by E. M. Powell
‘Nevertheless, I will speak to them,’ said Barling in a low voice.
‘No, don’t, we should carry on and—’
‘God keep you!’ called Barling.
‘And you, sirs.’ A muttered, respectful chorus, eyes lowered, came in response as the horses drew level.
‘You are a long way from home.’ Barling halted his animal, forcing Stanton to do likewise.
He swallowed an oath at the clerk’s dangerous pig-headedness.
‘We’re from the village of Gottburn, sir,’ replied one man. No smile. The others let him speak for them all. ‘We are returning there now.’
Stanton swept his gaze over every gaunt, sullen face, every hand, watching for any twitch that might be sign of an attack.
‘Returning from where?’
‘Fairmore Abbey, sir. Nowt else along this road, sir.’
‘A long way to walk in such inclement weather,’ said Barling.
Shut up, Barling. Move on. Quickly.
The man rummaged beneath his cloak.
Stanton drew in a breath, readied to pull Barling’s animal out of there with his own.
And let the breath out again.
The man held a small loaf of bread. ‘The monks give out alms, sir. We need them. This winter’s been very hard, sir.’
Nods came from the others, with one women showing Barling a basket with her equally meagre loaf.
‘God be praised that you have the generous goodness of the monks’ charity,’ said Barling.
‘Yes, sir,’ was all the man said. The others said nothing.
Stanton didn’t blame them. The small loaves weren’t much more than three mouthfuls’ worth. It was a long walk to get them. ‘Then we wish you Godsp—’ he began, in an attempt to shift Barling.
No good. Barling spoke over him.
‘You will be keeping the monks in your prayers, I am sure. Especially after the murder of Brother Cuthbert.’
By all the saints, the clerk was trying to start his murder investigation. Here on a windswept open hillside. Outnumbered.
‘A terrible tragedy, sir.’ The man blessed himself while keeping his gaze directly on Barling, the others lowering theirs.
‘And one which God will punish, no doubt.’
This time Stanton butted in. ‘No doubt. With such a man on the loose, none of us wants to be caught out in the dark. Be on your way, good people.’
The group didn’t need telling twice. They set off with a polite farewell as Stanton got both horses moving away.
The clerk, as expected, glared at him. ‘How dare you conduct yourself in such an impertinent manner? I was speaking. I had not finished.’
Stanton glanced back over his shoulder. To his relief, all six people were steadily marching back towards their village. ‘A bad time, Barling. And a worse place.’
‘Do not attempt to tell me how to conduct an enquiry.’
‘I’m not telling you how. But I am telling you where. This is not the place. It’s far too risky. Had they been wrongdoers, we were far too open to attack.’ His own sharp tone surprised him. He was as testy as Barling.
To his further surprise, Barling backed down. ‘On reflection, you are probably right, Stanton.’ He sighed. ‘I fear I am letting my fatigue cloud my judgement. Our goal at this moment is to get safely to Fairmore, is it not?’
Stanton gave a firm nod. ‘Fairmore.’
Two more for the abbey. That’s good.
Crouched low in her hiding place behind a large, snow-covered rock above the roadway, Agatha Frane watched as the strangers rode past. No chance they’d see her, she was sure of that. Not only was her patched rough wool cloak the same colour as the windswept bare shrubs that had shed their covering of snow, she knew how to be completely still. Quiet.
They were a bit of an odd pair. Not from round here, no question about that. That was nothing new. People came from all over to visit Fairmore, people with hearts full of charity for a young beggar girl. She grinned to herself. And full purses.
But if the pair looked a bit odd, they sounded it too. Her ears were as good as her eyes, and her eyes could spot a hare in the snowy heather a hundred feet away. No, they were definitely not from here. The older man, the one in black robes, had started on at the Gottburn villagers about the murder, the one at Christmas. Agatha’s jaw set. A Christmas that should’ve been very different for her.
Still, the older one looked like he’d have plenty of coins. Even from this distance, she could tell the dark cloth he wore was good, filthy though it was from travelling. He sounded like a man who had money too. But she reckoned he wouldn’t part with it easily. She’d heard the way he spoke to the villagers, how they should be glad of the poor loaves of bread the monks had given them.
The villagers were trudging back to Gottburn now, not paying any mind to anything other than the long road home. There was a time when she would’ve been among them. Not any more. She didn’t care. They were fools. She had a much fuller belly than them and didn’t have to walk half so much.
She brought her gaze to the strangers again.
The other one, the younger one, looked a lot more promising. He’d have money as well, no doubt. He had a face that was far fairer than hers, which wasn’t so good. Better was how he’d spoken to the villagers. He didn’t seem over-lofty. Best of all was the way he sat on his horse, which told of a lean, muscled body. She knew her youth would get his notice, if nothing else.
The men were arguing between themselves now.
The older one was telling the younger one off. The younger one in turn sounded annoyed, talking about them being open to attack out here.
He was right.
She was up here, with them clearly in her sight. And they had no idea she was watching. None.
But outside wasn’t the only place a person could get attacked. Brother Cuthbert had been attacked, hadn’t he? And he’d been inside the abbey.
Now she heard the names of the strangers.
Barling, the young one called the older one. And the young one was Stanton.
Barling. Stanton. Two more. Two who didn’t know her or anything about her.
What a nice, unexpected gift.
Chapter Seven
‘There it is.’ Stanton halted his horse, allowing the animal a short rest after the long, long climb up the snow-covered hill. ‘Fairmore Abbey.’ He might be looking forward to spending time in the monastery about as much as a man with a rotting tooth looked forward to a visit to the barber-surgeon. But at least their long journey was over. Even better, he’d managed to get Barling here in one piece.
‘A very fine abbey.’ Barling stopped his horse too. ‘And in a remote location.’
‘Remote? Desolate, more like.’
‘The Cistercian brethren favour such places. Yet it is inaccessible even by their standards.’
If the hill they had climbed was steep, the one that fell away before them was even more so. The many buildings of the monastery far below nestled in a deep valley, with the yellowed stone of the buildings sheltered by the black branches of tall bare trees and large growths of evergreens. The outlines of several fields were visible around the abbey on the valley floor. Where the upward slope had been cut by a number of smaller streams, a much larger torrent carved its way down this one. A deep, dark slash in the snow, it gathered strength and size as it flowed down the rocky outcrops before disappearing into the small wood that grew beyond the abbey’s walls.
‘We’ll have to take our time going down,’ said Stanton. ‘Let me know if you need to dismount.’
Barling merely nodded.
While they descended without mishap, it still took time and care.
Stanton was relieved once the land levelled out somewhat, could sense it in his animal as well. The low-lying valley meant that the snow lay less heavily on the ground, with patches of stony mud and coarse yellowed grass showing through in a few places.
‘We’ve done it, Barling.’ The clatter of their horses’ h
ooves was loud on the deserted roadway. Though he couldn’t see it, Stanton could hear the rumble and hiss of the strongly flowing river somewhere in the trees.
‘We have.’ Barling seemed lost in thought.
While this was nothing out of the ordinary for the clerk, Stanton wondered if he might be a bit worried about the task that lay ahead.
The gatehouse set into the sturdy walls loomed up ahead, its doors shut against the world: two large, which would allow horses and loaded carts to pass through, with a smaller one to the side.
Stanton slipped from his horse.
‘You can ring the bell.’ Barling dismounted with his usual clumsiness.
Stanton pulled hard on the knotted rope to the right of the smaller door. A loud jangle sounded from inside.
He noted that Barling pulled his cloak straight, squared his shoulders, the sign that he was ready to assert his authority.
Nothing.
A frown from Barling. ‘Again, Stanton.’
He complied.
Still nothing. No sound. Only the nearby river and the snorting of their tired horses.
‘This is intolerable. Again, Stanton.’
As Stanton yanked hard on the bell for a third time, a muffled oath came from behind the door, along with the clack of bolts.
The door flew open to the dying peals of the bell and a furious voice.
‘I told you there’d be no more bread today. Be off with you, you lazy leeches.’ An elderly monk stood there, clutching at the half-open door. Stanton guessed he’d be in his seventh decade. Hugely fat, his many-chinned scarlet face above his stained habit was screwed up in anger. ‘Of—’ He broke off. ‘Oh. Sirs.’
A strong smell of ale came from him.
‘Good day, brother. My name is Aelred Barling, clerk to King Henry. Your abbot will be expecting me.’
‘Aelred Barling?’ The chins arranged a smile. Of sorts. ‘One moment.’ He disappeared from view.
‘Abbot Nicholas told me at Westminster that this house was in good order.’ Barling’s pale nostrils had pinched, always a sign he was annoyed. ‘I can only assume he was received in a manner befitting his stature and not bellowed at like a common oaf.’
‘Unless he came asking for bread, eh?’
Barling didn’t smile at his companion’s small jest.
More snaps of metal on metal came from within, along with huffs of breath. One of the large doors opened.
The monk stood there, mopping his brow. ‘Please.’ He waved them in, unable to say another word.
Stanton stepped back to let Barling lead the way. As he followed him in, the monk waddled past to close the doors once again.
Though they were within the walls, they were still only in the monastery’s outer precinct. Stanton was familiar with the layout from his younger days as a monastic post rider. That was as far as he’d ever got in a holy house. The inner buildings were for the brethren only, which had suited him. He’d never had any need to go in and had no wish to, either.
Barling turned to him. ‘I am most concerned,’ he said in a low tone. ‘I do not believe that this rude monk knows who I am.’
‘Maybe not,’ replied Stanton. ‘But this one does.’ He nodded to the right, where another monk came hurrying along a path that led from a number of buildings arranged around a small courtyard.
‘God be praised, you have arrived, sir.’ Tall and skinny, this monk was considerably younger than the first. Where the older monk’s clothing was unkempt, this man’s habit didn’t have a mark on it. He came to a stop before Barling. ‘The blessings of the Virgin be upon you on this day.’ The monk bowed so deeply that his head almost touched his knees, then he unrolled himself again in one swift movement. ‘I am Brother Silvanus, the guestmaster of Fairmore. It is my deepest honour to welcome the King’s man. Deepest.’
‘It is my honour that I am visiting this holy house,’ said Barling.
Silvanus’s gaze flew to Stanton, his beady eyes flicking to and fro and reminding Stanton of a weasel. ‘And welcome to you also, sir.’ The question was in his voice.
‘Hugo Stanton is accompanying me on my visit.’ Barling’s tone didn’t invite debate.
‘A second visitor from the court of the King?’ Silvanus did his remarkable bow again. ‘I will be honoured to show you our hospitality also, sir.’ He clasped his hands. ‘Unfortunately, I have not yet had your room prepared as I was not informed that we were receiving you. Such a dreadful oversight. My deepest apologies, I will make sure it is done without delay. We have but the one guest here at the moment, so we have plenty of room. Now, please: if you would follow me. The stables are this way.’ Silvanus led the way back along the path towards the courtyard. ‘My lord abbot’s heart will be full that you are here, as mine is too. He asked me to bring you to him the moment you arrived. The very moment.’
‘We had a slight delay in arriving, Silvanus,’ said Barling. ‘It took us some time to rouse your gatekeeper.’
Stanton grinned inside. He knew how much the large monk’s reception had annoyed Barling.
‘Ah.’ Silvanus gave a wide smile that was all sharp teeth and no warmth. ‘My deepest apologies, sir. Brother Lambert is such a kind-hearted soul. But he gets a little’ – he allowed a pointed pause – ‘muddled in his ways sometimes. As I am sure we all do.’ He clapped his hands and raised his voice as he left them to hurry over to what appeared to be the stable block. ‘Daniel! Where are you?’
Stanton exchanged a look with Barling. ‘Kind-hearted?’ he muttered.
‘Questionable, indeed,’ replied Barling. ‘And the reason for Brother Lambert being muddled will be found in an empty jug.’
A young man emerged from the stable block with Silvanus, carrying a pitchfork. He looked over as Silvanus, no longer smiling, hissed a rapid set of orders at him. Broad-shouldered and muscular, the scowling Daniel’s appearance and dress marked him as a lay brother. As the dark hood that covered his shoulders wasn’t raised, Stanton could see that, unlike the monks, his hair wasn’t shaved in a tonsure but sat in a heavy fringe that reached his brows. Neither was he clean-shaven: he had a thick, short beard. Instead of a woollen cowl, he wore a long-sleeved belted tunic and braies of coarse cloth. At a last hiss from Silvanus, he leaned the pitchfork against the wall and came over with the monk to take the horses.
‘Thank you.’ Stanton handed him the reins, Barling too.
Daniel didn’t meet their eye. ‘Sirs,’ came his surly reply. He led the horses off at once.
‘No need for thanks: it is our honour. Our honour.’ Though Silvanus spoke as if he hadn’t noticed the lay brother’s rude behaviour, his eyes darted a look after him that could have set him aflame in his muddy boots. ‘Now come this way. This way.’ He flapped a hand towards a gravel path that was screened by high evergreen hedges. ‘My lord Ernald’s lodging is this way.’ The teeth again. ‘Oh, my. Did I say Ernald?’ He crossed himself. ‘I mean my lord Philip. So hard to get used to a new abbot. But I am sure we will.’
‘I know of the loss of your esteemed Abbot Ernald,’ said Barling. ‘An event of tremendous sadness for this house.’
‘The saddest.’ Silvanus’s sigh was louder than the crunch of their steps on the gravel underfoot. ‘But he will now be in the arms of our Saviour in heaven. Eternal glory will be his.’
He slid his gaze back to Stanton, who made a point of not meeting his eye. He knew the man itched to ask about his presence here again. He didn’t want to encourage him – he knew where Barling’s conversation was headed.
‘Indeed, the glory of heaven is that for which we all pray,’ said Barling. ‘But Abbot Ernald was not this house’s most recent sad loss, was he?’
Silvanus’s beady-eyed look was back on Barling. Displeased. ‘You know much about us here, sir.’ He crossed himself with wide gestures again even as he quickened his pace. ‘No, it was not. We pray that poor Brother Cuthbert receives his eternal reward also.’ He pointed ahead. ‘You will see the abbot’s fine lodging at the
end of this path. A great welcome awaits you. Awaits you both.’ Another hard smile for Stanton.
Stanton returned it with a nod and smile of his own. ‘My thanks.’
Let this monk think he’d moved the discussion on from Cuthbert’s murder.
It could easily be moved back. Knowing Barling, it would be.
Chapter Eight
‘Please, come through, sirs.’ Silvanus ushered Barling and Stanton into the hall in the abbot’s lodging. ‘I will seek out my lord Philip with all haste and let him know that his guests have arrived.’ He scurried off, leaving them alone.
‘He’s not happy that I’m here, is he, Barling?’ said Stanton as he made his way over to the lit fireplace.
‘A moment.’ Barling put his finger to his lips and opened the doors a crack. The vestibule outside was deserted and he closed them again. He walked into the spacious hall.
Unlike de Glanville’s sumptuous room, this one was without any ornamentation, as he would have expected from the White Monks. The long table, the stools that lined it, the stone of the fireplace: all were well made and of the best quality but were without a single carving or decoration. Beeswax candles in single black iron candleholders lit the white-walled room. The only adornment on the walls was a large wooden cross.
‘We are free to speak, at least for now.’ He joined Stanton to stand before the fire. Although he ached from head to toe from his wretched days in the saddle, courtesy dictated that they should not sit until the abbot joined them. The abbot, Philip. Philip de Franingeham, as he’d known him. He’d thought of his fellow student many times on the journey here, thought of how one’s past was always with one, no matter how carefully one tried to leave it behind. In a few minutes, it would catch up with him once again. He brought his attention back to Stanton. ‘However, I did think it necessary to check that Brother Silvanus had left and was not still with an ear to the door. He appears not only disconcerted by your unexpected arrival but also immensely curious.’
