Unholy Innocence (2 page)

‘What? Oh yes - I need to replenish some of my oils.’

As usual he had anticipated my request and handed me a parcel he’d already made up. Then almost as an afterthought he took a small phial from a shelf. ‘Take this as well,’ he said handing it to me. ‘It’s an opiate that I’ve been experimenting with.’

I took the stopper out, sniffed the contents and nearly choked. ‘God’s breath, what’s in it?’

‘Oh, various things: The gall of a boar, hemlock, opium, vinegar, plus a few other ingredients that I’ve added myself. It will make a man drowsy and deaden the pain of any surgical procedure. But mark me, only give a few drops at a time. Too much and it will suppress the action of the lungs and you may have a dead patient on your hands.’

‘Surgery?’ I scoffed putting the phial in my belt pouch. ‘I doubt I will have need of it. I’m a physician not a surgeon. I leave slicing to barbers.’

‘You never know,’ he said sternly. ‘With so many about to descend upon the town it may be useful in the coming days.’ He held open his arms. ‘Well, brother, it has been good to see you.’

‘You too, brother.’ I said hugging him to my breast.

So saying, I stepped out into the bright sunshine again and started back towards the town little knowing just how prophetic his words would be.

Chapter
2

THE
ARRIVAL OF THE KING

A
n
event as momentous as a royal visit is not something that can be easily concealed - at least, not without much subterfuge and cunning. And since the King would be staying with us at the abbey during his visit it would have been a courtesy at least to have told us first - an oversight that irked some of our less phlegmatic brethren. But before voicing our complaints we decided to give Abbot Samson the opportunity to explain himself, which he did the next morning in the chapterhouse beginning with a lie:

‘Brothers forgive me, I apologise for the confusion. Until today I had no more knowledge of the King’s impending visit than did you.’

This we knew to be false since the Abbot had himself been in London until a few days before so he must have known of the King’s plans. As Baron of the Liberty of Edmundsbury he was, after all, one of the King’s chief advisors.

‘How fortuitous, then, that so much extra provision has been bought by the cellarer in the market these past few days.’

This from Brother Egbert who, being something of a natural rebel, was often the first to speak his mind. Several other monks murmured their agreement.

Abbot Samson pursed his lips and nodded. ‘No, you are right, Egbert. I did know the King was coming, I admit it. Forgive this poor servant for trying to deceive you but Prior Robert and I were sworn to absolute secrecy. These are dangerous times and the King’s safety was our first concern. But, for love of God and Saint Edmund, I will tell you now all that I know and that is this: For those of you who have not already heard the dreadful news King Richard, our beloved Lionheart, is dead, killed most foully by an assassin’s arrow. But before he died he named his brother, the Prince John, as his successor.’

Gasps of horror and disbelief went up among the congregation. Frankly I was astonished at this. The news of Richard’s death had been the hottest gossip around the town for a fortnight. But I was forgetting how few of my brother monks ever ventured further from the abbey precincts than the cloister garth. News of the outside world was often slow to penetrate the abbey walls. And this particular piece of news they might have preferred not to hear for all knew John’s reputation. While King Richard was away fighting in the Holy Land John had been left in charge and his hopeless mismanagement of affairs had brought the country close to civil war. Worse, during Richard’s captivity in Germany John had openly conspired to keep Richard permanently locked up and to have himself declared King. It did not bode well for the future peace of the land.

‘So it is not King Harry who is coming?’ piped up Old Simon who was in his eighties and a bit confused.

‘No, Simon,’ said Brother Allen seated next to him. ‘The new king is Henry’s son, John.’

‘Little Prince John?’ queried Simon still looking puzzled. ‘He’s but a child.’

‘Old enough to be King,’ said Allen kindly, ‘as of last Thursday,’ and nodded toward the Prior.

‘There is a new government now, Simon,’ said the Prior shortly. ‘We must all get used to the change.’

But Simon was having none of that. ‘Change, always change,’ he grumbled. ‘No good ever comes of change. First Stephen then Matilda then back again. That was change and look what happened: Civil war.’

‘That was fifty years ago,’ reminded the Prior. ‘We have peace now, brother.’

‘Peace –
piss!
’ muttered Simon before settling down again.

Unperturbed, Samson continued: ‘But the good news is that King John has chosen to give thanks for his elevation here at our abbey of Saint Edmund.’ He beamed encouragingly all round the assembled monks. ‘It is a great honour, is it not, that he has chosen us for his first great visit of state? Naturally this had to be arranged with all speed and in the greatest secrecy for the King’s safety, hence my inability to share this sad but also, I think, happy news with you until now.’ He beamed again and nodded to show his sincerity.

No-one believed a word of it. We all knew Abbot Samson’s opinion of John. During Richard’s incarceration he had openly opposed John and had defended Richard’s honour in the council meetings, even offering to make the hazardous trip himself to the German prison where Richard was kept to verify his identity. But now with Richard dead, all that was in the past and as a member of the King’s Council Samson felt obliged to demonstrate his commitment to the new government however reticent he may have felt about it.

Further discussion was curtailed, to Samson’s obvious relief, for events were already overtaking us. Outside on the cobbles could be heard the sound of many horses arriving and we all rushed to the windows where we were met with the ominous sight of soldiers, exhausted from several days’ march, falling out of line and collapsing onto the ground. They were followed by wagon after wagon of the King’s baggage train. The rumpus went on for the rest of the day and it was evening before the last of the wagons rumbled into the abbey grounds. By the time they had finished it seemed as though an entire city had entered through the Abbey Gate and s
et up camp in the Great Court. The noise of a thousand voices was tremendous as dozens of fires, tents, corrals for horses, workshops and make-shift kitchens appeared as if from out of the mouth of hell beneath us. Only then as dusk began to fall did the King himself canter casually in through the Abbot’s gate and up to the palace, along with his retinue of courtiers and bodyguards. Thus in the space of a single afternoon the town and abbey had been transformed from a peaceful haven of pilgrimage and commerce into a garrisoned fortress. All five gates of the town were locked and manned and dozens of soldiers in full battle array and with weapons drawn were nervously patrolling the streets, ready to strike first and ask questions later. Nothing was to be left to chance to ensure the King’s safety. Edmund’s little town was sewn up as tight as a nun’s undergarments – no way out, and certainly no way in.

*

The following day the whole town was invited into the Great Court of the abbey to hear the King greet his people. I say ‘invited’ but there was no real opportunity to refuse, though many would have liked to have done so, for John was no more popular with the townsfolk of Edmundsbury than he was with its monks. Few accepted the story of how Richard came to meet his end. Most suspected that he was either languishing once again in some European dungeon or had been murdered. In either instance the culprit was undoubtedly the garishly-attired little man now standing on the podium before them. Still, John’s speech that day stirred something in the hearts of those who heard him. He said all the right things: He confirmed the rights and privileges of our blessed martyr, Saint Edmund - very keen was Abbot Samson on this point - and he promised to smite our enemies abroad, by which of course he meant King Philip of France. Then he ended with these words:

‘Many of you, I know, do not credit me as a worthy successor to my brother. You think me weak and ineffectual. To you I say this: I am of the same stock as Richard. His blood runs in my veins as it did in the veins of our father and in those of the Lady Eleanor, my mother, who sends her greetings to you all. From Scotland to Navarre ours is the greatest empire since Rome and together we can be greater still. But grant me your trust and I promise you will not be disappointed. There may be worthier princes who have sat upon this sacred throne of England but never was there one who loved thee better.’

The crowd was entranced, charmed even. Where was the snivelling princeling who less than a decade earlier had been forced to humble himself before great King Richard? Where the arrogant boy-lieutenant of Ireland who had been chased back to London for pulling the beards of Irish chieftains? John’s words dazzled them. Perhaps better times really were ahead. Perhaps at the magical moment when the Archbishop placed Saint Edward’s sacred crown upon his head he had indeed been transformed by the miracle of consecration. How desperately they wanted it to be so. The taxes and the treachery now forgotten, when King John finally turned to Abbot Samson and gave him the Kiss of Peace the crowd roared as one:
Vivat Rex
!  Long live the King!
Why, even Egbert, I saw, was cheering. Such is the magic of royalty.

But it was all a
n illusion, for bad times were indeed about to descend upon us.

Chapter 3

ABBOT SAMSON

Bad
times began for me personally the very next morning when I found myself summoned to Abbot Samson’s study immediately after Chapter. Not that there was anything unusual in that. I was often being reprimanded by the Abbot for something or other, usually to do with my inability to keep my private thoughts to myself. I had a good idea what it was about today.

‘Do you know what these are?’ he asked tapping the paper on the desk in front of him.
‘Plans for my new towers for the west front of the abbey church,’ he supplied before I could answer. ‘The work will begin this week, God willing. You’ve no idea the difficulty I had finding the craftsmen capable of doing the job.’

I
stood facing him on the other side of the desk like a recalcitrant schoolboy and had to rotate my head to see. ‘Interesting shape, father. What are they - octagons?’

He ignored me. ‘In a thousand years from now, Walter, when all of us – you, me, even the King – are dust and forgotten my towers will still be here. And in that far off and impossible world of the future - assuming there is still a world for people then and Christ has not already returned to judge us – when men look at my towers they won’t be asking who designed them, what was the mason’s name, how many tons of stone were needed or where it was quarried. All these are details. The important thing
will be my towers and the message they convey. That will endure. Everything else is…’ he twiddled his fingers in the air as if playing an imaginary flute, ‘…flotsam.’

I nodded, trying to look interested but wondering what point he was trying to make.

Abbot Samson sat back heavily in his chair and sighed wearily. ‘You seemed confused yesterday afternoon, Walter.’

‘Confused, father?’ I smiled pleasantly. ‘How so?’

‘About the events of last November.’

He was referring
, as I knew, to the night he presided over the opening of Saint Edmund’s shrine. Following a fire in the abbey church the previous year the old shrine had been damaged and Edmund’s body was being transferred to a new one specially constructed for him. Samson had taken the opportunity while the coffin was open to examine the remains of the saint, the first time this had been done in fifty years. As one of the senior obedientiaries I had been invited to witness the event along with eighteen of my brother monks. It had been a moment of great mystery and awe and one to which the King had made reference in his speech at the banquet the previous afternoon. He’d been in buoyant mood ever since his successful reception by the people earlier in the day. Maybe it was the abundance of fine wine and rich food which we cloister monks are not used to in our normal afternoons of quiet prayer, rest and work. Maybe it was just the hubris of the moment. Whatever the reason I had allowed myself an indulgence which I should not have done. In his address the King had commented that since he was a direct descendent of Saint Edmund the family resemblance must be remarkable, and to illustrate the point he raised his chin high in profile striking a heroic pose and placed a chicken bone at the end of his nose. It was a good joke and one greatly enjoyed by the banqueting guests who demonstrated their appreciation with much cheering and thumping of tables. It was during the ensuing hubbub that I had passed some asinine comment of my own thinking that no-one could hear. It seems I had been wrong.

‘I don’t think I was confused, father,’ I bluffed. ‘I remember the event very plainly: We all stood around the tomb while you opened it. A very sombre occasion, very moving. A cold night but, erm, wet - yes,
wet
I remember. The moon was…’

‘I am referring to the condition of the saint’s body,’ he interrupted shortly. ‘I saw it, Hugh saw it, Richard, Thurstan - we all saw it. The only person who apparently did not see it, Master Physician – was
you
.’

I tried to smile benignly. ‘Father, I –’
 

‘Ask them. They will all say the same. We opened the coffin, we touched the blessed limbs, unwrapped the sacred breast, counted the hallowed toes. I even entwined my fingers with those of the holy martyr,’ he twiddled his own in the air
once more to demonstrate the point. ‘They were warm, Master Physician. The body was as vital in death as it had been in life.’ Then he leaned forward: ‘It was not, as you were overheard to remark,
a sack of dried up old bones
.’

I could feel my face reddening. It was true I had mumbled that phrase, or something like it. I had been sitting too far from Samson’s table for him to have been able to overhear, so someone else must have tittle-tattled my words to him. Ah, but of course: Faithful old J-J-Jocelin,
the abbey Guest-master and Samson’s little ferret. Who else? He had been sitting opposite me. Yes, I could quite believe Jocelin would have reported my words to Samson. Well, the ferret was now out of the bag, so to speak, so there was no point trying to shove it back inside again. All I could do was look contrite and grovel.

‘My Lord Abbot,’ I began obsequiously. ‘We all love and cherish the blessed Edmund’s sacred memory and the marvellous stories of his martyrdom. But it was three hundred years ago. He has been lying in the chancel ever since. No body can survive that long intact however well it is tended. When the coffin was opened I saw clearly -’

‘It was the middle of the night,’ he snapped. ‘You could not possibly have seen anything
clearly
. I was closer and I am telling you that the saint’s body was as fresh and incorrupt as the day Alwyne laid him there to rest. The skin was flushed, the veins bled, the hair and fingernails grew. And how could it be otherwise? When a man becomes a saint he is washed clean of sin by the power of the Holy Spirit and it is sin which corrupts, is it not? Since
Saint
Edmund was without sin it follows that he could not have been corrupt.’ He leaned forward eyeing me closely. ‘Unless of course you disagree.’

It was a trap and one typical of the wily old Samson - he wasn’t known as the Norfolk Trickster for nothing. If I disagreed I would be denying Edmund’s canonization which had been sanctified by the Holy Father in Rome and was therefore irrefutable. To try to do otherwise would be profanity. I grimaced unable to think of a suitably clever answer.

Samson sat back again with a pained expression on his face. ‘Walter, Walter. When will you learn to keep your more
unconventional
thoughts to yourself? You know how they disturb your brother monks. And it’s not the first time, is it? Last time, I seem to remember, you had the temerity to question Saint Matthew’s version of the Crucifixion.’

That was a slight exaggeration. I’d merely pointed out that if, as the Gospel asserts, people were raised from the dead at the Passion,
and since they were no longer alive now, it followed that they must have had to do their dying all over again which seemed to me a little harsh. I thought I was being sympathetic to their plight. I certainly hadn’t intended questioning the words of the evangelist. But some of my fellow monks thought otherwise and rebuked me for my irreverence. It had been a thoughtless observation for which I blame Joseph since he is always putting such foolish questions in my head.

‘Your brother monks were very upset,’ Samson continued. ‘But more importantly, the King was upset, too.’

I shrugged. ‘I cannot think why it should matter to the King what I thought.’

‘Oh, can you not? Then answer me this: Why do you think he is here? Consider: The coronation was just a few days ago, the orb and sceptre hardly back in their boxes, the ink on the instrument of accession
barely dry. Urgent matters of state demand the King’s attention in London, possible war with France, discontent among the barons - and yet he decides to visit our humble little abbey here in the Suffolk countryside as practically the first thing he does. Why do you think he would do that?’

“Humble” isn’t quite the word I would have used to describe one of the richest religious establishments in Europe. However, relieved that I had a question at last that I could confidently answer, I repeated the stock reply:

‘The King felt impelled by a vow to make pilgrimage to the shrine, to show his devotion to Saint Edmund, and to give thanks to Almighty God for his accession to the throne of England.’

Samson snorted with contempt. ‘King John has barely got one cheek of his arse on the throne of England and it wouldn’t take much to dislodge him.’

My mouth fell open in astonishment at his forthrightness and I shut it again quickly with a plop. I glanced at the door half expecting it to cave in at any moment and a score of soldiers to haul us both off to the torturer’s rack.

Samson seemed unperturbed. He eyed me steadily. ‘He’s not secure, you know, not at all. That little display out there in the yard yesterday was all bravado. He’s not trusted. Some of the French barons are even talking about putting his nephew, Arthur, in his place.’ He grimaced painfully. ‘That’s just what this country needs right now, a twelve-year-old child sitting on the throne. Fortunately, the English barons are for John, as is the Archbishop -
as am I
.’

As a senior member of the King’s Council it mattered what the Abbot of Edmundsbury thought on such issues, as I knew only too well, so I nodded my assent.

‘Don’t misunderstand me,’ he continued haughtily, ‘John is no Lionheart. He has neither Richard’s soldiering skills nor his ability to command the love of his people. John is a schemer, an embezzler and a whoremonger, but he at least has had some experience of statecraft, certainly more than a twelve-year-old boy.’ Samson ran his hand over his pink bald pate contemplatively. ‘Mind you, he’d make a better fist of it if he spent a little less time in bed and a lot less time in his bath.’

‘Father,’ I said glancing nervously at the door
again. ‘Do you think this talk is wise?’

Samson casually waved aside my protest. ‘It’s early days. We can only pray that time will improve matters. But given the precariousness of his position it is understandable that he will clutch at anything that might strengthen his grip on the crown. And what better way to do that than to associate himself with Edmund who is, after all, the patron saint of the English, a martyr and a national hero who died defending his kingdom from the Great Heathen Army of the Danes. Put baldly, King John is here in Bury not so much because of his love for our revered and blessed martyr, but because Edmund was a
Wufinga
.’

He spoke the name as though that were sufficient explanation in itself. I’d heard of the
Wufingas
, of course, what student of the liberal arts has not? They were the almost mythical lineage of kings dating back a thousand years to the pagan Saxon gods of England. But what had that to do with the modern world? King John was a Norman, not a Saxon.

Samson seemed to read my thoughts: ‘King John also traces his descent along this same line through his grandmother who was of the Confessor’s lineage and through him to the ancient royal lineages of Wessex and East Anglia all the way back to Woden himself.’

‘Ah,’ I murmured.

‘Ah indeed,’ nodded Samson. ‘John heard about the opening of the tomb last November and he simply wants those who witnessed the event to confirm the family likeness. Now, that’s not so difficult, is it?’

He looked askance at me as though he was not sure himself if he quite believed what he said next:

‘Despite appearances King John is something of a scholar who admires learning in others. He was particularly keen to have your endorsement since a physician is supposed to view these things with a certain
scientific
detachment.’ He wrinkled his nose at the word. ‘So it follows he is not best pleased to hear that you think his….relative….was in such a state of disintegration that he bore no more resemblance to the King than to his pet marmoset.’

I stifled a laugh. King John really must be clutching at straws if he needs my approval. Still, at least it proves I was right: Edmund’s body was a sack of old bones after all, even Samson thinks so.
But something still puzzled me:

‘Forgive me father, but if Saint Edmund gives legitimacy to King John, then surely he gives the same legitimacy to his brother Geoffrey’s son - the twelve-year-old Prince Arthur who you do not think fit to reign.’

‘Well done,’ smiled Samson. ‘You’re starting to think like a politician at last.’ He breathed in deeply. ‘The difference is symbolic.’ He tapped his drawings again and smiled triumphantly. ‘Like my towers. They are symbols, too. Put simply, John is here, Arthur is not. That is a fact, but it is also a symbol. Never underestimate the power of symbolism in politics, Walter.’ He sighed heavily, heaved his not inconsiderable bulk off his chair and walked over to the open window. I couldn’t help noticing as he did so a ring-shaped cushion on the seat he had just vacated. Piles, I thought. That’s what comes of too many eight course lunches. It probably also explains his bad temper, nothing to do with me at all in fact.