Abbot's Passion Page 10

  Part Two

  THE BATTLE

  Chapter Ten

  PREPARATIONS BEGIN

  The essence of a monk’s life, as I have said often enough before, is stability and routine. One such routine is that each morning we gather in the chapterhouse to receive our instructions for the day and to discuss any matters which concern the abbey as a whole. Normally these meetings are presided over by the abbot but when he is away the prior takes his place. Unfortunately with Prior Robert being so ill other senior officers have had to deputize. So it was some surprise two days following Samson’s departure to see seated in the abbot’s chair not the sacristan or the cellarer nor even, God help me, the abbey physician, but Abbot Eustache.

  We monks take these daily meetings very seriously. It is the one occasion of the day other than at mealtimes when all eighty professing monks meet together in one place. Chapter is where we can air our views and discuss matters of concern to us all. Our deliberations are private and for the community alone. Guests are occasionally allowed to participate when they have knowledge on a particular subject to impart, but generally speaking we do not take kindly to interference from outsiders be they archbishops, kings or even papal legates - especially uninvited ones.

  Eustache evidently had anticipated some antipathy to his presence and had come dressed in his own rather imposing regalia as a Cistercian abbot which was clearly meant to impress. Barely had we taken our seats on the stone benches that run around the walls of the chamber than he was on his feet and began to address us:

  ‘Chers frères. You may be wondering why I am here today in Abbot Samson’s place. You must forgive me. Normally I would not presume such a position but I have information that is of vital importance to the future of the abbey, the town - indeed to the future of all mankind.’

  This caused a good deal of disquiet among the brothers. What was the abbot-legate talking about? Were we at war? Was the Apocalypse at hand? Brother Jeremiah, one of the more senior and respected brothers among us, voiced the question that many were thinking:

  ‘Where is Robert?’

  Eustache gave him an indulgent smile. ‘As I’m sure you are aware, brother, Prior Robert is indisposed. Unfortunately he cannot be with us today.’

  ‘Then surely Brother Lionel or Brother Jocellus?’

  ‘The brothers sacrist and cellarer have deferred to me as the most senior cleric present,’ replied Eustache.

  ‘I don’t remember deferring to anybody,’ said Jocellus next to me.

  ‘And I was not consulted,’ objected Lionel from the other side of the chamber.

  This prompted more murmurings. Eustache put up a conciliatory hand:

  ‘Brothers, if you will permit me. Someone has to take the lead in such situations. Since Prior Robert cannot be here -’

  ‘But I am here.’

  We all turned with surprise to see leaning on the arm of one of the younger monks none other than the prior himself. No-one had seen him for a while and, truth to tell, we didn’t expect to see him again in public. He looked dreadful. An audible gasp of concern went up and one or two of the brothers rushed to lend a hand to the aging cleric.

  You have to understand that Prior Robert by this stage was a very old man indeed, in his eighth decade of life. He had been our prior ever since I joined the abbey fourteen years earlier and for many years before that. Like many of the other brothers I regarded him as a sort of father-figure, always ready with a wise and caring word, always willing to listen. Sadly all that was over now as he was at the end of his life and not expected to live much longer. His attendance today, therefore, was the clearest indication that he was still determined to retain his authority and had no intention of allowing it to be usurped even by so eminent a personage as the papal legate. Seeing him here looking so frail and gaunt I don’t know which I felt more strongly: anger that he should have been forced to drag himself from his sickbed or admiration that he should wish to do so. Mine weren’t the only eyes to fill with tears at the sight of him as he was guided gently to the abbot’s chair. When he got there he paused in front of Eustache who reluctantly stepped aside. Only when Robert was seated did the rest of us resume our places again.

  Once settled on Samson’s chair, Robert turned to Eustache with a benevolent smile. ‘Please proceed father abbot.’

  Eustache rose to his feet for a second time by now looking a little overdressed and, I’m pleased to say, rather ridiculously so.

  ‘Chers frères, -’

  ‘Erm, just before you begin,’ Robert interrupted again. ‘May I say how sad I was to hear of the death of our dear brother, Brother Fidele. I never met him but I have heard reports of his work and pray that he is now in the arms of one whom he sought to serve so competently.’

  Competently. That was damning with faint praise if ever I heard it. Robert may have been confined the infirmary but he knew what was going on in the abbey and intended everyone to know it, especially Abbot Eustache. I couldn’t help a wry smile. Even with English as his second language - or was it his third? - Eustache could surely not have missed the irony in the prior’s voice. His face certainly registered something other than gratitude.

  ‘Thank you brother prior. Mes frères,’ he began for a third time and looked to see if the prior would interrupt again. When he didn’t, Eustache continued: ‘I am sure you are all aware of what has been transpiring between the abbey and our brothers at the cathedral convent of Saint Etheldreda in Ely regarding the new market in Lakenheath village. Unfortunately it is my sad duty to report that we have not been able to resolve our differences.’

  Good lord! Was this the Apocalypse he was talking about? The matter that was going to change the world? Lakenheath market?

  ‘It is clearly illegal,’ Eustache went on. ‘Your charters show that no market can be tolerated within a day’s march of Bury. The abbé has given the monks of Ely ample time to reflect upon the gravity of what they are doing but they persist. Father Samson and I have taken wise council and we have prayed together, but it comes down to this: your beloved Saint Edmund is being cruelly violated and his rights trampled upon. As the martyr’s loyal men, therefore, it is your duty to defend his honour!’

  This caused much consternation among the brothers who despite Eustache’s assertion quite evidently had not heard about the matter. Prior Robert interrupted:

  ‘Surely, father abbot, this is a local matter and not one for the papal see.’

  Eustache gave him an indulgent smile. ‘All matters are of concern to His Holiness where the moral welfare of his flock is concerned, brother prior.’

  What was this bilge? Moral welfare? This was nothing more than another attempt by Eustache to impose his own views on the rest of us during Samson’s absence. I felt compelled to get to my feet.

  ‘Father, could I make an observation?’

  Eustache tried to ignore me but Robert placed a shaky hand on his arm. Eustache reluctantly gave way.

  ‘Thank you brother prior. There is indeed a problem with our brother monks of Ely as Father Eustache has said. But he overstates the case. Lakenheath is a village. They cannot compete with Bury which is the by far the greatest market in Suffolk. Left alone Lakenheath would fold of its own accord without our having to do anything. The reason Samson chose not to mention it before in chapter is because he thought it too trivial a matter to bother the brothers.’

  But Eustache wasn’t to be thwarted so easily:

  ‘You are forgetting, Brother Walter, that Bury market is closed at the moment. There is nothing to compete with Lakenheath.’

  I shrugged. ‘Then open it again. It is the surest way to achieve our objective.’

  ‘Hear hear!’ said Jocellus next to me.

  ‘Forgive me maître,’ said Eustache in his syrupy tone, ‘but as I understand it, it was your failure to secure an agreement from Bishop Eustace of Ely that has led us to this situation, by losing the money that would have rescinded the Lakenheath charter. If it had not been for you ther
e would be no market at all at Lakenheath.’

  Some murmurings of discontent at this.

  ‘Explain!’ someone shouted.

  Eustache was happy to: ‘It is really quite simple. Brother Walter was entrusted with the mission to negotiate an end to the Lakenheath market and to buy back the charter that granted it. But not only did he fail in that quest but he lost all the money sent to secure it. Trivial, he calls it. I do not call the sum of fifteen marks trivial.’

  More murmurings at this.

  ‘I didn’t lose all the money,’ I protested. ‘Only half.’

  I’m not sure that admission helped my case very much, the murmurings just got louder. I should have kept quiet. When trying to get out of a hole the first thing to do is to stop digging.

  ‘And furthermore,’ Eustace continued in more confident tones now, ‘he allowed the thief to escape. The same thief incidentally who murdered Brother Fidele. Brother Walter had him in his grasp and he let him go.’

  Gasps of astonishment at this. Jeremiah leaned towards me:

  ‘Is this true, brother?’

  ‘Almost,’ I grimaced. I saw no point in trying to explain the circumstances in this increasingly hostile atmosphere. What I wanted to know was how Eustache knew so much about the trip and in such detail. After all, his chief spymaster - Fidele - was dead. A glance at Gilbert’s blushing face gave me the answer to that one. Eustache pressed home his advantage:

  ‘If you allow this market, mes frères, before long there will be one in every village in the county. And then you will see Bury sink beneath the abyss for ever.’

  Even Prior Robert seemed to agree with that:

  ‘The legate does have a point, Walter. Even one extra market would be too many.’

  More nodding of heads. I could feel the ground slipping further beneath me. Eustache then delivered his coup de théâtre:

  ‘Before the abbé left he summoned the bailiffs and ordered a general mobilization of all able-bodied men in the town - and that includes ourselves - to assemble at the Abbey Gate tomorrow morning immediately after lauds.’

  This was news to me. I looked at Jocelin and Jocellus both of whom shrugged ignorance.

  ‘To what purpose?’ I asked.

  ‘To march on Lakenheath, of course,’ said Eustache. ‘And to remove by force that which you, mon frère, were unable to negotiate away by peaceful means.’

  Many more heads were nodding now.

  ‘Is that then our only recourse?’ I said. ‘Violence?’

  Prior Robert again put his hand on the abbot-legate’s arm, but this time Eustache ignored him:

  ‘If all goes to plan there should be no violence. The abbé has taken the precaution to send word of our coming. Anyone in the marketplace will have time to leave before we get there. All that will happen is that we will remove any structures pertaining to a market and return with it to Bury. It will be entirely peaceful.’

  ‘What if you’re wrong?’ I said. ‘What if we do meet with resistance?’

  He shrugged. ‘We must be able to defend ourselves.’

  ‘You want us to go armed? Monks? Armed?’

  But my words were lost in the melee. Suddenly everyone was talking at once. Samson would have stamped on such ill-discipline but he was not here and Prior Robert, though he put up a brave attempt, was not strong enough to do so. The meeting broke up in disarray without the usual verba mea. Jocellus and Jocelin both followed me out.

  ‘Walter, we c-cannot allow this to happen.’

  ‘I don’t see how we can stop it.’

  ‘Well I’m not going,’ said Jocellus resolutely crossing his arms.

  ‘M-me neither,’ agreed Jocelin.

  ‘I doubt if it’ll make any difference what we do,’ I said. ‘Abbot Eustache has everyone fired up. It was cleverly engineered. If all goes to plan, were his words. This has all been carefully worked out beforehand.’

  ‘Is it true what he said?’ asked Jocellus. ‘About the money and Hamo?’

  I nodded. ‘In essence I’m afraid so.’

  They both stared at me. I inwardly groaned. They didn’t have to say it, I got the message. It was me got us into this mess so it was up to me to get us out.

  Eustache had already left the chapterhouse when I caught up with him.

  ‘Father abbot, are you serious about this?’

  He stopped and looked at me with a mixture of triumph and contempt. ‘You saw the mood of your brother monks, maître. The die is cast.’

  ‘But monks armed with weapons?’

  ‘You surely do not expect us to go to Lakenheath naked? If we are attacked we must be able to defend ourselves.’

  ‘But we are the aggressors.’

  ‘Au contraire. Saint Edmund is the one under attack from the forces of Evil. It is our duty to defend him and his interests.’

  ‘Are your sure you have Abbot Samson’s sanction for this?’

  He laughed. ‘My poor little man, I don’t need Abbot Samson’s sanction. I already have it from a much higher authority.’

  ‘You mean the pope?’

  ‘No my friend. I mean God.’

  Chapter Eleven

  THE BATTLE OF LAKENHEATH

  I didn’t want to go. Of course I didn’t want to go, but I’m a doctor and someone has to think about injuries despite Eustache’s insistence that there wouldn’t be any. I hesitated about taking young Gilbert along but I couldn’t do the job on my own, and if he was going to be a physician himself one day he would have to get used to the sight of blood and gore. I would just have to try my best to keep him away from any fighting - at least until the numbers of wounded started to mount up.

  I’ve seen battlefield injuries. At the tender age of just nine I accompanied my father when he was summoned to attend the wounded at Saint Genevieve’s Field just outside Bury in the aftermath of the Great Rebellion of 1173. It was said that ten thousand were slain or injured that day, most of them Flemish mercenaries in the pay of King Henry’s eldest son, the young Henry, against his father. The injuries had been horrific: severed limbs, faces sliced off, disembowelments. There was no time for my father to protect me from the sights or the screams of the dying, we just had to get on with it. Most we were unable to save, but I like to think we gave them some comfort in their final moments. Afterwards we weren’t allowed to bury the bodies but had to leave their bones exposed as a warning to others. It is said that farmers still collect hundreds of bones every year.

  Still, there is always prayer and pray I did in the dark hours before dawn that the matter might be resolved without us having to go. But already by the third hour we could hear the sounds of a horses baying, weapons clinking and men talking excitedly outside the great gate of the abbey. Whenever there is the prospect of a fight it seems that young men will flock to the banner. It is something that I could never comprehend. But I suppose when life has little else by way of excitement, a call to arms will stir young blood and get the stomach churning. All young men think themselves immortal, and most have never been to war so they don’t really know what it is.

  But there was no time to rail against it now, not that any would have listened if I had. The pipes were fluting, the drums were beating and the battle songs were being rehearsed. With the barest glimmer of daylight brightening the eastern horizon we set off out the north gate of the town for Lakenheath.

  Initially we were bunched together in a single group, but gradually as the morning wore on we began to spread out, those on horseback taking the lead and the rest straddled along the road for over a mile. Needless to say Eustache was in the vanguard - I could see his white robe reflecting the sunshine up ahead. Jocelin had changed his mind about going and decided to join us among the stragglers at the rear. True to his word Jocellus did not.

  The route took us through several villages - Fornham, Hengrave, Flempton, Lackford and finally Icklingham, the last before Lakenheath. What the locals who saw us pass made of it all I could only guess. But the excitement was infectious
. The prospect of a scrap with booty at the end of it was too much to resist. Some even stopped work in the fields and joined us armed only with their scythes and hoes, women and some children too. This is what it must have been like at Saint Genevieve’s Field I reflected gloomily as we passed it barely a quarter mile to our right.

  To my immense relief the market was deserted when we arrived, Eustache had been right about that at least. We were met at the entrance by Prior Richard of Ely who was there with his bailiffs having been forewarned of our coming. My heart sank when I saw him who I recognized as having been one of Bishop Eustace’s advisors at my abortive mission to the cathedral a week earlier. He tried to persuade us to return to Bury but to no avail. Our numbers were far superior to his and he quickly withdrew to his house. Our own bailiffs did try to persuade him one last time to dismantle the market and pledge not to re-erect it, but he refused. Not that it would have made much difference had he agreed. Three score of armed and fired-up young men having marched the sixteen miles from Bury were not about to simply turn around and march back again. The market traders might not be there but their equipment was still set up on a patch of triangular land cleared for the purpose just south of the church. It was, as I suspected, a mere shadow of our own market, two dozen stalls at the most, but to listen to Abbot Eustache as he harangued his ramshackle army from atop an open wagon you’d have thought it was the beating heart of Sodom and Gomorrah. They thought he was referring to the market at Lakenheath, but I knew that what Eustache really meant was all markets - Bury’s included.

  And so we set to work. Everything that was fixed was thrown down, much of it ending up in the village pond, while anything movable was carried off including a dozen head of cattle which were driven to Icklingham and locked in the village pound. And thank God the market was empty for who knows what worse acts of barbarism might have been perpetrated otherwise. Even so there were casualties although my skills were not needed to the extent that I had feared. Two young buffoons cracked their skulls falling off the back of a pig, while another ruffian, baring his arse for the world’s edification, had it singed by an old woman with a red-hot poker who ran out of a house and then ran back inside again having done the deed. She was cheered by onlookers while the ruffian’s burnt buttocks were scotched in the pond.