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

by Mel Starr

  “Bishop Bokyngham has never visited the abbey, and archdeacons can be bribed.”

  This was no doubt true, but if the monks of St. Mary’s Abbey of Eynsham elected Brother Gerleys their new abbot, Prior Philip’s scheme would fail. A prior may have enough influence that he will not hang for his heresy, but for doing murder even Holy Church will demand some penalty.

  “Your brothers are preparing for Abbot Thurstan’s funeral,” I said. “Go to the precentor and explain your absence at lauds, then seek Brother Gerleys and beg his pardon for your heresy. When he is made abbot he will assign your penance. Now go.”

  Brother Herbert did not hesitate, although he did seem unsteady as he walked to the guest house door and passed from view.

  “That prior may ’ave done for the novice on ’is own,” Arthur said, “but someone helped haul the corpse to the wood. Think it was the infirmarer, then?”

  “Him, or a lay brother.”

  Before the sacrist rang the bell for terce I questioned Brother Guibert. I examined the infirmarer sharply, but although I left him also with the hint of rope about his neck, and gained an admission of knowledge of the Brotherhood of the Free Spirit, he was adamant that he had never left the dormitory in the night to assist Prior Philip. I had no way to prove otherwise.

  Lay brothers of the abbey reside in their own dormitory. When Eynsham Abbey was larger this must have been a crowded space. Even now a lay brother who stretched upon awakening might give his neighbor a knock. It seemed likely that if Prior Philip roused any of his three followers among the lay brothers some others would know of it.

  Prime was well past when I sought the lay brothers’ dormitory, so most were about their day’s work. But as I entered the room an ancient lay brother tottered to his feet and began a wavering path toward a door at the far end of the narrow chamber.

  He must have been afflicted with the disease of the ears, for although I scuffed my feet against the rushes and coughed loudly, yet the old man continued his halting pace, paying no heed to the noisy fellow behind him.

  I tapped the feeble lay brother upon a shoulder to gain his attention and nearly caused him to collapse upon an adjacent bed. Had I not caught and steadied him I think he might have done so, or pitched headlong upon the rushes.

  Cots lined the narrow dormitory, and I guided the lay brother to one of these and invited him to sit upon it.

  “Eh?” he replied.

  I pointed to the bed, sat upon it, and patted the blanket next to me. He understood the gesture and collapsed beside me.

  “Three lay brothers,” I said loudly, “accompanied Prior Philip to Lincoln. Where are their cots? Can you show me?”

  “Cats?” he said. “No cats ’ere. Some in stables. Catch mice an’ rats there.”

  “Cots,” I repeated, louder.

  “Cots? Whose cots?”

  I repeated the question, and the fellow pointed a wizened finger toward the far corner of the chamber.

  “The three who travel with Prior Philip, their beds adjoin each other?”

  “Aye.”

  “Where do you sleep?”

  I knew that unless I wished to ask each question twice, I must speak forcefully. The old man heard, but so did another who entered the dormitory as I spoke.

  The elderly lay brother pointed to the bed where I had first seen him upon entering the chamber and said, “Just there. Who are you, an’ why do you ask who sleeps where?”

  “Aye,” the newcomer said in a hostile tone. “Why do you trouble Aylmer?”

  “I am Hugh de Singleton, bailiff to Lord Gilbert Talbot at Bampton. Abbot Thurstan assigned me to discover who murdered the novice John Whytyng.”

  “Oh… ’eard about you. Too bad about the lad. But how can Aylmer help you?”

  “The novice was slain in the night, near to the east fishpond. Some man, from village or abbey, found him there and did murder.”

  This lay brother could hear my questions without my being required to shout in his ear. For this I was much pleased.

  “Aylmer,” I said, “sleeps there,” and I pointed to his bed. “Who sleeps in the far corner?”

  I pointed to the bed next to those Aylmer had indicated as the sleeping spaces of the lay brothers now accompanying Prior Philip on his way to Lincoln.

  “So happens,” the newcomer said, “I do. What is that to you?” The hostile tone had returned to the man’s voice.

  “The three who sleep near and across from your bed, did any man come to them, one or all three, in the night, a fortnight past?”

  “Don’t know. I’d be asleep myself, wouldn’t I?”

  “You never heard any of these three leave his bed in the night?”

  “Well… some do. To seek the privy. Need to meself, usually.”

  “And is a cresset kept burning here, as in the monks’ dormitory, so that a man can see his way?”

  “Aye.”

  “But none of the three who travel this day to Lincoln have risen in the night because some other man came to them and awakened them?”

  “If so, the fellow did not awaken me.”

  If the lay brother whose bed was closest to those who were of the Brotherhood of the Free Spirit did not hear any of the three rise in the night, it was unlikely that any other lay brother whose cot was more distant from the three would have done so. I was thwarted. My design had been to find the man who aided Prior Philip, monk or lay brother, in transporting John Whytyng’s corpse to a distant corner of the abbey grounds, and threaten him with the king’s justice until he told of the prior’s felony. I had failed.

  In a few days the incensed prior would return to Eynsham Abbey. He would soon after learn that a heretic bailiff was partly responsible for his troubles. Abbot Thurstan was dead. Who of the monks would believe a bailiff over their prior – and a bailiff accused of heresy by Brother Guibert – that the prior had cast Abbot Thurstan down the stairs? The abbot had written of this to Bishop Bokyngham, and Brother Theodore had read a copy of the letter to the monks, but I had no doubt that Prior Philip had wit enough to explain how Abbot Thurstan had been mistaken, and would likely blame me for the abbot’s error.

  And if I accused the prior of the heresy of the Brotherhood of the Free Spirit, who then would believe me? Would Henry Fuller summon enough courage to testify of Prior Philip’s demand, when the prior might control his destiny? Would the monks of Eynsham Abbey abide by Abbot Thurstan’s wishes and select Brother Gerleys as their next abbot? Prior Philip would disavow knowledge of the Brotherhood of the Free Spirit, which would be no sin, according to the heresy.

  Prior Philip had his own private chamber on the upper level of the west range, near to the abbot’s chamber, where rank permitted him to sleep undisturbed by the snores of other monks. I was so baffled that I decided to enter the chamber while the monks were assembled in the church for terce. Perhaps I might find some incriminating evidence there. I returned to the guest house, told Arthur of this desperate plan, and sat upon my bed to await the bell calling the monks to the office.

  We did not wait long, and when the tolling ceased we walked through the empty refectory to the stairs leading to the upper level of the west range.

  Monks have no need of locks, for they are to own no private possessions. Yet the door to the prior’s chamber was locked. Perhaps this was a clue. Was there something within his chamber that Prior Philip did not want other men to know of? Or was the lock there because, like many Benedictines, he had strayed far from the Rule and owned goods valuable enough to be worth stealing?

  I was ready to turn away from the prior’s door, secured as it was against entry, when Arthur placed a hand upon my arm, grinned, and drew his dagger. Arthur is a man of many skills. I learn of more of them each day. He inserted the point of his dagger into the lock, twisted it about until he heard a click, then turned the latch and pushed open the door.

  Prior Philip’s chamber was not so large or well furnished as the abbot’s chamber, but was equipped with a bed
with a thick mattress and a large chest. I wondered when I saw the chest what possessions a Benedictine would own which would require such a box.

  I opened the unlocked chest and investigated its contents. Two black habits of finest wool were there, three cowls, and three silver objects: a spoon, a platter, and a small salver. What use these might be to a monk I know not. Over all of these was laid a fur-lined coat.

  I had yet in my pouch the tuft of fur I had plucked from a thorn a fortnight past. I set this bit of pelt upon the fur lining of the prior’s coat and was dismayed. The fur I had found near to the place where John Whytyng’s corpse had lain was chestnut brown in color, perhaps from a fox. A rabbit’s grey fur had kept the prior warm. The fur patch from my pouch was surely not torn from this coat.

  Arthur saw me staring disconsolately at the open chest and peered into it from behind me. “Silver?” he said, assuming that my dismay was due to discovering that a Benedictine, and a prior at that, refused to live in harmony with the Rule.

  “Aye, silver, and a fur-lined coat.”

  “We have our man, then,” Arthur said.

  I did not reply, but pointed to the reddish-brown tuft I had laid upon the grey rabbit fur.

  “Oh. That the fur what you found?”

  “Aye.”

  “Didn’t come from that cloak, then, did it?”

  “Nay.”

  “Suppose the prior owns two fur coats? Cold business, to travel to Lincoln in November. He might be wearin’ one fur coat, if he owns two, an’ the one keepin’ ’im warm on his journey might be the one that scrap o’ fur come from.”

  Arthur’s suggestion was possible, and I grasped it eagerly. If it was not so, I had even less reason to accuse the prior of murder than I had an hour before. The mismatched fur did not mean that Prior Philip was innocent of John Whytyng’s death. It meant only that I was yet unable to prove his guilt, and with no thought of how to proceed against the man. I had better find something new against him, for in a few days he would return, threatening retribution against all who opposed him. I would likely be first upon his list.

  I replaced the tuft of incriminating fur – it might yet incriminate someone – in my pouch, closed the chest, and bid Arthur follow me from the chamber. It would be well if Arthur could relock the prior’s door, else when he returned he would suspect his chamber was entered while he was away. But try as he might, Arthur could not lock what he had unlocked. We soon heard the footsteps of monks leaving the church, so I told Arthur to abandon the effort and come with me.

  We walked quickly to the novices’ chamber, and were seated there, innocent of mien, when Osbert and Brother Gerleys entered. Brother Gerleys saw me glance at Osbert and read my thoughts.

  “Henry remains in the church,” he said, “to pray and meditate. The chapter will vote tomorrow to admit him.”

  “Will he be accepted?”

  “Aye. Some believe ’tis not meet to make such a decision before Abbot Thurstan’s funeral, but even these would accept him. Since the pestilence our numbers shrink. We cannot cast off one who is so minded to join us.”

  “What of Prior Philip?”

  “He is not here to object. And even should he become abbot he cannot undo what chapter has done.”

  “Will he be chosen abbot over you? Even after the brothers heard Abbot Thurstan’s charge against him?”

  “Maybe so. Some believe a prior must not be passed over, others that Abbot Thurstan must have been mistaken about what happened the night he fell… that the blow to his head addled his brain.”

  “Does Prior Philip own two fur-lined coats?”

  The novice-master frowned, puzzled by this change of subject.

  “Nay. But one, I believe.”

  “Did you see him depart for Lincoln?”

  “Aye. All of the brothers gathered to bid him ‘God-speed.’”

  “Did he wear his fur coat?”

  Brother Gerleys frowned as he thought back to the event. “Nay, he did not, as I remember. He wore a thick woolen cloak. Probably did not wish to return with his fine cloak spattered with mud.”

  Arthur’s suggestion was wrong. Prior Philip owned but one furred coat, and its lining did not match the fragment I had found fixed to a thorn. Perhaps this wayward scrap in my pouch was indeed from some incautious wild animal and not from some man’s garment. The color and texture seemed to be that of a fox. Perhaps Reynard had caught his tail upon the brambles while pouncing upon a coney. “What do the brothers say of my presence in the abbot’s chamber?” I asked.

  Brother Gerleys shrugged. “Nothing.”

  “None wish to see me back in Brother Guibert’s cell? Do not some wonder aloud how I came to escape the cell?”

  “If so, they do not speak of it. Gossip is forbidden. We who have lived many years in a cloister learn to master our curiosity… most of us.”

  “I wonder if Prior Philip has also learned to subdue his curiosity?” I said. “When he returns he will have many questions about events while he was absent.”

  “Aye, he will so. And likely will not be pleased by the answers. But why did you ask if Prior Philip owned two fur coats? You are here to seek who has slain John Whytyng. What have the prior’s cloaks to do with that?”

  “Nothing, it seems.”

  “But you once thought so?”

  “Aye. But this is not the first time I’ve been mistaken.”

  “You think Brother Prior had some knowledge of John’s death do you not? If the novice left the abbey in the night Prior Philip would be most likely to know of it, being explorator. But,” Brother Gerleys said after some hesitation, “why would he not confront John if he knew he had slipped from the abbey? Or try to defend the lad if he saw him attacked in the night? He asked me soon after Michaelmas if John was ready to take his vows.”

  “What did you reply?”

  “I told him that all three lads were ready, and but for his thwarting him, Henry would be tonsured already. Osbert will not be eighteen ’till after Easter, so he is too young.”

  “Did you know that John was prepared to leave the abbey?”

  “He was not happy here, but where would he go? His father wished him here.”

  “He spoke of Oxford, and studying law.”

  “He did? Not to me… perhaps to Osbert, or Henry.”

  The novice-master looked to Osbert. The novice replied with a shrug and said, “John never seemed eager to be about God’s work, but he did not speak of Oxford. Not to me, nor to Henry, I think, or Henry would have told me.”

  “How do you know this?” Brother Gerleys asked me. “Did you learn of it from his father?”

  “Nay. For now you must be content with understanding that it is so. John Whytyng did not wish to continue here.”

  “Could that be why he was slain? Would Prior Philip have done murder to prevent him leaving? Is that your thought?”

  “I know not what to think,” I replied. “But if I cannot solve a murder in five or six more days we both may see disagreeable days to come… But Henry will be a brother of this abbey, you said, and the prior cannot undo what chapter has done?”

  “Aye. Tomorrow the vote, and all brothers will be in the chapter house. When he has been accepted the sacrist will give him the tonsure, then all will go to the church, where the mass will be celebrated and Henry will take vows of poverty and chastity and obedience. Then for three days he will live alone, having last place in church, cloister, and chapter house. He will remain behind in the church after matins to meditate or to sing the psalmody, and he will be required to sleep with his hood up. Of course, in November, this is no great trial.

  “At the end of three days Henry will receive the Kiss of Peace at mass, and then his head will be uncovered, making of him a member of our community. ’Tis the abbot who is to do this, but we have none. Perhaps the precentor will perform the ritual. I will not. ’Twould seem presumptuous.”

  I missed my Kate. And Bessie. When I accepted Abbot Thurstan’s commission I
thought the exchange of a few days to seek a felon in return for a Bible to be an excellent trade. But as days passed I was less sure of the bargain. And if I did not discover who had slain John Whytyng the failure would gnaw at me for months to come. I would awaken in the night and bemoan my defeat.

  Unless in the next five or six days I discovered some new evidence pointing to a murderer, Prior Philip would return and set all for naught. Even if he was not chosen abbot he would yet be prior, and rule the abbey until a new abbot was chosen. And when Brother Gerleys, or some other which Bishop Bokyngham might have in mind, became abbot and was called away on abbey business, the prior would be left in charge. Who could know what mischief he might cause the abbey? Or the mischief he might cause me?

  For three days I retraced my steps, questioning those to whom I had spoken in the past, and was not well received for my trouble, but for Osbern Mallory, who was pleased that I pronounced his wound healing well. The others – Squire Ralph, Sir Thomas, Sir Geoffrey, whom I had not earlier questioned, and Simon atte Pond – could not add to my search. Or would not. Indeed, but for the yeoman of Cumnor these men were resolute in sending me from their presence as ignorant of John Whytyng’s death as ever. By this time village gossip had told the folks of Eynsham why I was prowling about the village and abbey, and it required little wit for a man to guess that if I sought him with questions, it must be that I thought him a possible felon. Or that I thought he knew of a possible felon. Were it not for Arthur standing behind me during these interviews with arms crossed and a grim expression upon his partly purpled face, I believe the gentlemen, and even the reeve, might have produced a dagger and bid me be gone. A youth was dead, but no man of Eynsham seemed much troubled.

  Abbot Thurstan’s funeral was upon Sunday. On Wednesday, near to terce, Prior Philip returned. I did not know of this for an hour or more, for Arthur and I were at the time in the guest house awaiting the lay brother who would bring loaves with which we might break our fast. He brought also the news of the prior’s return. The report did not improve my appetite.

  We had but finished the maslin loaves and ale a few minutes earlier when the door to the guest house crashed open and two men entered with resolute expressions upon their faces. Neither could be described as handsome, and ill humor did not improve their appearance.