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

by Mel Starr

  I watched the trap door and saw it rise. I assisted Brother Gerleys in lifting it and shoved it aside. His face appeared in the opening.

  “Come down,” he said. “I’ve saved back a part of a loaf for you.”

  The ladder did not reach to the ceiling. It was barely as long as I am tall, so descending from the attic meant hanging from the planks upon one’s elbows and feeling about with a toe for the top rung of the ladder.

  When my feet were safely upon the flags I watched as Brother Gerleys took the ladder and fitted it under the table, where it slid into hidden supports. The novice-master saw my surprise and explained.

  “Don’t know who built this. Brother Matthias, who was novice-master before me, said his predecessor told him the ladder was there before he came to the office. Probably made during some time of unrest, when ’twas thought good to have a hiding place. If a tall man reaches from the attic he can grasp the top rung of the ladder and pull it up after him.”

  There was a matter troubling me, and I spoke of it to Brother Gerleys. “You have imperiled your soul for me,” I said.

  Brother Gerleys looked at me quizzically. “How so?” he said.

  “You lied to Prior Philip, your superior, when he asked of me.”

  “Not so,” he chuckled. “When Brother Prior asked if you had come to me I said only that he should look about and see if there was anyplace in the chamber where you might be hid. I did not say that you were not here.”

  “You intended to deceive him.”

  “Aye, and did so.”

  “He asked if you had seen me last night,” I said.

  “So he did. Well… ’twas dark last night and a man could see little. I saw the shape of a man. Could have been you, I suppose. And when I told him that he’d not find you here, that was no lie either, for he will not, if we are careful.

  “And even if I did lie to save you from the archdeacon, there is precedent for it in Holy Bible.”

  My expression upon hearing this must have been of skepticism, because Brother Gerleys explained himself.

  “Have you not read in Exodus of the Hebrew midwives? Surely you know the tale, you being a scholar.”

  I did, but before I could answer, the novice-master reminded me of it.

  “Pharaoh told the midwives to kill the male babes born to Hebrew slave women. Only the lasses were to live. The midwives disobeyed, and when the king learned of their disobedience he demanded of them why they had violated his command.

  “They replied that the Hebrew women gave birth so rapidly that their services were not needed. ’Twas a lie, of course, but told to deflect evil and injustice. The Lord God did not punish the midwives for telling this fable, but rather rewarded them, so Holy Writ does say.

  “Prior Philip and the archdeacon intend an injustice, and I have chosen to obstruct their designs. I know what you said to Abbot Thurstan.”

  “You do not think me a heretic for such thoughts?”

  “Don’t know. May be, may not be. I am uncertain of the matter. Surely if what you said to Abbot Thurstan is true, there will be much hardship for this house and others and the chapels where priests pray for men’s souls. Who will give us lands and shillings to pray for their souls if there is no purgatory from which they seek release? But should a man die for thinking such a thing? I cannot believe it should be so.”

  “I must be more careful in the future,” I said, “about quoting objectionable scriptures.”

  “Most men can find something offensive in Holy Writ,” Brother Gerleys said, “when the words conflict with their opinions. Will you cease now the search for John Whytyng’s murderer?”

  “I told Arthur to return as soon as he is sure that Kate and Bessie are secure in Bampton Castle, and the archdeacon’s men have gone. I need to find a way to tell Abbot Thurstan that I am safe and will continue to seek the felon. No one else must know. Other monks must believe that I have fled and that Arthur has inherited the duty to find a killer.”

  “Prior Philip will object. He did not want you, a bailiff, to prowl about the abbey. He will surely oppose a groom doing so.”

  “We must pray that Abbot Thurstan lives long enough that the felon can be discovered.”

  Brother Gerleys withdrew the ladder from its hiding place and told me to climb to the attic again while he sought Abbot Thurstan to tell him of my escape from the archdeacon. When he returned he had much news.

  The novice-master called out to me to move the trap door aside so that we might speak softly and yet hear each other. I did so, and looked down from my perch upon his tonsured head.

  “M’lord Abbot is near death, I think. His breathing is shallow and sounds like a joiner passing a rasp across a plank. I told him you were safe hid, but he would not have me tell him where you are. Said he feared he might divulge the place in a fit of delirium.

  “He is determined to stay alive until you have found John’s killer. He knows that Prior Philip will dismiss Arthur if he gains control of abbey affairs. The archdeacon departed for Lincoln soon after dawn, informing Abbot Thurstan that he would advise Bishop Bokyngham that the abbey is badly governed. M’lord Abbot will care little for that. The bishop cannot remove an abbot whom the Lord Christ has already called to His bosom.

  “Arthur also departed at dawn, and ’tis well he did so. Prior Philip has sent four lay brothers to Bampton, as you suspected he would, to seek you. Arthur is no more than an hour ahead of them.

  “The almoner, Brother Jocelyn, is a friend. When he collects unconsumed food in the refectory after dinner he will leave a portion in a corner of the cloister before he sends the leavings to the porter to give to the poor. I will gather what he leaves and bring it to you.”

  I did not wish to be the cause of a poor man going hungry, but if I was not to starve saw no better way for the provision of a meal. I thanked Brother Gerleys for his work, and asked a question.

  “Does Prior Philip own a fur-lined coat?”

  Brother Gerleys rubbed his neck, which was likely growing sore from peering up at me. “Aye. M’lord Abbot does, and Prior Philip’s not a man to cherish the cold so as to discipline his body and mind. Why do you ask?”

  “I’ll tell you anon, if it proves important.”

  “You traveled to Wantage. John Whytyng’s father lives near there, as does Prior Philip’s brother. Now you ask of the prior’s coat. Do you suspect Brother Prior in this death?”

  Brother Gerleys is no fool. “I suspect all men,” I replied.

  “Even me?”

  “Not much. But ’tis best to assume all men capable of murder, and then dismiss those who could not, or would not, do such a felony.”

  “How will you continue your search while hidden away in the attic?”

  “I must think on this. Perhaps, by the time Arthur returns, I will have devised some way to proceed.”

  Brother Gerleys promised to return with my dinner when he could. I slid the trap door into place and reclined upon the pallet to consider my plight, and how I would overcome it to discover John Whytyng’s killer. When Brother Gerleys appeared with my meal I had no plan, but as the skin of the dormer window darkened, a procedure took form in my mind. But it could not be accomplished from the attic above the novices’ chamber.

  Osbert and Henry returned while the dormer skin yet glowed with fading light. I was careful to move about cautiously so as not to elicit a creak from the planks of my refuge. I would have liked to light the cresset, but Brother Gerleys, while thoughtful enough to provide the lamp, had not supplied flint and steel with which to strike a flame. This was just as well. The sound of flint against steel might be heard by lads with keen ears, and when the novices’ chamber grew dark any crack between the attic planks might allow a gleam of light where none should be, which would give away my presence.

  If the novices knew I was hidden above them, would they give me up to Prior Philip? Who could know? They had surely learned of my heresy and escape. But if they discovered my presence and held their t
ongues they would be complicit, with Brother Gerleys, in the ruse, and would suffer with him the consequences of harboring a heretic if I was discovered. I did not want to think on what those consequences must be.

  Did I snore? What man knows if he does or not, unless his wife tells him? Kate has never complained of this, but perhaps she is being kind. A man might toss upon his pallet, cough and wheeze and snore, and know nothing of it, being asleep.

  Lads like Osbert and Henry sleep soundly, too youthful to lay awake troubled by conscience or calamity. But certainly if Arthur was snoring above them his thunderous snorts would jolt them awake. Did I do the same in my sleep? Could I remain in the attic and risk discovery and Brother Gerleys’ safety?

  While I considered these things I heard muted conversation below me. A lay brother had brought bowls of simple pottage for the novices and I had been so deep in thought that I had not heard him open the chamber door. There were indistinct comments about the day’s labor and the quality of the ale, which, as I have written, was dreadful. I heard Brother Gerleys at the wood box, and a moment later heard him tending the chamber fire. Then all became silent as novice-master and pupils departed for compline. When they returned I must somehow attract Brother Gerleys’ attention without the novices knowing of it.

  I thought briefly of opening the trap door, dropping to the floor, withdrawing the ladder from its slot under the table, replacing the trap door, and then departing for some other hiding place. For three reasons I gave up the idea.

  If Brother Gerleys sought me in the attic and did not find me he would likely believe that I had been discovered and taken. He would be affrighted of his safety, for harboring a heretic.

  I could do little to discover John Whytyng’s murderer alone, while a fugitive. I needed the aid of others, and more even than Arthur I now needed Brother Gerleys.

  And if I left the attic, where would I go? I did not know the abbey well, the hidden places found in all such ancient structures. If I could not stay above the sleeping novices there might be other safe locations where I might be hidden. Brother Gerleys would know of these; I would not. I lay upon the pallet and awaited his return.

  Monks do not linger in church or cloister after compline, especially on cold November evenings, but seek the dormitory and warm beds. So Brother Gerleys and the novices came straightaway from the church when the office was done. I heard Osbert and Henry bid each other “Good night,” and heard Brother Gerleys do the same as he departed for his own sleeping chamber.

  An hour or more passed as I considered how I might attract the novice-master’s attention without alerting the lads to my presence. I did not need to. I heard the ladder slide from its place under the table and understood that Brother Gerleys’ face would soon be at the trap door. Even if in the darkness I could not see it.

  A light tap upon the planks told me that Brother Gerleys had ascended the ladder. As quietly as I could I lifted the door and moved it aside. The wood the novice-master had placed upon the hearth before compline had burned down to embers. Only coals glowed there, providing just enough light to see the monk’s pale face peering up at me.

  “Come down,” he whispered. “Replace the boards as you do.”

  My toes found the top rung of the ladder and I cautiously felt my way down the frail apparatus. When I stood upon the flags Brother Gerleys carefully and silently slid the ladder under the table, then stood silently before me and with an index finger beckoned me to follow. He led me to the chamber door, opened it carefully, motioned me to pass through, then followed. He drew the door closed slowly and when it was shut took my elbow and guided me toward the cloister.

  An abbey cloister is a place of silence and meditation, but this night it became a place of whispered conversation and conspiracy.

  “Will not the explorators discover us here?” I asked when we were seated in a dark shadow.

  “Nay. Your cotehardie is grey and I am all in black. And the cloister is the first place they visit on their rounds. They will have passed through here long since, and will not return ’till after vigils.”

  “I cannot remain above the novices’ chamber,” I said.

  “I agree. ’Twas the only place which came to mind yesterday, and has served while I found a better. But ’tis too dangerous for Osbert and Henry. If they guess you are in the attic it will place too great a weight upon them… whether or not to keep our secret and put at risk their future at Eynsham Abbey.”

  “You have found a better place for me?”

  “Aye. Well, Abbot Thurstan has. I am to take you there. He has changed his mind, and now wishes to know you safe.”

  “Where is this refuge?”

  “M’lord Abbot has a prayer closet off his chamber, where he seeks solitude for prayer and meditation and permits no other to enter. You are to be hid there.”

  “Will not Prior Philip and the infirmarer be with Abbot Thurstan?”

  “Brother Guibert will visit the abbot, but not Prior Philip.”

  “Not the prior? Why not?”

  “Abbot Thurstan intends to send him away on abbey business.”

  “What business? Did he say?”

  “Nay. Said he would tell us this night, when he had thought it through. Remain here, in the shadows, while I go to the abbot’s chamber and see if he is alone. You cannot go there if Brother Theodore or Brother Guibert sits with him.”

  I was chilled to the bone and thought longingly of the warm novices’ chamber. But I did not sit alone in the cloister for long. “Come,” Brother Gerleys whispered from the shadows. “M’lord Abbot has sent all others away, but Brother Guibert will visit him before vigils.”

  We walked silently, carefully, to the abbot’s chamber. A cresset was kept lighted upon a stand so that those who came to the chamber in the night could see to be about the matter of providing succor to the dying abbot.

  Abbot Thurstan lifted his head from his pillow when our shadows passed between him and the cresset. “Ah, you are come. I did not hear the door open. Must have dozed off. Draw that bench close and sit. We have much to discuss.

  “Brother Theodore,” he continued, “would sit with me through the night, but I sent him to his bed with a demand that he sleep. He is of no service to me as exhausted as he has become. And he must not guess that you are here.”

  This speech so taxed the abbot that his head fell back upon his pillow. His eyes closed, and I feared that he might have swooned, but after a moment he spoke again. I was required to lean close to the frail old man, so weak was his voice.

  “On the morrow I will send a letter to Bishop Bokyngham. Brother Theodore will write it for me, and I will swear him to silence about its subject. I intend to tell M’lord Bishop that it is my wish that Brother Gerleys follow me as abbot of this house, if the monks here do willingly choose, as I believe they will.

  “I intend to send Prior Philip to Lincoln with the letter, explaining to M’lord Bishop that I did not send it with the archdeacon because I did not yet know my own mind when the archdeacon departed Eynsham.”

  “Prior Philip will not be pleased to be sent away,” I said. “He would rather remain here and seek me, I think.”

  “Brother Prior will be pleased to travel to Lincoln. I will tell him that my letter concerns him and the future of the abbey. This will be no lie. He desires to be abbot. Prior Philip will believe that the letter nominates him for the office. But I will tell Bishop Bokyngham that he is unsuited for the post, and I will tell him why… that he sent me sprawling down the stairs, thinking to advance to my place in such a manner.”

  Neither Abbot Thurstan, nor I, nor Brother Gerleys knew yet all of the reasons why the prior was unfitted to be raised to the abbacy.

  Brother Gerleys did not speak while the abbot and I conversed. But when we fell silent, he spoke. “’Tis an honor I do not seek,” he said.

  “And ’tis why, therefore, you are more suited for preferment than Prior Philip. Now, I am weary, and ’tis nearing time for vigils, I think.�
�� To Brother Gerleys the abbot said, “Show Master Hugh to my prayer closet. Did you put a pallet and blanket there for him?”

  “Aye,” the novice-master replied.

  I stood and moved the bench away from the bed, so no man would suspect that a visitor had recently sat close to the abbot, then followed Brother Gerleys to a dim corner of the chamber where I saw the dark outline of a door against the grey stone wall.

  A glass window in the east wall of the closet allowed some starlight into the space. Enough that I could see the small altar where Abbot Thurstan had knelt in his prayers, and the pallet which would be my bed for the next week. Prior Philip might reach Lincoln in three days of hard travel, but the prior did not seem to me a man who would press on through hardship and roads gone to mud. Four days, then, to Lincoln, four days to return, and a day with the bishop. I would have one more week to find a felon, perhaps a day or two more. If Bishop Bokyngham told the prior what Abbot Thurstan’s letter said, Prior Philip might hasten his return so to vent his anger upon the abbot. If Abbot Thurstan yet lived. One week was all I could be sure of.

  About a week I had, then, to discover who had slain John Whytyng. Prior Philip had cause, due to his resentment of the novice’s mother choosing another husband, and had opportunity. Perhaps he had seen the lad slip from the abbey grounds one night after vigils as he walked the abbey in his capacity as explorator. And he owned a fur coat, from which a tuft might be missing.

  Sir Thomas was smitten with Maude atte Pond, and had displayed a violent dislike of competition for the maid’s hand. But he was left-handed, and John Whytyng’s wounds seemed more likely delivered by a right-handed man.

  Simon atte Pond wished his daughter to wed a knight, thereby improving her station. Would he slay John Whytyng to prevent the unraveling of his plans? Whatever those plans might be. Maude said that the voice that she heard the night John Whytyng was slain was not her father’s. Would she say so to save him from the gallows?