Hill of Bones (19 page)

‘We can but try, friend,’ replied Selwyn. ‘I’m sure that sandal was damaged during the scuffle – and we know it wasn’t from the goldsmith’s footwear.’

They reached the saddlery where, inside the open double doors, two men were at work at a pair of benches and another was sitting on a stool with an iron last sticking up between his knees, punching holes in a long strip of leather. Ox-collars, bridles, traces and other pieces of harness were hanging around the walls, and a row of shelves bore shoes, riding boots and sandals, both old and new. The man on the stool, dressed in a short brown tunic and breeches, was Roger of Devizes, a thin fellow with a face as leathery as the material he worked on.

He greeted Selwyn with a quizzical look. ‘The royal steward, no less!’ he quipped. ‘Does the King want a new pair of shoes, then?’

Selwyn grinned. He had known Roger for a long time and they were comfortable with each other, if not close friends.

‘I have a puzzle for you, Master Shoemaker! Do you recognise this?’ He held out the broken strap, which the wizened cordwainer took between his fingers, then peered at it closely.

‘Where did you find this, Master Steward?’

Selwyn avoided the question. ‘Is it one of yours, Roger? It has the abbey mark upon it.’

The seated man nodded. ‘It is indeed – and the sandal it came from is up there.’ He pointed to a nearby shelf, where a collection of used footwear was awaiting repair.

This was more than Selwyn or Riocas had hoped for and the steward seized on the opportunity. ‘You mean you have it here already? Who brought it?’

Roger did not reply, but rose from his seat and picked the sandal from the shelf. With the torn strap still in his hand, he fitted the two ragged ends together, showing how they corresponded exactly, even the discoloured line matching where the bar of the buckle had chafed the leather.

‘No doubt about that!’ he muttered. ‘But I can’t mend the strap, it will need a whole new piece sewn to the sole.’

Riocas had no concern about the state of the sandal; he wanted to know only who had brought it for repair.

‘But who does it belong to, for God’s sake?’ he barked.

Roger, now sensing that something serious was amiss, bent his head towards them, then murmured a name in a confidential manner.

They found Brother Hubert on his knees before one of the small altars in the north transept of the great church of St Peter and St Paul. Built in place of the older Saxon abbey church, it was far too large for its purpose, being a monument to the grandiose ambitions of the physician-bishop, John of Tours.

Selwyn and Riocas had decided that the sacrist was the best person to approach with their suspicions of who had stolen the Church’s treasure, as he had been the only one to express his doubts about Eldred’s guilt. The bare, echoing transept was empty apart from Hubert, who kneeled in front of a gilded statue of the Virgin placed on a velvet-covered table against the wall.

They padded up behind him on the flagged floor, making their own automatic obeisance to the altar. For a moment, Selwyn thought that the old sacrist was asleep, as he kneeled with his chin bowed onto his chest, his hands clasped across his belly. He was about to cough to attract his attention, when Hubert suddenly raised his head and looked around.

‘Who are you? What do you want?’ he snapped in alarm, perhaps mindful of the grievous theft that had so recently desecrated this place. Then he focused on Selwyn, whom he now recognised. ‘You are the King’s steward, are you not? Who is this with you?’

Selwyn explained who Riocas was as the old sacrist hauled himself to his feet. ‘We are sorry to disturb your devotions, brother, but the matter is important.’

Hubert testily motioned them away from the altar and led them to a corner of the transept, which was curtained off as a place where spare cassocks and cleaning materials were concealed.

Pulling back the hangings, he sat on a stool and looked up at the two visitors, the squint in his eye being more pronounced as he swivelled his gaze between Selwyn and Riocas.

‘So what is this about, eh?’

Selwyn explained the situation and the sacrist’s impatience vanished as he saw the possibility of justifying his doubts about Eldred’s guilt. He had little fraternal love for either the prior or most of the members of the abbey Chapter, so the prospect of confounding them was appealing.

‘Have you got the proof of this?’ he demanded.

Selwyn produced both the sandal and the broken strap and handed them to the sacrist, pointing at the obvious match between the broken ends of the leather. ‘The cordwainer has no doubt at all that it came from that sandal, Brother Hubert.’

The monk rose from his stool, still clutching the footwear. ‘I hope for your sake that you are telling the truth!’ he warned. ‘For I will seek out the prior at once to tell him of your story.’

He padded off towards the cloister door, but threw one last question over his shoulder. ‘Do you know where Eldred has hidden himself ?’

‘I hear that he is outside the city,’ replied Selwyn evasively. ‘But I am sure that he could be found as soon as his innocence is accepted.’

The sacrist made no response and vanished rapidly into the gloomy nave. Riocas looked at his friend uneasily. ‘Let’s hope we can trust him to act honourably over this.’

Brother Hubert of Frome certainly wished to act honourably. In fact, when he made his next confession, he would have to admit to his secret satisfaction at the discomfiture of the prior and his cronies for being proved wrong about Eldred. Unfortunately, a factor unbeknown to him would prevent him getting the credit for having the real criminals arrested within the hour.

He found the prior in his parlour, conferring with the treasurer, the precentor and the cellarer about the rising cost of provisions bought for the abbey. The prior’s secretary, a skinny young monk, hesitantly tapped the door and admitted Hubert. The four men who were gathered around the prior’s desk examining account rolls, turned irritably at the interruption, but Prior Robert at once put on his jovial face.

‘Brother Hubert, have you come to add to our worries with demands for more furniture or vestments? Or do you want a few dozen more shoes, as you are carrying one in your hand?’

Hubert ignored the weak jest and went straight to the heart of the matter.

‘Prior, I have discovered who robbed us of our treasured vessels. It was not Eldred, as I declared from the outset.’

There was a sudden silence, broken then by the clamour as the three men demanded to know how he knew.

Savouring his moment of triumph, the sacrist held up the sandal and explained how it had been found at the scene of the murder of the goldsmith, who had been offered what could only have been the cathedral’s gold and silver pyx.

‘And our cordwainer has definitely identified it as belonging to your clerk, Maurice, Brother Gilbert!’

All eyes turned to the cellarer, who glared at the sacrist with unconcealed dislike. ‘What foolishness is this, Hubert! Of course Maurice is not involved. What mischief are you plotting now?’

‘It is
his
sandal strap that was found at the place of Ranulf’s murder,’ retorted Hubert in triumph. ‘How else could it have got there?’

Red-faced with anger, Gilbert stepped threateningly close to Hubert. ‘Nonsense! Have you lost your reason? If it is his sandal, then either someone else was wearing it or he went there for some legitimate purpose.’

The prior felt that he had lost his dominance in this verbal battle and he stepped into the fray to challenge Gilbert.

‘Unlikely though this story seems, brother, why should anyone else wear a monk’s sandal? And why should he, a penniless novitiate, visit a goldsmith?’

The cellarer, looking like a bull-baited dog, glared from one to other. ‘I don’t know, but by St Michael and all his angels, I’ll soon find out!’

As he marched to the door, his face thunderous, the prior called after him, ‘Bring Maurice back here at once, brother! Call upon the proctor’s men, if needs be!’

While they waited for the cellarer’s clerk to be fetched, the prior and the other Chapter members questioned Hubert closely and he again had to go through the story that Selwyn and Riocas had told him.

‘So where is this Eldred?’ demanded the treasurer. ‘If he is innocent, as you claim, why did he run away? And who helped to escape?’

Hubert shrugged his thin shoulders. ‘He had little chance to defend himself, didn’t he? You were all convinced that he was the culprit, though you had no shred of evidence.’

‘He may still be guilty,’ pronounced the prior heavily. ‘We have to hear more than your unlikely tale of a shoe to be certain that Brother Maurice is the culprit.’

‘That idea is preposterous,’ gabbled the precentor. ‘Maurice is a monk – and a monk who has already taken his vows. This Eldred is merely a menial lay worker.’

‘We shall soon clear this matter up when we hear Maurice’s explanation, if this really is his sandal,’ concluded Prior Robert, looking expectantly at the door where the cellarer would soon appear with his assistant.

They waited for several more minutes, then Hubert became restive. ‘Where is the fellow? We need to resolve this immediately.’

After another delay, the prior also became impatient and waved an imperious hand at his own secretary. ‘Go and hurry them up! Surely Brother Gilbert must have been able to find his own clerk by now!’

The nervous chaplain hurried off and the group waited with mounting impatience. It should have taken the messenger no more than five minutes to get to the cellarer’s office and back again, but a quarter of an hour went by without a sign of him. Then the door burst open, and he almost fell inside in his haste.

‘Prior, the cellarium is in disarray! It seems that both Brother Gilbert and Maurice have gone!’

Several hours later, two men in dark Benedictine habits rode their horses along the Chippenham road until they came to the foot of Solsbury Hill. Some way beyond where the lane turned up to Swainswick, they reined in and looked intently up and down the track to make sure that no one else was within sight.

‘This will do!’ said Gilbert harshly, sliding from his saddle and leading his brown mare into the trees at the side of the road. Maurice, on a grey pony, did the same, and in a moment they were out of sight amongst the greenery. The ground here was flat and heavily wooded, then sloped gently before the steeper gradient of the hill began. They threaded their way between the saplings and more mature trees until they found an open area where a large beech had fallen in last winter’s gales. A small stream ran at one side and the cellarer decided that this would have to do for an overnight stop, as the autumn evening was closing in and it was already twilight. They roped their horses to trees near the stream, so that the beasts could crop the grass between the bushes and get water to drink. Settling themselves down with their bulky saddlebags, they prepared to spend an uncomfortable night in the open.

Gilbert seemed the least affected by their sudden change of circumstances, but the weedy Maurice whined incessantly about their plight.

‘Are you sure that we needed to run away so precipitately?’ he complained, in a high-pitched voice that irritated his senior companion. ‘We had planned to leave our departure until next month.’

‘Of course we had to run, you fool!’ snarled Gilbert. ‘And don’t dare complain. It was your stupidity in leaving that sandal strap in the goldsmith’s shop that caused all this trouble.’

Chastened, the young monk began groping in his bag, pulling out some clothing, a loaf of bread and a block of cheese that he had hastily grabbed from their storeroom before their hurried flight from the abbey.

‘Shall we take off our habits now and change into these tunics and breeches?’ he asked humbly.

Gilbert climbed back to his feet and grabbed some of the more anonymous garments from Maurice. ‘We may as well – then use the robes to cover us during the night – it will be a lot colder than the abbey dormer!’

As he put on the dowdy garments, Maurice sadly dropped his cowled Benedictine habit to the ground, realising that he would never again wear this uniform of the religious life. He had agreed some time ago to join Gilbert in his ambition of forsaking holy office for the worldly pleasures of an affluent secular life. With this in mind, they had been systematically rifling the abbey finances to provide themselves with sufficient money and valuables to keep them in comfort for some time.

Now, while Maurice’s saddlebag had contained their clothing and food, that of the cellarer was heavy with a leather sack of silver pennies and some golden besants, as well as the chalice, pyx and other smaller items of considerable value.

They did their best to make themselves comfortable on the hard ground, eating half of the loaf and some cheese, and drinking water from the stream. It was impossible to light a fire, partly because of lack of the materials to do so, but also they needed to avoid drawing attention to themselves by making smoke.

As the gloom deepened, both in the sky and in Maurice’s mind, they rolled up in their discarded robes and attempted to sleep. Gilbert, a man nearing forty, was by far the most sanguine about their situation. He was not all that concerned about their premature departure, his main concern being getting clear of Bath before any pursuit caught up with them. This was obviously on Maurice’s mind as well.

‘Do you think we will get to your house safely, brother?’ asked Maurice, as he stared up at the stars, visible between the patchy clouds.

‘I see no reason why not,’ grunted Gilbert, irritated at his former clerk’s timidity. ‘We left openly by the West Gate, so when a hunt is begun – if it ever is – they will not know that we doubled back over the hills down to this road.’

They were aiming for Southampton, as Gilbert possessed a house within the walled seaport. He had been embezzling abbey funds steadily for several years, secretly selling stores to unscrupulous merchants and creaming off some of the cash obtained from the sale of wool from the abbey farms outside the city. He had invested some of the proceeds in buying a small burgage in Southampton, anticipating the time when he would slip away from the monastic life. Unfortunately, six months earlier, his clerk had discovered his nefarious activities and the only way that Gilbert could cover it up was by taking Maurice into partnership, though he had to admit that with both of them corrupted, their criminal enterprise had been much easier and more fruitful.