The Serpents of Harbledown d-5

by Edward Marston

  Voices were heard outside the house. Alain took fright. It was time to steal away to the safety of the wood and the reluctant company of the pigs. As he hauled himself upright, however, he saw something out of the corner of his eye. It was caught on a twig and danced in the breeze. He reached out to detach it with the utmost care then inspected it more closely. Alain was content.

  It was hers.

  Canon Hubert was anxious to return to the city as quickly as possible, not simply because of the funeral of Brother Martin and the chance, at last, of a distant glimpse of Archbishop Lanfranc, but because the experience in Harbledown had shaken him badly. He was deeply offended by what he had seen, and felt almost tainted. Christ Church Priory offered him the sanctuary he needed and the solace he craved. It would cleanse him.

  Gervase rode back to the cathedral precinct before parting company with him. He reached the house as Ralph Delchard was leaving and their discussion took place in the narrow passage than ran to the stables. When Gervase recounted all that had taken place on his latest visit to Harbledown, his friend was cynical.

  “I would not trust Canon Hubert’s instincts.”

  “He felt the presence of evil, Ralph.”

  “Who would not? Brother Martin was poisoned to death in that church. Murder is bound to leave its effect.”

  “It was more than that,” said Gervase. “A malevolence hangs in the air. I sensed it, too. It is almost tangible. Canon Hubert was so shocked that he is going to seek a meeting with Prior Henry to report his findings. There was definitely something in the atmosphere, Ralph.”

  “Is it surprising?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The church is used only by lepers, Gervase. They are not the most fragrant of human beings. Even sweet herbs and strong prayers will not wholly disguise the corruption of their flesh.

  Canon Hubert is used to the clean air of the cloister in Winchester. That is why he took offence.”

  “It struck him at a profoundest level. He believes that the church should be exorcised.”

  “That will happen when we have caught this killer,” said Ralph.

  “We will drive the devil out of Harbledown.”

  “We have to find him first.”

  “We are getting closer.”

  “All we know for certain is that he mocks the Christian Church.

  Wearing the cowl was not just a convenient disguise. It was a deliberate act of contempt.”

  “That narrows it down, Gervase. I still believe that our villain may be this mysterious lover of Bertha’s. Her father thinks the same or he would not be so eager to track down the man. Put together what we already know of him with what you and Canon Hubert have added today, and what do we have?”

  “A handsome Frenchman in his thirties with a scorn for the basic tenets of Christianity.”

  “Who likes to hide behind a cowl,” said Ralph with a grin. “Pull back the hood of every monk in Canterbury and we will find the one without a tonsure. You take the priory and I will search the abbey.”

  “Be serious, Ralph. We must catch him another way.”

  “Alwin is still our surest guide.”

  “But he refused to help you.”

  “I’ll be more forceful this time, Gervase. My visit to Faversham has given me a powerful threat to use against him.”

  “Threat?”

  “Juliana. If Alwin will not tell us all he knows, I’ll set his sister-in-law onto him.” He chuckled merrily. “Juliana would beat the truth out of him with her bare fists.”

  The first punch broke his nose and sent him staggering back with blood streaming down his lips. A second caught him on the ear and made his head ring. Third, fourth and fifth punches were delivered to the midriff and knocked all the breath out of him. It was the sixth blow which felled him, a vicious uppercut to his chin which made his teeth rattle. After that, he lost count.

  Alwin the Sailor slumped to the floor in a flurry of punches and kicks. He was a strong man but all resistance was beaten out of him by the flailing fists and the swinging feet. It was no covert attack. Alwin was sitting in his boat when the two men accosted him. There were several witnesses near the quayside in Fordwich but none dared to intervene. Most turned their backs out of fear or indifference. Some felt that Alwin was getting no more than he deserved.

  The punishment continued long after the victim was senseless.

  It only stopped when the two assailants began to tire. Sweating profusely from their exertions, the brawny young men swayed over the body on the deck, their shoes stained by the blood now gushing from a dozen wounds. As a final act of violence, they suddenly grabbed hold of him and lifted him in the air before hurling him into the river with a loud splash. Their work was done. Heedless of his fate, they walked away from the quay.

  It was only then that others leaped into action, rushing to save the drowning sailor. One man dived into the water to reclaim the body while another threw a rope after him. Two more lent their aid and the victim was hauled slowly back into his boat.

  Alwin lay face-up on the deck, soaked to the skin, streaming with fresh blood, expelling water from his mouth and threshing wildly about like a beached whale.

  Canon Hubert could not contain his sense of outrage. As soon as Brother Martin had been laid to rest in the cemetery at Christ Church Priory, the monks dispersed with dignified sorrow to mourn their loss in their own way. Hubert sought an immediate audience with Prior Henry and the two of them adjourned to the private parlour in his lodgings.

  Behind the mask of impassivity, Henry was fuming.

  “Could this not wait at least a decent interval?”

  “I fear not, Prior Henry.”

  “Brother Martin has only just been lowered into his grave.”

  “This concerns his murder.”

  “I find your conduct most unseemly, Canon Hubert.”

  “You may not do so when you hear my explanation.”

  “Pardon will not come easily from me.”

  “Hear me out, Prior Henry. That is all I ask.”

  The prior lowered himself into his chair and put the tips of his fingers together, regarding his visitor with an icy disapproval which would have quelled most people. Canon Hubert was made of more durable material. Standing before the table, he inhaled deeply and began his denunciation. He described exactly what he had experienced in Harbledown.

  Henry’s reservations quickly melted and, once roused, his curiosity moved through keen interest and utter fascination to a controlled horror. By the time that Hubert had finished his account, the prior was back on his feet to put him under close questioning.

  “Whom else have you told about this, Canon Hubert?”

  “Gervase Bret was with me at the time.”

  “Was he likewise scandalised?”

  “Yes,” said Hubert. “But not to the same degree. He is a layman and does not have the same spiritual insight as someone who has spent his whole life in the Church.”

  “He had the sense to take your opinion and for that we must be grateful. I have had vague warnings of all this from Brother Bartholomew and Brother Vitalis. They were sent to Harbledown to take over the running of the hospital when Brother Martin was killed. The urgency of the situation meant that have spent most of the time placating the lepers but they have obviously taken services in the church.”

  “Did they not feel its malign influence?”

  “They spoke only of a sense of unease.”

  “Heresy is writ large across the altar cloth.”

  “It has taken your sharper eye to decipher it. I will view the place myself in time but this is too sinister a development for independent action on my part. Archbishop Lanfranc must be informed at once.”

  “I am gratified by your response, Prior Henry.”

  “Your report is alarming,” confided the other. “All the more so because it is matched by intelligence we have gathered from other sources. Suffice to say that a threat has been identified more clearly. For s
uch evil to appear anywhere would be a cause for dismay. But when it arrives on the very doorstep of Canterbury Cathedral, when it defies the anointed head of the English Church, when it hurls such vile abuse at Christianity itself, it must provoke an instant and merciless reaction.”

  “I heartily endorse those sentiments,” said Hubert.

  “Archbishop Lanfranc will say no less himself.”

  “Please convey my warmest greetings to him.”

  “You may do so yourself, Canon Hubert.”

  “Myself?”

  “The archbishop will want to hear your testimony in full. You will imagine his distress when he first heard that Brother Martin had been killed within the hallowed walls of a church which Archbishop Lanfranc himself founded. When he comprehends the full extent of the desecration, he will strike back like an avenging angel.”

  Prior Henry snatched up a bell on his desk and rang it decisively.

  A monk entered at once, received a whispered message and hastened away. Canon Hubert savoured the sudden improvement in his fortunes. He would not only meet Lanfranc in person, he would now do so with the status of a loyal intelligencer for the Church. It was impossible to bear any real affection for Prior Henry but Hubert disliked him considerably less. Uniting in the face of a common enemy, they clearly had distinct affinities.

  Hubert stalked the room and washed his hands in the air, nervously awaiting the summons from Lanfranc. He soon worked himself back up into a lather of indignation.

  “Jesus warned against false prophets who would take His Name in vain,” he said querulously. “We have one in our midst.”

  “He will be exposed.”

  “Where can such foul heresy have originated?”

  “We may have the answer to that.”

  “Was this devil sent from Hell itself?”

  “No, Canon Hubert. We believe he comes from Orleans.”

  They sat in a large circle around him with heads bowed and minds awaiting the illumination of his word. There was one empty chair.

  Someone was missing. The man who stood at the centre of the circle showed no sign of impatience. He was tall, slim, well-favoured and unobtrusively commanding. His white robe accentuated the black beard, which in turn threw the sallow skin and the piercing green eyes into relief. There was a quiet charisma about him which everyone around him felt even when they were not looking at him. His presence seemed to fill the room.

  They were in the parlour of the manor house. Shutters were closed to guarantee privacy and servants were posted outside to prevent any intrusion. The figures in the circle were drawn closer together by a common faith and a shared purpose but everything radiated out from their leader like the spokes of a wheel. He was the hub of all activity. They could feel him as surely as if he were reaching out to touch them.

  Distant hoofbeats approached the house. Nobody moved until the horse came to a halt outside the front door. The leader then broke the circle by stepping out of it. A long, graceful stride took him out of the room and into a passageway where he saw the rider being admitted into the house. He gave him a welcoming nod. The latecomer was deferential.

  “I am sorry to that I was delayed.”

  “We knew you would come.”

  “There are problems, I fear.”

  “Still?”

  “They have picked up a trail and sniff it like hounds.”

  “Throw them off the scent.”

  “That is not easy. They are very persistent. They are getting closer all the time.”

  “We will deal with them,” said the other easily.

  “They worry me.”

  “Leave them to me, my friend. All will be well.”

  “Good.”

  “And the other problem? Alwin the Sailor?”

  The newcomer smiled. “He will not trouble us again.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Ralph Delchard was shocked at the state in which he found the man. Alwin the Sailor was a hideous mass of bruises and swellings. One arm was in a splint, one leg heavily bound up.

  Bandages covered part of his face and head but the swollen eyes and the shattered nose were dramatic reminders of the ruthless beating he had taken. They had brought him home from Fordwich in a cart, wrapped in old sacks which were now crimson with blood. At one point they thought he had died.

  Helto the Doctor cleaned him off and tended his wounds. The patient revived slightly but was far too weak to protest when his arm was reset. The pain rendered him unconscious again. By the time that Ralph arrived, the doctor had gone and Alwin was being cared for by the old woman who lived in the adjacent house. She sat beside the bed, watching her neighbour in frightened silence, wondering why a new calamity had befallen a household which had already suffered the death of a wife and the murder of a beloved daughter.

  After letting Ralph in, she withdrew to the kitchen to leave him alone in the bedroom with Alwin. There was nowhere to sit and the low ceiling obliged the visitor to duck his head but he ignored the discomfort. In the presence of such extensive injuries, it was churlish to complain about a crick in his neck. As Ralph’s shadow fell across him, Alwin half opened his eyes and made a gurgling sound in his throat. Ralph knelt down beside him and gave him time to come fully awake.

  “Who did this to you?” he said at length.

  “I … don’t … Know.”

  Each word was a separate effort, forced out between lips that had been split open by teeth which were now knocked out of his mouth. Alwin experimented with the same answer until he found a way to speak without moving his lips at all.

  “I don’t know.”

  “How many were there?”

  “Two.”

  “Here?”

  “Fordwich. On my boat.”

  “In broad daylight?” said Ralph. “Were there not witnesses at the quayside? Did nobody come to your aid?”

  “No.”

  “What about your friends?”

  “Nobody.”

  The pain of recollection sent him into a long bruised silence but Ralph waited. Alwin could not be rushed. Judging the moment, the visitor tried again.

  “This is something to do with him, is it not?” he said.

  “Him?”

  “The man you are after.” Alwin closed his eyes. “Do not pretend to fall asleep,” warned Ralph with soft jocularity. “I know that you can hear me perfectly well. When I saw you in Fordwich, you were lurking in the harbour, hoping to catch news of a certain person. You were saving him for yourself. That was your plan, was it not?” He gestured at the injuries. “You are in no state to crawl out of this bed, let alone to conduct a search. You need me, Alwin. We must work together.”

  The eyes opened to regard him with a suspicion that was tempered with a reluctant admiration. Alwin could never bring himself wholly to trust a Norman but Ralph had earned his respect. The murder investigation was nominally headed by the sheriff. His officers had been diligent in their inquiries but they had so far achieved little success. With no reason to be personally involved, Ralph Delchard had taken it upon himself to pursue the killer and to brave the dangers that that would obviously entail.

  Harsh truths had to be faced. Alwin could never wreak revenge on his own. He would not be fit to intercept a passenger on a boat the following Wednesday. Helto had talked about keeping the splint on his arm for a month at least and warned him that the damage might leave him with a permanent limp. The way he felt at that moment, Alwin began to wonder if he would ever recover.

  “He killed Bertha,” Ralph reminded him. “Are you going to let him get away with it?”

  “No, my lord.”

  “Then let me help. Who is he?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “I think you are.”

  “It could be him. There is nobody else. She liked him.”

  “Bertha?”

  “Yes.”

  “How did she meet him?”

  “On my boat. In Normandy.”

  “You were collecting mor
e stone from Caen?” Alwin gave a perceptible nod. “Who was this man?”

  “A stranger. He wanted to cross the Channel.”

  “In that old boat of yours?” said Ralph in surprise. “Why did he wish to sail with a cargo of stone when he could have taken a bigger and faster vessel that would have offered more comfort?”

  “I did not ask. He paid well.”

  “You brought him to Fordwich?”

  “He had business in the area.”

  “What kind of business?”

  “He did not say.”

  “Can you describe him?”

  A rueful sigh. “Tall, fine-looking, dark beard.”

  “A Frenchman, I hear.”

  “And well-dressed. In the French fashion.”

  “What did you learn from him?”

  “Very little. He hardly spoke.”

  “He talked to Bertha. You said she liked him.”

  “Yes.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Pulled her from him. Spoke sharply.”

  “Why?” said Ralph. “Did you not trust her?”

  “Him. The passenger.”

  “Was he too attentive?”

  “Bertha was young, innocent.”

  “What happened when you landed at Fordwich? Did he pay you his money and come ashore?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Where did he go?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “And you never saw him again?”

  “No.”

  “What about Bertha?” The swollen eyes closed in agony. “You assumed that she had never seen him again, either, but now you think differently. Is that it?” Alwin’s pain was answer enough.

  “He must have been a remarkable man if he had such an effect on her. A brief meeting. Few words. Only smiles and glances passing between them. Yet he somehow persuaded her to defy her own father.”