Abbot's Passion (20 page)

Sir Henry addressed him directly: ‘Hamo of Bow son of Arnold of Aldgate, you are found guilty of wilful murder of Fidele de Fly. By the power vested in me as coroner in the county of Suffolk I therefore sentence you to -’

‘Hold!’

The command was incisive and cut through the air like a knife halting the coroner in mid-sentence. This time the voice didn’t come from behind us but in front and I was astonished to see in the middle of the arena the diminutive figure of Prior Robert leaning unsteadily on his cane. So intensely focussed had I been on the drama taking place near Hamo that I hadn’t even noticed him leave. He had somehow made his way to the front where he now stood facing the dais.

‘What’s this?’ said Sir Henry, impatiently. ‘Another confession?’

‘No confession sir. I am Robert, prior of this august house, and I beg leave to speak.’

Sir Henry stared long hard at this pathetic wreck of humanity who was clearly not long for this world. Was he mad? Had he lost his wits? Two guards were tentatively making their way towards the little figure, but the sheriff waved them back.

‘Brother prior,’ said the coroner with exaggerated patience. ‘You mistake the function of this assembly. This is not the place for speeches. Judgement has been declared. You cannot interrupt proceedings at this late stage.’

Robert smiled sweetly. ‘I will not take up much of the court’s time, sir. As you can see, I have but little of my own left.’

Some stirrings of appreciation behind me at this. The coroner seemed a little thrown, uncertain what to do.

‘Let him speak!’ came that voice again from the back of the benches again.

We waited. Samson leaned across and said something to the coroner that I couldn’t hear. Sir Henry shrugged.

‘Is th-that a yes?’ asked Jocelin peering anxiously.

‘I think it might be,’ I said.

The coroner nodded. Robert gave another fragile bow. But when his voice came it was not fragile at all but strong and determined:

‘Sir, I have these past thirty years been the prior of Saint Edmund’s. It is a privilege for which I thank God and my abbot.’ He made a slight bow to Samson. ‘But despite so long a sojourn I have not always been a monk. Before I took the cowl I, in fact, studied the law. And although I never finished my studies I do recall certain principles, one of which was that anyone accused of a capital crime such as murder had the right to prove his innocence in trial by combat - in other words to let God decide his guilt.’

‘Thirty years, you say brother?’ said Sir Henry. ‘The law has moved on apace since then. Things have changed.’

‘But God does not, my son. He is as constant as the stars.’ Robert sighed wearily. ‘Oh Sir Henry, we humans are imperfect beings, are we not? Our decisions are often flawed especially when it comes to man’s law which is so much more inferior to God’s. Better surely to submit to divine justice which by its nature is infallible rather than to man’s which is not.’

Nods of approval from the crowd at this.

But the coroner was not to be so easily persuaded. ‘This is not a court of law, brother prior, and this man is not on trial.’

‘Yet you have made a lawful judgement,’ retorted Robert quickly. ‘And now you are about to take his life. It is clear to all here present that there is some doubt in this case which will remain even when the accused man is in his grave. Why not remove that doubt while there is still time and replace it with a certainty that is beyond doubt?’

More murmurs of agreement.

‘All well and good, brother, but such a contest requires two and you may have noticed that we have only one.’ Sir Henry indicated Fidele’s corpse.

But Robert was prepared for that too: ‘In which circumstance is it not the custom to nominate a second to fight in his place?’

At this point Samson interceded: ‘Regretfully, brother prior, that is a concession reserved for members of the clergy only.’

‘And women, and children,’ replied Robert hastily, ‘and the infirm. And you would agree, father abbot, that there is none more infirm than a corpse.’

Some appreciative laughter at this and even Samson had to smile.

The coroner was clearly irritated by Robert’s intervention but it was impossible to judge which way he would jump. There followed another lengthy period of conference between all four members of the panel and the lawyer. I was worried that Prior Robert might keel over before the point was resolved. But finally the decision came:

‘Very well - but only out of deference to you, brother prior, whom we fear may not survive further lengthy debate.’

At which point the court erupted. I suppose with hindsight it was inevitable that Sir Henry was going to say yes. The mood of the public was clearly that an injustice was about to be perpetrated and even with the sheriff’s extra guards I think he may have had a riot on his hands had he refused. Cathrin let out a cry of joy and ran across to her husband. Robert, exhausted by his efforts, nearly collapsed and had to be escorted off - hopefully to his bed.

‘He’s done it!’ said Jocelin incredulously. ‘Robert’s s-saved Hamo!’

‘Only from the noose, brother, and only for now.’

I wasn’t convinced Robert had saved him from anything. I couldn’t believe the matter could be resolved so easily without at least a squeak of protest from Abbot Eustache who had surely been thwarted by the decision just as his goal was in sight. As the rest of the court congratulated itself I watched him carefully. He was leaning across the table in heated discussion with Sheriff Peter who kept frowning and shaking his head. But then Sir Peter finally, and I thought reluctantly, appeared to agree with whatever it was the abbot-legate was saying to him. Eustache then rose to his feet. The court hushed again and I strained my ears to listen.

‘On behalf of our deceased brother in Christ we accept the verdict of the court.’

A cheer went up.

‘And we nominate as our second...’ Eustache glanced again at the sheriff who nodded ‘...Sterk Wolff.’

At this an audible gasp went up. Jocelin and I both looked at each other. Who in the name of the Holy Trinity was Sterk Wolff? But we didn’t have to wait long to find out. The guards parted and I saw to my horror who - or rather
what
- Hamo was going to have to fight for his life: none other than my sixteen-foot Flemish friend with a fist like seasoned oak and muscles of honed granite.

Chapter Twenty-five

AN UNEQUAL MATCH

‘He’ll
kill him,’ I whispered.

‘H-hanging would have been more m-merciful,’ agreed Jocelin.

‘We’ve got to stop it.’

‘How?’

‘We’ll tell them Hamo is injured - as indeed he is.’

‘B-but that should make no difference. This is God’s j-judgement we are invoking, remember. Whatever the odds, however unequal the combatants, he will surely give victory to the r-righteous “for they will enjoy the f-fruit of their deeds”.’

‘Commendable sentiments my friend, but it’s not platitudes we need now - it’s a miracle.’

I took the opportunity during the break to have a quick word with Samson to see if he could talk some sense into the coroner. But he was less than forthcoming.

‘I’ve already told you, Walter, this is a civil case and I am officially just an observer. I cannot help you. I shouldn’t even be talking to you.’

‘But can’t you see how one-sided this is, father? That guard - he’s a Goliath. And a professional soldier. Hamo is a seller of gloves.’

‘You should have thought of that before you started your meddling.’

‘
My
meddling?’

‘Yes yours. I saw you talking to Prior Robert earlier. I wouldn’t be surprised if you didn’t put him up to it. Well, trial by combat is what you wanted and trial by combat is what you’ve got. One way or another that now is what will decide this case.’

Maybe Jocelin was right and it was up to God to decide the matter. Who knows? Maybe God arranged all of this and we are merely pawns in his hand. But God moves in mysterious ways and he was about to do so now for as Samson walked away I saw Sheriff Peter get to his feet and start to make his way through the cellarer’s gate. I had a good idea where he was heading and I quickly slipped through the cloisters to the latrines where I did indeed find him, as it were, in full flood.

It was an awkward moment and I didn’t have time for subtleties. How does one broach such a delicate matter in these situations?

‘I must say I do admire the colour of your stockings, Sir Peter,’ I said as cheerfully as I could.

‘Not the sort of thing one chap should say to another in a place like this, brother,’ he replied without looking round.

‘What? Oh - no, perhaps not.’ I shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other.

He glanced sideways at me. ‘I take it since you are not here to relieve yourself there was something else you wanted from me?’

‘Only to ask you to drop the man chosen to be Brother Fidele’s champion.’

He smiled. ‘Sorry to disappoint you, brother, but you are asking the wrong man. Guardsman Sterk is Abbot Eustache’s choice, not mine.’

‘But have you seen the size of him? He’ll massacre little Hamo.’

‘Not my problem. I’ve no love for the Frenchman but the murdered man was his clerk. It’s only right he should have the decision.’

I should have seen this coming. It was obvious now why Eustache didn’t object to the trial by combat proposal when it was made. He must have anticipated all along that it might come to this and had his man lined up ready. How much was he paying Sterk, I wondered? Even so, I was sure the sheriff could override the abbot-legate’s choice if he wanted to. I just had to find the way to persuade him:

‘The reason I’m asking, Sir Peter, is because I don’t believe the man is a suitable choice.’

‘Sterk’s a soldier,’ he said without looking up, ‘and a very good one. Fighting is his business. In what way is he not suitable?’

I frowned. ‘Oh this is awkward.’

‘Well, you have until I empty my bladder to persuade me.’

I steeled myself. There was no easy way to say so I just blurted it out: ‘Hamo’s wife claims that the man defiled her.’

For a moment the sheriff said nothing.

‘You have proof of this?’

‘I have the lady’s word. Is that not enough?’

‘Not really, no. Is she with child?’

‘I have no idea. How would I?’

‘Was there a witness?’

‘Possibly. Others of your men - who would no doubt deny it.’

Sir Peter finished his business, adjusted his clothing and turned to face me. ‘Brother, if I suspended every man in my garrison who was accused of trifling with a low-rank woman against her wishes I would have no garrison left.’

‘But he as good as admitted it.’

‘Of course he did. Big strong chap like Sterk. He’s hardly likely to deny it, is he?’

‘Then you’ll arrest him?’

‘For what? Saying he can have his way with any woman he desires? What man doesn’t boast of that?’

‘Cathrin isn’t like that.’

‘You know this woman well?’

‘No, but -’

He shook his head. ‘I’m sorry brother but I have a trial by combat to oversee. If you’ll excuse me.’

Frustrated, I wanted to rush after him,
demand
he withdraw Sterk. But then I heard a movement and another figure emerged from one of the stalls further along the passageway.

Abbot Eustache.

I’d forgotten about his bladder problem. I should have guessed he’d be here. His smug smile was even more infuriating than ever.

‘
Je vous en prie, mon frère, mais…
Sorry, I was forgetting: you do not understand French - although you seem suddenly quite conversant in Flemish,’ he smiled. ‘Alas, I understand English only too well. But please do not think that I was listening deliberately to your conversation with Sir Peter just now. One tries not to overhear private conversations in these situations of course, but by the time I realised who - and what - was being discussed I thought it impolite to interrupt. And I would be lying if I said I was sorry to hear the sheriff’s response to your request. You may take it that in light of what was said I will not be withdrawing my candidate for the contest. Indeed, I will insist that
meneer
Sterk represents Fidele. Please commend me to your prior and tell him I am grateful for his intervention. With his help - and God’s - this matter may at last be resolved, and I think satisfactorily
ne c’est pas?
’

‘H-ow did you get on?’ Jocelin asked when I got back to my place.

‘I think I may have sealed Hamo’s fate.’

‘F-for good or ill?’

‘For ill - and for good.’

Sterk was still basking in the sunshine of celebrity strutting around like a prize cock before a fight and flexing his muscles to the admiring catcalls of some of the town whores who were already loosening their bodices in anticipation. I dare say when this is over - when the mangled, bloody corpse of Hamo is being dragged from the arena - Sterk won’t have need to pay for a single drink in the taverns.

If this display of Flemish prowess was part of his strategy to intimidate Hamo I’m sure it was working. I was intimidated just looking at the brute. He was being equipped by two of his soldier colleagues in an impressive array of armour: a chain hauberk for his torso; leather leggings; knee-length boots; a pair of rerebraces for his arms and all topped off by a great iron helm in the shape of a bucket with only thin slits for the eyes. Bolts and maces would simply bounce off him. He also had an evil-looking mace with iron spikes and a war-axe. The whole was indeed formidable.

Hamo by contrast had only his regular clothing, a thin leather jerkin, a tin helmet balanced on top of his head, and a wooden club. Thus did our armies ever go off to war and eloquently explains why so many knights returned unscathed while so many common soldiers did not.

Jocelin and I went over to his corner to try to give him some moral support. Cathrin was already there weeping tears of anguish. Already weakened by weeks of living out in the open and with starvation rations, Hamo was in no fit state to fight a child let alone this monster of a man. But I tried my best to steady his nerves and sound confident:

‘Well my friend,’ I smiled cheerily, ‘not long now and it will be over now. You will soon be free!’

‘Are we free in heaven, bruvver?’

I punched him lightly on the arm and chortled. ‘You’re not going to heaven - at least, not today.’ I nodded towards the strutting Sterk. ‘Look at him, the great lumbering brute! He can barely walk never mind fight. You’ll thrash him easily.’

‘Remember also you have the g-greatest champion of all on your side,’ said Jocelin confidently. ‘In him above lies your salvation.’

‘Jocelin is right,’ I said to him. ‘You are innocent of this crime. Believe that and you will overcome all obstacles.’

‘I do believe it bruvver for it is true. But just in case, I want you to promise to look after Cathrin and my girls.’

I laughed dismissively and gave him another playful shove. But this time he caught my hand and looked me in the eye.

‘Promise me.’

I nodded. ‘I promise.’

At last all was ready. The public benches were packed. Many who had drifted away in earlier sessions had returned now that there was the prospect of some real sport and possibly blood. As the coroner, Samson, Sheriff Peter and Abbot Eustache looked on, the two combatants were summoned to the middle of arena by the usher now in his new role as referee. Abbot Samson rose to his feet to give the blessing:

‘
Benedicat vos omnipotens Deus,
Pater, et Filius, et Spiritus Sanctus - Amen.
’

‘Right,’ said the usher calling Hamo and Sterk together. ‘I want a clean fight. No gauging, no biting, no kneeing in the balls. Break when I say “break”. The first to cry “Craven” I will declare the loser. Ready?’

He looked briefly from one to the other then flapped a white duster:

‘Fight!’

In the biblical account of David and Goliath the Philistine giant challenges the Israelites to send out a champion to fight him. For forty days no-one dares stand up to the man-mountain. Finally David, a shepherd boy from the hills, accepts the challenge. He selects five pebbles from a nearby stream, takes aim and fells the giant with his first sling-shot. Unfortunately Hamo no longer had forty days nor, I fear, David’s skill with a sling. Even if he did where would he penetrate that massive iron helmet? His best way of staying alive was to stay well away from that fearsome spiked mace. Sterk needed only to connect with Hamo once to make an end of him.

The pair circled each other for a while performing a clumsy dance with Hamo hobbling on his injured leg. Sterk made several lunges with both axe and mace swinging wildly but fortunately he was so encumbered with the clumsy armour that each time Hamo just managed to hop out of his reach. I began to think maybe I was right and his armour was a hindrance rather than an asset. I was certainly praying it was so.

By now the crowd was growing impatient with the lack of real action and set up a chant: “Fight! Fight! Fight!” This seemed to unnerve Hamo and perhaps for that reason he at last ventured just that little bit too close and reacted a little bit too slowly. Sterk swung his axe again and this time he caught the top of Hamo’s head. It was only a glancing blow but a medallion-sized circle of tin pinged off Hamo’s helmet and a tiny drop of blood could be seen to trickle down his cheek. That was enough. Hamo’s knees buckled beneath him and he fainted clean away. A gasp went up from the crowd and Cathrin tried to rush to his aid but was held back by the guards.

Sensing blood, the crowd’s chanting grew louder and more insistent now, not that Sterk needed any encouragement. He lumbered towards his supine victim, drew himself to his impressive full height and roared at the crowd who roared back. The mood had changed utterly and a blood lust had taken over. They no longer cared who won so long as someone lost, and lost decisively. I was desperately willing Hamo to open his eyes. All he needed to do was say the word “Craven!” and the nightmare would all be over. He would have lost but at least he would still be alive. I could see Jocelin next to me silently mouthing the word for him, alas to no avail.

Sterk now stood astride Hamo’s body with the crowd chanting “Kill! Kill! Kill!” He gripped his spiked mace in both hands and swung it high above his head. The crowd hushed. I couldn’t look but closed my eyes fully expecting when I opened them again to see the bloodied remains of what had been Hamo’s head mashed to a pulp on the ground between Sterk’s feet. I waited, but the roar of triumph never came. I heard the crowd gasp then applaud. Tentatively I opened one eye, but instead of blood and carnage I saw something else: a third figure had entered the arena and was standing facing Sterk egging him to come on. Who was he? Where had he come from? Even compared to Hamo this was a slight figure, so slight in fact that I thought it must be Cathrin. The face was completely hidden beneath a mask so it was impossible to tell. But then the figure moved and I instantly recognized who it was:

Chrétien.

I gulped. What was he doing there? Already the guards had started to converge on the boy but the crowd was having none of it. They booed and hissed forcing the guards back. Then the chanting began again: “Fight! Fight! Fight!” My heart was in my mouth. Chrétien was no match for Sterk. He wore no body armour other than a thin linen tunic and light boots. Lithe and doll-like, surely the giant would snap him easily between his fingers. Sterk certainly seemed to think so. Leaving Hamo for a moment to brush this fly away, he lunged at the boy. But where had Chrétien gone? One moment he was there and the next he’d vanished. The crowd groaned its disappointment. It seemed they were to be denied their sport.