Abbot's Passion (4 page)

A voice in the crowd snorted: ‘What, for buying a pair of gloves?’

‘It is not the thing itself,’ replied Eustache addressing the speaker directly, ‘but how well we can resist it. Think brother, think sister! Up to heaven or down to hell?’

‘Here!’ said the butcher on the next stall offering his boots to the young woman. ‘You’d better put these on your hands. That way the Devil won’t know which way up you are.’

More laughter from the crowd.

Eustache shot an accusative finger at the man. ‘You, brother, have just condemned yourself for it is the Devil that speaks out of your mouth! Neither thieves nor the greedy nor drunkards nor swindlers will inherit the kingdom of God.’

The butcher frowned. ‘Who you calling a swindler?’

But the abbot’s words seemed to be having some effect on one person at least. Blushing prettily, the young woman at the counter replaced the gloves she had been considering and started to walk away. This brought the glove-seller round from behind his stall and stood arms akimbo glaring up at Eustache.

‘Oi!’ he yelled at him. ‘Do you mind? I’m trying to earn a living here!’

‘No my friend,’ retorted Eustache shaking his head. ‘Death is what you are earning here. Repent now before it is too late! For the love of money is a root of all evil. It is through this that you have wandered away from the faith and pierced yourself with many pangs.’

‘Oh why don’t you
pierce
off!’ said the man. ‘And take this bunch of bollock-fiddlers wiv yer!’ He gestured towards Jocellus, Jocelin and me. Jocelin nearly went puce with embarrassment. I wasn’t sure I liked the implication either.

But Eustache wasn’t to be so easily dismissed. He put one hand up to him. ‘No my son, you will not o’ercome me for I have God beside me!’

‘Yeah? An’ I’ve got my missus beside me. I know who I’m more scared of.’

More laughter from the crowd.

‘Down foul Satan!’ shouted Eustache. ‘I am your Nemesis!’

‘You’re fucking barmy,’ said the Londoner turning his back and starting to tidy his stall.

Eustache looked as though he would explode. ‘
Je suis votre châtiment!
’ he screamed at the man.

Nonplussed, the glove-seller turned to face him again. ‘Oh, Frog are we?
Jetty-foo-fah-fah?
’ He did a little jig with his hands on his hips. ‘Well hop over this then.’ He grabbed a handful of offal from the butcher’s stall and threw it at Eustache covering his head and shoulders with chicken giblets.

For a moment the crowd was stunned into silence. The abbot, too, was visibly shocked. I’m sure nothing of the kind had ever happened to him before. But I sensed things were getting a little out of hand and whispered to Jocellus that perhaps it was time to fetch the market reeve. He nodded and quickly disappeared into the crowd. It was then that Fidele showed his mettle as the abbot-legate’s minder. Dodging between the legs of bystanders he found an iron bar from somewhere and gave the stallholder such a mighty crack across his shin with it that I was certain he must have broken the man’s leg. The trader let out a howl of pain and started hopping about holding the injured shin. What happened next was so quick that I could scarcely follow it. In a gesture reminiscent of Christ overturning the money-changers in the temple, Eustache leapt from the steps of the market cross and upended the Londoner’s stall sending the man’s wares scattering in the dust. A roar went up from the crowd at this and suddenly all was pandemonium as stalls went over to right and left and goods and chattels flew everywhere. In the resulting melee people were grabbing anything they could lay their hands on and making off with it. Only the arrival of the reeve with a troop of armed guards finally restored order with the guards roughly pushing the crowd aside with their lances.

Into the space left by the soldiers stepped the reeve. The free-for-all had lasted barely a minute but from the mess you’d have thought a herd of bullocks had just rampaged through the market.

‘Who started this?’ he demanded.

The stallholder and the abbot each pointed to the other: ‘He did! No
he
did.’

‘
Monsieur l’officier du marché
,’ said the abbot stepping smartly forward and addressing the reeve in syrupy tones. ‘Allow me to introduce myself. I am Eustache de Beauvais,
Abbé de Saint-Germer-de-Fly
. You have doubtless heard of me. I am here in my capacity as legate to the Holy Father in Rome.’ He leaned closer. ‘You understand me, yes? I am the personal representative of His Holiness the pope.’

Now, I knew the reeve a little. He was a young man, not much more than twenty summers, and fairly new to the job. His father had been market reeve before him and had only recently handed over his staff of office to his son. It was clear from the expression on the lad’s face that he found the abbot-legate intimidating.

‘The pope,’ he frowned, nodding. ‘Yes, I see.’

‘Do you? I’m not sure,’ Eustache smiled. ‘What is your name, my young friend?’

‘Alwyn...erm...father.’

‘Alwyn, yes good. Well Alwyn, I hope this little incident is not going to cause problems for the Holy Father. As Pope Innocent’s emissary I will, naturally, be reporting all that happens here today to His Holiness in Rome. He will be very interested to hear the names of all those who made themselves useful to him - and,’ he added ominously, ‘those who did not.’

Now, a more experienced man might have taken the two protagonists off to a quiet place somewhere and got to the bottom of what actually occurred. But with the crowd pressing in around him Alwyn clearly felt he had to make a decision. The lad looked confused. He hesitated. What was needed was an older man more experienced in the ways of the world. Step forward Master Walter de Ixworth, monk, physician, charter-negotiator - and now peace-maker.

‘Just a moment,’ I said forestalling the reeve. ‘Master Alwyn, may I have a word?’

‘Brother Walter,’ the boy said relieved to see a face he recognized. ‘What do you know of this?’

The abbot-legate looked on confidently. As a brother monk my loyalties would naturally be with him. The glove-seller was a stranger. He was also a foul-mouthed Londoner who had insulted me once today already. Whose side was I likely to be on?

‘My opinion,’ I said in my most officious tone, ‘is that both are to blame. It was six of one and half a dozen of the other.’

Eustache started to bluster in French. The glove-seller was none too happy either. It seemed I had upset both protagonists and pleased neither - which suggested I had got it about right.

‘Now wait a minute,’ the glove-seller protested hobbling forward on his injured leg. ‘I was minding my business. This loudmouth Jeremiah,’ he jabbed an accusing finger towards the abbot-legate, ‘came along shouting the odds.’

‘It was you cast the first stone,’ the abbot blustered.

‘It wasn’t a stone,’ countered the Londoner, ‘it was chicken muck. And your midget broke my leg.’

‘Pah! If it is broken how do you walk on it?’

‘Sheer willpower, mate. Sheer bloody willpower.’

The pair squared up to each other. It was all threatening to start up again with the crowd taking sides. If only we could get away from the charged atmosphere of the market, I thought, the matter could be sorted out quickly. Unfortunately we weren’t to get the chance. There was a sudden commotion near the back of the crowd. A woman fought her way to the front, her eyes wild with terror.

‘Murder!’ she gasped pointing behind her before collapsing in a dead faint.

While others dealt with her the rest of us rushed to where she had pointed. Sure enough, behind the glove-vendor’s stall was the body of Brother Fidele lying on his back, the metal rod he had used to beat the glove-vendor sticking out of his chest. There was no need to look any closer. He was dead all right.

Seeing him, the abbot-legate let out a terrible cry and fell to his knees beside the body.

‘Now we see who is the villain here!’ he barked angrily at Alwyn.

‘All right,’ the reeve agreed. ‘Arrest him. Arrest the glove-seller.’

The guards immediately started hunting through the crowd. After a minute the boldest of them came back.

‘Well?’ demanded Alwyn.

‘He seems to have gone, sir.’

Chapter Five

EVIDENCE GOES MISSING

Murder
is not unknown in England even in these peaceful times. I think throughout the Liberty we get about twenty-five murders a year, mostly out in the villages which have poor access to the courts. If you listen to the old men it was far worse in past times. During the Anarchy of King Stephen murder was so commonplace that people said openly that Christ and his saints slept. It’s nothing like that bad today. Gangs of cutthroats and robbers do still roam the countryside, especially in the empty fenlands to the west of Bury, but with the right precautions - travelling in groups and during daylight hours - it is possible to traverse these islands unmolested. Even so, the bodies of loan travellers are occasionally brought in to the town having been found lying naked in a ditch stripped of their clothing and possessions. The abbey gives them a Christian burial but most of the time we don’t even know their names. Murder inside the town is less common and usually occurs down some deserted dark alley. It rarely happens in broad daylight and never in the crowded marketplace.

A handcart was borrowed from one of the market traders and we watched as two men lifted Fidele’s little body onto it. Because the iron bar had gone right through the body they had to lay it on its side at an undignified angle. Something about the way they did that struck me as odd at the time but I couldn’t think what it was. A tarpaulin was then thrown over the body and Jocellus, Jocelin, Eustache and I together with Reeve Alwyn followed in solemn precession as the cart was pushed slowly down the hill. As soon as Fidele was delivered to the west door of the abbey church we five made our way over to Samson’s study.

‘I want the glove-seller found!’ Eustache immediately demanded thumping the desk. ‘I want him arrested, I
want him
tortured and then I want him hanged!’

‘Of course!’ Samson nodded strenuously, adding: ‘Actually, we don’t torture people in England anymore - although I can quite understand why you should want to.’

Eustache looked at him in astonishment. ‘Not use the rack?
How then do you expect to obtain a confession?’

‘By subtler means.’ Samson grimaced apologetically.

‘You mean you ask him if he murdered Brother Fidele and when he says “No” you say, “Oh very good, old boy” and let him go?’

Samson shifted painfully on his chair. ‘Not exactly. But we do like to be certain of our facts before we hang a man.’

‘But I have given you all the facts. What more facts do you need? The glove-seller murdered Fidele. A hundred people saw it.’

‘And we will be talking to every one of them, never fear.’

‘Meanwhile the murderer, he escapes?
C’est incroyable!
’

The abbot-legate went on to mutter more French which was too rapid for me to follow but in which I the word “
anglais
” featured quite a bit.

‘Do you have any idea where he has gone? Do you even know his name?’

‘Not yet. But we are working on it,’ said Samson glancing up at Reeve Alwyn.

Eustache jabbed an accusing finger at Samson. ‘This is your responsibility,
père abbé
. Your market. Your town. Soon I will be making my report to the Holy Father. I very much hope that before I do the murderer will have been caught and properly dealt with. In the meantime the market will remain closed.’

Samson grimaced. ‘Is that really necessary?’

‘For the sake of decency if nothing else. If it had been closed in the first place none of this would have happened. There would have been no glove-seller and Brother Fidele would still be alive. This,’ he said ominously, ‘is God’s judgement on the arrogant nation.’

‘As a m-matter of semantics, F-father Eustache,’ said Jocelin raising a mildly indignant finger, ‘if I m-may say so, if it was God’s j-judgement as you s-say, then surely someone else would have been the victim. O-other than Brother Fidele I mean, who was n-not even English. It would not be true justice - that is
divine
justice for an innocent man to s-suffer. O-on the other hand, for Fidele to have been the v-victim would imply he is s-somehow to blame, which would n-not be correct. It therefore f-follows that it is, in fact,
in
-justice. P-purely from a semantic point of view, you understand.’

Eustache glared at him for a long moment before turning back to Samson. ‘I mean to have this glove-seller, father abbot. And when I do...’

He held out his hand and crushed an imaginary skull in its upturned fingers. I flinched at the image. Having made his point the abbot-legate glared round at each of us in turn then turned on his heel and stormed out of the room.

‘His name is Hamo,’ sighed Samson once the abbot had gone. ‘From a village just east of London called...’ he squinted at his notes. ‘...Bromley-atte-Bow.’

‘You kn-knew?’ said Jocelin.

‘Of course I knew. Alwyn had his name in minutes. But I wasn’t going to tell the abbot-legate. The mood he’s in he’s likely to storm down there and ransack the place.’

‘Bromley-atte-Bow.’ I shook my head. ‘Never heard of it.’

The others hadn’t either.

‘Well, it doesn’t matter. I doubt if he’ll be stupid enough to return there.’ Samson looked hopefully up at the reeve. ‘Your men, I take it Alwyn, have not had any luck yet?’

The young man shook his head. ‘No-one saw him leave or even knows what happened to him. It’s very strange with so many people about.’

‘Well he can’t just have vanished into thin air. Someone must be sheltering him.’

‘Hard to see who. He isn’t a local man. Who would protect him?’

‘Other trades-people, out of some misguided sense of solidarity.’

‘Possibly,’ said Alwyn. ‘I’ve set guards on the gates in case he tries to leave the town. I’ve also sent scouts out onto the London road to see if they can intercept him. He’s injured so he can’t have got far. It’s the best I can do for the moment, I’m afraid.’

Samson nodded. ‘Keep me informed, Alwyn.’

The young man made a curt bow and left.

‘So we are going to assume this Hamo committed the murder?’ I said. ‘Just like that?’

Samson looked askance at me. ‘Oh dear. Do I hear the familiar bleat of Walter-esque scepticism?’

‘I just think we shouldn’t be too hasty with our assumptions, that’s all. No-one saw him actually thrust the iron bar into Fidele.’

‘No-one can be found to admit they saw it. Anyway, the abbot-legate is right, the facts speak for themselves. There was a fight, Fidele is dead and Hamo has absconded. Not exactly the actions of an innocent man.’

‘Maybe he simply doesn’t trust us. Some might say with good reason.’

I was referring to the time a few years earlier when the merchants of London refused to pay tolls in Bury market claiming special exemption from the king. Samson had initially refuted their claims and as a consequence the London merchants stayed away for two years costing us more in lost business than we ever would have collected from tolls. In the end Samson had relented and the merchants returned, but relations between the London traders and the abbey have been sour ever since.

‘I’ll be surprised if he’s able to run very far,’ said Jocellus. ‘The dwarf gave him quite a whack on the shin. I wouldn’t be surprised if his leg wasn’t broken.’

Samson frowned. ‘I doubt if it’s broken. And can we please stop referring to Fidele as “the dwarf”? The man is dead. Let us at least give him the dignity of a name.’

Jocellus inclined his head apologetically.

Samson looked hesitantly at me. ‘I don’t suppose it could have been an accident, could it? There was a lot of commotion by all accounts.’

I shook my head. ‘The rod went right through him. That would have taken considerable force. It had to have been deliberate.’

He sighed. ‘I was afraid you’d say that.’

‘What s-staggers me,’ said Jocelin frowning, ‘is why there are no w-witnesses. A m-man gets killed in the middle of a crowd of p-people yet no-one s-see a thing. It b-beggars belief.’

‘It was chaotic,’ said Jocellus. ‘Barrows being turned over. Chicken and geese flying everywhere. It was all very confusing.’

‘Which is why I want you three to write down your versions of events while they are fresh in your minds,’ said Samson. ‘That way we’ll have a record for any trial, should it come to that.’

‘You think th-there will be a t-trial?’ asked Jocelin.

‘There’ll have to be an inquest. It’ll be up to the coroner to decide. I’ve had the body laid in the chapel of Saint Denis. A French saint seemed appropriate under the circumstances.’

‘I take it there are no restrictions to viewing the body?’ I asked.

Samson looked at me suspiciously. ‘View, yes. Examine, no. The coroner will want to see it intact.’ He looked round at the three of us. ‘Well if there’s nothing else, brothers. I will of course report any developments to the convent in full chapter. Walter, stay a moment.’

Now what? Samson waited until the other two had left.

‘I’d like you to go to the abbot-legate,’ he said lowering his voice. ‘See if you can give him something to calm his nerves. He was very close to Brother Fidele. His murder has affected him more than he’s pretending.’

‘He seemed to be coping quite well to me,’ I sniffed. ‘But of course I’ll see what I can do. Do you still want me to go to Ely? I am technically a witness.’

‘Yes, go. There’s no point in your hanging around. There’s bound to be an inquest but that won’t be for a while and I don’t want this Lakenheath business dragging on.’ He leaned back heavily in his chair. ‘This murder is very inconvenient.’

‘Yes,’ I agreed. ‘Very annoying.’

He glared at me. ‘I meant coming just now. I need the abbot of Fly to remain focussed on this Lakenheath issue. Naturally I don’t expect him to give priority to our problem after what has happened. But it doesn’t diminish its importance. Tragic as Brother Fidele’s death is we mustn’t lose sight of everything else.’

‘Very well, father.’ I got up to leave.

‘Just before you go,’ he said putting up a hand, ‘perhaps you’d like to tell me why you were asking to view the body.’

I contrived to look guileless. ‘Can a brother not pay his respects to a deceased fellow monk?’

‘Anyone else, yes. But you don’t ask questions about bodies for no reason. What have you noticed about this one?’

In truth I didn’t really know. I shrugged. ‘Probably nothing. I daresay I’ll just say a prayer to Saint Denis and the Virgin and make a small donation to the poor.’

He looked at me sceptically. ‘Well you’ve got until tomorrow. Then I want you in Ely smoothing the ruffled feathers of Bishop Eustace.’ He gave an ironic snort. ‘Ely and Fly.’

‘Father?’

‘Ely and Fly. Have you not noticed how just one letter separates the two names? And not even a complete letter. Just a tick between them.’

I hadn’t noticed.

‘Eels and Flies. Do eels catch flies or do flies catch eels?’ He shuddered and shook his head. ‘I’ll be happy when I’m rid of them both.’

Downstairs I found Jocellus waiting for me.

‘What did Samson want?’

I told him about Eustache and his nerves.

‘I was hoping he might have said something about keeping the market open.’

‘No such luck, I’m afraid. He’ll close the market for the day if only out of respect for the dead man.’

‘As long as it is only for a day. I have merchants on my back needing to offload barrels of fish. And with Easter week coming up.’ He shook his head.

‘I’m sure we’ll settle this before then and things will be back to normal.’

‘I hope you’re right.’

We started to walk together across the great court. I chortled. ‘What about old Jocelin standing up to Eustache like that? Who’d have thought it?’

‘What? Oh yes, divine retribution,’ he nodded.

‘I think he just grew a little tired of the abbot’s constant sniping. Jocelin can be prickly at times. He doesn’t like disruptions to his routines.’

‘It’s this murder. It’s left all of us on edge. Did I hear you say you were going to view the body?’

I nodded. ‘Though I don’t know what I expect to see. It was something Samson said that reminded me, but I’m not sure of what.’

‘Would you like me to come with you? Two heads are often better than one.’

‘No. It might if I knew what I was looking for. But thank you anyway.’

I left Jocellus at the cellarer’s gate and went over to my laboratorium to pick up my herb satchel. Then I made my reluctant way over to the senior lodge of the abbot’s palace. If I’d known what I’d find when I got there I might have brought more than saffron and wormwood. As I approached his door I could hear strange moaning coming from the other side. What was this - remorse? Abbot Eustache didn’t strike me as an emotional man - at least, not those sorts of emotions. Perhaps I’d misjudged him and he was more affected by the death of his clerk than I thought. I knocked gently and waited. When there was no reply I tried the handle and tentatively pushed the door open. To my horror what I discovered inside the room was a scene out of the Last Judgement. Eustache was on his knees in the middle of the floor naked to the waist and drenched in blood with a vicious-looking lash in his hand.