Abbot's Passion Page 13

  ‘I’m sure Sisters of Saint George are prepared for every emergency, brother. They’re a pretty resourceful lot.’

  ‘I hope you’re right.’

  ‘I shouldn’t worry too much about the market,’ I said still trying to comfort him. ‘I think we’ll find Samson is less accommodating of the whims of the abbot-legate from now on. However, I can’t see Eustache leaving in a hurry, not until we settle the matter over Fidele.’

  ‘What if we can’t settle it?’

  I pulled a face. ‘That doesn’t bear thinking about.’

  *

  There’s an ancient school of medicine that is practised, so I’m told, in the fabled land of Prester John east of Arabia. It seems that their physicians, or those who pass as such, claim to cure pain by sticking needles in various parts of the body. When I first heard this I took it to be a joke. Pain cured by the inflicting of more pain? Preposterous! And then I realised that what was actually going on was that the patients themselves were sticking needles into others and laughing so much at their distress that they forgot all about their own pain and so they were cured. At least, that’s my interpretation.

  Jokes at the expense of others can be a great source of entertainment, of course - except when it happens to you. On the Monday following Easter Sunday I was returning down Churchgate Street from a visit to a client with gout and trying to avoid the puddles when without warning my foot was pulled from under me and I was hoist eight feet into the air banging my head on the cobbles and sending my herb satchel flying into the road. The moment my feet left the ground I was surrounded by a dozen midgets whooping and cackling with laughter. With my robe now draped over my eyes I couldn’t see who my attackers were but among the many voices enjoying my distress was one I recognized:

  ‘See, my chicks, what creatures you may snag when you go fishing in the waters of Bury town. You don’t need a hook, just a loop of rope and a tree. And did you ever see such an ugly, hairy monster as this?’

  More giggles from the array of street urchins circling me. Passers-by also laughed at my predicament as they skirted around me, but not one of them offered to lend me a hand. From my inverted position the hem of a filthy skirt came into view.

  ‘Mother Han, what are you doing?’

  ‘Hah! The creature speaks! But what language is this? Not one I recognize. I fancy it’s the jabberings of the famous monk-fish of which we have far too many in this town.’

  More giggles from my tormentors.

  ‘Mother Han, I haven’t time for your games. Let me down please.’

  She cupped her ear. ‘What’s that the creature said? It sounds like words though none I’ve heard before. I fancy it might be Persian. Does anyone here speak Persian?’ She pointed to one wraith after another. ‘Do you? Do you?’

  The urchins all giggled gleefully and shook their heads in turn. One of them, I couldn’t help noticing, was the boy they called Onethumb, a mute who I’d come across two years earlier when I was investigating the murder of Matthew the fuller’s son. Even upside down he was unmissable. As well as being mute, Onethumb had only one complete hand the other being a stump with a few peas for fingers and a single prominent thumb, hence his name. It was a wonder he managed to survive living on the streets with his handicaps. But against the odds he was still alive, for which I was glad - though not so glad that I relished being dangled by my ankle.

  ‘Mother Han, this has gone on long enough. I’m getting a headache.’

  She shook her head in despair. ‘Nope. Not one word of sense does he speak. I think we’ll just have to leave him here and be on our way. Come my chicks, let us depart.’

  I sighed. ‘All right. What do you want?’

  ‘Ah, the creature begins to speak our language at last. It’s Binding Day, brother. Hoke Tuesday. You know what that means, don’t you?’

  Of course I knew what it meant. Hoke Tuesday - or Hocking Day - was the ancient festival after Easter commemorating the driving out of the heathen Danes from our realm. By tradition Binding Tuesday was when women bound up their menfolk with ropes only to be released in return for a payment of some kind.

  ‘First of all it isn’t Tuesday, it’s Monday. And Binding Day isn’t for another fortnight yet.’

  She grinned revealing her graveyard of yellowing stumps she called teeth which were even more revolting when viewed upside down.

  ‘What’s a week or two between friends? And friendship is what we’re about, brother. I’ll let you down willingly in return for a farthing and…’ she winked at the urchins ‘…a kiss.’ She puckered her hairy lips at me.

  ‘I’ll give you a penny not to,’ I said wrinkling my nose in disgust.

  ‘Done!’ She spat on a grimy paw and held it out to me.

  Sighing, I reached with difficulty inside my upturned belt pouch spilling most of the coins I had just been paid by my gouty patient. The hedgehogs fell on them like gulls upon a shambles. In a moment they were all gone, and then so too were the urchins themselves vanishing like mist into the surrounding streets and alleyways.

  ‘You could have simply asked for the money,’ I said when I was sitting upright again and untying the rope from my ankle.

  ‘Where’s the fun in that? These chicks get little enough pleasure. A glimpse of your knobbly knees will keep them amused for a month.’

  ‘But it won’t fill their bellies. They don’t need to resort to trickery. If they’re hungry they can go to the abbey almonry.’

  ‘Cold charity given with a moral squint.’ She shook her head. ‘They don’t need charity. Better they earn their crust themselves. Learn ’em to stand on their own feet.’

  ‘Earning is one thing. Thieving is quite another.’

  ‘Those that have can afford to give a little to those who have not,’ she sniffed. ‘Not that there’s much chance of either at the moment with the market shut. When’s it going to open again?’

  ‘Not till we solve the murder of the abbot-legate’s clerk,’ I said handing her back her rope.

  She tutted impatiently. ‘Haven’t you cracked that one yet? By Adam’s tits, I give you enough clues.’

  ‘If you mean that riddle you set me about rods and stalls, it told me nothing.’

  ‘It told you the glove-seller didn’t do it.’

  ‘But it didn’t tell me who did. If you know you should say. You’d be rid of the legate much quicker if you did.’

  She shook her head. ‘Can’t tell you what I don’t know. I only saw what you saw - only I saw and you didn’t.’

  ‘More riddles, Mother Han? My head’s spinning enough thanks to you.’ I looked round and lowered my voice. ‘How are our guests doing? You have them in your hovel?’

  ‘They’re doing - but it’ll take more than them few pennies in your purse. And don’t give me one of your snooty looks. I have neighbours and folk talk. A penny or two will blunt their tongues, but they won’t stay dull for ever. And that French monk’s got his spies out.’

  That I could quite believe.

  ‘Just knowing his family is safe should take some pressure off our friend. If Cathrin is right and he wants to come in then I want him to do so freely.’

  ‘You talking about the rape?’ She pouted. ‘Summit of nothing. I told her, she should do as I do and play hard to get.’

  I let that one go. ‘You do realise you could hang for what you’re doing?’

  ‘That’s why I does it,’ she grinned. ‘Nothing like cocking a snook at that snooty abbot and the la-di-da sheriff.’

  ‘All right. Let me know if there’s anything more I can do.’

  In the event she didn’t need to, for Hamo was about to take matters into his own hands and in a way that would make all our efforts to help him entirely redundant.

  Despite everything that goes on around us - war, famine, even the murder of a legate’s clerk - the work of the abbey carries on regardless. Even when the heathen Danes were ransacking the great monasteries of the north four centuries ago the daily round of serv
ices continued and the abbeys of Monkwearmouth and Jarrow were only finally abandoned when it became physically impossible to maintain them.

  As I mentioned earlier, the daily meeting in the chapterhouse is the one time of the day when all eighty monks meet up. Of course we do come together at other times - mealtimes for instance. But the times we meet most regularly are for the nine offices which are spread throughout the day and form the very framework of our lives as monks here at Bury just as they did of those two ancient houses of Northumbria. These services all take place in the quire of the great church and everyone is expected to attend, including Abbot Samson when he is not too busy with more earth-bound matters. At these times there is no discussion but nor is there silence as we sing the psalms in unison. We are together in purpose, as it were, but separated individually as we devote our private thoughts not to our fellow men but to the word of God.

  On this particular evening we filed into our places as usual for compline, the last office of the day, which we always sing at twilight just before retiring. Being March and therefore cold we also tend to keep our hoods up for this office. While no individual has a specific stall allocated to him we do tend to gravitate to the same positions each time thus keeping the shuffling around to a minimum. But on this occasion one of the rows of misericords seemed to be more cramped than usual. At first there was just some minor scuffling at the western end of the back row. But then scuffling turned to shoving and suddenly one of the monks was grabbed by the two on either side. A cry went up and the man at the centre of the disturbance was dragged ignominiously onto the floor of the quire.

  ‘What in the name -?’ Samson began but then stopped. The interloper’s hood was thrown back and by the light of a flickering candle his identity was revealed. But in a flash Hamo somehow managed to wriggle out of his robe and despite two dozen monks tripping over themselves to catch him he rushed headlong down the length of the quire as though the very hounds of Hades were after him, up through the chancel, mounted the altar steps and before anyone could stop him he had thrown himself bodily across Saint Edmund’s shrine.

  ‘Sanctuary!’ he yelled gripping the mouldings for all he was worth. ‘I claim sanctuary in the name of Jesus Christ!’

  And try as they might, none of his pursuers was able to prise his fingers off.

  Part Three

  THE PLAN

  Chapter Sixteen

  SANCTUARY

  The Lord High Sheriff of Norfolk and Suffolk is a very powerful man indeed. He is the most senior legal officer in both counties and answers to nobody except the king. That means he can do more or less what he wants, where he wants, when he wants. He can put you in chains, extort money from you, even murder you if he has a mind to and there is little anyone can do to stop him. Of course he is unlikely to do any of these things unless he is of a particularly cruel nature - or unless you have done something particularly to upset him. He was, after all, appointed by the king and as such he is bound to be a man of honour, decency and integrity - isn’t he?

  The present incumbent, Sir Peter de Mealton, was chosen for the honour at the beginning of the year. I say “chosen” but it’s no secret that a contribution to the Exchequer is taken as necessary proof of a candidate’s true commitment to the job and it is usually the man with the deepest pockets who ends up being successful. Not that I would suggest that is how Sir Peter acquired the post but he is clearly a man of considerable private means. With a penchant for fine clothes and outdoor pursuits, Sir Peter likes nothing better than to ride around the county on a magnificent steed with a hawk on his arm and a retinue of loyal retainers in tow.

  Having been sheriff for just three months Sir Peter was, however, keen to impress and therefore quick to answer the abbot’s summons when the identity of the interloper in the quire was discovered - it was, after all, his men who had been chasing Hamo around Suffolk and Essex for the past fortnight, so far with little success. Right hand on scabbard and silver spurs on boots, he looked every bit the king’s man as he strode purposefully back and forth in front of the great west door of the abbey church with Abbot Samson standing passively by.

  ‘He’s in there now d’ya say?’

  ‘It would seem so.’

  ‘Then we’ve got him!’ Sir Peter punched one gloved fist into the other.

  Samson grimaced. ‘It may not be that simple, my lord.’

  ‘What’s not simple? Man’s a murderer, isn’t he? He’s evaded capture, hasn’t he? He even stole from one of your clerks, so I believe.’

  ‘One of my monks, yes,’ said Samson carefully avoiding my eye.

  ‘Well then, he’s a thief as well as a murderer. With your permission, father abbot, I’ll send my men in and flush the knave out.’

  The sheriff flicked two beringed fingers and four soldiers with halberds stepped smartly forward.

  ‘Er, Sir Peter, if I may,’ said Samson resting one finger delicately on the sheriff’s velvet-clad forearm. ‘This is a church.’

  ‘No need to tell me, father. Can see that for m’self.’

  ‘Yes, but he’s claiming sanctuary.’

  Sir Peter pouted. ‘No problem. Can’t hang him anyway till the coroner gets here. I’ll just lock him up pro tem.’

  Samson sighed heavily. ‘I’m afraid that’s not going to be possible. Not unless he comes out of the church of his own volition.’

  Sir Peter stopped his pacing and stared at Samson. ‘What are y’saying, that I can’t go in and get ’im?’

  ‘As I say, he is claiming sanctuary.’ Samson tried to explain as gently as he could: ‘You have to understand, my lord, what sanctuary means. In the eyes of the church he has made himself sacred - holy. It would be a violation for you - or anybody else - to “go in and get him”, least of all soldiers with weapons drawn.’ He looked disparagingly at the four armed troopers. ‘We can’t touch him I’m afraid - not for the next forty days at least.’

  The lean Sir Peter stood facing the portly Samson with a look of utter incredulity on his disgustingly healthy features. ‘Can’t touch him for forty days? Made himself sacred? What bollocks is this?’

  ‘No erm, bollocks Sir Peter. It is the law - that is ecclesiastical law. While he remains inside the church he is inviolable. I can’t allow your men to take him.’

  Sir Peter took a step closer to Samson. ‘We are talking here about murder, lord abbot. That is a matter for their royal justices.’

  ‘And it will be - in forty days.’

  Sir Peter’s immaculately groomed eyebrows practically disappeared beneath his velvet cap. ‘I’ve never heard such nonsense!’

  But Samson stood his ground. He would not be moved.

  Abbot Eustache, who had been standing silently in the background, now stepped forward coughing lightly into his hand:

  ‘S’il vous plaît, monsieur le shérif, permettez moi d’interrompre.’

  Sir Peter looked him up and down. ‘Who the hell are you?’

  ‘Eustache de Saint Germer-de-Fly, abbot-legate to the Holy See,’ said Eustache giving a flourishing bow.

  Sir Peter wrinkled his nose. ‘Saint-Jer-may-dee-fly, d’ya say? Sounds like some abbey in France t’me.’

  ‘It is as you say, monsieur, some abbey in France,’ Eustache continued to smile silkily. ‘Naturally I cannot speak for the abbé, but in my country in order for an offender to benefit from the church’s protection it is first necessary for him to confess to his crime. I imagine it is the same here. Voilà!’ He gave another little bow and stepped politely back again.

  The sheriff turned back to Samson. ‘Seems the Frog knows more about it than you do. Well m’lord abbot? Has he confessed?’

  Samson squirmed. ‘No. He’s denying the charge.’

  ‘Bon,’ smiled Eustache unabashed. ‘C’est ça. No confession, no sanctuary.’

  I think that’s the closest I ever got to wanting to do actual bodily violence to the abbot-legate. It looked as though Hamo was in imminent danger of being dragged off to gaol. I
was desperately willing Samson to do something, say something, anything. But he remained silent. Then from behind me came a small voice:

  ‘Actually, he confessed to me.’

  We all turned to see who had spoken.

  ‘And who’s this?’ asked Sir Peter with growing irritation. ‘Another Frog cleric?’

  ‘Brother Jocellus, abbey cellarer my lord,’ said Jocellus stepping forward and bobbing a timid bow. ‘Hamo made his confession before the high altar in my hearing.’ He turned to Samson. ‘It was while you were arranging for the Lord Sheriff to be summoned, father abbot. I’m sorry, I should have told you.’

  Quick as a flash I saw an opening that might save Hamo. ‘Er yes, I heard it too. Brother Walter, lord sheriff, abbey physician.’

  ‘A-and me,’ said Jocelin. ‘Brother J-jocelin - er, abbey G-guest Master, er, my lord.’

  Sir Peter looked incredulously from one to the other of us. ‘Judas, Joseph and Jehoshua, it’s a damned monk conspiracy!’

  Clearly irritated, Abbot Eustache stepped forward again: ‘These men are monks,’ he said sharply to Sir Peter. ‘Therefore they cannot hear confession. Only ordained priests can do that. Monks are not priests.’

  ‘Actually I am,’ I said. The others looked at me. I shrugged apologetically. ‘Physicians have to be. It is a requirement of Pope Innocent. I’m surprised you didn’t know that, father,’ I said to Eustache who was glaring back at me. ‘In any case it’s irrelevant,’ I went on. ‘It doesn’t have to be a confession, merely a confirmation before a witness - any witness whether ordained or not. If that’s what Hamo gave Jocellus then that’s good enough. He has won the right to our protection. I think I’m right in saying that father abbot?’

  Samson didn’t reply. I doubt whether he knew. I’m not sure I did either, but it sounded good. At least it would buy Hamo a little time.

  ‘What if I just go in and get him anyway?’ said the sheriff.

  ‘Then you incur the wrath of the church and may end up being excommunicated,’ said Samson finding his voice at last.