Devil's Acre Page 8

  Since I couldn’t sleep I decided I may as well go up to the church to say lauds. With all that had gone on since leaving Bury I had somewhat neglected my prayers and felt in need of spiritual renewal. So, wrapped in my robe and hood and with the night still not ended, I stepped out of Absalom’s hovel and set off up the slope at a brisk pace my breath billowing clouds in the freezing air before me.

  Saint Andrew’s Tottington is a modest little church built largely of cob with a steep-pitched roof and lacking both aisle and tower but with a single bell gable at the western end. It amazed me to think that this simple place was where Samson had learned his catechism and first became inspired to take the cowl. A narrow porch sheltered the only door in the south wall of the nave through which I now entered.

  The inside was even darker and colder than outside and I had to pause for a moment for my eyes to adjust, but once they had I was pleasantly surprised to glimpse colour on the walls above me reflected in the light of the sanctuary lamp. I could still smell the sweet incense from the afternoon’s welcoming service and looked up to see a crude painting on the wall of a man driving a cart across a bridge that I took to be Saint Christopher carrying the Christ child. Christ in this painting bore an unnerving resemblance to most of the inhabitants of Tottington, I couldn’t help but notice. He was waving at me as though he were off on a picnic rather than carrying the weight of the whole world’s troubles on his narrow juvenile shoulders. It occurred to me that it was a pity Ralf hadn’t seen it for it is said that if a man should die alone as Ralf had done the image of Saint Christopher would protect him in the afterlife. Still, the painting was competently if amateurly executed.

  As I stood admiring the painting I thought I heard a sound at the far end of the church and caught my breath. Surely no-one was in the church at this time of the morning? I looked over towards the chancel. In the gloom I could just make out a door to the left of the altar standing slightly ajar. This had to be the vestry where those two youths were to have taken Ralf’s body. I distinctly remembered telling them to lock the vestry door after them. Was someone in there now?

  Another noise, this time I was certain it came from the vestry. Who could be in there at this time of day? I went up the chancel steps and put my hand out to push the door open when it suddenly swung back and I came face to face with…

  ‘John. Isn’t that your name? I remember you from yesterday. Yes, John father of four sons. Or was it five?’

  The man looked as startled to see me as I was to see him. ‘What are you doing here, brother?’

  ‘What am I doing here? What are you doing here? And where is Father Absalom? I thought he was spending the night here.’

  ‘I’ve come…to clean the church.’

  ‘At this hour?’

  The man started to pull the door to the vestry closed behind him. I looked suspiciously over his shoulder.

  ‘What’s going on in there?’

  I pushed past him and opened the door wide. Without windows the room was in darkness but there was just enough light coming from the chancel to see inside. The room was tiny. It contained a vestment trunk, a crucifix, a table, some hooks with vestments hanging from them, and set up in the middle of the room was a pair of trestle stands and boards - presumably where Ralf’s body had been resting. But of the body there was no sign.

  I went back outside. ‘I think you owe me an explanation. And don’t try to pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about. The body - Father Ralf’s body. Where is it?’

  ‘It was taken, brother.’

  ‘Taken? What do you mean it was taken? Taken where?’

  ‘To Acre, brother.’

  For a moment I couldn’t speak. Finally I managed to ask: ‘Who told you to do that? No, don’t tell me. I can guess.’

  I knew it had been too easy. Samson had been far too ready to agree to my demand to view the body. I had been tricked again. What a fool I was to trust him! As I rolled my eyes to heaven for assistance they alighted again on the wall painting of Saint Christopher driving a cart across a bridge with the Christ child standing on the back. But this time he wasn’t so much waving as mocking me.

  ‘Father abbot!’

  ‘Walter my boy. What’s the matter, couldn’t you sleep? I slept wonderfully. Look, Absalom has prepared a wonderful repast for us. Come, sit, eat.’

  ‘I’ve been in the church, father.’

  ‘Have you now?’

  ‘Where I found this man.’ I thrust John forward who stood between us.

  Samson looked the man up and down. ‘Good morning John.’

  ‘Morning father,’ he mumbled.

  ‘How are you today?’

  ‘Well, thank you father.’

  ‘I’m pleased to hear it. Your boys? Wife Alice?’

  ‘The body, father,’ I interrupted.

  ‘Oh not yet Walter, the day has barely begun.’

  ‘It’s gone.’

  ‘Has it indeed?’

  ‘You know it has.’ I jabbed a finger towards John. ‘This man said you told him to take it to Acre.’

  ‘That’s right, I did.’

  I looked at him with incredulity. ‘Why? You knew I wanted to examine him this morning.’

  ‘That was my fault, I’m afraid,’ said Absalom coming in from the yard with an armful of logs. ‘I told John to send the carrier on ahead with the body. I thought it would save you the trouble.’

  ‘But Father Absalom, you heard me tell the abbot I wanted to examine the body this morning.’

  Absalom shrugged. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know the carrier was going to arrive so early. A genuine mistake.’

  I just stood staring with my mouth gaping open.

  ‘Good, well that’s that mystery solved,’ smiled Samson reaching for a bread roll. ‘Have some breakfast, Walter. Absalom’s just baked some bread.’

  ‘I don’t want any breakfast.’

  ‘Then don’t have any,’ snapped Samson. ‘But you will end these childish emotional outbursts or you will feel my wrath once we return to Bury.’ He threw down the roll he was holding. ‘For your information, I told John yesterday that we were leaving today and he kindly offered to arrange for a cart to take the body in order to save us having to use the mules again. If you had come to the service instead of spying on me you’d have known that.’

  ‘I wasn’t spying.’

  ‘Walter, I know exactly what you were talking to Michael about because he told me.’

  ‘That’s right, brother.’

  I turned to see Michael standing in the doorway. It was a shock to see him. I’d assumed because Ralf and Samson had been enemies Michael would be too. With him was Jane who seemed to be wriggling as though she had a flea. But then I saw that she was struggling to hold on to a puppy that was fighting to get out of her arms. Now it escaped and came scampering towards Samson and me.

  ‘Esme!’ she snapped darting for the creature. ‘Come here!’

  Without thinking I scooped up the tiny thing before Jane could reach it. For a few moments I couldn’t see for hot tongues and wet noses covering my face. When I did manage to open my eyes again I saw they were all staring at me. Samson rose from his seat.

  ‘When you’ve finished doing whatever it is you’re doing with that creature,’ he said, ‘gather your things together and meet me out in the yard. It is still a few hours’ ride to Acre.’

  While I struggled to keep hold of the puppy he eased his way out of the room giving me and the puppy as wide a berth as he could.

  Chapter 11

  THE DEVIL’S ACRE

  ‘What’s this, master?’

  ‘What do you mean, what is it? Surely you’ve seen paper before, Gilbert?’

  ‘Of course, but none as fine as this, and never in such quantities. May I ask where you got it?’

  ‘Why, are you contemplating writing something of your own?’

  ‘Not at all, master. I’m just curious. Paper is difficult to acquire. And expensive too, I imagine.’


  ‘Not for me. Before he died my brother Joseph - may his sufferings in hell be light - brought me back a quantity from Damascus where his family still lives.’

  ‘I’m sorry master, you say your brother’s family lives in Damascus? If he is your brother how can that be?’

  ‘Joseph - or to give him his proper name, Yusuf - wasn’t in fact my real brother. I just called him that because we grew up together. His father was an Arab and his mother a Jewess.’

  ‘A heathen twice over then.’

  ‘Normally, Gilbert, I would take issue with such a monstrously prejudiced statement, but in Yusuf’s case it is probably accurate. In point of fact he believed in nothing, unless you include the sanctity of the human spirit.’

  ‘Then surely such a blasphemer would be condemned for all eternity to hell fire?’

  ‘Which is why I pray that his sufferings there be light.’

  ‘If you knew he was an unbeliever, master, why do you persist in calling him you’re your brother? Surely it is your duty as a Christian to deny him?’

  ‘It wasn’t just Christianity he refuted. Yusuf thought all religion bunkum. I permitted him this blasphemy not because I thought he was right but because he thought he was. A mind like his you see, so subtle, so incisive, deserves respect however outlandish its ideas. I suppose with a Jewish mother, a Muslim for a father and a monk for a brother Yusuf might be forgiven for thinking he’d had his fill of religion. When I was eighteen this seemed reprehensible to me. At seventy-eight I am less certain. Yusuf went to his grave believing there was nothing beyond it. I suppose I shall shortly discover which of us is right.’

  ‘As you most assuredly will, master.’

  ‘Yes, well one thing he was right about was this wonderful paper. Look at it Gilbert! Is it not a marvel? Far easier to use than parchment. The ink flows across it like silk from a spider’s bottom.’

  ‘Are you sure you should be using the gift of an infidel? Is it not tainted?’

  ‘Oh it’s worse than that, Gilbert. Do you know how paper is made?’

  ‘No master.’

  ‘It is said to be chewed between the perfect white teeth of slave girls and then finished off by being rubbed on the thighs of a thousand Persian virgins. Personally I doubt the truth of this.’

  ‘I should hope not, master.’

  ‘There simply aren’t a thousand virgins in Persia.’

  *

  We set off from Tottington for what I sincerely hoped would be the last leg of our journey. Only three mules this time: one each for me, Samson and Jane. The fourth - the one that had carried Ralf’s body - we left with Absalom to be returned to the Sisters of Saint George from whom we had loaned it.

  It was another freezing cold morning. Most of the village came out to see us off all wanting Samson’s blessing. He made a little speech from the back of Clytemnestra which since he had descended once again into his native Norfolk dialect was as comprehensible to me as Hungarian. Jane bade a tearful farewell to Michael and his wife thanking them profusely for the puppy. It appeared Esme was a gift from Michael’s wife to comfort Jane in her loss. Once out of their sight Jane’s tears dried and she dumped the puppy in my arms where it snuggled inside my robe and promptly fell asleep.

  ‘What are you going to do with it?’ asked Samson frowning. ‘You’re surely not going to bring it with you?’

  ‘Do I have any choice? Jane seems to have abandoned her.’

  ‘Can’t you do the same?’

  ‘You want me to leave a tiny helpless creature alone on the side of the road to starve to death? Assuming it doesn’t get eaten by wolves first.’

  ‘There aren’t any wolves in Norfolk anymore.’

  I was still angry over what had happened in Tottington. ‘Father, I hope you don’t think I’ve given up my intention to examine the body. It must now be a priority - you do see that, don’t you?’

  Samson glanced over his shoulder at Jane. ‘Do we have to discuss this now?’

  I looked at Jane. She seemed oblivious having once again descended into silent obduracy. Still, I lowered my voice.

  ‘Father, can you not see? It’s not just Ralf’s mortal remains I’m concerned about. It’s been two days now since he died. He’s had the mere cursory of rites - no confession, no communion, no absolution. He died in mortal sin. His soul will be in torment.’

  ‘He didn’t receive the proper rites because no-one was with him when he died. It wasn’t intentional.’

  ‘All the more reason to do things properly now.’

  ‘And examining his body will achieve that?’

  ‘Knowing for certain what killed him will help.’

  He shook his head. ‘You know, you really are making heavy weather of this, Walter. I’ve said you may view the body and I meant it. Have you ever known me to go back on my word?’

  ‘Frequently.’

  The next stop on our journey was the market town of Swaffham. The name is old German, apparently, referring to the people who settled here in Saxon times. The present-day inhabitants certainly displayed solid Germanic industry. As soon as we entered the maze of stalls and carts we were besieged by merchants, chapmen, hawkers - traders of every description trying to tempt us to part with our money. But seeing their prices I was not persuaded to buy.

  I admit to having little understanding of why prices rise. Are goods more abundant now than in King Henry’s day? Is coin less efficacious? Yet the one seems to go up while the other goes down. I well recall Brother Sylvanus complaining about the price he was being charged for some blanket cloth he wanted to buy on Bury market which at four pence the ell was a farthing more than it had been a month earlier. As abbey chamberlain he naturally expected to be given the most favourable terms and refused to pay the new price expecting the stallholder thereby to lower it. Of course he did no such thing and when a week later Sylvanus was forced to relent he found the price had risen again to five pence the ell. Outraged, he blustered and threatened but in the end had to pay the higher price or we should have had nothing to cover us in our cots at night. Such is the arcane mystery of commerce. Samson, however, was in no doubt how he regarded the business acumen of the Swaffhamites:

  ‘This is how to do it, Walter,’ he kept nodding admiringly. ‘What industry! What enterprise! What profit!’

  For all its attractions Swaffham market did not tempt us to linger longer than it took to buy some eel pies and a jug of ale for our lunch. I shared mine with Esme who promptly brought it all back up again, mostly over me. I then tried her on some bread soaked in milk which seemed to suit her better. After that she snuggled down back down inside my robe oblivious to the ravages of the outside world.

  ‘You’ll never be rid of that creature now,’ chuckled Samson. ‘It thinks you’re its dam.’

  Once we’d left the town behind there was nothing further between us and our final destination of Acre other than the wide, flat valley of the River Nar. Here a whole new world opens up for the valley is dominated by that mighty symbol of baronial power, the castle that crouches like a great white spider on the hillside watching all that passes ready to pounce at the merest twitch of its thread. Unlike Thetford’s castle which had long ago been abandoned, Acre’s was still occupied by the family who built it: the Warenne earls of Sussex. It is said the first earl was cousin to the Conqueror and fought alongside him at Hastings and as reward was given vast territories not just here in Norfolk but in a dozen other shires throughout England. The castle is ringed with massive defensive ramparts topped with crenellations while a steep earth embankment and ditch surrounds the adjoining town. The castle was meant to be impregnable and so it was during the Anarchy when such considerations mattered. In more peaceful times the donjon has been abandoned to more comfortable living quarters within the bailey.

  All this I discovered only later. My first response on seeing the town was relief at having at last reached our journey’s end. After giving thanks to Almighty God for our safe deliverance we prepared to en
ter the town in order to get to the priory which stood a quarter league further on. But instead of passing beneath the arch of the town’s massive southern gate Samson turned us to one side.

  ‘There is no need for us to go up through the town,’ he said quietly. ‘I know a quicker route.’

  Jane and I followed his lead and indeed he did seem to have good knowledge of the area’s geography remembered no doubt from his time here four decades earlier. The road we took meandered along the river’s edge and then rose steadily beside the priory precinct wall over which we could see the priory itself. And what a sight it was! Of the same Cluniac order as Thetford, Acre Priory nevertheless outshone its southern neighbour in size and splendour. To be fair, Acre was in possession of a much better site than Thetford - indeed, it was a better one than Bury able to sprawl across open farmland and not crammed into one corner of the vill. The priory church dominated the cloistral buildings with its massive twin western towers glistening resplendently in the wintry sunshine. I have to say it thrilled the heart to see it.

  The final approach to the priory is downhill and as in Tottington our arrival was announced by the tolling of a bell which summoned monks and servants from every direction to greet us. Once again it was evident that we were expected for the prior himself appeared at once - a splendid-looking fellow with a bright red beard and brown tonsure.

  ‘Cher Abbé!’ said the prior coming towards us. ‘How very good to see you.’

  ‘You too my dear good friend,’ beamed Samson dismounting quickly and going over to the man. They embraced like blood brothers.

  ‘This is Brother Walter, our physician,’ said Samson turning to me. ‘Walter, allow me to present Père Maynus de Flamvill de Clermont-Ferrand, honoured prior of Saint Mary’s Acre.’

  I bowed low and kissed his hand. ‘Suis honoré de vous rencontrer, mon père.’