The Monastery Murders

by E. M. Powell

  ‘That of Richard,’ said Barling. ‘A young fellow student.’

  Stanton said nothing, threw some more.

  Barling wouldn’t look at him. ‘If I disgust you, please say so.’

  ‘No, you don’t.’ The desire of men for men. Stanton knew of it well, though he could never understand it. The only flesh that ever called to his was soft and female. As for Barling being a man who held such desires, a lot of what happened last summer now made more sense. So did Barling’s anger at Stanton jesting about the clerk’s past life. ‘You said you wanted to tell me the truth, Barling. Then carry on.’

  Richard was tall, clean-shaven and had green eyes that reminded me of trees in first leaf. And his hands: broad, square-fingered, settling awkwardly around a quill, and his smooth forehead creasing in his battle for concentration as we sat in the scribes’ room and I saw him for the first time. All the others had left and it was him and me alone.

  He looked up unexpectedly and caught my eye. I flushed but he just gave me a wide, easy smile. ‘Well you might stare,’ he said. ‘I have the talents of an ape at this.’

  ‘I can assure you I am not staring.’ I wished to the heavens that I did not speak like such an old woman. ‘Not in the least.’

  ‘You’re Aelred Barling, aren’t you?’

  I nodded. He knew my name. It sounded warm in his mouth. His beautiful mouth.

  ‘The other fellows told me about you.’ He smiled again. ‘They say you have the most brilliant mind of all. They all say that you will be the master one day.’

  I shrugged, thrilled inside. ‘Gossip.’

  ‘I don’t think so. I’ve seen your work.’ His gaze met mine. ‘Perhaps you could be my master for now.’ The green eyes pleaded, went back to his poor work. ‘Aelred.’

  ‘Let me see.’ I got down from my stool, slowly. Carefully. I was trembling at the idea of moving closer to this man. I came to his side, acutely aware of my meagre frame compared to his. Of the ink that stained my fingers, my hands, my face and no doubt my thin hair. Yet Richard cast me the warmest look.

  ‘You save my life,’ he said.

  I took the quill from him, reset it in his warm, dry hand. ‘Now, follow my movements,’ I said. So close I could smell his body, his hair, his sweet, sweet breath. I wanted time to stop, to keep me here forever, my hand over his, guiding him. But of course it had to end. Once we had finished two lines, he sighed.

  ‘That’s done, praise the Almighty,’ he said. ‘Now. A tavern?’

  ‘I had three months in Paris that were the happiest of my entire existence because Richard was in my life,’ continued Barling. ‘I was helping him with his work. I did it and I did not mind, though his progress continued to be slow. He was from a very wealthy family but had always been bored by study. If I could have, I would have learned everything for him. Yet I should have realised that I was well on the road to damnation. Our gluttony with wine and rich food, all paid for thanks to our arrangement. All were vices that were growing within me, taking hold of my soul.’

  ‘What arrangement was that, Barling?’

  ‘We’d been short of money. Well, Richard had, and then he discovered I could sing.’

  ‘Sing? You?’ Stanton couldn’t help his rude question.

  Barling nodded. ‘It was purely by chance. One night, as we were making our unsteady way through the back streets, we came across a man singing a popular love song to an admiring crowd. The man’s reaching of the notes was not always accurate. But I had had plenty of wine and so joined in, quietly at first. Heads turned. Towards me. People nudged each other. Whispered. I stopped, embarrassed. Richard put an arm over my shoulder and murmured to me to carry on.’ The clerk’s face lit up at the memory. ‘So I did, louder and louder, my confidence growing not only from the wine but from Richard’s strong arm embracing me. When the song finished, people clapped and whistled. For me. One man threw a coin. The street singer looked furious. I dragged Richard away, for I had no wish to rob this man of his livelihood.’

  A drunk Barling, singing in the street: Stanton could only smile at such an unlikely picture.

  ‘But Richard had a plan: I should sing in the taverns. People would reward us handsomely.’

  ‘I thought you said Richard was wealthy?’

  ‘He was. Just useless at minding his money. Anyway, I agreed. How could I not? Richard said he would teach me all the popular songs he knew. His voice was passable, but no more. So he taught me. Some were bawdy, filthy. I found it hard to sing those, and I could see the frustration grow in his green eyes. But I persisted with the tuition and it paid off. Richard used his contacts in the taverns, pushed for me to be allowed to perform. He watched me – watched over me. He collected the coins, dealt with drunks who wanted to quieten me. Philip’s was a face familiar from many of those audiences.’

  ‘I’ve been in lots of similar audiences,’ said Stanton. ‘Though I hope I’ve not met any other Philips.’

  ‘Who knows?’ Barling shook his head. ‘You would perhaps not have thought that I was guilty of great wrong. And yet I am.’ He drew in a long breath. ‘For then it happened. My committing of the worst sin. Late one night, Richard and I were back in his rooms, having finished counting out a great night’s takings. Richard was lying back on his bed drinking more wine. I rose to go. But he persuaded me not to. For the first time, I touched another body just like my own. Not only on that night, but on further nights when he asked me to stay. There were not many. I wished it was every night. And every day. But I accepted his offers like a dog snaps at meat scraps thrown from a table.’

  Stanton could hear the utter desperation in Barling’s voice, even after all these years. ‘Lots of young men do all sorts of things,’ was all he said, aware his words would give scant comfort. ‘A lot of the time, we’re not even sure why we’re doing them.’

  ‘Oh, I knew what I was doing. What we did, were doing, was utterly unnatural, though the devil had blinded my eyes with lust. There was much talk around Paris that many students were doing exactly as we were. Philip sneered that at me when he was locking me up. But that was how I explained it to myself. Here I was, independent in mind and taking my pleasure as others did. The devil must have been helping me. But I cared not. I loved Richard and Richard loved me. That was the difference between us and the other young men who would find each other in the dark taverns and streets. I knew it would only be a matter of time until we declared it to each other, though I was not sure how to go about it. But Richard hit upon a brilliant method of doing so.’

  ‘And what was Richard’s brilliant plan?’ asked Stanton. The clerk might have loved this Richard fellow but Stanton thought the man sounded like the worst kind of leech.

  Barling didn’t seem to notice the hardness in his question. ‘One morning, as we waited for the master, Richard asked me to compose my own love song, one that he would keep. I worked on it for weeks, barely noticing that Richard seemed especially busy. This was our declaration of our love. It had to be perfect. Once I had it, I waited. And waited. Then a message came. Could I come with him for a night in the taverns? We did so, and to my joy we did not stay long. I walked back to his lodgings, my knees hardly able to support me. It was tonight: tonight, I would give him the gift he sought and that I was desperate to give. When we entered his room, I should have noticed that something was different. It was far too orderly. But I was so wrapped up in my song . . .’ He shook his head. ‘I told him I had it, showed him the parchment and sang it quietly to him. I finished on the last note, waited for him to embrace me, to make me his again, once and for all.’

  ‘He didn’t, though, did he?’ asked Stanton.

  ‘No,’ whispered Barling. ‘He did not.’

  ‘Wonderful – that song should have the desired effect.’ Richard opened his palm for the parchment. ‘Thank you, Aelred.’

  I gave it to him, with a hand that was less than steady. ‘Then you liked it?’ My voice was not much better.

  ‘Of course.’ He li
fted the lid on one of his chests and threw it in. A chest that was stacked with neatly folded clothing. He stood up. ‘I’m sure my betrothed will too.’

  My mouth dried and I swear my heart stopped for a couple of beats. ‘Your betrothed?’

  Richard closed the lid of the chest. ‘Alys de Wollmer. Last time I saw her she was a mouse of a thing, so I hope that’s not changed. I can’t abide a woman who doesn’t do as she’s told. But my father says she has become very comely, with breasts that could smother a man. Hope he’s telling the truth.’ He grinned, then yawned again. ‘I suppose we should say our farewells now, Aelred. I leave for England at first light.’

  ‘Leave?’

  ‘Yes. I just said so.’ He frowned. ‘What’s up with you, man? You’re acting very strangely.’

  ‘You cannot.’

  ‘Cannot what?’

  ‘Leave me.’

  ‘Aelred, you’re talking like a madman still. Go and see the physician in the morning if you’re still the same. Goodbye, my friend.’ He went to move to the door.

  It was as if he broke a spell. I stepped after him, grabbed him by the arm. ‘Your friend? Friend?’ My voice rose, I could not help it. ‘Richard, I am your love. As you are mine.’ I went to embrace him, but he shoved me away. Hard.

  ‘Get off me, man. What do you think you’re doing?’

  ‘Doing?’ I grabbed his arm again, tried to pull him towards me. ‘I was showing you the depths of my love, my—’

  ‘Get off me!’ This shove sent me to the floor, where I landed hard.

  I scrambled to my knees, tried to grasp for his cloak. ‘Richard. Richard.’ I grasped the cloth, refused to let it go. ‘You must stay. Stay here. With me.’

  Another push had me down again. Sobs that I had not summoned broke from me as he looked at me in disgust. ‘Do you think I would want it to be so?’

  ‘Yes.’ Now tears choked my sight, my voice. ‘Yes. As do I.’

  ‘For a clever man, you’re a complete fool.’

  ‘But you asked me for a love song. How could I think otherwise?’

  ‘Oh, Aelred.’ He laughed: loud, long and hard. ‘You thought I wanted a song for us? Us?’ Still laughed. ‘That I would want to spend my life with a filthy little sodomite like you?’ All merriment left his eyes. ‘Then you thought wrongly. As wrongly as it is possible to think. You were a distraction here, that’s all. One sin among so many others.’

  I got to my feet as the bitter, heart-breaking truth rained down on me.

  ‘Now, Aelred, the time has come for me to cleanse myself of Paris, of you, the others. To make my penance and return to England to make my new life.’

  It could not be so. It could not. But it was. His face told me it was, his beautiful face that I knew better than my own. I scrubbed at my tears. ‘Then give me back my song.’

  He scowled. ‘Don’t be pathetic, Aelred.’

  ‘Give me back my song!’ My rage-filled scream echoed in the room.

  He took a step back in surprise, opened up the chest and thrust the parchment at me. ‘I have no need of it, anyway.’ His haughty smile returned. ‘After all, I didn’t need to sing to you to get you into my bed. I’m sure my new wife will be just as willing. Now get out of my sight.’

  For a moment, I feared I would kill him. But I could not, for I still loved him. I took hold of the parchment and walked to the door.

  ‘Goodbye, Aelred.’

  I could not look around, could not see him for what I knew would be the last time. For if I did, I knew I would die of grief.

  ‘And I believe I almost did die,’ said Barling. ‘I returned to my lodgings and stayed there for a week, claiming a fever. I could not set foot outside for fear of seeing Richard and then for fear of not seeing him. The world had stopped for me. A few times, I held my precious song to the candle flame. But I could not bring myself to destroy it. I simply could not. I lay without sleep for much of the time, Richard’s words an unceasing pounding pulse in my head. A distraction. A filthy little sodomite. I need to cleanse myself of you. To make my penance. My head span from it. Richard was the one who had first touched me, I argued to myself. Richard had started all this. Richard. But I knew in my soul I was the greater sinner. Richard was doing penance, was taking a wife. As for me, I had no desire for a wife. None. I must still be in the devil’s grip. So I did what I knew best. I emerged from my room, went back to my masters and went back to learning.’

  Stanton had often wondered why Barling lost himself in his work. Now he knew the reason.

  Barling went on. ‘I made my way immediately to a priest and confessed everything, much to his horror for my eternal fate. Fifteen years’ penance was a small price to pay for my soul. In the course of my learning, I came across the writings of Saint Peter Damian. The priest had been right: Saint Peter could not have been clearer about the absolute seriousness of my sin, that it would take me down into the deepest pit of hell.’

  ‘And no doubt Philip had come across these writings too.’

  ‘Of course. And you yourself have heard him say that he recognised me immediately at York, at the ordeal. Abbot Ernald was still alive then, so Philip had yet to set his deadly acts in motion. But when he did, he thought that I, the King’s man, would make a wonderful prize. Little did the monks in the Chapter House know that I was an extra-rich prize for Philip, not only as a royal clerk. But because he knew of my sin.’

  ‘Had he not aimed so high, he might have succeeded with what he was trying to do,’ said Stanton. ‘Serves him right.’

  ‘Meanwhile, I worked and worked and worked at my studies in Paris. The times I woke in tears became fewer and fewer. I got used to the loneliness, the isolation from my fellow students, who gave up asking me to join them in the taverns. I was no longer Aelred, Richard’s friend who could hold the world with a song. I became Barling, who could argue that black was white and evidence it from seventeen sources, humiliating his opponents in argument. When I went back to London, I easily secured a place in the King’s writing office. I have been there ever since.’ He met Stanton’s eye for a moment, then dropped his gaze again. ‘Now you know the truth, Stanton. You see who the man you call master really is.’

  Stanton didn’t say anything. Barling’s story was one that answered many questions Stanton had had about the murders in the village of Claresham last year. That explained Barling’s fury when Stanton had suggested poor Lady Kersley might have lusted after the clerk. That answered many about the man himself.

  It was Barling who broke the silence. ‘And do you have a response?’

  Stanton shrugged. ‘I think it’s a sad secret that you have had to keep.’

  ‘That is all?’ His face and voice lifted. ‘You mean, you are not repelled by me, by my past?’

  Stanton shrugged again. His own past wasn’t much better, but that wasn’t for now. ‘Not especially. In truth, it’s not for me to sit in judgement on you, or anyone. And not to worry, I’ll keep your secrets. I’m good at that.’ Stanton got to his feet. ‘I’m going to head off now. I need to get ready for the journey.’

  ‘I think I shall sit here for a while, Stanton.’

  ‘But don’t be too long.’

  A faint smile twitched at the corner of Barling’s mouth. ‘I will not. I still have much to go over in my mind. Whatever you say, I should have seen Philip’s wickedness, Stanton.’

  ‘I disagree. The bearward leads the bear to the fight, Barling. But Ursus doesn’t look to battle him. His mind is on the dogs.’ He allowed himself a satisfied nod and a grin at Barling. ‘See? I’m a good pupil.’

  Though the clerk gave a sharp sigh, Stanton could tell he kept in a smile. ‘One that has much to learn, I can assure you.’

  That was more like it. ‘I’ll leave you be. But don’t take long here. We need to get back to Westminster and it’s a very long ride.’ Stanton grinned again and went to set off back to the abbey. ‘And you’re a terrible rider, remember?’

  ‘Not terrible. Adequate.’
The clerk gave him his best displeased frown.

  And Hugo Stanton’s heart filled with thanks. With silent, fervent thanks that his friend, Aelred Barling, was still here to deliver it.

  Historical Note

  Fairmore Abbey is a fictional Cistercian house but is a composite based on a number of real twelfth-century Yorkshire monasteries.

  Cistercian abbeys tended to follow the same uniform layout. Remoteness and seclusion were also important in determining their location. I used elements of the following abbeys: Rievaulx, Byland, Roche and Bolton. Although all lie in ruins, they are well worth a visit, with each site visually stunning and atmospheric. Anybody who is familiar with Bolton Abbey will recognise my depiction of the Strid in the novel. For those who are not, the Strid is a spectacular torrent of water, where the river narrows to force the water through rock at great and lethal pressure. Many lives have tragically been lost there.

  The Cistercian order was and is a real order and continues to thrive to this day. It was founded in the eleventh century by monks and nuns who wished to bring about reform of the Benedictines. They wanted a return to the fundamentals of the Rule of Saint Benedict, with a more austere lifestyle and a commitment to physical labour as well as to prayer. The structure and daily regime of monastic life that I portray is based on the arduous real life of the White Monks. They were so called because they wore habits of undyed wool.

  It is possible that the order would have remained relatively small and without great influence. But it was the work of Saint Bernard of Clairvaux, who died in 1153 and was canonised in 1174, that ensured the major expansion of the Cistercian houses. The White Monks were expert at reclaiming land, at farming and at wool production, which ensured they acquired great wealth and power over time. The lay brothers who feature in the book played a key role in this: they were a large, reliable workforce that could be depended upon to perform the necessary hard physical labour without question. Dissatisfaction ultimately spread amongst this workforce and there were acts of violence and rebellion by some lay brothers against the monks.