Men of Bone, page 21
part #1 of Thomas Berrington Tudor Mystery Series
“I hope Bernard is there.”
“You said he was a Prior. Does that mean he is an important man?”
“Not as important as an Abbot or an Earl, and nowhere near as important as a Prince, but yes, important enough in Lemster. People go to him when they need help, to report crimes and murders, to be fed if they cannot feed themselves. Bernard is more than his position. He has a sense about him that makes people trust him.”
“Like you,” said Jorge, causing Thomas to glance across to see if he was joking, only to discover he was not.
On arrival at the Priory, they discovered Prior Bernard was in a meeting with several local business owners, but would be informed they were waiting to see him. The man who took the message returned within moments to tell them the Prior wanted them to come at once.
When Thomas entered the wide room it brought back unwelcome memories. It was the chamber where he had once been judged for murder and found wanting, for lack of anyone to speak for him. Even his father had refused. Had plague not come to Lemster, Thomas might well have hung, innocent or not.
Prior Bernard sat at the head of a long table, four men two to a side. The Prior waved Thomas forward before his eyes went to Jorge.
“Who is your companion, Thomas? A stranger to me, and England too, I wager.”
“I did not think monks wagered, but you are right. His name is Jorge Olmos and he is a Spaniard, though such a simple designation does him little favour. Jorge is that and much more. He is my closest companion.”
“Then welcome, Jorge Olmos. Any friend of Thomas Berrington is a friend of this Priory and its Prior.”
Thomas noticed one of the man’s eyes widen at mention of his name but did not know who he was. He had been away so long any of the men could be from families he knew.
“I am glad you came,” said Prior Bernard, “for two reasons. I have news of somewhere that might suit you to live, and I welcome your opinion on a matter these gentlemen have brought before me. If you could tell Thomas what you told me, Mr Wodall.”
The man looked across the table as Thomas sat, Jorge taking the chair next to his. He was the man who had shown surprise when Prior Bernard spoke his name. Thomas knew the name Wodall, but there was no need to bring up the reasons for that, as the man would no doubt also know of them.
“You tell him,” said Wodall. “You know as much as the rest of us. And what Thomas Berrington can do, I don’t know. He has not lived in Lemster these last fifty years.”
“Forty-seven years,” said Prior Bernard. “I value his opinion as a man with no iron in this fire.” He turned to Thomas. “Men came to Lemster yesterday to inform every business, alehouse, tavern and inn that they expect a payment from them once a month. Though Wodall here told me they want payment in arrears as the month is over two-thirds gone. These men came to see what I can do to help, but I have informed them this is beyond my remit or ability. They should take their complaint to the Justice of the Peace.”
“They will get short shrift there, for I believe Hugh Clement is the man behind the scheme.”
“Clement?” said one man. “How can that be? He protects the peace, not threatens it.”
“I believe he has ideas above his station.” Thomas leaned closer, resting his elbows on the table-top. “How many in Lemster will make a stand? Those of you here, I assume?” Thomas saw two pairs of eyes look away and knew the answer was not what he might have hoped. “How many bonemen came?” he asked.
“Bonemen?” said Wodall. “What are bonemen?”
“They work for Hugh Clement. There are others in London, and now they have come to Ludlow, and Lemster too, it seems. How many were there?”
“Five,” said Wodall. “All armed, all dressed in leather fighting doublets, all wearing green felt hats. They made it clear they will take measures against anyone who refuses. One of them left this at the Star tavern.” Wodall reached beneath his jacket and drew something out. He set a small fragment of bone on the table.
“What did the landlord of the Star do to be given that?” Thomas asked.
“He told them to leave. Threatened them with a beating, or worse, if they came back. One of them set it on the counter before he left.”
“It is both a symbol and a threat,” said Prior Bernard. “Such men are not to be tolerated in a peaceful town.” He turned to Thomas. “Are you sure this involves Hugh Clement?”
“As sure as I am of anything. His men attacked me and my companion after I saw you here a week ago. And only two days since they abducted and attacked that same woman.”
“Killed her?” asked Prior Bernard.
“Almost, but she will recover. They demand payment from every business in Ludlow, and now here as well. Has anyone heard from anywhere else? Hereford, Gloucester and Worcester would be ripe for such a scheme, and far richer than towns such as Lemster or even Ludlow.”
“I will send brothers out to make enquiries,” said Prior Bernard. “But it will take several days, and people may not admit the truth. Of all the traders in Lemster it is only these four who have come forward.”
“They don’t threaten households,” said Wodall. “Only traders and farmers, claiming the payment is for a force to protect us from others. But they are the others. They beat some who told them they would not pay, and left more bones. Not badly beaten, not yet, but it is a sign of what will come.” Wodall stared at Thomas. “I still don’t see what you can do, Berrington.”
“Are you any relation to Arthur Wodall?” Thomas asked, meeting the man’s stare in kind.
“He was my father. Dead these ten years. But he told me about you when I sat on his knee as a child. Told me what you did.”
“I expect he did. Whatever he told you was a lie.”
“Not to me, it wasn’t. I am still waiting to hear what you intend to do.”
“I can stop Clement,” Thomas said. “I have stopped worse men, more dangerous men, and I can do it again.”
“He can,” said Jorge, his voice soft, controlled. “You don’t want to cross Thomas, for he has killed more men than I have bedded beautiful women, and that is a great many indeed.”
Thomas saw Prior Bernard suppress a smile.
“What are you going to do when those men return?” Thomas’s gaze remained on Wodall because he seemed to be their leader.
“Pay them. What else can we do? They are clever, not asking for more than we can afford. It will hurt, but it won’t kill us. Though they might if we refuse. So yes, we pay what they ask. I will not put my trust in you stopping them, Berrington. Like as not you will run off, just like you ran from trouble before.”
“I am sorry,” said Prior Bernard, when only the three of them remained. “His grandfather Arthur Wodall used to bad-mouth you every chance he got, even though you were not here to defend yourself. He went to his grave believing it was you who killed his son.”
“And you, Bernard?” Thomas asked. “What do you believe?”
“I believe you are a good man, Tom. Who killed Raulf Wodall I do not know, but I know in my heart it was not you.”
“I know who killed him,” Thomas said.
Prior Bernard stared at him for a long moment. “Then do not tell me. I prefer not to know. There have been rumours, too many rumours, but it is all in the past now. The long distant past, and best forgotten.”
“Except Wodall has not forgotten, has he?” Thomas said.
“Words, Tom, only words. Forget what he said.” Prior Bernard straightened. “Now, how are you fixed for a ride back north? I need to speak to the Abbot at Wigmore, and I think between us we may have found you somewhere to live.”
“And the bonemen?” Thomas asked. “Is anything going to be done about them?”
“It is not my place.” Prior Bernard shook his head. “I can raise the matter with Abbot John, but it is not his place either. You already know who to report such matters to.”
“The Justice of the Peace.”
“Exactly. Is this another fight you are about to get yourself involved in? Have you learned nothing in all the years since you left Lemster?”
“He has not,” said Jorge, making Thomas scowl because he knew the truth of the words.
* * *
The lowering sun cast long shadows across the tall grass lining the track they had followed for the last half hour. Thomas and Jorge rode a little way behind Prior Bernard, the only one of them who knew where they were going. The Prior was no longer dressed as a man of God but more like a soldier, and Thomas wondered if the clothes were those from when he once was one.
Thomas had sent a message to Ludlow so Belia and the others would know they would not return until late, or even the following morning. The distance between Wigmore and Ludlow was a little over three leagues, but Prior Bernard had made it clear the Abbot would want to question Thomas, both on the matter of Hugh Clement and on the land available for him to set up home on. The thought of settling back in England disturbed Thomas for some reason he could not pin down. He preferred to leave his mind to work at any reason on its own rather than examine it himself, in case he did not like what he found.
Jorge nodded towards Bernard. “Do you think he is regarding the wonder of God in the landscape?”
Thomas cast a puzzled glance at Jorge, relieved to see he was smiling.
“No doubt to him it is indeed a wonder.”
“How much further to this place?”
“It cannot be far now.”
“I thought you knew this country. It is where you were born, after all.”
“It is, but other than journeys to Ludlow and Shrewsbury, I never had much call to come this way. It all looks the same around here.”
“Green,” said Jorge.
“Yes, green. That is because it rains, as you already know.”
They crested a low rise to see a tall, extensive building fashioned of local red stone ahead. Wigmore Abbey sat contentedly with well-tended fields arrayed around it, a cluster of houses set at a small distance which would accommodate servants and lay-persons. As well as the Abbey, the squat tower of a Norman church rose on the far side of the village and on a steep hill perched a castle.
Thomas urged his horse forward to catch up with Bernard. Two white-robed monks emerged from a gateway and waited for their approach.
“Welcome, Prior Bernard. Abbot John is expecting you and your guests. I will get a brother to attend to your horses.”
Thomas and Jorge followed Prior Bernard as he accompanied the monk inside the stone wall surrounding the Abbey. Inside, the layout was similar to Lemster Priory but on a larger scale. Monks worked gardens, fish ponds, and a small herd of sheep. Chickens pecked at the ground inside a fenced run and one monk was on his knees collecting eggs in a basket.
The monk led them into the main building and along a cloister to its end. Here another man waited. It was not the Abbot but Peter Gifforde.
“Welcome, Prior Bernard. Welcome also, Thomas Berrington. Your companion, however, is unknown to me.”
“His name is Jorge Olmos,” said Prior Bernard. “A friend of Thomas.”
“Then greetings, Jorge Olmos. I take it you understand English?”
“Unfortunately so,” said Jorge.
“We were expecting to see the Abbot,” said Prior Bernard.
“My apologies Prior, perhaps Abbot John’s message could have been clearer. As the matter you wish to discuss involves land, he thought it better I should deal with it.”
“We have another matter to discuss with him as well,” said Prior Bernard.
“If you will tell it to me, I can judge whether the Abbot needs to be involved. He is not as well as he was and tires easily. He prefers not to be troubled by lay matters unless he must.”
Prior Bernard stared at Peter Gifforde for a long time, and Thomas watched the Prior, trying to work out his reaction. The man’s story sounded plausible, but something bothered the Prior. What bothered Thomas was the fact that Peter Gifforde’s grandfather had been responsible for the death of a boy, a murder the town had accused Thomas of.
“I believe the matters I need to discuss require Abbot John,” said Prior Bernard.
“In that case, I will take you to him now, but try not to upset him if you can. Perhaps once you settle your business, you can attend Vespers with the Abbot and I will take Thomas to view the property before it grows dark.”
Peter Gifforde led the way, moving as slowly as the monks they passed in the cloister, and Thomas wondered if it was a learned gait from sharing the building with them.
“What is wrong?” asked Jorge. The two of them had held back for a moment.
“How do you know anything is wrong?”
“Do you even need to ask? I watched you. That man troubles you.”
“And you? I trust your judgement on men and women.” Thomas started walking again, Prior Bernard and Peter Gifforde twenty paces ahead.
“His reasons are plausible. I do not know this Abbot John, but if he is as old as claimed then he might need protecting from visitors.”
“Perhaps. But Bernard is the head of Lemster Priory and not some casual visitor.”
“You still have not told me why you dislike that man as you clearly do.”
“I don’t dislike him; or at least I am trying not to dislike him. If I say it enough times, then perhaps it will be true. I cannot cast blame on the man for the sins of his grandfather. If I did, then I would have to accept the sins of my own father, which were many.”
“You knew Gifforde’s grandfather?”
“Oh yes, I knew him.”
“Are you going to tell me what he did?”
“Not now. Bernard and the Abbot are waiting for us.”
“But later?” Jorge fell into step as they started along the cloister.
“I will think about it, but more than likely I am wrong to cast suspicion on the man. He is not his grandfather, as I am not my father.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
Abbot John was a man of advanced years, white-haired apart from his tonsure, clean-shaven and almost grossly overweight. He started to rise, but Prior Bernard waved him back into his comfortable chair. Wooden panels depicting Christian scenes hung on the wall behind him. The crucifixion, of which there were several; St Paul with his head in his lap, the eyes still open; Jesus walking on water. Narrow shelves held glazed boxes in which relics were lodged. Most seemed to be small fragments of bone. Some might even be genuine relics, but Thomas doubted it. The fragments reminded him of the small slivers the bonemen left as a threat, and he wondered if they held some religious significance. If so, it was a strange twisting of religion to threaten, torture and kill people. Though as the thought came to him, he wondered if it was so different after all.
“I am glad to see you looking well,” said Prior Bernard.
Abbot John smiled and reached for a fine silver goblet on the desk. “It is the wine that keeps me young, Bernard. Come, all of you, sit. Peter will join us if you have no objection. I rely on him so much these days. It allows me to spend more time in prayer. As the years pass, I grow increasingly aware that before much longer I will sit in the halls of the Lord, and prayer brings me ever closer to Him. Now, what brings you all the way out here?”
“Two matters,” said Brother Bernard. “The lesser concerns Thomas, and is already being taken care of, I understand. A place to set up a home. The other is more important and also rather more delicate. Thomas, as well as a delegation from Lemster, has brought a matter to my attention that I believe should be raised with you.”
The Abbot’s clouded eyes narrowed as he studied Thomas. “A delicate matter? Are you sure I want to hear about it? Can Peter not deal with it?”
“I would rather Thomas tells you himself. Perhaps once you have heard it, he and Peter can discuss it further while they ride to see this land you have so generously offered.”
The Abbot chuckled, the laugh turning into a cough. When it had settled, he said, “Not as generous as you might think, Bernard. It is another of those nuisance parcels that seem to have fallen through gaps in the law. They end up with the deeds stored in our library for want of any place better. The holding might belong to the Abbey, but if it does we have no record of it. All the same, I believe I can arrange a freehold or tenancy. Is that not right, Peter?”
“I have studied both canonical and royal law and believe you to be correct, Abbot. My preference would be to sell the freehold, then it will not be our responsibility anymore. Prior Bernard has vouched for Thomas Berrington’s good repute, and he is known to my family.”
“Good. Good. Now, this other matter, if you must.”
Brother Bernard glanced at Thomas, who took a breath and started in on his accusation of Hugh Clement. It took longer than he hoped and, judging by the expression of the Abbot, far longer than he had hoped as well. Peter Gifforde asked several astute questions, not all of which Thomas had an answer for, but he was honest in expressing his ignorance. With their meeting concluded, Prior Bernard stayed with the Abbot while Peter Gifforde accompanied Thomas outside to where their horses were stabled.
There was little more than three hours of good daylight as they rode across flat ground away from Wigmore, the lowering sun casting their shadows to one side. Ahead, a wooded ridge rose, separating the bucolic Wigmore valley from Ludlow.
“Is this all Abbey land?” Thomas asked, riding beside Peter Gifforde. Jorge followed several yards behind.
“As far as you can see.” Peter Gifforde smiled. “Other than this holding I am about to show you.” He gave a shake of his head. “It should belong to the Abbey, of course, but I can find no record of it. No record anywhere. It is as if the thirty acres dropped from the face of the earth.”
“Or someone died intestate and nobody thought to report it,” Thomas said.
“Yes, that is the most likely explanation.”
“I am surprised you spoke of the freehold. Prior Bernard gave me to believe the Abbey never sold land.”
“Which is true when the land has a sound record, which the majority have. This parcel is one of perhaps half a dozen that show no ownership, and it is better out of our hands. I will have to draw up a deed of ownership, but that is what I am good at, Thomas.” He glanced across. “I may call you Thomas, may I? And you will call me Peter.”
