Brother Martin's selfless life was over.
CHAPTER SEVEN
GERVASE WAS COMPLETELY numbed. He shook his head in disbelief. Brother Martin could not possibly be dead. The monk was old and weary but he had an inner spark which drove him on and which defied the nudging deteriorations of time. He would never leave his charges at the hospital without even the courtesy of a farewell. Brother Martin lived for his work. It animated his whole being. Surrounded by the ugliness of lepers, he showed the true beauty of God's work. The Almighty would never call him so soon from his labours.
That thought made Gervase's mind race. If Brother Martin had gone before his time, it had to be by the hand of another. Unnatural death had taken place in the church. Murder and sacrilege had worked cunningly together. Gervase knelt beside the prostrate form but his own shadow simply deepened the pool of gloom around the monk. Low in the sky, the evening sun was throwing only a meagre handful of light in through the small windows.
A single candle burned on the altar. Gervase swiftly retrieved it and held it close to the face of the fallen man, carefully peeling back the hood until his tonsured head was completely exposed. As Gervase examined him with care, the flame slowly circled the head like a halo but Brother Martin was no slaughtered saint. There was no blood, no bruising, no wound of any kind on the head, face or neck. When Gervase ran the candle over the chest and legs, he found no weapon protruding and no sodden patch of blood to show where one might have been inserted and withdrawn.
Rolling the corpse gently over, he conducted a similar search along the man's back but that, too, showed no signs of violence or foul play. Gervase eased him over once more so that he lay face upward and used tender fingers to close the eyelids. It seemed as if Brother Martin had, after all, exhausted his natural span and slid serenely out of the world. The hospital which had given him his sense of purpose also took it away from him. His ceaseless toil among the lepers had eventually worn him down. Bertha had taken some of the unremitting work onto her young shoulders. Now that it had been shifted back on to Brother Martin, he could no longer cope with it.
Anguish and stress must also have played their part. Shocked by the sudden death of a loved one, he was not able to mourn her passing in privacy. Brother Martin had also taken on the crushing responsibility of setting a murder inquiry in motion, gathering the evidence, submitting it to the sheriff, haggling with Helto the Doctor and then confronting Alwin the Sailor with the truth about his daughter's death. Such strain and tension would have taxed a much younger man.
Gervase replaced the candle, then knelt before the altar to offer up a prayer for the soul of Brother Martin. When he turned around again, he saw a tall, stooping figure in the doorway. Alain shuffled forward to gaze down through his veil at Brother Martin. When he looked at Gervase with a questioning gesture, the latter gave a solemn nod. The leper lowered his head despondently.
“How long had he been in here?” asked Gervase.
“An hour. Maybe more.”
“Alone?”
“I think so.”
“Nobody else came or went?”
“Nobody,” said Alain firmly.
“How can you be so sure?”
“Brother Martin came to my hut. He makes an ointment with gives some small relief from the pain, and he brought some to apply. When he left, I came out to the place where you found me.”
“And Brother Martin?”
“He went into the church and has been here ever since.”
“How did he seem?”
“Deeply troubled.”
“Was he short of breath?”
“No more than usual.”
“Did he mention a pain in his chest?” Alain shook his head. “Was he moving with difficulty? Was there anything you noticed about him that might suggest great strain?”
“Nothing.”
Gervase glanced at the body. “The others must be told. It is a sad time. First you lose Bertha; now, Brother Martin himself. It will be hard news to break.”
Alain seemed to be wrestling with some inner problem.
“That task will be mine,” he said at length.
“Thank you. Help must be fetched at once. Brother Martin's death must be reported so that his body can be conveyed to the priory. Someone will be sent to take charge of the hospital in his stead. Can the door be locked?”
“The key is in his scrip.”
“Good,” said Gervase. “It is important that the body is not disturbed in any way while I am gone. Brother Martin seems to have died peaceably enough but I am no physician and sharper eyes might note clues that I have missed.”
“Clues?”
“Pointing to foul play.”
“No,” said Alain. “There is no question of that, surely? Brother Martin did not have an enemy in the world.”
“Neither did Bertha.”
The leper winced at the reminder. Gervase bent down to search for the key in the monk's scrip. When he stood up again, he saw that Alain had gone to start his melancholy peregrination. Gervase locked the church door from outside, then collected his horse. He was soon cantering away from the hospital of St. Nicholas.
As he came over the brow of the hill and began the downward ride, his mind was still bursting with the simple horror of this latest tragedy. The implications for the lepers themselves were highly distressing. Gervase was grateful that it was Alain who had taken it upon himself to spread the grisly tidings.
Eager to reach the city, he paid scant attention to the people he passed on the way and he did not even notice the young man who stepped smartly into the bushes at his approach. When the hooves had thundered past, the man came out of hiding and looked nervously after Gervase.
Reinbald the Priest continued his furtive journey.
Prior Henry responded with speed and compassion. As soon as the news reached him, he dispatched four monks to Harbledown with a horse and cart to bring back the body at a reverential pace. The quartet was accompanied by two more brethren, selected with care and charged with the task of looking after the hospital and comforting the lepers through this second unexpected bereavement.
Brother Martin was known and loved throughout the whole monastic community. Though he spent most of his time at his chosen vocation in the leper hospital, he made regular visits to the priory and took part, whenever he could, in its daily services. Since taking the cowl, Brother Martin had spent the whole of his long life in Canterbury and his conduct had been wholly free from the excesses and liberalities which had tainted some of his weaker brethren in earlier years. Prior Henry had recognised and rewarded his steadfastness.
“He was the epitome of Christian virtue,” he said with a wan smile. “Brother Martin was all that a true member of the Benedictine Order should be.”
“It was a privilege to meet him, albeit briefly.”
“His charitable work will stand as his monument. This has touched me more than I can say. I would lament the death of any of my obedientaries but the loss of Brother Martin occasions a particular regret.” He looked up at his guest. “I am most grateful to you for your prompt assistance.”
“It was the least I could do, Prior Henry.”
“Your visit to Harbledown was opportune. Had you not ridden to the hospital to see Brother Martin, he might have lain for several hours in the church. He would then have been found by one of the poor wretches whom he nursed and that would have thrown the hospital into further turmoil. God save them! They will miss him desperately, Master Bret, but at least they were spared the gruesome shock of discovery.”
Gervase was at once surprised and wary at being summoned to the prior's lodging. When he reported the death to the porter at the gate, he expected to be thanked for his help and sent politely on his way. Instead, he was given an immediate audience with Prior Henry himself and questioned at length about the circumstances in which he came upon the dead body and the precise state in which he found it. In view of their tussle in the shire hall, Gervase entered the roo
m with caution, hoping that the prior would not use this chance encounter as a means to exert some subtle influence to advance his cause but the latter did not even refer to the property dispute with the abbey.
“What will happen to him now?” asked Gervase.
“The body will be washed and examined. Then it will lie in the chapel until the time of the funeral. Brother Martin went out to do his good works but we now welcome him back into the enclave. He will be buried in our own little cemetery in the presence of the whole community.”
“Will the ceremony be private?”
“Strictly so.”
“I would like to attend it.”
“That is not feasible, Master Bret. We bury our own here and do so in our own way. I will conduct the service and Archbishop Lanfranc will assuredly preach a sermon.”
“That would make Brother Martin feel proud.”
“He made us feel proud to have him here.” Henry stood up and walked around his desk toward Gervase. “But your kind request is appreciated. The funeral may be closed to you but you may wish to take part in a memorial service for the deceased. It will be held in due course at the hospital of St. Nicholas.”
“I will be there,” promised Gervase.
“That pleases me.”
With a reflective smile, he ushered his visitor out.
* * *
Helto the Doctor called briefly at the house that evening to check once more on Eadgyth's condition. He pronounced himself fairly satisfied with her progress. She was much calmer, more easily distracted from her brooding and less prone to sudden outbursts of uncontrollable weeping. Golde's presence was clearly beneficial. She was a patient and resourceful nurse. Helto left another sleeping draught for Eadgyth to ensure a restful night for her and a quiet one for the remainder of the household.
His valedictory words were addressed to her husband.
“She will be markedly better in the morning.”
“I am relieved to hear it,” said Osbern.
“Keep her in for two or three more days.”
“As long as that?”
“Until this arrant nonsense blows over.”
“Nonsense?”
“Yes, Osbern,” said the doctor testily. “This alleged murder of Bertha. It never occurred. When the sheriff fails to find any trace of a culprit, he will realise the folly of this exercise and abandon it. Why alarm your wife with this wild tale? It will only plunge her into worse melancholy.”
“She will not be told. I give you my word.”
“Hold to it, Osbern. Or you may rue the consequences.”
The reeve paid him his fee, thanked him for calling and showed him out. Mastering his anxiety and remembering his duties as a host, he went into the solar to find Ralph Delchard sitting there on his own with a glass of wine.
“Has he still not returned, my lord?”
“No,” said Ralph. “But do not worry about Gervase. He is well able to take care of himself.”
“I do not doubt it.”
“Your doctor stayed much longer on this visit, I see. Golde tells me that this is his second visit today. Is Helto a conscientious physician or was he simply in search of double the fee?”
“He came became of his concern for Eadgyth,” replied the other. “She has a delicate constitution and there have been problems in the past. She buckles under strain and anxiety. Helto advises that I keep her close for two more days at least and guard her against hearing the rumours about Bertha.”
“They are more than rumours.”
“Not according to Helto.”
“Then why has the sheriff initiated an inquiry?”
“I do not know, my lord.”
“It is because of Brother Martin's evidence. He and Gervase discussed the case in detail. I agree with them.”
“I hope you are wrong. For my wife's sake.”
“And for Bertha's, surely?”
“That goes without saying, my lord.”
Ralph recalled his earlier conversation with Golde. It made him probe gently for information about the dead girl.
“Eadgyth must have loved Bertha dearly.”
“She did, my lord. Bertha was a girl of rare qualities.”
“Did she have other friends?”
“Many of them.”
“Admirers, too, I imagine. If she was as comely as report has it, every young man in the town must have doffed his cap as she passed. And licked his lips in anticipation. Tell me,” said Ralph artlessly. “Did she have one special admirer?”
“No, my lord.”
“A beautiful damsel like that? No swooning youth? No dashing swain? No secret lover?”
“She had neither time nor inclination for that.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I saw a great deal of her. She was often at the house to talk with Eadgyth. When the baby came, Bertha was as delighted as we were. She more or less lived with us for a week or two. It was a difficult time. My wife was exhausted and not able to look after the baby as fully as she would have wished. Bertha was a second mother to it.”
“Perhaps because she pined for a child of her own. By the secret man in her life.”
“I think it highly unlikely, my lord.”
“You only saw what she wanted you to see, Osbern. Maybe she confided in your wife. Maybe she told Eadgyth about her hidden passion.”
“She did nothing of the kind,” said Osbern firmly.
“You seem very convinced of that.”
“I am, my lord. Eadgyth would have told me.”
“Not if Bertha had sworn her to silence.”
“My wife holds nothing back.”
“Even the most intimate confession of a friend?”
“Even that,” insisted the reeve. “When man and wife are joined in holy matrimony, they commit themselves to each other without reserve. Is that so with you?”
“Indeed.”
“And would your own wife not tell you everything?”
“I hope not!” said Ralph with a hearty chuckle.
“You shock me, my lord.”
“I expect her to love, honour and obey me but I do not wish to climb inside her head and watch every thought that passes through her brain.” Ralph gave a shrug. “If a close friend unburdened her heart to Golde, it would be a betrayal if my wife then ran to me with the tale.”
“It would be a betrayal of you if she did not!”
“We see it differently.”
“I think we do, my lord.”
“I still believe that Bertha must have aroused great interest among the young men of the city. They are not blind. They probably followed her in droves.”
“They would not dare.”
“Why not?”
“Because of her father.”
“Alwin? Would he object?”
“Most strongly, my lord. He was very strict with her.”
“A sailor?” said Ralph with amazement. “Such men are not known for their celibate disposition. They are drawn to their occupation out of a sense of adventure rather than because of any monastic leanings. Is Alwin so devout?”
“No, my lord,” said Osbern. “But he made a solemn vow to his wife when she lay on her deathbed. To his credit, he has honoured it ever since.” He chose his words with care. “Bertha's parents had a troubled marriage. I do not know why and it was not my business to find out, but Eadgyth spoke of arguments she overheard between husband and wife. This is not to say that Alwin did not love his wife,” he added. “He worshipped her. When she became sick, he nursed her devotedly. At the last, she made him promise to keep their daughter on the path of virtue and shield her from the temptations to which the young are often prone.”
“How could the sailor do that when he was often away?”
“Bertha was left with a neighbour at first. When she grew older, Alwin took her with him on his voyaging.”
Ralph blinked. “She crossed the Channel with him?”
“A number of times.”
“Then she had a braver heart than mine. I will fight against any odds on land and meet the strongest foe without a tremor. But do not ask me to sail in rough water. I did that when we took ship on the eve of the Conquest. I still have nightmares about those heaving waves.”
“Bertha is a sailor's daughter,” reminded Osbern. “Her whole family has been tied to the sea. Two of her uncles have boats of their own, another is a shipwright, a fourth is a wharfinger in Fordwich. Bertha was born to it.”
“Then she, too, must have had the spirit of adventure. Might it not have led her into some secret romance?”
“Alwin watched her too closely.”
“Not when she went to Harbledown.”
“Bertha was unlikely to go astray at a leper hospital.”
“No,” said Ralph with a grin. “She would be in no danger from Brother Martin. I can see why her father must have encouraged her charitable work.”
“But he did not, my lord.”
“Oh?”
“It was the one thing on which they disagreed. Alwin tried to stop her going. Mixing with lepers carries all sorts of dangers. He was no doubt fearful that she might contract the disease herself. But she was adamant. Bertha had a strong will.”
“Strong enough to defy her father, it seems. Could it not also have prompted her to defy him in other ways?”
“No, my lord.”
“I begin to wonder.”
“We knew Bertha too well.”
“Did you?”
“She would have never have kept something as important as that to herself. She would have confided in Eadgyth.”
“Yet you say she did not do that.”
“I am positive.”
“Could you not raise the matter with your wife?”
Osbern was hurt by the suggestion. “When she is in such distress? It is hardly the time, my lord. Helto has counselled me to try to keep Eadgyth's mind off this tragedy. Why should I take the opposite course and induce further pain?”
“Because she might provide a vital clue.”
“Clue?”
“To the identity of Bertha's secret admirer.”
“There was no such person.”
“There was no murder, according to you,” said Ralph. “But Gervase and I have seen the evidence and think otherwise. So does the sheriff or he would not have ordered his officers to look into the case. Let us suppose that there was a killer.”
The Serpents of Harbledown Page 9