The Monastery Murders

by E. M. Powell

  ‘My lord abbot.’ Barling bowed again. The man had a noble bearing and exuded the confidence of one of the highest status. ‘It is an honour to be in your presence. Linwood is an abbey of the highest renown. A place of great holiness.’ The man’s presence struck him as unusual. An abbot would not normally leave his monastery on a feast day and make the journey of some thirty miles to visit de Glanville.

  ‘It is a holy house and a peaceful one,’ replied the abbot. ‘But I am not here on the business of Linwood. Am I, de Glanville?’

  ‘No,’ said de Glanville. ‘Abbot Nicholas is here seeking my help because there has been a dreadful event at one of the other houses of the White Monks.’ His voice deepened further. ‘It appears that one of the brethren has been murdered.’

  ‘And murdered in the most horrible way.’ The abbot held up a letter. ‘I received word of it two days ago. I set off for London as soon as I could.’

  Barling inclined his head by way of response. His thirteen years’ experience of serving the King’s justices had taught him well about when it was best to keep one’s counsel. To listen was far more valuable than to speak, especially in a situation such as this where a clear picture had yet to emerge.

  The abbot continued. ‘The murder took place at Fairmore Abbey in the county of Yorkshire. Though our order favours locations that are secluded from the world, Fairmore is exceptionally remote. Yet its remoteness deep in the moors did not prevent evil from seeking it out. On the holy feast of Christmas, the sacrist of Fairmore, Brother Cuthbert, was found slain in utterly heinous circumstances.’ Nicholas leaned forward. ‘Strangled, and his body burned in the monastery kitchen.’ He sat back. ‘Well, half of it was.’ He shuddered. ‘His head and shoulders and the upper half of his body.’

  Barling blessed himself, revolted at the idea of such a fate. ‘May he be safe in God’s care now.’

  ‘A savage end.’ De Glanville’s expression was sombre but Barling knew him well enough to guess at the steely anger that flowed within him at the monk’s fate. ‘Yet the abbot of Fairmore, Philip, has no idea who committed this crime.’

  ‘Philip says in this letter that he has questioned all of the monks at chapter,’ said Nicholas. ‘As he has the lay brothers. All have claimed that they have done no wrong, that they know nothing about it. Nothing.’

  Barling kept his features expressionless. In his experience, such protestations meant little.

  ‘The brethren of Fairmore live as every one of us in the Cistercian order does. Their regime is among the most challenging of all the orders, physically as well as spiritually. They devote their lives to God through prayer and fasting and hard work.’ The emotion built in the abbot’s voice as he spoke. ‘They live in the cloister, not in a fortified castle. Just as a wolf savages the defenceless sheep, somebody has stolen in from outside and done this terrible deed. Whoever it is must be brought to justice. Must.’

  ‘Of course, my lord abbot. Of course.’ De Glanville raised a placatory hand. ‘Which is why I will help, as requested.’

  Still no clear picture. But de Glanville’s next words formed one.

  ‘Rest assured, Aelred Barling is definitely the right man for this enquiry.’

  Chapter Five

  Barling wondered if he had heard correctly. ‘Me, my lord de Glanville?’

  To his dismay, he had.

  ‘Yes, you, Barling,’ said de Glanville. ‘In his letter, Abbot Philip asks for you personally. He recognised you at the ordeal in York last June. He had travelled from Fairmore with a group of the brethren to witness the ordeal for themselves.’

  ‘My lord de Glanville has given me an account of what you did for him and the other justices on that day,’ said Nicholas, calmer-looking once more. ‘Most impressive. A great lesson in the power of the truth for the crowds that were watching. An opinion which Philip shares.’

  ‘Thank you, my lord abbot.’ Barling would remember those sweltering weeks in June for the rest of his life. Not just the ordeal, where he had found proof of a man’s guilt, but for what came after. ‘Yet, if I might be so bold, my lord de Glanville, you say that Abbot Philip recognised me. I fear he must be mistaken. I have never lived in that part of the country. I was simply a member of the King’s travelling court over which you presided.’

  ‘Philip was a student at Paris at the same time as you,’ said Nicholas. ‘Philip de Franingeham.’

  Paris. A sudden sweat broke out over every inch of Barling’s body. No. He forced a polite smile to cover his deep shock at the unexpected mention of a part of his life that seemed now so distant. ‘You will forgive me if I cannot recall him. I studied there over fifteen years ago. I was among two and a half thousand other scholars in that learned city.’

  ‘A pale man, with dark hair and dark eyes,’ said the abbot. ‘Not very strongly built. Most talented in the study of rhetoric, as I understand you were.’

  A memory stirred. A vague one, as were all Barling’s memories of the faces and names from that time. Except one. One he could not, would not, think of. ‘Then I believe I do recall him, my lord,’ he said, marvelling that his voice came out so steadily. His training in matters of the court had served him well.

  ‘Excellent.’ Nicholas nodded in satisfaction.

  ‘Yet, if you will permit me,’ said Barling, ‘I am still unclear as to why my help should be required. The Cistercian monks have many resources at their disposal.’

  ‘I can see why you speak highly of this man, de Glanville,’ said the abbot. ‘He asks the correct questions.’ He looked back at Barling. ‘The situation at Fairmore, more specifically for Philip, requires sensitive handling. He has only been abbot for a few months. Naturally, he is the same age as you. Quite young for such great responsibility. His predecessor, Ernald, founded the abbey and was its father for thirty years. He died last summer, at a greatly advanced age. Philip, as new abbot, attended the General Chapter of our order last September, as did I. Though his grief at the loss of Ernald was apparent, he gave a good account of himself, considering how new he was to the appointment. I made a visitation to Fairmore in the weeks after that to make sure all was well. I found it to be mostly in good order.’

  ‘Mostly, my lord?’ asked Barling.

  ‘I have explained to de Glanville that I came across some petty resentment at Philip’s appointment. That was all.’

  ‘But now the murder of Brother Cuthbert has taken place at Fairmore,’ said de Glanville. ‘The very opposite of good order.’

  ‘Precisely,’ said Nicholas, ‘and it is Philip’s responsibility to deal with it. Under normal circumstances, we could send another abbot to help him or I would arrange for a visitation, but coming so soon after the last, it would, Philip fears, imply that he is not capable of being in charge. That at the first sign of problems, he needs another senior monk’s authority. I share his concerns. But your presence, Barling, would mean that Abbot Philip would have help in tracking this evildoer down, while leaving his spiritual authority intact.’

  Barling met de Glanville’s gaze and the justice gave a firm nod.

  ‘Then I would, my lord abbot,’ said Barling, summoning up every skill he had to sound as if he welcomed this, ‘be humbled to provide the necessary assistance to Fairmore Abbey.’

  ‘Then, may God be praised, the matter is settled.’ Nicholas handed de Glanville the letter. ‘I will leave this with you as it is a record of much of what we have discussed. Now, if you will excuse me, my lord de Glanville, I need to set off back to my own abbey. My place is with them during these holiest of days.’ He stood up and de Glanville also rose to his feet.

  ‘I wish you a swift and safe journey, my lord.’ De Glanville walked him to the door as Barling gave him a respectful bow.

  ‘Godspeed, my lord.’

  The abbot paused on his way out. ‘In the meantime, I will send a message to Philip, confirming Barling’s imminent arrival. And thank you again, de Glanville. You will have a special place in our prayers.’ The door closed be
hind him.

  De Glanville looked at Barling. ‘You will, I am sure, have questions. I have every confidence they will be the same as mine.’

  ‘I do, my lord.’ He wanted to ask why he had the misfortune to be thrust out from the safety and sanctuary of the King’s writing office yet again, but he would never dream of revealing such insolent views to the justice. ‘If I may be so bold, Abbot Nicholas was very certain that the murderer came from outside the abbey. Yet, could it be that . . .’ He paused while he tried to find a tactful phrase.

  ‘Barling, I know what you are thinking. It is perfectly possible that one of the brethren of Fairmore is responsible. All manner of men are capable of lying. Even monks. I did try to raise this with Nicholas, but he was highly insulted that I would even suggest it. In his defence, he has visited there, only three months ago. I questioned him at length about that visit, pressed him quite hard on his findings. But nothing appeared amiss. All the monks and brothers have lived there for many years. There are a few novices, but no new arrivals.’

  ‘Nothing amiss, except of course for the resentment he mentioned at Philip’s appointment.’

  ‘Yes, I pursued that also. But it seems that such feelings are nothing out of the ordinary in the cloister. Nicholas has witnessed them himself in many houses, has had them in his own. He said they are easily addressed through prayer and reflection.’

  ‘Then it is an outsider we seek.’

  ‘It would certainly appear that way,’ said de Glanville with a frown. ‘Unless, by some unfortunate turn of events, you find otherwise.’ He leaned forward, lowering his voice, although they could not possibly be overheard. ‘Barling, I know I do not have to explain to you how delicate a matter that would be. You are a man who represents the King’s law, while the White Monks are not only following the law of the Church but their own rules of discipline and punishment too.’ He shook his head.

  ‘I fully realise the implications, my lord.’ The King. Saint Thomas Becket’s murder. A terrible tragedy, born in arguments over the punishment of men of the Church.

  ‘If such a situation were to arise, then you will need to seek my advice. As soon as you possibly can. Is that clear?’

  ‘You have my word, my lord. I will always work to protect his Grace in any way I can.’ Even if it meant setting off into the world outside the court again. An unpredictable, disordered, messy and unpleasant world.

  ‘Delicate or not, it is vital that you get to the bottom of this, Barling.’ De Glanville passed the letter from the abbot of Fairmore Abbey to him. ‘Here, read it yourself. There is nothing in there other than what has been discussed. It is concise and well written, and the horror of what has happened is clear.’ He crossed himself. ‘No man deserves an end like that.’

  ‘I will do my utmost, my lord.’

  De Glanville leaned back in his seat again. ‘I know you will. What you did last year at the village of Claresham was exceptional.’

  ‘Thank you, my lord. You are most gracious. Yet I cannot claim to have succeeded alone. Which brings me to my next question.’

  ‘Hugo Stanton?’

  ‘Your reasoning is swift and sharp as ever, my lord. I would very much appreciate it if he could accompany me in this enquiry.’

  ‘He has a lively mind and is braver than he knows,’ said de Glanville. ‘I knew that when I took him on as a messenger.’

  ‘Indeed.’ It was a tactful reply. Stanton’s early days with the court had had Barling regularly doubting de Glanville’s choice. Although Barling had tried to enquire why the young man had been chosen, his questions to both the justice and Stanton had been firmly deflected. He went on, sincere now in what he said. ‘The outcome in Claresham would have been very different without him. Moreover, he is a fast, reliable messenger. If I did need to inform you of anything sensitive, we can trust him absolutely.’

  ‘A most sensible suggestion. Take Stanton with you.’ De Glanville gave a wry smile. ‘Then it would seem you are returning to Yorkshire sooner than the King’s justices, Barling.’

  ‘It would, my lord.’ He knew Stanton would be pleased at the opportunity of travelling, though Barling suspected that a monastery would not normally be the first place in which he would choose to stay.

  As for Barling, his own displeasure was complete. He was being ordered once more from the security of the writing office. It was a world where he toiled with every diligence for the court: writing records and writs, recording appeals, copying judgements, keeping the pipe rolls in order. He performed every and any task that was needed to administer the King’s justice. Now he faced an arduous journey and an enquiry that came under the authority of the Church and not of Henry. Worse, it seemed that he would have to reacquaint himself with a man who knew him from his old life, a life he wished to forget and had successfully put from his mind for many years.

  ‘Then I wish you Godspeed on your journey, Barling.’

  ‘Thank you, my lord de Glanville.’ Barling found a smile from he knew not where, the better to mask his utter dismay.

  Chapter Six

  North Yorkshire 11 January 1177

  An icy rain spattered from the low clouds, whipped into Stanton’s face by the strong, raw wind. He turned in his saddle to speak to Barling, who rode next to him. ‘They said at that last village that we should be at Fairmore Abbey within three hours. It can’t be much longer, I’m sure of it.’

  ‘I do not need cajoling, Stanton,’ came the clerk’s testy response. ‘Our progress will take the time it takes. Empty words will not hasten it.’

  The mud-spattered Barling’s bad temper came as no surprise. A poor rider with little skill, Barling had complained of being bone-tired and stiff-muscled within the first few hours of leaving London.

  And they’d been riding for ten days.

  Ten days since Stanton had returned from the bear-baiting and the clerk had given him an account of what had taken place between the visiting abbot and de Glanville. At first, he’d been puzzled. The murder of the poor monk in the Yorkshire house sounded horrific. Whoever did it should face punishment, no doubt about that. But it wasn’t anything to do with them here in London.

  Then he’d been puzzled no more.

  Just like the bear, Stanton, we are being sent out to battle once more.

  Barling’s words had made Stanton’s heart thud into his boots in disappointment. A monastery. They were being sent to a monastery. One that was hundreds of miles away. Winter journeys were always slow and hard. Stanton knew that well. Not only were roads muddier and slower under hooves, fords were more likely to be flooded and snow and ice would make the going treacherous. Riding in daylight was easier and safer. But midwinter days like these were over in a few short hours, shorter when the weather closed in. It would be no more feasts for him, then, not this Christmas. He’d miss the Epiphany, the best and richest of them all.

  That wasn’t the worst of it.

  Had Stanton been on his own, he could’ve done what he always did when he was on the road and seek out the liveliest-looking inns. He could have slaked his thirst with plenty of ale and swapped songs and stories long into the night with folk he met, before a good fire. If his luck was in, he’d have had his bed warmed too. He’d happily travel another hundred days like that.

  But he wasn’t on his own, was he.

  He had Barling in tow. Barling, who insisted on the quietest of lodgings and who looked at ale like it might poison him, demanding well water instead. Barling, who sniffed at food like it might contain a cow pat. Barling, who glared at the few people, the very few, who tried to talk to them and glared at Stanton if he smiled at a woman.

  Yes, they were headed for a monastery, but, by God’s eyes, Stanton was already having to live like a monk.

  At least Barling had pressed on at a pace that surprised Stanton. Not the speed that Stanton could’ve ridden on his own. Very few riders could match him. But for a man who had all the skill of a sack of grain in the saddle, it wasn’t bad.

&nb
sp; No rider could go faster than their current pace, though. The land had risen steeply after the village of Gottburn, a small settlement that huddled in a narrow valley. The village was the last before the abbey and the track they rode on now led there and nowhere else. Thick snow lay on the high ground, slushy underfoot on the muddy roadway where streams ran across it or where the rain had started to half-melt it.

  Stanton’s horse laboured beneath him on the climb, as did Barling’s. ‘Better we weren’t making this journey at all.’

  ‘I have explained it all very clearly, Stanton.’ Testy. Again. ‘We have been tasked with this enquiry. It is our duty to undertake it without complaint.’

  Without complaint? Stanton hid his wry smile.

  ‘Who is that?’ came Barling’s abrupt, sharp question.

  Stanton looked up from his careful watch of the rocky, unstable roadway underfoot to follow Barling’s point.

  A small band of people, four men and two women, were making their way towards them, walking down along the road from the top of the hill.

  He took in their clothing, their appearance with a quick glance. ‘They’re not monks.’

  ‘Outlaws?’

  ‘Don’t think so.’ While not well dressed, the group wore cloaks and shawls to keep out the cold and all were shod.

  ‘Yet they come from Fairmore.’ Barling cast him a tight frown. ‘And Abbot Philip’s letter told of the suspicion of a murderous outsider.’

  ‘It did.’ Stanton shifted in his saddle, prepared for action. Though he fought hard when it was needed, he wasn’t a natural fighter. His speed, on a horse and off, was a far better way of getting out of danger. ‘If there’s any sign of trouble, we kick these horses and get away. Those folk won’t be able to catch us.’ He hoped. Sudden pace on such steep ground was risky for both horse and rider. Especially one like Barling.

  As they approached the group, Stanton saw to his relief that they clambered to the side of the road on the down slope to let Stanton and Barling’s horses go past. Anyone planning an attack would head for the higher side. But they were still six, where he and the clerk were two. In a wild, inhospitable place with nobody else in sight.