Blood Moon

by Stephen Wheeler

  ‘My lady.’

  I have to admit to goose pimples prickling my flesh as she deigned to permit her eye to fall upon me. All Europe had heard of this lady’s beauty which was rumoured to have so captivated the king from the moment he first saw her at the tender age of twelve that he stole her from her betrothed in the very hour of their wedding. I had seen her only once before and that at a distance when John had shown her off to her new subjects in a progress around the country shortly after her coronation. Then she had been a beautiful young girl who had stolen the heart of every Englishman who saw her. Seeing her now a dozen years later I could see she had lost none of her magic.

  ‘We have met before?’ she asked me in her thick French accent.

  ‘Unfortunately not, my lady,’ I replied - and then added: ‘But I have long cherished the name Isabel for it is also my mother’s name.’

  ‘Non,’ she replied wagging an imperious finger. ‘You are wrong, mon frère. Your mother has my name, not I hers.’ So saying, she stood up and with a sigh took the small boy by the hand. ‘Come Henri. We must leave your father to his business.’

  As the door miraculously opened by itself and she passed through followed by the three ladies, I heard the little boy ask, ‘Who was that funny man, maman?’

  ‘Juste un vieux moine, petit. Pas quelqu’un important,’ she replied. Just an old monk. Nobody important.

  As soon as they had gone the guard stepped forward to frisk me, but John put up his hand. ‘There’s no need. Brother Bumble and I are old friends, and old friends don’t stick knives in each other, do we Bumble?’ he smiled.

  ‘I hope not, sire.’

  The guard looked a little perplexed and stepped back but kept his hand poised on his sword hilt just in case.

  John giggled. ‘Go on,’ he said pushing the man gently. ‘You can go too. Bumble and I have things to discuss that are not for your ears. Go and get a tankard of ale. I’ll call if I need you.’

  Reluctantly, the guard went out leaving me alone in the room for only the second time in my life with the most powerful man in England who shivered as he pushed a stray log back into the fire sending sparks flying to the roof and rubbed his backside against the flames.

  ‘Christ in heaven, it’s cold here. How you monks put up with no heating is beyond me. You must have ice in your veins.’

  ‘We have a fire, sir,’ I replied. ‘In the warming room.’

  He grunted. ‘One fire for seventy. God help the littlest, I say. Well now, Bumble. What shall we talk about?’

  I had hoped we’d be discussing the murder and Raoul de Gray. It was what I thought I had been summoned to discuss.

  ‘Sire…’ I began.

  ‘So you think he’s the right man for the job?’

  I stopped. ‘Raoul de Gray?’

  He frowned. ‘No no no. Hugh Northwold. A Norfolk man - like yourself.’

  I had to quickly refocus my thoughts. ‘I, er, think he could make a fine abbot.’

  John nodded gravely. ‘So do I. But it wouldn’t do to let that lot know it.’ He nodded to the door as though the entire brethren of Saint Edmunds were standing outside. ‘Makes me look weak.’ He smiled.

  ‘Would it not make your highness look statesmanlike to graciously accede to what was so overwhelmingly a joyful choice of his brother monks?’ I ventured hesitantly.

  His smile vanished. ‘No, it would not. Not with half my baronage threatening rebellion at any moment.’

  My jaw started to drop open but I managed to stop it in time. I was at a loss to know how to respond.

  John grinned and rubbed his hands together. ‘Tell me, what did you think of my entertainment? Good wasn’t it?’

  Another jolt. ‘I, er… enjoyed it very much, sire.’

  He giggled delightedly. ‘So did I. Nearly pissed myself when that goat shat on the stage.’ He sniggered like a naughty schoolboy.

  ‘Sire, I…’

  ‘It’s what they’re planning,’ he cut across me. ‘Rebellion against their lawful king. That’s treason, you know?’

  ‘Surely not, sire.’

  ‘No? You think not? They’ve done it before. To my father when he was king as well as to my brother. But Richard was never here. That was the thing, you see? Ten years as king and less than six months of it in the country. He wanted to go off and fight Saracens and they were happy to let him - so long as he left them alone to run the firm their way. But I won’t, and that’s what they can’t stand.’

  I could see he was working himself up into one of his rants and I was beginning to think my hopes for Raoul de Gray had been entirely foolhardy.

  ‘But surely, sire, the barons are your most loyal subjects?’ I said naively.

  He snorted. ‘Loyalty! Let me tell you about loyalty, my innocent friend. You fancy this manor? Fifty marks and it’s yours. A bishopric? A thousand marks. A county? Ten thousand. Only you never pay, see? And I never ask for payment. That puts you in my debt. That’s how a king keeps control. Loyalty comes at a price. It’s a sad reflection, Bumble. A sad reflection,’ he said poking the fire again.

  I didn’t know what to say, so I said nothing and waited listening to the wood crackling in the flames. Eventually he refocused on me again, his expression dark.

  ‘Now that I’ve told you all this I suppose I shall have to silence you, too. Can’t have you blabbing my strategies to all and sundry, can I?’

  He took out a gold-handled dagger from beneath his jerkin and flashed it in the air.

  ‘So what do you suggest? Should I slit your throat? Or just cut your tongue out? And since you are a fine, literate fellow, I suppose I should cut your hand off as well. Tell me, which would you prefer to lose, the right or the left?’ He pointed to each in turn with the tip of the dagger.

  Then he chortled gleefully. ‘You should see your face. Don’t worry, Bumblehead, I’m not going to harm you. Not because I don’t think you’d tell – although funnily enough I think you of all people probably wouldn’t. It’s because it doesn’t matter any more whether you tell or not. It’s too late, see? It was already too late back in July when that idiot nephew of mine, Otto - may God shrivel the ugly little toad’s balls to peas - lost me my empire.’ He growled. ‘Do you know what that fool did? Refused to fight on a Sunday. Can you believe that? Wouldn’t break the Sabbath for fear of damning his immortal soul. I know you’re a man of the cloth, but dash it all, can you credit him? As a consequence he lost the battle and me the war.’ He snorted with disgust and threw his dagger on the table, to my intense relief. ‘Well, he’ll never be emperor now, I’ll make sure of that. And at least I’ll keep my English kingdom.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘For the present at least.’

  ‘Oh but surely England is safe, sire. Your subjects love you,’ I said cringing inwardly at my own sycophancy.

  ‘Safe? From this lot?’ He snorted contemptuously. ‘They’re a pack rabid dogs.’

  He scrubbed the underside of his chin with his hand seemingly lost for a minute in his own thoughts, then looked me up and down.

  ‘Anyway, enough of that. That’s not why I brought you here. It’s about this murder. Oh don’t look so surprised, Bumble. You think I don’t know what’s going on in my own realm? You said it yourself, Raoul de Gray is the nephew of the Bishop of Norwich, one of the more loyal of my servants.’ He snorted. ‘Oh yes, I know Raoul de Gray well. He was one of my wards of court - did you know that?’

  I frowned. ‘No I -’

  ‘Bit of a foo-foo. Too fond of religion.’ He chortled. ‘Unlike his uncle the bishop.’

  I tried to reconcile this image of Raoul with the one who threatens young girls and gropes tavern whores. He must have changed since he was the king’s ward, I guessed. Or maybe John didn’t know him as well as he thought he did.

  ‘When you say Raoul is keen on his religion, sire, you surely don’t mean he intends to take the cowl?’

  John considered the question. ‘My late mother, Queen Eleanor, became a nun in her final years.
That’s after having eleven children, two husbands and God alone knows how many lovers including her own uncle and my grandfather. The old hypocrite even promised me to the church as a child – can you believe that? Five years I spent freezing my bollocks off in a God-forsaken place just like this one. So I suppose anything’s possible. Monk, yes - but murderer?’ He shook his head. ‘The boy wouldn’t be capable. He’d bungle it.’

  ‘My lord de Saye thinks he did it.’

  John scowled dangerously. ‘I’ve already given you my opinion of my barons.’

  I suddenly saw my opportunity to frustrate de Saye’s plans and perhaps gain an ally in the king.

  ‘Lord de Saye intends to pursue him – to take him to Norfolk for trial.’

  ‘Then you must stop him, Bumble. The boy’s uncle is in Rome at present grovelling to the Holy Father. When he gets back there are things here I need him to do. I don’t want him distracted with tales of murdered maids. So find the boy, Bumble. Prove him innocent or bring him to justice – I don’t much care which. Do this and you will have earned your sovereign’s gratitude.’

  *

  I am often asked my opinion of King John especially by my fellow monks who never met him or did not know him even as well as I did. Much of the history of those times has been written by churchmen with whom John was never popular and who have consequently given him a bad write-up. The question I am most frequently asked is, “What was he really like?” to which I always give the same reply: King John was promiscuous, intelligent, extravagant, suspicious, greedy, self-indulgent, irreligious, mean, vicious, generous, amusing, and sarcastic. He was also given to bouts of tremendous energy when he achieved at least as much as his more esteemed older brother, Richard, coupled with equal spells of lethargy and indolence when he did nothing at all. A vain man, certainly, with his taste for fine clothes and jewellery, and fastidious to the point of excess – four baths in six months is, in my opinion, taking personal hygiene to extremes. He also hated war but could on occasion be a great military strategist. A capable administrator and reasonable to deal with but he was also prone to occasional acts of crass stupidity and cruelty that alienated those who would otherwise wish to be his friends. As an example of this I cite the moment of his departure from Bury, and then I will say no more about him:

  The morning began with a commotion at the abbey gate as dozens of irate townsfolk suddenly appeared trying to petition the abbey authorities. Many of us monks rushed out into the square to see what the problem was and there we were confronted by a scene of utter chaos and misery. Dozens of wailing children and their baggage were being loaded onto carts by soldiers with pikes and swords with their anguished parents looking on unable to stop them. These children were the sons and daughters of local dignitaries whom the king had decided to take with him as hostages in order to ensure the town’s good behaviour. This may be normal practice in times of war, but the country was still nominally at peace and Bury folk were, by and large, docile and supportive of the government. It was meant, I think, as a warning to another, more powerful audience who may have been thinking of opposing his regime and not really aimed at Bury folk at all.

  As it turned out it was all bluff for in a great show of magnanimity the queen suddenly appeared in the square and dramatically begged her husband to relent which he did, swiftly and graciously and released all the children back into the relieved arms of their waiting parents. John never had any real intention of taking cart-loads of juveniles all the way to Winchester especially at this time of the year when the weather was so unpredictable and the roads so treacherous. It was just a piece of theatre designed to make a point, but as an act of political ineptitude it was unsurpassed. At a stroke he managed to turn a sympathetic population into bitter enemies and ensured that any future acts of opposition would go unreported - as indeed it exactly turned out.

  Chapter 20

  AN OLD MEDICINE WOMAN

  With the king’s endorsement ringing in my ears I was spurred on in my quest to find de Grays while there was still time to do so. But where to begin? Once again they seemed to have vanished into the good clean air of Suffolk. This time, however, I was to get some help - and from a quite unexpected quarter…

  The last place I would have expected to find any clues was in the inner sanctuary of my own abbey church. But had I ears to hear and eyes to see I would have realised that the blessed Edmund had been prompting me to do this all along, for one chill morning the great Saxon king and martyr spoke to me - and happily this time I heard him.

  I happened to be passing through the chancel of the church as I often did between the high altar and the shrine when I noticed a large bundle of old sacking that had apparently been dumped on the tiles. As usual the area was packed with the sick and crippled all vying with each other to get as close as possible to the saint’s body in hope of a cure; but however much they crawled over each other like cockroaches over a carcass, they seemed to leave a wide berth around this bundle. Genuflecting next to the thing, I quickly realised why: There was a most dreadful smell coming from it.

  I stopped a young monk whose name I think was Ambrose as he hurried by with a lighted taper. ‘Excuse me, brother – what is that?’

  He gave the bundle a disdainful snort. ‘An old medicine woman from the town.’

  I looked again and could see now that the bundle was indeed human since it was moving ever so slightly as it breathed. On closer inspection the shape seemed familiar – or rather the odour did - and took me back to a time in the distant past.

  ‘Mother Han?’

  A grimy claw slowly emerged from within the bundle and pulled aside the hood that was hiding her face. Mother Han squinted sideways at me and made a grunting noise that I took to be a greeting – or at any rate, recognition. She didn’t get up. She appeared to be licking the floor.

  ‘What’s she doing?’ I asked Ambrose.

  ‘She was caught stealing from the blessed Edmund who is duly punishing her,’ he sneered.

  ‘Caught stealing? How?’

  Ambrose sighed deeply. ‘As I’m sure you are aware, master, as well as placing offerings in the collection boxes located strategically around the church and in every chapel, pilgrims are encouraged to throw money at the foot of the shrine in anticipation of a personal blessing directly from the saint himself. For some time we have suspected this money was being stolen but we did not know how or by whom.’ He tapped the side of his nose with his forefinger. ‘But the blessed Edmund knew. This foul hag has been coming to the shrine and in a great show of reverence goes down on all fours to kiss the floor. Only she wasn’t kissing the floor; she was licking up the coins she found lying there. As reward for this abomination the saint has fixed her tongue to the tiles.’ His lip curled with satisfaction. ‘A most fitting punishment under the circumstances, don’t you think?’

  I took a closer look. Mother Han did indeed have her tongue pressed firmly on the tiles, but it wasn’t so much the saint’s fingers that were holding it there as Jack Frost’s. Ice had formed around her tongue and lips gluing her mouth to the floor and made worse by her breath that was freezing on the cold surface at every expiration.

  ‘It is the saint who holds her,’ insisted Ambrose when I pointed this out to him. ‘It matters not how he chooses to do it.’

  I nodded with resignation. ‘How long has she been there?’

  ‘Two days.’

  ‘Two days!’

  Ambrose seemed unconcerned. ‘And there she will remain until the saint decides to release her. Now if you will excuse me, master, it is I who must be released. I have my duties to attend to.’ And with that, he bowed and went off still nursing his dwindling taper.

  Two days! I’d known Mother Han for nearly two decades. She was ancient when I first met her; she must be well over seventy by now. If she stayed here in these freezing conditions another night I was certain she’d be dead by the morning.

  ‘You foolish old woman,’ I whispered harshly in her ear. She grunted
back something incoherent. ‘Wait here,’ I said, as if she had any choice in the matter, and went off to my laboratorium. Ten minutes later I was back with a pale of warm water.

  ‘Aow!’ she whined as I slopped the steaming liquid over her mouth and the tiles. ‘That’s hot!’

  ‘Good!’ I said. ‘Let that be your reward for your thievery.’

  But the remedy worked for the blessed Edmund in his mercy released his hold on the old reprobate who slumped back on her hind quarters and covered her mouth with her hand.

  ‘Give!’ I said holding out my own hand to her.

  She moaned and shook her head as if in pain.

  I leaned closer. ‘Mother Han, give it back right now or so help me I’ll hold you down myself until the water freezes and you’ll never get up again.’

  ‘You would, too,’ she said reluctantly spitting out a silver penny, slimy with her saliva, into my palm. I put the revolting object into my belt pouch meaning to drop it in the poor box later.

  ‘You didn’t have to make it so hot,’ she complained indicating the empty bucket. ‘You burnt my tongue.’

  ‘Payment for all the lies it has uttered over the years.’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry, I won’t be trying that one again,’ she said rubbing her thighs. ‘I haven’t the knees for bending anymore.’

  I looked at her with exasperation. ‘Why are you stealing from the church? Does your husband not provide for you anymore?’

  ‘He’s dead,’ she sniffed.

  I checked myself. ‘Oh, I didn’t know. I’m sorry. When did he die?’

  ‘A while back.’ She blew her nose on her sleeve. ‘The pain eases with time.’