Hill of Bones (13 page)

Gwenllian regarded him askance. ‘You do? Why?’

‘Because I buried Dacus on Solsbury Hill for
his
sake – to spare the reputation of a chaplain he loved. And then you explained Dacus’ disappearance by telling everyone that he had gone on a pilgrimage. Reginald will be grateful to us, so I imagine you will have some good news for me soon.’

Gwenllian stared at him, wondering whether the queasiness she had been suffering these past few mornings could be a new life beginning inside her, and not something she had eaten, as she had assumed. She did some rapid calculations. It was certainly possible.

Rome, 1200

It had taken Walter some time to catch up with Pica, but he had done it in the end, intercepting him just as he was about to enter the Holy City. He watched dispassionately as Pica grabbed the poisoned goblet and raised it to his lips. The feisty Abbot Elect drained the contents in a single swallow, and set it back on the table with an impatient clatter.

Walter smiled. Life had been so much better since he had manipulated the unstable Dacus into believing that Adam had killed Reginald. Walter had hoped to be appointed master of the hospital himself, but when he had seen Adam’s murder pass virtually unremarked, he had decided to try for an even greater prize. Again, it had been easy to persuade Dacus that Hugh was close to learning the truth about Adam’s murder, and within days, Walter was prior.

Of course, Savaric could hardly keep him in post after Gwenllian had exposed his role in the tavern attack – although mercifully, no one had guessed that
he
was the power behind Dacus as well. He had been in the process of urging Dacus to kill Cole, too – the death of her husband would be Gwenllian’s punishment – but Dacus had selfishly disappeared on a pilgrimage, so revenge would have to wait until both returned to Bath.

Walter’s fortunes had taken something of a downward turn since then, but he was not unduly worried. Savaric had shown his continued favour by giving him another mission, and would be delighted to learn that the belligerent Pica would no longer be a problem. Walter licked his lips as he anticipated the riches and high offices that would soon be his.

He watched Pica sit suddenly and raise a hand to his head. It looked like the beginnings of a fever – and Walter knew, because that was what had happened after he had fed a similar substance to Reginald. Of course, Savaric did not know who had been responsible for
that
particular deed; for all this ambition, Savaric had loved his cousin dearly. Walter, though, had found the man’s piety irritating, and it had been deeply satisfying to poison him before he could be made Archbishop of Canterbury.

Walter did not wait to see Pica die, because a pouch had arrived that morning along with instructions that it was not to be opened until he had completed his duties. He was eager to know what it contained, because he could certainly hear the jingle of coins within. As Pica was already as good as dead, he fumbled with the seals, excitement making his fingers clumsy. He grinned his delight when several gold nobles spilled into his eager hands. There was also a letter.

He tore it open, and read the message within – Savaric thanking him for getting rid of a man who had been such a thorn in his side. Walter regarded it in alarm. Was the bishop mad to put such thoughts in writing? What if the pouch had fallen into the wrong hands? It would have sealed both their fates!

Then he became aware of raised voices and looked up to see that the people who had gathered around the dying Pica were staring at him. Pica raised a shaking hand and pointed. Immediately, three monks started to run towards him. Appalled, Walter tried to hide the letter, first slipping it up his sleeve, and then, in frantic desperation, stuffing it in his mouth.

It was no good. The monks forced him to spit it out, and their faces paled with shock when they read what was written. They grabbed his arms, so he could not escape, at which point, the coins dropped from his fingers. He tried to protest his innocence, but he had neglected to throw away the phial that had contained the poison, and they found it in his bag. That, with the letter and the gold, would be more than enough to convict him. Would it convict Savaric, too? Walter, full of frustrated spite, sincerely hoped so. But then he happened to glance at Pica, who still clung to the vestiges of life.

Pica was smiling. It was an unusual enough sight that Walter gaped. But then he understood. Clever Pica! He had guessed that he might not reach Rome alive, so he had staged his own revenge on the men he thought might kill him. Savaric had written no letter. Of course he had not – he was far too astute for such a blunder. It was Pica!

But would it succeed in destroying Savaric, or would the bishop’s denials be enough to let him keep the kingdom he had carved for himself in Bath and Glastonbury? Walter could have wept with pity for himself when he realised that he would never know.

Historical Note

There has been an abbey in Bath since Saxon times. Originally, an abbot was in charge, but this changed in 1098, when the then Bishop of Wells moved his seat there. The abbey became a cathedral priory, with a prior as its head. Hugh was prior from 1174; Prior Walter died in 1198; and Prior Robert stayed in office until being elected Abbot of Glastonbury in 1223.

In 1191, Savaric fitz Geldwin became Bishop of Bath, following the promotion of his cousin, Reginald fitz Jocelyn, to the Archbishopric of Canterbury. Reginald died
en route
to his installation, and his body was returned to Bath, where it was buried in the abbey church. He was popular, founding the Hospital of St John the Baptist (one of its early masters was named Adam), and several miracles were later said to have occurred at his tomb.

No such saintliness was attributed to Savaric, however. Greedy and ambitious, he contrived to have Hugh de Sully, Abbot of Glastonbury, appointed Bishop of Worcester, and then announced to Glastonbury’s astonished monks that he was their master now. Needless to say they objected, and immediately appealed against him to Richard I and the Pope. Unfortunately for them, both supported Savaric, although Richard later recanted, and claimed he had been coerced.

The Dean and Chapter of Wells were also outraged by Savaric’s high handedness in changing his title from ‘Bishop of Bath’ to ‘Bishop of Bath and Glastonbury’. Canons Ralph de Lechlade and Jocelin Trotman were the two representatives who travelled to Bath to make their objections known.

In 1198, the Pope died, Richard withdrew his support from Savaric, and the Glastonbury monks elected William Pica as abbot. Savaric promptly excommunicated Pica. Another twist in the tale occurred in 1199, when King Richard was succeeded by his brother John, who allowed Savaric to buy his support. Armed with John’s backing, Savaric invaded Glastonbury with a mob of henchmen, and forcibly enthroned himself. Several monks were injured in the resulting mêlée.

Outraged, Pica left for Rome. He died on the journey, and Glastonbury’s monks claimed that Savaric had had him poisoned. Glastonbury did not win its independence from Bath until 1219. Savaric weathered the accusations, and died a wealthy and successful man in 1205. He was succeeded as bishop by none other than Canon Trotman, who remained in post until 1242.

September 1204

The lay brother set the wooden tray on the floor at his feet and stretched himself, hands pressed against his aching back. He had been bending for the last ten minutes, polishing the brass feet of a lectern until he could see his face in the gleaming metal.

Eldred took an almost proprietorial pride in his part of the great abbey church and now gazed around fondly in the peaceful noon-time, glad to be alone while the priests, monks and deacons were eating in the refectory. He was a slight, fair man of thirty, with an open face and an inoffensive manner to match.

He had been tending the fabric of Bath’s cathedral for the past ten years and had graduated from being a lowly cleaner down in the nave, to being responsible for this upper part of the building, the most sanctified area of the choir, the presbytery and the sanctuary, the space that held the high altar.

Picking up his tray of cleaning cloths and beeswax polish, Eldred moved to the centre and genuflected towards the altar, a long table covered with a lace-edged linen cloth of spotless white, on which was a bronze cross and a pair of tall candlesticks. He crossed to the north side of the presbytery, the space between choir and sanctuary. As he went, he looked briefly down through the rows of choir stalls. Beyond them, he saw the carved rood screen that shielded the holiest area from the nave and the rude stares of the townsfolk, when they came to stand there for Sunday worship. There was still no sign of anyone returning from their midday meal, so Eldred decided to give a quick polish to the sacred vessels – his favourite task, as it allowed him to handle the most venerated objects in the abbey.

Padding across the tiled floor in his sandals, he went to the aumbry, a cupboard set in the thickness of the wall between the presbytery and the ambulatory, the corridor that ran around inside the east end of the church.

The two doors of the aumbry were of polished oak with brass corners, an ornate ivory cross set into each panel. They were closed by a large brass hasp and staple, with a padlock securing them. Eldred fumbled for the ring of keys that hung on a chain from the leather belt around his long brown robe. By touch alone, he chose one that he had handled virtually daily for the past four years and advanced on the lock.

It was then that warning bells began to ring inside his head. As he touched the lock to push the key into the hole, the hasp swung slackly back on its hinge, the staple from the other door coming away with it. Almost unwilling to believe his eyes, Eldred saw that the four long rivets that had held the staple to the oak were drooping from the brass plate, scraps of torn wood falling to the floor beneath. In a frenzy of concern, he pulled open both doors, still hoping that this was some explicable happening, like dry rot or woodworm – a foolish thought, but better than the obvious alternative.

Inside, there were two shelves, the lower one carrying vials of oil and unguents, as well as the service books, sheets of parchment bound between wooden covers. Nothing there was amiss, but the upper shelf was almost bare. A couple of silver patens remained, on which the consecrated host was carried to those taking communion, but the pride of the abbey, the golden chalice and the pyx, had gone!

Sweat began to pour from Eldred’s brow. He knew he would get the blame for this, as he was the only one with access to the aumbry, apart from Hubert, the sacrist, responsible for setting up the arrangements for each Mass, who was his direct superior, and Brother Gilbert, the cellarer, who was responsible for the material contents of the abbey. Even Prior Robert did not possess a key. That the aumbry had been forcibly broken into would not help Eldred, unless the real culprit was rapidly discovered, as the prior disliked him and would be only too ready to make him the scapegoat.

As the first horror of the situation subsided into a deadening acceptance, the lay brother knew that he had to report the theft immediately. The chalice, though small, was solid gold, a legacy of the first monastery on this site, many hundreds of years earlier. Eldred was not an educated man – he could neither read nor write – but had been around the abbey for many years and had picked up something of its history from listening to others. The chalice, given by Offa, King of Mercia in the eighth century, was probably made from gold stolen from the Welsh by the Saxons. The pyx, a small gold-lined silver box, was for holding the ‘reserved sacrament’, communion wafers that had been consecrated ready for use.

With feet of lead, Eldred made his way to the steps that led to the south transept, after first pushing the rivets back into the shattered holes in the door of the aumbry. For a moment, he contemplated leaving it as he had found it and letting someone else discover the catastrophe, denying any knowledge of it. But that would be futile, he recognised. Everyone knew that Eldred spent much of his time in the chancel, cleaning and polishing.

He began to hurry and reached the small door set just beyond the south transept, which led directly out into the cloisters. The clergy were thronging the cloister, gossiping as they came out of the refectory into the pillared arcade.

Almost immediately, Eldred saw the skinny figure of the sacrist approaching. Hubert of Frome, the monk responsible for the fabric and furnishings of the abbey, was a small, weasely fellow with a sallow complexion and a turn in his left eye. The black Benedictine habit hung badly on his meagre frame and his permanently irritable expression made him even more unattractive. His first words set the tone for a fraught encounter.

‘Eldred, what are you doing here?’ he rasped. ‘Why have you left your duties?’

There were a dozen monks within hearing distance and Eldred sidled up to the sacrist to murmur in his ear, ‘You must come to the presbytery at once, brother! An evil thing has happened!’

Hubert scowled at his lowly assistant, but something in Eldred’s voice persuaded him not to make a public issue of it in the cloister. He followed Eldred as he scurried back to the presbytery and crossed to the other side without acknowledging the high altar. Hubert crossed himself as he bent a knee, then prepared to berate the other man for not doing the same. But his protests died in his throat as Eldred reached the aumbry and with a dramatic gesture, pulled open the doors to display the broken lock and the bare shelf.

‘The chalice and the pyx, Master! Gone!’

The sacrist was speechless. Then with a moan, he dropped to his knees and peered inside the aumbry. His hand groped blindly at the back of the upper shelf, as if his sense of touch might reassure him that his sight was defective. When he rose to his feet, his normally pallid features were almost dead white with shock.

‘How can this be? What have you done, fellow?’

‘Nothing, Master! I found it like this, not ten minutes ago,’ wailed Eldred. ‘See, the staple has been torn from the wood!’