by E. M. Powell
‘Disconcerted? Not as much as that gatekeeper.’ Stanton flashed him a grin. ‘Lambert.’
‘His reception is not a laughing matter, Stanton.’
‘Sorry,’ he replied, looking anything but, adding irritation to Barling’s tension.
‘Yet I agree with your point. It was clear the man had no idea who I was.’
‘I don’t think he was confused only about you, Barling.’ Stanton rubbed his hands before the flames. ‘I think he’s probably confused all the time. Looked very fond of his ale to me.’
‘It is disgraceful conduct for a monk. He should—’
He stopped at the sound of the door opening, turning to see a man whom he had not seen or even thought of for many years before he was mentioned in Westminster. But as so often happened with the mind, the face of his fellow student of rhetoric became instantly familiar once it was before him again.
‘Aelred Barling. You are here.’ The voice too. ‘May God be praised. I cannot tell you what your presence means to me, Barling.’
‘My lord abbot.’ Barling gave a respectful bow, relieved to note that Stanton did also. He could not always rely on his young pupil to behave in the correct manner.
As Abbot Philip made his way towards him, other memories from that time came back too and threatened to overwhelm him. He swallowed hard, banishing them.
‘The years have treated you well, Barling. I thought that when I saw you at the ordeal in York last summer.’
‘As time has been kind to you, my lord abbot.’ A little above average height, Philip was not a powerfully built man, but his bearing had a confidence as befitted a man of his office. His dark brown tonsure, dark brown eyes and very pale skin were as Barling remembered, save for threads of grey in the hair and wrinkles around his eyes that Barling supposed would be equally apparent on his own face. As in his youth, Philip was almost the most handsome of men. Having a nose a little too long and a jaw a little too weak meant that he was not.
‘Truly, words do not serve me in my gratitude.’ He embraced Barling in a heartfelt kiss of peace, his gaze controlled yet clearly troubled.
‘I am humbled by your gracious words, my lord,’ said Barling. ‘May I present my assistant, Hugo Stanton, to you.’
‘Brother Silvanus has told me of your arrival, Stanton.’ The abbot raised his hand in a swift blessing. ‘May you also be welcome in our holy house.’
‘Thank you, my lord.’ Stanton responded with the necessary respect once more.
Philip indicated to a waiting trestle table against one wall upon which full washing basins waited. ‘Please. Remove the dirt from your long journey. Silvanus is bringing food for us.’
Footsteps confirmed this.
Barling washed his face and hands, the freshening properties of the water helping him to fully regain his composure.
Three bearded lay brothers arrived bearing dishes, cups and jugs, with Silvanus close at their heels. They made quick work of setting their burden on the table and withdrew again to extravagant bows from the guestmaster.
Barling came to the table, Stanton with him, standing with heads bowed as Philip opened his hands and blessed the food.
With a chorus of ‘Amen’, Barling took his seat opposite Stanton, with Philip at the head of the table.
‘Please, eat your fill,’ said Philip. ‘We do not impose our order’s rules about food on our guests.’
‘A most generous accommodation. Thank you, my lord.’
‘You can address me as Philip, Barling. At least while we are in private.’
Stanton, he noted, was not included in Philip’s invitation, which was to be expected. ‘Your permission is most gracious.’ Barling helped himself to modest portions of the dishes before him. Simple fare, as he expected from this order, which pleased him greatly: good bread, a plain vegetable pottage and a dish of the darkest green cabbage. He knew the addition of a small round cheese was for the benefit of him and Stanton as guests. A quick glance at Stanton showed the younger man’s morose expression at both the type of food and the quantity.
‘May I offer you some ale?’ said Philip, pouring himself some water.
‘I will also have water.’ Barling filled his own cup and took a deep draught. ‘Excellent.’
Stanton silently slid the ale jug over to himself.
‘Our wells are fed by the river, which means they are very pure,’ said Philip. ‘My predecessor, Ernald, may have chosen a particularly remote place to found this abbey, but he chose wisely, as he did in all things. He was blessed with the deepest wisdom as well as holiness.’
‘So I have heard,’ said Barling. ‘A great loss to this house, I am sure.’
‘It was. And though we are sure he is safe in the arms of Our Lord in heaven, we grieve for him still. He was our beloved father.’ The dark pools of Philip’s eyes glistened for a moment and he blinked hard. ‘A very great man. Sometimes I think he anticipated the evil act that was visited upon Brother Cuthbert.’
‘How so?’
‘It was Ernald’s decision to go to the ordeal in York last summer,’ said Philip. ‘He wanted to see God’s judgement of the water for himself, and he wanted many of his monks to see it as well. He was very sick and should not have gone but he was determined. I think it gave him the greatest comfort to see God’s hand at work before his very eyes. The work of our lord King too, in the form of his justices. And of course, your work also, Barling. Though I had not expected to see a familiar face in the travelling court, I recognised you at once, to my great delight. While others expressed surprise at your cleverness on that day, I was not surprised in the least. I well remembered your outstanding intellect from our days in Paris.’
‘I was but one among many sharp minds, yours included.’
‘You are too kind.’ Philip gave a dismissive wave. ‘But only you could leave the masters struck dumb with their lack of response to your arguments.’ He gave Barling a solemn nod, his gaze less troubled now. ‘It is as if Ernald knew that something terrible would befall our monastery and his hand has guided you here to help me. I take great comfort from that.’
‘The greatest comfort comes from justice,’ said Barling. ‘Is that not our experience, Stanton?’
To his irritation, Stanton was gulping down a long draught of ale.
‘It is,’ Stanton choked out in response.
Philip caught Barling’s eye. ‘Ale is always favoured by young men, is it not, Barling?’
It is very much favoured by your elderly gatekeeper as well. Barling did not put the thought into words. This was not the time. He merely smiled instead.
Philip returned the smile, though his was a sheepish one. ‘Paris was not only hours of study and debate with the masters, was it? I seem to remember, to my deepest shame, drinking the taverns of Paris dry on more than a few occasions.’
Barling had no wish to revisit those events. But he had to be polite. ‘To my shame too. I think every one of us had times when we acted foolishly when we were there.’ He had seldom seen Stanton look more surprised: his pupil had even stopped drinking.
‘Foolish does not even begin to describe it,’ said Philip. ‘The devil’s monasteries, some called the taverns, did they not?’
Barling nodded, thankful he was unable to reply with a spoon of hot pottage in his mouth.
Philip went on. ‘Though some were worse than others. The worst were dens of fornication, even sodomy, if the writings of Walter Map are to be believed.’ He shook his head.
‘A long time ago, indeed,’ said Barling, hiding his discomfort at the topic of the taverns by concentrating on breaking up his bread. ‘And I would hope that we have acquired wisdom since then.’
‘I would hope so too,’ replied Philip. ‘Age and experience have brought us great rewards: me, an abbot. You, a royal clerk.’ He gave a quiet sigh. ‘Yet with great reward comes even greater responsibility.’ Philip tapped the ale jug and looked at Stanton. ‘But you see, my boy, how easy it could be to take a different path?
To become ensnared in wickedness and sin?’
‘Yes, my lord abbot.’ Stanton gave a vigorous nod.
‘Good.’ Philip looked back at Barling, his gaze perturbed once again. ‘And of course, Barling, the most terrible wickedness has descended on us here at Fairmore.’
‘That it has,’ said Barling, ashamed at his own relief that the abbot had moved the discussion to the appalling occurrence in the abbey.
‘My fellow abbot, Nicholas,’ said Philip, ‘has let me know that he conveyed to you and Ranulf de Glanville what I wrote to him.’
‘He did; hence I am here.’ Barling reached for his satchel. ‘In fact, I have your letter with me.’ He took it out.
Philip’s mouth set in a line, as if seeing his own neatly written words again brought him distress anew. ‘That I should ever have had to write such a letter.’ He glanced at Stanton, then back at Barling. ‘We need to discuss it at the earliest opportunity.’
‘We have no need to wait,’ said Barling. ‘You requested my help, which my lord de Glanville was happy to give, as am I. Stanton is here to assist me, which, again, de Glanville agreed as a course of action.’
Philip’s brow cleared. A little. ‘Then I have more help than I asked for. De Glanville will be forever in my prayers.’
‘To help, we must have a full account.’ Barling unrolled the letter. ‘Shall we begin?’
Chapter Nine
‘Philip, I realise it will be unpleasant to revisit the events of Brother Cuthbert’s murder,’ said Barling. ‘But it is necessary.’
The abbot nodded. ‘I understand.’
‘Firstly, I need to establish that Cuthbert was your sacrist, was he not?’
‘It is in my letter.’
‘I like to confirm information.’
‘Then, yes: Cuthbert is – was – my sacrist, and Abbot Ernald’s before me. Had been so for many years. Cuthbert was responsible for maintaining our church. He took care of our liturgical vestments and the sacred corporal cloths, laundering them with care and devotion and ensuring their perfect cleanliness. His duties also included timekeeping, opening and closing the church doors as needed as well. Cuthbert was the one who had to ring the church bells to wake us or call us to the Divine Office or to Mass. That was what first alerted Brother Maurice to the fact that something was wrong.’
‘Maurice?’ Barling wished he had his tablet and pen to hand as well. But he did not wish to be so impolite as to takes notes while he and the others were still eating. And he was pleased to see that Stanton was listening intently. For all his faults, his pupil had sharp recall. They could compose a complete record afterward.
‘Brother Maurice, our novice master. Maurice told me he woke without any sound of the bell for the hour of Vigils, the night Office.’
‘Which would have been around an hour and a half after midnight, would it not?’
‘Normally. But this was the night before the birth of Our Lord, when Vigils are at two hours before midnight.’
‘Then surely many of the brethren would still have been awake?’
‘No,’ said Philip. ‘We go to sleep after the last Office at sundown. Which is already almost upon us today.’
‘So early?’ asked Barling in surprise.
‘Early in winter, much less so in summer. I can tell you, it is welcome. We have a far stricter regime than the monks and brothers of other orders.’ He drew himself up in his seat. ‘They return to bed after Vigils to sleep the night away. We do not, but spend the dark hours in prayer and devotion. And work. All on the consumption of but one meal a day.’
A challenge indeed. ‘Requiring the greatest fortitude of spirit, mind and body, I am sure. Yet Brother Maurice woke up?’
‘He did. I think some of the older monks, of which he is one, have had so many years of answering the bell that they no longer need it rung.’ He gave a rueful smile. ‘I do not know if that time will ever come for me. I am very poor at rousing from sleep.’
‘I doubt if you could be worse than Stanton here, Philip.’ Barling nodded at Stanton, who was finishing the cheese and looking not in the least ashamed. ‘As you were saying: Maurice was awake.’
‘He was. He checked the chamber Cuthbert slept in, which is next to the monks’ dormitory. There was no sign of Cuthbert. So Maurice set about waking the whole dormitory. He sent the novices down the night stairs, he and the other monks following. The night stairs lead from the monks’ dormitory straight to the church. But the door from the stairs into the church was locked. No bell. Doors locked. No Cuthbert.’ His voice dropped. ‘Maurice used his key to open the church and I was sent for.’
‘You sleep here, in your lodging?’
‘I do. After so many years of sleeping in a crowded dormitory with all the other monks, I thought I would relish the peace and quiet. Truth be told, I find it a little lonely.’ He took a sip of water. ‘Anyway. There were some angry words said to me about Cuthbert—’
‘By whom?’ Barling did not hesitate with his interruption. Emotion was so frequently linked to a murdering hand.
‘Maurice. He was very upset at Cuthbert’s failure to wake everyone on one of the most important nights of the year. But at that point he was not to know the truth of the matter. I went to start Vigils and Maurice stormed out. He took it upon himself to track Cuthbert down. He was shouting about bringing him back to face his sins and shame. I think perhaps he was headed for the warming room, guessing that Cuthbert had sneaked in there and fallen asleep. It does happen from time to time.’
‘But Brother Cuthbert was not in the warming room.’
‘No. He was in the kitchen. Which is nearby. I was summoned immediately. I got the . . . the smell first.’ Philip shook his head. ‘It was a scene from hell itself. Cuthbert was almost unrecognisable. The murderer had stoked the kitchen fire beneath one of the iron grills. Cuthbert was face down on it over the red-hot embers. The upper half of his body was . . . cooked.’ Philip dropped his head on to one raised hand, his elbow propped on the table, as if the memory of the sight weighed him down. ‘Cuthbert had been strangled. My infirmary monk, William, found tiny pieces of thin rope buried in Cuthbert’s neck when he was preparing the body for its eternal rest. The flesh was so damaged, he was not sure at first.’
Stanton reached for a deep mouthful of ale, pale as Philip now.
Barling knew his own visage would be the same. ‘I wish I could say that I cannot imagine what it must have been like, Philip. Unfortunately, I can. Which is why we must discover who is responsible.’ Barling patted the letter. ‘And you conducted an immediate investigation?’
‘I did. As I said in that letter, I questioned everybody at chapter. I have found nothing, except that all share the same distress. Cuthbert was a most decent man. Hard-working. Reliable. Quiet. Probably the quietest man here. He had no special friendships or closeness with any other. Unusual, given that he was a monk here for twenty years. But that did not mean he was not loved.’
‘When you say you have questioned “all”, Philip, to whom are you referring?’
‘The seventy-five souls that are currently under my care. My seven remaining obedientiaries, the senior monks who help to run this house, of which Cuthbert was one. Twenty choir monks, six novices and forty-two lay brothers. I have spoken to them all.’
Barling nodded. It sounded as if Philip had been most thorough. But he pressed him further. ‘Yet, surely,’ said Barling, ‘and I mean no disrespect, Philip, there may well be a wrongdoer amongst so many?’
‘Are you suggesting any of them would lie, sir?’ Outrage flushed into Philip’s face, as de Glanville had said it had with Nicholas when he’d suggested the same thing. ‘We live lives of peaceful order. These men have sworn before God, and they are men of God, that they have not done this foul, sinful deed. And I believe them.’ His voice rose in tone. ‘A murderer has come from outside. Slain our beloved brother. That is why I have asked for your help.’
Barling raised a hand. ‘I am sorry, Philip.’
>
Philip gave a long sigh. ‘It is I who should apologise, Barling. This has been a very heavy burden to carry. As well as my own grief for Cuthbert, I have had to carry the grief of the community. A community that was already grieving over the loss of our beloved abbot, Ernald.’
‘Think no more of it,’ said Barling. ‘I completely understand. And I will be doing everything I possibly can to find the evildoer.’
‘Then I can only pray you do,’ said Philip. ‘As does every soul here.’
‘Thank you.’ Barling rolled up the letter. ‘As well as your prayers, I will need to have your assurances of the cooperation of the brethren. Stanton and I will need to view the place where Brother Cuthbert’s body was found, along with other locations within the precinct. We may also wish to speak to some of the brethren.’
Philip pulled in a sharp breath. ‘Barling, the cloister is not open to outsiders. The lay brothers won’t like it but they will do as they are told. They always do. They have dull wits but at least are obedient. But the monks will not be happy. At all.’
Barling’s irritation rose further, though he kept it from his voice. ‘With respect, I am not interested in their happiness. My task here is to find out what happened to Cuthbert. To do so, we need a complete picture and that includes where he lived and died.’
‘I see.’ A deep frown dented Philip’s brow. ‘Then can I ask that we at least give the monks some warning? We meet every morning in the Chapter House, where I discuss matters of discipline, among other issues. I am not suggesting you should be present for those. But I can invite you in at the end, introduce you and explain the necessity and purpose of your presence.’
Barling wished he did not have to go through such an inconvenient performance. But if it would smooth the ruffled feathers of the monks, so be it. ‘Very well.’ Barling nodded to Stanton. ‘We shall attend.’
From outside, a bell rang – not the jangle of the gatehouse, which in any case would have been too far away.