The Serpents of Harbledown

by Edward Marston

  “We have just been examining the spot ourselves.”

  “Please help us.”

  “We are acting on Bertha's behalf.”

  Alain gave no indication that he had even heard them. He remained deep in his hooded cloak like a snail in its shell, watchful against danger, looking no further than its own immediate needs. Brother Martin turned to Gervase and arched his eyebrows in apology, gesturing that they might as well withdraw from the uncommunicative leper. Gervase held his ground and instead politely waved the monk away.

  When he was left on his own with Alain, he first took a step nearer to him, then squatted on the ground. Since most of the lepers were native Saxons, theirs was the tongue used at the hospital of St. Nicholas. Gervase now spoke in French in an attempt to prise something out of the dumb and resentful figure before him.

  “Where were you born, Alain?” A strained silence ensued. “Brother Martin tells me you are of mixed parentage. My mother was a Saxon but my father hailed from Brittany. I grew up with a foot in both camps.” The leper was in no mood for personal reminiscence. Gervase plunged straight in. “We do not believe that Bertha died from snakebite. Do you?”

  A faint, hesitant, parched voice eventually emerged.

  “Who are you?” asked Alain.

  “My name is Gervase Bret. I am a Chancery clerk in the royal household at Winchester. I have come to Canterbury on business.”

  “Then go your way and discharge your duty.”

  “I have vowed to help Brother Martin.”

  “This is nothing to do with you.”

  “It is. I can help.”

  “Bertha was our friend. Not yours.”

  “That is true.”

  “Leave us alone.”

  “But I care.”

  “And leave Bertha alone.”

  He lapsed back into silence but Gervase stayed his ground. Folding his arms, he waited for several minutes in a patient and unthreatening way. When the leper spoke again, a distant curiosity lay behind his contemptuous question.

  “What can you do for her?”

  “Find out the truth.”

  “Only Brother Martin could do that.”

  “He needs support.”

  “Why are you here?”

  “Because of Bertha.”

  “She was bitten by a snake.”

  “Afterward.”

  “I found her. I know.”

  “Brother Martin examined the body.”

  “It had marks of poison upon it.”

  “Yes, Alain,” said Gervase quietly. “But it also had bruising on the throat. Bertha was not killed by a snake.”

  “Stop using her name!” snarled the other with sudden fury. “You never knew Bertha as we did. You never could.”

  “I accept that.”

  “We do not want your help.”

  “You do, Alain.”

  “Let us mourn her in peace.”

  “I will,” agreed Gervase. “When we have caught her killer. Until then, I will not rest and she will not lie easy in her grave.” He leaned forward. “Can you hear what I am telling you? Bertha was murdered. Brother Martin has looked on death too often to be deluded. Someone strangled the life out of the poor girl.”

  Alain took time to absorb the news then he began to shake and moan. Convulsed with fury, he lashed out impotently with both fists but his energy was soon sapped. Gervase stayed calmly out of his reach and waited until he had subsided.

  “Bertha was part of your little family here. Someone stole her away from you, Alain. Does that not make you want to answer a few simple questions for me?”

  “No!”

  “Do you not believe in justice?”

  “Justice!”

  Alain let out a hiss of anger and reached up to pluck away his veil, flinging back his hood at the same time and lifting his chin defiantly. Gervase was shocked but did his best not to flinch. The voice had deceived him. Expecting a middle-aged man, he was amazed to see someone who was younger than himself, no more than twenty, perhaps even less. Alain had a full head of dark hair and eyes of an even blacker hue. One side of his face was only partially affected by the disease and Gervase could see something of the olive complexion and the regular features.

  But it was the other side of Alain's face which transfixed any onlooker. The skin was white, puffy and visibly crumbling away, the nose was half-eaten and the eyebrow was no more than a commemorative white slit. The lips were like an open wound. Leprosy had so disfigured the face, tearing the one eye down an inch below its companion, that Gervase felt as if he were staring at a rotting corpse.

  “Do not talk to me of justice!” cried Alain, pointing a trembling finger at his face. “Where is the justice in this!”

  “There is none,” said Gervase simply.

  The leper's frenzy faded and a sense of shame returned. Hood and veil were soon replaced and he withdrew into himself again. Nothing could be gained by pressing him for help. Rising to his feet, Gervase lifted a hand in farewell then walked quickly away in the direction of the hospital.

  Long after his visitor had departed, Alain took the memento out from his sleeve and placed it in his lap. When he looked down at it, he saw the prone figure of Bertha lying dead among the holly with marks upon her white neck. She would never again come to Harbledown to talk alone with him.

  The first hot tear trickled down the ravaged cheek.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  INACTIVITY MADE RALPH Delchard extremely restive. With everyone else in the house engaged either in soothing Eadgyth, nursing the baby, preparing the food or doing the many other chores, he felt both neglected and in the way. Sensing his discomfort, Golde urged him to take himself out.

    “You will not object, my love?” he asked.

  “Why should I?”

  “For deserting you like this.”

  “I will hardly notice that you are gone,” she said. “Eadgyth's need takes precedence over all else at this moment. She is in pain. I cannot stand by and watch her torment without doing something. I must help.”

  “Then so will I, Golde. You can best help by staying here, and I, by getting out from under your feet.”

  “Where will you go?”

  “In search of Gervase.”

  “It might be a kindness to keep him away for an hour or so at least. Explain the situation and he will understand.”

  “We will stay away all night,” he teased. “If you wish.”

  “I would only come looking for you.”

  “That would be my hope.”

  She kissed him lightly on the lips and went back upstairs to continue with her self-appointed duties. There was stabling at the rear of the house, reached from the street by a narrow, rutted lane. When a servant had saddled his horse for him, Ralph went trotting back toward the crowded High Street.

  His first visit was to the castle to see if his men were safely lodged and to give them their orders for the morrow. Finding them well-fed, flushed by wine and in noisy good humour, he treated them to a burst of vituperation in order to remind them that marriage had not entirely blunted the edge of his temper. Having asserted his authority, he felt able to go in pursuit of his friend. His horse moved off at a steady canter toward the rural peace of Harbledown.

  Gervase Bret was halfway down the hill when he caught sight of Ralph. The pounding hooves soon closed the gap between them. Ralph reined in his mount beside Gervase.

  “Where the devil have you been?” he demanded.

  “To the hospital of St. Nicholas.”

  “Consorting with foul lepers when the city is full of comely wenches? Speak to my men. They only arrived at the castle this morning and already they know the where-abouts of every brothel in the city. Seek pleasure for once.”

  “I have other things on my mind, Ralph.”

  “What is more important than a warm woman in a soft bed?”

  “Solving a cruel murder.”

  Ralph was jolted. “Murder?”

  “The girl
they found dead. Bertha.”

  “But she was killed by a poisonous snake.”

  “It was made to look as if she had been, Ralph.”

  “The cause of death has been confirmed. I talked with the doctor myself. He examined the girl's body and spoke with assurance on the matter.”

  “You have met Helto the Doctor?”

  “Yes,” said Ralph. “He was called to the house when Eadgyth's grief was too much for her to bear. His visit calmed her. Helto was going on to perform a like service for Bertha's father. He, too, is suffering the agonies of the bereaved.”

  “How would you describe this doctor?”

  “Helto?” Ralph inhaled deeply before giving his judgement. “Difficult to like but just as difficult not to respect. A sound physician, certainly, and with more compassion than first meets the eye. Osbern the Reeve could not speak too highly of him.”

  “An honest man?”

  “Honest and straightforward.”

  “Capable of dissembling?”

  “On my short acquaintance, I think not. Why do you ask?”

  “We came to the conclusion that Helto was lying. It may just be that his postmortem examination was careless.”

  “I would doubt that.”

  “It is the only way to explain his mistake, Ralph.”

  “What mistake?”

  “Bertha was strangled to death.”

  “Who says so?”

  “Brother Martin of the hospital of St. Nicholas.”

  “On what evidence?”

  “Let me show you some of it.”

  Ralph dismounted and Gervase took him back up the hill to the clump of holly, recounting on the way how he and the old monk had first begun to question the apparent cause of the girl's demise. Tethering his horse, Ralph pushed his way down into the hollow to take a close look for himself. Gervase slowly built up the web of detail for him.

  “We have another case to judge,” commented Ralph.

  “Case?”

  “Monk versus doctor. Whom do you favour?”

  “Brother Martin. You have heard my reasons.”

  “I warrant that Helto is the truer physician.”

  “Even the finest doctor can err at times.”

  “If that is what he did, Gervase.”

  “Rule out dishonesty and it is all that is left. Who knows? Helto may have been too lax or perfunctory in his work. And the morgue at St. Mildred's may be partly to blame.”

  “In what way?”

  “I am told it is a small chamber with no window. Perhaps the candle threw inadequate light for Helto. That was why he did not discern the bruising on the throat.”

  “Brother Martin worked by the same flame.”

  “True.”

  “Helto's eyes are keener than those of an old monk.”

  “Instinct comes into it as well, Ralph.”

  “What does yours tell you?”

  “There has been foul play.”

  Ralph nodded. He remembered what Helto the Doctor had said about a stone hurled into a pool. Bertha's death had already caused violent ripples to spread. If the girl was indeed the victim of a murder, those ripples would become huge waves and they would wash through the very house where Golde and the two commissioners were staying. It would not advantage their work in Canterbury.

  That was a secondary consideration in Ralph's view. Now that the crime had been brought to light, it had to be reported and investigated. Someone needed to be called to account for what appeared to be a calculated murder.

  “The sheriff must be informed, Gervase.”

  “I was on my way to do exactly that when we met.”

  “Let us go together,” suggested Ralph. “But when you have reported your findings, you must hand over the inquiry to the proper authority.”

  “I am bound to retain a keen interest.”

  “Your interest must be concentrated on the problems we were sent here to resolve. They will keep us busy for a week or more before we can quit the city. Forget the girl.”

  “How can I?”

  “You are not involved.”

  “I must be, Ralph. He is depending on me.”

  “Who is?”

  “Brother Martin. He is the crucial figure here and he is ready to speak up before the sheriff and to challenge the opinion of Helto the Doctor. That will place Brother Martin under great strain. He is old and no longer as clear-minded as he would wish to be. I can support him. Encourage him. Buttress his evidence with my own observations.”

  “Not while you are sitting in commission with me.”

  “I will contrive to help somehow.”

  “Gervase—”

  “I am sorry,” interrupted the other, “but I cannot turn my back on this crime. There are things that I might learn which would be beyond the reach of the sheriffs officers.”

  “Give me an instance.”

  “Alain's testimony.”

  “Who is Alain?”

  “The leper who found the girl. I am sure that he knows something which may provide a vital clue. I sensed it when I spoke to him. He was holding something back from me.”

  “Let the sheriff shake it out of him.”

  “He would not dare to go within ten yards of Alain.”

  “That sounds like a wise precaution to me.”

  “I could do it,” said Gervase. “If I can win Alain's confidence, I am sure I can draw the truth out of him.”

  “And what is happening to affairs of state while you are running off to Harbledown to befriend lepers?”

  “You will not find me shirking my duties.”

  Ralph held him by the shoulders. “The girl is not your problem, Gervase. Let her go. You did not even know Bertha.”

  “I feel as if I have got very close to her in the last few hours. For someone so young and innocent, she had a profound effect on others. Brother Martin talked at length about her and I saw for myself what she meant to the lepers at the hospital. They looked upon her as a kind of saint.”

  “You must speak to Helto the Doctor.”

  “Why?”

  “He examined the girl's body at the morgue.”

  “And?”

  “In one respect, Bertha fell short of sainthood.”

  Osbern the Reeve was too responsible a man to allow any domestic problems to interfere with his official duties. Everything was in readiness for the commissioners on the following morning. The shire hall had been cleaned, a table and four chairs had been set out, and benches had been put in position for the various disputants and witnesses who would come forward. Mindful of the wearying length to which such deliberations could go, Osbern had even organised some interim refreshments for the visitors.

  While the reeve was absent, Golde took over the care of his wife. The sleeping draught had allowed Eadgyth to pass the night in restorative slumber and she awoke in a far less agitated mood. Rumours of an inquiry into the alleged murder of Bertha were buzzing around the city but Eadgyth was protected from them at this stage, allowing her to mourn the death of a dear friend without the terrifying knowledge of how that death might have been brought about.

  The shire hall was a long, shapeless, timber-framed building with low beams and undulating flagstones worn smooth by the regular passage of feet. Canon Hubert and Brother Simon were the first to arrive, the former pleased to see everything conspicuously in order and the latter weighed down by a leather satchel stuffed with documents, rolls of fresh parchment and writing materials.

  Ralph Delchard arrived with his men-at-arms, six of whom were left outside as sentries while their fellows took up their station inside the shire hall. Gervase Bret followed them in, carrying his own large satchel of letters and documents. As leader of the commission, Ralph took the chair at the centre of the table with Gervase and Hubert on either side of him. Simon was at a right angle to them, perched at the end of the table so that he could watch them to receive direction while at the same time keeping an eye on those who occupied the benches.

 
; “Are we all ready?” asked Ralph, glancing around and collecting general assent. “Good. We have all studied the material relating to the first dispute. Let us begin.”

  Ralph gave a signal and three figures were soon being conducted into the room. Prior Henry was accompanied by two monks who walked deferentially behind him. Their entry coincided with the strident clang of the cathedral bell as it announced Tierce.

  “I am glad to see that you are punctual,” said Henry.

  “We are punctual and punctilious,” warned Ralph.

  “I would expect no less, my lord. I am Prior Henry and I speak for Archbishop Lanfranc. May I know whom I face?”

  Ralph introduced himself and his colleagues. The prior's eyes appraised them each in turn, showing no flicker of recognition when they rested on Canon Hubert. Lowering himself on to the front bench, Prior Henry held out a bony hand. One of the monks handed him a sheaf of letters from his satchel, then sat, with his colleague, on the bench behind the prior. Their role was purely supportive.

  “We do not wish this dispute to continue,” said Ralph. “It has already dragged on for far too long.”

  “I could not agree with you more,” said Henry. “It is my hope— and the archbishop's fervent desire—that we may reach some sort of resolution by the end of the day.”

  “It lies within your power to reach it immediately.”

  “Does it, my lord?”

  “Surrender your claim and the matter is ended.”

  “I see that you mean to draw some amusement from this case,” said Henry, drily. “Do you have any more jests to make before we address this dispute with requisite solemnity?”

  “My suggestion was quite serious, Prior Henry.”

  “Then make it to the Abbey of St. Augustine. Persuade them to abandon their folly and cede the property to its rightful owner, the Archbishop of Canterbury.”

  “King William owns the land,” corrected Canon Hubert with terse pedantry. “His subjects only hold it from him as tenants.”

  “A pointless quibble.”

  “Not to royal officials, Prior Henry.”

  Hubert sat back complacently, feeling that he had just repaid the prior for some of the slights he believed he had suffered at the man's hands, and grateful to have been given an early opportunity to demonstrate to Ralph Delchard that he showed no favour toward the cathedral. Prior Henry seemed quite unperturbed. Any irritation or discomfort was carefully hidden behind an inscrutable expression and a voice of measured calm.