by Mel Starr
“Bring cold water,” I said, “and a cloth.”
Cold water in November is easy to come by. A basin quickly appeared, and a towel. I soaked the linen in water and applied it to the abbot’s injury. I thought I saw his eyelids flicker as I did so, but the cresset provided little light, so I may have been mistaken.
I regularly refreshed the wet cloth, and twice asked for the basin to be refilled, before Abbot Thurstan opened his eyes and looked up at the somber faces gazing down upon him. He tried to lift himself to an elbow, the better to see those who encircled his bed. I was ready to restrain him, but ’twas not necessary. The effort was beyond his strength, and he sank back upon his pillow.
The abbot’s body was weak, but his mind seemed clear, even after the blow he had received. He recognized me. “Master Hugh,” he whispered. “What has happened? Where am I?”
“You fell, returning from vigils,” Prior Philip answered. “Upon the cloister stairs. You are in your own chamber, in your bed.”
The abbot did not speak for some time, and closed his eyes as if in sleep again. But this was not so, I think. He spoke again.
“What injury have I?”
“You have a great lump aside your head,” I said, “where you ended your fall against the flags.”
“Ah, yes… I remember now tumbling down the stairs. But if I struck my head, why do I feel pain in my leg?”
The abbot’s question filled me with sudden dread. “Where,” I asked, “is this pain you feel? Is it above your knee, or below?”
“Above,” he wheezed, and lifted his hand to touch a place upon his hip. “Just there,” he said.
I feared that the old abbot had suffered a broken hip, but could not know for a certainty without a close examination, which would lay his wizened body open to the gaze of all those in the chamber. No dying man should endure such an indignity, and if the abbot’s hip was indeed broken, he was likely on his way to meet the Lord Christ, as he had wished to do for many years.
The infirmarer understood the import of Abbot Thurstan’s words and gestures. “His hip,” he said softly in my ear.
“Aye,” I replied. “I fear so. I cannot know without an examination.” Then, louder, I said to all in the chamber, “Abbot Thurstan complains of pain in his hip. With his permission I will see what injury is there. This will require that I partially remove his habit. He would likely wish the chamber cleared, but perhaps for Brother Guibert.”
I turned to the abbot. “You heard? Do you wish this examination?”
“Aye… but all must leave – even Brother Guibert,” he whispered.
Prior Philip opened his mouth as if to object, but remained silent and, with the others, shuffled from the chamber. He was the last to leave, and, I noticed, left the chamber door open when he departed. I crossed the room and pushed the door closed.
“’Tis not the knob on my head which troubles you, is it?” the abbot said. “I could not hear your words, or Brother Guibert’s, but I saw you exchange sour glances when I complained of my hip.”
“It may be but a bruise which pains you,” I replied.
“It may also be that my hip is broken. Is this not so?”
“It may be,” I admitted.
“Then best be about your task and tell me if I am to linger longer in this world, or soon be released to the next.”
I did as he commanded, and it took but little poking and prodding, Abbot Thurstan wincing in pain when I did so, to convince me that his hip was indeed fractured. I told him this.
“Then I will soon pass to the next world. How long, you think? A week? A fortnight?”
“Perhaps as long as that,” I said. I have heard of broken hips which mended, but do not know if this is so, or but myth.
“Brother Infirmarer will have herbs which will dull the pain,” I said.
“The Lord Christ does provide for all our needs,” the abbot said. Then, as I was about to open the door to admit those who had been dismissed, he spoke again.
“Nay. Not yet. I have more to say to you, which must be heard by no other man. Not yet.
“My flesh will soon be food for worms, but my wit is returning, even though I have a sore head. There are things which you and no other must know.
“Prior Philip has urged me to discharge you. He said my promise to you of a Bible is too great a price, and you have made no progress in discovering a murderer. He has asked to be assigned the task, and promises me that he will find whoso has slain John Whytyng, and at no expense to the abbey.”
This speech seemed to tire the abbot. He had lifted his head from the pillow to speak, but it fell back when he grew silent and I saw his eyes close.
“This night,” he continued, “’tis true… I stumbled at the top of the stairs. But then, when I placed a hand upon the wall to steady myself, Brother Prior reached for my hand, drew it from the wall, and with his other hand pushed upon my shoulder. I heard him tell you that he had tried to check my fall, but as I look back upon it, he did the opposite. Of course, he will claim that I am demented, that the blow to my skull has unhinged me. ’Tis not so. Prior Philip wishes us both away from Eynsham Abbey. As for me, he will have his wish. He has long desired to replace me as abbot. Do not allow him to drive you off also.”
“How can I prevent it? If I cannot find who murdered the novice before your death, the prior will be left in charge of the abbey, and he may tell any man to leave the place.”
“I have thought on that,” the abbot said, his voice becoming weak. “I will leave written instructions with my clerk that you are to remain in the abbey, commissioned to find a felon, until you are successful, or you give up the quest.”
“Will Prior Philip accept such a command?”
“He will. He wishes to be chosen abbot in my place, and will know that his brother monks hold me in some esteem. To show disrespect to my final request would cost him the support of many brothers. There are already those who would wish Brother Gerleys to replace me, and Brother Prior knows this. No, he will not chase you away before your work is completed.”
Rain had not fallen for more than a week, but as the abbot fell silent I looked to the chamber window and saw there in the dim light of dawn a few beads of water upon the glass. My mood was dark, and the gloomy morning did nothing to improve it. I wondered what Prior Philip might do to rid the abbey of my presence if he was willing to pitch a frail old man down a flight of stairs. Perhaps Abbot Thurstan imagined the prior’s guilt, and he had genuinely tried to arrest the abbot’s fall. But ’twould be safest to assume the abbot’s allegation accurate, and look to my own safety.
I opened the chamber door and found the corridor crowded with monks and lay brothers. Some had been in muted conversation, but became silent as I passed through the opening.
“Well?” Prior Philip asked. “What news?”
“His hip is surely broken,” I said, and saw the monks near me, whose faces were faintly visible, take on an even more somber aspect. Several crossed themselves.
“How long?” Brother Guibert asked.
“Not long, I fear. He is a feeble old man, and he does not wish to live.”
“A week, then?” Prior Philip said.
“Perhaps. Mayhap a fortnight.”
From within the abbot’s chamber we in the corridor heard him speak. “Send Brother Theodore,” he said clearly. “All others must depart. Brother Theodore will relate my wishes at chapter this morn. ’Tis nearly time for lauds. Begone, and pray for my soul.”
A monk made his way through the press of black habits and passed through the chamber door. Prior Philip made to follow this monk, but had gone only a few steps into the room when I heard Abbot Thurstan say, “Nay… I’ll have only my clerk attend me.” I knew what he intended to do.
There was a window in the corridor, and in the soft light of early dawn I searched faces until I found Brother Guibert, who had been jostled from his place near the door by other monks eager for a word about their abbot.
“
What herbs have you,” I asked the infirmarer, “which we may use to dull Abbot Thurstan’s pain?”
“I have a pouch of hemp seeds,” he replied.
“Crush some, and bring a thimbleful together with a cup of ale.” Then, remembering the quality of the abbey’s ale, I added, “Or wine.”
The monk nodded and departed. “You heard Abbot Thurstan,” the prior said sternly. “Leave this place and assemble in the choir. We will pray there for his soul.”
I thought to myself that if the good abbot had not faith and deeds enough to recommend his soul to the Lord Christ, no prayers from monks would do so. Such thoughts are surely heretical. I keep them to myself. I have a wife and child – soon two – to care for, which I could not do if hanging from a gibbet.
Brother Guibert’s infirmary is in a separate structure, away from cloister and dormitory, so it was some time before he returned with the crushed hemp seeds and, I was pleased to see, a cup of wine. I pushed open the abbot’s chamber door, and heard him abruptly stop speaking to Brother Theodore. The abbot labored to turn in his bed and see who had interrupted his dictation, saw it was me, and bade me enter. Brother Guibert followed, while Arthur, a silent observer to all of this, remained in the corridor.
“Brother Guibert has a potion for you,” I said. “’Twill ease your pain.”
“If it will also dull my wit I do not want it,” the abbot said in a surprisingly strong voice. “I do not wish to end my days in a daze,” he said, then chuckled through his pain.
“’Tis the crushed seed of hemp,” Brother Guibert said. “Only a thimbleful. Not enough to afflict your mind.”
I was silent in the face of Abbot Thurstan’s jest. Could I be so light-hearted as he if I knew that I would stand before the Lord Christ before St. Catherine’s Day? He had spent his life in prayer and worship, preparing for this time. For what, I thought, am I preparing? What can be more important to a man’s life than preparing well for its end? What, then? Should all men be monks and all women nuns? That would be a sure way to end all men’s lives, for there would be no children to follow after.
“Here,” the infirmarer said, and placed an arm under the abbot’s head. “Drink it down.”
Brother Guibert’s words interrupted my thoughts, which was good, as they were not productive in the matter Abbot Thurstan had assigned me to find a murderer. But then, perhaps that is how we must live to prepare well for death. We do what the Lord Christ has assigned us to do, as well as we may.
Brother Guibert and I left Abbot Thurstan with Brother Theodore. The infirmarer turned to join his brothers in the church, while Arthur and I returned to the guest house. A cold mist wetted us as we passed from the abbot’s lodging in the west range to the guest house. I hoped that we would find a loaf and ale awaiting us. We did not, but when the lay brother assigned to us realized that we had returned he soon appeared and we broke our fast.
While we consumed maslin loaves I told Arthur of the abbot’s accusation against Prior Philip.
“Don’t surprise me none,” Arthur said. “That prior’s not a man to be content with second place.”
While I finished my loaf I thought of what Maude atte Pond had said of John Whytyng’s last words. “I will never do so,” he had said. What was it he would not do? Who had authority enough that they could make a demand of the novice? Did his reluctance cause his death?
What might a man of the town want John to do, or what might a monk or lay brother wish of the novice? Whatever it was, he would not do it, and for this unwillingness he was apparently slain.
Maude was near the age when the banns might soon be read for her and some swain. Sir Thomas Cyne was certainly taken with the lass, and likely several others. She would not bring much land to a knight like Sir Thomas, but a pretty face may supplant half a yardland or so, and some land was better than none at all.
It would not do to ask the reeve what men had shown interest in his daughter. I must discover possible suitors in some other way. I thought that Brother Gerleys might be of some help. Not that he would know of village gossip, but he might direct me to one who would.
Arthur followed me to the novices’ chamber. We found the place empty, which was not surprising. The chapter, meeting after lauds, would be long this morning, the brothers having many questions about the future leadership of the house.
We waited nearly an hour before voices in the corridor indicated the arrival of Brother Gerleys and his charges. “Little enough punishment for such a sin,” the novice-master said to Henry as he entered the chamber. He saw me awaiting him and was silent.
“I wish to speak to you privily,” I said.
Brother Gerleys turned to his novices and instructed them to seek the kitchener and ask what service they could be to him this morn.
The lads obeyed and soon their footsteps could no longer be heard. The monk closed the door to his chamber, pointed to the table and benches in the center of the room, and said, “Be seated. What is it you wish of me?”
“Did Abbot Thurstan’s clerk read out a message from the abbot at chapter this morning?”
“Aye, he did.”
“Did the message cause controversy in chapter?”
“Some. Prior Philip and his cohort would see you away from the abbey.”
“The prior has opposition in this matter?”
“Aye. There are those who believe John Whytyng’s death requires a more thorough explanation than Prior Philip would deliver.”
“Are you among these?”
“Aye.”
“Abbot Thurstan said privily to me that there are among the brothers many who wish to see you elevated to the abbacy above Prior Philip.”
“’Tis not a post I seek.”
“And the prior does? Likely your reluctance explains the regard your brother monks have for you. But that is abbey business, and none of mine. If I wanted to know the gossip of the town, to whom would I go?”
“Ah… that would be Adam Skillyng, keeper of the ale house.”
“His ale loosens men’s tongues?”
“Just so. The man serves good ale, so his patrons drink too much of it.”
“Unlike the abbey’s ale.” I could not resist the comparison.
“Aye,” he laughed. “Holy Scripture says we all must take up our cross and follow the Lord Christ, and Brother Gervase, who brews the abbey ale, sees to it that we swallow splinters when we consume his ale.”
The ale house, for inn or tavern it could not be rightly called, was a little more than one hundred paces from the abbey gatehouse. The establishment was but a house with an enlarged bay, where villagers whose wives could not or would not brew the household ale might meet and drink. The place was empty when Arthur and I entered, and dark. On such a day little light penetrated the old, yellowed skins which covered the windows.
The proprietor heard the hinges of his door squeal when we entered the place and immediately appeared. I asked for two cups of ale, and placed two farthings upon a well-worn table. This payment was evidently sufficient, for the toothless fellow swept the coins into a palm, left the room, and reappeared with two large leather tankards.
Brother Gerleys spoke true. Adam Skillyng’s ale was better than most, and not watered. Whether this was due to Skillyng’s honesty or the village taster’s vigilance, who could say? Arthur smacked his lips in appreciation after his first swallow, and the man beamed in appreciation of the compliment.
“Travelers?” he asked.
“Nay,” I replied, and placed two more farthings upon the table. “Abbot Thurstan has commissioned me to find a felon. Have you heard of the murder of an abbey novice?”
“Aye,” the man said, and crossed himself.
“We are lodged in the abbey guest house… but the abbey ale is so noisome that when we learned of this place we came seeking better.”
“Ah. In times past many monks did also, but the prior forbids it now.”
The farthings remained upon the table, and I saw Skillyng glance
at them. “More ale?” he finally said.
“Nay. Your ale is pleasant, but I seek information of you.” As I said this I pushed the coins toward the fellow. “The reeve’s lass, Maude, is a comely maiden. Has she many suitors?”
“Hah,” Skillyng grinned. “Has Oxford many scholars?”
“That many?” I said.
“Well, nay. But more than a few.”
“She will bring little land to a husband… only a reeve’s daughter.”
“Simon has no sons. Got Maude an’ her sister, what’s younger. An’ since the pestilence come second time he’s taken up more of the abbey’s lands. Has servants, does Simon.”
“How much of the abbey’s manor is in his tenancy?”
“Five an’ a half yardlands. Has subtenants for three yardlands.”
“Whoso weds Maude will gain more than a comely wife, then.”
“Aye, an’ there be plenty of lads eager to win ’er.”
“Who?” I pushed the coins closer to the man and he scooped them into stubby fingers.
“Sir Thomas, for one.”
“Sir Richard’s son? Him who is in service to a knight of Swindon?”
“Aye. But he’s returned for a time. To press ’is suit, folk do say. Ralph’s not pleased, I’d wager.”
“Ralph?”
“Aye. Ralph Bigge. Father sent ’im to serve Sir Richard when ’e was but a page. Lived here in Eynsham, in service to Sir Richard as page an’ squire, for near fifteen years.”
“And he has an eye for Maude also?”
“So ’tis said. ’Course, her father’d favor Sir Thomas.”
“Why so?”
“Ralph has no lands, an now we’re at peace with France, no prospect of takin’ prisoners for ransom, an’ little chance to win honor in battle so to be knighted. Sir Thomas has no lands, but he’s a knight.”
“Sir Richard has two sons?”
“Aye. Sir Geoffrey’s older. ’Bout a year. Sir Richard’s wife died soon after Sir Thomas was born. Truth to tell, Sir Geoffrey’s got a wanderin’ eye, folk say. Wouldn’t surprise me none did he chase after Maude on the sly, like.”
“Sir Geoffrey is wed?”
