The Abbot's Agreement (21 page)

“When I found the novice dead, why did you not then speak of the man you saw in the night?”

“And say what? That I had followed John to the fishpond in the night? Abbot Thurstan might have assumed that we had planned to meet there. I had no desire to be sent to Scotland or Norway.”

“You may yet go to some such place. ’Twill be better than the alternative.”

“You think a bishop will turn a prior over to the sheriff for punishment?”

“I do not know the mind of Bishop Bokyngham, but the archdeacon seemed eager to root out heresy.”

“’Tis a prior’s word against a bailiff’s.”

“A bailiff, four monks, one not of this house, and several lay brothers.”

“Lay brothers? But they were with me on the road to Lincoln.”

“Aye, they were. But when pressed ’tis my belief they will abjure your heresy rather than face a noose. Do you trust that they will remain loyal to the Brotherhood of the Free Spirit, even to death?”

The prior hesitated, and I saw in the pause an admission that he could not be sure of his followers. And even if they remained loyal to the Brotherhood, ’twould be no betrayal of the order to lie, for that was the conceit upon which the organization had been founded. Would they betray him, the prior must have thought, to save themselves? Of course. He faced the ruin of his plan, and he knew it.

“I did not slay John Whytyng,” he said again.

“You follow a heresy which admires falsehood,” I said. “Why should I, or any man, believe you?”

The prior had no answer, caught in a web of his own devising. But foolish as it seemed at the time, I believed him. His fur coat did not match the tuft in my pouch, he had evidently roused no man in the night to help him draw John Whytyng’s corpse from the pond and carry it away, and he spoke true: he had small motive, for he would surely be believed over a novice if John had accused him of heresy.

“We will go to the north porch. Show me where you stood when you saw the man the night John Whytyng was slain.”

Prior Philip was not eager to do this, or cooperate with a mere bailiff in any way. He would not have, I think, if he could have discovered some way of escaping the hold, tenuous as it was, which I had over him. I motioned to the guest house door. He walked through it and Arthur and I followed. He said not one word, nor looked behind to see if we came after.

The prior did not lead us through the west range or the cloister to the church, but circled around the kitchen and the
abbot’s lodging, past the west front of the church, and stopped when he reached its north porch. Only then did he speak.

“I stood here, with my hand upon the latch, when movement in the street caught my eye. The moon was near to full, and the night nearly cloudless.”

“Where was the man when you first saw him?”

“Just there,” the prior said, and pointed toward Simon atte Pond’s barn.

“Which way did he travel?”

“Don’t know. He passed behind those bushes yonder by the road, and I saw no more of him. He did not make for the abbey so I paid him no heed.”

If this shadowy fellow, skulking about in the night, was the felon I sought, he had already slain the novice when Prior Philip saw him, for if the prior was to be believed, he was seen walking from the abbey fishpond, not toward it. Such would agree with Maude atte Pond’s assertion that John Whytyng was slain but a few moments after his conversation ended. That conversation, ’twas now clear, was with Prior Philip.

Had this fellow seen the prior leave the church and followed? Why would he do so? What interest could some curfew-violator have in a monk’s nocturnal business? If not the prior, had the man followed John Whytyng? If so, how could he know that the novice would leave the abbey and be waiting to follow him? Or was this shadowy presence mere coincidence?

There was no sun to warm this day, but even had there been, the north porch would have been in shadow, and cold. Again I wished for my fur coat, and shivered.

“Did the fellow walk slowly, or did he seem in a hurry?” I asked.

“He was hurried,” the prior replied. “He knew his path, even in moonlight, and was quick to follow it and vanish beyond yon bushes.”

The foliage toward which the prior pointed was bare of leaves, but the thicket of intertwined stems was dense enough that even in daylight a man walking behind the hedge might
not be seen. And if he continued on that course he would pass from the road to the forecourt of Sir Richard Cyne’s manor house.

“Come with me,” I said, and walked toward the road and the place where the prior had seen a man leave Simon atte Pond’s toft. I did not look behind to see if Prior Philip followed. Arthur would see that he did. The prior’s presence behind me would help guarantee truthful answers at the house I intended to visit.

A
few paces along the road and we came to Sir Richard’s manor house. I waited ’till we had passed beyond the bushes which fringed the road, then turned my head quickly toward the house, so that if any man peered from an upper window, my glance would be too quick for him to hide himself from view.

A man did. Sir Thomas looked down upon us. Did the knight ever do anything but stare from that window? When he saw my eyes upon him he disappeared.

A few more strides and we came to the path which led to the reeve’s house. I turned toward the door, and heard Prior Philip and Arthur follow. The prior had not spoken as we passed the manor house. Whether or not he followed my gaze and saw Sir Thomas at his window I know not.

But when I approached the reeve’s door he spoke. “Why do we come here?” he asked. “And what has this place to do with a man seen in the night? You believe I saw Simon atte Pond, and that he did murder?”

“Nay. Wait, and listen.”

I rapped my knuckles upon the sturdy door, and a few moments later the old washerwoman who had entered the abbey with Maude appeared, drying her hands upon an apron.

The woman had visited the abbey many times and recognized the prior. Her hands flew to her face and she stepped back in surprise.

“I’ll fetch Alyce,” she stammered, and turned to leave us standing in the doorway.

“Not necessary,” I said. “You may speak as well as any who may enter this house.”

When I had earlier stood at this door I had seen that it opened to a large chamber. This hall was furnished with benches, chairs, chests, and a table. At the left end a fireplace warmed the room. To the right was a partition, and two doors. Simon atte
Pond’s prosperity had allowed him to enlarge his house with a bay for private rooms. I had thought it likely that these doors led to bedchambers, and this now prompted my visit.

I pointed toward the first door, which opened to a room lit by a small window of glass, another sign of the reeve’s prosperity. This window looked out upon the road before the house, and across the road to Sir Richard’s manor house. From the manor house, of course, a man might also look upon this window.

“Who sleeps in this bedchamber?” I asked. The question so startled the servant, and the prior’s presence behind me had so unsettled her, that she did not think to dissemble.

“The lasses,” she said. “Maude an’ Isobel.”

The door to the house had no lock, which I thought odd for so prosperous a household. I peered around the open door and saw an upright fixture fastened to a vertical beam between the hinges. Another like it was fixed to the latch side of the jamb, and propped in the corner I saw small oaken beams which, when dropped in place, would bar the door. If the hinges were greased, the bar could be lifted and Maude could pass from the house silently, with no rasping of key in lock.

“And whose chamber is that?” I asked, pointing to the second door.

“Simon an’ Alyce sleeps there.”

“And you and the other servants? Where do you sleep?”

The woman nodded over her shoulder to a ladder which led up to a loft over the far bay of the large chamber. “In the loft,” she said. “The lad sleeps in the stable, with the beasts.”

To leave the house in the night Maude would need either to open this front door, or to silently pass the chamber where her parents slept to depart the house through a rear door. Then she must creep past the barn, where slept another of the household. I thought it likely she would choose the front door. The night John Whytyng was slain was well lit. ’Twas nearly a full moon, and skies had been cloudless, the weather dry, for some days before the murder. Could it be that Sir Thomas Cyne had stood at his window that night and watched the lass steal from the house
to meet her novice at the fishpond?

Maude told me that she had crept from her parents’ house several times before the night John Whytyng was slain. Had Sir Thomas seen one of these earlier escapes and watched for another? In my mind’s eye I saw him at his window, watching, then following the lass as she made her way to the pond. Where did he think she was going, and what did he expect to find there? Whatever the answers, it was unlikely he anticipated the presence of Prior Philip. Perhaps he heard Maude and the novice speak before the prior came upon them, and knew his pursuit of the maid doomed. Then, from the shadows, he would have heard Prior Philip and John in dispute.

When the prior stalked off in disgust Sir Thomas saw opportunity to do away with this rival. He would have known that Maude was somewhere near. But could she identify him in the moonlight? Perhaps he struck in passion, without considering that he might be identified. Then, in fear of discovery, he fled, to return with another who would help him move the novice’s corpse to some far place. He should have known that the novice would be missed and eventually found, but those who act out of fury and passion do not likely consider the consequences of their impulsiveness.

I bid the servant “Good day,” and motioned to Arthur and Prior Philip that ’twas time to leave. My mind was as fixed now upon proving that Sir Thomas Cyne had done murder, as a day earlier I was convinced that Prior Philip was the felon. But the prior’s thoughts were on other matters.

“No one will believe you,” he said as we set foot upon the road. “I will claim that ’tis you and Brother Gerleys and the novices who are of the Brotherhood of the Free Spirit. That Brother Gerleys is your adept. All who have heard of the Brotherhood know that members hold truth to be irrelevant, so when you protest ’tis not so, your repudiation will be expected and disbelieved.”

This thought had occurred to me. An accomplished liar is more readily believed than the maladroit truthful.

“What of Brother Adam? And Brother Herbert?”

“Brother Guibert will say that they followed Brother Gerleys. Their confession is to protect him, and is false, to save themselves from their due penalty.”

The prior thought that he had firm ground again beneath his feet. Eventually Bishop Bokyngham and his archdeacon would be required to decide which faction within Eynsham Abbey spoke the truth. My testimony would do no good. The archdeacon already thought me a heretic. If I pointed to Prior Philip as the apostate he would likely believe the opposite.

The prior guessed my thoughts. “The archdeacon will see you hang for two heresies,” he chuckled. “Which will make the noose tighter, I wonder?”

Arthur heard this conversation while following from the reeve’s house. He inserted another thought into the conversation.

“Lord Gilbert is at Goodrich Castle. He thinks right well of Master Hugh. An’ the Sheriff of Oxford an’ Lord Gilbert is close friends, Sir Roger an’ Lord Gilbert havin’ gone off to war with the French together. In five days I can be to Goodrich an’ back with Lord Gilbert. You think Lord Gilbert, an’ Sir Roger will allow some wart-faced prior to send Master Hugh to the scaffold? An’ ’ere’s another reason you should think afore you speak such lies.” Arthur circled around before the prior as he spoke, and concluded his words by lifting an imposing fist before Prior Philip’s widening eyes.

“You would not strike a monk and risk the wrath of Holy Church,” the prior said hopefully.

“The wrath of the Church don’t trouble me none. Won’t be nobody to tell the archdeacon what happened anyway.”

“I’ll tell him.”

“No, you won’t,” Arthur said. He spoke softly, but there was menace in his voice. “If Lord Gilbert an’ the sheriff can’t persuade you to steer away from falsehood, I’ll do so.”

Arthur left no doubt as to the means of persuasion he would employ. The bruise upon his cheek told Prior Philip that he was accustomed to the occasional brawl and his demeanor spoke
that he would cheerfully accept another. Prior Philip might have been an adept, but I thought it unlikely the title would also apply to his ability in a fight.

The prior fell silent, and with Arthur standing resolute before him, he stood still. He had thought his opposition limited to me and a few monks. Now he understood that he must overcome a great lord and the king’s Sheriff of Oxford. His shoulders began to droop and I pressed my advantage.

“Scotland or Norway? Which would you prefer? When Brother Gerleys is confirmed as abbot I’m sure he will give you your choice. And if the bishop puts some other monk in place as abbot you will have the same option. I and Lord Gilbert will see to it. Now, let us return to the abbey and meet with Brother Gerleys.”

“Meek” is not a word which in past days I would have used to describe Prior Philip, but as we walked to the abbey precincts, and he considered the opposition of Lord Gilbert and Sheriff Roger de Elmerugg, he became crestfallen and subdued. I believe he saw a difficult journey to Scotland in his future.

We passed the manor house and I stole a quick glance toward the window where I had often seen Sir Thomas. He was not there. Or was that a fleeting shape I saw standing back from the window and moving quickly aside?

I led Prior Philip past the church to the west range, then to the novices’ classroom. I hoped to find Brother Gerleys there, but he was away. Osbert was bent over a desk, quill in hand, ink and cheap paper before him, practicing his hand. I asked for Brother Gerleys.

“In the chapter house, meeting with Brother Precenter and Brother Sacrist,” he said.

“Run quickly and fetch them, all three. Tell them Prior Philip has an important announcement.”

The prior’s subdued manner had been gradually replaced by a scowl. His mind was considering, I knew, how he might escape his dilemma and turn it to his advantage. Osbert set his quill beside his work and trotted off upon his errand. I pointed to a bench and told the prior to sit. He remained standing.

There was a brief silence, then Prior Philip opened his mouth to speak. But before he could do so Arthur said, “Master Hugh said ‘Sit.’”

The prior decided that if he did not sit of his own accord Arthur would require him to do so unwillingly. After a moment given to considering the method Arthur might use to convince him to sit, he did so. The words he was preparing to say he swallowed.

A few moments later the precentor and the sacrist followed Brother Gerleys into the chamber. Osbert also entered.

“’Twould be best,” I said to Brother Gerleys, “if Osbert was sent upon other duties.”

The novice-master looked down upon the ink, quill, and paper, and told the lad to take his work to the cloister and finish it there before the light failed.

Osbert knew some matter of great import was to be raised, and was abashed that the business was thought to be too distressing for his tender years. When the lad was away and the chamber door closed I turned to the seated prior and spoke.

“To avoid great unpleasantness, it would be proper for you to announce to these, your brothers, that you withdraw your name from consideration for the office of abbot and do endorse Brother Gerleys for the post, as Abbot Thurstan desired. Furthermore, tell them of your desire to be assigned to Dunfermline Abbey.”

Precentor, sacrist, and novice-master exchanged astonished glances. The precentor finally spoke.

“Is this so?”

Prior Philip’s wit had left him. He nodded dumbly, eyes downcast, which was surely a new and novel posture for him. Later, on the road to Scotland, he would think of many words he might have said. But for the moment he was silent.

“Do you wish to address the chapter?” Brother Gerleys said.

The prior shook his head. He wished for no more humiliation than he now endured.

“When will you depart?” the sacrist asked.

“Tomorrow, at first light,” he said. “I have no wish to remain where I am not wanted.”

I thought that if such was the case, he would not remain long at Dunfermline Abbey, but held my tongue.

Brother Gerleys felt himself sufficiently empowered that he now spoke. “Brother Prior, I will write a letter to Dunfermline’s abbot, requesting him to welcome you to his house. I will not relate your heresies while here, but you should know that if you continue in your wickedness you will be found out there, as you were here. Tomorrow in chapter we will pray for your safe journey. Now you must prepare for travel. Go to the church, and pray there for your soul.”

Five men stood silent, no other words spoken or needed. Prior Philip stood slowly and left the chamber. He faced the ruin of his plot and a journey which would have been arduous even in mid summer.

And I faced the ruin of my explanation for John Whytyng’s murder. The prior was guilty of many sins, and I had wished murder to be among them, but this was not so. The novice had been dead for three weeks. For more than a fortnight I had sought his killer. Too many of those days, I now knew, had been wasted trying to prove the guilt of an innocent man. Well, innocent of murder, anyway.

But as prior, precentor, and sacrist left the chamber, another solution to the puzzle of John Whytyng’s murder was taking form in my mind.

“You set out to discover a felon,” Brother Gerleys said, “and found rather a heretic. Will you continue to seek a murderer, or is the trail too cold?”

“I had thought ’twas cold, but perhaps it has become warmer.”

Both Arthur and the novice-master looked at me with puzzled expressions. I explained to Brother Gerleys that the prior had seen a man walking from the pond after his argument with John Whytyng, and that this shadowy figure had disappeared in the direction of Sir Richard’s manor house.

“An hour past I required Prior Philip to go with me to Simon atte Pond’s house, where I sought information, and saw Sir Thomas gazing down upon us and the reeve’s house from an upper window.”

Brother Gerleys said nothing. I explained. “Arthur and I have seen the knight often as we pass on the road, peering from that window. What could he hope to see which is not already familiar to him?”

The novice-master’s eyes opened in understanding. “The maid… Maude?”

“Aye. Her bedchamber is at the front of the reeve’s house. ’Twould have been a simple matter for the lass to unbar the door when all are asleep and sneak off in the night to meet John Whytyng.

“’Twas nearly a full moon the night the novice was slain. Sir Thomas, at his window, could have seen Maude steal away and followed. He might have heard Prior Philip and John in dispute, knew that Maude was somewhere close by, and when the novice told the prior he intended to leave the abbey, Sir Thomas guessed that Maude and her lands were lost to him.”