The Abbot's Agreement (3 page)

Abbot Thurstan was an ancient fellow. He was elected to his position when the pestilence struck down Abbot Nicholas nearly twenty years past. It was no longer necessary for the monk to be tonsured fortnightly. He had but a wispy fringe of hoary hairs circling his skull above his ears.

I left Arthur to water the horses and followed Brother Gerleys to the abbot’s chamber while other monks took John Whytyng’s corpse to rest before the church altar.

The abbot’s chamber door was open when we approached, Abbot Thurstan dictating a letter to his clerk. The aged monk saw our shadows darken his door and looked toward us. As he did so I heard the sacrist ring the passing bell.

The abbot swayed to his feet as Brother Gerleys announced my presence. It took some effort for the abbot to do this, and I was cognizant of the honor. An abbot need not rise from his chair when a mere bailiff calls upon him.

Abbot Thurstan coughed, looked from me to the novice-master, then spoke. “It was John?” he said.

“Aye,” Brother Gerleys replied.

The abbot crossed himself and sat heavily. “I thought as much. A clever lad, with much to recommend him, taken, but the Lord Christ leaves me here.”

I thought to myself that the Lord Christ had little to do with the novice’s death, but held my tongue.

“Was it the pestilence?” the abbot continued.

Brother Gerleys looked to me.

“Nay,” I said. “The lad was struck down by a dagger in the back.”

Abbot Thurstan was silent for a time, then replied, “I would not wish for any man to die of plague. I have seen the agony in which the afflicted die. But I had hoped that the death was not the work of some other man’s hand. When plague first visited this house nearly twenty years past I saw Brother Oswalt try to rise from his bed and flee the infirmary, thinking he could escape his torment if he could leave the abbey. I thought perhaps John, crazed by pain, might have done likewise.”

“Had the youth given sign that he was ill?” I asked.

“Nay,” Brother Gerleys said.

“The pestilence can slay a man quickly,” the abbot said, “but so will a blade.”

“I wish you success in discovering the felon,” I said.

The abbot looked from his clerk to the novice-master and then to me. “I remember,” he said, “when you discovered ’twas a brother of this house who stole Master Wyclif’s books. We have no man so skilled at sniffing out felons.”

“Has Eynsham no bailiff or constable?”

“A bailiff. But Richard is nearly as old as me. He sees little and hears less. He is competent for the mundane duties of a bailiff, but seeking a murderer will be beyond his competence.”

I saw the direction this conversation was taking and sought to deflect its path.

“I am bound for Oxford,” I said, “and hope to arrive before nightfall. The days grow short, so I need to be on my way.”

“I am sorry to delay your travel.” The abbot coughed again. “You have business in Oxford?”

“I intend to make a purchase there, and then return promptly to Bampton. My wife will give birth to our second child soon after Twelfth Night and I do not wish for her to be alone any longer than need be.”

“Ah… certainly. But,” I saw in his eyes that the elderly
monk’s mind was working, “could you not spare us a few days to sort out this calamity? Surely your purchase can wait, and there is a midwife of Eynsham who could be sent to Bampton to attend your wife ’till this matter is settled. I will pay the woman from abbey funds. What is it you wish to obtain in Oxford?”

“A Bible.”

“Ah, Lord Gilbert must regard your service highly.”

“He is liberal with wages to those whose service he values,” I agreed.

“As am I. In our scriptorium there are many brothers who are accomplished with pen and ink. Brother Robert and Brother Bertran are particularly skilled. The abbey has no important commissions just now. If you will set yourself to discovering the murderer among us I will put the scriptorium to work upon a Bible.” Abbot Thurstan coughed heavily again. “You will have it by St. John’s Day, or soon thereafter.”

The youngest son of a minor Lancashire knight, as I am, learns frugality at an early age. I have become modestly prosperous, but not so that I would willingly forgo the saving of thirty shillings. I stood silently before the abbot, as if considering his offer, but I knew already that I would accept.

“If I am unable to discover the murderer, what then?”

“The Lord Christ,” the abbot said, “commands only that we strive to do His will. He does not demand that we always succeed. So I ask only for your best effort. If you give the abbey that it will suffice. You will receive your Bible.

“I will command all who live in the abbey, monks and lay brothers, that they are to assist you in whatever way you need.” The abbot’s frail shoulders were once again wracked with deep coughs.

“Very well. But I must return to Bampton to tell my Kate of this alteration in my plans. When will you send the woman to keep my wife company ’til this matter can be resolved? And will she accept your commission?”

“Agnes is a widow, and since the pestilence too few babes are born in Eynsham to provide her a livelihood. She is unlikely to refuse my offer. I will send her tomorrow.”

So it was that Arthur and I returned to Bampton that day, and I spent the evening sitting upon a bench before the hearth with my Kate, considering who might wish to slay a novice and why they would do so.

M
y employer, Lord Gilbert Talbot, had departed Bampton three days after Michaelmas, bound for Goodrich Castle. He traveled only with his children. Lady Petronilla had died in the late spring. The pestilence has claimed several others in Bampton and the Weald since then.

I pray each evening that the curse would spare my house and family. And as of November the Lord Christ has seen fit to honor my plea. Others have surely made the same request, but death visited their houses anyway. Is the Lord Christ more pleased with me than with others who have seen spouses and children die? This cannot be, for no man outside a monastery is more saintly than Hubert Shillside, but his wife died in great agony a fortnight before Lammastide.

It is Lord Gilbert’s custom to spend each winter at Goodrich, leaving Bampton Castle in September, while roads are yet firm. Although he mourned Lady Petronilla’s death, he saw no reason to change his practice. So I, his bailiff in Bampton, was left to see to the manor and castle in his absence. Most of his retainers – knights, squires, pages, valets, and grooms – departed with him, leaving but a few grooms and pages under my authority to maintain the fabric.

I had looked forward to a peaceful winter, with but three concerns: one common to all Englishmen – keeping warm; the others, that my Kate be safely delivered of a healthy babe, and that the pestilence leave Bampton with no more deaths. Perhaps a woodcutter might mistake his toes for a log, or some man slip and fall upon the ice come January, but generally winter is a peaceful time, when men do not seek a surgeon’s services, and would, as in any season, prefer to avoid a bailiff’s attention.

Arthur is one of Lord Gilbert’s grooms, who remains at Bampton Castle when others forsake the place to serve Lord
Gilbert at his other properties. This is so because Arthur was wed, and had a family which he preferred not to uproot.

But Cicily died of the pestilence on midsummer’s eve, and his children, all grown and also in Lord Gilbert’s service, traveled with their lord to Goodrich. So Arthur did not much object to a journey to Oxford, or any other place, to break the monotony of life in a nearly empty castle.

I had told Arthur to return to Galen House with the horses on Wednesday, about noon. I thought by then Abbot Thurstan would have sent the midwife, and Arthur would have filled his belly with the simple repast provided when Lord Gilbert was absent from Bampton Castle hall.

My Kate is supple, but as her time nears she finds it irksome to bend to pots and pans upon the hearth. I am no cook, but to assist her I can stir a kettle when need be. So it was that I was tending the pottage when I heard a rapping upon our door. Kate rose heavily from her seat upon a bench, approached the door, and returned with a woman nearly as young as herself and two black-garbed men. Abbot Thurstan had kept the first part of his bargain.

The woman was named Agnes Shortnekke. I was troubled that she was not as old as Katherine Pecham, midwife to Bampton. Her unlined face seemed to me to warn of a lack of experience. But it immediately occurred to me that others no doubt considered my own youthful features as evidence of shallow surgical skills. I am as competent with scalpel and needle as any man, so I bit my tongue and made no remark about the midwife’s youth. And Katherine Pecham was but two hundred paces distant if the babe decided to present himself early to the world. I had hope that I could discover a murderer well before St. Stephen’s Day.

Kate had not planned on guests at our table, but hospitality required that they be invited to join our simple meal. There was little need to scrub the pot when the lay brothers finished their portion of the pottage.

Kate and Agnes discovered many interests in common, and chattered freely while I and the lay brothers waited for Arthur to appear with the horses. This he did when the pale sun stood
directly over the end of Church View Street. Arthur is nothing if not reliable.

My Kate stood in the door of Galen House to bid me “God-speed,” Mistress Shortnekke behind her peering over her shoulder. I saw Arthur look twice in the direction of Galen House’s door. Likely he was as startled as I had been at the midwife’s youthful appearance. Well, not youthful, exactly; but not aged, as are most of her profession.

In times past I would have climbed upon the broad back of Bruce, an old dexter Lord Gilbert had provided for my use. The beast had carried my employer into battle at Poitiers many years past, and I had grown fond of the creature, although his gait was lumpy and left my nether portion tender whenever I was required to ride any distance. But the old beast had died two days before Michaelmas. His eyes were rheumy with age, so I know not if the pestilence took him as well as men and women of town and castle. The palfrey I rode now was a more agreeable seat, but I missed my old companion nevertheless.

Arthur, I, and the lay brothers greeted the Eynsham Abbey porter as the monks of the house were leaving the church after nones. Abbot Thurstan shuffled along at their head, followed by Brother Gerleys and a tall monk who I soon learned was Brother Philip, the prior.

The abbot’s eyes traveled to our horses as they were being led to the abbey stables, and he looked to the gatehouse and recognized me. He lifted a hand and motioned for me to follow. I nodded to Arthur and we fell in behind the tottering old abbot. The prior did likewise.

“We buried John Whytyng this morning,” the abbot said as he led us to his chamber.

“Has his father been told?”

“I sent a lay brother to Wantage this morning. Sir Henry has been a reliable benefactor. He will be much displeased that we were unable to keep his son safe.”

There was a thought left unspoken in Abbot Thurstan’s words. Eynsham Abbey would not like to lose the favor of a
prosperous knight who had been generous with his coin. If I could find who had slain the novice the discovery might go far to assuaging the father’s anger, or at least turning his wrath to the felon and away from the abbey. Unless the murderer was a monk of the house. Certainly Abbot Thurstan wished for me to discover the felon, yet he was likely fearful of what I would learn and how the discovery would affect his abbey.

Abbot Thurstan coughed, collapsed into his chair, motioned for me to take another, and Prior Philip sat in a third. Arthur glanced about the chamber and seated himself upon a bench drawn up against a wall.

The abbot sighed deeply, then spoke. “I set much store by John Whytyng. Brother Gerleys spoke often of his brilliance. I thought perhaps some day, when I have gone to meet the Lord Christ, and Brother John had become a respected monk, his fellows of this house might select him for their abbot.”

“Brother Gerleys,” I said, “told me he was not happy as a novice here, and when he disappeared, thought he had gone to his father.”

The abbot sighed again. “I wish Brother Gerleys had spoken to me of this. Of course, he may have done and I paid him no heed. I have the disease of the ears.

“My eyes are clouded, my ears hear little, my joints creak and groan, my fingers ache and will no longer grip a pen. But it is all well. If an old man could see and hear and leap as well as when he was a lad, no man would ever be content to die. The frailty of age brings a man to welcome the release of death from the gaol his body has become. I pray daily that the Lord Christ will soon free me from this prison.”

“Perhaps He has work for you yet to do,” the prior said. I noticed that he smiled while he spoke.

“I do not question His will,” the abbot said, “although I admit it is often a mystery to me.”

“To us all,” I agreed. “Since I was last in this chamber, have you learned any new thing about the novice’s death?”

“Nothing,” Prior Philip said, “but this morning, after John
was buried, Brother Gerleys took a boar’s head to the edge of the meadow near to where John was found. He said you advised him to do so.”

“I did. Birds will soon discover it, and we may learn how long it will take them to do to a pig’s head the same harm that was done to the novice.”

“You believe that John did not lie in the forest from the time he left the abbey until you found him?”

“I do not know. We may soon learn.”

“Was he struck down there?” the abbot asked.

“I think not. He was pierced three times, but I found no blood under him.”

“Three times,” Abbot Thurstan repeated softly. “Brother Gerleys told me of this. How will you begin your search?”

“I must seek Brother Gerleys and his novices. Perhaps they know of some enemy which John feared, or heard him speak of some danger.”

“I’ll see you to the novices’ chamber,” the prior said. “Brother Gerleys insisted that they be about their studies, even though their companion was buried this morn.”

It was difficult to take my gaze from the prior’s face during this conversation. He was, I thought, the ugliest man I had ever seen. His forehead and chin sloped back above and below a large nose which was afflicted with lumps and pustules. His upper teeth protruded over his lower lip, and his cheeks were red and crusted with cast-off skin. He was a man who, unless he was wealthy and possessed lands and a title, few women would find appealing. No wonder he sought life in a monastery.

We found the novices and their instructor at a silent lesson. The novice-master was teaching his charges the signs they would use to communicate when in the cloister and refectory, where silence reigned. Brother Gerleys faced the door to this chamber, so he saw me, Arthur, and the prior while his pupils had their backs to us. The lads saw his fluttering fingers hesitate and his eyes rise to us. They turned to see what had interrupted their exercise.

The classroom was warm, heated by a small blaze upon a hearth. Benedictines deal gently with novices, perhaps not wishing to deter them from taking their vows. The only other heated room in the abbey would be the calefactory, where monks warm themselves when winter comes.

The novices sprang to their feet when they saw the prior at their door. One lad was quite small, a frail youth with pale hair and skin, his features blotchy with that scourge of youth, pimples. I thought him likely no more than fifteen years old, although his reed-like form may have clouded my judgment. The other lad was much larger, nearly a full-grown man. A few scattered whiskers grew from his chin and upper lip. The novice-master would soon need to instruct this one in the fortnightly use of a razor.

“Master Hugh wishes to speak to you and the lads,” Prior Philip said to Brother Gerleys. I did not expect the tone I heard in the prior’s voice. He had seemed an amicable sort of man while with Abbot Thurstan, but there was no friendship in his words to Brother Gerleys.

The novice-master bowed silently, and the prior turned and walked from the chamber. Arthur had also noted the prior’s hostility, and glanced toward me with an expression which said silently, “What think you of that?”

“Master Hugh,” Brother Gerleys said when the prior’s footsteps had faded, “here are Osbert Homersley and Henry Fuller, novices of this house.”

The youths bowed to me by way of greeting and I motioned them to return to their bench.

Brother Gerleys had seemed to take no offense to the prior’s curt greeting and announcement. “How may we serve you?” he said in a level voice.

“I wish to speak to you of John Whytyng. Abbot Thurstan has charged me with the task of discovering his murderer. When did you last see him?” I asked the two novices.

I expected Henry, being the older of the two, to speak, but ’twas Osbert who replied. He spoke in fractured tones, not yet a man, but no longer a child.

“Thursday,” the lad said. “He was seated with us in the retrochoir for compline, and returned to our chamber with us. When we rose for lauds his bed was cold.”

“What of vigils?” I asked.

“Novices of this house are not required to rise in the night for that office,” Brother Gerleys said.

To Osbert I said, “I have heard that John was not well suited for the vows he was soon to take. Did he speak to you of this?”

“Aye. I was not surprised to find him away.”

“Had he ever departed your chamber in the night before?”

Neither novice replied, until Brother Gerleys nodded, then Osbert spoke. “Twice, that I know of.”

“That you know of? You believe he was often away in the night?”

“Once I heard him rise to visit the reredorter and I saw him return. ’Twas near dawn. Another time I lay awake but Henry slept. John thought we both did, and crept from his bed.”

“When did he return?”

“Don’t know. Finally I fell to sleep. He was in his bed when the sacrist rang the bell for lauds.”

“Did you tell Brother Gerleys of this?”

“He did,” the novice-master replied. “I questioned John sharply about these nocturnal prowls.”

“What did he say?”

“Claimed that when he could not sleep he would walk the cloister and meditate.”

“You believe this?”

Brother Gerleys was silent for some time. The two novices stared at him, open-mouthed, awaiting his answer.

“I wanted to. But now that he has been found slain outside the abbey precincts, I believe it must not be so. No man would stab him in the cloister, I think, then drag him half a mile to the place you found him. And if murder was done in the cloister, how did the felon get himself and a corpse from the abbey in the night?”

“Two men might,” I said.

“Oh… aye, perhaps.”

“What of the explorators?” I asked. “Have you spoken to them? Did they never see John out of his bed?”

“They have never said so. It is their duty to see to the locks and that all of the brothers are abed in the dormitory after compline. Then they seek their own rest. ’Tis not required of them then to prowl the abbey throughout the night.”

“Come,” I said. “We will seek permission from Abbot Thurstan for me and Arthur to enter the cloister. If he grants it, we will walk the cloister and seek any sign that murder may have been done there.”

Abbot Thurstan’s lodging, as with most Benedictine houses, is in the west range of the abbey. We found the abbot there in conversation with the prior and another monk I had not before seen. I was introduced. Brother Gerald was the guest-master, and would be responsible for my comfort in the guest parlor while Arthur and I remained at the abbey.