After the tour, Geoffrey shared the monks’ supper in the fraterhouse or refectory in the south cloister. The meal, simple but adequate, was eaten in silence while one of the brothers read from the Scriptures. Accustomed to the constant noise of his own house in Aldgate, Geoffrey relished the peace of it all. Even so, he suspected that after a few days such ordered calm would become tedious. He’d never been tempted by the religious life; he belonged too much to this world.
But, he reflected now, sitting in his guest-chamber on a bright summer’s morning, such a life would do very well for a while. And he wasn’t so much out of the world after all. The dispute among the artisans working at the foot of the gatehouse showed that. He dipped his quill in the ink pot and prepared himself to blot the white sheet in front of him. He’d had an idea!
All at once there was a violent shout from below, followed by grunts and the sounds of a scuffle. Geoffrey cursed under his breath, rose from his stool and went to the window once more. He was readying himself to call out when he saw that the situation had gone beyond that.
Again two of the masons were standing at a distance from the scene, but this time their faces registered not tension but horror. The man with the claw-like hand was crouching over the fellow he’d been exchanging words with earlier. This man was lying on the ground, and for an instant Geoffrey thought that the other was trying to help him to his feet, since his good hand seemed to be cradled about the other’s neck. Irrelevantly he noted that the man lying down had lost his cap. He had prominent black eyebrows.
The crouching man leaped back. In his fist was clenched the chisel he had been wielding before. Chaucer’s gaze flicked from the blood clearly visible on the chisel blade to the blood that was pooling on the ground beneath the fallen man’s head. He was shaking violently, his heels thudding against the dry earth. He had no implement in his clenched hands, not even the trowel. If he’d been equipped for a fight, then he had either dropped or been disarmed of his makeshift weapon. Geoffrey had seen enough of death in battle to recognize that this unfortunate person had only a very short time to live.
For some seconds nobody moved. The two onlookers stood transfixed by the shock of what they were seeing, and by fear of the individual with the chisel who remained at a half-crouch a couple of yards from the body whose tremors were even now subsiding. The man held the bloody chisel out as if to ward off an attack, but neither of the others was going to approach him. Though Geoffrey hadn’t moved or spoken, the killer must have sensed that he was being watched from the upper window. His covered head shifted upwards and he squinted as before. His black hole of a mouth widened in a type of grin, and Geoffrey felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickling. At the same time an inner voice told him that he must act, he must get down to the inner court and do something…Still he did not budge.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw flickers of black. The crooked-hand man must have noticed Chaucer’s gaze shift, for he turned his head. Half a dozen monks, fresh from their devotions, were rounding the corner of the kitchen, which lay on the eastern side of the court next to the refectory. As one, like soldiers given a command, they stopped when they saw the scene before them: a man on his back on the ground, another crouched with his arm extended and two more standing by stiff as statues.
Then, as if to make up for the absence of movement, everyone started to act at once. The monks began to pace rapidly towards the group, their habits flapping. Either they were brave or they hadn’t fully grasped what was happening. Simultaneously, one of the fellows of the dead man – he must be dead by now; he had stopped shaking, though the blood continued to flow from the wound in his neck – made to close in on the killer, but with great caution.
The claw-handed man was quicker. He darted through the tightening circle, lashing out to left and right with the chisel. Geoffrey turned from the window and left the room at a half-run. When he was halfway down the spiral staircase, which led to the ground floor, he realized he was still clutching the quill pen. For an absurd instant he debated returning to replace the pen on the table. Then he clattered down the stone steps, through the lobby and emerged blinking into the sun of the courtyard.
He skirted the pile of stones and wheelbarrows and leathern buckets and other equipment which was being used to repair the cavity in the wall. No one noticed him. Either they were staring at the corner of the yard by the kitchen or they were themselves moving in that direction. The murderer had evidently slipped around the corner moments before while Geoffrey was descending. A couple of the monks remained behind, together with one of the masons. No one had yet gone near the body.
As Chaucer came out from the shadow of the gatehouse, the mason glanced around, fear and shock on his face. He was little more than a lad, with a round, freckled face. An apprentice, no doubt. His eyes flicked down to Chaucer’s hand. He opened his mouth but no words would come. Geoffrey held up the quill as if to say, ‘Look, it’s harmless,’ but he wasn’t sure whether the lad really took it in. He placed the quill on a nearby block of stone. By now the two monks were bending over the body on the ground. Their black garb reminded Chaucer of crows in a field.
The other mason, the older man, returned. He was panting heavily from the chase, sweat running down his face. His shirt was torn at the shoulder and blood was seeping through. He took off his woollen hat and held it to the wound. He glanced briefly towards the freckle-faced lad but did not look at the body.
‘Scraped me, he did,’ he said to Geoffrey when he’d recovered his breath. ‘I left it to them to catch the bastard. They know the holes and corners of this place – God knows there’re enough of them.’ Chaucer wasn’t sure whether he was referring to the brothers who’d taken off after the one-armed fugitive or to the priory’s holes and corners.
One of the remaining monks made the sign of the cross over the body while the other kneeled down beside it. Chaucer heard the murmur of prayer.
‘What happened? Who did this?’ said Geoffrey.
‘Calls himself Adam,’ said the man. ‘Anyone can call themselves Adam, though, can’t they? Argumentative bastard, looking for trouble from the moment we started this job.’
Both men spoke almost in whispers. The freckle-faced apprentice kept silent but gazed in fascination, it seemed, at the monks, both of whom were now on their knees.
‘You didn’t know him, then? He’s a newcomer?’ said Geoffrey, indicating the direction taken by the fleeing man.
‘We were short-handed. Michael the cellarer wished Adam on us.’
The cellarer or bursar of the priory was responsible not only for provisioning the priory but also kept the office which oversaw the upkeep of the buildings.
‘Adam has only the use of one hand,’ said Geoffrey, reluctant to add that this might seem to disqualify the man from building work.
‘Cellarer said we should show charity. Adam came to him with a sob story of how his hand’d been crushed by some falling scaffolding when he was working over Lewes way. There’s another whatsisname over Lewes way.’
‘St Pancras of Lewes. It’s a Cluniac house,’ said Geoffrey.
‘That’s the one. St Pancras. You’re not a religious?’ said the man, looking at Chaucer’s clothes and apparently surprised at his knowledge of the Cluniac order. He continued to hold his cap over the wound in his upper arm.
‘I am a visitor to the priory. Geoffrey Chaucer is my name. You are…?’
‘I am Andrew. This here is Will and that there on the ground is John.’
He meant the freckled boy and the dead man.
‘Cellarer Michael says we should look after our own,’ continued Andrew, ‘so he takes this Adam on even though he only had the one good hand. Did enough damage to old John Morton, didn’t he, with that one good hand? Though you might say it was a bad hand.’
The two monks who’d been attending to the dead man were joined by other brothers and some lay workers. One of them had brought a makeshift carrier made of coarse cloth fastened to two poles
. He placed it on the ground and unfurled it. Several of them half lifted, half rolled the dead man on to the stretcher. The irrelevant thought occurred to Chaucer that at least their black habits would not easily show the blood which must be staining them.
As they lifted up the stretcher holding the body, the apprentice gasped. It was the first sound Will had made.
‘John on the ground is Will’s uncle,’ said Andrew. ‘His father’s sick, which is the reason we were short-handed. Will’s a bit…you know…’
He rolled his eyes in his head. A bit simple, he meant. Geoffrey looked at the boy again. Will was watching as the group made its way towards the corner of the yard, presumably on its way to the infirmary.
‘You know why he’s simple?’ said Andrew.
Geoffrey shook his head. He didn’t know why the man was talking so much. Shock, he guessed.
‘It’s because his mother was sired by a priest. The boy’s state is God’s punishment for her father’s sin, though you wouldn’t know it from the way she carries on. Giving herself airs and all.’
Chaucer said nothing. The comments seemed out of place. He was familiar with the idea that the sins of the fathers might be visited on succeeding generations. It was not an idea that he liked very much, although, looking around at the world, there seemed to be a grain of truth in it. Rather than saying anything in reply, he continued to gaze at the retreating procession carrying the body of the mason. Before they’d gone far, Richard Dunton intercepted them. The carriers paused. The prior stood by the stretcher and bowed his head. His lips moved in silent prayer, then he strode briskly to where Chaucer stood with the mason and the apprentice.
‘This is a bad business, Geoffrey, very bad,’ he said. ‘Did you see it happen?’
‘Not altogether. This man was a witness.’
‘Andrew, isn’t it?’ said Dunton. ‘You are hurt, Andrew.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said the mason, pleased to have been recognized despite everything. ‘It’s nothing much, sir. Just a scratch.’
‘It is your fellow that is dead? John Morton?’
Geoffrey understood that Richard Dunton had the knack, very useful in someone with authority, of knowing the names even of those in lowly positions.
‘The boy here is his nephew,’ said Andrew. ‘John is – he was – brother to the lad’s father.’
The Prior said: ‘I know.’ He reached out and grasped Will by the shoulder. The boy started and blinked as if he had been woken from a dream.
‘Has the villain been caught, sir?’ asked Andrew.
‘He will be,’ said the prior. ‘I understand that he arrived here only recently.’
Andrew nodded and Dunton said: ‘We will scour the grounds and buildings. He will find no home or sanctuary here.’
‘Must go home,’ said Will, picking up on the prior’s last words. The boy’s voice was surprisingly steady. ‘My father, he is sick at home.’
‘In the Morton house? I did not hear of any sickness,’ said the prior.
‘No reason you should hear, sir,’ said Andrew. He removed the woollen cap from his damaged arm. The blood was seeping more slowly now. As he’d said, it wasn’t much more than a scratch.
‘Go to the infirmary, man. Get that wound attended to.’
‘Home,’ Will repeated. He made as if to set off but did no more than walk in a half-circle, as if he’d forgotten his whereabouts.
‘Wait,’ said the prior. ‘You shall not go by yourself.’
Dunton’s glance shifted between Geoffrey Chaucer and Andrew, who hadn’t moved, despite being ordered to the infirmary. The prior said: ‘Geoffrey, would you mind accompanying Will? I must stay here. But the boy should not go alone. There is a bad man on the loose and, besides, it may be necessary to…to give an account…’
Chaucer understood. The prior did not wish the news of John Morton’s death to come from the mouth of the boy, even assuming he was capable of delivering it. Young Will would probably recover soon enough, but at the moment he was still affected by witnessing the mortal violence done to his uncle.
‘Of course,’ he said.
‘The family live outside the main gate, Master Chaucer,’ said Andrew. ‘There is a row of dwellings. Theirs is a house apart. It is Mistress Susanna’s you are looking for.’
Geoffrey indicated to Will that he should go with him. They walked through the gatehouse and turned left into the outer court. There was a second arched gateway at the end. Chaucer had been greeted here the previous evening by Brother Philip. Now a lay figure was lounging in the shadow of the gate. He was a hulky man. He was picking at his teeth with a twig. His face lightened when he saw Will but not in a pleasant way.
‘Morning, young Will,’ he said. ‘How are you this fine morning? How’s your mother?’
He cupped his hands under imagined breasts. The boy did not respond. Then the man seemed to notice Chaucer for the first time.
‘You keep this gate?’ said Geoffrey.
‘I help the brother who does. Who wants to know?’
‘Never mind that. What I want to know is whether anyone has passed through here.’
The large man pretended to think. He scraped between his teeth with the twig and examined the result with more interest than he was giving to his questioner. ‘Many people pass through this gate,’ he said finally. Then, seeing Geoffrey’s expression, added: ‘What’s happened?’
‘A workman is dead. Killed by one of his fellows. If the killer attempts to pass, you must stop him.’
The hulking man stopped lounging and stood up straight. Geoffrey took pleasure at the confusion and fear which settled on his face.
‘How will I know him? How can I stop him if there is only one of me?’
‘Then you are equally matched because there is only one of him. You should recognize him easily. He has a hand like this.’ Geoffrey held up his left hand like a crooked claw. ‘Oh, and he may be running away. Adam is his name.’
The gatekeeper started. He obviously recognized the description. Without waiting to see any further results of his words, Geoffrey ushered Will through the arch and into the street beyond. He didn’t really think that the murderous Adam would try to leave the priory by the main gate, but he was satisfied enough to have alarmed the deputy gatekeeper. The chances were that the fugitive would make his escape to the south or east where the priory’s grounds joined the flat countryside surrounding them. It wasn’t surprising that the insolent keeper had heard nothing. The scuffle and the murder had taken place in the inner courtyard a hundred yards away, behind thick walls and buildings that blocked the noise. Anyway, the monks did not go in for the uproar and the hue and cry which would have followed a similar attack in the city streets.
Outside the gate he paused. ‘Where is it you live, Will? Where is your home?’
The freckle-faced lad hesitated, then pointed to his right. The wall of the priory continued for a distance. They passed the entrance to another cemetery. The crosses and stone markers here were dotted more at random than their equivalents in the monks’ graveyard. Chaucer guessed this was where the lay workers would be buried. Quite a few of them, accumulated over the two hundred and fifty years of the priory’s existence. Never any shortage of the dead.
To their left the land stretched away to the muddy foreshore of the river, which glinted in the sun. The further bank was half-obscured by the haze of the morning, although the White Tower of the great castle on the northern bank was visible. The sails of a few boats stood prominent against the flatness. Gulls swooped and squawked above the water. It must be somewhere here that the miraculous little cross had landed, dropped from the beak of a bird that was larger than the largest eagle.
They came to a row of mean dwellings, more or less single rooms equipped with a door and walls and a roof with a hole to allow smoke out and a window-space at the front to let light in. Each house seemed to be leaning against the one next to it for support. If you took away the end one, they might all topple down. A coupl
e of children were playing outside a doorway. One of them waved at Will and he waved back. Chaucer assumed that they were heading for the row, but Will wandered beyond it, in the direction of a house standing a little apart from the others.
At that instant a woman emerged from the door. She was carrying a leather bucket. She was about to throw its contents beyond the door but stopped when she saw Geoffrey and Will. Chaucer realized who she must be from her face. She was attractive, with an ample figure apparent even under a loose smock, but there was an echo of her looks in the boy. This was the woman, he remembered, who supposedly had a priest for a father. It was possible. Priests were human. They might not be allowed to marry, but they had female housekeepers and other servants.
‘What’s he done?’ she said to Geoffrey.
‘He’s done nothing. Are you Mistress Morton? Susanna Morton?’
‘Yes. What’s wrong?’
‘Is your husband here?’
‘Inside, sir.’
The woman moved from the door. She stood uncertainly clasping the bucket of water. Chaucer peered into the room. After the brightness of the day, he couldn’t see much. The remains of a fire sent up a spiral of smoke, some of which found its way through the hole in the roof. On the far side was a large bed, which took up perhaps a quarter of all the available space. A man was lying on it, a blanket pulled up to his chin. Next to him was a great bolster. Since the bed would contain the whole family, the bolster was probably used to demarcate areas of it. Even as Geoffrey watched, the sleeping man groaned and murmured some inaudible words. Meantime, Will ignored his mother and father. He brushed past Chaucer and went to a corner of the room. He crouched down and busied himself about some activity.
‘Have you come to report on him, sir?’ said Mistress Morton. ‘He’s sick. Celler knows he’s sick and cannot work.’
Celler? She meant the cellarer of the priory.
‘He tried to get up this morning but his legs would not stand him,’ continued the woman. ‘He was sweating and very feeble.’
‘What is the matter with him?’
House of Shadows Page 24