Devil's Acre Page 10

  ‘A powerful one, certainly. Hamelin is half-brother to the late King Harry and thus he is King John’s uncle.’

  ‘When you say “half brother” I take it you mean…?’

  ‘His bastard brother, yes,’ Samson nodded. ‘He normally resides here in the castle with his family - that is when he’s not at his castle of Conisbrough in Yorkshire.’

  ‘The earl is here in Acre now?’

  ‘He is but he is very ill. In fact he’s dying. The ravages of a life of duty serving his king and country have at last caught up with him and he wishes to make plain his intention after his death. For this he has chosen me as his confessor.’

  ‘And that is the purpose of our visit? To hear his confession?’

  ‘It is. You understand now the need for secrecy. The earl is a very important man, one of King John’s most trusted lieutenants. If news got out that he was dying it might give aid and comfort to our enemies.’

  ‘Yes, I see,’ I nodded. ‘Well, if there’s anything I can do to help…?’

  ‘That’s why you are here. But I heard this afternoon that the earl has taken a sudden turn for the worse. He may not last the week.’

  ‘I will do all I can, naturally.’

  ‘You may get your chance tomorrow when we go up to the castle. Initially we will meet his son, Lord William, who has taken over his father’s duties to a large extent - and no doubt William’s sisters, the ladies Maud, Isabel and Adela.’

  ‘Three sisters?’ I raised my eyebrows speculatively.

  He gave me an admonishing glance. ‘Don’t get excited. They are all dragons.’

  ‘And the earl’s wife? I presume he has one.’

  He shook his head. ‘I doubt if the countess will receive us. She is devoted to the care of the dying earl whom she insists on nursing herself. By the way,’ he wrinkled his nose. ‘I know I don’t have to remind you that we represent the honour of Saint Edmund.’

  ‘Father?’

  ‘You smell of dog vomit. Do you have a fresh robe?’

  ‘I didn’t bring one. I didn’t think I’d need it.’

  ‘Well have a word with Lambert, see if he can loan you a spare. And for heaven’s sake have a shave. You haven’t the wherewithal to grow a decent beard.’

  And thus did the Norfolk Trickster skilfully manoeuvre me into position for the next stage of his plan.

  Part Two

  The Devil’s Acre

  Chapter 13

  TO THE CASTLE

  ‘You’ve spelt Warenne wrong, master. It’s Varenne with a “V” not Warenne with a “W”. I know because my family comes from Upper Normandy. Varenne is the name of a river there - and a village nearby.’

  ‘Gilbert, why are you reading my notes? I don’t remember giving you my permission.’

  ‘It’s difficult not to read them, master. They’re everywhere - all over the bed, all over the floor. I suppose someone will have to clear them up later - me, probably.’

  ‘You don’t have to do anything, my young friend. In fact, I’d prefer it if you left them alone.’

  ‘Tut-tut, so many words. I can’t see what use they are. Nobody is going to read them after -’

  ‘You were about to say after I’m dead. Yes, you’re probably right. But that is not my purpose.’

  ‘What is the purpose, master?’

  ‘To organize, to collate, to analyse - not that it’s any of your concern. But since you are here, uninvited as ever, and since I’m not quite dead yet you may as well make yourself useful and pass me my pen-knife. My quill is blunt.’

  ‘You know you’re not allowed sharp implements, master.’

  ‘Don’t be tiresome, Gilbert.’

  ‘It’s Gerard. And I’m not at all sure about all this writing, master. Are you not in danger of wearing out your eyes?’

  ‘If I thought it was doing me harm I wouldn’t do it, would I? You forget, I am a doctor. Besides, I have my grossetestes to assist me.’

  ‘Your what? Oh, these you mean. I was wondering what they were. Aptly named for they are certainly grotesque.’

  ‘Not “grotesques” - grossetestes. Named after their inventor, Robert Grosseteste. You may know him better as His Grace the Bishop of Lincoln.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Ah indeed. A very great man is Robert Grosseteste. A Suffolk man, needless to say, born not twenty miles from here in the village of Stradbroke. He invented his grossetestes as a means of bringing sight to the blind.’

  ‘Surely that is profanity, master. Only Our Lord has ever been able to make the blind see.’

  ‘Tell that to the Arabs. They’ve have been doing it for years.’

  ‘Arabs again, master?’

  ‘Yes Gilbert, Arabs - the infidels, the unbelievers. They were studying optics when your forebears were still worshipping lumps of rock.’

  ‘My forebears never did any such thing. But if these…grossetestes…are an invention of heathens then surely they will be witchcraft.’

  ‘Foolish boy! When I say they bring sight to the blind I don’t mean they restore sight. What these wonderful lenses do is bring back into focus that which has become indecipherable through old age. Bishop Robert is no witch, although he is something of a wizard.’

  ‘Oh, you mean like a reading stone. My father had one of those. Not that he could read of course, but he liked to see the patterns the letters made on the page.’

  ‘No Gilbert, not like a reading stone. A reading stone is purely for reading - hence its name. If like me you wish to write as well as read then you need something less cumbersome. That’s what these are for.’

  ‘How do they work?’

  ‘Kneel down I will show you. First you put the cap on your head so, then you lower the lenses over your eyes, thus. Now do you see?’

  ‘Not a thing, master. What was clear before has now become blurred.’

  ‘That’s because your eyes are young and you don’t need them yet. But one day you will, take my word for it. And then you will be grateful I gave them to you.’

  ‘You are giving them to me, master?’

  ‘When I’m dead you may have them. But until then I still need them to finish my writing. So be a good fellow and fetch me that pen-knife.’

  What is my purpose indeed! My purpose is to try to make sense of man’s place in the world as he tries to find his way through the maize of God’s Grand Design. What other purpose to life is there? We were not put on this earth to pick petals from daisies. And what I discover in my quest I must get down in writing while I still have the wit to do it. In this I count myself fortunate for others without the benefit of my grossetestes have had to give up. My dear friend Jocelin of Brackland for one. The poor man’s greatest delight was to write, but with advancing old age and his eyesight failing he had to stop. With no-one willing to grant an amanuensis to transcribe for him, all those wonderful thoughts he had in his head died with him - a loss that I don’t intend to let happen to me.

  So, I suppose I’d better get on with it. Where was I? Ah yes: Castle Acre - or as some have dubbed it, Devil’s Acre. In this case “acre” means not a measure of land but “a place near the water”, the water in question being the River Nar. How it got its later more demonic soubriquet is anybody’s guess but I wonder now if Samson’s and my presence didn’t contribute to it in some measure.

  The town at this time was a lively and prosperous place, but that was not always the case. It was a settlement unnaturally forced upon the land by the will of one man, Guillaume de Varenne who had fought alongside the Conqueror at Hastings, and became its first earl. East Anglia at that time was still rebel country that had to be subdued and the new earl was just the man to do it. Having selected his command base he set about provisioning it. The castle needed craftsmen, merchants, labourers to keep it supplied and he persuaded them into his town by all means necessary be it bribery, threat or coercion. But Acre never achieved the commercial success that Bury had. It was the priory that secured its future - with the hel
p of Saint Philip’s forearm, of course, bringing in the pilgrim penny. And it was an uneasy presence. The lord up in his castle may be French but the townsfolk remained stubbornly English, sons and daughters as they were of the Wake. It was through the Saxon town that we had to pass that morning in order to get to its Norman castle.

  But before we did that I had one more job to do: Jane. I felt responsible for her. As a woman she was largely excluded from the male world of monks and was very much on her own here. And after my performance at the graveside the previous day no doubt I too had joined Samson among those she reviled. But now that I knew the true nature of Ralf’s illness there was an urgent need to check on her condition. Having lived so closely with the priest for so many years there was a strong possibility that she was suffering from the same affliction. My problem was how to broach the subject without alarming her. If she truly was ill then it was my duty to try to help her. If not, then I risked offending her by asking. It was a dilemma that preoccupied me during most of that morning’s prime. In the end I could see no way round it but to confront her directly.

  Once the service was over, therefore, I returned to the cemetery where I was informed Jane had taken up residence. I found her sitting cross-legged at the head of Ralf’s grave looking as though she had been there all night. Eyes closed, back straight and hands on knees, she looked as though she were in a trance. I found a log, thrust it heavily onto the ground to announce my presence and sat down.

  ‘Jane it’s me, Brother Walter.’

  No response. Her eyes remained firmly shut.

  ‘Look, I can understand if you’re angry with me for my behaviour yesterday. Trying to dig the grave - it was a foolish thing to do.’

  Still no reply.

  ‘Lady, this is no good. Whatever else you may think of me, I am a doctor and I have a duty to look to your welfare. I have some questions I need to ask you. For instance, have you noticed any tingling lately in your hands or your feet?’

  I looked closely at her eyes. I was sure I saw the left one flutter slightly. Well, at least she was conscious which up till then I wasn’t entirely sure she was. I tried again:

  ‘How about numbness? Or shortness of breath? Any skin rashes?’

  ‘You’re as bad as him,’ she mumbled barely audibly.

  ‘If by “him” you mean the abbot, I agree. I never considered your feelings before I acted and that was wrong of me. Nevertheless, my intentions throughout have been good, you do believe that, don’t you?’

  ‘The road to hell is paved with good intentions,’ she murmured.

  ‘Yes, there is that I agree. The words of Bernard of Clairvaux - and he was right. But there are things that I must ask you. Will you answer me?’

  She sniffed, opened one eye. ‘Tingling you say?’

  ‘Or loss of sensation, anything of that nature. A little stiffness perhaps?’

  ‘Ralf used to get stiff sometimes.’

  I knew it! ‘And you?’ I said shuffling closer. ‘What about you?’

  ‘I do get a-tingling now and again.’

  ‘Where? In your feet? Your hands?’

  ‘All over.’

  ‘Aha, hm-hm, yes, I see. When does this occur? All the time or does it come and go?’

  ‘It comes on mostly when I think of my Ralfie.’

  I frowned. ‘When you think about him? I’m sorry, I don’t follow.’

  ‘I get a-tingling when I think of him - his arms about me, touching me, my body, my breasts, my thighs -’

  ‘Yes, well thank you for that,’ I said scrambling hastily to my feet. ‘I erm…yes…aha…good…’

  She looked up at me and gave a snort of contempt before closing her eyes again and resuming her former statuesque posture.

  I met up again with Samson and Maynus at the north gate of the town. Both men were dressed in their ceremonial vestments, Samson wearing his abbatial ring and sandals and carrying his crozier. He looked magnificent dressed entirely in white. Maynus too was impressively attired though less so.

  ‘Where have you been, Walter?’ tutted Samson impatiently. ‘We’ve been waiting. You are never where you’re supposed to be.’

  ‘I’m sorry father,’ I said still a little flushed from my encounter with Jane. ‘I had something I needed to do.’

  ‘Well, come along now. We mustn’t keep Lord William waiting. Here, put this on.’ He handed me an embroidered silk cotta. ‘At least try to look respectable.’

  We formed ourselves into something approaching a dignified procession with Samson and Maynus in front and me bringing up the rear, hands clasped together in an attitude of prayer, and into the town we went together. Half way down the hill we veered off left through the huddle of market stalls grouped beside yet another gatehouse that led into the castle grounds.

  Once inside the walls a virtual second town opened out before us, but instead of merchants and dwellings the bailey was filled with workshops of every description - stables, kilns, blacksmiths, carpenters, cart-wrights, fletchers, armourers - all busy, all emitting noise and smoke. In the middle of this martial activity this was a well-appointed hall of pleasing modern design which no doubt made a much more comfortable dwelling than the formidable stone keep further up the hill ensconced as it was within its moat and forbidding ramparts. We were greeted at the door of the hall not by an envoy of the earl’s household but by an ordinary member of the guard who from the look of horror on his face as we approached had no inkling of our arrival. He turned quickly from puce to green and back again when Samson announced who he was.

  ‘Wait here,’ ordered the man, adding, ‘if it please your grace,’ before disappearing inside the hall leaving us to shiver on the footpath outside.

  ‘This is new,’ said Samson studying the edifice with interest, the builder-abbot coming to the fore.

  ‘It has been many years since the castle defences were needed,’ replied Maynus. ‘These are the private apartments of the family now. No-one lives up in the keep anymore. Too draughty.’

  ‘I see it has a chimney,’ said the abbot. ‘Impressive.’

  ‘Oui, the earl has always been keen to keep abreast of modern design. You will be much pleased.’

  ‘I’m sure I will - if we ever manage to get inside.’ He glanced at the door but there was no sign of the guard.

  And so we waited. And we waited. But the door to the hall remained closed. Nobody seemed in any great hurry to come out to greet us. We must have looked a curious sight, two elderly clerics got up in their finest regalia standing before a closed door with one monk shivering behind. The longer we waited the more ridiculous I felt. We were also starting to draw attention from nearby workmen.

  ‘What’s the matter, won’t they let you in?’ said one of the blacksmiths stopping to mop his brow.

  We ignored him.

  ‘Maybe they’re out,’ said his mate with a chuckle.

  We continued to concentrate on the door.

  ‘Egyptians, I expect. Maybe they just don’t want any lavender today.’

  ‘He do look pretty, though,’ said the first man and did a little dance with his hand on his hip.

  At this Samson thrust his crozier at the men. ‘You mind your manners or it’ll be the worse for you.’

  ‘Ooh, get her!’

  ‘You should take care, my friend,’ I said to the man. ‘This is the Abbot of Edmundsbury.’

  ‘Yeah? And I’m the pope’s grandmother.’

  I looked anxiously at the still-closed door. ‘Are you sure they’re expecting us, father?’

  ‘Yes of course they are,’ Samson snapped back. ‘Do you think I’d have come all this way uninvited?’

  Wealthy peers of the realm the Warennes may be, but Samson de Tottington was still the Baron of the Liberty of Saint Edmund and he didn’t take kindly to being treated like an errand boy. I could see from the increasingly sour look on his face that his patience was wearing thin.

  ‘D’ye think they’ll still be here for Easter?’ said the first
workman to his mate.

  ‘Na. The white one will have melted by then.’

  That was enough for Samson. Mustering what little dignity he had left, he spun on his gold-slippered heel - a hazardous manoeuvre given his weight and the iciness of the path - and marched smartly back towards the gate to whoops of delight from the two workmen with Maynus and me scrambling to keep up.

  Chapter 14

  PARLOUR GAMES

  We heard the patter of running feet before we reached the gate, a light feminine step, and turned to see an elegantly-dressed young woman coming quickly down the path from the castle keep towards us. I must say it was a pleasant sight to see such a fine lady with her skirts pulled above her ankles and her face red from exertion. The two smithies were also impressed judging by the expressions on their gawping faces.

  ‘Who’s this now?’ I grinned. ‘Not the countess - too young.’

  ‘Don’t be impertinent!’ snapped Samson still smarting.

  ‘I know this lady,’ said Maynus. ‘She is Simone, matron of the countess’s chamber. A very important servant.’

  ‘Father Abbot!’ panted the lady fanning her fingers across her chest. ‘Forgive me, I am not used to running.’

  Samson frowned concern. ‘Madam, please don’t distress yourself.’

  The lady shook her head. ‘We saw you - from the castle window. I came across - oh dear - as quickly as I could.’ She took another deep breath. ‘I am instructed by the countess to escort you into the hall.’ She gestured towards the building we had just abandoned. ‘Please.’

  ‘We have already been to the door,’ grumbled Samson, ‘and found it shut against us.’

  Simone nodded. ‘I can only apologize. All is confusion at the moment. The ladies are at their prayers and Lord William has only just returned from urgent business abroad. I assure you no slight was intended.’

  ‘And the countess?’ said Samson.

  ‘Attending to her husband who as you know is indisposed. Please, won’t you come back? Please?’ She smiled so sweetly and gestured towards the hall again.

  I frowned at the abbot willing him to accept. How could any man with blood in his veins, be he churchman or lay, refuse such an endearing request from such an enchanting lady?