by E. M. Powell
‘If you have no more questions, I hope you will excuse me,’ said Philip. ‘The monks assemble in the north claustral walk at this time for a reading from me. I am trying to keep everything regular and in order at this time of upset.’
‘I will not keep you further.’ Barling went to rise to his feet.
‘Please, stay and finish your meal,’ said Philip. ‘All I would ask is that, when you are finished, you make your way directly back to the guesthouse along the same path. I would not want your presence elsewhere to startle any of the brethren.’
‘You have our word, Philip,’ said Barling.
‘Thank you. And thank you once again for your help in our hour of need. Good night to you.’
With that, he was gone.
Chapter Ten
As soon as the door closed behind Abbot Philip, Stanton downed his half-full cup of ale in one gulp.
‘I see you are paying attention to Philip’s wise and holy words.’ Across the table from him, the clerk eyed him crossly.
‘I’ll keep a watch out for sin.’ He refilled the cup. Hell’s teeth, he hadn’t ridden all these miles with a morose and complaining Barling to be lectured by him and the abbot again here. ‘But I’m not letting good ale go to waste. And this is very good.’ He drank again.
Barling took his writing materials from his satchel. ‘Just make sure that you can recall everything for my record.’ The clerk arranged the wax-covered wood tablet square in front of him and tested the tip of his stylus while delivering a fresh frown at Stanton. ‘That is of far more importance than supping ale.’
Stanton shrugged. He could do both. ‘Won’t most of what Philip said already be in the letter he sent?’ He picked up a spoon and scraped it round the empty pottage dish in a hunt for the last scraps. He could’ve eaten all the food himself and had space for more, let alone divide it three ways. The other two would have been fine. The abbot had said that the monks were used to eating little and Barling ate less than any other man he knew – most women as well. But, curse it all, he was still ravenous.
‘Much of Philip’s account is indeed in the letter. But he also told us a great deal in addition to it.’ Barling unrolled the letter again. ‘I shall keep this open to check.’
Stanton took one of the last pieces of bread while Barling looked over the document in front of him.
‘Well,’ said Barling, ‘Philip’s verbal account was as definite as his written one. He is adamant that Brother Cuthbert was killed by an outsider.’
‘And we saw half a dozen of them on the road this afternoon. Unhappy-looking ones too. I don’t blame them.’ Stanton held up his piece of bread. ‘This is bigger than the loaves given out as alms.’
‘Alms are for those most in need, Stanton. They are not meant to be a feast, for if they were, people would slide into a dependency of laziness and sinful sloth.’
Stanton held in a groan. No wonder Barling had been friends with Philip. Neither man could resist the opportunity to preach. He avoided a reply by getting to his feet and putting another log on the fire.
The clerk didn’t even seem to notice, with his head down over his work.
‘I have made a note for us to speak to the gatekeeper.’ Barling sniffed. ‘Though only if we need to. I am not sure that Brother Lambert will give any reliable information.’
‘True.’ Stanton sat back down at the table. ‘The old fellow wasn’t really in his senses.’
‘He was completely drunk, Stanton,’ came the clipped reply. ‘That is the accurate description of Brother Lambert.’
Stanton knew better than to say anything to that.
Together, they went back over what Philip had said, that it was Brother Maurice, the novice master, who found the body, and about the numbers of people at Fairmore, with Barling making notes as necessary.
Barling looked up at him from his writing. ‘I don’t suppose you recall the exact numbers?’
‘Course I do.’ Stanton could never understand why folk struggled to recall details like that. ‘Seventy-seven: seven obed – obed—’
‘Obedientiaries. The senior monks that help the abbot run the monastery.’
‘Obedientiaries. Twenty choir monks, six novices and forty-two lay brothers, and the abbot.’
‘You have made a mistake, Stanton: that is seventy-six.’
He was waiting for the question. ‘And the guest. Seventy-seven.’
‘The guest?’
‘Yes. Silvanus said there is one guest here.’ He raised his cup to Barling and drank again. ‘An outsider.’
The clerk raised his eyebrows in return. ‘We know that this guest was present on the night of the murder, do we?’
Stanton clicked his tongue at the clerk’s instant, accurate response. ‘No, we don’t.’ He thought he’d bested Barling with this one.
‘Nevertheless, an excellent observation. I had missed that remark from Silvanus. We will find out more.’ Barling made a note.
Excellent, eh? Stanton didn’t get many comments like that from the clerk. ‘But whether it’s seventy-six or -seven,’ said Stanton, ‘it’s still many people who were living alongside poor old Cuthbert. So many, yet you said the abbot who came to see de Glanville said it couldn’t possibly be one of the brethren. Philip was adamant as well. But you’re not convinced, are you, Barling?’
‘I am certainly not discounting it as a possibility. My lord de Glanville was of the same opinion.’
Stanton frowned. ‘Then you and de Glanville think that they might be lying? Both abbots?’
‘No, not at all. The fact of the matter is that genuinely devout men like them, men who live every moment for their God, simply cannot conceive that there are others among them who might be otherwise.’
Stanton took another mouthful of ale. ‘Then we are back at many, many hands that might have killed Cuthbert.’
‘No,’ said Barling.
‘No? But you just said—’
‘What I mean is that we can discount the vast majority.’
‘How?’
‘I have visited many monasteries on pilgrimage over the years. The choir monks, the novices and the lay brothers are rarely, if ever, alone. They live, work and worship amongst others all the time. They do not even sleep alone. That is largely the same for the obedientiaries.’
‘The abbot sleeps alone,’ said Stanton.
‘Naturally, he does.’ Barling made a wide gesture with one hand. ‘This entire lodging is his. A privilege that every abbot has.’
‘I hope you don’t end up accusing him. He was angry enough with you when you said about it being somebody from inside. He’ll likely have us thrown out into the snow.’ Stanton shook his head. ‘Was he like that when you knew him in Paris?’
He watched as Barling looked away from him and went back to his notes. ‘He was a fiery speaker, good at rhetoric. Despite his modesty earlier, he did impress the masters.’
Stanton couldn’t resist. ‘But you both liked your taverns, eh?’ He’d had to hold in a huge laugh when Philip had drawn that out of Barling. Never, ever would he have guessed at that one. ‘In the devil’s monasteries.’ Stanton grinned. ‘With wine and sodomy and whor—’
‘Stanton.’ Barling snapped his name, stopped writing to stare right at him. ‘You forget your place, I think. Philip and I fell prey to the foolishness of youth. As young men do. As you have. I hardly need to remind you of your disgraceful behaviour in York last summer. Now bring your mind to the task in hand. At once.’
‘I’m sorry, Barling.’ Stanton noticed the angry quiver in the hand that held the stylus. Noticed too the haunted look that flickered across Barling’s face. He’d seen it a couple of times before, when they had investigated the village murders last June, when Barling had spoken as if to himself rather than to Stanton. Just like then, it disappeared as quickly as it had arrived. ‘I meant no disrespect.’
‘Very well. But take note of what I say to you.’ Barling pointed the stylus at him, hand steady as a rock again.
‘I am at least in a position where I have some understanding of your unsuitable behaviours. I am doing my best to teach you the correct way in which you should conduct yourself, and may God grant me strength in that endeavour. But Abbot Philip knows nothing of you. You have been a witness to a private conversation between us. If you go around making unsavoury, disrespectful jests about it, it could have the most serious repercussions. He is the revered father of this house and I am a royal clerk. You must guard that loose tongue of yours, do you hear me?’
Stanton nodded. ‘Again, I’m sorry, Barling.’
The clerk drew in a long breath and checked his notes. ‘Now, where were we?’
Stanton didn’t dare say anything.
‘Ah, yes. The obedientiaries. Each one of these monks will have important duties that take them all over the monastery on their own. We have already seen that Lambert is alone at the gate. Silvanus runs the guesthouse.’
‘And Daniel, at the stables.’ He kept a cautious eye on Barling. All seemed well. ‘Looked like he was working on his own. Yet he’s a lay brother.’
‘True, and a point well made.’
Stanton let out a silent sigh of relief.
Barling went on. ‘There may be individuals whose duties mean they are apart from the others, but it should be easy to find out who they are from Abbot Philip. Should the need arise, of course.’
A bell rang from outside, much deeper than the others Stanton had heard here.
‘We have come to the hour of Compline.’ Barling started to gather up his possessions. ‘We need to go to the guesthouse as all the monks will be retiring soon. As should we.’
Stanton took the last loaf from the table and shoved it in his own bag. ‘I’m still hungry,’ he said by way of explanation as Barling shot him a displeased look.
As they walked towards the door, the final notes of the bell died away, the bell which would once have been rung by Cuthbert, but no more.
Stanton pulled the door open for Barling, yet he received no thanks from the clerk. Instead, he got another glare.
‘And make sure you shave before you present yourself tomorrow morning, Stanton: you could pass as a wild man as you are.’
Stanton had not been at all taken with the skinny monk, Silvanus.
But at least the man knew how to run a comfortable guesthouse, even if that guesthouse was in a monastery with only monks and brothers for company.
Stanton took the bread from his bag and flung himself down on his back on the bed with a tired sigh.
His room, identical to Barling’s, was one of a number that were up a narrow flight of stairs above the guest hall. Though the hall was empty and a large fire burned in the hearth, Barling had ordered Stanton to bed. He did not want either of them encountering the abbot’s unknown guest at this stage.
Stanton hadn’t argued, tempted though he’d been by the warm fire. Barling’s mood had seen to that. He took a bite of his bread, chewing slowly to try to make it last.
As clean as it was cold and of good size, the room didn’t only hold the bed on which he lay, with its clean straw in a wooden pallet and covers of soft white wool. It also had a small table and a large wooden chair, with a chest against one wall. Washing bowls and basins sat in an alcove by the door. The walls were washed white and a large wooden crucifix hung from one of them.
He swallowed the mouthful of bread and took another, scrubbing at his scratchy face with one hand. Barling was right, he needed a shave, but he’d do that in the morning. The good bed was too comfortable under his bones. No doubt he’d sleep well in it, especially after the hours and days in the saddle. It was dead quiet here, with only the distant rumble of the river to break the silence. Grabbing the coverlet, he hauled it round him for a bit of warmth.
But he didn’t normally go to bed at this hour. He doubted if many folk did. The darkness might have fallen outside. But a decent hearth and good tapers would allow for a couple of hours or more of chatting, singing, music. Like on the winter evenings of his childhood, when his mother and aunt used to sew or spin. His uncle would play a peg-board game with him. He took another bite of the bread.
The dark evenings as a man were even better. The hearths became those in inns or taverns, where the songs were bawdy and filthy jests flowed with the ale and women would draw him into shadowed corners.
Unless he was travelling with Barling. May the saints preserve him from ending up a dry old stick like the clerk. Philip wasn’t much better, but at least the abbot had found a life with the monks. Barling had chosen to live and work completely alone, save for the time he spent with Stanton.
The clerk seemed content like that. Didn’t appear to be lonely. If anything, spending time with his pupil seemed to annoy him a lot of the time. Most of the time.
His pupil.
Stanton rolled his eyes to himself at Barling’s fondness for calling him that. Without ‘his pupil’, Barling would probably be face down in a ditch five miles outside London.
He swallowed the last mouthful and gave a deep yawn.
There was no way he could live like Barling. Not alone like that.
Wherever he lived, he made friends, got to know every face. He hated being alone. Nothing made him happier than a full, lively room of people who hung on his jokes and wanted to hear his stories.
Well, one thing did make him happier, had made him happier, something he knew he’d never have again. He brought a hand to his eyes to scrub away the sudden grief that stabbed at him.
His Rosamund, his love.
Last winter, for the happiest months of his life, the onset of darkness would often bring them together. Sometimes it had been hours in a wide bed, others it had been for the shortest while.
Every moment that his hands had been upon her, that his mouth had closed on hers, every heartbeat that his body had lain with hers, had been one he never, ever wanted to end.
But it had. In the cruellest way possible, with an evildoer taking her from him, taking her life.
And the man at whose door the blame could be laid, King Henry himself, still walked this earth.
Stanton knew he could never speak of it, any of it. His life, spared by the King, depended on it.
But still: another night without Rosamund.
God rot the King.
Chapter Eleven
Stanton waited with Barling in the small parlour outside Fairmore Abbey’s Chapter House. Daniel, the lay brother, had escorted them here from the guesthouse, the early morning as wet and blustery and cold as the previous day. They had entered the inner precinct through a wide, tall gate and gone along under the arches of the north claustral walk to arrive where they now stood. Daniel had left with a curt ‘Sirs.’
‘See?’ Stanton had said as he left. ‘He’s on his own again.’
‘Quiet,’ said Barling. ‘We do not want to risk disturbing the chapter meeting.’
Stanton mouthed a silent apology.
He could hear voices from within. Well, first one voice only. Abbot Philip’s. Then others would answer, one by one. It sounded measured, orderly. Then, in response to Philip, one raised, then another. No longer measured. Angry. Speaking over each other. Philip’s, higher in tone in response.
Stanton exchanged a look with Barling, the clerk’s brows raised as he listened to the exchange.
The voices cut off and the door opened.
A flushed-faced Philip stood there. ‘Barling, please enter.’ Stanton only got a nod.
He didn’t care. He’d do as Barling had ordered him: ‘Say nothing. Nothing, Stanton. Nothing unless directly asked by Abbot Philip. Keep utterly respectful at all times. I do not wish to see your face move beyond the blinking of your eyes. Your task is to watch every face in there. But not to let them know you are watching. Is that clear?’
The clerk had been more snappy than usual. Stanton supposed he was tired. He certainly didn’t look well rested.
Stanton walked into the large square room behind Barling, moving to stand next to one
of the large stone columns on either side of the doorway. Stone seats lined the walls, each separated by a rounded pier, also of stone.
Almost every seat contained an angry-looking monk, each man dressed in an identical white cowl.
Stanton drew in a long breath. Barling had told him to observe, and he, Stanton, would follow his orders. He had a bit of a talent for picking up on details and for noticing things, a talent that Barling had recognised in him. Part of the skill was in knowing what was right in certain places and situations. Easy to tell in a crowded market if a man was shifty and up to no good. Such a man would keep his back to a wall, a hand on his weapon. But here? Stanton had no idea what to look out for. He’d have to learn. And fast.
Philip led Barling across the grey flagstones of the wide floor to halt in front of his own seat opposite the door. Both men remained standing.
‘Brothers,’ said Philip, ‘I present to you Aelred Barling. A servant of our lord King who is here to assist us in finding the killer of our dear brother, Cuthbert.’
Barling bowed, hands joined, ensuring he took in the whole room. ‘I am humbled to be received here, good brothers.’
‘With the greatest of respect to you, sir, I must say to my lord abbot: I am at a loss as to why it should be so.’ The deep voice came from a monk of advanced years who sat next to Philip’s empty seat. He had a snow-white thick tonsure and grey eyes as sharp as those of a bird of prey. He would have been a tall, powerful man once but now sat hunched over in his seat, one gnarled hand clutching a stick.
‘I have explained why, Reginald,’ said Philip.
‘Yet, unfortunately, I am still at a loss, father.’ There was no mistaking the contempt with which the monk used the word ‘father’. That he seemed to be at least thirty years older than Philip added to its power.
The flush in Philip’s face went a shade deeper.
Reginald went on. Slow, deliberate. ‘You have already asked us all here in chapter about our brother’s murder. Here.’ The monk struck the stone floor hard with his stick, the sound echoing to the high ceiling. ‘Chapter. The heart of discipline in our abbey. Where all and any misdemeanours are confessed or reported. Yet there has been neither confession nor reporting of the great sin visited upon our brother Cuthbert.’
