Blood Moon (2 page)

‘Not any more,’ I smiled, pleased at last to know something she didn’t. ‘She gave birth to a female child in the early hours of this morning. I know. I delivered it.’

Her eyes widened. ‘You were there? At the birth?’

‘I was indeed
- well, within a minute or two. Don’t look so surprised, mother. I am the abbey physician.’

‘But the birth - it was normal?’

‘Perfectly. A completely normal healthy baby girl, not a finger more nor a toe less than the required number - I counted them all myself. And a very healthy pair of lungs, too,’ I added, remembering those wails.

Her frown deepened. ‘How did she look? The mother, I mean.’

‘Radiant - exceptionally so as a matter of fact.’

Lady Isabel went quiet. Not a good sign. I knew my mother, she was calculating something, the gears of her mind turning like those of a windmill. I could almost hear the cogs connecting.

‘Are they still at the abbey?’ she asked at last.

‘Don’t you know? You seem to know everything else.’

She tapped her stick impatiently. ‘Just answer the question.’

‘I
doubt it. They’re on their way south. They’ll almost certainly be gone by the time I get back.’ I yawned. The subject was beginning to bore me.

‘Then you must stop them,’ she said pushing at my thigh.

‘Oh? And how exactly am I supposed to do that?’

‘You’re a doctor, think of something, some
medical
reason to keep them at the abbey.’

I had no intention of doing any such thing. As far as I knew they had every right to come and go as they pleased, but to say so would only lead to further argument.
It would soon blow over and she would forget the matter. And I knew there was no point in asking her
why
she wanted the de Gray family to remain in Bury for she wouldn’t have told me – or worse, she’d have made up some lie. For the moment, though, she seemed satisfied.

‘Come,’ she
nodded holding out her hand. ‘There’s something I want to show you.’

What now? I supported her under the elbow as she hobbled over to the other side of the room.
Old people do get fixated. Perhaps she wasn’t as well as I’d supposed after all. Perhaps her mind was going. Despite her protestations I knew she suffered with her joints. She had a podagra
of the hip - a condition I’d diagnosed long ago and for which I have prescribed many remedies none of which she has ever heeded. It made her slow to get moving especially if she’d been sitting for a while. I could only imagine how long it must take Oswald to get her out of bed in the mornings.

We stopped by a wooden chest that filled half the length of one wall of the room. I knew this chest well. It had been standing in that exact same spot for all of my lifetime and probably most of hers too. Made of sturdy English oak and fixed to the floorboards with six heavy iron screws, it was where my mother kept all her most important items - all the estate accounts, her jewellery, private documents and much more. No-one was ever allowed so much as a glance inside without her say-so. Not that they hadn’t tried - tool marks around the locks betrayed signs of attempted entry
in the past. But all had failed. I knew also that this was
not
where she kept her most highly prized secrets of all.

She took from her belt a ring of iron keys to undo the three heavy locks on the chest. ‘Turn around,’ she said
to me.

‘Why?’

‘So that you can’t see which key fits which lock, of course. Now don’t be tiresome Walter, do as I ask. Turn around and close your eyes.’

I didn’t turn around. Instead, I reached over to an
obscure object standing in shadow on a shelf just above the oak chest. It was an unattractive and seemingly valueless old crucifix affixed to a plain wooden stand - something that no self-respecting thief would look at twice. Even so it was a holy rood, a representation of Christ’s passion on the cross and I kissed my fingers before touching it. Then with a deft twist of the wrist I turned the upright of the cross to the left which produced a click in the stand at the bottom from where a drawer popped out on a spring. Without hesitating, I reached inside the secret compartment and withdrew the contents.

I must say I did enjoy the look of surprise on that shrivelled old face of hers – or as much of it as I could see behind the wimple. She looked like she was chewing a particularly tough piece of gristle.

‘If you are going to disparage the one true religion, mummy dear,’ I explained in answer to her unspoken question, ‘you would do better than to have its symbol so prominently displayed. In this room - with you - it’s incongruous. Besides, Joseph and I have known about your secret hiding place ever since we were children. It’s where you always hid our presents and where you stored the love letters from my father when he was courting you.’

‘They weren’t love letters,’ she growled. ‘They were
marital negotiations.’

‘They were love letters. I read them.’

‘Then you shouldn’t have.’

‘Then you shouldn’t leave them where I can find them
.’

She snatched at the item I was holding but not before I’d taken note what it was. It was a letter made of thick vellum folded much smaller than is normal and heavily embossed with the Ixworth seal. She stood turning it over in her hands for a minute thinking. Then just as suddenly she thrust it back into my hand again.

‘Here, take it.’

‘What is it?’ I said with surprise feeling its thick, luxuriant richness in my fingers.

‘Since you’re so clever,’ she smirked, ‘divine it for yourself.’

I shook my head. The parchment was too thick to hazard a guess as to what it contained. It could be anything.
There was no point in trying to guess.

‘What am I supposed to do with it?’

‘You are to deliver it to the new abbot.’

‘To Hugh?’ I said with astonishment. ‘Is that why you’ve brought me here, to be your messenger?’

‘There’s no-one else I could trust.’ She squinted warily up at me. ‘
Can
I trust you?’

‘Clearly not
enough to tell me what’s in it.’

‘Hm,’ she grunted, but still she wouldn’t
be drawn. ‘Into Hugh’s hands, mind, and no-one else’s. Do I have your oath on it?’

‘Mother, you astonish me. I
-’

She
grabbed my arm. ‘Your oath. Do I have it?’

I looked at her gnarled face. Something in
those old eyes told me she was in earnest. ‘You do,’ I sighed. ‘But its deliverance may have to wait a while. Hugh is not even in the country at the moment.’

‘
Don’t you think I know that? He’s with the king in France still trying to persuade him he’s the right man to be abbot.’ She saw me fingering the seal. ‘Oh, don’t bother trying to open it. Hugh will know if you do. And more importantly, so will I.’

I reluctantly placed the letter in my belt pouch while she hobbled over to the window and looked out into the gathering dusk. Already the moon was rising, big and full in the night sky illuminating my mother’s face with its stark cold light.

‘What month is it?’

‘October – as you very well know.’

She nodded. ‘That’s a Hunter’s Moon up there – or to give it its old name, the Blood Moon.’ She glanced over her shoulder. ‘Do you know why they call it that? Because it gives the huntsmen a few more hours of light in order to chase down their quarry. A few more short but vital hours,’ she said wistfully, then shook herself. ‘The chase has begun
. The question is, who will be the hunter and who the hunted? Let us hope we know the answer before too long.’

Chapter
2

ONETHUMB
AND THE PRIOR

Blood
Moon indeed! I had no idea what my mother was talking about and cared less. Perhaps she was losing her mind after all. But then, she has always delighted in tying me up in these metaphysical knots and watching me struggle to unravel them. Over the years I’ve learned not to try. Whatever her true purpose in bringing me out to Ixworth I assumed it would become obvious in time. Still, she seemed satisfied with the way our meeting had gone and spoke no more of secret letters. I therefore spent the following morning touring the estate villages and re-acquainting myself with old friends and tenants I had not seen for years until it was time for me to begin my lonely trudge back to Bury.

My mother’s behaviour may seem a little odd but these were strange times. King John had been on the throne for fifteen years and for much of them England had been at war - with France, naturally, but also with the church. The French war was over at last,
Deo gratias
, but John had been forced to return home in disgrace having lost nearly all his overseas possessions and for the first time in nearly a century and a half England was an island nation again. John’s humiliation was made all the more painful by the intransigence of his own barons many of whom had refused to fight or even pay for a war that seemed to them increasingly expensive and irrelevant. This did not bode well for future relations between the king and his courtiers.

There was, however, better news coming from
Rome. Pope Innocent had finally lifted the yoke of interdict he’d imposed on the English people six years earlier as punishment for King John’s refusal to accept Cardinal Langton as Archbishop of Canterbury, and we were free once again to ring the bells, to say mass aloud and to rebury the bodies of the dead in consecrated ground - including that of our former abbot Samson of Tottington who, despite having died three years earlier, we were only now able to lay to rest in the chapterhouse amid much veneration and tearful thanks. Joyful as that occasion was, Abbot Samson’s interment highlighted the other great matter that had been concerning the abbey lately, namely the election of his successor. My mother had unfairly blamed us monks for our vacillation but in truth we had little choice for during the interdict all such elections were prohibited. But with the king once more reconciled with the Holy Father we were permitted to make our selection, and after much prayer and careful consideration Hugh Northwold, the subcellarer, was chosen. Alas, this has not been the end of the matter for King John has so far refused to ratify Hugh’s appointment and with half the monks favouring the king’s position and half opposed, stalemate has ensued.

The one beacon of light to shine amidst all this gloom concerned my brother Joseph. Joseph and
I are not really true brothers; we just call ourselves that having grown up together in my father’s house. Both our fathers had been medics during the wars in the Holy Land, albeit on opposite sides, and when they ended they returned to England together to carry on with their work. Joseph and I were born in that house, Joseph first and me three years later. We both inherited our fathers’ enthusiasms for healing the sick but whereas I went to the best medical schools in Europe Joseph had to be content with opening an apothecary shop in Bury town. With an Arab father and Jewish mother he could not practice the mystic arts of the physician since his heathen prayers, so vital an ingredient in the healing process, would naturally be useless. Happily though, his apothecary business has flourished - so much so that when he asked for my help in finding him an assistant I had no hesitation in recommending my old friend Onethumb.

What Onethumb’s birth-name was no-one has ever discovered or even whether he ever had one. His nickname was given him when he was a child living – or rather
surviving
– on the streets of Bury, for in addition to being mute he was also born with a deformed right hand which consists of a normal thumb but four pea-sized stumps in place of fingers. Despite these handicaps Onethumb manages all the skills necessary to the apothecary trade, so much so that Joseph now swears he cannot do without him. Indeed, it is largely because Onethumb is so very good at his job that I see so little of my brother. I no longer have to visit Joseph’s shop in order to replenish my stock of oils and potions for by the time I’ve noticed that I require them Onethumb has anticipated my need and appears as if by magic at the door of my laboratorium with the items already measured and invoiced. And that was where I found him waiting for me when I returned from Ixworth that evening. With everything else that had been happening I’d completely forgotten that I’d arranged to meet him, a dereliction that I realised as soon as I saw him waiting patiently in the gathering gloom.

‘What hey, Onethumb!’ I greeted him heartily and pointed to the bundle lying next to him. ‘My goodness, what have we here? Half my brother’s stock by the look of it. Did we
, erm, agree that you should bring it tonight?’

The question was rhetorical of course, for being mute Onethumb couldn’t reply; but his features, mobile and expressive as ever, were eloquence itself. He was not taken in by my false bonhomie.

‘Yes, you’re quite right,’ I nodded humbly. ‘I have no excuse. I admit it, I forgot you were coming. My apologies, my friend, for keeping you waiting.’

I could have blamed my mother for my lapse of memory, I suppose, but that would have been unworthy. Besides, I knew well enough how to soothe Onethumb’s temper.

‘Tell me,’ I beamed at him, ‘how are the lovely Rosabel and little Hal? Still beautiful and thriving I trust?’

At the mention of his wife and son Onethumb’s frown instantly evaporated and his face split into a shy grin
as I knew it would. But it faltered a moment later as he looked over my shoulder and cocked a warning eyebrow. I turned to see in the gathering twilight another figure gliding silently towards us across the expanse of the Great Court like a hawk falling upon its prey. Prior Herbert, his beaky nose twitching with disapproval, was the first to speak and from his tone I could tell his mood was not placatory:

‘Brother Walter, there you are.’

‘Indeed I am, Brother Prior,’ I smiled affably.

He tutted
disapprovingly. ‘Do you know the time? It is past compline. Did we not agree when we allowed your visit to your mother it was on the understanding that you would be back by now?’

I shrugged. ‘But I am back by now.’

‘I meant back in time
for
compline brother, not
after
. We were fearful that something might have happened to you.’

I shrugged again.
‘What could have happened?’

‘Well that’s just it, we don’t know, do we? And that is the danger of allowing these…excursions.’

Oh dear. I could see he was still smarting over losing his fight with my mother. If only the Lady Isabel realised the havoc she left in the wake of some of her battles.

Prior Herbert continued with his peroration: ‘
Do you not realise that we monks are innocents in a wicked world, brother? Within these walls we are, so to speak, oysters secure in our shells. Out there...’ and he encompassed half the town in the sweep of his arm ‘…are many predators waiting to gobble us up.’

‘Crabs, Brother Prior?’

Behind me I heard Onethumb snigger.

‘I speak of the Devil, brother. The Great Tempter assumes many guises – as the wolf prowls at the edge of the camp, or even in the smile of a pretty girl. That is why I resisted your mother’s request in the first instan
ce. You must see now that I was right to do so however imploring her entreaties.’

Imploring? My mother? I think not. But I knew where this was leading:

‘Rules, brother, are not made from caprice. It is rules that keep us safe. Far greater minds than ours have devised them and we disregard them at our peril.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Take, for instance, the Rule of Silence.’

Oh dear.
This was one of Herbert’s favourite topics but I was in no mood to be lectured to tonight. It was late and I was tired after my journey and Onethumb needed to get home to his family. But Herbert would not be deterred. And I suppose in essence he was right for the bedrock of a monk’s life is indeed the list of rules devised by the founder of our order, Benedict of Nursia. But Benedict never meant his rules to be rigid, merely suggestions to be modified as circumstances demanded. What may be sensible in the dry heat of Italy did not necessarily apply to the cold damp of a Suffolk fen. But that argument, I knew, would not wash with Herbert. As far as he was concerned a rule is a rule, unbreakable and immutable. Not for the first time I lamented the passing of Abbot Samson. For all his faults he would not have been so pedantic. It indicated a petty mind and why
Prior
Herbert would never be
Abbot
Herbert.

He peered hard at Onethumb. ‘I believe I heard you greet this man just now.’

‘Of course. He is a friend of mine.’

‘Yes,’ Herbert frowned painfully, ‘but
out loud
,
brother. Was it really necessary? A simple raising of the hand would have sufficed. Like this.’ He lifted his own hand to demonstrate what he meant.

‘It’s
night, Brother Prior. I didn’t think Onethumb would see me if I’d simply flapped my hand at him.’

‘Then you adapt the movement to the prevailing conditions,’ persisted Herbert. ‘Watch again.’

This time he brought his hand up with much exaggerated aplomb and then repeated the gesture a third time just to be sure I had caught it. Resignedly, I copied the movement to Onethumb who in turn copied it back to Herbert. Unfortunately Onethumb used his mizzened hand whose single upturned digit gave the gesture a somewhat different meaning to the one Herbert had intended.

Herbert squinted suspiciously at Onethumb. ‘Yes, well I think I’ve made my point. Meaning can be conveyed without the need for the spoken word – provided, of course,’ he added spitefully, ‘one is fully equipped with the tools that God intended.’

That was unfair. Onethumb couldn’t help his malformation. Now it was my turn to bristle.

‘Perhaps the meaning behind the gesture is more important than the gesture itself, brother,’ I said haughtily. ‘Or else it may be open to misinterpretation.’

‘My point entirely,’ agreed Herbert. ‘The voice conveys far more complexity with its inflexions, tones…
etcetera
...while a hand gesture, clearly given, is eloquent in its simplicity.’

I was growing more and more tired of this nonsense and drew breath to defend Onethumb. But I had no need, for Onethumb was more than capable of answering for himself and now he did
just that with a breathtaking extemporization of rapid speed-signing that went on for several seconds. Being dumb from birth, Onethumb had no option but to sign if he wished to communicate at all - a skill he mastered long ago with his characteristic thoroughness and has even attempted to teach me a little of it. His needs being far more extensive than merely to ask for the salt to be passed or to be excused to visit the necessarium, his “vocabulary” is far more extensive than anything we monks have devised. And since Onethumb’s language of signing is entirely his own invention, Herbert understood not one word of it.

‘What’s he saying?’ frowned Herbert alarmed by Onethumb’s violent arm movements.

I couldn’t follow them completely either, but the signs for “pig” and “arse” were in there somewhere.

‘He asks if we may conclude our business soon as it is late and he has to get home in time for curfew,’ I interpreted loosely.

Prior Herbert nodded. ‘Quite so. Well, I think I’ve made my point. Do try to remember it - and to be on time in future, brother. That’s all I ask.’

With that he swooped off
again into the darkness. It seemed not to have occurred to Herbert that nothing of the sense of his lecture could have been conveyed using mime alone, nor that the only person who might have been able to do so was Onethumb.

If I sound less than courteous towards Prior Herbert then I am sorry. He is, after all, the most senior member of the abbey, at least until a new abbot is enthroned, and as such I owe him
deference and a duty of obedience. But the truth is I don’t much like the man. He was forced upon us by Abbot Samson as one of his last and uncharacteristically misguided decisions. Put it down to an old man’s fancy. But I thought at the time it was a wrong decision and I was not alone in that opinion. To put it bluntly, Herbert is a schemer. Take this business over the election of Hugh as abbot. Half the monks are in favour and half against – there are honourable arguments for both points of view. But Herbert wishes to keep a foot in both camps hoping to jump to the winning side once he’s worked out which it is. That’s no way for the spiritual leader of our community to behave. We need firm leadership even if occasionally it is wrong. It is yet one more reason why we need to resolve the question of the new abbot as quickly as possible.