Blood Moon (21 page)

*

I seethed with anger over what had happened to Mother Han and determined to confront de Saye no matter what the consequences for me. But before I had a chance to do that events took yet another unexpected turn. Returning to the abbey I found the place in turmoil once again. For a moment I thought the king had returned but then I realised these were not the king’s men I saw patrolling the streets but De Saye’s. They were everywhere, highly visible and behaving as though the town was under siege. All the gates were locked as were the two main gates of the abbey with crowds gathered in front of them and this time not weeping for their children but fearful and confused for their own lives. No-one knew what was going on and no-one would tell them. Normally during daylight hours the abbey gates were open and welcoming so that anyone wishing to enter the abbey grounds could pass freely. But now the only people being allowed in were the choir monks and even they were being vetted and searched first.

I mingled with the
noisy crowd in front of the Great Gate wondering whether to risk going through myself when a figure suddenly appeared the other side of the barrier that made me think again: It was Geoffrey de Saye. I ducked before he saw me. Despite my brave intentions to confront him this was clearly not the time. With the place virtually under martial law I’d simply be hauled off and then all my blustering would avail me nothing. What concerned me most was that the abbey appeared to be have been invaded and it’s authority in the person of the prior was nowhere to be seen. It was surely an outrage that would never have been permitted in Abbot Samson’s day. He would be out here now remonstrating with de Saye and risking his own life in the process. Then another figure appeared who I did recognize pushing his way through the crowd.

‘Jocelin, is that you?’

He seemed excited as excited as the crowd. ‘W-walter, m-my f-friend. Are you c-coming in?’

‘For what reason? What’s going on?
And where is Herbert?’

He
shook his head. ‘H-have you n-not h-heard? We have b-been summoned. All of us - th-there are no exceptions. Th-there is to be a m-meeting.’

‘What meeting?’

‘An important meeting. B-before the H-high Altar. All will be there. You too?’ He glanced about unsure whether to utter a name.

‘Is it the king?’ I asked hopefully. ‘Is John to attend?’

‘The
king
?’ Jocelin snorted. ‘N-no, I th-think you can be assured the k-king will be the l-last person to know of it.’

So it had happened: The rebellion that John had been warning of. I wanted to quiz Jocelin further but
already we were being separated by two of the guards pushing us roughly apart to create a gap through which two riders quickly cantered. Both were hooded so that their faces could not be seen but I glimpsed the gloved hand of the second man and held my breath. On one of his fingers was a ring that I recognised. Only one person in all Christendom was entitled to wear that ring. Stephen Langton was here.

Jocelin was now twenty feet from me and mouthing something I could not hear
above the clamour. I daren’t try to get to him for fear of being recognised. Jocelin was being pushed in through the gate by one of the guards and was soon gone from view. Other monks were being shoved unceremoniously through. In a moment it would be my turn. I pulled back. I wanted to be at this meeting, too, to witness the treachery first hand but not with my brother monks. I would see it, but alone. As inconspicuously as I could, I withdrew and made my way round the outside of the abbey walls where there was a little postern gate that few knew about. Just as I hoped, the guards had missed it.

Once inside the grounds I quickly made my way to the back of the church and up through Samson’s south tower from where I knew I could get into the loft over the church. The day was dull with plenty of cloud cover. Was it an early Hunter’s Moon up there behind the cloud? I was
n’t sure anymore, I wasn’t sure of anything. It was only much later that I would remember the actual date: Thursday the 20
th
of November 1214, the Feast of Saint Edmund the King Martyr - the day that England’s die was cast.

Chapter
22

A CONSPIRACY OF CUCKOLDS

From
my perch high up in the triforium I had a bird’s-eye view of the abbey church a hundred feet below and there I watched a truly amazing spectacle unfold. Gone were the usual throngs of pilgrims queuing in hushed tones past the tomb of the blessed Edmund and in their place a quarter the baronage of England filed in to take their seats in stalls where normally only we monks sat. Some of the figures I knew already having themselves been to the abbey many times before on pilgrimage - Roger Bigod, Geoffrey de Mandeville and John de Lacy, East Anglian earls all. Others were less familiar to me and I only learned much later: Eustace de Vesci was from Northumberland in the far north, but I also saw Richard de Montfichet and William de Lanvellei whose name I still have difficulty pronouncing; also Henry de Bohun and William Mallet. In all I counted some forty-odd peers whose names would in time become familiar to every Englishman in infamy. And scurrying between them like a rat among lemmings was my lord de Saye. I seethed with anger at the sight of him and I was tempted to lean over the parapet and name him for the murderer I knew him to be. No doubt my moment of defiance would have been quickly ended by a well-aimed bolt from one of his archers who nervously stood guard at the doors, their fingers itching on their triggers, so I kept my peace. Crowding around them all and standing in every possible space were my brother monks, all seventy of them although I was sure many were there under duress. Not so Prior Herbert for there he was seated on the abbot’s throne looking proudly smug, the Devil take him. Even from my eyrie I could get a sense of the tension down below with much subdued whispering as they waited for the business to begin. This meeting surely would go down in the annals of perfidy. I was certain once the king got to know of it a great many of the heads raised so arrogantly today would be raised even higher on pikes above the town gates - and well they would look there too.

The last such revolt against a lawful king, I remembered, had taken place some forty years earlier in the time of John’s father, good King Harry. That time the conspirators had been the king’s own sons Henry and Richard. It had all come to an ignominious end and actually not
far from where I was sitting now in the village of Fornham Saint Genevieve a few miles north of Bury when a peasant host armed with little more than sickles and clubs annihilated the rebel army. I was but a child at the time but I can remember hearing the cries of battle and the clash of weapons from nearby Ixworth and later saw the bones of the slaughtered Flemings lying in the field where they remained for years to be bleached by the sun and rain as a warning to others. Clearly that lesson had not yet been learned.

The leader this time seemed to be one Robert Fitzwalter, lord of Dunmow in
Essex, who styled himself outrageously as
Marshal of the Army of God
. It was this same Robert Fitzwalter who together with Eustace de Vesci had plotted to murder King John two years earlier but which, by God’s good grace, the king had managed to foil and subsequently chased both would-be assassins into exile. A story was later circulated that Fitzwalter’s hatred of John was not so much because of his political differences with the king but because John had once made overtures to Fitzwalter’s daughter who is then supposed to have killed herself by eating a poisoned egg. Now, I know a little of John’s sexual proclivities having witnessed them in the past and I would be the first to agree they left much to be desired, but frankly this story beggared belief. I’d no doubt it was made up simply to justify Fitzwalter’s subsequent treasons. And interestingly enough, the other conspirator in that failed murder plot, Eustace de Vesci, is said to have had a similar experience. As a young man John was supposed to have tried to seduce his wife but Eustace managed to smuggle a whore into John’s bed in her place. John was so riled when he discovered the deception that he banned the earl from court. So the story went. But again, it sounded more like the invention of some French troubadour in order to discredit our king. No doubt something unsavoury took place but the truth would be altogether more prosaic. In short, this rebellion seemed more like a Conspiracy of the Cuckolded than a movement for genuine political reform. And I might even have been persuaded that it was just that except for the presence among the conspirators of one man – the Cardinal Archbishop of Canterbury, Stephen Langton seated now next to Prior Herbert. For all I that disagreed with his politics I could not fault the man’s sincerity. He too had suffered humiliation at the hands of King John, although his had been of quite a different hue.

So if it wasn’t dehorned husbands or overly-ambitious royal princes, what was the purpose of their lordships’ assembly this day? Even archbishops are not permitted within the precincts of St Edmunds abbey without the express invitation of the abbot, and I would have thought with Prior Herbert’s
liking for rules he would have raised an objection if he could. But that would be to underestimate the persuasive powers of Cardinal Langton. He was no friend of John’s, but no lick-spittle either being a man of principle even to the extent of disagreeing with the pope. Clearly something exceptional was taking place here today - and indeed, Langton himself now took the leading role in the proceedings that unfolded beneath the chancel arch.

His voice resonating with all the skill he had honed as a
consummate preacher, Langton harangued the assembled nobles for a full two hours exhorting them to demand what he called “justice and freedom from a cruel and wasteful king”. I won’t detail all that Langton had to say but the climax of his performance was the production of a document which he claimed was nothing less than the coronation oath of King John’s great-grandfather, King Henry I, and which he said guaranteed the ancient rights of the barons back to Saint Edward the Confessor. Upon this ancient document their lordships now proposed to base a new one: A charter of all the liberties allegedly stolen by John since his coronation and when the time was ripe they pledged themselves to take up arms in defence of those rights. Only now did I fully understand the danger King John and the country were in and what he had meant when he spoke to me of the barons salivating like dogs. They meant to hobble him with legal knots and snares and if he resisted then they would hurl the country into civil war.

I was outraged on the king’s behalf certain that
he would never accede to such preposterous demands which in effect made him little more than a baron himself. I had no doubt he would throw the document down in the dust where it belonged. I was angry and frustrated in turns and had the greatest difficulty to resist jumping up and denouncing them all. But the final grotesque act had yet to be performed. At the invitation of Cardinal Langton each baron rose in turn to place his hand upon the Holy Book and declare before Christ on His altar - before the holy shrine of the blessed Saint Edmund himself - that if their demands were not met each would take up arms against their lawful king. The whole grotesque scene ended with a shout of support for their leader, Robert Fitzwalter and carried him aloft around the church in gross imitation of a holy procession. It was as much as I could stand and amid the general euphoria I silently withdrew.

*

I managed to get out of the tower without being seen but with so many guards about I dare not to risk the west entrance but doubled round the back of the Great Cemetery. Before I got that far, though, someone stepped out of the shadows.

I jumped back with fright.
‘Oh Eusebius! What are you doing here?’

‘Master, I have been trying to get in to the church but my way was blocked. Everywhere there seem to be soldiers.
I am afraid. What is happening?’

‘No, you won’t get in,’ I replied. ‘Only the
professed monks are permitted. And it would be better you were not here now. The soldiers are nervous enough and likely to arrest anyone.’ I glanced anxiously at the church doors.

‘But why?’ he asked.

‘It would take too long to explain. But I have to go away for a while.’

‘You are leaving?’

‘It won’t be for long. Hush!’

One of the guards was looking in our direction. He must have heard us, his sword already half-drawn at the ready. And here were the two of us crouching like a couple of
conspirators. We had only a moment. I turned to Eusebius conscious of my duty to the boy as his chaplain and the fact that this may be my last opportunity to speak to him.

‘My son, before I go there is something I want to say to you, and it is this…’

The guard was coming over....

‘…we must all try to resist our temptations remembering that however great
our sins our loving Father in heaven will always forgive the truly repentant…’

The guard was almost upon us…

‘…and we must cut out the offending sin, for which I forgive you in the name of the Father, Son and Holy Ghost.’ I quickly made a sign of the cross over him. ‘Amen. And now you must forgive me too for what I am about to do.’ So saying, I punched the boy smartly on the nose.

It really was only the lightest of taps but it had the effect I wanted. Eusebius yelped - more in surprise, I think, than pain. But more importantly, blood poured out of him as it had that first day I saw him in the chapterhouse.

‘What have we here?’ said the guard thrusting his sword in our faces. ‘Assassins?’

‘Ah, sergeant,’ I bluffed. ‘You heard my cry for help. Good. We were in the church just now and Brother Eusebius was taken ill – as you can see. I have brought him here to recover but he is still unwell.’

Blood was still pouring through the boy’s fingers and dripping everywhere and for that I was truly sorry.

‘Dou broge by doze,’ mumbled Eusebius
his hands covering his face.

‘Forgive me, child,’ I whispered. ‘But there really was no alternative.’

The guard hesitated, his hand still on his sword hilt, frowning with indecision. ‘He’s bleeding,’ he said.

I nodded. ‘It’s happened before. Spontaneous
epistaxis. I’m a doctor, you see. I know about these things.’

The guard still looked doubtful, his sword remaining half-in, half out of its scabbard.

‘Well?’ I frowned impatiently. ‘Are you going to stand there and watch while a servant of Holy Mother Church bleeds to death?’

Eusebius stumbled.
The man hesitated a moment more then sheathed his sword as the boy toppled into his arms.

‘
Oh well caught!’ I said to him. ‘Now, we need to get him to the infirmary. Can you do that? I will tell my lord de Saye, naturally - he will want to know about this immediately. I follow along afterwards. What did you say your name was?’

‘Gerard,’ said the man
, Eusebius fainting into his arms.

‘Right Captain Gerard,’ I nodded. ‘I’ll tell him you were helpful.’

‘Very well, sir. But it’s only “Gerard”, not “captain”.’

‘I’m sure that’s just a matter of time,’ I beamed, ‘once Lord de Saye gets to hear of this. Now, off with you both to the infirmary. You know where it is?
It’s that way. Go!’

I waited a moment or two more until the two of them were out of sight then rushed off
in the opposite direction to my laboratorium. No doubt Lord de Saye would indeed hear of the incident in the graveyard, and that a physician in a monks’ habit had been the cause of it. It would take him but a moment to put two and two together and realise that I had been in the church while the assembly was in progress. And then I would have but very little time before more guards were dispatched this time looking for me. Poor Gerard. I wouldn’t have liked to be in his boots when he told him. But it couldn’t be helped.

When I got to the laboratorium I found Dominic waiting for me.

‘Master, there you are.’

I put up a warning hand. ‘Do not delay me, Dominic, I’m in a fearful hurry.’ I began filling a leather bag with things I thought I might need: Spare clothing, a water bottle, a few candle stubs - they’re always useful - a knife…

‘Master, someone has been here looking for you. A brother.’

I grimaced. ‘Already? What did he want?’ I began hunting for a scrap of linen to write on.

‘He didn’t say, master.’

One of Herbert’s lackeys, no doubt. I would have to be quick. ‘Dominic, I want you to do something for me. Do you know my brother’s shop in Heathenman’s Street?’