Murder at Whitby Abbey, page 23
One of the monks, in a tone of great daring, interrupted. ‘But I’m told they were invited here by a messenger sent from our lord bursar with the idea that we might discuss their complaint about the nets.’
The clerk turned in fury on the hapless monk. ‘So you listen to rumours, brother? Shame on you! Surely your confessor will need to hear this! I pray he’s near enough to witness your tomfoolery.’
‘Yes, I am,’ said a voice. ‘But if it is true what Brother Martin says then it is no tomfoolery, is it, magister?’ He spoke in such a tone as to suggest that the clerk should get back to his quill and leave thinking to his betters.
The insult was not lost on the clerk. He was a tall man with the beginnings of a paunch, and although usually stooped over, clutching his portable writing desk, he now rose to his full height and through clenched teeth suggested that his respected brother might address his remarks to lord Hertilpole himself.
Undeterred, Brother Martin’s confessor agreed that that would be the best course. ‘As soon as our lord bursar is himself again.’
The clerk jerked away and pretended he had more important things to be getting on with than listening to ill-directed sarcasm. He grabbed a passing boy by the scruff of the neck and sent him to fetch the guards at once, the better to earn their pay, from their quarters near the stables. The boy ran off.
From outside on the foregate the battering at the doors continued. Shouting at various levels of intensity accompanied this pounding and eventually resolved itself into a loud and persistent chant of ‘Ut! Ut! Ut!’
Each guttural was accompanied by the beat of clubs on the shaking doors.
‘Worry not, brothers, they cannot get inside! We are quite secure!’ The speaker, whatever his name, moved back to a safer distance.
Brother Martin risked himself again. ‘That is hardly the point, brother. These men have been invited up here to discuss their grievances. It was a clear invitation. The least we can do is to keep the bargain that was made with them.’
‘Do you want to volunteer to go out to talk to them?’ came another voice. A rustle of consternation ran round the group at the word ‘volunteer’ and everybody stepped back.
‘They have knives, like as not. In this mood I wouldn’t guarantee anybody’s safety.’ It was the porter. ‘Best stay safe inside, brothers, until they quieten down and go home.’
One of the younger monks went to the flap that opened out to identify anyone on the other side and shouted through it, ‘Go back to your homes!’
His suggestion was met by jeers and catcalls. The chanting resumed along with a more determined beating of the clubs on the iron-bound doors.
Gregory and Egbert sauntered up. ‘We could hear this even inside the infirmary,’ they explained to Hildegard. ‘What’s happening?’
She told them what she knew.
‘Pigeons coming home to roost.’ Egbert looked as if he would add, ‘I told you so,’ if any of the Benedictines approached, but they were more concerned about their safety and the strength of their doors than about talking to guests.
The noise outside continued with increasing ferocity. The fishermen sounded desperate. The gist of their complaint came through, fragmented, furious and driven by a sense of raging injustice.
The huge fines imposed on them – for breaking what they saw as a rule invented for the abbey’s own profit by the bursar – were forcing them into starvation. They had women and children to feed. Days and nights working on the treacherous sea for no reward could be tolerated no longer.
Were they not free men with rights like any other? Even the other day their boats had been turned away from the beaches at Filey and they could not land their catch.
And yesterday the abbey had sent down armed men to clear their own beaches with the result that their nets had been destroyed. Without nets how were they to fish? And when they tried to sell to the inland towns the abbey took tolls on the catch even then.
All this was interspersed with the continuing war-like chant of Ut! Ut! Ut! in the deep and threatening Anglo-Saxon tones of men used to physical strain and strength. If they got inside there was no doubt that those cowering behind the doors would be in danger of bloody noses or worse.
A fracas erupted in the cloister and, from the direction of the infirmary, accompanied by a straggling crowd of Dunstan’s assistants, the half-naked figure of the bursar appeared. His narrow, emaciated chest gleamed white and his face was contorted in an agony of regret.
‘Mea culpa!’ he kept bellowing as he forced his way into the middle of the group and fell to his knees, beating his bony chest and pulling at the tangled folds of his habit. ‘I have brought this disgrace on you all!’ he continued in a loud voice. ‘It is my doing! I believed I could talk to these ruffians, that I could persuade them to retract their plea. It is my fault! I own it! I brought them up here! Now, I must send them away again. Open the doors and let me at them!’
He sprang to his feet and hurled himself at the great bar that held the doors shut and tried to lift it. At once the porter and half a dozen monks threw themselves against him to prevent the last protection being removed.
‘Come now,’ the porter said in the tone of one used to straightening out disorderly persons, ‘leave it until tomorrow. It’s near on the next Office. Tell them that. They’ll understand.’
‘I’ll tell them, my lord.’ It was the clerk. He elbowed everybody out of the way and opened the flap. ‘Listen, you fellows! We are obliged now to attend the most holy Office of Sext.’
Jeers greeted this information.
The clerk persisted. ‘It is our bounden duty. Go back to your homes and we’ll discuss this matter fully in Chapter tomorrow morning. Someone will come down to speak to you and we’ll sort out your grievances before sunset.’
There was a gradual silence from the other side while this olive branch was considered. Evidently it met with some scepticism but the power of the obligations the monks were under, to hold Offices eight times a day, was one the town respected. It’s what monks were here for, after all. A murmuring discontent arose nevertheless, and the spokesman asked, ‘How can we trust you?’
With extraordinary calmness the clerk replied through the flap, ‘I assure you, we are holy men. Our word is our bond. If we say a thing we mean it. Now, go home.’
‘If nobody comes down to us before sunset tomorrow, we shall return. We will not be fobbed off. We are mariners and owe no allegiance except to our king. We need to dry our nets on the beach and we do not need to have you idle folk stealing the cost of our catch every time we do so.’ His voice faded and he must have turned to face his comrades because everybody standing under the gatehouse arch heard him ask more distantly, ‘Agreed, lads?’
There was a reluctant cheer and some grumbling and the spokesman came back louder again. ‘Till sunset tomorrow then. But no later.’
The monks glanced covertly at each other.
Hertilpole’s clerk turned to them with a smirk of satisfaction. ‘We’ll make sure this abbey and all its gates are firmly barricaded by then. Come, my lord.’ He held out a hand to invite Hertilpole to his feet. ‘Let’s go back into the garth.’ To those standing nearest he said, ‘Escort the lord bursar to the infirmary to allow him to rest.’
The group attached to Hertilpole drifted off.
The Cistercians watched them leave in silence.
Egbert was incensed. ‘He didn’t mean a word of that! Those fishermen must be as honest as the day to be so taken in. It can only get worse if Hertilpole and his lackey continue to treat them with such contempt. Is the abbey so short of cash they’ll force men to violence to feed their families? What good will it do to drive them to starvation?’
‘That clerk went too far,’ Gregory agreed. ‘I wonder on whose authority he was speaking? Nobody contradicted him even though they must have known he was lying when he made such a promise. I wonder what Abbot Richmond thought if he was listening?’
‘Hertilpole was only sorry he caused an affray, not that he’d tried to dupe them into paying more tolls. It is unequivocally lacking in justice,’ Luke agreed. ‘Look, here comes the abbot now.’
Richmond was white-faced when he came out from the porter’s lodge. He stood under the arch while he inspected his monks, then with a curt nod he led the way towards the church.
Brother Dunstan had prophesied that tomorrow would be a day of revelations. It looked likely to be somewhat more than that.
While the monks went off to fulfil their holy obligations, the clerk and one or two others clustering round him discussed the mariners’ affray, as it was now being called.
The clerk was already unslinging his writing table. The strap was slung over one shoulder and, pulling it into place to set it level, he snapped open the lid and laid it ready with a piece of vellum, his ink, his quill sharpener, his quill itself and the wiper for it with one or two other things and demanded, ‘Names?’
The young monk who had shouted at the fishermen to go home said at once, ‘The Breks. All five of them.’
‘Trouble-causers. Their cottages need burning. That would sort them out. Who else?’
A list of names followed. Some discussion ensued about whether a Master Driffied had been present this time or whether he’d learned his lesson, but when they could come to no agreement the clerk put his name down anyway.
As he wrote his tongue came out from between his lips and it reminded Hildegard of his master. She wished these fellows would keep their tongues inside their mouths. The sight repelled her.
From where she stood she could see that despite her revulsion the clerk had a fair hand. Fairer than his physical aspect, which, along with his lolling tongue, was a contortion of rage suitable for a chap-book sketch of the Seven Sins.
She had never taken a good look at him before. He was a man always in the shadows of his masters: the silent figure in the corner when she first visited the abbot, a brooding presence when she returned with the others, always present when the bursar was present. At the same time, in a way she could not explain, he was not present, he was an absence, an ambiguous nothing. Now, it seemed, he had come into his own.
She guessed he must be around thirty to thirty-five, tall but now crook-backed to bring him down to the level of the others. Lean, dark browed, with a thin, black line of hair along his upper lip and a clipped, pointed triangle of hair on his chin, he expressed no patience with what he evidently saw as stupidity by those helping him.
In terms of ambition he had probably gone as far as he could in the monastic hierarchy. If he was ambitious he must be living with constant disappointment. Whitby was far from the seat of power. Whether that made him bitter she could not tell.
He was certainly angry, disdainful to those under him and obsequious towards his master, a staunch aid in the furthering of Hertilpole’s ambitions. If the latter’s madness had changed his aims somewhat to include regret, she could not tell that either, but if he persisted in his ravings his clerk would surely feel betrayed when the purpose for which he had made himself hated in the town was cast as naught in the sweep of Hertilpole’s penitential turn-about.
When his sharp-eyed glance fell on Hildegard now he asked, ‘Did you wish to say something, domina?’ The hint of a sneer in his voice irritated her.
‘My gratitude for your valued attention, magister, but since you so kindly invite me to speak, I have to admit to some wonder that you can imagine the fishermen will give up on a matter that is clearly as important as life or death to them. Surely it would be better to come to terms with them?’
‘I did ask if you had anything to say, agreed, but I did not expect to have to endure censure from a woman, especially a nun with scant knowledge of the world of men.’
‘Forgive me, magister,’ she replied in a tone that failed to match her sentiments. ‘I believe our actions as monastics or seculars are best served by compassion and understanding. Diplomacy is the better part of valour, is it not? The fishermen, it seems to me, seek only fair dealings in order to carry out their trade. Where words prevail not, violence prevails absolutely.’
‘I have no time to discuss this business with you. There are practical considerations to take into account that you can know nothing about. We have until sunset tomorrow to fortify the abbey. I excuse you from our presence.’ He gave an impatient bow and at once turned back to his coterie. ‘You know what to do, brothers. Go! Do it!’
As they scattered to their tasks he spread chalk over the list of names he had inked in to dry them, shook it off in a fine cloud that settled on the sleeves of his gown, folded his writing implements away after wiping the end of the quill on a piece of cloth, and shut the lid. Slinging it under one arm he made off in the direction of the church.
Hildegard stood staring after him for longer than she realized. Then, aware of the consolation of friendship, she went to wait for the emergence of her fellow Cistercians from the Office of Sext.
She did not have long to wait. The midday Office was short. As well as that she had the impression from the brisk way everyone filed out that they were eager to get on with preparations for something extraordinary.
Egbert saw her and came over. ‘So we’re going to be under siege. That’ll be something new! How long will it last? We could be here for months, Hildegard!’ He chuckled. ‘I, for one, will be delighted to break it by flinging the gates open, traitor though I should be dubbed! Can you believe they can ramp up their problems to this extent?’
‘Maybe common sense will prevail and someone will go down to talk to the fishermen and sort it out.’
‘If they dare! I wouldn’t give much for their chances the way those fellows sounded. What a pity Master Edred isn’t here to talk them out of their difficulty.’
‘I know of one man who might be able to do it. He already has their trust and could put the case for the fishermen with some authority.’ She mentioned Friar John. ‘I don’t know whether he’s still around. He may have moved on.’
‘Who does he truly represent? Do you know?’
‘I believe he’s loyal to the king.’
‘I wonder. He’ll be ending up in a ditch one of these days.’
‘This doesn’t get us far, does it? What are we going to do? We’ve lost the relic as far as I know …’ She mentioned what Aveline had told her.
When Gregory appeared they discussed the question of leaving again. But the murderer was still somewhere within the abbey and none of them wanted to leave the mystery of two deaths unsolved.
‘The bodies of Aelwyn and Edred are lying side by side in one of the chapels,’ Gregory told her. ‘If things continue like this they will lie unburied for some time. It makes me wonder if Hertilpole is entirely aware in the labyrinth of his confusion that the abbey is about to be under siege – and for no other reason than his relentless pursuit of tolls.’
At that moment Torold appeared in the garth. He came straight over to the Cistercians. ‘I was looking for you, domina. Brother Dunstan asks if you’ll aid him in the infirmary.’
Puzzled, she followed Torold, and the others came along for support.
‘It’s the lord bursar,’ Torold confided as they hurried along. ‘Brother Dunstan thinks your presence may jolt him out of his madness.’
With some trepidation Hildegard entered the long echoing chamber with its low ribbed vault.
She was surprised at how quiet it was – no raving, no bellowing recriminations – and when she reached the far end where Dunstan kept this particular patient at a distance from the others Hertilpole was sitting up on his bed, his robes, though untidy, at least covering him with some dignity. He glared when she appeared.
Dunstan was apologetic. ‘He won’t hear of calling off his demand for payment from those desperate fellows. Money is money, he keeps on declaiming. If they use our beaches, then they pay our tolls. If they fail to pay the tolls, then they suffer the consequences. That sort of ranting.’
‘But what can I do, Dunstan?’
‘Maybe the sight of you will provoke shame. Once he can acknowledge that he has sinned in one respect, maybe it will bring him to acknowledge that he is behaving badly in another.’
She gave him a doubtful glance. This was not her measure of the man. She saw him as incorrigibly stiff-necked. His sense of his own importance seemed paramount. ‘Tell me what I should do then.’
‘Talk to him. See what that does.’
Emerging from between the pillars supporting the low roof vault, she made her way cautiously to the foot of Hertilpole’s bed. He was staring fixedly at the tiles on the floor and did not look up as she approached.
‘My lord?’
He stirred. As if being dragged from sleep, his eyes roamed about in an unfocussed daze until they eventually settled on the white-robed figure standing before him. He gave a startled grunt then gripped the edge of one sleeve as if to protect himself. He stared at her for a long time without bringing himself to speak until, from the depths of his vocal range, he ground out, ‘You have come to torment me further?’
‘I trust not, my lord. That is not my intention.’
‘Are you adhering to your lies?’
‘My …?’
‘Don’t play the innocent! Your lies, woman! The accusation you made against me! Are you still lying about me?’
He got off the bed and moved closer until he was standing over her. The smell of bad breath, sweat and his unwashed nether parts made her want to retch.
He leered down at her. ‘What is your purpose in such lying accusations? Do you hope to destroy me?’
When she did not answer, not knowing where to begin, he poked his face into hers and asked, ‘Did the Devil send you? Are you on a mission to bring me down to hell to copulate with Beelzebub himself? Do you want me to witness you writhing in his arms, your body aflame with lust and godless desire …?’
She broke in to stem the flow of his madness. ‘I have told no lies about you, my lord. Indeed, I have spoken very little about you although there is much that could be said, as you well know.’
