. They come for all sorts of reasons: some on business, some bearing requests, others gifts. Normally I don’t take much notice of them. But as we brushed passed each other in the narrow confines of the antechamber I accidentally caught one man’s shoulder making him cry out in pain. It was only a glancing blow so I was a little surprised by the strength of his reaction.

‘My dear fellow I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you,’ I began - but then stopped. Something about the man seemed familiar. That face. I knew it but it wasn’t quite right. Then I saw. He had shaved off his thick moustache and he kept his chin down, but there was no mistake.

‘You!’ I said. ‘You’re the thief who tried to rob me on the Ely road!’

The man frowned and tried to push past me but I had hold of his shoulder, the one Hamo had struck with his arrow. Behind him Samson had come to the door looking like the little boy who’d just been caught with his hand in the honey-pot, and in an instant I saw what had happened. Samson had never any intention of paying those fifteen marks over to Bishop Eustace. He had wanted an excuse to destroy the Lakenheath market. This man and his gang had been hired to rob me and return the money to him. No wonder he didn’t want Gilbert and me to have a bodyguard! And no wonder he was so angry when he learned Hamo had stolen the money! The entire incident had been a set up right from the beginning.

Furious, I turned back to the man still gripping his injured shoulder and heedless of the pain I was causing.

‘King Richard was injured with a bolt through his shoulder,’ I growled at him. ‘Within a week the wound turned gangrenous and within two he was dead. I do hope the abbot has made it worth your while.’

End of the affair indeed! We’d see about that. Maybe I didn’t have all the answers but I knew where one or two were likely to be found. Furious, I marched up to Heathenmans Street determined to get to the bottom of what Joseph knew once and for all. I hadn’t seen him since before the Lakenheath fiasco but I was sure now that the inquest was over he’d be back. And I was right. The bar across the entrance to the shop was gone when I got there and he was inside dealing with a customer who was stunned to see an irate Benedictine monk storm in looking as though his head was about to explode. For once Joseph seemed surprised to see me, too.

‘Walter. How delightful to see you again. To what do I owe the pleasure this time?’

I flapped a dismissive hand at him. ‘Never mind all that. Where’s Chrétien?’

‘You wish to speak with my assistant?’

‘Yes, I wish to speak with him. I want to know what he thought he was doing this morning. And don’t imagine that mask concealed his identity. I know it was him.’

Joseph gave his customer a sick smile. ‘I’m sure I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’

‘Don’t you? In that case you won’t mind my taking a look at Chrétien’s arms. I’m sure there’ll be scratches commensurate with having been in a fight recently.’

‘What if there are? Ours is a physical occupation. Some of the crates we have to handle are heavy and cumbersome. I occasionally get scratches myself.’

‘Fine. He can explain all that to the sheriff whose prize guardsman he just crippled. And while he’s at it you might like to explain who facilitated Hamo’s disappearance from the town the day of Fidele’s murder, and how you managed to get hold of the abbey’s money that was stolen on the king’s highway.’

Joseph smile slipped a little. For the first time in my life I had the better of him. I cannot tell you how delicious that felt.

‘Would you mind going through to the back,’ he said quietly. ‘I’ll be with you when I’ve finished serving this gentleman.’

I went into the back room and waited among his confounded scatter cushions. The fact that he didn’t chide me for embarrassing him in front of one of his precious customers told me I was probably right in my suspicions.

‘It was entirely Chrétien’s idea,’ he said once he’d joined me and pulled the curtain across. ‘I knew nothing about it until he returned. If I had I would have tried to stop him.’

‘Then he is to be congratulated. The boy’s a hero. It’s entirely down to him that Hamo is still alive.’

‘Chrétien will be gratified to hear it. For some reason he has long valued your good regard of him.’

I waved that away. ‘All I’d like to know is why?’

Joseph shrugged. ‘For the same reason you helped him. Because he knows Hamo didn’t kill that clerk.’

‘But you know who did. So isn’t it about time you told me?’

He sighed and sat down. ‘The truth is I don’t know - at least not for certain. I know I said I did, but I only suspect I do and suspicions are not proof.’

‘Then tell me your suspicions.’

He shook his head. ‘No, it wouldn’t be right.’

‘Then you can tell that to the sheriff, too,’ I said jumping up. ‘Come along.’

For a long moment he didn’t move. ‘Very well.’ He stood up and held his wrists out for me to tie.

Damn the man! Just when I thought I had him he calls my bluff. He knew I wouldn’t take him to the sheriff. Much as I detest injustice I couldn’t rectify one by perpetrating another, especially against my own brother. My one crumb of comfort was that for a moment there he really did think I might carry out my threat. I sat down again.

‘Abbot Samson thinks it was an accident.’ I said.

He thought for a moment before shaking his head. ‘No. It’s impossible to penetrate a human body with a blunt instrument like a metal rod without considerable force. It had to have been deliberate.’

‘That’s what I told him. But as far as Samson’s concerned the matter is closed. So tell me, what am I to do?’