Devil's Acre (11 page)
Authors: Stephen Wheeler
TO THE CASTLE
‘You’ve
spelt Warenne wrong, master. It’s Varenne
with a “V” not Warenne with a “W”. I know because my family comes from Upper Normandy. Varenne is the name of a river there - and a village nearby.’
‘Gilbert, why are you reading my notes? I don’t remember giving you my permission.’
‘It’s difficult
not
to read them, master. They’re everywhere - all over the bed, all over the floor. I suppose someone will have to clear them up later - me, probably.’
‘You don’t have to do anything, my young friend. In fact, I’d prefer it if you left them alone.’
‘Tut-tut, so many words. I can’t see what use they are. Nobody is going to read them after -’
‘You were about to say after I’m dead. Yes, you’re probably right. But that is not my purpose.’
‘What
is
the purpose, master?’
‘To organize, to collate, to analyse - not that it’s any of your concern. But since you are here
, uninvited as ever, and since I’m not quite dead yet you may as well make yourself useful and pass me my pen-knife. My quill is blunt.’
‘You know you’re not allowed sharp implements, master.’
‘Don’t be tiresome, Gilbert.’
‘
It’s Gerard. And I’m not at all sure about all this writing, master. Are you not in danger of wearing out your eyes?’
‘If I thought it was doing me harm I wouldn’t do it, would I? You forget, I am a doctor. Besides, I have my grossetestes to assist me.’
‘Your what? Oh, these you mean. I was wondering what they were. Aptly named for they are certainly grotesque.’
‘Not “grotesques
” -
grossetestes
. Named after their inventor, Robert Grosseteste. You may know him better as His Grace the Bishop of Lincoln.’
‘Ah.’
‘Ah indeed. A very great man is Robert Grosseteste. A Suffolk man, needless to say, born not twenty miles from here in the village of Stradbroke. He invented his grossetestes as a means of bringing sight to the blind.’
‘Surely that is profanity, master. Only Our Lord has ever been able to make the blind see.’
‘Tell that to the Arabs. They’ve have been doing it for years.’
‘Arabs again
, master?’
‘Yes Gilbert, Arabs - the infidels, the unbelievers. They were studying optics when your forebears were still worshipping
lumps of rock.’
‘
My
forebears never did any such thing. But if these...grossetestes...are an invention of heathens then surely they will be witchcraft.’
‘Foolish boy! When I say they bring sight to the blind I don’t mean they
restore
sight. What these wonderful lenses do is bring back into focus that which has become indecipherable through old age. Bishop Robert is no witch, although he is something of a wizard.’
‘Oh, you mean like a reading stone. My father had one of those. Not that he could read of course, but he liked to see the patterns the letters made on the page.’
‘No Gilbert, not like a reading stone. A reading stone is purely for reading - hence its name. If like me you wish to write as well as read then you need something less cumbersome. That’s what these are for.’
‘How do they work?’
‘Kneel down I will show you. First you put the cap on your head so, then you lower the lenses over your eyes, thus. Now do you see?’
‘Not a thing, master. What was clear before has now become blurred.’
‘That’s because your eyes are young and you don’t need them yet. But one day you will, take my word for it. And then you will be grateful I gave them to you.’
‘You are giving them to me, master?’
‘When I’m dead you may have them. But until then I still need them to finish my writing. So be a good fellow and fetch me that pen-knife.’
What is my purpose indeed! My purpose is to try to make sense of man’s place in the world as he tries to find his way through the maize of God’s Grand Design. What other purpose to life is there? We were not put on this earth to pick petals from daisies. And what I discover in my quest I must get down in writing while I still have the wit to do it. In this I count myself fortunate for others without the benefit of my grossetestes have had to give up. My dear friend Jocelin of Brackland for one. The poor man’s greatest delight was to write, but with advancing old age and his eyesight failing he had to stop. With no-one willing to grant an amanuensis to transcribe for him, all those wonderful thoughts he had in his head died with him - a loss that I don’t intend to let happen to me.
So,
I suppose I’d better get on with it. Where was I? Ah yes: Castle Acre - or as some have dubbed it,
Devil’s Acre
. In this case “acre” means not a measure of land but “a place near the water”, the water in question being the River Nar. How it got its later more demonic soubriquet is anybody’s guess but I wonder now if Samson’s and my presence didn’t contribute to it in some measure.
The town at this time was a lively and prosperous place, but that was not always the case.
It was a settlement unnaturally forced upon the land by the will of one man, Guillaume de Varenne who had fought alongside the Conqueror at Hastings, and became its first earl. East Anglia at that time was still rebel country that had to be subdued and the new earl was just the man to do it. Having selected his command base he set about provisioning it. The castle needed craftsmen, merchants, labourers to keep it supplied and he persuaded them into his town by all means necessary be it bribery, threat or coercion. But Acre never achieved the commercial success that Bury had. It was the priory that secured its future - with the help of Saint Philip’s forearm, of course, bringing in the pilgrim penny. And it was an uneasy presence. The lord up in his castle may be French but the townsfolk remained stubbornly English, sons and daughters as they were of the Wake. It was through the Saxon town that we had to pass that morning in order to get to its Norman castle.
But before we did that I had one more job to do: Jane. I felt responsible for her. As a woman she was
largely excluded from the male world of monks and was very much on her own here. And after my performance at the graveside the previous day no doubt I too had joined Samson among those she reviled. But now that I knew the true nature of Ralf’s illness there was an urgent need to check on her condition. Having lived so closely with the priest for so many years there was a strong possibility that she was suffering from the same affliction. My problem was how to broach the subject without alarming her. If she truly was ill then it was my duty to try to help her. If not, then I risked offending her by asking. It was a dilemma that preoccupied me during most of that morning’s prime. In the end I could see no way round it but to confront her directly.
Once the service was over, therefore, I returned to the cemetery where I
was informed Jane had taken up residence. I found her sitting cross-legged at the head of Ralf’s grave looking as though she had been there all night. Eyes closed, back straight and hands on knees, she looked as though she were in a trance. I found a log, thrust it heavily onto the ground to announce my presence and sat down.
‘Jane it’s me, Brother Walter.’
No response. Her eyes remained firmly shut.
‘
Look, I can understand if you’re angry with me for my behaviour yesterday. Trying to dig the grave - it was a foolish thing to do.’
Still no reply.
‘Lady, this is no good. Whatever else you may think of me, I am a doctor and I have a duty to look to your welfare. I have some questions I need to ask you. For instance, have you noticed any tingling lately in your hands or your feet?’
I looked closely at her eyes. I was sure I saw the left one flutter slightly. Well, at least she was conscious which up till then I wasn’t entirely sure
she was. I tried again:
‘
How about numbness? Or shortness of breath? Any skin rashes?’
‘You’re as bad as him,’ she mumbled barely
audibly.
‘If by “him” you mean the abbot
, I agree. I never considered your feelings before I acted and that was wrong of me. Nevertheless, my intentions throughout have been good, you do believe that, don’t you?’
‘The road to hell is paved with good intentions
,’ she murmured.
‘Yes, there is that I agree.
The words of Bernard of Clairvaux - and he was right. But there are things that I must ask you. Will you answer me?’
She
sniffed, opened one eye. ‘Tingling you say?’
‘
Or loss of sensation, anything of that nature. A little stiffness perhaps?’
‘Ralf used to get stiff sometimes.’
I knew it! ‘And you?’ I said shuffling closer. ‘What about you?’
‘I do get a-tingling now and again.’
‘Where? In your feet? Your hands?’
‘
All over.’
‘
Aha, hm-hm, yes, I see. When does this occur? All the time or does it come and go?’
‘It comes
on mostly when I think of my Ralfie.’
I frowned.
‘When you
think
about him? I’m sorry, I don’t follow.’
‘
I get a-tingling when I think of him - his arms about me, touching me, my body, my breasts, my thighs -’
‘Yes, well thank you for that,’ I said scrambling
hastily to my feet. ‘I erm...yes...aha...good...’
She looked up at me and gave a snort of contempt before closing her eyes again and resuming her former
statuesque posture.
I met up again with Samson and Maynus at the north gate of the town. Both men were dressed in their ceremonial vestments, Samson wearing his abbatial ring and sandals and carrying his crozier. He looked magnificent dressed entirely in white. Maynus too was impressively attired though less so.
‘Where have you been, Walter?’ tutted Samson impatiently. ‘We’ve been waiting. You are never where you’re supposed to be.’
‘I’m sorry father,’ I said still a little flushed from my encounter with Jane. ‘I had something I needed to do.’
‘Well, come along now. We mustn’t keep
Lord William waiting. Here, put this on.’ He handed me an embroidered silk cotta. ‘At least try to look respectable.’
We formed ourselves into something approaching a dignified
procession with Samson and Maynus in front and me bringing up the rear, hands clasped together in an attitude of prayer, and into the town we went together. Half way down the hill we veered off left through the huddle of market stalls grouped beside yet another gatehouse that led into the castle grounds.
Once inside the walls a virtual second town opened out before us, but instead of merchants and dwellings the bailey was filled with workshops of every description - stables, kilns
, blacksmiths, carpenters, cart-wrights, fletchers, armourers - all busy, all emitting noise and smoke. In the middle of this martial activity this was a well-appointed hall of pleasing modern design which no doubt made a much more comfortable dwelling than the formidable stone keep further up the hill ensconced as it was within its moat and forbidding ramparts. We were greeted at the door of the hall not by an envoy of the earl’s household but by an ordinary member of the guard who from the look of horror on his face as we approached had no inkling of our arrival. He turned quickly from puce to green and back again when Samson announced who he was.
‘Wait here,’ ordered the man, adding, ‘if
it please your grace,’ before disappearing inside the hall leaving us to shiver on the footpath outside.
‘This is new,’ said Samson studying the
edifice with interest, the builder-abbot coming to the fore.
‘It has been many years since the castle defences were needed,’ replied Maynus. ‘These are the private apartments of the family now. No-one lives up in the keep anymore. Too draughty.’
‘I see it has a chimney,’ said the abbot. ‘Impressive.’
‘
Oui
, the earl has always been keen to keep abreast of modern design. You will be much pleased.’