The Unburied (6 page)

‘I know who he was!’ I exclaimed.

‘Oh, do you?’ Austin said. ‘Well, be quiet for now and listen. Until Burgoyne arrived, Freeth had effectively had unbridled power because of the old Dean’s incapacity. He ruled the Chapter in alliance with a canon called Hollingrake, the Librarian – a clever scholar but another greedy and unscrupulous man. You can imagine how much they resented the newcomer.’

‘I must tell you, Austin,’ I could not resist putting in, ‘that I have recently discovered an entirely new account of the Freeth affair.’

‘How interesting,’ Austin said perfunctorily. ‘But let me continue with my story and then you can tell me yours. Otherwise we’ll both lose the thread. There was something else apart from personal dislike between Burgoyne and Freeth. Burgoyne was a godly and unworldly man who devoted his life to prayer while Freeth was ambitious for power, cared nothing for learning and was only interested in advancing his own material interests.’

‘Wait a minute.’ I could not prevent myself from interrupting. ‘I have discovered an account by an eyewitness which suggests that it was Freeth’s love of books that led him into being embroiled with the soldiers on that fateful day.’

‘I don’t believe that,’ said Austin. ‘It happened because of his cowardly attempt to flee.’

‘Not according to my witness,’ I objected. ‘He maintained ...’

‘Tell me when I have finished my own story. It’s complicated enough without your interruptions.’ He paused in schoolmasterly fashion before continuing: ‘The canons of that time were lazy and greedy – how little has changed! – and had not only allowed the Cathedral to fall into disrepair but were neglecting their many educational and charitable responsibilities in the town. Burgoyne attempted to change all that. He wanted to repair and reopen the Cathedral to make it once again a centre of worship for the whole town, and to restore the schools and hospitals. To raise money he tried to reduce those of the Cathedral’s functions which were in his opinion not essential, and in doing so he offended entrenched interests and made himself even more enemies among the canons. Things came to a head when there was a row over some Foundation property that Burgoyne wanted to sell in order to raise money. Freeth produced an ancient document which prevented him from doing this – though the document was later revealed to be a forgery. Burgoyne suspected it and that should have served as a warning of just how unscrupulous his antagonist was prepared to be. He persevered, however, and, in the end, he got his way and raised most of the money he needed. He appeared to have triumphed, but there was a price to pay. In some mysterious way that was probably connected with all of this scheming and plotting, he came into possession of an appalling secret, a secret so terrible that brooding upon it changed him from a man of reclusive and regular habits to an insomniac who spent his nights in the ruined Cathedral or pacing about the Close.’

‘I assume you are going to tell me what it was?’

‘Indeed I am not, for Burgoyne took it to the grave with him. But whatever it was, it transformed the dignified and respectable cleric into a man in mental torment. It was a very dangerous secret.’

‘Are you saying that he was murdered to prevent him revealing it?’

‘So it appears. He was found in the Cathedral early one morning, crushed beneath scaffolding which had been erected to carry out the repairs he had forced upon his colleagues.’

‘As if he were being punished for his success?’

‘And further evidence for believing that he was murdered is the fact that the Cathedral Mason, a man called Gambrill, disappeared the same night and was never seen again. He, too, had fallen out with Burgoyne. But another possible explanation for his disappearance and the Canon’s death is that both men were killed by Gambrilll’s deputy, a young journeyman. That was the gossip in the town for many years afterwards.’

‘What motive could the deputy have had?’

‘There was some ancient enmity between his family and Gambrill. But let me tell you about the ghost since this is a ghost-story. Burgoyne’s funeral service in the Cathedral was disrupted by horrid moanings so that some of those in attendance became so frightened that they fled. Thereafter and for many years the ghost of Burgoyne haunted the Cathedral and heart-rending groans are often heard coming from the memorial – particularly when the wind is high. That is the ghost which old Gazzard fears has been roused by the recent building-works. And that is the end of the story I promised you.’

‘I don’t call that a story,’ I grumbled. ‘There are far too many loose ends.’

‘I told you there is a clue – although a somewhat enigmatic one.’

‘Does it cast any light on the secret Burgoyne learnt? Or suggest who murdered him?’

‘That depends on the interpretation. On the morning after the murder, an inscription was found on the wall of Burgoyne’s house, the New Deanery of our own day. It had apparently been carved during the night – an astonishing feat in so short a time and by the light of a lantern.’

‘What did it say?’

‘I can’t recall the exact words, so I will leave you to read it for yourself.’

‘That’s very irritating of you, Austin. I have half a mind to go out now and read it this very minute.’

‘Don’t be silly. You can’t trample all over someone’s property in the middle of the night.’

‘Who lives in the house now? Is it one of the canons?’

‘It’s in private hands. The owner is an elderly gentleman. Wait until daylight and then you can read the inscription through the gate without even going into the yard.’

‘I can’t stand peering into a stranger’s yard in broad daylight.’

‘The owner’s habits are very regular. Go between four o’clock and half past and I can promise you there will be nobody there.’

‘I wonder if there are any written sources for that story,’ I mused. ‘I suppose they would be in the Dean and Chapter’s Library. I could ask the Librarian when I see him tomorrow.’

Austin glanced at me quickly. ‘You’re seeing Locard? Why ever should you do that?’

‘Because of my work.’

‘Your work? What has he to do with that?’

‘Why, everything!’ I smiled. ‘I am relying on him to point my researches in the most promising direction.’

‘I thought you were going to tramp about over those blessed Roman earthworks out along the Winchester road? What has that to do with Locard?’

‘The barrows around Woodbury Castle, you mean? They’re probably not Roman, though that was believed until fairly recently. In fact, they are either ...’

‘But, for heaven’s sake, the point is: aren’t you going to be working on them?’

‘That was my intention when I first wrote to you. You know, they have never been properly surveyed? Consequently, we have no idea if they date from the time before the Romans or were built by them or by the Anglo-Saxons. My own ...’

‘But you have changed your mind?’

‘Didn’t I tell you in my last letter that a much more exciting prospect has come up? Why, I believe I could not have made it clear that I was referring to something entirely different. Of course! That’s why you talked about the weather interfering with my work! I believed you were joking.’ I laughed. Austin, however, asked irritably:

‘What are you talking about?’

‘I learnt very recently that there might be a manuscript somewhere in the Library whose discovery would settle once and for all a fascinating and very important controversy.’

Austin rose and went to the fire. Then, turning his back to me, he reached for something on the mantelpiece and started stuffing a pipe. I had never seen him smoke before.

I went on: ‘I have been preparing a monograph on Grimbald’s
Life of Alfred the Great
, properly called
De Vita Gestibusque Alfredi Regis.
Do you know of it?’

‘I don’t believe I do,’ he muttered.

‘Grimbald was a cleric who was a contemporary of Alfred and there is a reference to him in Asser’s much better known
Life of Alfred the Great.
His account is a fascinating work which brings that remarkable king most movingly to life. You’re wondering why it is not as well-known as Asser’s?’

‘I imagine you’re going to tell me.’

‘The answer is that its authenticity has never been accepted. But I hope to establish that it is genuine and to write my own biography of Alfred drawing upon it. It will be a work which, in all modesty, will transform our view of the ninth century for there is much wonderful material in Grimbald which historians have not made use of ...’

‘Because they think it’s fraudulent,’ Austin interrupted.

‘Some of them do, perhaps because their own self-serving cynicism is reproached by the portrait of the king that Grimbald offers. You see, his account confirms how extraordinarily brave and resourceful and learned Alfred was, and what a generous and much-loved man. For example, it tells us a great deal about his friendship with the great scholar-saint, Wulflac’

‘Wulflac?’

‘He was the king’s tutor when he was a boy and was with him at some of the worst crises of his life. There’s a scene in Grimbald when the king and he discuss the role of kingship the night before the crucial battle of Ashdown. And there’s a fascinating chapter in which Alfred – guided by Grimbald – visits the boys studying at the abbey here at Thurchester. And above all, Grimbald’s work is the sole source for our knowledge of Wulflac’s martyrdom.’

Seeing his blank expression I said: ‘You don’t know the story?’ He shook his head. ‘The account of his capture by the Danes?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he said almost irritably.

‘Then I will tell you. I believed every English schoolboy learnt that wonderful story.’

‘I know about the blessed cakes.’

I laughed. ‘A very late and confused tradition. But the story of Wulflac’s martyrdom is a true account and a very moving one. I remember it well but I’ll bring down Grimbald’s text in case I’ve forgotten any details.’

‘That wouldn’t do,’ he said, shaking his head.

I hurried to my bedroom and picked up the book from the side-table, noticing that lying beside it was my somewhat ill-judged gift for Austin which had been very beautifully wrapped by the young lady in the shop. I brought them both down and as I reached the landing was surprised to meet Austin coming up the stairs. As we entered the room I handed the gift to him and he thanked me and placed it beside his chair before sitting down again. My present now lay just where the package had been and, wondering what Austin had done with it, I glanced around the room. I could not see it on the shelves or on the small table by the window. Perhaps he had put it in the armoire. Or had he taken it downstairs again? But why should he have done that?

‘I’ll open it later,’ Austin said. ‘Half the fun of a present is the anticipation.’

I nodded, but since I now knew that the gift was highly inappropriate, I could not share his pleasure.

I seated myself and found the right section of the book. ‘You’ve told me a story set in Thurchester and now I will tell you one. As you know, the town was Alfred’s capital and the castle was his most important stronghold.’

Austin turned slowly towards me, the pipe projecting rather ludicrously from his mouth.

‘As a boy Alfred revealed a passion for learning which was most unusual at that time. It was all the more admirable in a young prince who was expected to devote himself to mastering the arts of war. Alfred did that, too, and remarkably well. But he also learnt to read, which was not customary for members of aristocratic or royal families – especially for a prince whose father was the hard-pressed king of a little backwater on the edge of European civilization, which is what Wessex was at that time. Years later, as an adult, he learnt Latin, too. Perhaps it was because he believed that he was not likely to become king since he had a number of older brothers, that he was able to indulge his passion for knowledge. Grimbald describes how Alfred’s father sent for a certain young monk from Saxony to become the boy’s tutor. That was Wulflac who was one of the most learned men in the whole of Western Europe at that bleak time. As it turned out, each of Alfred’s elder brothers was killed fighting the Danes and at a very early age he did become king – just in time to face the most serious threat his kingdom had ever confronted. A huge Danish invading force had landed in 865 with the intention of conquering and settling the whole of England. Alfred defended his kingdom with intelligence and courage, managing to hold together the faint-hearted among the English who wanted to submit and pay tribute rather than to fight.

‘By 892. Alfred had been king for nearly thirty years and had fought a long struggle to preserve his kingdom against the Danes. His old friend and tutor, Wulflac, was now Bishop of Thurchester. Although Alfred had defended Wessex successfully, the Danes were now occupying much of the north and east of England. Then in the early summer the Danes sent a huge invading army into Wessex to loot and destroy everything in its path. News of this reached Alfred while he was here in the town with his council – the witan. Grimbald writes: