Devil's Acre (21 page)

Fate sometimes takes a hand when we least expect it. All the while
she was talking the countess had been pacing and nervously fidgeting with an object hanging from her belt. Now the thing had come unhooked and dropped to the floor with a resounding crack. As I stooped to pick it up it I saw that it was her personal seal. The figure it portrayed was of a much younger, slimmer Isabel with a falcon on her wrist and holding out her arms in a gesture of welcome. I realised that it was probably how she had looked forty years earlier when Samson was here last.

‘I’m afraid the bottom has broken off
,’ I said handing it back, I noticed, with a trembling hand. ‘But I think it is still usable.’

She
snatched the thing from me and signalled to the steward. ‘Bring him! Oh don’t worry,’ she said to me, ‘we are not going to the cellars - at least, not this time. I’m taking you to meet someone who I hope will dispel your doubts once and for all.’

The inside of the earl’s chamber was dark and hot with a blazing fire that provided the only source of both heat and light. Three ladies dressed in black with their faces veiled knelt around the earl’s bed mumbling prayers. Also in the room, almost unseen at the far end of the bed, was a little man dressed as a Franciscan friar.

‘This is Fra Ignazio,’ the countess introduced us
curtly. ‘The earl’s physician.’

So,
here was the reason I was never needed to examine the earl: an Italian doctor. Well, Siena was the world’s most renowned school of medicine and trumped even my own renowned school at Montpellier. The earl was certainly in good hands. Lady Isabel bent over the bed and mopped her husband’s brow with a damp cloth.

‘My lord, this is the monk I was telling you about.’

She beckoned me forward. I could see immediately that the earl must have had a massive trauma which had left him speechless and almost totally paralysed down the right side. I’d seen such cases before. Occasionally, depending on the severity of the cataclysm, some mobility or function of speech may return but I feared in the earl’s case the damage was too severe. Frankly I was surprised he was still alive and the fact that he was owed much to the dedication of his carers - and perhaps to his own determination.

As I came within range he grabbed my hand with his good
left one and the grip was surprisingly strong. It was clear he wanted to tell me something and the effort took all his remaining strength. He could not speak so there was only one way he had to communicate: through the eyes. The earl’s eyes were intense and confirmed that the mind behind them was alert and active even if his body was not. What I read in them was plain enough. It was that he trusted his wife and desired me to do the same. Whatever had passed or had not passed between Isabel and Samson all those decades ago did not matter now. I was to do whatever they wanted. That was the message I took from Earl Hamelin’s eyes.

Part
Three

The
Return

Chapter
24

THE JOURNEY BACK

‘I
wanna pooh!’

‘Get away from me you disgusting old man! Gilbert! Gilbert!
Gilbert!
There you are Gilbert. Why do you not answer when I call?’

‘Because I am not Gilbert. I keep trying to tell you master, I am Gerard. Gilbert died six months ago at -’

‘Yes yes I know, at Eye. Eye Priory. The priory of Eye. Eye-eye-eye. For the love of decency get Humphrey off me, will you? I’m at a critical stage in my work and
I don’t want him dribbling over it.’

‘Brother Humphrey is constipated, master.’

‘Then for heaven’s sake give him something to relieve it. I recommend buckthorn. Or slippery elm. Dandelion boiled in vinegar if nothing else is available, but you need a lot of it. Best of all is senna. It’s an old Arab concoction - my brother Joseph used to swear by it. Loosen the stubbornist of bowels. It’s all in the pods, you see? Highly effective - but explosive, oh yes. You want to stand well clear. I have some drying in my laboratorium if you’re interested.’

‘I favour the more direct approach, master.’

‘Do you, indeed? Well I hope you remember to cut your nails first. Nothing worse than a sharp digit up your fundament.’

‘Humphrey doesn’t mind. He has a child’s memory and soon forgets. Your laboratorium, by the way, closed soon after you moved into the infirmary. It’s now a wood store.’

‘What’s that you say? Close my lab? You can’t do that! How am I to perform my duties? How am I to tend my patients? And what about my notes?’

‘You don’t have patients anymore, master. Brother Egelwin is abbey physician now. As for your notes - they were burned. Mould. Now, would you like some warm
cinnamon milk with a piece of bread to dip in it?’

Burn my notes? How dare they! Years of work gone up in smoke. Well, if they are happy to burn my medical notes what might they do to this, my testimony?

I don’t trust that Gerard. There’s something not quite right about him. It’s the eyes. The mouth says one thing but the eyes another. My old tutor at
Montpellier used to say something similar. Walter, he’d say to me, listen to what the patient says but always watch the eyes. He may be complaining about the belly-ache but really he suspects his wife is playing around with the butcher’s boy and that flaxen-haired cherub in the cradle is not his. Most of my colleagues wouldn’t agree, of course. Brother Egelwin for one. He belongs to the school that thinks it perfectly acceptable to make a diagnosis without ever seeing the patient, without being in the same room. Ridiculous! How is a man to get paid if he isn’t there in person to collect his fee?

Yes, the eyes can tell more tha
n a thousand words. That was certainly true of earl Hamelin. The effort to communicate had exhausted him and I was quickly ushered away so that he could be ministered to by the countess and that Italian doctor. I should have liked to stay and help. I should also have liked to ask more of the countess, most especially concerning those days so long ago when Samson was incarcerated at the priory. Something passed between the abbot and the countess in between time, I was sure of it. An alliance had been formed between them that endured over four decades. As to the true nature of that alliance, I was never able to establish for certain. Those who could shed light on that time fell away in quick succession soon after. The old earl died within a couple of months of my meeting with him and the countess not long after. Prior Maynus survived one more winter before he too was cold in his grave. It was as though a curse had descended upon the chief players in the drama to ensure their silence. Only Samson remained and he never mentioned it again.

Whatever the solution I did not have long to ponder it for hardly had I closed my eyes that night than they were abruptly opened again by the sounds of loud voices below my window. It was still dark outside but many torches lit up the yard. I opened the shutters to see it filled with monks and servants. A cart was being hauled up to the entrance and Clytemnestra was in the process of being harnessed to it.

‘You there!’ I called to the nearest man. ‘Is this the abbot’s transport?’

He shrugged and nodded towards the porch below me. Out of the shadows a shadowy figure emerged:

‘Brother Lambert. I should have guessed.’

He smiled his feline smile. ‘Good morning, brother. Yes, this is the wagon you and the abbot are to take.’

‘And are our guests aboard?’

‘Indeed. Do you wish to see?’

If he was offering
, there was clearly nothing worth seeing. I declined his invitation - but on second thoughts:

‘Give me a moment. I’ll come down.’

The wagon was a covered one which was something at least to be grateful for since it would provide Samson and me with some protection from the snow which was falling heavily again. Lambert was waiting with that smug look on his face and pulled back the cover of the wagon. The bodies were exactly as I had seen them the previous afternoon in the priory church: Ralf wrapped in his now familiar embroidered shroud, and alongside him Jane in her plain one.

‘Ralf looks remarkably clean for someone who’s
supposed to have been in the ground for days,’ I said to Lambert.

‘You wouldn’t want us to permit him to leave covered in slime brother.’

‘Slime eh? Is that what bodies get under ground?’

‘I really couldn’t say, brother.’

I surreptitiously squeezed Ralf’s foot to make sure he was really there, though not surreptitiously enough for Lambert.

‘Would you like me to
unwrap him for you brother?’ he asked smugly.

‘
No, that won’t be necessary. Where did you find him?’

‘
In the cemetery, where he’s been all along.’

‘So if I were to tell you a witness saw a monk - a tall monk, someone of your unusual height - remove the body from the grave some days ago, what would you say?’

‘I’d say your witness was either drunk or out to cause trouble.’

He clearly knew
it was the grave-digger and that I couldn’t name him without doing him harm. Whatever else Lambert was, he was no fool.

‘Let us hope he manages to stay put this time
.’

‘Amen to that, brother,’
said Lambert putting the cover back.

From behind me I heard Samson’s voice.
‘Walter, you’re up - good. Ready for the off?’

I turned to see Samson bearing down on us with Maynus in tow.

‘Father Abbot, Father Prior
, good morning both. It seems so. But I hadn’t realised we were leaving quite so early.’

‘You said it yourself, lad
, we need all the daylight we can get.’

‘Yes, but I thought we might wait for the sun to join us.’

Samson’s smile faltered. ‘I do hope you snap out of this mood. It’s going to be a long day. If we constantly snipe at each other it will wear us both out.’

I nodded. ‘You’re quite right father. I will try to be civil.’

‘So, the sooner we get going the sooner we will arrive. Have you brought everything down with you?’

‘It seems I have,’ I said watching the servants heave my bag onto the back of the wagon.

Maynus stepped forward and handed me a parcel. ‘This is for you,
mon fils
.’

‘Why thank you father. You’re very kind.’

‘Not me. From the kitchens.’

Tomelinus. I wondered if he would make an appearance.

‘May I just check round my room, father, to make sure I haven’t left anything?’ I ran up the steps before he had a chance to say no. ‘I shan’t be a moment.’

As I anticipated, Tomelinus was waiting for me in my room and looking more monk-like than ever. He had cut his hair into a tonsure and cleaned himself up a bit.
He looked better-fed - clearly working in the kitchens agreed with him. Even the bandage had gone.

‘My dear fellow. How is your war wound?’

He grinned and put his hand up to his forehead. ‘One more scar to add to my collection brotherliness.’

‘Thank you for the parcel.’

‘Just a small token of my thanks for all you have done for me, pripp-pripp-tip.’

I looked at him sceptically. ‘Not more stone soup, I hope?’

‘No brotherliness. You will find it far more...nourishing.’

‘I
n that case I shall have it for my lunch.’ I looked at his grinning face and felt my eyes beginning to fill up. ‘Well, farewell good friend. It looks like this will be our last meeting.’

‘Thee never knows. The wheel of fortune turns but slowly. I may find cause to come to Bury one day, pirrip-tip
.’

‘As prior of
Acre, perhaps?’ I laughed. ‘That would indeed be something. At least you’ll have some good boots to get you there.’

He did a little skip to show off his fine new boots. But I couldn’t see them clearly. Tears were filling my eyes again as I put my arms around the old fraudster and hugged him to my breast.

Back downstairs Samson was already seated on the wagon, reins securely in hand and frowning with impatience. Assembled in front of the porch was the entire Cluniac brotherhood, relieved to be seeing the back of us no doubt. I bowed before the prior and kissed his hands.

‘
Merci, mon père, pour toutes vos bontés
.’

‘
Tu es les bienvenus, mon fils
,’ he smiled.
‘We won’t forget you, Brother Walter.’

‘Nor I you
, dear Father Maynus.’

‘
Oh do come along Walter,’ said Samson from his seat on the wagon. ‘Thetford is still a long way.’

‘Are we not stopping at Tottington this time?’ I said climbing up next to him.

‘No. We go direct to the sisters of Saint George.’

I c
ouldn’t say I was sorry to hear that. The thought of spending another night in Absalom’s crawling byre did not appeal. After the turmoil of the past few days I was looking forward to getting back to Bury as soon as possible. One night fewer on the road was one closer to home.

At last with a crack of Samson’s whip over Clytemnestra’s back the cart lurched forward and we were off. With the Te Deum ringing in our ears from the assembled brothers
I looked back to see Maynus making the sign of the cross, tears flowing down his cheeks. I didn’t know it then but that was the last I would ever see of him.