The Abbot's Agreement (20 page)

“Oh. That the fur what you found?”

“Aye.”

“Didn’t come from that cloak, then, did it?”

“Nay.”

“Suppose the prior owns two fur coats? Cold business, to travel to Lincoln in November. He might be wearin’ one fur coat, if he owns two, an’ the one keepin’ ’im warm on his journey might be the one that scrap o’ fur come from.”

Arthur’s suggestion was possible, and I grasped it eagerly. If it was not so, I had even less reason to accuse the prior of murder than I had an hour before. The mismatched fur did not
mean that Prior Philip was innocent of John Whytyng’s death. It meant only that I was yet unable to prove his guilt, and with no thought of how to proceed against the man. I had better find something new against him, for in a few days he would return, threatening retribution against all who opposed him. I would likely be first upon his list.

I replaced the tuft of incriminating fur – it might yet incriminate someone – in my pouch, closed the chest, and bid Arthur follow me from the chamber. It would be well if Arthur could relock the prior’s door, else when he returned he would suspect his chamber was entered while he was away. But try as he might, Arthur could not lock what he had unlocked. We soon heard the footsteps of monks leaving the church, so I told Arthur to abandon the effort and come with me.

We walked quickly to the novices’ chamber, and were seated there, innocent of mien, when Osbert and Brother Gerleys entered. Brother Gerleys saw me glance at Osbert and read my thoughts.

“Henry remains in the church,” he said, “to pray and meditate. The chapter will vote tomorrow to admit him.”

“Will he be accepted?”

“Aye. Some believe ’tis not meet to make such a decision before Abbot Thurstan’s funeral, but even these would accept him. Since the pestilence our numbers shrink. We cannot cast off one who is so minded to join us.”

“What of Prior Philip?”

“He is not here to object. And even should he become abbot he cannot undo what chapter has done.”

“Will he be chosen abbot over you? Even after the brothers heard Abbot Thurstan’s charge against him?”

“Maybe so. Some believe a prior must not be passed over, others that Abbot Thurstan must have been mistaken about what happened the night he fell… that the blow to his head addled his brain.”

“Does Prior Philip own two fur-lined coats?”

The novice-master frowned, puzzled by this change of subject.

“Nay. But one, I believe.”

“Did you see him depart for Lincoln?”

“Aye. All of the brothers gathered to bid him ‘God-speed.’”

“Did he wear his fur coat?”

Brother Gerleys frowned as he thought back to the event. “Nay, he did not, as I remember. He wore a thick woolen cloak. Probably did not wish to return with his fine cloak spattered with mud.”

Arthur’s suggestion was wrong. Prior Philip owned but one furred coat, and its lining did not match the fragment I had found fixed to a thorn. Perhaps this wayward scrap in my pouch was indeed from some incautious wild animal and not from some man’s garment. The color and texture seemed to be that of a fox. Perhaps Reynard had caught his tail upon the brambles while pouncing upon a coney. “What do the brothers say of my presence in the abbot’s chamber?” I asked.

Brother Gerleys shrugged. “Nothing.”

“None wish to see me back in Brother Guibert’s cell? Do not some wonder aloud how I came to escape the cell?”

“If so, they do not speak of it. Gossip is forbidden. We who have lived many years in a cloister learn to master our curiosity… most of us.”

“I wonder if Prior Philip has also learned to subdue his curiosity?” I said. “When he returns he will have many questions about events while he was absent.”

“Aye, he will so. And likely will not be pleased by the answers. But why did you ask if Prior Philip owned two fur coats? You are here to seek who has slain John Whytyng. What have the prior’s cloaks to do with that?”

“Nothing, it seems.”

“But you once thought so?”

“Aye. But this is not the first time I’ve been mistaken.”

“You think Brother Prior had some knowledge of John’s death do you not? If the novice left the abbey in the night Prior Philip would be most likely to know of it, being explorator. But,” Brother Gerleys said after some hesitation, “why would he not confront John if he knew he had slipped from the abbey? Or try to defend the lad if he saw him attacked in the night? He asked me soon after Michaelmas if John was ready to take his vows.”

“What did you reply?”

“I told him that all three lads were ready, and but for his thwarting him, Henry would be tonsured already. Osbert will not be eighteen ’till after Easter, so he is too young.”

“Did you know that John was prepared to leave the abbey?”

“He was not happy here, but where would he go? His father wished him here.”

“He spoke of Oxford, and studying law.”

“He did? Not to me… perhaps to Osbert, or Henry.”

The novice-master looked to Osbert. The novice replied with a shrug and said, “John never seemed eager to be about God’s work, but he did not speak of Oxford. Not to me, nor to Henry, I think, or Henry would have told me.”

“How do you know this?” Brother Gerleys asked me. “Did you learn of it from his father?”

“Nay. For now you must be content with understanding that it is so. John Whytyng did not wish to continue here.”

“Could that be why he was slain? Would Prior Philip have done murder to prevent him leaving? Is that your thought?”

“I know not what to think,” I replied. “But if I cannot solve a murder in five or six more days we both may see disagreeable days to come… But Henry will be a brother of this abbey, you said, and the prior cannot undo what chapter has done?”

“Aye. Tomorrow the vote, and all brothers will be in the chapter house. When he has been accepted the sacrist will give him the tonsure, then all will go to the church, where the mass will be celebrated and Henry will take vows of poverty and chastity and obedience. Then for three days he will live alone, having last place in church, cloister, and chapter house. He will
remain behind in the church after matins to meditate or to sing the psalmody, and he will be required to sleep with his hood up. Of course, in November, this is no great trial.

“At the end of three days Henry will receive the Kiss of Peace at mass, and then his head will be uncovered, making of him a member of our community. ’Tis the abbot who is to do this, but we have none. Perhaps the precentor will perform the ritual. I will not. ’Twould seem presumptuous.”

I
missed my Kate. And Bessie. When I accepted Abbot Thurstan’s commission I thought the exchange of a few days to seek a felon in return for a Bible to be an excellent trade. But as days passed I was less sure of the bargain. And if I did not discover who had slain John Whytyng the failure would gnaw at me for months to come. I would awaken in the night and bemoan my defeat.

Unless in the next five or six days I discovered some new evidence pointing to a murderer, Prior Philip would return and set all for naught. Even if he was not chosen abbot he would yet be prior, and rule the abbey until a new abbot was chosen. And when Brother Gerleys, or some other which Bishop Bokyngham might have in mind, became abbot and was called away on abbey business, the prior would be left in charge. Who could know what mischief he might cause the abbey? Or the mischief he might cause me?

For three days I retraced my steps, questioning those to whom I had spoken in the past, and was not well received for my trouble, but for Osbern Mallory, who was pleased that I pronounced his wound healing well. The others – Squire Ralph, Sir Thomas, Sir Geoffrey, whom I had not earlier questioned, and Simon atte Pond – could not add to my search. Or would not. Indeed, but for the yeoman of Cumnor these men were resolute in sending me from their presence as ignorant of John Whytyng’s death as ever. By this time village gossip had told the folks of Eynsham why I was prowling about the village and abbey, and it required little wit for a man to guess that if I sought him with questions, it must be that I thought him a possible felon. Or that I thought he knew of a possible felon. Were it not for Arthur standing behind me during these interviews with arms crossed and a grim expression upon his partly purpled face, I believe the
gentlemen, and even the reeve, might have produced a dagger and bid me be gone. A youth was dead, but no man of Eynsham seemed much troubled.

Abbot Thurstan’s funeral was upon Sunday. On Wednesday, near to terce, Prior Philip returned. I did not know of this for an hour or more, for Arthur and I were at the time in the guest house awaiting the lay brother who would bring loaves with which we might break our fast. He brought also the news of the prior’s return. The report did not improve my appetite.

We had but finished the maslin loaves and ale a few minutes earlier when the door to the guest house crashed open and two men entered with resolute expressions upon their faces. Neither could be described as handsome, and ill humor did not improve their appearance.

Arthur did not appreciate this unannounced intrusion, and leaped to his feet, scowling, with his right hand on the hilt of his dagger. I was immediately upon my feet also, but when the two men halted but a step inside the chamber door ’twas not my appearance which halted their advance.

Before I could ask the meaning of their abrupt arrival the first of the fellows spoke. “Prior Philip wishes to speak to you. You are to come with us.”

“Where?” I asked.

“His chamber. He awaits you.”

“Tell the prior that I have much to discuss with him, but would prefer to entertain him here, in the guest chamber. I have no other pressing business, so will await his visit this morning. Your chauces and cotehardies are mud-spattered. Did you accompany Prior Philip to Lincoln?”

“Aye. But you are to come with us.” The lay brother also rested a hand upon the hilt of his dagger. I did not wish for conflict with these fellows, but I thought it likely that if I appeared before the prior our conversation would be brief and both Arthur and I would leave his chamber securely bound. And this time Brother Gerleys might find it more difficult to free us. I decided to give the men a cause for alarm.

“Tell the prior that I have prepared a letter” – this was not completely a lie, for I had composed a message in my mind – “to send to Bishop Bokyngham regarding a heretical brotherhood which has contaminated this abbey, and wish to discuss the business with him as a matter of great urgency. I have discovered that monks, and some lay brothers also, have succumbed to this heresy, and, unless they repent, are in danger of the scaffold.”

I said these last words with a solemn visage, frowning into the eyes of first one man, then the other.

“It will be best if Prior Philip appears alone. The heresy is widespread. Who can know which of the brothers may be infected?”

“We’ll find ’em,” Arthur added. “An’ when we do they’ll ’ave more to fear than this dagger.” And as he spoke he drew his blade from its sheath.

I do not know which was most effective, my words or Arthur’s dagger. One or the other caused the lay brothers to back through the door, then turn on their heels and flee across the kitchen garden toward the refectory.

The Eynsham Abbey guest house is not grand, as it would be in greater monasteries. There were no separate accommodations for those of great estate but for a partition which divided the chamber. Early in our stay at the abbey I had opened the door to see what lay beyond the divider. Night had come when I did this, so I saw little of the unlit space. Now I went again to the partition door, and opened it, and peered into this unused area.

Furnishings there were of higher quality, the beds equipped with thicker mattresses. It was clear that when some baron wished lodging at Eynsham Abbey, he and his lady would be housed in this more elegant chamber while his retainers slept where Arthur and I resided.

The rear of this better half of the guest house abutted the dormitory. No door was there, which was good. We could not be overwhelmed by men coming for us from two directions. If the prior decided to force a way into the guest house, there was but one door through which men could enter, and to do this they
must pass Arthur. No easy task when only one man at a time could occupy the doorway.

The word “brotherhood,” when I used it, seemed to concentrate the minds of the lay brothers whom Prior Philip had sent for me. I thought they might use it when reporting to the prior, and was sure that if they did, he would deny his dignity enough to appear at the guest house to learn what I knew and if the knowledge could be used against him.

The prior did not come to the guest house alone, as I had asked, but when Brother Guibert attempted to enter with him I denied him. I thought that Prior Philip might then depart also, but he waved a hand toward the infirmarer, indicating that he should go, and walked to the center of the chamber. He wore yet the long, mud-spattered black cloak which had warmed him upon his journey. I motioned to Arthur to shut the guest house door, and as he did so the prior turned and, with hands upon his hips, gazed imperiously at me.

I believe the prior was accustomed to intimidating others by looking down upon them, as he is taller than most. He could not do so with me, as I am also tall. I looked him in the eye, but he did not look away.

Neither of us had spoken. I waited for Prior Philip to begin the conversation. This he hesitated to do, but when the silence became onerous he finally spoke.

“How is it you defy me? I am lord of this abbey. You refused to attend me.”

“You are temporarily lord of Eynsham Abbey, I think. Abbot Thurstan told me of what was in the letter you took to Bishop Bokyngham.”

“Bah. Doddering old fool. I told the bishop his accusation was baseless.”

“There are other matters. If your only concern was that of Abbot Thurstan’s accusation that you shoved him down the presbytery stairs, you would not have come here as I asked. But when your lay brothers spoke the word ‘brotherhood’ you decided to have conversation with me, to learn what it may
be that I have discovered whilst you were upon the road. You would not be here in the guest house if you were not uneasy, I think.”

“Bah.” (This seemed one of the prior’s favorite expressions.) “I care little for what you may have learned in my absence.”

“Even who has done murder?”

I watched the prior intently as I said this, to see if he would react to my claim (untrue, but he would not know that) that I knew who had slain John Whytyng.

“You have discovered who has slayed the novice?” he asked.

There was no indication that such knowledge on my part gave the prior any anxiety. Of course, I thought, an adept of the Brotherhood of the Free Spirit would be experienced in lying and therefore skilled at it. If forced to leave the abbey, perhaps he might take up the law.

“Who is the killer?” he asked.

“We must first discuss another matter,” I said. “I have discovered heresy within Eynsham Abbey.”

“You have discovered?” the prior said incredulously. “How does a heretic discover his own heresy? The archdeacon has reported all to Bishop Bokyngham.”

“Not all, I think. The man who reported my words to Abbot Thurstan is himself a heretic. Will the bishop believe the testimony of such a man?”

“Who is this heretic?”

“The infirmarer, Brother Guibert.”

“What evidence have you for such a charge?”

I thought I detected just the beginning of concern in the prior’s words.

“The testimony of others who shared the heresy, but have repented their error, and of some who were invited to join the heresy but refused.”

“So you will condemn a man as a heretic upon the word of other heretics?”

“The word of those who are heretics no longer.”

“What heresy has supposedly infected this house? Tell me,
that I may root it out. ’Tis a prior’s duty, in the absence of his abbot, to do so.”

“The brothers will soon choose a new abbot. He will deal with apostasy.”

“I surely will.”

“The brothers know the contents of the letter Abbot Thurstan sent with you to Bishop Bokyngham. Some may believe the accusation against you false, but those are few. Brother Gerleys will be the next abbot of this house, and unless Bishop Bokyngham has some other candidate in mind he will approve him. Either way, you will not be abbot of Eynsham Abbey.”

Prior Philip’s marred countenance reddened as I spoke. “So you claim,” he growled.

“You asked of the heresy I have found. There are in Eynsham Abbey members of the Brotherhood of the Free Spirit.”

“The Free Spirit? That heresy died away a century past,” the prior said. “And ’twas never great here in England. Who has told you this nonsense?”

“I told you, those who now repent their foolishness and sin. In every such company of heretics there is an adept, a leader, whose commands the others must obey.”

“Who is this man?”

“You, as you well know.”

“I have served as monk and prior for many years with no blemish upon my reputation. Do you expect that you, a mere bailiff, will be believed if you make this charge known?”

“You do not deny it, then?”

“Nay. To what purpose? I am proud of my enlightenment and the hidden secrets I have brought to others.”

“You do not fear the hangman?”

“Nay. Who would believe you, did you accuse me?”

“I told you, there are others: Brother Adam, and Brother Herbert. Brother Henry…”

“Brother Henry? Was the novice made a brother in my absence?” The prior’s face reddened again.

“Aye. You thought he would succumb to your demand, as did Brother Adam and Brother Herbert, but he would not, as Martin Glover and John Whytyng would not. Martin Glover left Eynsham Abbey and joined another monastery. But when you required John Whytyng to join the heresy he refused, and you learned then, in the night beside the fishpond, that he intended to forsake a vocation and leave the monastery. You would then have no hold over him. If he told of your heresy there was danger that he might be believed, so you silenced him with a dagger in the back.”

Prior Philip’s mouth dropped open as I made the accusation. I thought this to be evidence of his guilt. The bishop’s court would not accept an open mouth as evidence, but I thought I could find other proofs. Brother Eustace had seen the prior go out in the night to follow the novice, and no other saw the lad alive after.

“You believe I murdered the novice?”

“You were there with him in the night. There are witnesses.”

“Who says so?”

“Brother Eustace has told me that you followed John from the church after he let himself from the abbey with his key. And there is another who hid near the pond and overheard the novice refuse your demand. You saw no other course to save yourself. A novice might not send a heretic prior to the scaffold upon his witness alone, but you knew that John’s testimony would cause others, especially Abbot Thurstan, to watch you more closely to see if some part of his accusation might be true.”

“I did not slay him,” the prior said. His attitude had deflated like a sheep’s bladder kicked too hard.

“If not you, who did? You admit that you were there. ’Tis why you urged Abbot Thurstan to discharge me… you feared I might learn of your felony.”

“I did not slay him,” he said again. “I know not who did.”

“Why should I believe you?”

“’Tis the truth,” he shrugged.

“There is no truth for an adept of the Brotherhood of the Free Spirit. That which is false is as acceptable, nay more acceptable, than truth.”

The prior did not respond. Nothing he said could be believed. But he finally spoke.

“I left the novice beside the fishpond,” he said. “If he left the abbey he could do me little harm. I had no need to slay him. He said that he planned to tell Brother Gerleys of his choice, then depart. He would not speak to Abbot Thurstan, he said.”

“Why should I believe this?”

“Because as I returned to the north porch of the church I saw the man who must have slain the novice.”

“Who was it?”

“’Twas dark, and had he not moved I would not have seen him. But I was all in black, so he did not see me and hide himself. Don’t know who it was, and paid the man no attention.”

“It did not trouble you that he was about after curfew without a light?”

“That’s a beadle’s worry, not mine.”

“Next day, when John Whytyng was discovered missing, why did you not speak?”

“Foolish question. How could I know these things without implicating myself in his disappearance? I thought he had changed his mind. Decided not to tell Brother Gerleys he was leaving the abbey, and chose to depart in the night. He’d no possessions in the novices’ chamber to reclaim. I was pleased that he was away. When you found him dead I congratulated myself that I had held my tongue.”