I began preparing a warm suffusion of burdock and figwort in lime juice for Eusebius to drink.
‘Have you had emissions like this before?’ I asked him.
‘I’ve always had them ever since I’ve been with the Gilbertines.’
‘And how long is that?’
‘Since I was oblated at the age of ten. Why do you ask, master?’
I smiled. ‘Oh, it’s just my questions. A doctor has to ask these things.’
In fact the boy’s answers confirmed my suspicions. By his own admission he was not new to the Gilbertine order but had been with them for I calculated to be at least ten years – more than enough time to adapt to the regimen, I would have thought. No, something more fundamental was amiss here. I would need to study his birth chart to be certain of my diagnosis, but in my experience those most susceptible to frequent nosebleeds are by definition of a sanguine nature and are usually outgoing, sociable and rather jolly people often given to corpulence. Eusebius, by contrast, struck me as being melancholic, introspective and painfully thin. This mismatch of humour and type was worrying.
It could, of course, simply be a lack of nourishing food that was the cause. The Gilbertines are few in number and known to be very poor - I believe there was even a revolt a while back among the Gilbertine lay brothers against their poor food. But if I had to guess I’d say in Eusebius’s case the source of the problem lay much deeper and be of a spiritual rather than physical nature. That would explain his presence here. Something of the sort must be the case else why was he here at all? Whatever his problem, however, I wanted to do my best for the boy grateful as I was for his having saved me from my own ordeal at the hands of Prior Herbert, for had he not cried out when he did it might be me now lying on the couch nursing something rather more painful than a mild headache.
‘Here, drink this,’ I said, handing him the suffusion of burdock and figwort. ‘It will revive you.’
He sipped it and pulled a face. ‘Urgh! Sour.’
‘Nevertheless you should persevere,’ I insisted sternly, but then softened my tone. ‘I’ll ease its passage with a little honey in deference to your youth. I know the young like sweet things.’
I watched while he drained the cup.
‘Have we met before?’ I asked as he handed it back. ‘Your features seem somehow familiar to me.’
‘Not unless you have been to our priory at Shouldham. This is my first time away.’
‘No, I have never been to a Gilbertine house. I think I would have remembered if I had.’
‘You disapprove?’ he asked hesitantly.
‘Of monks and nuns cohabiting together?’ I shook my head. ‘I confess I find the concept strange, but I would be loathe to condemn that which I do not fully understand.’
‘It is not difficult once you try it – men and women living and praying together in modesty as God ordained Adam and Eve before the Fall. It is not a new concept.’
‘But one that must cause…difficulties,’ I suggested gently.
He looked at me shyly. ‘You fear the carnal desire, master. But if you live in the love and devotion of the Lord Jesus Christ and his Holy Mother the Virgin Mary then all earthly temptation is conquered.’
‘Noble sentiments,’ I conceded. ‘Perhaps the faith of Gilbertines is stronger than ours. We Benedictines prefer the certainty of geography and locked doors to ensure our chastity.’
‘Oh, we have locks too,’ he insisted. ‘And walls to keep us apart - even inside the priory church itself. The nuns and the canons can hear each other, but not see. We have separate dormitories, separate refectories, even separate cloisters. There is no contact between us at all - other than for spiritual purposes.’
I shrugged. ‘Then I fail to see the point. Why not go the whole hog and separate totally into different houses?’
He frowned trying to explain: ‘It is a matter of historical precedent. The first Gilbertines were nuns. But since nuns cannot celebrate the mass or hear confession a community of canons was added to serve them. Then a community of lay sisters was added to serve the needs of the nuns and finally another of lay brothers to do the heavier work.’
‘Goodness me!’ I chuckled. ‘Not two houses but four.’
He lowered his eyes. ‘You mock us, master.’
I shook my head. ‘Not at all. But you have to admit, it does sound a little…complicated.’
‘Not if the rules are obeyed. If correctly followed the arrangements work well enough. Although…’
‘Although?’
He stiffened a little. ‘No doubt you have heard the tales.’
I had indeed. I didn’t like to mention it, but as is so often the case with even our noblest of intentions, human behaviour has a habit of tripping us up. There was one particular case I knew of a Gilbertine nun who was seduced by one of their lay brothers. When the other nuns found out they forced the girl to castrate the brother concerned and to consume the severed parts - or so the story had it. The disgraced nun was then locked away to bear her shame alone. But all was made well in the end for during her lonely sojourn in the dungeon cell the nun had a miraculous visitation from the Archbishop of York, no less, who spirited away both her chains and her unborn child thus saving the girl from everlasting damnation - and Holy Mother Church from everlasting disgrace, of course. I am not saying such things never happen among Benedictines, but the opportunity must be all the greater with so many men and women living together cheek by jowl.
‘We are none of us perfect,’ Eusebius was saying shyly. ‘We are all tempted at times.’ He looked up. ‘Even you, master.’
‘Me?’ I was stunned by the sudden personal reference. ‘Oh well - when I was your age, perhaps. I’m not sure I have such feelings anymore. Not for a while at any rate.’
‘But did I not hear the prior correctly,’ Eusebius persisted, ‘that you visited a lady privately in her bedchamber? Isn’t that why you were being disciplined in the chapterhouse this morning?’
I grimaced. ‘I’m afraid Prior Herbert’s imagination sometimes runs away with him. It is true that I paid a visit to the lady concerned, but in my capacity as her doctor. She has just given birth to a baby daughter which I delivered. It was concern for her health and that of her child that attracted my interest, not her feminine charms.’
He went quiet. ‘Did I hear correctly that the lady in question was Lady Adelle de Gray?’
‘You’ve heard of her?’ I asked suspiciously.
‘I know the name. Bishop de Gray is our bishop.’
Of course, that would be it. Shouldham was in the diocese of Norfolk - Bishop de Gray’s diocese.
‘You would agree, though,’ said Eusebius, ‘that it is the animation of carnal lust which damns us?’
‘Erm – well yes, I suppose so,’ I agreed somewhat reluctantly as I rinsed out his bowl.
He nodded. ‘Guiges of Chartreuse says that it is not possible for a man to hide a fire in his breast or touch pitch without getting stuck. And Gerald of Wales advises that if we are tempted by the desires of the flesh we should visualize coupling with a corpse, for what can be more disgusting than stinking, rotting flesh?’
I laughed awkwardly at his extreme imagery. It was clear the boy was both well-read and deeply serious. His devotion to the Virgin was also commendable if a little severe in one so young. I thought I was beginning to understand why Eusebius had been sent to us.
‘I find a dip in the cold waters of the Lark has the same effect,’ I said trying to lighten his mood.
But the boy was not to be deterred so easily. ‘No, master. Abstinence is the only safe way. The Holy Mother showed us by her example, the only truly virgin in thought as well as in deed. Only by following her supreme example can we achieve full redemption. Her chastity is the light and the purity, whiter than snow, clearer than glass, more brilliant than the sun!’
Well, that certainly brought the colour back to his cheeks. His eyes were bright with adoration. I could only hope that a few weeks with
us might calm him - perhaps by mixing with some of the other young men in the novice house would bring him back down to earth. But I seemed to have discovered what was ailing my new young friend and what had brought him to seek solace at the foot of Saint Edmund’s tomb: Terror of his own humanity.
Chapter 6
AN OLD ENEMY RETURNS
Strictly speaking Eusebius wasn’t my responsibility at all except in the general sense that the health of everyone within our walls was the concern of the abbey physician. But he did have a physical problem which required my attention and to this end I had a quiet word with Brother Nigel, the fraterer, to see if the boy might benefit from a diet richer than we monks are normally used to, just until he built up his strength a little. Nigel was sympathetic to my request but asked me to clear it first with the prior since the dietary regime was another one of those areas covered by Herbert’s precious rules. I’d had a feeling he might say that. I agreed to try but frankly after the fiasco in the chapterhouse any suggestion coming from me would probably get short-shrift from Prior Herbert. I therefore decided to put off approaching him for a day or so to allow muddied waters to settle and hurt pride to heal. When I did see him I would need all my powers of charm and delicacy to plead the boy’s case and no doubt Herbert would enjoy every squirming, wriggling moment of it before refusing - doubtless with much heart-felt sorrow and regret.
In the meantime I got on with my regular rounds of sewing wounds, setting bones, easing bowels and letting blood. I saw no more of the de Gray family who I imagined if they hadn’t already left the district soon would, although I was surprised that baby Alix hadn’t been baptized in the abbey church before leaving. Being one of the blessed sacraments, baptism is essential if a child is to be protected from everlasting damnation should the worst happen and it did not survive its first few months of life. The latest thinking on the subject is that the souls of those infants who die without being baptized do not go to Purgatory like everyone else since they have had no opportunity yet in their brief lives to have committed personal sin. But they are guilty along with the rest of us of original sin – that offence against God perpetrated by Adam and Eve and which devolves upon everyone simply by dint of being human. It is thought, therefore, that their souls go instead to somewhere called limbus infantium - or Limbo of the Infants - a place at the edge of Hell where they suffer no physical torment but are denied seeing the face of God, which is punishment in itself. This state is similar to, though distinct from, limbus partum - or Limbo of the Patriarchs - which is reserved for those Old Testament Fathers like Noah and Moses who lived before the advent of Christ but who nevertheless died in special friendship with God. Limbus partum is a place milder than Purgatory for their souls to repose until Christ comes to redeem them. Dead infants, on the other hand, can avoid Limbo altogether by the expediency of being baptized while still alive. Given this simple precaution I was surprised that the de Grays had not taken advantage of it.
All this I would have liked to discuss with Prior Herbert given the opportunity, but unusually he seemed tied-up with abbey business and was out of circulation. Though not an entirely regrettable state of affairs in itself, his inaccessibility was becoming something of an inconvenience. I did try once or twice to get in to see him but each time I failed either because he was too busy or was not in his office when I called. After my third failed attempt I began to wonder if this unavailability wasn’t deliberate and frankly I had better things to do than keep trudging back and forth to his house on a fool’s errand. I also thought when I did eventually manage to pin him down that I’d take the opportunity to smooth ruffled feathers over the Lady Adelle incident – or at least to put my side of it. It did the abbey no good to have its pastor and its physician at loggerheads with each other especially at a time when there was already enough bad feeling within the community over the election of the new abbot. As things turned out, it was a thought I rather wish I’d never had.
The prior’s house is a fine-looking two-storey building set well away from the main abbey complex within its own walled garden on the sleepy banks of the River Lark. Compared with the common dormitory, or even the few individual cells such as my own, it is a luxurious dwelling but not one begrudged of the second highest office-holder in the abbey. He rightly needs space to accommodate his large household of servants and clerks as well as suitable surroundings in which to entertain important guests. Or so he maintains.
Herbert’s office is on the upper floor of this rather grand pile and is guarded by his faithful secretary, Jephthet, a clerk in minor orders who sits at the foot of the stairs screening his master from unwanted visitors. Like all petty officials Jephthet likes to exercise what little power he has to its limit. I could not but again reflect on the contrast with Abbot Samson whose door had always been open, literally as well as metaphorically, to anybody who wished to see him - once you made it up the staircase that led to his study, of course.
On my approach Jephthet had a sudden coughing fit, loud enough certainly to be heard in the room above.
‘Ah, Jephthet – good man,’ I greeted him amiably. ‘Your master is in I take it?’ and started to go round his desk.
A skeletal hand shot out barring my way. ‘You have an appointment, master?’
‘Yes – well, no actually. Do I need one?’
‘The prior is a very busy man.’
‘Oh, my business is not great. A minute or two of his time is all I crave.’
Jephthet smiled as I imagine Aesop’s fox smiled when it first spied the grapes. ‘I can give you a minute…’ he ran an ink-stained finger down a list on his desk ‘…a week on Tuesday - in the fore-noon.’
I smiled back at him. ‘Perhaps I’ll come back when he’s less busy.’
‘Please do,’ smiled the fox.
I started to leave but turned back. ‘By the way, that’s a nasty cough you have there, Jephthet. I do hope it doesn’t turn into anything sinister.’
I did try to get to see Herbert on several more occasions but each time Jephthet had a different reason for not allowing me to pass. The man is a Cerberus guarding the gates of the Underworld, and like that multi-headed monster his eyes and ears are everywhere. I don’t believe he possesses a bladder for I have yet to go to the prior’s house and not find him sitting hunched over his desk scratching away at some scroll or other.
Subterfuge was called for. The next time Jephthet refused me access to his master I intended to accidentally upset his ink horn over his precious scrolls and in the confusion mount the stairs before he had a chance to stop me. I was quite looking forward to executing my plan which I had timed for late one evening when I was sure Herbert would be at home. However, I was to be disappointed for when I entered the hallowed sanctuary of the entrance hall I saw that for the first time ever since I had been coming to the house Jephthet’s desk was empty. Indeed, so neatly arranged and tidied was it that I decided he must have been dismissed for the night – as I later discovered to be the case.
The hallway was in darkness but there was the faintest glimmer of light coming from the next level and I began to climb the stairs. As I got to the top I could hear subdued voices coming from the other side of Herbert’s office door - it seemed Herbert already had a guest. My immediate reaction was a mixture of relief that the unpleasant confrontation could be put off for another night, and irritation that I had been frustrated yet again. I was about to turn and go when I heard something that made me halt. Until that moment the only voice I’d heard coming through the door was that of the prior - a distinctive nasal whine. But when his companion replied the sound of the voice sent an involuntary shiver down my spine. I was unable to distinguish individual words but the timbre and inflexion were unmistakable. It had been many years since I’d heard that voice and yet I knew it better than I knew my own.
What I did next was something I have never done before in my life: I went down on one knee and peeped through the keyhole. It was dark inside the room and it took me a moment
to focus on the occupants, but when I did I nearly fell backwards in shock. It was him all right: Geoffrey de Saye, the man who had once tried to murder me.
It was coronation year, 1199. King John had come to Bury to give thanks at the shrine of Saint Edmund for his accession to the throne. But the visit had coincided with the murder of a fourteen-year-old child – the son of a local fuller. The child’s body had borne all the signs of ritual murder for which the Jews were blamed, and one Jew in particular. The accused man was eventually exonerated but not before his own life had been forfeit and his family destroyed. It subsequently transpired that the real murderer had been Geoffrey de Saye and for reasons nothing to do with religious sacrifice but everything to do with money and corruption. As the investigating officer at the time, I had been responsible for exposing de Saye in revenge for which he tried to murder me too in Thetford Forest. But unbeknown to me, my life had been in double jeopardy because of an older connection between our two families about which I knew nothing. As I subsequently discovered, my own father had killed de Saye’s uncle - the infamous Geoffrey de Mandeville, so-called Scourge of the Fens - thereby ending a reign of terror by that had blighted the lives of the people of East Anglia for two years. All this happened years before I was born, even before de Saye was born, but as a consequence he had harboured a grudge against my family. And when he learned that I was the one responsible for exposing him as a murderer his vengeance knew no bounds. That time his attempt to kill me failed, but would he fail again?
Geoffrey de Saye and I are both a decade and a half older now - I am fifty and he must surely be sixty. But even in the dim candlelight of the office there was no mistaking the man. And yet how could it be? As a result of his murderous activities all those years ago he had been exiled to the Welsh Marches for life - or so I had thought. It had always aggrieved me that he had never been brought to trial, but his was a powerful family. His nephew was the then Justiciar of England, Earl Geoffrey Fitz Peter, and such people never fully answer for their crimes. Exile was the best we could hope for. It had been one of the conditions exacted by Abbot Samson for not prosecuting de Saye that he was never to be allowed to roam free again but be confined to his nephew’s manor in distant Shropshire. But both Earl Geoffrey and Abbot Samson were now dead and with them had gone the last two guarantors of de Saye’s banishment. Now he was back and there was no-one to prevent de Saye finishing the job he’d started all those years ago – and this time, it seemed, with Prior Herbert’s blessing.
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