Devil's Acre (9 page)

Chapter 11

THE DEVIL’S
ACRE

‘What’s
this, master?’

‘What do you mean, what is it? Surely you’ve seen paper before, Gilbert?’

‘Of course, but none as fine as this, and never in such quantities. May I ask where you got it?’

‘Why, are you contemplating writing something of your own?’

‘Not at all, master. I’m just curious. Paper is difficult to acquire. And expensive too, I imagine.’

‘Not for me. Before he died my brother Joseph - may his sufferings in hell be light - brought me back a quantity from
Damascus where his family still lives.’

‘I’m sorry master, you say your brother’s family lives in
Damascus? If he is your brother how can that be?’

‘Joseph - or to give him his proper name, Yusuf - wasn’t in fact my real brother. I just called him that because we grew up together. His father was an Arab and his mother a Jewess.’

‘A heathen twice over then.’

‘Normally, Gilbert, I would take issue with such a monstrously prejudiced statement, but in Yusuf’s case it is probably accurate. In point of fact he believed in nothing, unless you include the sanctity of the human spirit.’

‘Then surely such a blasphemer would be condemned for all eternity to hell fire?’

‘Which is why I pray that his sufferings there be light.’

‘If you knew he was an unbeliever, master, why do you persist in calling him you’re your brother? Surely it is your duty as a Christian to deny him?’

‘It wasn’t just Christianity he refuted.
Yusuf thought all religion bunkum. I permitted him this blasphemy not because I thought he was right but because
he
thought he was. A mind like his you see, so subtle, so incisive, deserves respect however outlandish its ideas. I suppose with a Jewish mother, a Muslim for a father and a monk for a brother Yusuf might be forgiven for thinking he’d had his fill of religion. When I was eighteen this seemed reprehensible to me. At seventy-eight I am less certain. Yusuf went to his grave believing there was nothing beyond it. I suppose I shall shortly discover which of us is right.’

‘A
s you most assuredly will, master.’

‘Yes, well one thing he was right about was this wonderful paper. Look at it Gilbert! Is it not a marvel? Far easier to use than parchment. The ink flows across it like silk from a spider’s bottom.’

‘Are you sure you should be using the gift of an infidel? Is it not tainted?’

‘Oh it’s worse than that, Gilbert. Do you know how paper is made?’

‘No master.’

‘It is said to be chewed between the perfect white teeth of slave girls and then finished off by being rubbed on the thighs of a thousand Persian virgins. Personally I doubt the truth of this.’

‘I should hope not, master.’

‘There simply aren’t a thousand virgins in Persia.’

*

We set off
from Tottington for what I sincerely hoped would be the last leg of our journey. Only three mules this time: one each for me, Samson and Jane. The fourth - the one that had carried Ralf’s body - we left with Absalom to be returned to the Sisters of Saint George from whom we had loaned it.

It was another freezing cold morning. Most of the village came out to see us off all wanting Samson’s blessing. He made a little speech from the back of Clytemnestra which since he had descended once again into his native
Norfolk dialect was as comprehensible to me as Hungarian. Jane bade a tearful farewell to Michael and his wife thanking them profusely for the puppy. It appeared Esme was a gift from Michael’s wife to comfort Jane in her loss. Once out of their sight Jane’s tears dried and she dumped the puppy in my arms where it snuggled inside my robe and promptly fell asleep.

‘What are you going to do with it?’ asked Samson frowning. ‘You’re surely not going to bring it with you?’

‘Do I have any choice? Jane seems to have abandoned her.’

‘Can’t you do the same?’

‘You want me to leave a tiny helpless creature alone on the side of the road to starve to death? Assuming it doesn’t get eaten by wolves first.’

‘There aren’t any wolves in
Norfolk anymore.’

I was still angry over what had happened in Tottington. ‘Father, I hope you don’t think I’ve
given up my intention to examine the body. It must now be a priority - you do see that, don’t you?’

Samson glanced over his shoulder at Jane.
‘Do we have to discuss this now?’

I
looked at Jane. She seemed oblivious having once again descended into silent obduracy. Still, I lowered my voice.

‘Father, can you not see? It’s not just Ralf’s mortal remains I’m concerned about. It’s been two days now since he died. He’s had the mere cursory of rites - no confession, no communion, no absolution. He died in mortal sin. His soul will be in torment.’

‘He didn’t receive the proper rites because no-one was with him when he died. It wasn’t intentional.’

‘All the more reason
to do things properly now.’

‘And examining his body will achieve that?’

‘Knowing for certain what killed him will help.’

He shook his head.
‘You know, you really are making heavy weather of this, Walter. I’ve said you may view the body and I meant it. Have you ever known me to go back on my word?’

‘Frequently.’

The next stop on our journey was the market town of Swaffham.
The name is old German, apparently, referring to the people who settled here in Saxon times. The present-day inhabitants certainly displayed solid Germanic industry. As soon as we entered the maze of stalls and carts we were besieged by merchants, chapmen, hawkers - traders of every description trying to tempt us to part with our money. But seeing their prices I was not persuaded to buy.

I admit to having little understanding of why prices rise. Are goods more abundant now than in King H
enry’s day? Is coin less efficacious? Yet the one seems to go up while the other goes down. I well recall Brother Sylvanus complaining about the price he was being charged for some blanket cloth he wanted to buy on Bury market which at four pence the ell was a farthing more than it had been a month earlier. As abbey chamberlain he naturally expected to be given the most favourable terms and refused to pay the new price expecting the stallholder thereby to lower it. Of course he did no such thing and when a week later Sylvanus was forced to relent he found the price had risen again to
five
pence the ell. Outraged, he blustered and threatened but in the end had to pay the higher price or we should have had nothing to cover us in our cots at night. Such is the arcane mystery of commerce. Samson, however, was in no doubt how he regarded the business acumen of the Swaffhamites:

‘This is how to do it, Walter,’ he kept nodding admiringly. ‘What industry! What enterprise! What
profit!
’

For all its attractions Swaffham market did not tempt us to linger longer than it took to buy some eel pies and a jug of ale for our lunch. I shared mine with Esme who promptly brought it all back up again
, mostly over me. I then tried her on some bread soaked in milk which seemed to suit her better. After that she snuggled down back down inside my robe oblivious to the ravages of the outside world.

‘You’ll never be rid of that creature now,’ chuckled Samson. ‘It thinks you’re its dam.’

Once we’d left the town behind there was nothing further between us and our final destination of
Acre other than the wide, flat valley of the River Nar. Here a whole new world opens up for the valley is dominated by that mighty symbol of baronial power, the castle that crouches like a great white spider on the hillside watching all that passes ready to pounce at the merest twitch of its thread. Unlike Thetford’s castle which had long ago been abandoned, Acre’s was still occupied by the family who built it: the Warenne earls of Sussex. It is said the first earl was cousin to the Conqueror and fought alongside him at Hastings and as reward was given vast territories not just here in Norfolk but in a dozen other shires throughout England. The castle is ringed with massive defensive ramparts topped with crenellations while a steep earth embankment and ditch surrounds the adjoining town. The castle was meant to be impregnable and so it was during the Anarchy when such considerations mattered. In more peaceful times the donjon has been abandoned to more comfortable living quarters within the bailey.

All this I discovered
only later. My first response on seeing the town was relief at having at last reached our journey’s end. After giving thanks to Almighty God for our safe deliverance we prepared to enter the town in order to get to the priory which stood a quarter league further on. But instead of passing beneath the arch of the town’s massive southern gate Samson turned us to one side.

‘There is no need for us to go up through the town,’ he said quietly. ‘I know a quicker route.’

Jane and I followed his lead and indeed he did seem to have good knowledge of the area’s geography remembered no doubt from his time here four decades earlier. The road we took meandered along the river’s edge and then rose steadily beside the priory precinct wall over which we could see the priory itself. And what a sight it was! Of the same Cluniac order as Thetford, Acre Priory nevertheless outshone its southern neighbour in size and splendour. To be fair, Acre was in possession of a much better site than Thetford - indeed, it was a better one than Bury able to sprawl across open farmland and not crammed into one corner of the vill. The priory church dominated the cloistral buildings with its massive twin western towers glistening resplendently in the wintry sunshine. I have to say it thrilled the heart to see it.

The final approach to the priory is downhill and as in Tottington our arrival was announced by the tolling of a bell which summoned monks and servants from every direction to greet us. Once again it was evident that we were expected for the prior himself appeared at once - a splendid-looking fellow with a bright red beard and brown tonsure.

‘
C
her Abbé!
’ said the prior coming towards us. ‘How very good to see you.’

‘You too my
dear good friend,’ beamed Samson dismounting quickly and going over to the man. They embraced like blood brothers.

‘This is Brother Walter, our physician,’ said Samson turning to me. ‘
Walter, allow me to present Père Maynus de Flamvill de Clermont-Ferrand,
honoured prior of Saint Mary’s Acre.’

I bowed low and kissed his hand.
‘
Suis honoré de vous rencontrer, mon père.
’

‘
Très bien mon fils, et bienvenu à vous aussi
,’ smiled Maynus, impressed. ‘Your French is excellent. But of course I was forgetting, you studied in France - at our great medical school of Montpellier, I believe.’

‘Father Abbot has told you about me?’

‘He may have mentioned you,’ he said with a glint in his eye.

‘And this is our companion
Jane,’ said Samson.

True to form, Jane gave a curt nod from the back of her mule.
Nevertheless Maynus smiled benevolently back at her. He then summoned over a monk who had been waiting to one side - a tall, gaunt-looking young man with a face like a scythe.

‘This is Brother Lambert,’ said Maynus. ‘He will look after you while you are here. A
h! And who is this little one?’ he said noticing Esme for the first time on my lap. ‘I did not know we had a fourth guest?’

‘This is Esme,’ I said holding up the sleepy bundle.

‘In French
Esmé
means “esteemed”,’ said Maynus tickling her ear. ‘And she is an esteemed guest indeed.
Bonjour
Esmé
,
comment vas-tu?
’ he laughed. ‘You are all of you most welcome. Come! Follow me.’ He started to lead the way.

‘There is a fifth,’ I said quickly.

The prior stopped. ‘A fifth?’

‘He means Ralf,’
said Samson sullenly.