‘None of it would have happened if Robert had not filched that poisoned wine for Wilfred,’ said Cole with a sigh. ‘Gerald would have swallowed it, and that would have been the end of him. Foliot and Pontius would have brought the sad news to St Davids, Dunstan would have gone home to Canterbury, and the entire business would have been over.’
‘I disagree,’ said Gwenllian. ‘Gerald is popular, and his supporters would have asked questions. Besides, I like Gerald. He defended you against Norrys.’
‘Yes, he did.’ Cole smiled. ‘He insisted on reading me some of his book before he left. I tried to dissuade him – I am not a man for sitting idle – but it was actually rather good. Perhaps he should confine himself to writing, and leave the Church to gentler men.’
‘Perhaps he should,’ said Gwenllian, thinking it must have been compelling indeed if it had secured Cole’s approval. He detested literary pursuits.
‘Do you think John will use the incident to oust us?’ Cole regarded her with a troubled expression. ‘There is no Norrys to twist the truth, but four men were murdered in my castle, there was a saboteur, and the poor did stage a riot. A reliable constable would not have let all that happen.’
‘I think we can trust Gerald to speak in our favour,’ said Gwenllian.
‘But that is what worries me. He is not popular with Canterbury or the King, and his support might do more harm than good.’
Gwenllian supposed it might, and there was no answer to his concerns. ‘Do you think Robert was right when he said that staging the Cain and Abel section of The Play of Adam brings bad luck?’ she asked uneasily. ‘I know it is wrong to be superstitious, but I cannot shake the conviction that something terrible is going to happen.’
‘Nothing will,’ said Cole, ever the optimist. Then he reconsidered. ‘Well, not unless Gerald is made bishop. His barbed tongue will alienate the King, and there will be trouble. He will claim our support as kinsfolk, and we shall be dragged into murky waters.’
Gwenllian regarded him unhappily. He was right, of course. ‘Perhaps the archbishop and the King will prevent his consecration.’
‘Perhaps. But I hope they find a kinder way to do it than Osbert and Foliot.’
Robert was pleased to be away from Carmarthen, and even more pleased to be away from Gerald. The man was arrogant and brash, and would do immeasurable harm to the Church if he was allowed to become one of its bishops. Robert had thought so from the moment he had first met him in Oseney Abbey, and he had no regrets about what he had done.
It had been easy to leave documents for Foliot to find outlining Gerald’s plans for the future – ones far more outrageous than even Gerald’s burning ambition could accommodate. Shocked by what Robert had penned in Gerald’s handwriting, Foliot had done his best to ensure that Gerald never reached home, but his failure meant that Robert had had to take matters into his own hands, just as he had done with Canon Wilfred.
Poor Foliot was innocent of poisoning the wine, of course, although no one would ever believe him. That had been Robert’s parting gift to Wilfred, payment for the months of misery he had suffered under that lazy, selfish old tyrant. He had intended Gerald to swallow some too, but Wilfred had spilled it in his death throes.
Of course, Wilfred was a killer himself. He talked in his sleep, and as the indolent old rogue had had a penchant for naps, Robert had heard him converse many times with his hapless victims. Robert knew for a fact that he had smothered a saintly abbot named Wigod, and there had also been others, although their names had meant nothing to him. The villain had deserved to die, and Robert felt he had done Oseney a great service by relieving it of his malevolent presence.
Robert was not sure why he cared so passionately that Gerald should not succeed in his ecclesiastical ambitions. Perhaps it was because such a man would make enemies for the Church – which Robert intended to rise high within – and he disliked anyone having the power to make it weak. Or perhaps it was the man’s objectionable character. He fingered the worn pages of The Play of Adam in his saddlebag. And then there was the fact that Gerald had prevented him from playing God, just as Wilfred had.
He scowled at Prior Dunstan riding beside him. Wilfred and Gerald were not the only ones who had interfered with his dreams. Dunstan had too. Would the prior reach Canterbury alive? Or would he die on this return journey? Of an accident, of course.
Historical Note
Robert of Oseney succeeded Dunstan to become prior of the Austin house of St Gregory’s, Canterbury in 1213; he remained for only two years, and resigned to become a simple monk at Clairvaux, although no reason is given. Hurso was another Canterbury Austin from the late twelfth century, and Robert de Luci was a Kentish knight active in 1199. Prior (later Abbot) Wigod ruled Oseney near Oxford for thirty years until his death in 1168; Hugh was elected Abbot in 1184 and died in 1205.
Roger Norrys was constable of Carmarthen in the 1170s, and Symon Cole was constable in the 1190s. Osbert was Archdeacon of Carmarthen at this time, while Cethynoc, Tancard, William the corviser, Kedi, Jung and Sir Robert de Burchill are all listed as witnesses to deeds in the diocese in the late 1100s.
Today, Gerald de Barri (Gerald of Wales) is best known for his travels. He was not popular with his contemporaries, who saw him as arrogant, vain and abrasive – and he really did read his books at Oxford over several consecutive days. To them, he was the man desperate to be Bishop of St Davids, and he was elected to the post twice (in 1176 and 1198) by the cathedral’s canons. He also wanted to establish the See as an archbishopric, thus placing it on a par with Canterbury. Needless to say, this did not meet with approval in England.
His second attempt to gain the See was blocked by both Canterbury and the King, and the dispute dragged on for four years. He made three journeys to Rome to put his case to the Pope, all with the support of archdeacons Pontius, Osbert and Reginald Foliot. Eventually, though, his followers were persuaded to change their minds, and the See went to another contender.
Furious at what he saw as a betrayal, Gerald wrote about them in his book De Jure, noting how they had been rewarded for their treachery: ‘Faithless Foliot’ was given the church at Llanstephan, while the ‘Goitre of Carmarthen’ (Osbert) got a manor on the Gower. Gerald remained angry and bitter about his defeat for the rest of his life.
Wilbertone, Cambridgeshire Fens, Spring 1361
‘You cannot ask that of me!’ Horrified, the young monk sprang to his feet, backing away from the elderly priest as if he was the devil himself.
‘I do ask it, Brother Oswin. More than that, I demand it.’ The old man’s voice was cracked with age, but his eyes blazed with determination.
‘But it is sacrilege,’ Oswin protested. ‘A sin, a terrible sin. I would cut off my own hand rather than use it to commit such a deed. How could you ask any man to carry out such a wicked act, let alone a man in holy orders?’
‘Because only a monk can do this,’ the old man growled. ‘Come back here and sit down. I said, sit down!’
Brother Oswin, trained like a hound to obey the voice of command, perched on a low wooden stool that had been placed beside the priest’s chair, and gnawed at his fingernails, which were already bitten down to the quick. As soon as he’d entered Father Edmund’s tiny cottage he’d noticed the bunch of dried poppy heads hanging from the beam. The syrup made from the white poppies eased the shivers of the marsh fever and soothed the crippling joint pains that tormented those who lived in the dank fenland. It even dulled the gripes of hunger, but sup it too often and it would drive a man’s wits from his head for ever. Was that the cause of Father Edmund’s madness? For mad he certainly must be, even to contemplate such a dreadful act.
Brother Oswin had known the old priest ever since he was a boy. In fact it was Father Edmund who had helped him to gain admittance as a novice at Ely Priory. So when the priest had sent word to him, asking him to come back to the village, he had sought leave to depart right away, assuming his old confessor was sick or in desperate need of
his help. But nothing could have prepared him for what Father Edmund had asked of him.
‘Why, Father, why would you ask such a thing?’
‘Look around you,’ the old man commanded.
The young man’s gaze ranged around the dingy cottage. He had not visited Father Edmund for several years and had been shocked to see the misery in which the frail old man was living. Surely it hadn’t always been as bad as this. In the blackened hearth, a pitiful fire was struggling for life against the icy blasts whistling through the gaps in the walls, and the ragged blankets strewn across the bed were so threadbare there could be little warmth left in them. A few crumbs of coarse, dry bean-bread still clung to a wooden trencher on the table, the remains of the priest’s supper, no doubt, and more than likely the only meal he’d eaten that day.
Spring was always the hungry time, when the winter stores were running low and the new crops were not yet harvested, but the prolonged drought of the previous year had meant that the barns were already three-quarters empty even before the first frosts, and many a man and beast had perished long before the green mist returned to cover tree and field. That this old crow had managed to survive was nothing short of a miracle, but then there were always some villagers willing to sacrifice their last crust to a priest or a monk, in the hope of receiving a whole loaf in the afterlife.
Father Edmund lifted a leather beaker from the table and thrust it under Brother Oswin’s nose. It only took one sniff to tell that the ale was sour, not fit even for the hogs.
‘Even beggars at the alms gate drink better ale than this,’ the old priest said bitterly. ‘Is this the way God rewards His faithful servants?’
‘But when you’re granted your new living—’
‘What new living, boy? They’ve left me here to rot for over twenty years. It’s been ten, fifteen years since the Bishop of Ely sent word to me. I doubt he even remembers I’m still alive. I’ll stay here until I die. That’s my reward for all I accomplished for the Church.’ Father Edmund huddled closer to the fire, spreading his mottled hands over the feeble embers. ‘When I think of all I did for Bishop de Lisle. If it hadn’t been for me, he would be dead and rotting in his grave now.’
‘The bishop is fled abroad,’ Oswin told him. ‘But he’s a man of compassion. They say that all through the Great Pestilence he was not afraid to administer the last rites to the dying, though many others refused for fear of the contagion. When he returns, I’m sure—’
‘Sure, are you? De Lisle may be many things, but a fool is not one of them. He won’t return to Ely again. He daren’t. There are still plenty who think him guilty of theft, if not of murder. And now I hear rumours that the Great Pestilence is once more prowling across England. Is this so?’
The young monk bowed his head as he made the sign of the cross. ‘It is, Father. But you should not fear it. This time, they say, it’s the children and the fit young men that death is snatching first.’
The old man shuddered. ‘I have lived through it all before and I prayed I would never do so again – the putrid stench of the bodies, the fires, the mass graves with the corpses thrown in like shoals of rotting fish, then the looting and the murder. Bands of cutthroats roaming through the towns and villages taking whatever they wanted from the living and the dead. They cared nothing for any law, nor for any man. They were worse than savage wolves.’
‘But you survived, Father, when all around you perished. Even though you daily ministered to the dying and buried the dead with your own hands, yet you did not fall sick. You knew how to defend yourself, and Bishop de Lisle too. They say you conjured the angels and demons to protect him. You will survive the pestilence again, Father.’
‘What is the use of surviving?’ the old man asked savagely. ‘When the villagers die and there is no one left to bring tithes to my crumbling church, no neighbours to share their pottage with me, no boys to fetch fuel for my fire, how will I keep from freezing? How will I cook? Where will I buy food when a single loaf costs a king’s ransom?’
Oswin laid his hand comfortingly on the aged knee. He could feel the sharp bones even through the patched robe. ‘I will try to persuade the prior that you should be granted a place in our hall or infirmary. I know you cannot pay a corrody for lodging and food, but they will surely take you in out of charity. After all, as you said, you did great service for Bishop de Lisle.’
Father Edmund flapped his hand impatiently. ‘You’d be wasting your time. They don’t want me back. I know too much. I’m an embarrassment to them.’
He closed his own cold fingers over Oswin’s, gripping his hand with a surprising strength. ‘Just bring me what I have asked of you, Brother Oswin. If I possess that I will have people flocking to my door, for I will have the certain cure. They will sell everything they own to save themselves and their children from the Great Pestilence, and if they don’t . . .’ he laughed bitterly, ‘. . . then I’ll put it to another use. They say it will open any lock and it puts a household into such a deep sleep that a thief may steal the bed they are lying on without waking them.’
‘No, Father, no . . .’ the young monk protested, tears of anguish welling up in his eyes. ‘This is not you speaking. The poppy juice has turned your wits, or an evil spirit has entered into you. The godly man I knew as a boy, the man who guided me into the priory, would never have entertained such wicked thoughts.’
‘I am the man that the Bishop of Ely has turned me into and it is Ely who will suffer for it. They owe me this, and you will bring it to me. Don’t you dare shake your head at me, boy. Do you think I’ve forgotten what you confessed to me before you entered the priory, the reason you became a monk? The fool of a blacksmith still believes to this day his daughter ran away, but you and I both know she did not. No, that poor girl lies at the bottom of the sucking marsh where you dumped her, after you and your brother raped and murdered her.’
Oswin’s face drained of colour. ‘But . . . we were scarcely more than boys . . . we were drunk . . . it was just high spirits . . . Her death was an accident. We never intended her any harm. And I made a full and contrite confession to you as my priest. You absolved me . . . No priest may reveal what is told to him in confession. The Church forbids—’
‘I told you, boy, the Church has betrayed me. I no longer care what it forbids. And I still have the necklace you took from her body. If her father should be shown that . . .’
The young monk looked as if he was going to vomit, but he swallowed hard and took a deep breath, thrusting out his chin defiantly. ‘I will confess my crime before the whole priory and accept whatever penance they lay upon me even if it should last my whole life, but I will not add to my sins by doing what you ask. I will not!’
Father Edmund leaned back in his chair. ‘Brave words, boy, for you know that whatever you confess you will be safe. As a monk, you cannot be executed for your crime. But your brother is not in holy orders. He has a wife and three little children. Will you watch him as he dances on the end of a rope? Will you listen to the sobs of his wife and children as they starve?’
He leaned forward again, grasping Oswin’s sleeve. ‘Make no mistake, I care not one wit for man or Church now. Do as I ask, boy, or I swear your brother will be dangling from the hangman’s noose before the month is out.’
Ely, Cambridgeshire
‘It’ll never work,’ Henry said, staring in dismay at the huge throng of people swarming around the door of the cathedral.
‘Course it will,’ Martin said cheerfully, giving his cousin a bracing punch on the arm. ‘Besides, you got a better idea? I don’t think we’d exactly get a warm welcome if we went back to Cambridge. With the pestilence spreading it won’t be long before the towns start shutting their gates and I’ve no mind to be stuck out on the road when they do. This way we get money enough for food and wine, and with a bit of luck, snug lodgings in the priory guest hall too.’
‘But you heard those jugglers: they nearly got their heads broken by the lay brothers when they threw th
em off the priory’s land.’
‘They had a half-dressed girl with them. It’s hardly surprising they were chased off if the prior saw her turning cartwheels and displaying all her wares in front of a gaggle of pimple-faced novice monks. But we will offer something quite different, something –’ Martin groped about for the word, which wasn’t one he often had cause to use – ‘something holy. The lay brothers can’t control the rabble. If the pilgrims keep pouring in at this rate, sooner or later there’s going to be a riot. The crowds need something to distract them and that, dear cos, is where we step in, like angels of mercy, to deliver them from evil.’
Henry had to admit his cousin was right about one thing: the lay brothers were losing control of the crowd. People had been flocking to the cathedral for weeks in far greater numbers than usual, not just seeking alms to feed their starving families, but to pray at the shrines of St Etheldreda and her sister St Withburga for an end to the droughts and for a good harvest. But since the rumours of the pestilence had begun to spread, the crowds streaming to the shrines had more than doubled, with men, women and children desperate to seek protection from the sickness and prepare their souls for death should they fall to the Great Mortality.
The queues were now so long that the great doors of the cathedral had to be slammed shut in the evening before some of those who had been waiting all day had a chance to get inside, never mind come near enough to touch the shrines. Forced to spend another night in the overpriced and overcrowded inns if they could afford it, or camping out in the cold, the pilgrims found their tempers were fraying badly. Those who had been trying to get in for days screamed abuse at the newly arrived who pushed ahead of them. Fights erupted as people attempted to wriggle their way to the front of the queue, with the old, the weak and the lame being shoved aside.
Even when they gained admission to the cathedral, violent arguments broke out between the lay brothers trying to collect the fee for visiting the shrines and the pilgrims who argued that, having been forced to wait for days, they now had no money left to pay. Although the lay brothers were, on the whole, burly men, well armed with thick staves, they were having a hard time trying to prevent the crowds from simply storming their way in and smashing off fragments of the shrines to carry home with them. Something had to be done to distract the mob before someone got a knife between his ribs or was trampled to death.
The First Murder Page 12