The Serpents of Harbledown

by Edward Marston

“A net has been thrown around the whole area. Philippe Berbizier must be caught and arraigned as soon as possible. He tears at the whole fabric of the Church.”

  “And he has two murders to answer for,” said Gervase. “It is a strange kind of faith that condones the killing of blameless people. How does he justify that?”

  “He is above the need to justify anything.”

  “A man with no moral precepts. Above the law.”

  “That is how he sees himself and convinces others to perceive him. A true heretic. But we will get him. Well over a hundred man have been committed to the pursuit. With so many chasing at his heels, he is bound to be taken. God will not be mocked. His vengeance will be terrible.”

  He had to wait until night to make his escape. Soldiers patrolled the streets. The city gates were closed and guarded. He had never seen such activity in Canterbury and it made him extremely wary. When he finally ventured out from his hiding place, his black garb blended with the darkness to make him no more than a fleeting shadow. He picked his way along streets and down lanes until he came to the town wall.

  Having reached it, he cowered quickly against it as a patrol passed nearby, six mounted men-at-arms with bright torches to pierce the darkest void and the promise of a bounty if they took their quarry. Their eyes were paid to be keen. They did not see him this time but his luck could not hold. He had to get out of the city at once. The wall was high but earth was banked against it farther along. Clambering up the mound, he got within reach of the top. Long arms reached up and he got a strong enough purchase on the top to haul himself slowly up.

  He took a furtive inventory. More soldiers were circling the perimeter of the city with torches. Crouched on the wall like a cat, he waited until the coast was clear then hung by his fingers before dropping into oblivion. The ground came sooner than he expected and he was jolted badly by the impact. But he was quite uninjured. After stretching his back a few times, he was able to move on. Making his way to the northwest, he kept to the shadows and walked with great stealth. When he got within sight of Westgate, he saw the brazier lighting up the faces of a dozen men. Avoiding action was needed. If they caught him, they would strike first with the swords and spears. He swung left in a wide and cautious semicircle, falling to his knees at one point to grope his way along the ground like an animal.

  It was a harrowing experience and it brought cold perspiration out all over him. He was accustomed to a life of secret movement and had developed his skills but he had never encountered such a vast search party. Escape was vital. Once clear of the patrols, he broke into a gentle trot, using trees and bushes as continuous cover. It was only when he was halfway up Harbledown Hill that he paused to catch his breath and dared to look back. The city lay below him, ringed with fires, lit by torches and bristling with armed men. Only someone with real audacity could have eluded the watching soldiers. He could afford to take satisfaction from that. Lanfranc's knights and the sheriff's officers had failed to imprison him in the city. It gave him a sense of quiet triumph. He moved off again.

  Confidence gradually returned. Freed from what lay behind, he could reflect on what waited for him ahead. His mind raced and his concentration wavered. Ears and eyes were no longer as keen as they had been. He was off guard. Stars speckled the sky to give him a measure of guidance. A drizzle began to fall. It did not dampen his expectation in any way.

  He did not even see him. As he descended the hill, he started to trot once more and hit an easy rhythm. He noticed the tree but not the figure hunched up against it. Passing within a yard of the man, he was still totally unaware of his presence. But his own approach had not gone unremarked. The man looked up, caught a glimpse of his face, then retreated back inside his hood.

  Alain had something to think about during a long, wet night.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  DAWN LIFTED THE black shroud of night and the oppression of the curfew from Canterbury. Soldiers still guarded the various gates, questioning all who came and went, but the citizens no longer felt incarcerated in their own homes and the stallholders who brought in their produce from the surrounding farms were allowed to set up the market. An air of normality returned, though it was still a city on edge.

  Searches had been thorough and security tight yet the wanted man was still at liberty. The common opinion was that he was still somewhere in Canterbury itself, hidden by friends or lurking in some secret refuge of his own. It would not be easy to find him among a population of a few thousand or more. Several hundred houses and countless other buildings offered a bewildering array of places where he might shelter. Canterbury would need to be systematically combed.

  Ralph Delchard was determined that he would not miss out on the action. He was up at first light, putting his hauberk on over his tunic and strapping on his sword-belt. Gervase had given him full details of the manpower which had been assembled for the hunt but Ralph was not surprised when a new day rose with Philippe Berbizier still at large. The Frenchman was too cunning to be caught easily and the hullabaloo of his pursuers was so loud that it gave him ample forewarning of their approach.

  “A troop of soldiers will never catch him,” he said.

  “Then who will?”

  “One or two, moving in subtler ways.”

  “You and Gervase?”

  “For preference, it would be me alone. I would love to meet this villain face to face.” Ralph reached for his helm. “But I am not greedy, my love. I will let Gervase have his share of the honours.”

  “Where will you go now?”

  “To check the sentries, confer with my men, see if anything untoward occurred in the night. I hope that they do not ask that question of me or I would blush.”

  Golde laughed. “Be off with you!”

  “Pine for me.”

  “Just take care, Ralph,” she said, giving him a kiss. “This man is dangerous. He will not scruple to kill.”

  “Nor will I.”

  He let himself out of the house and she waved him off through the open shutters. Golde was about to go into the kitchen when she heard the baby crying upstairs again. It was a noise which had punctuated much of the night. Osbern came down the stairs in a state of consternation.

  “What is the matter?” she asked.

  “The baby. Something ails him.”

  “Do you wish me to go to him?”

  “Eadgyth is nursing him in her arms. That seems to soothe him from time to time. But the pain returns.”

  “Pain?”

  “In his ear,” said Osbern. “He keeps putting his little hand up to it. I slept in a chair beside Eadgyth. The crib was in the bedchamber with us. We must have woken a dozen times in the night to see to the baby.”

  “Poor little child!”

  “I'll send a servant for Helto the Doctor.”

  “There are none here, Osbern,” she said. “Two have gone to market to buy food and the third is saddling my husband's horse in the stables. Let me go for Helto.”

  “You do not know the way, my lady.”

  “Teach me.”

  “This is too menial a task for you. I'll go myself.”

  “You are needed here,” argued Golde as a fresh burst of noise came from above. “Stay with your wife and child. Now, where does Helto live?”

  “At the end of King Street. It is not far.”

  “Give me directions.”

  When the reeve had explained the route to her, Golde put on her gown, adjusted her wimple and slipped out of the house. She was soon caught up in the morning throng. Anxious to do what she could to relieve the recurring anxieties in the household, she thought only of Eadgyth and the baby. After such a disturbed night, both would need the services of a doctor. Golde was so preoccupied with helping them that she forgot to consider herself. As she pushed her way through the gathering crowds, it never occurred to her that she was being followed.

  Fortune favoured them. They had not expected to get their opportunity so soon. Instead of having to contrive a way to
lure Golde out of the house, they found her a willing accomplice in their scheme. They moved in closer. She had almost reached King Street when they struck. Stopping to check her bearings, Golde was suddenly grabbed from behind by strong hands and shoved down a muddy alleyway. Her struggles were pointless against two burly men and her scream went unheard as a large hand was clamped over her mouth.

  They were proficient at their trade. She was bound and gagged in less than a minute and an evil-smelling sack was dropped over her head. One of them lifted her bodily and carried her over his shoulder while the other led the way down the alleyway and into a narrow lane to avoid being seen. Hundreds of people were within earshot but Golde could call to none of them. When a bell rang nearby in the parish church of St. Alphege, it sounded to her like a death knell.

  Golde had been kidnapped. She did not know why or by whom but she was in serious danger. Yet even in the blind panic of her abduction, the thought that was uppermost in her mind concerned others. What would they think at the house when the doctor did not come to attend to the baby?

  Alain heard the commotion from a mile away. It was not just the daily tumult of the city. It had a military ring to it. As he got closer, he could pick out the jingle of harness and the march of feet. Westgate seemed to have been turned into a small garrison. A troop of soldiers came trotting toward him and he scurried off the road at once, hiding his face from them as they passed, and being spattered by the lumps of mud thrown up by uncaring hooves. He struggled on his way.

  He was forty yards from Westgate when the soldier ambled toward him with his hands on his hips. The man spat on the ground with contempt. “Be off with you!” he snarled. “We want none of your filth here! Go to the wood and graze with the other swine.”

  Alain was not unused to such abuse. It went hand in hand with the fear of leprosy that everyone felt. Some gave alms to assuage their conscience, some passed by on the other side of the street and some took pleasure in treating him like a stray dog who had to be chased away. Alain felt no anger. Resignation was an easier way to cope.

  The soldier took a few menacing steps toward him.

  “Take your rotting arse away from here!” he yelled.

  “I have come to see someone,” said Alain.

  The man was taken aback at first to hear the sound of French coming from a creature he assumed must be Saxon. It did not increase his sympathy or lessen his scorn.

  “Find somewhere else to beg!”

  “But I have to see a friend in Canterbury.”

  “You have no friends.”

  “His name is Master Gervase Bret.”

  “Crawl away, you cur!”

  “He is a royal commissioner.”

  “Ha!” The man let out a peal of mocking laughter. “You'll be asking for the Archbishop of Canterbury next!”

  “I must see Master Bret.”

  “Meet him at court in Winchester.”

  “I have an important message for him.”

  “I have one for you—fart off!”

  “Let me wait at the gate until he comes out.”

  “And infect the rest of us?” sneered the man, taking his sword from his scabbard. “Disappear before I help you on your way. Go! Go!”

  He rushed at Alain with his sword flailing and the leper turned tail at once, rushing away so fast that he tripped and fell headlong into the mud. The soldier bellowed his coarse amusement. When Alain got up painfully to skulk away, the man hurled a final taunt at him.

  “I'll give your regards to the royal commissioner!”

  Alain had never missed Bertha more than at that moment.

  Concern set in after thirty minutes. When there was no sign of Golde or the doctor after an hour, that concern turned to great agitation. Osbern the Reeve stood outside his front door to look up and down the street. Gervase Bret was with him.

  “They should have been here long ago,” he said.

  “Perhaps Golde lost her way,” suggested Gervase.

  “It would be difficult.”

  “What if Helto was not at home? She might be waiting for him at his house.”

  “She is much more likely to have left a message for him and come back here to explain the delay. I am worried, Master Bret. I'll hasten to King Street this minute.”

  “Then I'll keep you company.”

  On the hurried journey to the doctor's house, Gervase tried to reassure Osbern but he knew that he was really hoping to reassure himself. Golde's disappearance was ominous. When Eadgyth vanished, it was on impulse. This was very different. Golde was running an errand which should have taken her no more than ten or fifteen minutes.

  When they got to Helto's house, neither she nor the doctor was there. The servant told them that his master was making his first call of the day on Alwin the Sailor in Worthgate Ward because of the seriousness of the patient's condition. Nobody had come in search of the doctor while he was away.

  Gervase and Osbern were baffled. They left instructions that Helto was to be sent to the reeve's house immediately on his return, then they made their way slowly back, scouring every street, lane and alleyway they passed in case Golde had strayed into one of them by mistake. The search was fruitless. When they reached the house in Burgate Ward, they were more dismayed than ever.

  “This is dreadful!” said Osbern, wringing his hands. “I cannot believe that any harm would befall her on the short journey to Helto. Unless she herself was taken ill.”

  “No,” said Gervase. “Golde was in the best of health.”

  “Could she have met with some accident?”

  “I think it unlikely.”

  “Then what is the explanation?”

  “I do not know.”

  “Assault? Foul play?”

  Gervase turned over the possibilities in his mind. None of them brought comfort and most induced deep apprehension. The conclusion seemed inescapable. On her way to the doctor's house, Golde had been intercepted.

  “I'll find Ralph,” he said.

  When Prior Gregory arrived, his usual combative demeanour had been replaced by a deep distress. His head was down, his brow troubled and his hands clasped inside his sleeves. He all but collided with Canon Hubert. Greetings were exchanged, then Hubert tried to detach himself in order to evade yet another outburst on the subject of the abbey's property dispute with the cathedral. But a new imperative had brought the prior on this occasion and it pushed his differences with the archbishop into the background.

  “Heresy in our midst, Canon Hubert!”

  “It is profoundly alarming.”

  “We must all be thankful to you for helping to bring it out into the open. The archbishop sent word of what has transpired and I have been summoned to discuss how the whole monastic community of Canterbury can best meet this crisis.”

  Hubert relaxed, enjoying the unexpected flattery. “We have taken decisive steps already, Prior Gregory,” he said easily. “Archbishop Lanfranc and I were equally appalled by this shocking development.”

  “Who is this Philippe Berbizier?”

  “A proselytising Gnostic.”

  “Has that been established without question?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “The archbishop's letter gave little detail of the man's heretical opinions, stating only that his sect taught that the body of Christ was an illusion and rejecting the notion of a resurrection.”

  “That is at the heart of Gnosticism.”

  “And part of the Bogomil tradition, too,” reminded the prior. “Their dissidence has spread to many parts of the Byzantine Empire and—who knows?—may have insinuated itself into France. Bogomils could easily be confused by the untutored eye with Gnostics.”

  “Not in this case,” explained Hubert. “Berbizier formed a sect in Orléans which was exposed and destroyed. He alone escaped the sentence of death.”

  “How was the sect denounced?”

  “From the inside, Prior Gregory. When rumours of its existence began to grow, a spy was introduced int
o their circle as a neophyte. He gathered sufficient information, then revealed it to the secular and ecclesiastical authorities. Arrest and trial were immediate.”

  “That is heartening.”

  “It will happen here when Philippe Berbizier is taken. Every member of his sect will be hunted down but he is the prime target. This priory has a special reason to see the man brought to justice. Brother Martin was buried here only yesterday.”

  “His death was a warning to us all, Canon Hubert.”

  “The manner of it was so calculated.”

  “That is what I mean,” said Gregory. “It serves as an image of the heresy which threatens us.”

  “I do not follow.”

  “Brother Martin was poisoned inside a church.”

  “The ultimate desecration!”

  “That is their way, Canon Hubert. What else is heresy but a poison which spreads through the body of Christianity? That message is inherent in the nature of the murder. Why was he not stabbed, bludgeoned or strangled to death? Why was the crime perpetrated in that particular place?” The prior's voice darkened. “Heresy is a poison that works from within.”

  Canon Hubert was so impressed with the vivid phrasing that he made a mental note to use it himself in conversation with others. It dawned on him that he had misjudged both Prior Henry and Prior Gregory. The former had been almost supercilious toward him and the latter overtly truculent. Under the pressure of a crisis, however, both men had emerged as committed Christians with a horror of any threat to their beliefs. It superseded all other considerations. Like Hubert himself, they were true defenders of the word of God and that gave all three men a solidarity which was quite invigorating.

  “I will not detain you,” said Hubert, ushering him on his way and falling in beside him. “This will be a critical discussion with Archbishop Lanfranc.”

  “That is why I came so promptly.”

  “What steps have been taken at St. Augustine's Abbey?”

  “Prayer and vigilance. The whole community has been praying for the early capture of this fiend. And those holy brothers who leave the enclave will use their eyes and ears in support of the swords and spears. Philippe Berbizier must have made more than one visit to Canterbury.”