The Abbot's Agreement (15 page)

An abbey cloister is a place of silence and meditation, but this night it became a place of whispered conversation and conspiracy.

“Will not the explorators discover us here?” I asked when we were seated in a dark shadow.

“Nay. Your cotehardie is grey and I am all in black. And the cloister is the first place they visit on their rounds. They will have passed through here long since, and will not return ’till after vigils.”

“I cannot remain above the novices’ chamber,” I said.

“I agree. ’Twas the only place which came to mind yesterday, and has served while I found a better. But ’tis too dangerous for Osbert and Henry. If they guess you are in the attic it will place too great a weight upon them… whether or not to keep our secret and put at risk their future at Eynsham Abbey.”

“You have found a better place for me?”

“Aye. Well, Abbot Thurstan has. I am to take you there. He has changed his mind, and now wishes to know you safe.”

“Where is this refuge?”

“M’lord Abbot has a prayer closet off his chamber, where he seeks solitude for prayer and meditation and permits no other to enter. You are to be hid there.”

“Will not Prior Philip and the infirmarer be with Abbot Thurstan?”

“Brother Guibert will visit the abbot, but not Prior Philip.”

“Not the prior? Why not?”

“Abbot Thurstan intends to send him away on abbey business.”

“What business? Did he say?”

“Nay. Said he would tell us this night, when he had thought it through. Remain here, in the shadows, while I go to the abbot’s chamber and see if he is alone. You cannot go there if Brother Theodore or Brother Guibert sits with him.”

I was chilled to the bone and thought longingly of the warm novices’ chamber. But I did not sit alone in the cloister for long. “Come,” Brother Gerleys whispered from the shadows. “M’lord Abbot has sent all others away, but Brother Guibert will visit him before vigils.”

We walked silently, carefully, to the abbot’s chamber. A cresset was kept lighted upon a stand so that those who came to the chamber in the night could see to be about the matter of providing succor to the dying abbot.

Abbot Thurstan lifted his head from his pillow when our shadows passed between him and the cresset. “Ah, you are come. I did not hear the door open. Must have dozed off. Draw that bench close and sit. We have much to discuss.

“Brother Theodore,” he continued, “would sit with me through the night, but I sent him to his bed with a demand that he sleep. He is of no service to me as exhausted as he has become. And he must not guess that you are here.”

This speech so taxed the abbot that his head fell back upon his pillow. His eyes closed, and I feared that he might have swooned, but after a moment he spoke again. I was required to lean close to the frail old man, so weak was his voice.

“On the morrow I will send a letter to Bishop Bokyngham. Brother Theodore will write it for me, and I will swear him to silence about its subject. I intend to tell M’lord Bishop that it is my wish that Brother Gerleys follow me as abbot of this house, if the monks here do willingly choose, as I believe they will.

“I intend to send Prior Philip to Lincoln with the letter, explaining to M’lord Bishop that I did not send it with the archdeacon because I did not yet know my own mind when the archdeacon departed Eynsham.”

“Prior Philip will not be pleased to be sent away,” I said. “He would rather remain here and seek me, I think.”

“Brother Prior will be pleased to travel to Lincoln. I will tell him that my letter concerns him and the future of the abbey. This will be no lie. He desires to be abbot. Prior Philip will believe that the letter nominates him for the office. But I will tell Bishop Bokyngham that he is unsuited for the post, and I will tell him why… that he sent me sprawling down the stairs, thinking to advance to my place in such a manner.”

Neither Abbot Thurstan, nor I, nor Brother Gerleys knew yet all of the reasons why the prior was unfitted to be raised to the abbacy.

Brother Gerleys did not speak while the abbot and I conversed. But when we fell silent, he spoke. “’Tis an honor I do not seek,” he said.

“And ’tis why, therefore, you are more suited for preferment than Prior Philip. Now, I am weary, and ’tis nearing time for vigils, I think.” To Brother Gerleys the abbot said, “Show Master Hugh to my prayer closet. Did you put a pallet and blanket there for him?”

“Aye,” the novice-master replied.

I stood and moved the bench away from the bed, so no man would suspect that a visitor had recently sat close to the abbot, then followed Brother Gerleys to a dim corner of the chamber where I saw the dark outline of a door against the grey stone wall.

A glass window in the east wall of the closet allowed some starlight into the space. Enough that I could see the small altar where Abbot Thurstan had knelt in his prayers, and the pallet which would be my bed for the next week. Prior Philip might reach Lincoln in three days of hard travel, but the prior did not seem to me a man who would press on through hardship and roads gone to mud. Four days, then, to Lincoln, four days to
return, and a day with the bishop. I would have one more week to find a felon, perhaps a day or two more. If Bishop Bokyngham told the prior what Abbot Thurstan’s letter said, Prior Philip might hasten his return so to vent his anger upon the abbot. If Abbot Thurstan yet lived. One week was all I could be sure of.

About a week I had, then, to discover who had slain John Whytyng. Prior Philip had cause, due to his resentment of the novice’s mother choosing another husband, and had opportunity. Perhaps he had seen the lad slip from the abbey grounds one night after vigils as he walked the abbey in his capacity as explorator. And he owned a fur coat, from which a tuft might be missing.

Sir Thomas was smitten with Maude atte Pond, and had displayed a violent dislike of competition for the maid’s hand. But he was left-handed, and John Whytyng’s wounds seemed more likely delivered by a right-handed man.

Simon atte Pond wished his daughter to wed a knight, thereby improving her station. Would he slay John Whytyng to prevent the unraveling of his plans? Whatever those plans might be. Maude said that the voice that she heard the night John Whytyng was slain was not her father’s. Would she say so to save him from the gallows?

Or would Maude protect her mother by claiming to have heard a man’s voice in the night? Alyce atte Pond was a formidable woman, clearly ready to use violence to advance her designs. And ’tis sure her plans for Maude did not include a novice of Eynsham Abbey.

Osbern Mallory said that he had forsaken pursuit of Maude atte Pond. Did he speak true? Or did Sir Thomas attack the yeoman because he knew of the man’s continuing suit for Maude?

Ralph Bigge was said to have an interest in Maude and the lands of her father which would come to her. I must discover some way to meet and take stock of the fellow.

And the ale-house keeper had hinted that Sir Thomas’s older brother, Sir Geoffrey, was not so devoted to his wife as he ought to be. How could I learn if this was so, and if it was, if the knight had opportunity to slay John Whytyng?

I lay upon the pallet considering these matters when I heard the door to Abbot Thurstan’s chamber open, and Brother Guibert announce his entry.

The abbot must have been asleep. I heard the infirmarer whisper the abbot’s name, but could detect no response. Shortly after, I heard the bench creak as Brother Guibert sat himself upon it.

I worried that I might fall to sleep, and move or snore or in some other way make a sound which would announce my presence in the prayer closet. I did not worry thus for long, for in but a few minutes I heard the infirmarer snoring, his back, no doubt, against the wall where I had placed the bench. Certainly ’twas not Abbot Thurstan whose snoring I heard. The abbot could barely raise enough breath to whisper, much less rattle the windows.

The infirmarer’s snoring ceased abruptly. The sacrist rang the bell for vigils and caused the slumbering monk to awaken. The pealing apparently awakened Abbot Thurstan as well, for I heard a muffled exchange of conversation before the abbot’s chamber door opened and closed. When men order their lives by the ringing of a bell and the chanting of offices it must be that they measure the passage of time even in sleep.

I wrapped the blanket about me and dozed upon the pallet until I heard men enter the abbot’s chamber. I could not tell how many men spoke at first, but soon identified Brother Guibert and Prior Philip among the group.

The infirmarer told Abbot Thurstan that he had wine with crushed hemp seeds to aid his sleep, and in my mind’s eye I could see him place an arm under the aged abbot’s head so as to raise him to drink from the cup.

The abbot’s voice was too weak for me to understand his words, but I know what he said next because of the prior’s reply.

“Why me? Send a lay brother.”

Abbot Thurstan spoke again, and I heard the prior snort in reply. “Important as all that? To send me upon the roads in November when a lay brother could serve as well?”

There followed a long speech from Abbot Thurstan which I could not hear, but which must have convinced Prior Philip that delivering a letter to Bishop Bokyngham was in his best interest.

“I understand,” the prior said. “If no other can be entrusted with the letter, then I will do as you wish.”

The tone of the prior’s voice did not indicate that he was pleased to acquiesce to the abbot’s demand, but pleased or not, he would be upon a palfrey come daylight, on his way to Lincoln, with a letter in his pouch which would soon cause him great consternation. This brought me no sorrow, for I had taken a dislike to the man, even if he did not slay John Whytyng, which he may have done, and even if he did not thrust Abbot Thurstan down a flight of stairs, which he did.

I heard Brother Theodore promise to return after lauds. Abbot Thurstan must then have required all those in his chamber to retire for the remainder of the night, for I heard several voices protest that he must not be left alone. I do not know his reply, but an abbot is to be obeyed in his house. His chamber was soon silent, and I heard the door latch fall into place. I could sleep unworried about whether or not I might make some sound which would expose my hiding place.

D
awn found me rested and eager to find a felon and depart Eynsham Abbey. I would have desired so even was I not required to hide from Prior Philip and his adherents. My Kate grew daily closer to the day of her deliverance. I began to rue the bargain I had made with Abbot Thurstan. Was a Bible worth all of this trouble?

The door to the abbot’s chamber opened and closed, and I heard Brother Theodore greet his abbot. I could hear no response. Abbot Thurstan grew weaker each day.

I heard few of the abbot’s words as he dictated the letter for Bishop Bokyngham to his clerk. He had said to me that he would explain to the bishop why Prior Philip was not suited to become abbot. I would have liked to know all of that information. Perhaps, I thought, there would be some time while I was alone with Abbot Thurstan when I might ask him. I thought it likely that his objection to the prior’s elevation had to do with more than the prior casting him down a flight of stairs.

The letter was not long, for Abbot Thurstan soon fell silent and I heard Brother Theodore moving about in the chamber, no doubt finding wax and the abbot’s seal. Shortly after I heard the chamber door open and close again, and the place again became silent. The letter was on its way to Prior Philip, and thence to Lincoln.

I sat upon the pallet and chewed upon my fingernails. I needed Arthur. The longer he took to return from Bampton the more likely, it seemed to me, that he had been delayed because of trouble with men sent to Bampton to seek me. I imagined the villainous things that evil men might do to Kate, and to Arthur could they subdue him, to pry from them my whereabouts. Speculation can be worse than fact.

Someone, likely a lay brother, brought Abbot Thurstan a loaf, and soon after the fellow left the chamber I heard the sacrist
ring the church bell for terce. I thought it likely that the abbot would have visitors when the office was done, and was soon proved correct. The chamber door opened, and next I heard Brother Gerleys and Brother Guibert greet the abbot.

I was developing the skill of gaining the sense of a conversation by listening to only one side of it. Abbot Thurstan must have asked the infirmarer of the health of other monks, for Brother Guibert named three who suffered afflictions. The abbot must then have told him to see to their complaints, for the infirmarer said, “I will do so, and return after sext.”

The abbot’s chamber door opened and closed, and a moment later I heard a hand upon the latch to the door of my closet.

“Your man must have begun his return before dawn,” Brother Gerleys said as he opened the door. “He is at the guest house, awaiting instruction.”

“Can he come here without raising suspicion?”

“Aye. I have told Brother Guibert that Abbot Thurstan has charged him with concluding the matter of John Whytyng’s murder, you having disappeared, and Prior Philip away on another matter, and Arthur privy to what you had discovered before you vanished. Silence is the rule for cloister and refectory, but there are other places where monks may exchange words. I know Brother Guibert. Every monk and lay brother will know of Arthur’s commission before nones.”

“Send Arthur to me. We have seven days to find a felon, perhaps a few more. Prior Philip will return in little more than a week in a foul mood and opportunity may then be lost.”

“Aye… he’ll be furious. I do not seek preferment, but better me as abbot of this house than Prior Philip.”

Brother Gerleys left me with the promise that Arthur would soon appear, and it was so. I heard the chamber door open and close, but no man greeted the abbot. A moment later I heard Arthur’s voice on the other side of the closet door.

“Master Hugh? ’Tis Arthur. You in there?”

I opened the closet door, bade Arthur enter, then closed
the door behind him lest some monk should enter the abbot’s chamber unannounced.

“Kate is safe in the castle?” I asked.

“Aye, her an’ Mistress Shortnekke. Wasn’t much pleased to go, your Kate.”

“She is well?”

“Aye. Not pleased that you’ve got yourself into trouble.”

“I’m not pleased about that myself. We think much alike.”

“Your Bessie has taken to Mistress Shortnekke, or mayhap ’tis the other way ’round. Whatever, they get on well. The midwife said Bessie was near the age her own lass would be, had the babe not died at birth.”

“I was told that men set out from here soon after the infirmarer discovered that his cell was empty. Did they cause you trouble?”

“Not much. I told your Kate that she must not dally, but gather what she would an’ hurry to the castle. She did so, an’ I told Wilfred to raise the drawbridge once we was safe inside. Four of the abbey’s lay brothers rode up not an hour later an’ demanded entry.

“Your Kate went to the parapet and called out, asking what it was they sought.

“‘Master Hugh de Singleton,’ they said, ‘bailiff of this manor.’

“Kate told ’em that you were in Eynsham, an’ they replied ’twas not so, for they had just come from there and you were gone from the place.

“Kate told ’em that you had intended to travel to Oxford when you left Bampton, an’ suggested they seek you there. Then she asked why they sought for you.

“Him what seemed leader of the lay brothers said that the Bishop of Lincoln wished conversation with you. Your Kate would have none of it, an’ put the fellows off, so after an hour or so of parley the lay brothers gave up an’ rode away.

“I was eager to return here, but Kate thought I should remain in the castle. The lay brothers had not seen me, but Kate said, ‘What if these lay brothers come upon you on the road
and recognize you? There are four of them, and if you meet on the road they may overpower you, take you to the prior, and he might then use threats against you to force Hugh to give himself up.’ So I waited ’till this morn to return. The time at Bampton Castle was not misspent, though,” he grinned. “Since my Cicily perished I am in need of a good wife, an’ Mistress Shortnekke, bein’ a widow, has need of a husband.”

“You and the midwife intend to marry?”

“Aye. Lord Gilbert, him havin’ lost Lady Petronilla, will likely understand an’ I’ll not lose my place.”

I thought this prognosis true, and wished him well of his choice.

“We’ll be wed as soon as this business is finished,” he continued.

“Then you are eager to see a felon brought to justice.”

“Aye,” he grinned. “An’ Agnes also. What will you have me do?”

“There is a gentleman in service to Sir Richard Cyne who is said to look fondly upon Maude atte Pond and her father’s lands. Name is Ralph Bigge. Landless, I am told, and handsome. Squire Ralph might be willing to wed a reeve’s daughter, ’tis said, if her dowry includes a yardland or two from her prosperous father.”

“Ah… I remember. No such fellow would like to see an abbey novice wedge himself between him an’ the lass.”

“Just so.”

“When I find the fellow, what am I to ask of ’im?”

“Do not ask of his interest in Maude. Assume it, and if he protests it is not so, ignore his objection and say all of Eynsham, abbey and village, knows of his desire.”

“Sir Richard’s house must be a disorderly place,” Arthur mused. “What with his son an’ a squire in his service both chasin’ after the same lass.”

“Keep eyes and ears open for conflict,” I said.

“Wish you was doin’ this,” Arthur said. “I’ve not the wit to see through another man’s wiles.”

“This abbey is divided, I think. There are those who would report me to Prior Philip if I was seen about the place, and others who would say nothing to betray me.”

“Problem bein’ you don’t know which monks an’ lay brothers is which.”

“I know of a few who are the prior’s adherents. Brother Guibert is surely one. And I know of a few who are not. But no, until this is all sorted out I cannot be seen.”

“What did you do to get in such trouble?”

“Some day, when there is time, I will explain it to you.”

Arthur cocked an ear toward the door, and I also then heard what had caught his attention. Abbot Thurstan was speaking. I had heard no man enter his chamber. To whom could he be speaking?

I listened at the closet door and heard the abbot call my name. It must have taken all of his remaining strength to raise his voice enough to be heard through the oaken planks of the closet door.

Arthur stood aside and I carefully cracked open the door to be sure that the abbot was alone. Perhaps, I thought, he had become delirious and would reveal my hiding place to Brother Guibert or some other visitor.

Not so. For all of his discomfort and nearness to death Abbot Thurstan was yet in his right mind. I approached his bed, and when he saw me he crooked a finger, requesting me to bend near. Arthur watched from the closet door.

“I am too weak to speak much,” the abbot began, “but it takes little strength to hear. I heard you tell your man to seek Squire Ralph. Tell him to take care. Ralph is a pugnacious fellow. Much like his father. He will take offense if he believes he is suspect in a murder, whether or not he is guilty.”

Abbot Thurstan had tried to raise himself upon an elbow as he began this warning, but could not remain so and sank back upon his pillow before he was done speaking. He closed his eyes, his admonition at an end.

“Heard ’im,” Arthur said. He did not say this with any
concern in his voice. Arthur has dealt with pugnacious men in the past, and usually when the affair was closed such men were much less quarrelsome than when the matter began.

“Return to the guest house for your dinner, then seek Squire Ralph. And wear your dagger. Forewarned may be forearmed, but armed with a blade is better than armed with a warning. Return here after you have spoken to Ralph. Ask of his cloak, if he has one of fur, or fur-lined. He may choose not to answer a mere groom, but refusing to answer may be an answer. Mention Lord Gilbert. Can do no harm.”

I retired to the prayer closet, frustrated that I could do nothing but wait while others sought for answers to questions I wished to ask. Abbot Thurstan’s dinner arrived, and I heard the infirmarer implore the abbot to eat. His entreaties were at least a little effective, for after a time I heard him praise the abbot upon his consumption of the meal.

Shortly after Brother Guibert departed the abbot’s chamber I heard the door open again, and this time the closet latch was next to be raised. When this happened without my hearing a voice so as to know who approached, my heart leaped to my throat for fear that I had been betrayed.

There was no need of worry. The closet door opened and I saw Brother Gerleys with a bowl of pottage, a maslin loaf balanced upon it, and a cup of ale. ’Twas not the fare served to folk in the guest house, but it filled my belly.

Shortly after, the abbey bell rang for nones. I heard the abbot’s chamber door once again open and close. I now measured time by the operation of a door. ’Twas not a life I wished to continue, and had been trying and casting aside thoughts of how I might leave the closet yet remain about the abbey to fulfill my commission.

From the other side of the closet door I heard Arthur announce his presence. I opened the door and saw before me a rare sight. Arthur’s nose dripped a small trace of blood, and even in the sunless closet I could see that his left eye was turning to purple and would tomorrow be black.

“Right-handed,” Arthur said with a wry grin.

“What happened? Is the man as combative as Abbot Thurstan warned?”

“Aye, he is… or was. Perhaps not so much any more. Wears a fur coat, does Squire Ralph.”

“You asked this of him?”

“Nay. He was wearin’ it when I found ’im.”

“Ah. But what of your nose?”

“Caught me unaware.”

“What had you said to receive such a blow?”

“Asked ’im if he ever met with Maude atte Pond.”

“And he set upon you for that?”

“Not only that. Asked who I was an’ why I wanted to know. Told ’im I was groom to Lord Gilbert, an’ Abbot Thurstan wanted to know.

“Didn’t believe me – about the abbot, that is. I wear Lord Gilbert’s livery, so he must have known that much was so.

“Asked why the abbot would care if he courted a maid. I told ’im of the novice bein’ slain, an’ it bein’ the abbot’s business to discover who did murder of one of ’is novices.”

“That’s when he struck you?”

“Aye. Took it personal, like,” Arthur said, and tenderly brushed his swelling cheek. “Delivers a solid blow, does Ralph.”

“What then?” I could not believe that Arthur, having an eye blackened, would not have responded. “Does Squire Ralph regret his folly?”

“Reckon he does.”

“Where did this confrontation take place?”

“In the stables, behind Sir Richard’s house. I asked for Squire Ralph at the manor house an’ a servant told me he was seein’ to ’is horses. I found ’im an’ asked of Maude an’ told ’im of the abbot seekin’ the felon what did for poor John, an’ that’s when ’e thumped me. Stables is dark. Never saw it comin’.”

“What then?”

“Shouldda run.”

“What? You?”

“Nay. Ralph.”

“Why so?”

“I was right dazed for a time, an’ he’d a chance to get away. Throws a good punch. But ’e just stood there, waitin’ for me to drop, I think. So when I’d gathered me wits I put a fist to ’is belly, an’ when ’e doubled over I smacked ’im in back of ’is head.”

“Was he yet able to speak, or did you leave him napping in the straw?”

“He come to ’is senses soon enough.”

“Was he then willing to speak of Maude atte Pond and John Whytyng?”

“Aye. Put a knee into ’is back and brought an arm up behind ’is shoulder. If ’e hesitated when I asked a question I just shoved ’is arm a bit higher, like.”

“Does he yet have the use of it, or was he reluctant to provide answers?”

“Arm should be as good as ever in a few days. Only had to tug on it a few times an’ he got the message.”

“What did you learn?”

“As folk do say, he’s an eye for Maude. Spoke of the lands she’ll have of her father.”

“Didn’t speak of her beauty?”

“Nay. For a landless squire ’er looks is not so important. Beauty fades. Land don’t.”

“Has he sought Simon atte Pond’s assent to pay court to his daughter?”