“He wishes to see you at the cathedral.”
“Canon Hubert?”
“No,” said Simon, barely able to get the summons out. “His Grace the Archbishop of Canterbury.”
Oblivious to the presence of his companions, Lanfranc sat in his chair and pondered, his eyelids drawn down, his lips pursed and his brow striped with concentration. He toyed with a large ring on his left hand as if fumbling with a device to open some secret compartment in his mind. But the compartment remained shut and its contents inaccessible. His lids suddenly lifted and a distant despair showed in his eyes.
“We have so far failed,” he announced gloomily. “Hundreds of men were committed to a manhunt yesterday but they have had no sight of their quarry. The sheriff’s officers have searched in vain, my own knights have made equally fruitless forays into the city’s environs, and the concerted prayers of our priory and St. Augustine’s Abbey have not produced one glimmer of assistance from above. I make no criticism of divine disposition,” he added solemnly. “God wishes us to make amends on His behalf. To do that, we must be more sedulous in our pursuit of this heretic and more subtle in gathering the clues that will lead us to him and his foul sect.”
“We are doing our best, Your Grace,” said Prior Henry.
“It is inadequate.”
“If you say so, Your Grace.”
“If heresy thrives, we are all inadequate. This man has been prosyletising at the very gates of the cathedral and we did not detect him until it was too late. How many has he led from the paths of righteousness? How many has he shown into the valley of sin?” His voice croaked. “How many has he debauched?”
“Too many, Your Grace,” said Canon Hubert.
“One is too many. One reproves our vigilance.”
“Philippe Berbizier is very cunning.”
“Heretics always are.”
Prior Henry nodded in agreement and Hubert quickly followed suit but Prior Gregroy stood motionless between them, his features grey with a swirling anguish and his pugnacity drained completely away. Lanfranc toyed with the ring once more as his reminiscences flowed.
“When I was at Caen,” he began, “that dear, beautiful abbey which I loved so much, there were faint rumblings of heresy in Rouen. Members of a sect were caught, practising some fearful rituals in a wood. Fire was involved. And bestiality of a kind I dare not mention within this hallowed place.” His jaw tightened. “When I was asked to determine whether it was unorthodoxy or witchcraft, I argued that it might be some hideous mixture of the two, for heresy and necromancy have always gone hand in hand like illicit lovers, proud of their lasciviousness. I examined him.”
There was a long pause. Canon Hubert and Prior Henry were eager to hear more. Prior Gregory remained subdued and detached. The recollections started up again.
“I do not remember his name,” said Lanfranc. “But he was their leader and their unholy priest, just as Philippe Berbizier is—the two, I imagine, hewn from the same tree of falsehood. I examined him closely but his answers were guileful. He hid behind such a shield of words that I could scarce get at him. The man was like a veritable serpent which more easily eludes the grasp the more tightly it is held in the hands.”
“What happened, Your Grace?”
“God came to my aid. He gave me the strength to wrestle with the serpent until I squeezed a confession out him.” He mimed the action then became peremptory. “We must treat this serpent of our own with the same show of might!”
Henry and Hubert agreed in unison. A monk interrupted the audience to bring a whispered message to Lanfranc. The archbishop snapped his fingers and the monk scuttled away to fetch in Gervase Bret. Canon Hubert seized on the opportunity to ingratiate himself with Lanfranc by introducing his fellow commissioner. Gervase was poised but humble in the presence of the archbishop. Lanfranc’s reputation towered over ecclesiastical affairs, as solid and massive as the cathedral he had rebuilt in Canterbury. Even at his advanced age, he exuded an awesome intellectuality.
“Canon Hubert has spoken well of you, Master Bret.”
“I am flattered, Your Grace.”
“You are a lawyer like me, I hear.”
“A poor replica of one beside Your Grace.”
“There is a beauty and a logic in the law which has always appealed to me. Order. Purpose. Symmetry. Just like the heavens themselves as created by the Almighty.” He saw the defensive look in Gervase’s eye. “No, Master Bret. I have not brought you here for a legal confrontation. Though Canon Hubert stands beside you as your companion on the tribunal and though Prior Henry and Prior Gregory contest the respective rights of cathedral and abbey, this audience will not concern itself with a minor property dispute. Especially when it no longer exists.”
Prior Henry was startled. “No longer exists?”
“I cede the land in question to the abbey.”
“But it is ours, Your Grace.”
“Say no more, Henry. My decision is made.”
The prior bowed and backed slightly away, dismayed by a decision in which he had no part and which he strongly opposed. Gervase was pleased to hear that days of wrangling in the shire hall had now been obviated and he expected Prior Gregory to be showing the satisfaction of a victor. All that Gregory could raise, however, was a mild interest. Instead of wishing to race back to the abbey with the glad tidings, he looked as if he might forget to mention them.
“It is a gesture of goodwill toward the abbey,” explained Lanfranc. “I look for a reciprocal gesture.”
They all knew what he meant. In return for the right to retain the controversial land, the abbey had to reconcile itself to their new abbot. Prior Gregory was dismissed with a gracious smile and bowed to the archbishop before leaving the chamber. Hubert sensed an archiepiscopal reprimand.
“Prior Gregory was unusually quiescent, Your Grace.”
“We discussed his future, Canon Hubert.”
“His future?”
“He has been such an effective prior at the abbey that I felt his abilities could be put to excellent use here. Needless to say, it will be in a less-exalted office, as we already have a prior.” He indicated Henry. “I am sure that Gregory will soon learn the ways of Christ Church Priory and give us the loyalty he has shown to St. Augustine’s Abbey.”
The soft plausibility of Lanfranc’s voice disguised the ruthlessness of his action. Because the abbey opposed his wishes, he removed its recalcitrant prior. Invited to discuss heretics with the archbishop, Gregory found himself treated like one. He had been examined, reproved, stripped of his monastic rank and removed summarily from the abbey. Gervase was chastened by the sight of such chilling brutality.
Archbishop Lanfranc appraised his young visitor.
“I wish to talk to you about Harbledown,” he said.
“Harbledown, Your Grace?”
“A place so green and tranquil that I chose to build my own palace there. But its grass has been stained with blood and its tranquillity has been violated. You, I believe, know the exact spot where the poor young girl was found.”
“I do, Your Grace.”
“And it was you who first saw the fallen body of Brother Martin at the hospital of St. Nicholas. Is that not so?”
“It grieves me to recall it, Your Grace.”
“Accompany Prior Henry to the scenes of both these crimes. Show him, if you will, what you revealed earlier to Canon Hubert. There is a sound reason for this request.”
“No reason is needed, Your Grace,” said Gervase with a polite nod. “Your request justifies itself. I had thought to visit Harbledown again on my own account. My journey now has a double purpose and value.”
“I am ready to leave instantly,” said Prior Henry.
“Then I am at your service.”
“Thank you, Master Bret,” said Lanfranc. “We are indebted to you. The scourge of heresy must be burned to cinders. Help us to light the torch that will do it.” He rose from his chair and held his arms wide. “My blessing go
es with you.”
Gervase and Prior Gregory bowed, then moved toward the door. The archbishop’s voice made them come to a brief halt.
“Abbot Guy is due to arrive here tomorrow,” he said. “I want him to come into a city that is cleansed and purified.
What will he think if he discovers that Canterbury is a den of heresy? When he rides over Harbledown Hill, he must not hear the hiss of this vile serpent. Two innocent people have been killed already. I do not wish to welcome Abbot Guy with a third dead body lying near my palace.”
Gervase thought at once of Golde and his resolve stiffened.
“That will not happen, Your Grace,” he promised.
“Deo volente!” added Prior Henry.
Patience did not come easily to Ralph Delchard. When it was forced upon him by a turn of events, he was even less likely to embrace it. Strutting up and down the solar at the house in Burgate Street, he cursed royally and banged one fist into the palm of his other hand.
“There must be something I can do!” he insisted.
“Watch and pray,” suggested Osbern, tentatively.
“I have watched too long and prayer has never gained me anything more than a crick in my neck and a pain in my knees. Hell’s teeth, man. My wife is in danger! How would you feel in that situation?”
“I know only too well, my lord.”
Ralph’s anger was checked. While bemoaning his personal quandary, he had completely forgotten the reeve’s own suffering. Osbern, too, was a husband whose wife had mysteriously disappeared and left him on tenterhooks. Eadgyth was still unwell and their son was also seriously ill. Osbern’s anxiety was divided between his wife and child. The fact that Helto had already made two visits to the house that morning showed how concerned he was at the condition of the baby. The child was in jeopardy.
“My apologies, Osbern,” said Ralph. “I am too full of self-affairs. You will understand why.”
“I share your worries, my lord.”
“If only I knew that Golde was safe!”
He paused at the window to peer out yet again. Ralph had been surveying the street at regular intervals, waiting for word to come from Philippe Berbizier and hoping to pounce on the messenger to beat information out of him. All he saw was the normal human traffic of the day, moving past on its way to and from the main thoroughfare of Burh Street. Ralph stamped his foot to relieve his tension, then stalked away from the window. He was beginning to believe that no further message would arrive. His wife’s gown had been an explicit-enough missive in itself.
There was a soft tap on the door and Osbern opened it to admit his manservant. When Ralph saw what he was carrying in his hand, he snatched the item at once to examine it. Golde’s wimple was slit to ribbons.
“Where did you find this?” he demanded.
“In the stables, my lord.”
“When?”
“Even now,” said the man nervously. “I saddled Master Bret’s horse for him, then saw him off. As I was cleaning out the stables, I discovered the wimple.” He held up a scroll. “This was wrapped inside it, my lord.”
Ralph grabbed the letter from his hand and unfolded it. The message it contained was short and unequivocal.
Call your men off and your wife will stay alive.
While Ralph assimilated the warning with glowering rage, Osbern dismissed the servant. The reeve waited in silence until Ralph had scrunched the letter up, hurled it at the wall, then paced restlessly up and down.
“Why did nobody see this delivered?” he asked.
“I do not mount a guard on my stables, my lord,” said Osbern. “Seeing you standing at that window, they knew that it was dangerous to come to the front door. That is why the message was delivered unseen to the rear of the house. You are up against a clever adversary here.”
“Yes,” conceded Ralph. “He is one step ahead of me.”
“May I know the contents of the letter?”
When Ralph nodded, the reeve picked up the missive and carefully unrolled it. He saw the crumb of comfort at once.
“Your wife is still alive, my lord.”
“But for how long?”
“Until this man has made his escape,” said Osbern. “But he cannot do that if your men are breathing down his neck.”
“No,” said Ralph grimly. “They are clearly searching in the right area. Do I call them off and let this villain go?”
“What is the alternative?”
Ralph took the letter from him and read it once more.
“Two things are clear,” he concluded. “Golde is alive and Philippe Berbizier himself is still inside the city. A cordon of steel has been thrown around it. There is no way that he will be able to get out of Canterbury.”
The troop of soldiers trotted along the High Street and went over Eastbridge in ragged formation. The citizens were so used to the swaggering presence of Norman soldiers that they simply stepped out of their way and swore under their breaths. When they reached Westgate, the soldiers were allowed through at once by the armed guards. They swung left and headed toward the castle. Nobody stopped to notice that one of the men in helm and hauberk detached himself cleverly from his fellows and rode in a different direction.
Philippe Berbizier was soon ascending Harbledown Hill.
The lepers at the hospital of St. Nicholas were puzzled and alarmed at the sight which confronted them. Led by Prior Henry and Gervase Bret, a dozen monks came riding up to the church with six men-at-arms in their wake. A deputation of that size could only betoken something of great importance and the lepers watched apprehensively from their huts. Brother Bartholomew and Brother Vitalis, who had taken over the running of the hospital, showed a proper deference to their prior and conducted him to the nave.
As soon as he stepped into the church, Henry felt the throbbing presence of evil and he identified its source just as Canon Hubert had done before him. Every monk was ordered into the church and the door was locked from inside. While the soldiers stood on guard outside and the lepers waited in trepidation, the service began. Prior Henry set about the task of reclaiming the house for God. Exorcism took place.
Gervase went in search of Alain and found him some distance away, perched on a tree stump as he fed crumbs from a hunk of bread to a bold robin. Alain’s hood was down and his veil drawn back so that he could feel the play of the cool breeze on his face. Leprosy did not deter the bird. A source of food brought him within inches of Alain. When Gervase approached, the robin did not even look up from its meal.
Alain showed a degree of animation for once, standing up from the tree and raising a hand in greeting. When the leper went to pull up his hood, Gervase shook his head to indicate that it was not necessary. Alain did not have to hide his affliction.
“I hoped you would come,” said the leper.
“Why?”
“I wanted to see you. I went down to the city but he stopped me at the gate and drove me away.”
“Who did?”
“A soldier. One of the guards.”
“A big search has been mounted for the killer.”
“I gathered that.”
“They are trying to pen him within the city.”
“If he is there,” said Alain.
“Nobody can be sure of that,” said Gervase. “But why did you wish to see me, Alain?”
“I brought something to give you.”
He took the piece of blue material from his sleeve and went to place it on the log beside the bread. Gervase moved in to take it directly from his hand, unafraid of the contact. He studied the material and felt its texture.
“I think it came from Bertha’s attire,” said Alain.
“Where did you find it?”
“A mile away. Caught on a twig.”
“Would Bertha have had cause to be in that vicinity?”
“I do not know, Master Bret. She would not have been collecting herbs there, I am certain, because there were none. That torn material was in the orchard of a manor house.”
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“Who owns it?”
“I have no idea.”
“Could you direct me there?”
“Yes.” He looked at the blue threads. “You will need to match it against her kirtle. What happened to her attire?”
“It was given to her father.”
“Will he let you see it?”
“If he is still alive.”
Alain looked shaken. “He is ill?”
“Two men assaulted him at Fordwich and left him for dead. He lies abed. The doctor is not sure that Alwin the Sailor will survive the injuries.”
Alain said nothing. He continued to stare at the tiny piece of blue material, reluctant to part with another keepsake and yet desperate to help Gervase trace the man who had murdered Bertha. Gervase examined the material again.
“Describe this manor house and orchard to me.”
“It lies due north of here.”
Alain gave rough directions and described everything that he could remember about his brief visit to the place. Gervase heard enough to warrant further investigation but first he had to establish whether the material had indeed been torn from Bertha’s apparel. His gaze travelled in the direction of Canterbury.
“I believe that the killer is still in the city,” he said. “Keep him in there long enough and we are bound to find him. One thing we can guarantee.”
“What is that?”
“He will not slip past the guards. They are too alert and too numerous. Even at night, the security is intense. Nobody could possibly breach it.”
“He did, Master Bret.”
“Who?”
“The man I saw sneak past the hospital last night. He came from the city because he lives and works there. You know him yourself. You met him at Bertha’s funeral.”
“Did I?”
“He conducted the burial service.”
“Reinbald the Priest?” said Gervase in amazement.
The Serpents of Harbledown Page 21