Abbot's Passion (7 page)

Chapter Eight

TO ELY...

I
didn’t sleep at all well that night and awoke next morning with a start. I realised I’d been dreaming. Normally I don’t remember my dreams but on this occasion I did - not that I was any the wiser from having done so. Dreams are funny things. Events that would seem absurd when awake often make perfect sense when asleep: falling down bottomless wells, or soaring through the air like a bird, or reliving episodes in one’s youth as though they were happening now. That night I dreamt about Bury market except the market wasn’t in its usual place but in the quire of the abbey church, which is patently absurd, yet in my dream-world it didn’t strike me as odd at all. Some of the previous day’s events I re-enacted except that it wasn’t Eustache berating Hamo at the market cross but Samson from atop Saint Edmund’s shrine. Again, it all seemed perfectly reasonable. The abbey church, incidentally, had grown to twice its real size and stood open to the sky. As I looked up I could see the heavens through the roof. And Hamo wasn’t pole-axing Fidele but was force-feeding him pies. “You hid them therefore you must eat them!” he was yelling. As I awoke the sound of the bell was summoning me to lauds and I felt exhausted as though I hadn’t been asleep at all.

I often wonder about the purpose of dreams. In the Bible Pharaoh dreams of seven fat cattle and then seven lean cattle which Joseph interprets as seven years of feast followed by seven years of famine. It’s a good story if a little literal. In my experience dreams aren’t really like that. But whether dreams have meaning or not I do find that after a fitful night, events that seemed confused and bewildering when I went to bed often take on clarity the next morning. So it was on this occasion. I was now more convinced than ever that Hamo could not be Fidele’s murderer. The iron bar, the body on the altar top, all was clear in my mind. Someone else had murdered Fidele.

But who?

Whoever it was I wouldn’t find them today, alas, for in a very short while Gilbert and I would be on our way to Ely leaving Abbot Eustache to fester in his prejudices. I wondered if he dreamed and if so whether he changed his opinion. Somehow I doubted it. I couldn’t imagine Eustache de Fly ever changing his mind about anything. At least this morning for the first time in many weeks I awoke without the throbbing pain of toothache, a blessèd relief for which I heartily thanked God - and the guard in the marketplace.

Shortly after lauds I found Gilbert working in my laboratorium.

‘What are you doing, boy?’

‘Sewing, master.’

‘I can see you’re sewing.
What
are you sewing, and why?’

‘Money bags for our journey. Because father abbot told me to.’

Gilbert can be a little pedestrian at times.

‘I count eight. Why so many? We are only going as far as Ely, not Rome.’

‘Father Abbot never said anything about Rome, master.’

‘No, I didn’t mean...’ I shook my head. ‘Never mind. Did father abbot say why we needed so many?’

‘No master. But he did leave a message for you. He said as soon as you arrived you are to speak to Brother Lionel.’

Lionel is our sacrist. If the office of cellarer is the busiest in the abbey, that of the sacrist is arguably the most important since it is upon his skills that the abbey’s finances, and therefore its viability, depends. The sacristy was where Samson trained before he became abbot and it was largely because of his financial acumen that he was elected. Under the previous abbot our books had got into an awful mess. As sub-sacrist Samson had the necessary skill to put them in order but even then it had taken him a decade to do so. Ever since he had kept a close eye on all matters pertaining to both the abbot’s and the monks’ financial interests and was frugal to the point of meanness, which was why I was surprised to find he thought so much coin was needed just to get us to Ely.

‘It’s a bribe,’ explained Lionel. ‘Well, call it something else if you like but a bribe nonetheless. It’s the price of getting Bishop Eustace to close down his new market at Lakenheath.’

‘Oh yes,’ I nodded. ‘The cost of their charter from King John. I remember Samson saying.’

‘There’s no need for it,’ said Lionel pertly. ‘No need at all. The market is illegal and everybody knows it. I tried to dissuade Samson from such foolhardiness but sometimes there’s no reasoning with him.’

That didn’t sound at all like the Samson I knew.

‘How much is there?’

‘Fifteen marks.’

‘Good Lord! That’s...’ I tried to do the mental arithmetic ‘...an awful lot of pennies.’

Lionel nodded. ‘Two thousand four hundred to be precise. Eight bags of three hundred each, every silver penny of which minted here at the abbey’s mint,’ he added with pride. ‘When your assistant has finished sewing the bags I’ll get my clerk to count them out for you. Please try not to lose them. I don’t want anyone knocking at my door for recompense.’

The implications of what was being proposed started to dawn on me. ‘Does Samson really expect Gilbert and me to travel alone, without an escort, to Ely with eight bags of silver on our mules?’

‘What you do with them, brother, is entirely up to you. Once you sign for them they are no longer my responsibility.’

But that was exactly what Samson was expecting us to do, as he told me when I went to see him about it.

‘Bluff,’ he explained. ‘No highway robber will believe two monks stupid enough to travel alone with so much cash. Bluff will be your mask. Taking an escort would only attract attention. It would be like holding up a sign saying, “Here, we have goods worthy of protection, so come gentlemen and chance your arm”. Without a bodyguard robbers will think you’re just a couple of impoverished monks with nothing worth stealing. They may cut your throats but they would not think of looking under the sacking.’ He chuckled at my look of horror. ‘No truly, it’s much safer that way. I once bluffed my way across Europe armed with only my wits and a faith in God. No bodyguard, no weapon, nothing. I made it to Rome and back safely enough - more or less. One day I’ll tell you about it.’

‘You fill me with confidence, father.’

He smiled. ‘That’s what I’m here for. Was there something else you wanted to see me about?’

‘Only to thank you for supporting me yesterday over that business about the rod.’

‘Did I support you?’

‘You told Abbot Eustache you saw the body in the chapel when I knew you hadn’t.’

He shrugged. ‘I trust you. If you said the rod that killed Fidele was not bent then that’s good enough for me. And I’m not having anyone, not even the papal legate, accuse one of my obedientiaries of lying.
Mistaken
- possibly.
Disobedient
- definitely. But
lying
- no. Besides,’ he sniffed, ‘if you had been lying I would have to lock you up and that would mean you couldn’t go to Ely. The business with the Lakenheath market is far too important to delay over a little misunderstanding with Abbot Eustache. The other matter can wait for the coroner. Then if you are lying he will soon get it out of you and deal with you in the appropriate manner - once you’ve returned from Ely.’

‘Father - what can I say?’

‘How about “goodbye”?’

Gilbert and I set off immediately after prime for the twenty-six mile journey to the Isle of Ely hoping to complete it in a single day. The days are getting longer at this time of the year so baring unforeseen calamities we should manage to get there before dark. We’d also recently had a period of dry weather so the mud should have hardened and the bogs dried out.

We did as Samson suggested and hid the money bags under sacking, four on Gilbert’s mount and four on mine. Samson had generously given us the use of his two best mules, Agamemnon and Clytemnestra. Like their namesakes who in real life had been the husband and wife rulers of ancient Greece, they made a feisty couple, although I mustn’t forget that the original Clytemnestra murdered her husband in a fit of jealous rage.

The country to the west of Bury is very different from that around the abbey, much flatter and boggier, and became increasingly so the further west we went. I could see the adventure was enthralling Gilbert who in his twenty summers had never ventured this far from Bury before.

‘Master, why is it called the
Isle
of Ely? Surely the sea is a thousand miles from here.’

‘Not quite a thousand Gilbert, but you are right, Ely is nowhere near the sea. Look around you. The land hereabouts is wet and flat. Ely cathedral was built on the only dry promontory rising above the fens and can be seen for miles around like a glorious vessel floating upon the ocean, which is why today it is known as the ship of the fens.’

‘I see,’ he nodded, but I could tell from his puzzled expression that he did not see. So I decided to enlighten him further:

‘You’ve heard of Hereward the Wake?’

‘Oh yes, master. Every schoolchild has heard if him. He was a hero of England, wasn’t he, once upon a time?’

‘He was indeed a very great warrior. He fought against the Danish Horde - the same heathens who martyred our own beloved Saint Edmund. Hereward escaped to the Isle of Ely which in those times could only be reached by causeways built across the marshes. The Danes did not know the causeways and so could not follow, or drown in the attempt,’ I smiled.

‘I think I’ve heard this story, master. Wasn’t it there that he burned the cakes?’

‘Do you know, Gilbert, I’d forgotten that detail - but yes, I think you’re right. Hereward was so absorbed with the task of saving England from the wicked Danes, you see, that he failed to notice the cakes were burning and received a just rebuff from the lady of the house for his neglect. But in the end he marshalled his troops, won a great battle, saved England from the pagan horde and converted them to Christianity. That is why Hereward alone of all the English kings is called “great”: King Hereward the Great - or is it the Wake?’ I frowned. ‘I-I may have gotten one or two details wrong along the way, but that is the gist of it. At any rate that is why Ely is called an island.’

He looked admiringly at me. ‘How I envy you your knowledge, master.’

I smiled modestly. ‘You will have it, my boy, never fear. Study hard, listen to your elders and betters and one day, God willing, you will know as much as I do.’

‘Master?’

‘Yes my son?’

‘All this talk of derring-do has loosened my bowels. Do you think we could stop somewhere briefly for relief?’

I’d forgotten how young the boy was. The youth of today don’t have the constitution we had at their age. Unfortunately out here in this flat, treeless landscape there was no opportunity for Gilbert to relieve himself in modesty. It reminded me again of just how exposed we were out here on the flat plains. Any robber for miles around would be able to see us, and despite Samson’s reassurances I wasn’t at all happy about it. What we needed was another group of travellers going in the same direction whose company we could join, and as luck would have it at the next inn we found just that - a party of pilgrims on their way to visit the shrine of Saint Etheldreda, the patron saint of Ely. It was as though Saint Edmund had heard our prayers.

Even so I was wary of trusting a group of complete strangers. If anyone asked, I told Gilbert, he was to say we were pilgrims on our way to Saint Etheldreda’s shrine with nothing in our saddle-bags but altar cloth and candles.

Before we approached them I wanted to get the measure of them and was greatly reassured by the fact that half the group were women. They looked like a quiet party of husbands and wives with true devotion in their hearts and their minds filled with the Holy Spirit. The whole party was being served by a couple of pretty young wenches - the landlord’s two innocent daughters, no doubt. The leader of the group was a very jolly fellow called John with an infectious laugh, a breezy swagger and a vast moustache.

‘Of course you can join us, brother,’ he laughed heartily when I asked. ‘The more the merrier. You’re on your way to Ely too, you say?’

‘We are indeed, my assistant and I. That’s our sole purpose, you understand,’ I added quickly, ‘just a couple of poor pilgrims going to pay homage at the shrine of the great Saxon saint. We’ve no money, absolutely none at all.’

‘In that case you must allow me to buy you a cup of ale, brother. In payment you can tell us some new tales on the way. I’ve heard all theirs already.’ He jabbed a disparaging thumb towards his companions.

‘You are all one party, then?’

‘No no, we met by chance on the road. But that was some days back in Lincolnshire.’

‘How fortunate that you should all happen to be going in the same direction,’ I smiled. All this was music to my ears. If they didn’t know each other they were even less likely to be a single band of robbers.

Behind me I heard a cough and turned to see Gilbert with a look of increasing desperation on his face. To be honest, I’d forgotten all about his problem. I went over to the landlord, a sour-looking fellow with a red face who was busy collecting up pots.

‘This is a bit embarrassing,’ I said to the man quietly, ‘but is there a place of easement that my young colleague here could use? It’s been a long day in the saddle,’ I explained, ‘and we have come far without rest.’