Blood Moon (27 page)

‘And how did Eusebius react to his sister being abducted?’

Clementius merely shrugged. ‘He wasn’t happy.’

‘So
,’ I said, ‘Raoul heads south for one of the channel ports disguised as Adelle and passes Thomas off as himself. And since a lady always needs her maid, Effie had her ready-made cover, too. But then Eusebius turns up at the abbey.’ I turned back to Clementius. ‘Whose idea was that?’

Clementius
squirmed uncomfortably. ‘I believe it was an arrangement between our Prior…’ he paused, ‘…and Lord de Saye.’

I rounded on my mother.
‘There! I knew it! This entire business is down to that man. He arranged for Eusebius to come to Bury no doubt because he knew Eusebius could identify him, disguise or no disguise. He manoeuvred a confrontation - a
fatal
confrontation as it turned out - and now we see the consequences. Three people murdered.’

‘Geoffrey
didn’t murder anybody,’ snapped back my mother.

‘
But he must have realised the danger. He cynically used these young people for his own ends.’

‘No
, not his own ends. Something far higher.’

‘
Nothing justifies the death of innocents, Mother.’

She
didn’t reply to that but pursed her lips tight.

‘
Why did he do it?’ asked Rosabel, frowning. ‘Kill his sister, I mean. Raoul I can understand, but his own sister?’

‘Because he
’s mad,’ pouted my mother.

Clementius
had more generous explanation: ‘Maybe he didn’t mean to. Maybe he tried to persuade Euphemia to return with him to Shouldham and when she refused he lost control. Eusebius can be a very intense young man.’

I could attest to that. I could still feel the bite of his nails in my hand as we knelt
together in prayer in the cloister.

Clementius
shook his head. ‘I’ve thought long and hard about this - his obsessive devotion to the Holy Virgin; his disgust at the very mention of the sexual act. It’s as though his own guilt at his feelings for Euphemia, not as a sibling but as a lover, was too much for him to bear. I believe he lost control when Euphemia refused his entreaties and that’s why he strangled her. Then when he realised what he’d done he turned on the one person he really blamed for all this: Raoul de Gray. But there is still one thing puzzling me: How did Lord de Saye know the family would be in Bury? I had to track them across two counties to find them.’

I
was able to answer that one: ‘It’s not so surprising. They had to break the journey somewhere between Shouldham and the coastal ports. Where better than the abbey, a day’s ride from both? The irony is they only intended stopping the one night. Unfortunately it was the night baby Alix decided to make her entry into the world.’

‘
Very neat,’ said my mother wryly. ‘But aren’t you clever men forgetting one thing? Adelle does not exist. “She” was never pregnant.’

‘Well I delivered somebody’s baby,’
I countered, and then in a flash I had it. ‘Of course!
Ee-ma-mum-ma
.’

My mother frowned. ‘
Now what are you gabbling about?’

I turned to Onethumb. ‘Onethumb, look at me.’ I silently mouthed the phrase to him again. ‘What did I just say?’

He shook his head and asked me to repeat it. I did, slowly just as I remembered Effie had done to me that terrible day on the stairs to the abbot’s lodging:
Ee-ma-mum-ma
. Onethumb shrugged and then rocked a phantom baby in his arms just as expertly as he had mimed rocking his own son the night I met him with Prior Herbert. There was no misinterpretation this time.

I nodded. ‘That’s what Effie was trying to tell me
. Ee-ma-mum-ma.
It’s my baby
. Little Alix is Effie’s child – isn’t that right, Thomas?’

For answer, Thomas just lowered his eyes.

‘But it begs one final question,’ I said. ‘Who is Alix’s real father - Raoul or Eusebius?’

I looked at each of their faces in turn: My mother, Clementius, Rosabel, Thomas and Onethumb. But they all just stared blankly back at me. Only Onethumb made any response, and he merely to shrug.

Epilogue

FULL SPEED TO RUNNYMEDE

Eusebius
was never tried for the murders of Effie and Raoul. The newly-enthroned Abbot of Edmundsbury invoked Becket’s principle of an independent clergy and took the boy back into his own custody. That’s not to say he was allowed to go free. He was eventually handed over to the Prior of Shouldham who, realising the boy could never be allowed out again, made him into an anchorite - a condition Eusebius embraced with enthusiastic, if not to say
euphoric
, zeal. He was thus bricked up in a tiny cell adjoining the priory church where he would remain in solitude for the rest of his life seeing no-one and being fed through a tiny opening in the wall.

Just before his final incarceration, however, I did get leave to visit him. My reasons for doing so were largely selfish: I wanted to atone for my own complicity in the tragedy surrounding the de Gray family – and if possible to find out what really happened to Mother Han. I’d even been back to the site of her hovel in the hope of finding another clue but by then someone else had taken
her plot and did not welcome prying questions. I didn’t get much more out of Eusebius - indeed, I’m not sure he even knew who I was. He spoke in apocalyptic terms quoting extensively from the many religious tomes he had devoured during his stay with us at the abbey – Anselm of Bec’s
Meditations
and
Letters
in particular I recognized - but nothing that made coherent sense. I left him feeling frustrated and none the wiser. But he at least seemed at peace at last and happy in his private world of devotion to the Holy Virgin and daily growing madder and madder.

Meanwhile, other momentous events were gathering pace elsewhere. The rebel barons had finally come into the open and presented the king with their demands for the restoration of what they called their “ancient and accustomed liberties”. Needless to say, John was not about to grant these without a struggle. Indeed, for a while he looked as though he might even win this particular battle. The barons were by no means united in their purpose. Those I had seen assembled in the abbey church on Saint Edmund’s Feast represented barely a quarter of England’s nobility, the rest preferring to wait to see how events unfolded before committing themselves one way or the other. And John was not without powerful allies of his own. Having accepted the formal surrender of John’s kingdom under bond of fealty and homage, Pope Innocent was outraged that his chief vassal should be treated with such impertinence by a ragbag of disgruntled nobility. He therefore issued letters denouncing the rebels and even threatening them with excommunication if they did not desist in their undertaking.

And then John played his masterstroke. In March he took an oath to go on crusade to the
Holy Land, a project dear to Innocent’s heart. There was now no question of the pope supporting the barons over his most favoured Christian son and called upon all Christendom to rally to John’s aid. But John was still too weak to win the argument outright and in June he agreed to meet the barons’ representatives and to seek a solution to the impasse. The basis of the negotiations was to be their charter – the document I had seen lain out on my mother’s table at Ixworth Hall. And this, you see, is what I mean when I say John was a reasonable man to deal with. Nobody would have expected his brother to have been so obliging. King Richard would have gouged out the eyes of any mutinous vassals, drowned their progeny and then castrated them so they couldn’t produce any more. The one thing he would not have done was sit down in the middle of a damp field and parley with them. But that is precisely what John now proposed to do.

How do I know all this? Because quite unexpectedly I found myself witness to the great event - along with five of my brother monks. The reason was the still-unresolved problem of who was going to be our next abbot. And here I’m afraid John did have to concede defeat. Most favoured son he may be, but Pope Innocent had lost patience with him over this particular vexed question. He made it clear to John that if he was to continue to receive papal support over the matter of the charter then he would have to submit to other of Innocent’s wishes, and that included accepting Hugh Northwold as
Abbot of Saint Edmund’s. John reluctantly agreed but, petulant as ever, he made Hugh come to him to receive the abbatial mitre and ring, and at that moment John was at Windsor awaiting the approach of the barons. So to Windsor we had to go.

Having me along was not part of the
original plan at all. Ironically, it was Prior Herbert who requested my presence - not because we had resolved our differences; far from it. When he heard the full details of my exploits from chasing around Bury in pursuit of Effie’s murderer, hiding out in the forest with a gang of outlaws and the further bloodshed at Ixworth Hall, Herbert was quite prepared to have me defrocked and thrown out of the abbey. However, a quiet word from the Prior of Ixworth Abbey, who happened to be a close friend of my mother, over his secret collusion with Geoffrey de Saye mollified his tone somewhat. In the end it was thought best we call a truce, put the recent past behind us and begin our relationship anew. However, all was not quite joy and harmony between us. I fear there may be trouble again from that quarter at some time in the future.

So no, it was not love of me that persuaded Herbert to take me with him to
Windsor, but his sweet tooth. Herbert had always had a penchant for sugary confections. Unfortunately that particular tooth had gone bad and was causing him considerable discomfort. The answer, of course, was to remove it but for some reason Herbert shied away from that suggestion. I don’t know why, the procedure is simple enough: The patient is strapped in a sturdy chair with one end of a length of twine attached to the offending molar and the other to the handle of an open door. At a given signal the door is slammed shut thus extracting the painful appendage in one easy, if rather violent, movement. Something about the procedure seemed to disturb Herbert and he preferred instead to be dosed with palliatives from my herb collection – I recommended chewing on a piece of Monkshood root for best relief or cloves when available. But relief is all it is, not a cure. Ultimately, extraction is the only permanent solution. Herbert said that if all else failed he would undergo the operation once he had returned from seeing the king, but in the meantime he required my constant attention. I readily agreed. An entire fortnight of watching Prior Herbert suffer unrelieved agonies - how could I refuse?

Thus it was that I joined the small band of brothers that accompanied Abbot-elect Hugh on the Feast of Saint Boniface to ride the ninety miles to
Windsor. And frankly, I was not sorry to be going. Two days earlier there had been a great fire that destroyed a large area of the vill and the air was still thick with choking smoke and cinders. As a result there were many funerals that week and just as we were about to set off our journey there was a particularly sorry little affair trundling its way to the Great Cemetery with no mourners other than the priest and two monks. I was told it was the funeral of an old medicine woman which put me in mind once again of Mother Han. I still hadn’t managed to find out what happened to her. So with a sad nod to the coffin and a silent prayer I turned my mule’s head and set off through the west gate of the town on the first leg of our journey.

For comfort and convenience, the king had suggested his palatial castle of Windsor on the banks of the River Thames as the venue for the negotiations. But sensing a trap, the barons preferred more neutral ground. It was therefore proposed the meeting take place in open country half way between the king’s camp at Windsor and the barons’ at Staines upon the little meadow known as Runnymede. Why Runnymede? I suppose the answer is its geography. Here the river snakes along one side with marshland the other leaving a low island in between. It is a well-known assembly point particularly for warring parties since with only two ways in it offers little opportunity for ambush. I could not but reflect what a sad commentary it was on the level of mistrust between sovereign and subjects to which our country had sunk.

Naturally our little party had no knowledge of these new arrangements and so we went straight to the castle expecting to meet the king there. We arrived late in the evening only to be told the king was in conference with Archbishop Langton and we were to present ourselves to him the following day at
Staines meadow. Upon reflection we decided to go that same night: After so long a wait and with our goal at last in sight we wanted to leave nothing to chance. Hugh therefore remained alone at Windsor as the guest of the king while the rest of us journeyed the last five miles without him.

Now, anyone who has not been to
Runnymede meadow will not know how cramped for space it is and never more so than on that sultry June night. Pavilions and marquees were being frantically erected in preparation for the following day’s extravaganza and we were squeezed into one tiny corner - six of us in a tent that was scarcely big enough for two. It was already late when we arrived and we hurriedly intoned the office of compline followed by a light supper of cold pea soup and warm beer and then settled down for the night. But it was not to be a restful one. The soup had predictable effects on Richard’s weak constitution and he filled the tent with his noisy and odorous emissions. What with that, the hammering, shouting and sawing outside, Herbert’s groaning, Nicholas’s feet in my face if I turned one way and Robert’s if I turned the other, I got hardly any sleep. Under such squalid conditions are the great matters of state decided.

When we emerged the following morning the sight that greeted our eyes was wondrous to behold. The engineers had been busy all night and had achieved miracles in such a short space of time. It was a sunny June morning, the tenth of that month I think, and with pendants flying all was colour and spectacle and noise. The king’s party had already arrived and occupied the western end of the meadow while the barons had the east. In between were amassed the opposing garrisons each eyeing the other warily across the few yards that separated them with one large open-sided marquee right in the middle. It was beneath this marquee, I was told, that the signing ceremony was to take place. Hugh rejoined us saying he would be seeing the king again after the main business of the day which was, of course, the king signing the charter.

I say “sign” but in fact John signed nothing. The great seal of state was simply affixed to the bottom of the document to authenticate it, most of the actual details having been agreed days in advance. And thus it was that with a flourish of fanfares and a flurry of flags the great deed was done. Unlike most of his opponents that day John could actually have read
and understood the words contained in the charter had he a mind to, although I doubt if he bothered. It was a preposterous document and hardly worth the effort. But he did make a pretty little speech to the effect that he had always held to the principles
etcetera
set out in the document
etcetera
and thanked the men who drew them up for reminding him
etcetera
of his
regal obligations
etcetera etcetera
… Remembering our conversation of six months earlier I was amazed he was able to keep a straight face. Such is the way with politics – a grubby business; I cannot think why my mother is attracted to it. Once the ceremony was out of the way the warring parties withdrew to their own sides of the field to congratulate or commiserate as they saw fit.

And then it was our turn.

We six went with solemn approach into the king’s private tent singing the
Te Deum
and stood around as Hugh knelt before his monarch. With little ado John placed the mitre on Hugh’s head and the ring on his finger, kissed him fully on the mouth and confirmed him as the next Abbot of Saint Edmundsbury – done in less than two minutes. It was a small moment to savour. At last after nearly two years of mutual recrimination, obfuscation and confusion we had our pastor back. Tears of joy filled Hugh’s eyes as he placed his hands between the king’s in a gesture of fealty and homage. As he did so, I could not but wonder how much John knew of his new abbot’s loyalties over the matter of the charter. I suspect from the twinkle in his eye that he knew only too well. Having kissed the king’s feet, the new Abbot of Saint Edmund’s went off to give thanks and to celebrate mass with the Archbishop singing Psalm 51 as he went: “Have mercy upon me, Oh God, and wipe away my faults”. His business concluded, however, he was in no immediate hurry to start back for Suffolk. As the newly-enthroned Baron of the Liberty of Saint Edmund, Hugh was keen to have his copy of the new charter. Every shire in the country was to be issued with one, apparently, the work for which would keep the royal scribes busy for weeks. So we waited for ours to be drafted so that we could take it with us rather than have the clerks send it out by messenger, and then we left for Bury.