Abbot's Passion (5 page)

Now, as monks we are used to accepting “the discipline” as it’s called - a scourge of knotted cords which we use to beat ourselves while in private prayer. The purpose is to inflict a certain degree of mild pain partly to remind us of the sufferings of Christ, partly in the hope of atoning for our sins, and partly to achieve a greater unity with God. But Eustache’s scourge went far beyond any of that. It had thorns imbedded in each knot and they were drawing blood - a lot of blood from what I could see. And from the many scars on his back this wasn’t the first time he’d used it. All the while his eyes were closed, he was moaning and rocking back and forth as though in a sort of trance.

‘Father Abbot?’

He turned round and scowled at me. ‘What do you want?’

‘Abbot Samson asked me to look in.’

‘Why? So that you can inflict more pain?’

I nearly said he was doing a pretty fair job of that himself.

‘No, to try to relieve some of yours. I only told the reeve what I thought to be my duty, father.’

‘Your duty was to support me.’

‘And I did - sort of. Anyway, that’s not why I’m here. I’ve come to offer my help as physician. Those wounds look nasty. Some look infected. Won’t you at least allow me to wash them?’

‘God will wash them with his tears.’

‘But what is the purpose of this self-chastisement?’

‘Someone has to atone for the sins of the world. Others won’t therefore I must.’

And I was thinking it was because of what happened to Fidele. It seemed I was wrong.

‘You mean you are doing this because we have a Sunday market?’ I asked incredulously.

‘Six days he laboured,
mon frère
, and on the seventh he rested.’

‘Yes, but God was creating the universe, not selling herrings.’

He curled his lip at me. ‘Still mocking brother? It will avail you nothing. Your blasphemies will find you out. God hears all.’

I shrugged. ‘Well if you won’t allow me to treat your wounds then at least accept this.’ I held out the potion I had brought.

‘What is it?’

‘Wormwood. It will calm your mind and help you to sleep.’

He turned the phial around in his hand without opening it. ‘I don’t need to sleep, brother. And I don’t have worms. The pain that gnaws at my entrails is of a different kind.’ He handed me back my potion.

‘As you wish.’ I put the phial back in my satchel.

Irritated as I was, I was still a doctor and while he was on abbey soil Abbot Eustache was my patient. I tried one more time to consol him:

‘Father, I understand the distress you must be going through. But rest assured, Abbot Samson will find whoever is responsible for Brother Fidele’s murder and bring him to trial.’

‘You English and your trials,’ he sneered.

‘Do you not wish the law to take its course, father?’

‘There is only one law, brother. God’s law.’

Well at least I tried, but if the patient doesn’t want to be treated there is little a physician can do. Besides, I had other matters on my mind. I still wanted to see the body before I went to Ely. Something about it on that handcart had bothered me and this may be my only chance to find out what. Having returned my herb satchel to my laboratorium I hurried over to the abbey church.

The chapel of Saint Denis lies immediately to the left of the narthex as you enter the church. As a final resting place for Fidele it was singularly appropriate, for as well as being one of France’s most important saints Denis was, like Fidele, killed by the single blow of a length of cold steel - in Denis’s case, a sword decapitating his head. After his martyrdom Denis is said to have picked up his head and walked for several miles preaching all the way before he finally dropped. How I wished Fidele could now speak from his grave and reveal who his killer was. In a way, I thought as I entered the chapel, that is what I was hoping he would be able to do.

Fidele’s body was laid out on the altar and was being watched over by a young monk whose name I think was Mark. He stood up as I entered.

‘Don’t disturb yourself, brother,’ I nodded to him. ‘I’ve just come to pay my respects.’

He sat down again and I went over to the body. Fidele was still in his white robe with a bloody gash in the middle where the iron bar had gone in but the bar itself had been removed.

‘Damn!’ I muttered to myself.

The young man looked up.

‘Sorry brother,’ I apologized. ‘I meant no disrespect.’

‘Was there something you wanted, master?’

‘No, it doesn’t matter. Well actually there is something: did you lay him out like this?’

The young man came over. ‘We were told not to lay him out, master,’ he said apologetically. ‘Merely to place him on the altar and to make sure no-one disturbs him.’

‘So he hasn’t been washed? He’s exactly as he was when he arrived?’

‘It’s what father abbot ordered.’

‘Quite right,’ I agreed. ‘The body has to remain undisturbed for the coroner. But I notice the iron rod that killed him seems to be missing.’

He looked a little flustered. ‘We had to remove it or the body - that is, Brother Fidele - could not be made to lie flat. Brother Bernard and Brother Neville did it. Even then it was a struggle. The bar was stuck fast.’

‘But you saw it being removed?’

He lowered his eyes. ‘I tried not to, master.’

‘I understand. It can’t have been a pretty sight. But tell me, can you remember whether it was sticking out more at the front or the back?’

The young man looked a little confused. ‘It went right through the body, master. That’s what killed him, wasn’t it?’

‘Quite so, but longer in front or behind? His chest or his back? Please try to think.’

He thought for a moment. Eventually he just shook his head. ‘Sorry master.’

‘Never mind. It was probably too much to ask. Do you know what happened to the iron bar once it was removed?’

‘It was placed over there by the door.’

I looked to where he was pointing. ‘Well it’s not there now.’

‘Maybe the cleaning staff took it away. If it’s important I can ask them.’

‘No no. Probably propping up someone’s vegetable patch by now,’ I smiled. ‘Has anyone else been here other than you and the cleaning staff?’

‘Not while I’ve been here, master.’

‘You’ve been here all day?’

‘Yes master.’

‘And of course you haven’t left the body in all that time?’

He blushed. ‘No master.’

I could tell that wasn’t entirely true. And I sympathized. It can’t be easy sitting here alone for hours with only a corpse for company. He probably left briefly to answer a call of nature or some such. He would only have been gone a minute or two. Hardly worth mentioning really. Unfortunately in that time someone could have come in and removed the murder weapon, possibly the murderer himself.

‘I must ask you again: you are sure you have seen no-one here today?’

‘No, master.’

‘A man perhaps with a limp?’

‘There’s been no-one but you,’ he insisted.

‘Very well.’ I had to leave it there. But there was one more thing I wanted to do before I left. Without asking I quickly rolled the body onto its side.

The lad was instantly on his feet again. ‘Master please!’

‘It’s all right,’ I said gently returning the body to its original position and holding my hands well away from the body. ‘No harm done.’

To save the lad any further embarrassment I took a step back leaving space between me and the body. In any case I’d seen all I wanted to see - or all I was likely to be allowed to see. There were indeed two wounds one on either side of the body where the iron bar had gone right through as the lad said. I’d only had a moment to glimpse the body but it was impossible to tell which was the entry wound and which the exit. Death had been instantaneous so there had been no time for bruising to develop. However, my memory of the way Fidele had been lying on the cart was that more of the iron bar protruded from the back than from the chest. Was it important? I wasn’t sure.

There seemed no point in my staying any longer since I wasn’t going to be allowed to see any more. However, while I was there I thought I might as well do as I told Samson I would and offer up a prayer for Fidele’s soul. I knelt down in front of the altar and crossed myself, but I couldn’t concentrate on prayer. In my mind’s eye I was still trying to visualize that brief image I’d had glimpsed of the body being lifted onto the handcart before it was covered up and driven down the hill.

Chapter Six

THE MOTHER OF ALL CLUES

Brothers
Bernard and Neville, splendid fellows though they are, work mostly in the abbey gardens and were seconded for the task of removing the iron bar from Fidele’s body more for their brawn than they brains. Neither could remember out of which side of his chest the bar stuck furthest. Still, it was worth asking.

Was I making too much of this iron bar business? I didn’t think so. I was trying to establish exactly how Fidele died in the hope of identifying who the murderer might be - or at least eliminating who it couldn’t be. My starting point was the rather obvious one that the blow that killed Fidele must have come from either in front or behind. Now, I’m not very good with a hammer and nails - I usually end up doing more damage to my own thumbnail than the iron ones. But I do know that when a nail is first struck most of it ends up sticking out of the top of the wood with only the point poking through the other side. Surely, I reasoned, the same must be true of an iron bar and a man’s body. If I was right it followed that whichever side of Fidele’s body the bar protruded from most must be the side at which it entered.

I thought back to the fight. It was a chaotic scene but as I remember it Fidele had just struck Hamo on the shin. At that moment they would have been facing each other. If Hamo then picked up the bar and attacked Fidele with it he would have done so facing him and therefore the bar would have been protruding mostly from the front of his chest. From my memory of seeing Fidele’s body lying on that cart I’m almost certain more of the bar was sticking out of his back suggesting the fatal blow came from behind which in turn meant Hamo could not have administered it. The trouble was I couldn’t be certain. No point asking Jocelin since he had his eyes closed most of the time and Jocellus was off summoning the reeve. What I needed was someone else who was there at the time, someone who regularly worked the market and might have seen what happened...

I made my way to the newly-rebuilt almonry up against the abbey wall. If I were vain I might point out that it was rebuilt mostly with money from my medical practice, but since I’m a modest sort of chap I won’t mention it. I’m really quite pleased with my new almonry. It’s a much more substantial structure than the flimsy lean-to it replaced. I’m no longer almoner but I still take an interest. A queue of hopefuls was lined up along the road waiting for alms and Brother Richard, the new almoner’s assistant, was busy distributing leftover scraps from the abbey’s dinner table to the deserving poor. Among those clamouring for free handouts was a particularly pathetic, filthy and hooded cripple dressed in rags and bent double with age and infirmity.

‘What’s this, Mother Han, no eye-patch today? Are we witnessing a miracle? Has sight been restored to the sightless? Halleluiah and praise be!’

Brother Richard stopped what he was doing and peered hard at the hooded hag before him.

‘You’ve been round once already today,’ he said angrily snatching back the half trencher he had just given her and shoved it into the hands of the little girl who was waiting next in line.

Mother Han spat on the ground and let out a string of invectives at the hapless Richard before shambling out of the queue. I shambled after her.

‘I might have guessed it was you, Brother Stuck-up,’ she sniffed. ‘Haven’t you anything better to do than spy on decent folk trying to ward off the pangs of hunger for a few hours?’

‘You don’t look hungry to me, quite the opposite. And alms are for the needy. It was fortunate that I happened along to stop you stealing food from the mouths of innocent babes - like that little girl behind you.’ I noticed the same girl was keeping pace a few yards behind us now while picking at her trencher.

‘It was her I was doing it for,’ she said jabbing a backward thumb. ‘I can wheedle more out of you tight-fisted monks than she can.’

‘I don’t think Brother Richard would permit a waif like that to go hungry.’

‘Not today maybe. But she’ll need to eat again tomorrow. Will you be here to feed her?’

‘So it’s charity work you do now. Is this your latest vocation?’

‘More so than yours.’

‘Mine is a vocation from God.’

‘Who’s to say mine isn’t?’

She stopped briefly by the plague-stone and peered inside. The plague-stone is a bowl-shaped vessel honed out of solid rock and sticking out of the abbey wall into which donations are placed for lepers and others in need. It is kept filled with vinegar as a barrier to disease. Mother Han dipped her hand into the liquid, scooped out the few coins that lay on the bottom and then licked the vinegar off her fingers.

I wrinkled my nose in revulsion. ‘Aren’t you afraid of catching something?’

‘What I en’t got already en’t worth catching. Besides, I got you here to cure me, ain’t I?’ she cackled. Then she scowled again. ‘What do you want? It aren’t good being seen ’sociating with a monk. Gives an honest woman a bad name.’

I sighed. ‘I was in the market today.’

‘I know. I seen ya.’

‘Then you also saw what happened.’

‘Saw some Frenchie monk spouting some nonsense.’

‘After that, I mean. The fight.’

‘Fights happen all the time in the market,’ she sniffed.

‘Not many end in murder.’

She shook her head. ‘Didn’t see no murder.’

‘If you were there you must have seen it. The place was in uproar.’

She stopped. ‘I’m a half-blind old widder-woman. What would I see?’ And to make the point she fished in a pocket for her eye-patch and replaced it over one eye.

‘You and I both know there’s nothing wrong with your eyes. They’re as good as mine.’

‘Pity then you can’t see what’s in front of yours.’

‘So you did see something. If you did then for goodness sake speak up. A man’s life may depend on it.’

She shrugged. ‘What do I care? If he don’t hang for that he’ll hang for summat else. He’s a Londoner. Only one thing worse than a Frenchie and that’s a Londoner. Sounds like a good day’s work to me,’ she cackled.

I turned and faced her. ‘Mother Han, did you see who killed Brother Fidele or not?’

She pouted. ‘Your trouble, Brother Snooty, is you keep asking the wrong questions.’

‘Then tell me what questions I should be asking.’

She sighed and stuck three grimy fingers in my face: ‘Who was there? Who took Hamo in? And who helped him escape?’

‘And the answers?’

She sniffed. ‘Not saying.’

‘It’s your duty.’

‘Duty!’

‘I could have you whipped.’

‘You could try.’

‘Mother Han!’

She flapped a dismissive hand. ‘Ask your ’pothicky friend. He was there.’

I stepped back, and not just because of the foulness of her breath. ‘You mean Joseph?’

For the second time that day I was stunned to hear Joseph’s name being mentioned.

‘Aye, that one. The clever Jew.’ She grinned at my reaction. ‘Thought that would surprise ya. Ask him, He knows more than he tells you.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘Hear no evil, see no evil, that’s my motto.’

She left me still being followed by the little girl who had finished her half-trencher.

‘But I’ll tell you one thing for nought,’ she called over her shoulder. ‘That pole what kilt the French dwarf, it come from the side of one o’ them upturned stalls. And there’s two sides to every stall like there is to every tale - teeheehee!’

Two sides to every stall? What did she mean by that? I couldn’t think for the minute, I was still too stunned by the mention of Joseph’s name. The bell was ringing in the abbey again calling us to prayer but I ignored it as I hurried back up the hill again to Joseph’s shop. I hardly noticed the stick lying across the entrance indicating that the shop was closed for business, and stepped smartly over it. Inside there was no sign of Joseph but his assistant, Chrétien, was weighing some powder on a set of scales as I blustered in.

I have to admit that I have never liked this young man although I would be at a loss to explain exactly why. Really I suppose I should be grateful to him. Two years earlier when I was attacked in the forest by the evil Geoffrey de Saye, some mysterious rescuer had stepped in saved my life. My cloak had been pulled over my head so I never saw who my saviour was, but the unspoken implication was that it was Chrétien. Yet to look at the lad it was impossible to believe. Geoffrey de Saye was a knight, a warrior who had fought alongside both King Henry and King Richard and was as powerful a soldier as ever lived. Surely this slight youth would not have had the strength to defeat such a man? I suppose I was ashamed to think I might owe him my life so I never thanked him and he never admitted it. Maybe it was this that irritated me so much about him, as though saving my life was so incidental to him that it was hardly worth mentioning - plus the infuriatingly superior smile he always wore and indeed was wearing now.

‘Where is your master?’ I asked him curtly.

‘Joseph is not here.’

‘I can see that. I asked you where he was. And please don’t call him “Joseph”. He’s your employer not your friend.’

The smile merely broadened. ‘What should I call him?’

‘Master Joseph will do.’

‘He doesn’t like being called master.’

‘I don’t care what he likes or what you call him when I’m not here. When referring to him in my presence you will call him Master.’

He shrugged. ‘As you wish.’

I held my jaw that had started throbbing again. ‘When will he be back?’

‘I really couldn’t say.’

‘Couldn’t? Or won’t?’ I flapped a dismissive hand. ‘Never mind.’ I looked about me. ‘Has anybody else been here today?’

‘Other than customers?’

‘Yes, other than customers.’

‘Yourself?’

I could see I was not going to get a sensible answer. I wanted to hear that Hamo had been here, rescued by Joseph and then spirited away which was what I suspected from my conversation with Mother Han. I was probably wasting my time asking. Joseph would have been careful to hide any evidence, and what he didn’t clear away himself I was sure Chrétien would have. But I needed to stamp my authority on this insolent servant.

‘I’m going to look around now. Please don’t try to stop me.’

He smiled again. ‘I wouldn’t dream of trying, master.’

I found nothing of course and left Joseph’s shop even more frustrated than when I entered. No clues, no signs of mess or blood from Hamo’s wounded shin, no evidence that he had been there. But at least I had the satisfaction of creating a mess for Chrétien to clear up. Serve him right for his impudence. The question was, though, why would Joseph rescue Hamo, assuming I was right and he had rescued him? There was nothing more than a tenuous connection between them. Both were market traders but that was all. I doubted whether Joseph had even heard of Hamo before today. The only reason that made sense was that Joseph didn’t think Hamo wasn’t the murderer either. Did that mean he knew who was? That was what Mother Han had been intimating. I dearly wanted to ask him and preferably before I went to Ely, but he was now missing too, damn his eyes, and Chrétien wasn’t telling me where.

With all this chasing around I’d missed most of the day’s offices as well as my dinner and the next one was at nones. If I missed that as well tongues would begin to wag. I also had to start making preparations for my journey to Ely in the morning. But that final comment by Mother Han was weighing heavily on my mind. What did she mean about a stall having two sides? Of course a stall has two sides. And a top and a bottom. So what? What had it to do with Fidele’s murder? Maybe if I saw a stall Mother Han’s meaning would become clearer. Despite my anxiety to return to the abbey I turned left out of Heathenmans Street instead of right and went up into the marketplace for the second time that day.

Samson was as good as his word. The square, so vibrant and full of life a few hours ago, was now deserted save for the reeve’s marshals who were posted at the four entrances and dotted at regular intervals around the perimeter. From the looks of it the market must have been cleared in a hurry. Many of the stalls were still on their pitches along with much of their wares.

The site of the murder was on the diametrically opposite side of the square to where I was. I suppose I could have circled round the back and approached from the top end, but time was pressing and the most direct route was to cut across the square - assuming the marshals would let me in. I decided the easiest way would be to just march in brazenly as though I had every right to do so in the hope I wouldn’t be challenged. Unfortunately the guard nearest me had other ideas and stepped smartly in front of me as soon as I took my first step across the perimeter line.

‘The market’s closed, brother.’

I gave him my most confident smile. ‘Yes I know, I just need to get to the market cross briefly. I shan’t be a moment.’ I tried to take another step forward but the man wouldn’t budge.