by Rosie Lear
“Yes, if he is apprehended,” conceded the Abbot.
“Have we informed the Coroner?” faltered the prior.
Abbot Bradford frowned. “We are not obliged to do so,” he declared,
“Matters of the church are dealt with by church authorities.”
“This was hardly a church matter,” protested the prior. “The young man was a townsman.”
“Absolutely,” the Abbot confirmed, forcefully, “but I think we shall hear no more of it. Master Cope has caused the removal of the victim to his own home in Milborne Port. You see – he was not even a Sherborne man. That will be the end of the matter.”
How very wrong he was – it was to be only a beginning.
The small town of Sherborne in the County of Dorset, was, like many others, built around the Abbey, - which had originally been a cathedral. The Abbot was answerable to the Bishop of Salisbury, - currently one Robert Neville, nephew to the late King Henry 1V- and both the abbey and the bishopric had become very wealthy.
They owned properties which were now rented out to small merchants who had benefited from the changing face of England . There was a prosperous cloth trade which was beginning to attract merchants from the South and West of England, and the Great Deer Park belonging to the Bishop of Salisbury stretched from just outside the small town and included Bishop’s Caundle, Stour Caundle and Purse Caundle. The Abbot held sway over Sherborne and was landlord to many. The small town nestling under the towering presence of the Abbey was unimportant compared to Glastonbury or Shaftesbury, with the great religious orders dominating those towns, yet the Abbey had the town firmly in its grip, able to charge rents and taxes on so many different aspects of life.
The Bishop had both arable pastures and forest land in his domain, and as was the new custom, much of his land, and indeed, that of the Abbot, was rented out, thus making the demesne smaller. The income from pastures, farms, fulling mills, shops and individual properties was quite considerable and the good Benedictine brothers lived far more comfortably than several decades ago. True, much of the revenue was destined for the new building and the Glory of God, but the Benedictine community did very well out of it, nevertheless, and there was of course the income from the vast flocks of sheep which now grazed on the bishop’s land.
Then there was the presence of the Castle, overlooking the town from its verdant position - the official residence of the Bishop of Salisbury whenever he had occasion to visit Sherborne. Built several centuries ago by Roger Caen, the castle had seen a stream of kings, servants of kings, and prisoners. It was showing signs of disrepair now, but housed visitors of the Bishop as well as itinerant soldiers in transit from the West Country to serve the king, wherever they were needed.
“What a disappointment the appointment of Father Samuel has been,” The Abbot muttered to the Prior as they rounded the green which fronted the Abbey.
“I really thought his opinions would be to our good – he is too hot for the townspeople. I fear we receive little respect from him,” he continued.
“He seems to have little regard for his own position when giving voice to his many grievances,” agreed the Prior.
“An uneducated man, at best,” concluded the Abbot. “His utterances in the Latin tongue are poor and in some cases, quite meaningless.”
“One of his grievances is that he is not able to conduct the Baptisms,” Prior Simon said, softly. He knew this was likely to achieve the most effect with his superior; he was not wrong.
The Abbot’s face mottled to an unlovely hue of purple. Spittle flew from his lips as he spoke.
“Never! Baptism is the most sacred blessing – and incidentally, one which is our revenue as a right. Baptisms are far too valuable a commodity to be performed by such an unprincipled man as Father Samuel. They will remain our prerogative.”
“Do you think they will dare to use the font which they brought into Allhallows?”
“They were ordered by the Bishop of Salisbury to remove it,” the Abbot hissed. He was becoming more and more venomous as the memory of the positioning of a new font in the chapel-of-ease came back to him.
“They will move it – I will not have it remain.”
The positioning of a font in Allhallows was preposterous. It had been the final dagger thrust which brought the Bishop scurrying to Sherborne to hold his enquiry last Autumn, - and it had divided the townspeople, too. Certainly, Father Samuel was turning out to be too much of a champion of the people rather than the dutiful servant of the Abbot.
As the Abbot and Brother Simon turned to re-enter the Abbey at its great West door, they noticed Father Samuel approaching, a small band of townspeople with him.
“Good morning, Father Abbot.”
“Good morning,” replied the Abbot, coldly, not reducing his pace one jot. Father Samuel stepped slightly in front of the Abbot and jolted him to a halt.
“There will be the Easter processionals with baptisms soon,” he announced, loudly enough for the crowd to hear.
“I’m glad to hear it,” was the icy reply.
“I trust you will widen the doorway now that the labourers have returned, in time for the Easter processional?”
The Abbot made no reply. He raised his eyes and looked across the Abbey green towards the distant castle.
“I’m sure you will find a way to manage with the new and discreet doorway, Father Samuel.”
The crowd behind drew nearer, a growl in their corporate throat. Fear of unpopularity was not one of Abbot Bradford’s failings. He met Father Samuel’s eyes, and saw a blazing fire of resentment in them. He held them squarely for a full minute before turning back into the Abbey to survey the mess the builders had left in the nave, Prior Simon following.
As he retreated from the confrontation, Father Samuel unclenched his fists. The crowd around him muttered sullenly before dispersing to carry news of the meeting to fellow men and women in the crowded market-place. It had hardly been the lengthy confrontation they had hoped for.
William Wass returned to his market stand, pondering on the unfairness of life. Sherborne was a good place to live – it was busy in itself with many attractive buildings; it was small enough not to warrant unwelcome attention from affairs of state; it had open and reasonably safe communication to Glastonbury, Exeter, Shaftesbury Salisbury and the coastal towns that allowed men to trade their wool and cloth with the continent - but the Abbey and the Bishop of Salisbury had become such powerful land-owners that although things were changing for the better, the townspeople still seemed restrained and in some way oppressed.
He sighed. He was a cloth maker, with cloth of good quality, dyed locally, and he was proud of his wares. He frequently took them to market in other small towns round about and he was proud to say he came from Sherborne, but his personal opinion was that the Abbot took too much for himself and gave too little of his time to the people. William’s brother was a brewer, and he was sore annoyed at the payment of croukpenny to the Abbot – a tax levied on the brewing of beer. Henry would get himself into trouble sooner or later, thought William, if he insisted on being at the forefront of clandestine meetings among the fraternity of local brewers. He sighed again heavily, and turned back to his customers.
Prior Simon and Abbot Bradford had inspected their building works. The fog of early day had lifted, and a thin, watery sun had pierced the gloom of the clouds. The ground was still wet as they pursued their way back to the monastery by way of the orchard garden. Shafts of welcome sunlight arrowed their way through the bare branches of the trees, and beads of moisture clung to the hem of their robes. The low grey stone of the monastery was visible dimly through the remaining whisps of mist.
“The Lady Chapel must be cleansed and re-sanctified,” the Abbot mused as they walked. Prior Simon nodded in agreement. “And the bailiff?” he asked, “Does he wish to investigate further?”
The Abbot sniffed dismissively.
“A town brawl – and not our concern, for it transpires that the y
oung man lived in Milborne Port – not even in our own shire.”
Prior Simon raised an eyebrow. He was of the private opinion that the Abbot was taking this episode very lightly. He did not choose to disagree with his superior however, the abbot being a proud man and of haughty demeanour. He tried again:
“But he was stabbed here, in Sherborne.”
“Do we know that, brother? Have we proof? Do we want proof? Has anyone come asking for proof?”
Abbot Bradford cast a stern eye over his Prior. His gimlet eyes were bright with a passionate zeal which the Prior recognized as meaning that the subject was closed and not to be re-opened.
“Well,” the other rejoined, doubt creeping into his voice as to the wisdom of making ripples where none seemed to exist.
They crossed towards the gate leading to the monastery; the fallen body of a girl became immediately visible.
“How did this townsperson enter here?” The Abbot exclaimed, hastening towards the still form. His sudden flaring anger reduced his reason. After all, who would be lying on damp grass from choice at this time of the year, - and on such a swirling, misty, inhospitable day?
But Prior Simon was ahead of him. He bent slowly to the lifeless body on the grass and gently made the sign of the cross, murmuring the words of absolution as he did so. Abbot Bradford’s face blanched and his acid tongue was stilled.
“My Lord Abbot,” said Prior Simon, as he carefully turned the girl to him to reveal the blood-soaked garments, “This girl is not here by chance, nor of her own choosing.”
In his compassion, he closed the girls’ eyes.
The wound was revealed as he moved her – blood had congealed and clotted around the middle of her back and the ground beneath had stained an ugly red, turning now to brown, - but above the entry hole, the black, sticky substance was visible. He turned away, covering his mouth with one hand as his gorge rose. He tasted bile in his mouth, and coughed awkwardly and discreetly to try and hide his revulsion.
“This is Bailiff’s business,” the Abbot declared.
“This is Coroner’s business,” the bailiff decided, kneeling on the grass beside the corpse. Rigor mortis was setting in, and the cold and damp had effected an unlovely puffiness to the girl’s ice-cold skin. Sherborne was becoming a quarrelsome place, he thought privately. There was dissension among the townspeople, some of whom felt they should support the abbot in his decisions regarding the doorway, and affairs seemed to be getting overheated. But surely not enough to provoke murder?
For murder was what this second death most certainly was - and what of the first he thought, as he despatched messengers to summon the coroner. A tithing man from Abbot’s Fee was sent to guard the corpse until Sir Tobias Delaware arrived – and guard it he did, - for two unhappy hours. Steven Lacy, the tithing man in question, was not happy to be asked to leave his shop on tithing business, but he had no choice. He left his wife and apprentice to manage the apothecary business in his absence.
The coroner arrived with his squire and a scribe, and trailing behind them, wringing her hands together and supported by Father Samuel, was Mistress Fosse.
The coroner was a commanding man who had served in the King’s army against the French, and had seen sudden and ugly death in a far worse way, many times. This was nothing new to him, yet his manner was still courteous and gentle – unlike the Abbot, who was summoned from his house to greet Sir Tobias.
Sir Tobias took his duties as Coroner of Dorset very seriously. He was a well fleshed man of some fifty Summers, his dark hair showing streaks of silver here and there. He had keen eyes under bushy eyebrows, a straight nose and wore his trimmed beard with pride. His family life had taught him to care courteously for all cases in which he was involved; he took in the proud disdain of the Abbot, and the slight embarrassment of the prior, who felt his superior’s attitude was unhelpful. The Coroner had heard of the Abbot’s manner before.
“My good woman – stand a little way off and control this unseemly noise,” he commanded. “Let the priest stand with her to comfort her.”
He knelt on the damp ground and carefully removed the outer garment. A ragged tear where the blade had penetrated was apparent, and the power with which the blow had been struck had forced some strands of the fabric into the wound itself. He shook his head. The girl would have not expected this blow, - there was no evidence of resistance, and the wound was deep, implying force and strength.
Sir Tobias fingered the ground carefully around the corpse for any signs of the instrument of death, but there was nothing to be seen. He exchanged a quiet word with his squire, who was standing nearby, and both squire and scribe moved to search the surrounding area for signs of a discarded weapon. Very gently he lifted the skirt of her gown, but he need look no further – it was obvious that no rape or violation had taken place. The Abbot shuddered as he realised what had been in the Coroner’s thoughts. He was silent. Chagrin was etched on his face as he remembered his harsh words to Prior Simon when they first discovered the girl, for although he was both proud and haughty, he was not malicious or unfeeling.
“Write your report, Sir Tobias, and have it conveyed to the sheriff. We must make ourselves available to you for investigation if that is what you would do”
“You saw no one on the scene as you approached?” The Coroner asked.
“The garden was deserted,” The Abbot assured him.
“Take the cadaver to the chapel – wash and cleanse her, and keep guard over her until she may be returned to her family. I take it she has a family?”
“My lord, I must send word to the girl’s family..” Mistress Fosse faltered, stepping forward and bobbing her head to Sir Tobias.
“And they live where?” he asked her, quietly.
“They have a small-holding in the village of Oborne, sir.” She replied.
Father Samuel stepped forward, extending an arm to Mistress Fosse. He supported her by the elbow, compassionate and attentive, eyes lowered. He did not wish to appear confrontational towards Abbot Bradford under these unhappy circumstances. He forced his eyes to look towards the girl’s lifeless form…. and found he was not as revolted as he should have been. He took in the scene – Mary was lying straightened now, as the coroner had left her, and her face was turned away from him.
“If you’re ready, Mistress Fosse,” he said, quietly, pressurizing her elbow slightly to indicate that they should be ready to move away.
Mistress Fosse allowed him to turn her away from the scene. They retraced their steps towards the side door of the Abbey, but his sandaled foot caught the same stone which had caused Mary to tumble. He felt ridiculous as he lay in the wet grass, nursing a grazed knee, but as he rose, he caught sight of a key, and without thinking or knowing what made him do so, he closed his fingers round it.. and slipped it into his scrip.
Three lay brothers from the monastery arrived to remove the serving girl, followed by two monks who would wash the cadaver and arrange it for burial.
“William,” Sir Tobias addressed his squire, now beside him after a fruitless search for the weapon, “Ride to Oborne and seek the family. I would not want the maid’s body to arrive before they are aware of her death. Watch and listen carefully to anything which jars….there must surely be a reason behind this killing.”
To the Abbot he said “I understand this is the second such death in Sherborne within three days. I would like to have seen the first corpse. Why was I not informed of the killing?”
His tone indicated only too well what Prior Simon had feared – it should not have been ignored.
“It was the result of an unseemly town brawl, my lord.” Abbot Bradford tried to sound re-assuring, but he knew he had no proof that this was so.
Sir Tobias frowned, and drew his dark red cloak more tightly around him to shield him from the chilly wind which cut across the Abbey garden suddenly. He was heartily glad of his fur lined hat and thick leather gloves.
Mistress Fosse had followed the sad little processi
on as they carried Mary back through the abbey, up the tumbled and messy nave with the builder’s dross tossed hither and thither, and so through the narrowed entrance to Allhallow’s Chapel of Ease
“How can you be sure that this was nothing more than a brawl?” Sir Tobias asked the Abbot, sternly. “Do you have so many deaths in Sherborne thus?”
“It was my considered opinion that this was an accident, - the first death,” began the Abbot.
Sir Tobias scorched him with his eyes.
“And now you have a second death, following so closely on the first, - do you regard that as a town brawl, too?” His sarcasm was biting. “We have few deaths by violence in these parts at present. When there is such a death, you are required to report it to the Coroner – myself. You will not put yourself above that office.”
Sir Tobias walked with Abbot Bradford to the gate of the abbey garden. His anger and disgust at the dilatory conduct of the Abbot was apparent. The sounds from the masons and stone-workers were still audible – in fact, seemed monstrously out of place in this still garden. There seemed no place for the distant careless laughter and chinking chisels and whistling men going about their daily lives, when here, one young life had been extinguished violently with a single stroke.
The grass was trampled where Mary had fallen. It was further flattened where Sir Tobias had knelt, and where the Abbot and his small party had stood and watched and wondered, but when they left, the garden was silent and deserted once more.
The silent watcher was surprised therefore, when he deemed it safe to slide furtively into the garden and feel again in the tree for the prize he had paid so dearly for… he too, was robed. The wet grass had soaked the hem of his garment, and his legs were cramped from waiting his chance to retrieve the key without being observed.
His face was grim as he retreated from the garden. His keen mind reflected on the presence of the party – Mistress Fosse, The Prior, Abbot Bradford, Father Samuel, The Coroner, his squire and his scribe, the tithing man Stephen Lacy, the attendant monks who had lifted the body, - had they removed anything from the girl? Had he missed something?