The Abbot's Agreement: 7 (The Chronicles of Hugh De Singleton, Surgeon)

by Mel Starr

  Arthur’s bland expression became a frown, and he glared at the men who barred his path. The archdeacon had not chosen his servants for their pious or scholarly attributes. They were each as brawny as Arthur. I have known Arthur for many years. I understand his thoughts. He was surely considering what chance he and I together might have of overpowering the four men and making an escape, for he understood as well as I that a peremptory summons to appear before an archdeacon could portend much inconvenience.

  I caught Arthur’s eye and shook my head. I saw him bite his tongue but he made no move to interfere with the archdeacon’s minions. This was for the best. We surely would have been overpowered, and matters might then have not concluded so well as they did.

  The four servants surrounded me, as if fearing that I might bolt for the abbey gatehouse – a thought which did cross my mind. We left a perplexed Arthur standing near the abbey kitchen, and a few moments later I entered the abbot’s chamber. My four companions stopped at the chamber door.

  Abbot Thurstan lay upon his bed, yet alive. But not for long. There was little movement of the blankets as his chest rose and fell in the shallow breaths of a man nearing death.

  Three other men occupied the chamber. The archdeacon stood in the center of the room with his arms folded across his chest. I noticed that his formerly mud-spattered cassock was clean. Odd, the things one perceives when the mind should be concentrated upon other matters.

  Brother Guibert stood at the foot of Abbot Thurstan’s bed. I supposed that he was present because of the abbot’s precarious grip on life. There was also a black-robed priest in the chamber. He had been sitting upon a bench when I entered but stood and stepped close to the archdeacon when I passed through the doorway.

  From the time the archdeacon’s servants accosted me, until I stood before the prelate, I assumed the summons had to do with the abbot’s warning that Prior Philip wished me gone from the abbey. I had spent the moments before entering the abbot’s chamber considering how I would defend my investigation. I wanted to discover a murderer, to see justice done, and to possess my own Bible.

  When in the past I had questioned folk about felonies, I had found it productive to stand while the person I interrogated was seated. The archdeacon was familiar with this ploy. He pointed to a bench drawn to the center of the chamber and said, “Sit.” Had I known what was to come I might have ignored the command.

  As I sat I looked to Abbot Thurstan. His brow was furrowed, and when he saw me glance in his direction he shook his head upon the pillow. No other in the chamber saw this, as infirmarer, priest, and archdeacon were intent upon me. I could not interpret the abbot’s silent message, but its import became clear soon enough.

  I sat, but the archdeacon neither moved nor spoke. Here was another stratagem I had used to discomfit men I had questioned. The practice is remarkably effective. “You stand accused of heresy,” the archdeacon finally said. Actually, I was seated, but here was no time to point out the error. Heresy? Was this how Prior Philip intended to be rid of me? If a bishop’s court found me guilty the scheme would be effective, for I might hang.

  “What heresy?” I replied. “Who says so?”

  The archdeacon looked to Brother Guibert and said, “Tell again what you heard this fellow say to Abbot Thurstan.”

  Then I remembered that the infirmarer had entered the chamber as I was explaining to Abbot Thurstan why he need not fear purgatory.

  “I was bringing wine with soothing herbs to M’lord Abbot when I heard this fellow say there is no purgatory, for we are holy and righteous and need not be purged of our sins.”

  The archdeacon, his arms yet crossed, turned from Brother Guibert to me. His expression mingled haughtiness and anger, a combination which is often to be found upon the face of an archdeacon. Or on the face of a bailiff, for that matter.

  “What have you to say of this charge?” the archdeacon demanded, in a tone which assured all present that no defense was conceivable. As he spoke I saw from the corner of my eye a fifth man enter the room. ’Twas Prior Philip. A trace of a smile curled his lips but did little to improve his appearance.

  I decided to stand. I thought for a moment that the archdeacon might push me back upon the bench. Indeed, he took a step toward me, but if that was his intent he thought better of it. He could easily have done so. Heresy is serious enough; to forcibly resist the Bishop of Lincoln’s representative would considerably deepen the pit I was in.

  Standing, I was the tallest man in the chamber and could look down my nose at the archdeacon. “M’lord Abbot is near death,” I said. “This he knows. I recited verses from the Bible that some time past I committed to memory, which I thought might console him as the time approaches for him to meet the Lord Christ.”

  “The devil knows and can quote Scripture,” the archdeacon said. “So we are told in Holy Writ. What are these verses you spoke to comfort Abbot Thurstan?”

  I quoted from the apostle’s letter to the Colossians: “‘Now He has reconciled in the body of His flesh through death, to present you holy, and blameless, and irreproachable in His sight – if indeed you continue in the faith.’ These words of St. Paul I thought would ease the abbot’s mind. If our Lord Christ presents a man holy and blameless he will have little to fear of purgatory.”

  “Bah… you presume to lecture me about Holy Writ? ’Tis for Holy Mother Church to say what is true of purgatory, not some bailiff who pretends to be a scholar.”

  “I offered no interpretation of the scripture,” I replied. “I but spoke what the apostle wrote. Abbot Thurstan may decide its import for himself.”

  The archdeacon looked to Brother Guibert. “Is this so?” he asked.

  “He said to Brother Abbot that he should believe the apostle when he writes that Christian men are cleansed from all unrighteousness. ‘Why must you be purged of sin in purgatory,’ he said, ‘when the Lord Christ has taken away all unrighteousness?’”

  “Anything else?” the archdeacon said.

  “Aye. I remember it well,” Brother Guibert said. “’Twas so repugnant to Holy Mother Church. ‘If the Lord Christ has made you holy and blameless,’ he said, ‘why would He condemn you to purgatory?’”

  Prior Philip and the archdeacon exchanged triumphant glances. “’Tis enough,” the archdeacon said. “I will take this heretical fellow with me on the morrow when I return to Lincoln. Put him in the abbey cell for the night.”

  Perhaps I should have fled. I could have easily outrun the others in the chamber. But where would I have gone? If I sought refuge in Bampton the archdeacon’s servants would be at Galen House’s door within a day.

  Prior Philip and Brother Guibert each took an elbow and I was led from the abbot’s chamber. I did not know where the abbey cell was to be found, but learned soon enough. My gaolers led me to the infirmary, where Brother Guibert opened a door and thrust me through it.

  This door had, I think, seen little use, for its hinges squealed loudly as it was slammed shut behind me. I heard a bar fall into place a moment later.

  I found myself in a small closet which, I believe, was originally intended as a chamber for the storage of the infirmarer’s supplies, but now served to incarcerate monks who had violated one or another of the ordinances. The walls of this cell were of stone, there was no window, and shelves, unused, were fastened to one wall. The only light came through a small opening in the door, about the size of my palm. If I lay down flat, which I did not wish to do as the straw upon the floor was moldy, I could touch one end of the cell with my toes while my head rubbed against the other.

  I have been imprisoned before. My employer, Lord Gilbert Talbot, had learned of it and promptly demanded my release. But he was now far away, at Goodrich Castle. Could Arthur tell him of my plight before the bishop’s court at Lincoln could act? And would Lord Gilbert confront the bishop on my behalf? ’Tis one thing to obstruct a corrupt justice of the peace. ’Tis another to oppose a bishop.

  I resigned myself to this tempora
ry abode and cast my thoughts forward to the morrow. Surely I would not be required to walk to Lincoln? Perhaps my palfrey could gallop fast enough that I could escape the archdeacon and his servants. But not likely.

  My stomach had been empty and growling for several hours. I hoped that a loaf and a cup of ale might soon appear through the small opening in the door. Also not likely.

  The faint illumination of my prison soon faded. The infirmary had but one window, so even on a bright day little light would enter this cell. I heard the infirmarer going about his business, having returned from vespers, and called out that I was hungry and thirsty. He made no reply, which I thought inhospitable of him.

  Shortly after, the infirmary became silent. I was cold, hungry, and abandoned. Was I really a heretic? If so, perhaps I deserved this chastisement. But what, then, of the apostle’s words? Could something which seemed so plain be so liable to error that I could misconstrue its meaning?

  These thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the infirmary door opening and closing. A moment later the light of a cresset flickered outside my cell and the small opening in the door darkened as a shadow passed before it.

  “Here,” Brother Guibert said. “Take this.”

  A loaf appeared in the opening, and after I took it a small cup of ale also materialized. The infirmarer was not devoid of pity.

  I could not stand all the night, so after consuming my supper I sat in the filthy straw and tried to sleep. Is there a more helpless feeling than to be locked in a cell? I have been twice in such a place. Sleep eluded me. I thought rather of escape but no plan came to me. I hoped that Arthur knew of my plight and would have the wit to act where I could not. I could not know of what work was at that moment being done for my release, but soon learned of it.

  After I was taken from the abbot’s chamber Abbot Thurstan had called for his clerk. He sent Brother Theodore to fetch Brother Gerleys, and when the novice-master appeared, the abbot told him of what had happened. Both men knew where I had been taken, and what might befall me in Lincoln. This they resolved must not happen, and devised a plan to set me free.

  Arthur, meanwhile, had gone to the guest house, where the lay brother who attended us brought him a bowl of pottage. There he waited for me, assuming that when my interview with the archdeacon was finished I would appear. He became increasingly fretful as dusk approached, the bell rang to call the monks to vespers, yet I did not return.

  Well after compline, when the abbey was dark and quiet and Arthur sat upon his pallet, vexed in spirit, he heard the door to our guest house chamber open. He thought ’twas me, but it was Brother Gerleys whose face he saw in the glow of the cresset the novice-master carried.

  I was drowsing when the sound of the bar being lifted startled me to wakefulness. Many thoughts flung themselves through my mind in that instant. Indeed, for a moment I could not recall where I was or why I was there. But the squealing hinges as the closet door was opened brought me to my senses. I thought it must be that the archdeacon intended an early start for Lincoln and had sent his servants to fetch me. I had no idea of how long I might have slept or what hour of the night it might be.

  The infirmary was dark and the cell was darker. “Master Hugh?” the monk whispered, knowing that I was within but invisible to him. Brother Gerleys had extinguished his cresset so as to avoid being seen in the night.

  “I am here,” I said.

  “’Tis Brother Gerleys and Arthur, come to free you of this place and take you to a better. Come.”

  I left the cell and heard Arthur close the door and bar it behind me. There would be consternation in the morning when the cell was found secure but empty, I thought.

  “Follow me,” Brother Gerleys said softly.

  This was not an easy thing to do. I was not familiar with this part of the abbey, and there was little light to see by, a sliver of moon just then beginning to rise above the village to the east.

  I stumbled along in the dark, Brother Gerleys before me, Arthur behind, and he also unsure of his path. We soon came to the cloister, where I was more sure of myself, and then the novices’ chamber, which I knew well.

  Like most Benedictine houses, the novices’ chamber at Eynsham Abbey is heated. A few embers upon the hearth helped to illuminate the chamber, and in the gloom I saw Brother Gerleys put a finger to his lips, urging silence as we crept quietly through the doorway.

  I heard Osbert and Henry breathing deeply in sleep. Brother Gerleys led the way past their cots to a far corner of the chamber. I saw him bend to the floor and stand with an object in his hands which I could not identify. It was, I soon discovered, a ladder. He propped this against the stones of the chamber wall and silently ascended to the ceiling. I saw his shadowy form approach the ceiling – no vaulting here – and watched as he pushed against the planks which roofed the novices’ chamber. A section of the ceiling yielded to Brother Gerleys, and in a moment I saw a dark cavity appear, black against the grey of the chamber ceiling.

  Brother Gerleys descended the ladder and whispered, “There has been little time to prepare the space for you, but above our heads is a place where you may be hid ’till the archdeacon is away.”

  “You are placing yourself at risk,” I replied.

  “At Abbot Thurstan’s request.”

  “When the archdeacon finds the infirmarer’s cell empty will he not search for me in such places?”

  “The ladder will be hid before morn, and the opening is concealed when the boards are replaced, which you must do when you ascend the ladder. The upper loft is quite dark, but you will find a pallet where you may sleep. A dormer with a skin window allows light in the day.”

  “When I am discovered missing come dawn, and the archdeacon and Prior Philip do not find me at the abbey, they will send men to Bampton, assuming I have fled to the safety of Bampton Castle. They will question my wife sharply, and she will worry. Arthur, you must travel to Bampton at first light and tell Kate what has happened. She and Bessie and Agnes must flee to the castle. When I am not discovered at Galen House the archdeacon might seize Kate and demand my appearance in return for her release. He is not likely to try to pluck her from the castle and so raise Lord Gilbert’s ire, I think.”

  This conversation was conducted in low whispers, yet was perhaps loud enough to disturb either Osbert or Henry, for we heard one of the novices turn upon his cot and draw his blanket up about him.

  We three stood frozen and silent for some time, then Arthur whispered in my ear, “Shall I return to the abbey, or remain with mistress Kate?”

  “Stay in Bampton until the archdeacon’s men have come and gone. ’Tis sure they will seek me there. They may not be far behind you when you travel tomorrow. When they leave Bampton return to the abbey. You must be my eyes and ears while I am shut up here, if we are to find a felon.

  “Return now to the guest house. Leave the abbey at first light, before the archdeacon discovers me missing, else he may detain you, thinking you can lead him to me.”

  Arthur padded silently across the flags and disappeared through the door of the novices’ chamber.

  “Up you go,” Brother Gerleys whispered, and grasped the ladder to steady it for my ascent. I obeyed, crawled through the black hole into my lair, and felt about in the dark for the boards which had been fastened together, forming a trapdoor, to conceal the opening. When I found them I was careful to replace the panel silently, then in utter darkness found the pallet Brother Gerleys had provided and sought rest. ’Twas a great improvement over the stinking straw of the infirmarer’s cell. But I was a prisoner yet.

  The skin of the dormer window glowed faintly when I awoke, and provided enough light that I could inspect my surroundings. The attic was mostly bare. I saw an unlit cresset, and a chamber pot which Brother Gerleys had thoughtfully provided and then forgotten to mention. And there was the pallet.

  I lay awake, watching the small enclosure grow brighter, and soon heard voices below me. The novices had awakened. Although monks do
not break their fast, novices in Benedictine houses are permitted a loaf, and as I lay listening, trying to hear the youthful conversation, I heard their chamber door open.

  I thought it likely that a lay brother assigned to the kitchen had brought loaves, but not so. The sound of latch and squeaking hinges was followed by excited voices, one of which I readily identified. ’Twas Prior Philip.

  The prior was so overwrought that I could at first make nothing of his outburst. But I knew what it must portend.

  “Gone!” the prior seethed. “Cell door closed, door barred. Only a devil could escape. A heretic in league with the devil.

  “All know you were his friend,” Prior Philip continued, speaking, I assumed, to Brother Gerleys, who must have accompanied him to the novices’ chamber. “Has he come to you to flee the bishop’s justice?”

  “Master Hugh? Here? Look about you. Where could he be? There is a small chest against yon wall, but surely too small to hide a man. Where else in the chamber might he be? You and the archdeacon’s men may search where you will.”

  “You’ve not seen the fellow this night, then?”

  “Nay. If he escaped the infirmarer’s cell you’ll not find him here.”

  I heard Prior Philip snort in disgust. “If you see him, or learn of where he might be, tell me straightaway.”

  The chamber door slammed shut, then but a few heartbeats later opened again. Another conversation, more muted, followed. The novices’ loaves had arrived. Silence followed while the novices ate, then I heard Brother Gerleys assign tasks for the day. Henry was to attend the monks in the scriptorium, making ink, lining parchments, and perhaps trying his hand at copying some insignificant manuscript. Osbert was to seek the kitchener, a pleasant duty on such a chill day, to stir a pot over a fire or do some other menial chore to help prepare the monks’ dinner.

  Shortly after the novices set off for their work I heard the ladder scrape against the stone wall below my feet. Where, I wondered, had the novice-master hidden the thing, that it was not visible to Prior Philip, yet so ready to hand when needed?