*
‘What is the purpose of the lavender?’ asked Gilbert keen to learn all he could of the mysterious art of dissection.
‘Have you no sense of smell, boy?’
‘What? Oh yes, I see,’ he said stepping back from the table and covering his nose.
I nodded sagely. To be truthful, I had never carried out an autopsy before either. I had witnessed a few done by others when I was a student in Montpellier. It is still a very controversial practice frowned upon by the Church Fathers as a desecration, but the master of the school there was a keen advocate and could never get hold of enough executed criminals and suicides to satisfy his lust for such butchery. When the city authorities eventually banned the practice on humans the master used animals in their stead, in particular Barbary Apes from North Africa which he said were like humans in all aspects anatomical. That notion, too, was scoffed at by the Church authorities for how could a mere animal be compared to the miracle of God’s ultimate perfection, the human body? Yet Galen himself, the greatest anatomist of all, had used the same ape and had drawn similar conclusions. Even I in my ignorance could see these similarities once they were pointed out to me.
Anatomy has long been a source of wonderment to me. What was the purpose of all those myriad parts inside a human body? The functions of some are obvious enough: The lungs aerate the body while the liver heats it; the bones give the body rigidity while the muscles in their turn afford movement to the bones. The heart, of course, is where the emotions are stored and the brain the repository of the spirit. But what of the lesser organs, the spleen and the kidneys, the pancreas and the gall bladder? If, as the Bible tells us, we are made in the image of God, then what need had God of these oddities? And if, indeed, apes and goats are like us anatomically then surely that meant that they, too, are made in the image of God. It was a perplexing and yet tremendously exciting enigma and one which I was sure would one day give up its secrets. But for now, apart from a superficial geography exercise, most of it would have to remain a mystery.
I stood on one side of the trestle table while Jocelin stood on the other and Gilbert at Matthew’s feet with the body lying naked between the three of us. Though meticulously washed it was not a pretty sight to behold, being grossly discoloured and somewhat bloated from having lain in the open for so long, particularly the face which had swelled up to resemble one of the pigs-bladder footballs our young men had been kicking around only a day ago. Two of the toes had been gnawed off by rats, I noticed, and both eyes pecked out by crows, but otherwise all seemed intact - all, that is, except for the glaring gash across the boy’s throat which ran from ear to ear.
‘Now,’ I said dressed in a leather apron to protect my robe and giving my blade one last strap, ‘as far as I remember, this is how we begin,’ and in one sweeping movement I sliced through the boy’s skin from groin to throat peeling it apart as I went, like an over-ripe pomegranate. Gilbert instantly passed out on the floor.
*
After half an hour of cutting and slicing we had several bowls filled with the boy’s innards.
‘Well,’ I said to Jocelin wiping my hands of the worst of the gore, ‘apart from knowing his last meal was of pease porridge and that he had a full bladder I don’t think we learned very much from that, do you? Except to confirm what we already knew, that he had his throat cut. That is undoubtedly what killed him.’
‘I’m m-more interested in the external signs,’ said Jocelin pushing back the boy’s matted fair hair. ‘Look here at the scalp below the hair-line.’
‘Good Lord, yes,’ I said bringing a candle closer. ‘Well spotted.’
‘T-two marks, see? One above each eye on either t-temple. Saint Robert, I remember, was thought to have been crowned with a c-crown of thorns. Could this be the same?’
I studied the two marks, pressing down on them and trying to stretch the skin apart. ‘These are not puncture wounds as we might expect from thorns,’ I said. ‘They look more like pressure points to me. Do you see?’
I put a finger and thumb on each mark. They fitted perfectly.
‘Let’s think about this,’ I said stepping back. ‘If you wanted to restrain someone from behind, isn’t that where your hand would go?’ I put my hand against my own forehead in the same position as the marks on the boy’s head to demonstrate, pushing back my head.
‘The assailant w-would have to be taller than the victim,’ said Jocelin thoughtfully. ‘H-how tall is the boy?’
I measured him. ‘About fourteen hands. I’m nearly sixteen so I could have done it,’ I grinned.
Jocelin was now frowning at the boy’s hands. ‘I’ve j-just noticed something else. Look at his wrists. More p-pressure marks do you think?’
I looked closely. There was a circular red mark around each. ‘Possibly,’ I agreed. ‘Or ropes could have made the marks.’
‘Or chains,’ suggested Jocelin.
I nodded curtly knowing what he was alluding to: The chains in the Moys’ cellar. ‘Could it have been achieved without those restraints?’ I asked.
Jocelin shrugged. ‘I suppose so. B-but it would surely need at least two people. One to hold the boy and the other to administer the knife.’
‘Let’s try it,’ I said. ‘You’re taller than me. You be the murderer, I’ll be the victim. Here, take the knife and come at me from behind.’
We took up our positions with Jocelin placing his left hand on my forehead pulling my head back as I had demonstrated and his right holding the knife against my throat. I brought my hands up to try to prevent the knife from cutting me. Just at that moment Gilbert began coming round from his faint. Seeing Jocelin standing behind me with the blood-soaked autopsy knife at my throat and my equally bloodied hands flailing to stop him, he gasped and passed out again.
‘I think if there had been just one attacker the b-boy would have more wounds on his hands from trying to fight off the knife,’ said Jocelin letting go of me. ‘A-and there are none.’
‘Unless he had been surprised and not had time to respond.’
‘I-in which case, why the restraining m-marks on the wrist?’ said Jocelin. ‘No, I think this was a deliberate act. The boy was cornered, his hands held down and then brutally s-slain.’
‘So we are agreed, yes? Two people murdered him.’ I thought for a moment studying the eviscerated corpse and addressed it directly: ‘In which case, why didn’t you cry out?’
‘Perhaps he did and no-one h-heard him,’ suggested Jocelin. ‘O-or perhaps he knew his attackers.’
Perhaps he did. But Moy insisted he did not know the boy. More than that, he swore on oath he did not. Lying to me was one thing, but would he lie to his God? It was very frustrating. I wondered if Jocelin was as conscious as I that we were complete amateurs at this. Judging by his bewildered countenance I guessed he was. Not for the first time I wished Samson had engaged someone with a more analytical mind than mine. But for his own reasons he had chosen to yoke me to book-wormy Jocelin as my assistant, God help us both. So I guessed we were stuck with each other – or more accurately, poor Matthew was stuck with us both.
‘He was certainly no weakling, this m-miller’s son,’ said Jocelin casually prodding the muscles in the boy’s arms. ‘If he could have resisted I’m sure he would have done. Look at his hands. Calloused and rough. He was used to hard physical work w-wouldn’t you say? His attackers, whoever they were, m-must have been strong to overpower him.’ Jocelin’s eyes suddenly filled with tears so that I feared he might start blubbing again. ‘What a terrible end for a child.’
We both stood staring in silence across the dissection table with Matthew’s body lying between us as Gilbert began coming round again. At last I noticed him.
‘My dear child,’ I said dropping to one knee and helping him rise. ‘Are you all right? I’m so sorry, we got carried away.’
He looked at me with anxious but relieved eyes. ‘Master, you are alive.’
‘Yes, I am alive,’ I said smiling and noddin
g encouragingly. ‘We are all alive, you, me and Jocelin. Let us all give thanks to Almighty God for that, and honour the dead.’
*
By the time the other monks arrived to translate the boy to Saint Denis’s chapel for his requiem mass I had replaced all his inner parts, albeit haphazardly, sewn him up and covered him with a starched clean white sheet. Gilbert washed and combed the boy’s hair and placed two small wooden crosses on his empty eye-sockets while Jocelin covered his neck so the ugly gash that severed his windpipe was no longer visible. For the first time since he died he had begun to look human again, although there was nothing we could do about his bloated face. When we were ready four choir monks came and carried the body shoulder-high in procession towards the abbey church. But even before that another group of monks had cornered me outside in the courtyard anxiously wanting to know if the boy’s body showed any signs of his martyrdom. I noticed one of them was Egbert again. I was beginning to think that if there was a controversy of any kind he could be relied upon to be at the heart of it. I very firmly told them I could say nothing before I reported to the Abbot, but I did not know how much longer I could fob them off in this way. It was clear that there was a growing desire among many of my brother monks for a new boy-saint and they looked to me to give them one or, failing that, a firm refutation. At the moment I could provide them with neither.
Abbot Samson was waiting in the vestibule as the monks lauded the boy’s body in with bells and incense and bowed low as they passed. As I approached, he put out his hand to stop me.
‘Brother Walter. A word if you please.’ He took me by the elbow and led me to one side. ‘How are things progressing?’ he asked quietly. ‘Are you close to a solution yet? Jocelin was unable to tell me.’
‘We make progress, Father, but it cannot be rushed.’ I then explained the procedure Jocelin and I had gone through that afternoon with the autopsy and some of our conclusions.
Samson frowned his disappointment. ‘I had hoped you’d got further with this by now. Jocelin told me of the trouble this morning at the Moy house.’ He shook his head. ‘It is very disturbing especially with the King still here.’ He glanced over his shoulder as though expecting to see King John standing there.
‘How fares the King?’ I asked lightly. ‘Is he conscious yet?’
Samson grimaced. ‘He recovered well enough by yesterday afternoon to eat a dinner of partridge and stewed prunes. Claimed to have enjoyed some wonderful dreams while he was asleep. What was in that potion you gave him?’
‘Trade secrets,’ I smiled wistfully. ‘I am just relieved he is recovering,’ adding with more bravado than I felt, ‘at least my lord de Saye will not be able to blame me now if the King died.’
‘Oh you needn’t worry about that,’ said Samson. ‘That French doctor’s claimed the credit for his cure. So he can also accept the blame if it goes wrong.’ He shuddered. ‘However, that has not made the King a happy man. He was very angry that all his ministers should have left him alone and was of a mind to chase after them to London.’
‘Was of a mind?’ I said. ‘I take it that means he’s changed it again?’
Samson sighed. ‘He’s heard about the murder. At first he was completely disinterested as I had hoped he would. But then someone told him the chief suspect was a rich Jew…’
I nodded. ‘He found he was concerned after all.’
‘He now wishes to remain for few more days to see the outcome. What he’s really waiting for, of course, is for us to make a mistake so he can step in and take over. If that happens all your high-minded talk of scientific detachment will come to nothing. The Jew will be found guilty and executed before you can say foul. Then the King will get his money and simply depart leaving us to clear up the mess.’ Samson’s face took on a pained expression. ‘Also…’ he looked about him furtively and lowered his voice, ‘…he has found a wench to his liking and is taking this…hiatus…to amuse himself in his rooms with her.’ Samson shook his head. ‘He’s done this sort of thing before. It’s all very inconvenient. So you see, the sooner you can give me an answer the sooner he will get bored and leave.’
‘I will try my best, Father,’ I nodded.
‘Hm.’ Samson stroked his beard thoughtfully. ‘This Jew. Jocelin tells me he took you into his confidence. What did he want?’
‘To unburden himself,’ I said carefully.
‘Did he confess?’
‘On the contrary, he adamantly maintains his innocence.’
‘Yes, well he would wouldn’t he?’ Samson eyed me suspiciously. ‘He didn’t give you anything, did he?’
Now, that was interesting. In Samson’s place I would have asked what it was Isaac had wished to unburden himself of, not if he had given me anything. He couldn’t mean the casket because no-one but Isaac Moy and I knew I had it. It made my next answer a cautious one.
‘He gave me…his trust.’
I thought I could just about get away with that. It wasn’t an actual lie because Isaac’s trust was the only thing I had personally taken from him. The other two items, the testament and the casket, would either be returned or handed on to someone else. But I could see Samson was unconvinced.
‘Hm.’ He thought again. ‘What of the murdered boy’s status?’
‘You mean his martyrdom?’ Again I was cagey not wishing to commit myself. ‘I think God moves in mysterious ways. I can tell you how the boy died but who am I to judge how He achieves His purpose?’
Samson frowned impatiently. ‘Damn you Walter for your habitual obfuscation. Will you answer me straight: Does he or does he not bear the marks of the Passion?’
I looked him directly in the eye. ‘No father, he does not.’
We got no further for there came from within the church an agonising cry of despair. Monks came rushing out, some in tears, some cursing.
‘Well,’ sighed Samson, ‘it sounds as though others may have come to a different conclusion.’
*
We went quickly through the church where we found the body of the murdered boy lying on the floor of the choir, its starched white sheet tossed aside and the naked body exposed for all to see. My clumsy attempt at seamstressing made him look like a badly-mended rag doll. It was clear from the angry snarls that were being directed at me exactly who the monks blamed for the outrage. I could hear the word ‘desecration’ being bandied about. Clearly many of them had already decided the boy was a saint and his relic therefore sacrosanct. By carving him up I had committed the ultimate sacrilege. The mood of my brother monks was ugly.
Abbot Samson, to his credit, stepped into the fray, pushing me out of the way and moving to the altar to face them. Holding up his hands he bellowed: ‘Brothers! Remember where you are! I will not tolerate such lack of respect in God’s House!’
One of the monks who had collared me earlier stepped forward jabbing a stubby finger towards me. ‘We are not the disrespectful ones. He is!’
Samson was having none of it. ‘Do not blame Master Walter. I told him to perform the autopsy. If anyone is to be censured it is I.’
Admirable though this claim was it wasn’t strictly true. Samson had given me free rein to do what I thought I must, but he had not specifically asked me to slice the boy open. Indeed, I am sure he would have strongly disapproved which of course is why I hadn’t told him beforehand. But I was grateful for this display of support at a difficult moment.
‘Then you too should be ashamed!’ came a lone voice.
‘Shame?’ said Samson and shook his head. ‘Is it shameful to seek the truth of how a human being, so violently and heinously torn from life, met his end? Is it not more shameful that anyone should have to leave this world unaccounted and thus allow his killer to go free for want of knowledge?’
‘We know who killed him. It was the Jew!’
‘No brother, we do not know that,’ snapped Samson rounding on the speaker. ‘That is surmise. That is gossip. And anyone who thinks it and spreads it as fact is doing the work of th
e real murderer for him and is no friend of this child. Master Walter has been charged by me to examine this matter. If in the fullness of time he is discovered to have been martyred we will give him due veneration. Until then he is just another dead child. This is not the Anarchy. We will proceed with due process.’
Here Samson lifted the sheet and covered him up again. He sighed heavily.
‘What this beautiful and unique child needs from us now is to celebrate his short life, to comfort his bereaved mother and give him the decent burial he deserves in hallowed ground according to our Christian rites. We are squabbling over him like dogs over a bone. Now, no more of this shameful behaviour. We will give thanks to Almighty God for the gift of this child’s life and our solemn prayers for the protection and comfort of his immortal soul.’
Samson then theatrically brought his hands together and bowed his head and one by one the other monks did the same - or most of them did. Perhaps a quarter, twenty, remained seated frowning and shaking their heads in disapproval. Samson chose to ignore them. After a moment more of silence he led the committal prayers for the dead, and when he had finished he bent down and despite his great age, his gout and his haemorrhoids, he lifted the boy bodily in his own arms and carried him out through the south door to the waiting open grave.
Chapter 10
HOW TO MAKE A MARTYR
‘Well,’ grinned Gilbert when we returned to my cell. ‘That certainly put the cat amongst the pigeons.’
‘More like a wily old fox among chickens,’ I said meaning Samson. I threw myself disconsolately onto my cot and feeling for the first time since this business began exhausted and irritable. ‘I noticed loyal old J-J-Jocelin was nowhere to be seen when the b-b-blame was being d-d-d-dished out.’
Gilbert snorted at my poor attempt at mimicry then coughed indicating the doorway. I turned to see Jocelin standing on the threshold.
‘I was c-collecting information that m-may be useful w-when we interview the boy’s m-mother,’ he said coming fully into the room. ‘I p-presume that is what you will want to d-do n-next?’
Unholy Innocence Page 9
