Blood Moon (16 page)

‘He wants to know who is to be the next Abbot of Saint Edmunds.’

‘He’s already had his answer to that.’

‘He wants another. He’s already had his choice of archbishop quashed by the pope, and now you monks are trying to do the same with this new abbot. Kings don’t like to be told “no” too often. It makes them look weak - and that is the last thing John needs at the moment.’

I snorted. ‘King John isn’t weak. He’s just unlucky.’

‘Kings make their own luck,’ sighed Joseph. ‘And I’m very much afraid John’s is beginning to run out.’

Chapter 17

THE LETTER

I
wish now that I had paid closer attention to what Joseph was trying to tell me but then hindsight is always perfect, isn’t it? Much more difficult is to anticipate events before they happen, for only God has the all-seeing eye for all that diviners and soothsayers may claim. But my very dear and cherished half-brother did offer one ray of hope: If the purpose of the king’s visit was indeed to resolve the impasse over the choice of new abbot then it was indeed good news. If nothing else it would mean an end to Prior Herbert’s stultifying dominion over us. Similarly, Joseph’s comment about de Saye not wishing to cause a stir while the king was here was also encouraging. It might mean I’d retain my liberty for long enough to trace the whereabouts of my little family - though what I would do with them when I found them I really had no idea.

One thing I thought I might do in the meantime was try to see Hugh Northwold now that he was back in the abbey for a while. If I could convince him of Raoul’s innocence then his support might be
just the counterbalance to Prior Herbert and Geoffrey De Saye I needed. I gathered from Peter the Cellarer that both Hugh and the king had arrived from France a fortnight earlier though on different vessels, Hugh landing at Dover and John at Dartmouth. Hugh had come straight on to Bury to prepare the way while John had gone off to Corfe Castle for a few days’ respite. Before the king arrived, therefore, I thought I’d try to ingratiate myself with our erstwhile subcellarer, and by happy chance my mother may just have given me the vehicle with which to do it: Her letter. I still had it secreted in my laboratorium. Hugh and the Lady Isabel were old friends and I proposed to use that fact and her letter in order to speak to him during the course of which I would bring up the case of the murdered girl and tell him of all that had been going on here in his absence. A glimmer of hope at last, perhaps? I should have realised it was a false dawn.

Hugh was a busy and important man these days. Since he allowed his name to be put forward for abbot he seemed to be in virtual permanent conference with his supporters and advisors. But I finally managed to beard him in the cellarer’s range where he was holding unofficial court. He was courteous enough to ask after my mother’s health before accepting the letter of whose contents I still had no notion. He glanced at the seal but unlike me was undaunted by its grand embossment. Smiling graciously, he handed it to a subordinate to open.

Remembering my mother’s exhortations to me, I put my hand out to stop hi
m. ‘Erm, I believe, Brother Subcellarer, the contents are intended for your eyes only,’ I smiled obsequiously.

Hugh shrugged and took back the letter slipping a practiced finger under the wax seal and separated the two halves in one movement. He unfolded the document and having glanced briefly at
its contents, his eyebrows shot up to the top of his head. Aha! I thought. The note must indeed contain something of some import to elicit such a reaction and I was at last about to discover what it was.

But then Hugh’s face changed. First his eyebrows came back down and knitted hard together. Then he looked confused. Then he chortled to himself. I was becoming increasingly uncomfortable sensing that things were not quite right. Hugh held the note out for his colleagues to read. They too seemed baffled by what they saw. By now the back of my neck had begun to prickle. What was written on that sheet that so amused them all? Finally Hugh held the document out to me and there I saw that it contained…nothing. The page was completely blank.

‘This is a joke, Brother Physician?’ he asked. ‘If so, I am not laughing. I have important matters to occupy my time and precious little to waste on jests.’

He
dropped the document on the floor and I scooped it up and stared disconsolately at it. My head was swimming. I felt sick but I had just enough presence of mind to reply:

‘Brother, I
-I am merely my mother’s messenger,’ I stammered.

‘Then you will require an answer to take back to her from me. Tell your mother my answer is…’

He leaned towards me and very carefully, very precisely - stuck out his tongue. He looked exactly like one of the gargoyles on the outside of the abbey parapet. It was funny. Everybody laughed. Even I laughed. But if my mother had been in the room at that moment I would happily have rammed the letter down her gullet.

*

Back in my laboratorium I tried everything I could think of to tease a message from the letter, but nothing seemed to be written on it that naked flame or acid could expose. There was no secret writing. No writing of any kind. It was indeed a completely blank sheet of parchment.

I threw the thing away from me in disgust. What was my mother playing at? If she was trying to make a fool of me she’d succeeded admirably. I had expected the note to bear a message of profound significance to do with the abbot’s election or the king’s visit or some other great matter. But it was just a cruel joke and one that wrecked any chance I might have had of gaining credibility with Hugh who must now think me a complete buffoon. What possible reason could my mother have for playing such a cruel trick
on me? I was baffled.

It was while I was still fuming over this that a knock came on my door.

I felt a sharp intake of breath. Was this the knock I had been waiting for? The one that signified my being carted off to God-knows what hell-hole with no-one left to befriend me? And if it was, how cruel to have come now just as I had lost my last hope of any help from Hugh. Tentatively, I opened the door a crack and peeped out into the gloom.

But instead of a group of soldiers in hauberks and chain-mail, I saw standing before me a young man dressed in the white robes
of a novice.

I recognized him immediately as Timothy, a gentle youth who I had been ministering to on and off for the past year. His mother had died
young and his father, broken-hearted, drowned soon after probably by his own hand and leaving ten-year-old Timothy to look after his four younger brothers and three sisters. To his eternal credit and as practically as his final act on earth, Abbot Samson had of charity taken Timothy into the cloister and made provision out of his own will for the care of his siblings. It was a kind thing to do and one typical of Abbot Samson who for all his faults was never anything less than generous to those who he thought deserved it. As it was I who nursed his mother during her final illness, Timothy has always regarded me as a sort of second father figure and frequently asks my advice even though I am not his chaplain or his novice master. From the worried expression on his face I imagined that was his purpose this night. I must have startled him as much as he startled me for he took a step back.

‘Master. I am sorry. I can see you are busy. I will come back some other time.’ He turned to go.

‘No, it’s all right, Timothy,’ I said with relief. ‘Come in.’ I quickly cleared away the remnants of the destroyed letter. ‘What can I do for you?’

Once I’d recovered my presence of mind I could see that he was distracted and unhappy. It pained me to see one of such a normally sunny disposition looking so despondent and I wondered if perhaps he was ill again – he was frequently depressed and worried about his siblings who were in the care of a distant aunt. Timothy was not naturally drawn to the cloister but was here by force of circumstance. As I
said before, many find it difficult to adjust to the life. It takes time and perseverance. The younger men in particular very often bear suffering with fortitude seeing it as a weakness to complain. Often it is something as simple as belly ache or some equally minor disorder that is easily remedied. It is surprising what a little oil of peppermint can do to ease the constitution and lift the spirit.

He came fully into the room and stood in the glow of my oil lamp
looking rather nervous. ‘Forgive the intrusion, master. I…I have not been sleeping well lately.’

I smiled cheerfully. ‘Another one. Well I can give you something for that.’ I went to my shelf of concoctions.

‘Another one, master?’

‘The new man from Shouldham, Eusebius, was having similar problems.’

I noticed he flinched at my words, and waited.

‘It’s not a potion I need, master
,’ he said at last.

‘No?’ I stopped fumbling around my shelves and waited, but he seemed
hesitant to speak. ‘Timothy, there is no need to be shy. Whatever you say to me here will go no further, you know that. And I have been a doctor for many more years than you have been alive. Whatever it is that is troubling you I am sure to have come across it before and will not shock me.’

His frown deepened distorting that clear brow of his. It pained me to see God’s perfection so deformed. They all had it - the mother, the daughters, the sons - a
n unusual beauty of countenance that is rare and precious that lifted the heart whenever I saw one of them. I waited, smiling affably, until he was ready to speak.

‘Master, do you believe that on the Day of Judgement we will atone for our sins here on earth?’

‘That is what Christ taught us,’ I nodded. ‘But you are a young man with many years ahead of you before you have to worry on that score. Plenty of time to correct any misdeeds you may, or may imagine you have, committed.’

His frown deepened. ‘Mis-
thoughts
as well as mis-deeds?’

‘Those too,’ I nodded wondering where this was going.

He looked at me shyly. ‘What about
unnatural
thoughts, master?’

Ah. That I hadn’t anticipated. But then, with Timothy’s particular physical attributes it is not hard to see the opportunities to stray are more plentiful than for most.

‘What does your novice master say?’ I prompted gently.

‘Brother Solomon counsels patience.’

I nodded. ‘Solomon is a wise man. Timothy, we are all God’s children, all of us human with human feelings and failings. Perhaps you should simply try to avoid situations where you might be tempted -’

‘No, you do not understand, master,’ he said, his cheeks colouring. ‘It is not I who is tempted.’

I brightened at his words. ‘Oh well, in that case, you need not worry. Just be sure to keep company at all times and not be alone. Strength is in the many.’

‘That is not always easy when one is lying…so close.’

‘You mean it is someone in your own dormitory? In the novices’ hall?’

He lowered his head. ‘At night he whispers, telling me things I do not wish to hear. I try to stop my ears and sleep but he wakes me again with more words.’ He looked at me in anguish. ‘Oh master, such
words
.’

I cupped my chin
thoughtfully. I knew, of course, that such things went on in the cloister and that the young, because of their innocence or curiosity, were especially vulnerable. And if it is an older man then he can be hard to resist. Friendship can be mistaken for something more intimate. The problem is always present in a community such as ours devoid as it is entirely of female contact. That is this very reason the novices have their own dormitory so that a closer eye can be kept on them. But they cannot be watched every minute of the day and night. My duty, however, was clear: To preserve this child’s innocence if I possibly could - if it wasn’t already too late.

‘Listen to me Timothy, you must tell me of whom you speak. I promise it will go no further but if I am to help you I have to know the source of the problem.’ I forced a laugh. ‘After all, you wouldn’t want me to chop off your left foot if the wart is on the right, would you?’

He smiled briefly at my poor attempt at humour, but then frowned again. ‘I do not wish to get anyone into trouble, master.’

‘You are a good and generous young man. What possible trouble could you cause?’

He lowered his eyes. ‘It is the one you mentioned earlier, master. The new one.’

‘Eusebius?’ I nodded. Of course.
Why did I not guess this earlier? It made sense. His obsession with Our Lady; his lack of sleep - even his nose-bleeds were all symptomatic of a troubled mind. It seemed from what Timothy was saying that Eusebius’s problems were more than just religious.

‘I will speak to your novice master. Do not worry, I will be discreet. I will not mention our conversation, merely introduce the subject as if it were from my own observations.’ I smiled encouragingly. ‘Rest assured you will not be bothered again.’