Hill of Bones

by The Medieval Murderers

  Riocas was doubtful. ‘Is the King’s House included in that? You were quick enough to claim its immunity when they came here searching.’

  ‘If he steps outside, then he is safe, for every inch of a church’s domain constitutes sanctuary. There is no need to be within the building itself, prostrate in the chancel, clutching the altar-cloth!’ Selwyn added sarcastically.

  The cat-catcher refused to abandon his objections. ‘If that be so, then the proctor’s cell is also included in sanctuary!’

  ‘In strict canon law, perhaps it is!’ retorted the steward. ‘But I’m damned sure that the bishop and rest of his crew would take little notice of that, unless someone took a year to go to Rome to protest to the Pope!’

  The agitated lay brother became impatient with this bickering.

  ‘I will creep out tonight and seek sanctuary in one of the city churches. St Michael Within is the nearest. I have met Father Eustace, its parish priest, he seems a compassionate man. I will prevail upon him to offer me the protection of his church.’

  Selwyn and Riocas tried to dissuade Eldred of this dangerous venture, but he was firmly set on the plan. A devout man, he was of the opinion that the ages-old traditions of the Church would be proof against any machinations of the abbey prior and his Chapter. Eventually, they came to a compromise.

  ‘I also have some slight acquaintance with Father Eustace,’ said Selwyn. ‘Before you expose yourself in the city streets to try to reach his church, I will speak with him and make sure that he is willing to offer you sanctuary. You are in the employ of his bishop, for one thing, and he may be reluctant to cross Savaric Fitzgeldewine.’

  When Eldred reluctantly agreed, the royal steward set off across the small city to St Michael’s. He found the parish priest huddled in a corner of the nave, hearing a whispered confession from a fat matron, down on her knees before him. Selwyn stayed a respectful distance away, out of earshot and when the woman had struggled to her feet after receiving a trivial penance and a benediction, he approached the priest and asked if he might discuss something with him.

  Eustace was a short, slightly fat man with a round red face under his tonsured ginger hair. A glowing nose suggested a fondness for the wineskin, but he had an amiable nature that went well with his broad country accent indicating his Dorset origins.

  ‘If you’ve come to confess, my son, I hope it’s more interesting than that poor widow who’s just left!’ he said with an impish grin. ‘She comes thrice each week to waste my time with trivialities, just to have someone to talk to!’

  When Selwyn indicated that this was something much more serious, Eustace invited him into the sacristy, a tiny room off the chancel where vestments and service books were kept.

  Pulling out a couple of stools, the priest then produced a pottery flask of red Anjou wine and two pewter cups. When they were settled over a drink each, Selwyn broached his problem.

  ‘I trust this will enjoy the sanctity of the confessional, as much as your dealings with the widow just now,’ he began. ‘For I might be revealing my own complicity in aiding an alleged criminal, though it concerns an unjust accusation.’

  The cheerful vicar immediately became serious, but assured the steward that his lips would be sealed. Selwyn set out all the facts and ended by asking if it would compromise Eustace with Bishop Savaric if Eldred sought sanctuary in his church.

  The parish priest looked crestfallen, saying that it was an impossible request. ‘But not because of the bishop’s undoubted anger at my agreement – though in fact that is not required when someone seeks sanctuary, as it is an ancient and compassionate act provided by God Almighty, not within the gift of some insignificant priest, be he vicar, bishop or even Pope.’

  ‘Why cannot it be granted in this case, then?’ asked Selwyn, secretly relieved that Eldred’s scheme had been defeated before it had even begun.

  ‘Because the Church withholds the privilege of sanctuary from those accused of sacrilege – and the theft of holy vessels would certainly be considered as such.’

  ‘But he is innocent of that crime! We just need some time to find the true culprits.’

  Eustace shook his head. ‘I fear it is the nature of the allegation that matters, not the eventual truth.’ He paused to take a mouthful of his wine. ‘Even if he was granted sanctuary, he would have to confess his guilt to the coroner before his forty days’ grace was up, otherwise he would not be able to abjure the realm.’

  This meant leaving England, dressed in sackcloth and carrying a rough cross, by going to a port nominated by the coroner where he had to take the first available ship out of the country.

  Eustace shook his head sadly. ‘There are several reasons why this will not work, my son. If your friend entered here under the impression that he was safe, it would be a false hope, as because of the sacrilege issue, the sheriff would be entitled to immediately drag him out and behead him in the street outside!’

  When they had finished their wine, the priest reassured Selwyn that their conversation would remain confidential, leaving him with the impression that Eustace was not too fond of the arrogant, overbearing Bishop Savaric.

  Selwyn returned to the King’s House and gave the priest’s verdict to Eldred, who accepted it more philosophically that the steward expected.

  ‘So be it. Then I am fated to share Solsbury Hill with outlaws, ghosts and other fiends,’ he said, crossing himself as he saw the sacrist and prior do twenty times a day.

  ‘You’ll not be there long,’ said Riocas heartily, trying to reassure their friend that he would be safe from the reputed demons that inhabited the hill. ‘Now we need to decide how we are to go about getting you there.’

  The escape had to be made in two stages, as the city gates were locked at dusk. The sheriff was obsessional about keeping out the bands of outlaws who roamed the countryside, pillaging villages and small towns. Not long before, he had hanged one of the gate-keepers who had accepted a bribe to let in a thief after midnight. So Eldred’s exit from the city had to be made in daylight, but to get such a well-known face out of the abbey compound needed darkness.

  An hour before midnight, when the priests and monks were still asleep before being called for matins, Selwyn and Eldred slipped out of the King’s House and, keeping to the wall of the precinct, went behind the bath-house opposite and then past the back of the infirmary beyond it. The night was dark, with heavy clouds obscuring a crescent moon as they slunk along the wall. Where the lay cemetery gave way to the monks’ burial ground there was no night porter to challenge anyone entering or leaving. Moments later, they were walking along the nearby High Street to reach Twichen Lane, where Riocas had his shop. Though nominally there was a curfew after dark, there were still a few people about, mostly drunks. Prompted by Selwyn, Eldred feigned a slight stagger whenever anyone came within a few yards, until they reached the doorway in the alley that housed the home and business premises of their friend.

  The cat-catcher was waiting for them and soon they were in his cramped room, which smelled strongly of the animal skins that were curing out in the yard behind. Over ale and bread, they discussed the second phase of the escape to be mounted early next morning.

  ‘I’ll take my cart out of town, as I often do, looking for cony skins in the villages around. People are happy to sell them to me at four for a half-penny.’

  The gaunt giant seemed to be enjoying this escapade, but come the dawn, Eldred was less than happy at being hidden under a stinking heap of part-tanned cowhides in the small cart that was pulled by Riocas’ donkey. As well as trading in small furs, he had a sideline carrying hides for tanners, who often needed to send some skins to other tanneries in the area for further processing. The porter at the North Gate knew him well and waved him through without any question, other than a bawdy remark about the smell that wafted from his cart.

  Once well outside the city, Eldred emerged gasping from under the pile of rank skins, which he declared was worse than being hidden for an hour u
nder the King’s bed. Looking around, he saw that they were already within sight of Solsbury Hill, which loomed up as a green cone on the north side of the road from Bath towards Chippenham.

  The little cart jogged along the track, the old Roman Fosse Way, until it neared the base of the hill, the lower slopes of which were heavily wooded. Then the skinny donkey had a harder task, as Riocas pulled it off the road into a steep lane on the left, which went up the valley on the eastern side of the base of Solsbury Hill towards the hamlet of Swainswick, a collection of dismal huts.

  ‘We’ll stop here, before the village,’ announced Riocas. ‘They’re a nosy lot, best that they don’t see me dropping you.’

  As Eldred clambered out, Riocas handed him down a bundle tied up in a blanket provided by Gytha, in which was a fresh loaf, a lump of hard cheese and a cooked lamb shank wrapped in a cloth.

  ‘This will keep you alive until tomorrow morning. Be here about this time and I’ll bring you some more food and hopefully news of what’s happening back in the city.’

  With that, he flicked the backside of the long-suffering donkey with his willow switch and clattered off, leaving a bemused Eldred to his lonely sojourn on Solsbury Hill.

  The fugitive lay brother slung the bundle over his shoulder and with a quick glance up and down the lane to make sure no one was spying on him, vanished into the bushes at the side of the track. After a few hundred yards, the ground began to rise steeply and soon he was puffing as he climbed through the dense thickets of spindly ash, birch and beech that clothed the lower slopes of the hill. There were bigger oaks and elms here and there, but charcoal burners had felled many of them over the years, leaving clearings clogged with brambles, coarse grass and seedling trees.

  Eldred kept wary eyes and ears open for signs of other men, as he knew that Solsbury was the haunt of outlaws and other fugitives, but at present it seemed deserted, apart from the sound of birds and the occasional rustle of unseen animals in the undergrowth. With only a blanket for protection, he needed somewhere to shelter for the night – and perhaps for many nights to follow, if his friends failed to discover who had really stolen the abbey treasures.

  Though he was a city dweller rather than a countryman, Eldred had plenty of common sense and felt confident of surviving for a time on his own, as long as he was supplied with a little food. But he needed somewhere to hide, as much from other people on the hill as from the inevitable rain and cold winds, even though so far it had been a mild September. As he climbed towards the summit, he saw several fox and badger dens, but they were too small for him to creep into. Several clear springs seeped out from under overhanging banks, but again there was insufficient shelter for him under these.

  Panting with the effort of hauling himself up the incline, he was almost at the end of the trees, where they gave way to the earth rampart that encircled the flat top, before he found a place to settle. Here a very steep part of the hill had crumbled, exposing a weathered rock-face a few yards long and a dozen feet high. He thought perhaps the ancient people who had occupied the top of Solsbury long ago had used this as a quarry to obtain the yellow-grey stone for their defences up above. But whatever the cause, he was happy to see a small cavity at the bottom, where rock had either fallen out or been taken way. The hole was too small to be called a cave, but was enough for him to crouch inside under a lintel formed by a band of the limestone strata. In front was a narrow weed-covered platform, with brambles loaded with ripe blackberries growing part-way across the hole.

  Relieved, Eldred evicted a pair of squawking magpies from the hole and kicked away some loose stones from the bottom of the crude shelter. Dropping his bundle outside, he collected an armful of loose bracken and grass to pad the floor of his new home. Sinking down on it with a sigh of relief, he found that he could manage to sit with his head just clear of the rock above – and that if he pulled his knees up, he could lie sideways under the overhang. It was just as well, for at that moment, it started to rain.

  Riocas was back in Bath by noon, having completed his business in Swainswick. Though he often went there during his tour of the surrounding villages for skins, he had made a point of visiting it today as a cover for dropping off Eldred at Solsbury. He had picked up a dozen coney and six red squirrel pelts there – and had only just missed catching a black cat on his way out of the village.

  Now he was back with Selwyn at his shop, earnestly discussing how they should proceed. They were in the cat-catcher’s back room, out of hearing of Riocas’ young apprentice, who sat in the shop at the front, the window-shutter opened down to form a counter to display their goods to passers-by.

  ‘Eldred can’t stay up there for long,’ declared Selwyn. ‘The autumn is upon us, the nights are getting colder. We have to lift the suspicion hanging over the little fellow – or else smuggle him and his wife somewhere far away if we wish to save his neck.’

  ‘Any news from the abbey today?’ demanded Riocas, his coarse features glowering over the rim of a tankard.

  ‘The prior is still smarting over the harsh words that the bishop no doubt gave him. They searched the abbey again this morning, then came once more to the King’s House and virtually ransacked it, without any result. They knew that I had befriended Eldred, so probably only my status as a King’s servant prevented them from arresting me.’

  Riocas grunted. ‘I doubt many know that he was also my friend, so we should be safe enough there. But what can we do now?’

  ‘Discover the true culprits – and the whereabouts of that chalice and pyx. Any ideas?’

  The Breton rubbed his massive jaw, now bristling with coarse stubble. ‘As it stands, that treasure is worth little to any thief. It’s too recognizable. They would want to sell it on for coinage, even at half its true value.’

  Selwyn agreed. ‘And where would they be likely to do that?’

  The giant shrugged his great shoulders. ‘Some jeweller or moneylender, almost certainly a Jew. Better to do it in Bristol or Winchester for safety.’

  The royal steward looked dubious. ‘They’d have to get there first. Easier to dispose of it in Bath, even if they got less money for it. There are several gold- and silversmiths in the city.’

  After more discussion, they agreed to tour the alehouses to listen discreetly to any gossip. They both had acquaintances who had an ear to the less savoury activities that went on in the narrow streets and more squalid alleys.

  After sharing a bowl of potage and more ale, Selwyn went off to see Gytha, to tell her that her husband had been safely delivered to Solsbury Hill, and to collect another blanket and some more bread and meat for delivery next morning – to which he added a small wineskin filched from the King’s stores.

  When the two conspirators met again in the evening, Riocas had some news from his spying around the city taverns.

  ‘I talked with Alfred, the night-soil collector, who I know well. He told me what he heard this morning at the shop of Ranulf of Exeter.’

  Selwyn was dubious, not about Ranulf the goldsmith, but about Alfred, the lowliest of the low, who scratched a living from shovelling out the ordure from privies in the town and taking it in his stinking handcart to dump in the River Avon.

  ‘That Alfred is half-way mad!’ he objected. ‘Surely you don’t rely on anything he tells you?’

  The furrier shook his head. ‘He’s odd, I grant you. But Alfred usually tells the truth as he sees it, being too lacking in imagination to make things up. Anyway, he says that when he was in Ranulf’s yard yesterday, emptying his privy-pit, he heard the goldsmith telling his journeyman that if they came back, not to have any dealings with the men who tried to sell him a gold-lined silver box.’

  Selwyn’s eyebrows went up his forehead. ‘That would have to be the missing pyx! But everyone in Bath knows it’s been stolen from the abbey. Are you sure that Alfred wasn’t making this up?’

  Riocas shook his formidable head. ‘Why should he pick on that one thing? He had no reason to invent it – and he did
n’t mention the gold chalice, which would have been much more dramatic.’

  ‘But what about Ranulf ? He would know straight away where it came from. Why didn’t he rush off and tell the prior or the sheriff ?’

  The cat-catcher gave a cynical grin. ‘Ranulf ? He’s well-known for buying stolen goods, but not ones this valuable – and from our own abbey! Yet he’d keep quiet about it, for if it became known that he had a loose mouth, he’d forever lose the custom from all the thieves for miles around.’

  Selwyn stirred these new facts around in his mind for a moment. ‘Alfred didn’t hear who those men were, did he?’

  ‘No, I asked him that. The goldsmith only spoke to his journeyman for a moment, as they were standing at the back door. That’s all Alfred heard.’

  Selwyn looked out of his friend’s unglazed window. The shutter was open and he could see that it was already getting dark.

  ‘Too late tonight, but first thing in the morning, I’ll be having a word with that Ranulf.’

  But Fate had other plans.

  Riocas could hardly visit Swainswick two days in succession, so next morning he stopped his cart on the main road at the junction of the lane and walked up a little way, trusting to Eldred’s common sense to look out for him. Soon, the fugitive emerged from the bushes and eagerly took the bundle from the cat-catcher. He was hungry and also grateful for another blanket; although he had slept fitfully in his rocky shelter, the autumn night had been chilly.

  ‘If Selwyn is successful today, you may not need to spend much longer here,’ announced Riocas, optimistically. He told Eldred what he had heard from the night-soil collector and the fact that the King’s steward was at that moment trying to discover who had offered the stolen pyx for sale.

  The lay brother was so overcome with relief and gratitude that he flung his arms around Riocas, the difference in their sizes making him look like a squirrel clinging to an oak tree.

  ‘Have you any idea who the thieves might be?’ demanded the embarrassed giant. ‘From what Alfred heard there must have been more than one who approached the goldsmith.’