Devil's Acre

by Stephen Wheeler

  DEVIL’S ACRE

  by Stephen Wheeler

  DEVIL’S ACRE

  Text © Stephen Wheeler

  Illustrations © Stephen Wheeler

  Cover photograph © Philip Moore

  By the same author

  Brother Walter Mysteries

  BLOOD MOON

  UNHOLY INNOCENCE

  THE SILENT AND THE DEAD

  Prologue

  Part One

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Part Two

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Part Three

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Epilogue

  HISTORICAL NOTE

  UNHOLY INNOCENCE

  BLOOD MOON

  Prologue

  ‘Is he dead yet?’

  ‘Not quite. But it can’t be long now. His breathing is laboured. And he hasn’t opened his eyes for two days.’

  ‘Can he hear what we’re saying? Does he know I’m here?’

  ‘I don’t think so my lord. But he could be faking - he’s very good at that.’

  ‘He mustn’t be allowed to speak to anyone. One wrong word from him could ruin everything.’

  ‘What about his notes? They may contain clues.’

  ‘Burn them. Burn everything. Leave no trace. Scrub the ink from his fingers if need be. No-one must know he ever wrote anything.’

  ‘If you really think it necessary, my lord.’

  ‘You don’t understand. This man knows things, things he doesn’t know he knows. Nothing must get out. The risk is too great.’

  ‘We could speed matters along.’

  ‘No. Let him die in peace. I’ve waited this long. A few more hours won’t make any difference. But as soon as he’s gone come and fetch me.’

  ‘In order to reassure yourself, my lord?’

  ‘In order to pay my respects. I owe him that much.’

  ‘As your lordship commands.’

  Part One

  The Journey Out

  Chapter 1

  THE SUMMONS

  ‘Ah, there you are Walter. Thank you for answering my call so promptly. I have to go on a journey and I want you to come with me. So drop whatever you are doing and be ready to leave at first light tomorrow morning. That is all.’

  With those words Abbot Samson began what was to be the strangest of all the adventures that I, Walter de Ixworth, undertook during my time as physician to the monks and people of Edmund’s town.

  I say “strangest adventure” because even now four decades on I am still not sure I understand all that was being asked of me then. This has long troubled me and is the reason I begin this account now while I still have the health and wits to do it, because only by writing it down can I hope to see that which has so far eluded me - the answer to an enigma. I may not be successful in my quest but if I am not then I will at least have left a record for others to ponder and hopefully succeed where I have failed.

  To this end I will record as faithfully as I can all that occurred during those fateful few days in January forty years ago. But memory plays tricks and I apologize in advance for my mistakes of which I am sure there will be many. Alas, so few who were alive then are still around to correct my errors. Indeed, I have stood at the gravesides of most of them as one by one their mortal remains have been interred within the good honest soil of England. Nor at the extreme age of seventy-eight do I expect to remain here myself for very much longer and for that I am not sorry. Half blind, practically deaf and increasing arthriticky, I long to dispense with the need for this irksome body of mine and to join my friends and family in that celestial place where I hope at last to see the face of God.

  But not before I have solved this one last riddle.

  *

  My initial reaction to Samson’s summons was one of irritation. January is never a good month for me to be away from the abbey. People fall ill more readily in winter and I need to be on hand to alleviate suffering and comfort the dying. Nor is winter an ideal season to be embarking upon any kind of expedition. Roads can be treacherous at this time of year - one minute an unyielding rock of ice and the next a quagmire of freezing mud in which to slip and break an arm or for a horse to go lame.

  And then there are my regular patients to consider. The money I earn from these unfortunates goes to support the many good works of the abbey - well most of it at any rate. I therefore had to spend the rest of that day frantically rushing around preparing potions and medicaments for my assistant, Gilbert, to dispense in my absence and to beg help from other physicians in the town to take over my patients until my return. When I finally made it to my cot that night I was exhausted and the last thing I wanted was to embark next day upon a long and arduous trip how far and for how long I did not know.

  However, as a confessing member of the Order of Saint Benedict of Nursia I had little choice. The first duty of every monk is to obey the directives of his abbot with humility and without question - however inconvenient, inconsiderate and down-right bloody annoying they happen to be.

  Where we were going Samson didn’t say but I had my suspicions. My fellow obedientiaries and I knew that a few days earlier he had received a letter which was rumoured to have come from the king requiring his immediate attendance at court. Such summonses were not unusual. As Baron of the Liberty of Edmundsbury Samson was a senior member of the king’s council advising him on all matters temporal as well as spiritual. He could thus be called at any time to attend the king wherever he happened to be and in January of 1202 John was in Normandy fortifying his castles against an anticipated attack from the armies of the King of France - one of King Philip’s endless attempts to dispossess our monarch of his rightful continental possessions. So if it was John we were to see then it was to Normandy we would have to go.

  However that didn’t explain why I had to come along. I wasn’t a member of the king’s council and John had physicians aplenty of his own without the need for my poor services. And I would be a pitiful choice of companion for Samson. It was well-known that he and I rarely agreed on anything. We would likely spend the entire trip arguing over some knotty question of theology or philosophy and make each other’s lives a misery in the process. I could think of a dozen of my brother monks who would have been more amenable company than I. But he was adamant it should be me and as a fully confessed monk of the abbey I had no option but to obey.

  There was one other curiosity regarding this trip that worried me. When he announced his intention in chapter Samson revealed at the same time that he had settled his servants and made his Will which of course is something a man normally does only when he is about to die. Now, I knew Samson had been unwell recently - I was his physician as well as everyone else’s in the abbey. His heart had been palpitating faster than it should and there was his old problem of anal protuberances which I knew troubled him from time to time - another reason, surely, to avoid any lengthy periods in the saddle. But none of this justified such a thorough settling of his affairs for a journey he had undertaken many times before - unless of course he believed he would not be coming back.

  ‘Are you ill again father?’

/>   ‘No indeed. Why do you ask?’

  ‘In that case why do you need me with you on this journey?’

  He tutted impatiently. ‘Is it such an imposition to ask you to spend a little time with your spiritual father who cares for you as well as any natural father?’

  I bowed. ‘As you wish, father. But why me? Why not Robert? Or Hubert? Or Jocelin even?’

  He flapped a dismissive hand. ‘Jocelin’s too much of an old maid, forever fussing about my comfort. We’d never make any progress. As for the others - you are the most senior. And,’ he added reluctantly, ‘the best educated.’

  ‘So it’s for my wit and erudition that I am coming along?’

  Samson shifted uncomfortably on his cushion as though his haemorrhoids were hurting again. ‘I crave intellectual disputation. On a long journey it helps to pass the time.’

  ‘I see. May I then ask where we are going?’

  ‘You’ll know when we get there.’

  ‘I take it that we are not touring the abbey’s provinces?’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘But you can’t say exactly where.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well then can you at least tell me how long are we likely to be away? I have my patients to consider.’

  ‘It shouldn’t take more than two days.’

  ‘Two days? I thought you said it was a long journey. Two days isn’t very long.’

  ‘Two days to get there. How long we are likely to be away depends on a great many unknown factors.’

  ‘Such as what?’

  ‘If I knew that they wouldn’t be unknown would they?’ He frowned impatiently. ‘All these infernal questions - look, just for once do as I ask without argument will you, Walter?’

  ‘I thought argument was what you craved father.’

  His eyes narrowed dangerously. ‘All your questions will be answered in the fullness of time I promise you. For now you will have to be patient.’

  But promises are more easily made than kept.

  Chapter 2

  THE JOURNEY BEGINS

  Two days. Well, that ruled out Normandy. On the nags we had in the abbey stables in those days we’d have been lucky to get as far as Colchester in two days never mind France. So somewhere closer then, somewhere in England - but where? I asked around among my brother monks, the ones most likely to have been taken into Samson’s confidence. But none of them seemed to know, not even Jocelin who followed Samson’s comings and goings like a hawk. If he didn’t know Samson’s plans then no-one did. I supposed I would just have to do as he said and wait to find out.

  It was a cold and bright the morning we set off. The sky was clear and the sun was just beginning to peak over the top of the abbey walls. There had been a fall of snow the night before which had left a white blanket covering the ground to the depth of half a handbreadth. A group of half a dozen monks came to see us off. They asked for Samson’s blessing and sang the Te Deum as we rode out through the Sudbury gate. This is the gate that leads to the south, so if Normandy truly was our destination it would make sense for us to leave this way. But I wasn’t convinced and sure enough a mile out of town Samson turned his mule’s head to the west and soon we were heading away from the Channel ports.

  ‘I take it we are not going to see the king after all, father?’

  ‘Did I say we were?’

  ‘No, but the letter that arrived for you on Saint Agnes’ Day last - was that not from the king? It certainly held the king’s seal. It’s what everyone is thinking.’

  ‘That’s what comes of gossiping in dark corners. No Walter, I’m afraid this time your brother monks have miscalculated. I certainly didn’t say we were going to see the king.’

  ‘But neither did you deny it. Indeed, everything you have done recently pointed to it. That letter. The signing of your Will. And this morning leaving through the Sudbury gate. Why would you do that unless you wanted to give the impression of a journey south? And yet here we are heading north. If one were suspicious one might suspect it was a deliberate ploy to mislead.’

  ‘We left through the south gate because the north gate is impassable at this time of year - everyone knows that. I settled my affairs because it was the sensible thing to do on any long journey. I am not a young man. I could be called by the Almighty at any time. It is best to be prepared.’

  ‘Father, for someone approaching his eighth decade of life your health is remarkable. I as your doctor know this. You could live for another quarter century.’

  ‘And as for that letter,’ he continued undeterred, ‘it was indeed from the king. But its contents are no-one’s business except the king’s and his ministers.’ He gave me a sidelong glance. ‘As a matter of fact the letter was a summons from King John but it was not urgent. There, does that satisfy you?’

  Not quite. I now knew where we were not going but I still did not know where we were going.

  ‘If it was my intention to deceive I obviously failed for you were not deceived. How was that?’

  I shrugged. ‘Simple observation. We have no bodyguard. No member of the king’s council would be so foolish as to cross the Channel without one, not in these dangerous times.’

  He harrumphed. ‘Did anyone else arrive at this conclusion?’

  ‘I doubt it. Few of my brother monks have my taste for intrigue. They think we are on our way to Normandy.’

  ‘Good. That’s precisely what I want them to think.’

  For the next hour we rode in silence each lost in his own thoughts. When Samson did speak again his mood had lightened:

  ‘Did I ever tell you about my very first trip abroad Walter? It was many years ago now when I was still a young novice - much younger than you are now. Abbot Hugh sent me to Rome to petition the pope - some dispute over the ownership of the church at Woolpit, I forget the details now. My mission was to obtain a letter from the Holy Father in support of the abbey’s claim. There were two popes in Rome then: Pope Alexander and the emperor’s man, Octavian. Rome and the Empire were virtually at war over the matter. You speak of dangerous times now Walter. Then it was dangerous to travel especially for a clergyman especially in Italy. Imperial troops were everywhere. Anyone caught carrying letters to or from Pope Alexander was liable to imprisonment or worse. And, incidentally, I didn’t have a bodyguard that time either.’

  ‘Were you successful in your mission?’

  ‘Oh I managed to get my letter all right. But on the way back I was ambushed by some very rough fellows in the emperor’s pay. They searched my baggage but with the help of God and Saint Edmund I managed to conceal my letter and they did not find it. However, they did steal all my money and I had to beg my way back to England. It took me months. I wasn’t even sure I would make it.’

  ‘Clearly you did or you would not be here to tell the tale.’

  ‘Thanks be to God I did - but not in time to save Woolpit church. As a consequence Abbot Hugh exiled me to the priory of Saints Mary, Peter and Paul at Castle Acre in Norfolk.’

  I looked at him in astonishment. ‘You were punished for being the victim of footpads? That seems a little perverse.’

  ‘It depends on your point of view. As far as Abbot Hugh was concerned I had been given a task to do and I had failed. As for being exiled to Acre - except that it kept me from my beloved Saint Edmund it was not so bad. There are worse places to be than Castle Acre.’

  A thought suddenly came to me. ‘How long were you there?’

  ‘About eighteen months.’

  ‘Am I right in thinking Castle Acre is to the north of Bury?’

  ‘You are.’

  ‘And am I also right that it might be about a two-day ride from Bury at our current pace?’

  He chuckled like a little child. ‘Well done Walter. I knew you’d get there in the end. That is indeed where we’re going - Castle Acre.’

  I should have insisted then and there that we turn around and return to Bury immediately. After all, no-one knew where we were or how to get hold of
us - Samson had made sure of that. If we got into trouble we would be entirely alone. It was highly irresponsible to risk the person of the abbot of Bury - not to mention also his physician - in this way. By the Rule of Saint Benedict I had good grounds to declare him reckless and thus overrule him despite my oath of unquestioning obedience. But Samson had judged me well. My natural curiosity was aroused as no doubt he had calculated. If we turned back now I would never know the answer. So I pulled my hood up around my ears and spurred my mule after him. I was still shivering but no longer sure if it was from the cold or from anticipation of what was to come.

  Chapter 3

  SAMSON OF TOTTINGTON

  ‘Goodness me, master, what’s all this?’

  ‘What does it look like, Gilbert?’

  ‘It looks like you’ve stolen an entire month’s supply of the abbey’s parchment. I’ll be getting complaints from the scriptorium that they have nothing to write on. What are you doing with it all?’

  ‘If you must know, I’m writing a biography.’

  ‘Of whom?’

  ‘Samson of Tottington. You’ve heard of him of course.’

  ‘The name rings a bell. Wasn’t he a monk here at one time?’

  ‘Ignorant child! Abbot Samson was abbot here forty years ago. How can you not have heard of him? His legacy is all around you. He was responsible for much of the abbey as you see it today.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘The choir in the abbey church for a start. He rebuilt that. He also gave us the two octagonal towers at the west end of the abbey church as well as the bell tower. In the town he built schools, hospitals, even an aqueduct. His capacity for building was legendary. I can’t believe you’ve never heard his name. His bones lie beneath the floor of the chapterhouse. You walk over him every day of your life, for heaven’s sake.’