by E. M. Powell
William went on. ‘I came here as quick as I could. Tried to see if there was anything I could do.’ The front of his white habit was mud-stained where he must have been kneeling on the wet ground. He gave a despairing shrug. ‘I do not think he had been dead that long. His body had yet to become stiff. But once death has arrived, the time matters no more. It was hopeless.’
‘Hopeless, yes. But evil too,’ said Maurice, anger breaking through his grief. ‘Evil. First Cuthbert. Now Silvanus. May whoever did this rot in hell for all eternity. Rot!’
‘Have you informed your lord abbot?’ asked Barling.
‘What do you think we did, man?’ Rage had completely stopped Maurice’s tears. ‘He also came at once. But now, instead of praying for the soul of Silvanus, he is in the guesthouse, comforting the lady Juliana, who is in hysterics.’ He spat hard to a gasp from William.
‘Calm yourself, brother,’ said William. ‘Please . . .’
‘I don’t care,’ said Maurice. ‘Women have no place anywhere near a holy house.’
Barling turned to Stanton. ‘Go and fetch Abbot Philip. At once.’
As Stanton nodded and hurried off, Barling saw a group of lay brothers approach, carrying a bier between them.
‘I sent for them,’ said William to Barling by way of explanation. ‘We need to take our brother Silvanus to the infirmary.’
‘We need to take him to the church, William,’ said Maurice. ‘The church!’
‘We will, Maurice, we will.’ William patted him on the hand. ‘But I need to give him back some dignity first.’
‘Barling!’ came Philip’s call. ‘Thank God you have returned.’ The abbot hurried up, Stanton with him.
Maurice started to say something, but William hushed him, this time successfully.
‘That we had not returned to such terrible news, my lord abbot,’ said Barling.
‘Terrible beyond words.’ Philip crossed himself. ‘Yet you have summoned me. Have you found something?’ A spark of hope lit the distress in his dark eyes.
‘No, my lord. But I need to speak to you in your hall. Alone,’ said Barling firmly. ‘As Stanton will be talking to Daniel. Alone.’
Stanton nodded his understanding of what Barling was requesting. Barling knew his pupil completely recognised the new urgency, given this appalling discovery.
Philip looked confused. Uncertain. ‘I . . . I need to take collation and Compline. My brethren need me.’
‘Reginald can do it in your stead,’ said Maurice, hushed no more. ‘As he has done so many times.’
‘Then you need not worry, my lord abbot,’ said Barling. ‘We should make haste to your hall.’
Chapter Nineteen
‘In the name of God, what is happening to us here, Barling?’
The words burst from the abbot the moment he closed the door to his hall. Though no one sat at the table, a half-eaten meal lay abandoned upon it.
Barling noted the man shook from head to foot. Understandable, given the dreadful events of the day. ‘I think we should sit down, Philip. You look like you need to.’
Philip nodded and sank into his usual chair at the head of the table, his head in his hands.
Barling moved the food from in front of him, suspecting that the man would have no appetite. He picked up a jug of water and a cup and placed them before Philip, and then sat too.
‘Thank you.’ Philip poured himself a cupful and drank deep.
Barling waited for him to finish. As he had discussed with Stanton, he had intended to speak to Philip alone and glean information from him about the true nature of relationships within the abbey. He also needed to advise Philip that certain monks would have to be interviewed as well as Juliana. All of that had been in Barling’s enquiry as it related to the murder of Cuthbert. But now, shockingly, they had the murder of Silvanus as well. Barling would have to adjust his questions accordingly. He was confident Stanton would do the same with Daniel. Stanton was very quick to adapt to new circumstances. Barling wished he shared more of that talent.
Philip emptied the cup and pulled in a steadying breath.
‘Do you feel more restored?’ said Barling.
‘I do,’ said Philip.
‘One cannot underestimate what such events can do to our composure,’ said Barling.
‘I know,’ said Philip. ‘It was so the night we found Cuthbert. I thought I had lost my reason at times. But for another of my monks to be slain, for Silvanus to be . . .’ He trailed off.
‘When were you made aware of what had taken place?’
‘I was here, eating dinner, with the lady Juliana. Daniel came to summon me. I was shocked enough. You can only imagine her reaction.’
‘I believe I can.’
‘Not only the shock at another murder. But the fact that it was Silvanus. She was very fond of him. He extended the proper kindness and care to all of our guests as required by the Rule and ran the guesthouse impeccably. But I think he had a special bond with her.’
‘I see. So you made your way to where Silvanus’s body was lying.’
‘I did, and my lady insisted on coming with me. I should have forbidden her from doing so. She took one look—’
‘And had hysterics. Yes, Brother Maurice mentioned it.’ Barling paused to pour his own cup of water. ‘It was indeed the most horrific sight.’
‘Had you seen Cuthbert, you might not think it the most.’ Philip swallowed hard.
‘No, perhaps not. I am very thankful I did not and you have my deepest sympathies.’ Barling took a drink. ‘Up to that point, had there been anything unusual about the morning?’
‘No, nothing out of the ordinary. Everyone was at their usual place in our world.’
‘Where was yours?’
‘As every morning. Cloister, church, chapter, work. It sounds odd to say, and I mean this with no disrespect, but after the disruption of you and Stanton yesterday morning, it felt so calming to be back in the usual rhythm of the day. I apologise if that sounds rude.’
‘Not at all,’ said Barling. ‘I know precisely what you mean. I myself love the order of the court, the discipline of the law. Speaking of yesterday, I wanted to ask you about the chapter meeting.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Not only was there anger at my and Stanton’s presence, but there was quite a lot directed at you as well.’
Philip gave a sad smile. ‘You noticed.’
‘Impossible not to.’
‘Things are very difficult here at present. And not just because of the terrible loss of Cuthbert.’
‘No?’
‘Because of Ernald. My predecessor.’
‘But Abbot Ernald is dead, is he not?’
‘Yes, he is.’ Philip’s voice dropped. ‘That is precisely the problem.’
‘I am sorry, Philip, but I do not understand.’
‘Let me explain, or at least try to. Life in a monastery is like that of a family. The abbot is the father. Ernald was the father here for thirty years. It was even his house. He built it. A few of the monks were here from the start, having joined from other houses. But there are not many of them left. For the rest, including myself, all they, and I, have known was Ernald. And he was a great man. A great, holy man. A strict disciplinarian. But we worshipped him. When he died last year, it shook the place to its foundations. We were all broken-hearted. And still are.’
‘I am sure.’ Barling recalled the abbot Nicholas’s words in Westminster: Philip, as new abbot, attended the General Chapter of our order last September, as did I. His grief at the loss of Ernald was apparent.
‘It would all have been hard enough, except that when it came to electing a new abbot, the monks elected me. Me. At my age. I was stunned.’
‘They must have recognised something very special in you. For you to follow the great Ernald.’
‘Maybe they did. But I do not recognise it in myself. Being the father of this house is a burdensome and often lonely life. And it has never been more lonely than
now, with not one but two of my monks slain.’
‘I can imagine, and I am glad the burden is not mine. May I ask what position you held while Ernald was alive?’
‘I was the cellarer. For ten years, from the age of just twenty-four.’ The pride that came into Philip’s voice was obvious. ‘The cellarer is responsible for the financial well-being of the monastery, and all its estates and granges. I had to do all that, as well as oversee all the lay brothers. My father Ernald saw that I had a quick mind and that I was good with money.’
‘Perhaps your election should not have been such a surprise to you. It is a logical step from cellarer to abbot.’
‘Logical, perhaps. But maybe too high for me.’
Barling thought back to chapter and remembered the young black-haired monk. ‘Am I correct in recalling that Brother Osmund has taken your place as cellarer?’
‘You are. I have great hopes for him.’
‘Excellent. He is currently a little lacking in confidence, perhaps?’
‘Regretfully he is, and much more than I realised. I fear I rushed into appointing him and have made a mistake. But having appointed him so recently, I do not want to change my mind. So I have not made any other changes. I do not want to add to my errors. The house continues as it was under Ernald.’ His voice dropped again. ‘Or rather, it did. For now we have lost Cuthbert and Silvanus.’
‘You have appointed Maurice temporarily as sacrist?’ asked Barling.
‘I have. And now I shall have to think about Silvanus’s duties.’ He rubbed a hand across his face. ‘You see why it is so hard, Barling? I would like nothing more than to be able to mourn them, all of them. But everyone looks to me for a solution, all the time. I am their father now.’ He let out a long, long breath, exhaustion etched on his face.
‘Philip, I understand the weight of your worry. I have no wish to add to it.’
‘Barling, you are helping me with the burden. Your presence here means more to me than you will ever know.’
‘I am pleased that I am being of help. I have been compiling information into my enquiry, as I said I would. The next step, which I had already planned even before I found out about Silvanus, was that Stanton and I would speak to various individuals alone. I had wanted to come to chapter in the morning and speak to them about it first. But now that Silvanus is dead, there is even more urgency.’
‘You think it is the same evil hand?’
Barling was not going to share his conversation with the priest Theobald, certainly not at this point. ‘I do not know what to think. Not yet. We shall be making every urgent effort to find out. Stanton and I will get started as early as possible.’
‘Very well,’ said Philip. ‘There will be objections, I have no doubt. Despite what has been going on. Please make me aware of any and I will deal with the individuals concerned. I would make one plea: that you avoid the hours of the Divine Office. Please. The monks need their prayer more than ever, as do I.’
‘Rest assured, I will.’ Barling went to rise. ‘Now, if you will excuse me, I need to find Stanton.’
‘Before you go, may I make one further request of you?’
Barling sat back down. ‘Of course.’
‘You are aware of the General Chapter? That oversees Cistercian houses?’
‘Yes, Abbot Nicholas mentioned it to me.’
‘I had to write to them after Cuthbert’s murder to inform them of what had happened. Not only that, but I also had to let them know what steps I was taking to resolve the matter. Well, I did so, and they are aware that you are assisting me. But now I have to write another letter, telling them of the appalling news that there has been another death. May God help me, I do not even know where to start.’ He passed a hand across his face. ‘You are such a skilled man of letters. Do you think you could help me with the wording? Or perhaps write one to accompany mine?’
‘It would please me greatly to be able to assist you in that task,’ said Barling.
As tasks went, it would not be difficult. Writing an account of a murder was not problematic.
But solving it would be.
Chapter Twenty
Stanton ushered Daniel into his room in the guesthouse and closed the door behind them.
He’d spoken the truth to Barling earlier when he’d said how unsure he was about getting the truth from the monks. The clerk’s response had been as surprising as it was welcome. Stanton would do his best. Yet he was still glad that he was speaking to the lay brother Daniel first. Not only had he, Stanton, already spoken to the man alone in the stables about the horses, but he also understood the world of the lay brothers a bit better than that of the monks. Theirs was a life more devoted to work than prayer, it seemed.
‘Do you want to sit down, Daniel?’
The tall, broad lay brother shook his head. ‘Not allowed, sir.’
The man hadn’t shed a tear, not like Brother Maurice. ‘I’m allowing you.’
Another definite shake of Daniel’s head.
Stanton let his offer go. No point in pushing it. ‘I’m sorry about the death of Brother Silvanus. It must’ve been horrible to find him like that.’
Nothing.
‘It was you that found him?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Can you tell me what happened?’
‘I was working in the stables, sir. The guesthouse. Like always. Went for my dinner with the other lay brothers. Went back to work. Like always. I needed to have a piss. I went round the back of the tables. And there he was. I ran for Brother William. In case he could do owt. That’s all. Sir.’
‘You work mostly in the stables, don’t you?’ With a pitchfork, no doubt.
‘Yes, sir. And I do the heavy work for Brother Silvanus. Did.’ Still dry-eyed.
‘I’m sorry to be asking questions so soon afterward.’
Daniel said nothing.
Damn it all. If Barling were here, he’d order the man to speak up and Daniel would have done so. Barling had that effect on people.
Then Abbot Philip’s words from the day he and Barling had arrived here came back to Stanton: The lay brothers won’t like it but they will do as they are told. They always do. They have dull wits but at least are obedient. Stanton realised that he would only get an answer from Daniel if he actually asked a question.
‘Did you enjoy working for Brother Silvanus?’
‘No, sir.’
‘No?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Why not?’
‘He was always on at me for not doing enough work. Not doing the work the right way.’
‘Did that make you dislike him?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Stanton paused to collect his thoughts, choosing his next words with care. Daniel’s short, direct answers actually made questioning harder. Longer answers not only gave more information: they gave time to get the next question ready. ‘Did it make you want to hurt him?’
‘I didn’t hurt him, sir.’
Maybe his question had been too indirect. ‘Did you kill him?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Did you see anybody kill him?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Did you see anybody with Silvanus today?’
‘You, sir. And the other King’s man, sir.’
God’s eyes. At this rate, they’d be here until tomorrow morning. He tried a different approach. ‘Daniel, I know that you’re used to obeying the monks and doing everything you’re told without question. I have to do the same a lot of the time for Aelred Barling. He’s my master and I’m his pupil. I listen to him. But part of my work for him means that we talk together and he listens to me.’ Some of the time, anyway. Stanton ploughed on. ‘I’m not demanding your obedience. I want to hear what you have to say. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, sir. I think so.’
‘So, did you see Silvanus with anybody else?’
‘Lady Kersley, sir. When Lady Kersley was setting off for her ride. I got her horse ready and was waiting f
or her with it.’
Better. A bit.
‘Were they arguing? Angry?’
‘No, sir. They were talking and laughing, sir. They did that a lot.’
‘When was this?’
‘This morning, sir. She went off and Brother Silvanus carried on with his work in the guesthouse. I carried on with mine. Emptying the pots from the guesthouse. Changing the water.’
Stanton gave an encouraging nod, not wanting to break his flow.
‘Back to the stables. Cleaning out the horses. Fetching the hay. All my work. Same as I do every day. Nights too, if the horses need looking after.’
‘And when did you last see Silvanus?’
‘At the guesthouse, sir. After that, I was with the horses.’
‘Good, thank you.’ Now that he’d got the man talking, Stanton tried a different tack. ‘Daniel, you said that you didn’t like Silvanus. Did you like Brother Cuthbert?’
Daniel shrugged and rubbed his beard. Wary.
‘You can tell me, Daniel.’
‘No, sir. But I didn’t hurt him either, sir. Didn’t kill him.’
Now, this was interesting. Daniel, the man who on the face of it had slow wits and few words, was following Stanton’s exact line of questioning about Silvanus. ‘Do you like any of the monks?’
‘Not really, sir.’
‘Can you tell me why?’
‘It’s that they don’t like us, sir. The lay brothers. We’re here for our muscles and our strong backs. Nothing more. We do different work to them. The real work. The monks might serve God. But we serve the monks. And if we don’t serve them right, we get punished. Brother Osmund, he’s in charge of us. He does all that. He can make us sit on the floor to eat our meals. For days. Has the stick, the scourge. Same as Abbot Philip used to when he was in charge of us.’
‘That can’t be an easy life,’ said Stanton. He meant it.
‘It’s not, sir. And some of us didn’t choose it, either.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘When the monks get given land, men can come with it. The monks become the lord.’
‘Those with the most power don’t care much for regular folk, do they?’
