“Several years ago,” said Reinbald. “Before my time as priest at St. Mildred's. Bertha has been an assiduous visitor to our churchyard. She treats her mother's grave like a shrine.”
“What about Alwin the Sailor?”
“Whenever he is in Canterbury, he comes daily to pay his respects. I have watched him stand before his wife's grave for an hour or more in the most inclement weather. It is almost like a penance.”
With four men-at-arms at his back, Ralph Delchard rode toward Faversham with his cloak trailing in the stiff morning breeze. Reinbald was beside him on a borrowed mount which was too mettlesome for such an inexperienced horseman. The priest hung on grimly to the reins as he was bounced along in the hard leather saddle and the following escort were greatly amused by his predicament. Ralph used the journey to gather more information even if it came out of Reinbald's mouth in frightened gasps.
“Tell me about this Juliana,” said Ralph.
“I told you all when I said that she was a shrew.”
“Not so, Reinbald. A woman is not that forward without some cause. Few are born shrewish. How did she become so?”
“I do not know, my lord.”
“Is the woman deformed or ill-favoured?”
“Far from it,” said Reinbald, trying to ignore the pounding saddle beneath him. “She and her sister both had their share of grace and beauty but their characters were as different as chalk and cheese. One was wild and obstinate while the other was soft and gentle.”
“Yet not so gentle, I hear.”
“My lord?”
“Bertha's mother often argued with her husband. Perhaps she kept her softness only for show and turned into a second Juliana when indoors.”
“Oh, no,” said the priest. “There is only one Juliana!”
“You speak with feeling.”
“I grew up in Faversham. It is not a big town.”
“The lady bulks large, then?”
“She is certainly no shrinking violet.”
Reinbald the Priest let out a howl of pain as his horse leapt over a fallen log and treated his buttocks to the worst pummelling yet. Ralph led his men in a chorus of mirth.
“Thank God you are not married,” he said, giving the priest a slap on the back. “By the time we get there, your chances of procreation will have been cracked open like a pair of hot chestnuts at Christmastide.”
Raucous laughter took them on a mile or more. Reinbald the Priest suffered his martyrdom in agonised silence.
Eadgyth's plight threw the whole house into disarray. Osbern the Reeve was tortured by anxiety, the servants were in a frenzy and the guests were caught up in the general alarm. Helto the Doctor came running and his immediate concern was for the baby, a lusty-enough infant but one whose nights should be spent in a warm crib rather than in a cold churchyard. Miraculously, the child seemed to be largely unharmed by its nocturnal excursion and went happily to sleep once it had been fed and wrapped in a blanket. Helto was able to turn his full attention to the mother.
Never more needed, Golde's help was all-embracing. She committed herself wholeheartedly to the tasks in hand and was, by turns, mother, nurse, cook, housekeeper and doctor's assistant. Having run her own household and business in Hereford, she had an easy authority. When the crisis was at its height, it was Golde who brought the calming influence.
At her suggestion, Gervase Bret took the husband aside and tried to bolster his morale.
“You may relax now,” he said. “The ordeal is over.”
“I fear that it has only just begun, Master Bret.”
“The doctor is with her. He will know what to do.”
“Yes,” agreed Osbern. “But what happens when Helto has gone? Eadgyth is an unruly patient. She left her bed in the middle of the night to roam the city. Think of the danger.”
“It seems to have been averted.”
“This time, perhaps. What of the next?”
“There will be no next time,” Gervase assured him. “Your wife did not roam the city. She went with a clear purpose and that was to visit the grave of her friend.”
“Thank heaven she did not join Bertha in that grave!”
“Her need is satisfied now, Osbern.”
“I pray that it is.”
“She will not desert the house again.”
“I hope not, Master Bret. We cannot mount a guard on her twenty-four hours a day. This is a home and not a dungeon.”
Gervase let him pour out his heart. Osbern the Reeve was now more tormented than ever by guilt. Having concealed the truth about the murder from her, he had estranged his wife. Having kept her from the funeral, he had implanted an irresistible urge in her to visit the grave. Nothing had ever vitiated the harmony between husband and wife before. Osbern had moved from concord to chaos in one giant leap.
“Are you married?” he asked.
“Betrothed.”
“Learn from my example, Master Bret.”
“Yours is a sound and joyful union.”
“It was, it was.”
“And will be so again in no time at all.”
“Eadgyth will never forgive me.”
“She must,” said Gervase confidently. “There is so little to pardon. No husband could have been more caring toward his wife. What you did was purely out of concern for her. Eadgyth will come to appreciate that.”
“I beg leave to doubt it.”
“Her crisis is past. Healing can now begin.”
“How can I help that process?” he asked quietly. “Helto the Doctor will tell me how to restore her bodily health but it is Eadgyth's mind which disturbs me. To snatch our child and rush out of the house like that! It is not the act of a rational person, Master Bret. I fear for her sanity.”
“Try to understand what prompted her,” said Gervase. “Only the most powerful impulse could have made her behave the way that she did. What was it?”
“A rebellion against her husband.”
“No, Osbern.”
“A wild urge to escape from me.”
“That was not the reason.”
“A hatred of the way that I deceived her.”
“There is no grain of hatred here.”
“Then what?”
“Love.”
“Of whom?”
“Bertha. They were friends, their lives intertwined from birth, their hopes shared, their joys celebrated together and their disappointments taken upon each other's shoulders. Could any two young women have been closer?”
“No, Master Bret.”
“Then there is the real explanation of her conduct in the night. Eadgyth could not rest until she had made one last contact with the person most dear to her after you.”
“But why do so in such a frightening way?”
“Your wife was not frightened,” argued Gervase. “Love is its own best protection. When she stepped out into the night, she did not even think what hazards might lurk in the darkness of the city. Her desire to be with Bertha was strong enough to sweep all such thoughts aside.”
“That may indeed be so,” conceded Osbern as he thought it through. “But did she have to take our son with her?”
“I think she did.”
“Why?”
“Did you not tell me that Bertha more or less moved into the house when the child was born? She was second mother to baby Osbern. She helped your wife when that help was vitally needed.”
“That is very true.”
“And she nurtured the child like her own.”
“You are right,” said Osbern. “He had to go. Eadgyth and our son took their leave of Bertha together.”
The reeve was now more reconciled to the shock of his wife's unheralded departure in the night but his conscience was still sorely troubled. Gervase whispered some advice.
“Helto is not the only doctor in the city.”
“Should I call in another physician?”
“One who can medicine her soul.”
“Whom do you mean?”
“Reinbald the Priest. Though she dwells here in the shadow of the cathedral, your wife will always look towards St. Mildred's. That is where Bertha lies. Gall in Reinbald. He is young but earnest in his ministry. He will be a visible link between Eadgyth and Bertha.”
“You counsel well. It will be arranged.”
“A priest may cure where a doctor fails.”
“I will bear that in mind.” Despair brought a sudden groan out of him. “What a change there has been! A week ago, there was not a cloud on our horizon. Then lightning strikes. Bertha is killed, then Brother Martin, and—but for the grace of God—my wife and child might have ended up in their coffins as well. Four possible victims!”
“Five.”
“Who was the fifth?”
“Alwin the Sailor.”
“Expiring from grief, you mean?”
“No,” said Gervase. “He was set to take a bloodier exit from the world than that. According Brother Martin, he tried to kill himself by smashing his head on the flagstones at the church of St. Nicholas. It was all they could to to save him from his own rage. Alwin was demented. Brother Martin did not realise he had so much violence inside him.”
“Tell me!” shouted Alwin, kicking him again. “Tell me!”
“There is nothing to tell,” gasped the man.
“You're lying!”
“No, Alwin.”
“Tell me the truth!”
Alwin kicked him once more and the sailor doubled up in pain. They were alone in one of the warehouses at Fordwich. It was a private place. Blocks of stone were stacked all around them to await transport to the cathedral. The door was closed. No cries for help could be heard outside.
The man was bigger and stronger than Alwin but he was no match for his assailant. Lying in wait, Alwin had felled him from behind with a stout length of timber, then kept him on the ground with a succession of blows and kicks. Blood was oozing from the man's chin and from his temple. One of his eyes was already puffed up and encircled with a darkening ring. Alwin was in no mood to temporise.
“Tell me!” he ordered, jabbing the timber into his victim's stomach. “Or you'll never get up alive.”
“Have pity, Alwin!” whimpered the other.
“This is your last chance!”
“I have a wife and child.”
“I had a daughter of my own until a few days ago!” said Alwin with a surge of fury. “That is what it is all about.”
“Believe me, I only wish that I could help you.”
“You will!”
Alwin belaboured him with the timber until the man was writhing in anguish, then he sat heavily astride his chest. Hands well apart, he pressed the timber against the other's throat until the man was spluttering. He exerted relentless pressure. The victim's eyes bulged, his veins stood out like whipcord and his face slowly changed colour. He used his last ounce of energy to signal agreement with a raised hand.
Lifting the timber, Alwin kept it an inch from the throat by way of a warning. The man coughed and panted.
“When did you bring him?” demanded Alwin.
“At the start of the week,” confessed the other.
“From Caen?”
“Yes, Alwin.”
“I knew he was here. Why did you lie?”
“He paid me.”
“Yes,” said Alwin darkly, “that was always his way. Money and soft words. Bring him over and take him back. No questions asked, no answers given.”
“I needed the money. What else was I to do?”
“Nothing. Did he talk to you on the voyage?”
“Hardly a word.”
“Did you agree to take him back?” A defensive look came into the man's eye. Alwin brought the timber back into play. “Did you?” he said, pressing down hard. The man nodded at once and he was liberated again. “When?”
“Next week, Alwin.”
“What day?”
“Wednesday.”
“Where must you take him?”
“Boulogne.”
A spasm of pain shot through Alwin and he dropped the timber on the ground. He clambered to his feet and brooded in silence.
Released from his ordeal, the man sat up and took stock of his wounds. No bones were broken but his whole body was a mass of aches and bruises. Blood was now dripping down on to his chest. Alwin offered a hand and pulled him up.
“Thank you,” said the man.
“Wednesday?”
“We arranged a time to meet.”
“I will be here.”
Faversham was a colourful mixture of thatched cottages, civic buildings, shops, stables and hovels, running down to a creek. In earlier centuries, it had been the administrative centre of the whole Lathe and a vanished dignity still hung from it like a tattered robe of office. The town had a wooden church, a mill, two salt pits and a busy harbour, but most of the inhabitants worked the surrounding land. Ploughmen, cowherds and shepherds lived on the outer fringes of Faversham but sent their wives into its bustling market. Over a hundred pigs foraged for acorns in the woodland.
Ralph led the canter across the meadow. His men-at-arms fanned out to ride beside him but Reinbald the Priest was left well behind. Still struggling to stay on the horse, he did not want to goad any more life out of it than the animal was already showing, and tugged on the reins with all his might. His hands were raw from the effort but it was another part of his anatomy which bore the most vivid memories of the journey. For all that, he arrived at his birthplace with a brave smile and looked eagerly across at the tiny church.
They came to a halt near the mill and watched the swift waters of the River Swale turn its noisy wheel as they waited for the laggard rider to catch them up. Ralph noted the marshland to the north of the village and saw that flooding was an annual problem. Faversham was in a pleasant spot. After the teeming streets of Canterbury, it was a relief to be in a more rural community.
Reinbald arrived but needed a further two minutes to bring his horse under control. When it finally stopped, he slipped his feet from the stirrups and dropped to the ground. His legs almost buckled beneath him.
“Where does Juliana live?” said Ralph.
“In the main street, my lord, but she will not be there.”
“Where will we find her?”
“Follow me,” he said, walking gingerly and leading his horse along the riverbank. “Juliana inherited one of the salt-houses from her father. That is where she will be.”
A shriek of outrage soon confirmed the prediction.
“No, no, no, you dolt!”
They were fifty yards from the place but Juliana's voice cut through the air like a scythe through dry grass.
“Put it there, man! Put it there, you imbecile!”
An unseen servant was mishandling blocks of salt and being reprimanded by his mistress. The loud, ringing tones were like the discordant chimes of a cracked bell. When they reached the salt-house, Reinbald went in to talk to her. An eerie silence fell. Expecting some kind of monster to come snarling out of the building, Ralph was taken aback to see a trim woman of middle years sail out with poise and take up her position in front of him. He looked at the full lips in the harsh beauty of her face and decided that one of the Faversham bachelors had lost a prime catch in his courting days. Juliana was a woman of some style.
She dropped the merest replica of a curtsey and smiled.
“My lord?” The voice was low, almost melodious. “Reinbald says that you wish to speak to me. If you have ridden all the way from Canterbury, it must be important. As you see, I am busy. I would not wish to be kept too long away from my work here.”
The priest had been brought as a guide and interpreter but he could now be relieved of the latter role. Ralph could understand the woman perfectly, not simply because she spoke with slow emphasis but because she accompanied her words with the most expressive gestures. Even had he been stone deaf, he would have had no trouble picking up the gist of what she said.
Dismounting from
his horse, he escorted Juliana across to the comparative privacy of a beech tree. Though he had learned much of her language from his wife, he could still not speak it with fluency and wanted to be out of earshot of his men before he plunged into its tangled verbiage. The priest followed them but stood some yards away, detached from the conversation but ready to intervene if required.
“I want to ask you about Bertha,” said Ralph.
“My niece?” she asked guardedly.
“I believe you were at the funeral yesterday.”
“Yes, my lord.” She lowered her head. “The sorrow will always be with me. Bertha was a lovely girl. She was the only member of that family I cared about. They are worthless. Alwin is the most miserable of them all.”
“Why, then, did your sister marry him?”
“I warned her against it.”
“But she went ahead?”
“He talked her into it somehow,” she said bitterly. “No man would ever do that to me. Least of all, a sailor. They are the worst. I told her what she was taking on but she ignored me. My sister was a fool. She paid for her folly.”
“How did she die?”
“He killed her.”
“Alwin?”
“Yes,” she asserted, getting into her stride. “The doctor said that she was carried off by a fever but I talked with her and I know the truth. My sister died of a cracked heart. Her husband treated her abominably.”
“He beat her?”
“Not with his fists, my lord. But there are other ways to wound. She was too soft and submissive with him. By the time she learned to strike back, it was too late.” She let out a screech of anger. “Ha! He would not have found me soft and submissive. I'd never have let him touch me after that. If Alwin had come anywhere near my bed, I would have sliced his manhood off with a carving knife!”
Once started, there was no holding her. Juliana railed against her brother-in-law for several minutes, waving her hands as she did so and working herself up into such a temper that she was almost frothing at the mouth. Ralph recoiled before the torrent of abuse without really understanding what had provoked it.
“Clearly you have no love for Alwin,” he observed, drily.
“He is the most loathsome man alive.”
“Your sister did not think so.”
The Serpents of Harbledown Page 15