Unhallowed Ground hds-4

by Mel Starr

  “Master Hugh,” Brother Alnett continued, “has sought lodging in the guest-house, with two companions. He travels to…” The monk turned helplessly to me.

  “Exeter.”

  “Master Hugh is bailiff for Lord Gilbert Talbot on his Bampton estate.” I saw the abbot’s lip curl in distaste. “And is also a surgeon, trained in Paris.” The lip seemed to relax.

  Brother Alnett hesitated, and the abbot turned to enter his hall, assuming, I suppose, that the introduction was done.

  “He knows how to couch a cataract,” Brother Alnett continued hurriedly. “Saw it done in Paris when he studied there.”

  All this time neither the abbot nor his companion spoke, but after this announcement the abbot turned and, with a frown, examined the hopeful face of Brother Alnett.

  “You wish this surgeon to seek to clear your vision?”

  “Aye, m’lord abbot.”

  The abbot dismissed Brother Alnett with a wave of his hand. “As you wish. You have my permit.”

  I bowed respectfully to the abbot as he walked past me to his hall. If he noticed he gave no sign.

  Brother Alnett also bowed and turned, prompted more by the departing abbot’s fading footsteps than the sight of the abbot’s back.

  “M’lord abbot,” the monk said when he was sure his superior was beyond hearing, “is an even-tempered man. He is always angry. But he did grant permission for you to restore my sight. Will you do so? This day?”

  “Nay. Tomorrow will be soon enough. I am weary from the day’s travel. My hand may not be steady, and I must sort through the instruments I have with me to see if any will serve in place of couching needles.”

  The monk seemed disappointed at the delay, but had borne his affliction so long that another day would seem but small abeyance.

  Brother Alnett sent a lay brother with straw pallets for Arthur and Uctred. Our chamber in the guest-house had already a bed where I might seek my rest. We were served a light supper of pease pottage, maslin loaf, and ale, and because the days grew long there was enough light after supper that I could sort through my instruments for lancets and thin scalpels which might serve in place of couching needles.

  The sky was yet aglow when we three took to our beds, and soon Arthur’s rumbling snore filled the chamber. Uctred duly joined the chorus, adding his tenor to Arthur’s bass. I reviewed in my mind’s eye what I had seen of couching for cataracts while a student in Paris, planning the next morning’s work. The effort was not conducive to slumber, and I heard the sacrist ring the bell for vigils before I slept.

  Brother Alnett appeared at the guest-house as soon as Lauds was sung. The man was eager to undergo treatment for his affliction; more eager than I to venture the work. I have heard scholars suggest that St Paul might have suffered cataracts — the “thorn in the flesh” he prayed unsuccessfully for the Lord Christ to remove. Now I spoke a silent prayer that my hand might be guided to good success this day, and Brother Alnett’s burden be lifted, even so the apostle’s was not. Perhaps St Paul required a surgeon.

  I chose the abbey infirmary for the work. While I had brought instruments, I had not thought to bring herbs and salves. These the infirmarer could supply, though, in truth, few are needed to couch a cataract. When the needle is applied the patient feels little pain. Nevertheless, I prepared a draught of crushed lettuce and hemp seeds mixed in a cup of ale. Brother Alnett did not need to be persuaded to drink it down.

  The seeds of wild lettuce will calm an anxious man. I know not if the draught succeeded with the monk, for he seemed a phlegmatic sort anyway, but I was tempted to prepare a cup for myself.

  The patient whose cataract is being couched must not be permitted to blink while the work is done. I required the infirmarer and his assistant to fix Brother Alnett’s upper and lower eyelids in place, took a deep breath, and began my work.

  I had among my instruments a needle, used for stitching wounds, which would serve, I thought, to couch a cataract. The milky corruption of a cataract is but a humor collected between pupil and lens, thus obstructing vision. My task was to clear this space, so that when it was empty vision might be restored. The monk’s cataract was of many years and fully formed, so no medicinal treatment would avail.

  I inserted my needle into the outer edge of Brother Alnett’s whitened lens and worked it into the space between lens and pupil. I felt resistance when the needle touched the suffusio, for the cataract was large and firm. But because it was so it came free from its place in one whole, rather than breaking apart. When the cataract was loosened I thrust with the needle until I had worked it down and away from the pupil.

  My work was done, so long as the suffusio stayed where my needle had pushed it. If it did not it would require breaking into fragments and these pieces would then be depressed. I prayed this would not be necessary, stood from my patient, and wiped sweat from my brow with the sleeve of my cotehardie. It was not a warm morning, but I noted perspiration also upon the brows of the infirmarer and his assistant. Brother Alnett seemed not so affected. Perhaps it was the lettuce seeds.

  The monk blinked rapidly several times when his eyelids were released, then turned his head to the infirmary window whence came a shaft of golden morning sun. The beam struck the infirmarer’s table, upon which lay an opened book. Brother Alnett’s gaze fastened upon the volume and he stood and walked to it.

  We who observed were silent as Brother Alnett stood over the pages of the infirmarer’s herbal. He peered down upon the book, then turned and spoke.

  “The letters are much blurred, but I see them. Lenses will make them distinct and I shall read again.”

  The monk spoke these words with such radiance upon his face as to rival the sun which framed him against the window.

  “I would learn this work,” the herbalist’s assistant said softly. “Yesterday Brother Alnett could not have seen there was a book upon the table; now he can read it, or near so. Will you teach me the procedure?”

  “There are others at the abbey who suffer from cataracts?” I asked.

  “Not presently. Brother Ailred was so afflicted, but he died last year. Had I your skill I might have lifted some part of the burden of old age from him. And if some brother suffers a cataract in the future I might ease his affliction.”

  I was of two minds concerning the request. An herbalist who could successfully couch a cataract would be a blessing to the town and abbey. But I knew so little of the business that I was just competent to perform the work. Could I teach another from my limited store of knowledge?

  Brother Alnett heard the request. “Master Hugh travels to Exeter,” he said. “When he completes his business there he has promised to again visit Glastonbury, when he will restore my other eye. You may observe and learn then.”

  A distant bell signaled the time for dinner. Brother Alnett led me to the guest hall, where Arthur and Uctred and nearly a hundred other guests joined me. Surely the abbey lands must be great to provide such hospitality. The hosteller left us with the promise that he would return after the meal. I had spoken of a wish to see the wonders of the abbey, and Brother Alnett was eager to display them.

  Monks ate their meal in the refectory, but when we three finished our dinner the hosteller awaited, ready to show us marvelous things. Brother Alnett led us first to the great church. We entered through the north porch. Where the choir meets the crossing he displayed the tomb of Arthur and his queen, Guinevere. From Arthur’s tomb the monk directed us to the south transept, where is found the great clock, pride of the abbey, if monks be proud, as they have sworn not to be. Next we saw the Glastonbury Thorn, said to have sprung from Joseph of Arimathea’s rod. ’Tis surely a miracle that a tree will flower at Christmastide as well as the spring, when other, more common blooms appear.

  “Our holiest place,” Brother Alnett advised, “is St Mary’s Chapel, for it is on this site that the old church, first in Glastonbury, was built.” He led us there and indeed it was not possible to stand in the place and escape
a sense of awe and the presence of God. Arthur and Uctred felt this also, and crossed themselves.

  “The view from the tor is wonderful,” Brother Alnett claimed. “I thought never to see the abbey from its heights again, but now I shall. I will take you there next.”

  The climb to the top of the tor is laborious, but worth the toil. The Church of St Michael at the top is nearly completed. What effort it took to haul the stones to the eminence! Arthur and Uctred had chattered as we began the climb, but were soon too winded to continue their prattle. At the top the magnificence of the view seemed to strike them dumb, and me as well. It was Brother Alnett who spoke: “The death you spoke of… is it a murderer you seek in Exeter?”

  “Aye. The man I seek was once in league with another to blackmail those who had confessed to him their sins, for he was a priest assigned to a small chapel near Bampton. His accomplice in the felony was found hanging from a tree near the town three weeks past.”

  “Did not the Church demand penance of the man for betraying the confessional?”

  “Aye. He was required to make a pilgrimage to Compostela, which he did, but has since returned. He is to serve as assistant to the almoner at St Nicholas’s Priory, in Exeter.”

  “You believe this priest murdered the fellow found hanged?”

  “Aye. The dead man’s brother was first entangled in the blackmail, and was found dead from an arrow in the back when I was near to discovering the felony. ’Tis my belief this priest slew him to avoid his sins being exposed.”

  “An evil man, this false priest,” the monk concluded.

  Arthur and Uctred had overheard this conversation while gazing out over the town and abbey below. Now Arthur spoke: “John Kellet was always a good man with a longbow. Master Hugh couldn’t prove ’e’d put the arrow in Henry atte Bridge’s back, but who else would do so?”

  “Kellet?” Brother Alnett turned to me with raised brows. “The priest was named Kellet?”

  “Aye. John Kellet.”

  “He stayed three days here… no, ’twas four. I would not have thought him strong enough to draw a bow. He was near to collapse from hunger when he came to us.”

  “How long past was this?” I asked.

  “Three weeks, thereabouts. Said he was bound for Exeter. Didn’t say why. I bade him stay ’til his strength was renewed for the journey. I could not see him plainly, of course, but brother infirmarer said he was gaunt and wore a hair shirt. A holy man, we took him for.”

  This report troubled me. Was John Kellet so able an actor that he could take a man’s life but appear pious to both Father Simon and the monks of Glastonbury Abbey?

  Early next morn Brother Alnett bid me farewell and required of me a promise that I would visit the abbey again upon my return from Exeter to treat his other eye. The sun that day was warm in our faces as we traveled southward. Robins and jackdaws flitted across our way, and high above carrion crows perched in the uppermost branches of trees. From such lofty roost they watched for songbirds, and when they saw a smaller bird seeking its home they flapped from their place to swoop down and plunder the nest. Must it always be thus, that the strong take what they will from the weak? It is my duty as bailiff to see it is not so, but many who hold such a post as mine in service to great lords are much like the crows. The carrion crows do but what is their nature. Is such conduct men’s nature also? It must be so, else why must the Lord Christ die for our sins? I must seek Master Wyclif and hear his opinion.

  Arthur, Uctred, and I sought lodging that night in Taunton, and departed next day with multiple companions, for the inn was verminous.

  Chapter 8

  We reached Exeter late in the second day after leaving Glastonbury, as the sacrist rang the church bell to call the monks to vespers. St Nicholas’s Priory is not so grand as Glastonbury Abbey. The latter soars over a majestic cloister, whereas at the priory a squat church presides over a mean, unadorned cloister. If the object of monastic life be to live in simplicity and humility before God, surely the brothers at St Nicholas’s have an advantage over those at Glastonbury.

  The hosteller at the priory is young to be a guest-master. He showed us to a chamber in the priory’s west range, sent for a lay brother to care for our beasts, and spoke never a word otherwise. So I was not required to announce the reason for our visit and decided to await the new day before I approached the prior to seek permission to examine John Kellet.

  Prior Jocelyn Ludlow was unavailable or unwilling to grant me audience next morn ’til after terce was sung. But the sun was warm against the stones of the guest hall, so sitting there upon a bench was a pleasant diversion. It was near time for dinner before a monk of the house announced that the prior would see me.

  Jocelyn Ludlow is a gaunt, narrow-faced man. But for a different name I might have assumed him kin to the abbot of Glastonbury Abbey. His thin, pointed skull rises hatchet-like from his tonsure. This is balanced by an equally sharp nose, about which I will say little, for it is remarkably like my own. His deep-set eyes scanned me from head to toe when I was shown to his chamber. I felt as if he discerned my mission before I announced it.

  I introduced myself and my task. When I was done silence followed, for the prior was speechless. I soon discovered the reason.

  “John Kellet’s past is known to me,” he finally said. “The bishop told me of his felonies many months past. I expected a reprobate, but when the man arrived a fortnight past I found an ascetic.”

  “Does his work please the almoner?”

  “Entirely. Too much so. Kellet is not willing to wait for the poor to appeal to the priory for aid. He goes into the town streets to seek them out, then returns with a multitude following. The infirmary is bursting with those he has found ill, and the infirmarer has near exhausted his supply of herbs and remedies. Brother almoner is at his wits’ end for fear funds will be depleted. How will the priory then aid the poor? But Kellet will not desist. I do not know,” the prior sighed, “what I am to do with the man. This is not a wealthy house. He seems bent on bankrupting the priory in the name of God’s work.”

  “Kellet was once a fleshy man,” I said. “I am told he is no longer.”

  Prior Ludlow’s eyes widened at this statement. “Nay,” he said. “He is all skin and bones and seems likely to blow away does a strong autumn wind come from the sea.”

  “He was once skilled with a longbow. I saw him place eleven of twelve arrows in a butt from a hundred paces.”

  “Don’t know if the man could lift a longbow now, much less draw and loose an arrow.”

  “You think my mission foolish, then?”

  The prior pursed his lips and thought for a moment before he replied. “I am not competent in the ways of murderers, as a bailiff might be, but John Kellet seems not capable of what even the bishop told me of his crimes.”

  The prior told me where I might find the almoner and I set off for the chamber. This was not difficult to discover, for St Nicholas’s Priory is not large. I hoped I might find Kellet in company with the almoner but was disappointed. A pale, round-faced monk peered up from examining a book as I entered his chamber. He was alone. As I approached the fellow I saw that he was inspecting an account book. He did not seem pleased.

  “You are Brother William, the almoner?”

  “Aye.” The monk stood and examined me for sign that I required alms from the priory. He seemed perplexed that an apparently prosperous visitor sought him. I relieved his confusion.

  “I wish to speak to you of your new assistant.”

  “John Kellet? He is not within.”

  I could see that. “I will speak to him later. I would have some conversation with you now. I am Hugh de Singleton.”

  “Very well,” the monk shrugged, and waved his hand to a bench. When I sat upon it the almoner resumed his place at his table. “Kellet has served here little more than a fortnight. I do not know him well. What is it you would know?”

  “Do you know why he is here?”

  “Aye. Brot
her Prior told me of his misdeeds. Is it of this you would know?”

  “I know of his offenses. I am bailiff to Lord Gilbert Talbot on his Bampton Manor. I discovered Kellet’s felonies.”

  “Then you are the reason he was sent to Compostela on pilgrimage.”

  “Nay. Kellet’s own deeds are the reason his pilgrimage was required. I was but discoverer of his misconduct. No doubt he harbors resentment of me for finding out his sins.”

  Brother William’s brow furrowed. “Not so,” he replied. “Kellet told me all, and said ’twas well his crimes were found out, else he would likely have continued in his sins and mayhap died with them unshriven.”

  “Has he served you well since his arrival?”

  “Hah! Too well.”

  “Brother Prior told me he scours the town seeking the poor and ill.”

  “He does, then brings them to the priory to be fed and treated. We shall be bankrupt by St Nicholas’s Day if he continues.”

  “I am told he wears a hair shirt.”

  “Aye, but never speaks of it, as do some who seek a name for holy living. He lodges here,” Brother William added, and nodded toward a dark corner of the chamber. There on the stone flags I saw a thin straw pallet.

  “Kellet will soon return, for ’tis near time for dinner. You may see and speak to the fellow then. He will return with the halt and the lame in his train, and a few drunken fellows too, no doubt, to be fed with leavings from refectory and guest hall.”

  And so it was. I left the almoner when a bell signaled dinner, and had taken a place with Arthur and Uctred at table in the guest hall when a stream of dirty, tattered folk entered the chamber. At their head walked a boney figure, wearing a threadbare black robe. This garment was near worn through at elbows and knees. Why at the knees? Did the wearer spend much time at prayer? This, I was sure, was John Kellet, but had I not expected his appearance I would surely not have known him. A year past he was a fat, slovenly priest. Now he appeared a gaunt mendicant.