Devil's Acre

by Stephen Wheeler

  ‘Très bien mon fils, et bienvenu à vous aussi,’ smiled Maynus, impressed. ‘Your French is excellent. But of course I was forgetting, you studied in France - at our great medical school of Montpellier, I believe.’

  ‘Father Abbot has told you about me?’

  ‘He may have mentioned you,’ he said with a glint in his eye.

  ‘And this is our companion Jane,’ said Samson.

  True to form, Jane gave a curt nod from the back of her mule. Nevertheless Maynus smiled benevolently back at her. He then summoned over a monk who had been waiting to one side - a tall, gaunt-looking young man with a face like a scythe.

  ‘This is Brother Lambert,’ said Maynus. ‘He will look after you while you are here. Ah! And who is this little one?’ he said noticing Esme for the first time on my lap. ‘I did not know we had a fourth guest?’

  ‘This is Esme,’ I said holding up the sleepy bundle.

  ‘In French Esmé means “esteemed”,’ said Maynus tickling her ear. ‘And she is an esteemed guest indeed. Bonjour Esmé, comment vas-tu?’ he laughed. ‘You are all of you most welcome. Come! Follow me.’ He started to lead the way.

  ‘There is a fifth,’ I said quickly.

  The prior stopped. ‘A fifth?’

  ‘He means Ralf,’ said Samson sullenly.

  ‘Ah oui,’ nodded the prior. ‘He too is here.’

  ‘May we see him?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh, not yet Walter,’ growled Samson. ‘Let us at least shake the snow off our boots first.’

  ‘Later perhaps,’ Maynus smiled. ‘For now, shall we go inside and get warm, non?’

  ‘Just see to the mules,’ muttered Samson to me, ‘and then follow.’

  I watched the two old friends disappear through a porch arm in arm. Brother Lambert was standing close by watching all this with a blank expression on his face. It’s not like to form hasty impressions of anyone but for some reason I took an instant dislike to his smug face. I gave Esme to him to hold while I went to help Jane.

  ‘Are you all right?’ I asked her.

  She glowered at me. ‘Brother, what are we doing here? Why have we come?’

  I wished I had an answer to that one. I sidestepped it. ‘One thing we must do while we’re here is give Ralf a proper burial. You’d want that, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Don’t know why he couldn’t be buried in Tott’ton. That’s where he were born. That’s where he should lie.’

  Secretly I agreed with her. ‘Better here than Tottington,’ I tried to reassure her. ‘The brothers will look after him and say prayers over him.’

  ‘I could ha’ done that in Saint George’s.’

  ‘Yes, well, we must make the best of it.’

  As she clambered down I looked hopefully at Brother Lambert who was holding the wriggling Esme at arm’s length trying his hardest to pretend she wasn’t there.

  ‘I don’t suppose you know where he is?’ I asked him. ‘The dead man who was brought here this morning? This woman’s husband,’ I added pointedly.

  But the young man simply responded with an incomprehensive Gallic shrug.

  I shook my head. ‘Another Frenchman.’

  ‘English, brother. I am English.’

  ‘Well then?’

  Another shrug. He’d obviously learned that trick from his French colleagues. As I suspected, I wasn’t going to get much out of Brother Lambert.

  ‘Can you at least tell us where we are to sleep tonight?’ I sincerely hoped I wasn’t to have to share with Samson again.

  He led the way still holding the struggling Esme at arm’s length, Jane to the guest annexe and me to rooms above the cloister entry. I asked for and was brought a crate for Esme and swept up some floor rushes to make her a bed. I then plopped her in the middle where she sat looking up at me with her big brown eyes.

  ‘That’s exactly how I feel,’ I said fondling her ears. ‘What next, I wonder?’

  *

  ‘We were novices together,’ Samson was saying. ‘Half a lifetime ago.’ He beamed benevolently at the prior who sat opposite in a corner of his study.

  ‘Would that be the time you were telling about, father? When you were incarcerated here.’

  Samson looked at me with surprise. ‘So, you do listen to me sometimes. Yes, over forty years ago now. Prior Jordan was prior here then - do you remember old friend?’ he smiled across at the prior. Maynus nodded and chuckled. ‘Maynus wasn’t fully monked then. Nor was I for that matter.’

  ‘Two young gadflies together, eh father?’

  Samson’s smile faltered slightly. ‘You know Walter, I’m never quite sure if you’re mocking me.’

  ‘The médecin does not want to listen to old men chewing on stale straw,’ said Maynus. ‘You have not been to Acre before, Frère Walter?’

  ‘No, father.’

  ‘Then you must see our church. And our famous relic.’

  ‘Famous relic?’

  He nodded. ‘Mais oui. We have the forearm of Saint Philip, no less. Not as wondrous as the complete body of a king-martyr of course, but a first-class relic nonetheless.’

  ‘Really? Which one?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ said Maynus looking at his own arms and wiggling his thumbs. ‘The right one I think.’

  ‘I meant which Philip - the apostle or the evangelist?’

  ‘Ah, I see,’ smiled Maynus. ‘Come, decide for yourself.’

  He led the way over to the priory church which was just as magnificent inside as it was outside. It was, I judged, half the length of our abbey church in Bury but no less impressive. Every inch was covered in rich colours - red and yellow ochre, white and black, greens of every hue - all executed by the monks who cleverly picked out the artistry of the masons. The whole gleamed and soared upwards to the light and to the glory of God. It was a busy place with monks bustling hither and thither while visitors stood gazing about them at the splendours.

  The Philip reliquary to which the prior led us was in a specially-built niche in the south transept chapel which itself was dedicated and named for the saint. There were several other relics each in its own receptacle bedecked with precious metals and jewels and resting on velvet cloth. But pride of place went to a large silver casket resplendent in the centre of the display and containing the lower forearm of a man - the right one as I can confirm. Pilgrims were kneeling in an attitude of veneration before it supervised by two monks who bowed respectfully as we approached and ushered pilgrims out of our way so we could get closer. And a much-loved saint he was too judging by the amount of coin piled on the offerings trays.

  Once we were outside again in the cloisters, however, I tried again to pursue my objective:

  ‘Father Prior, may I now see the body of Father Ralf?’

  ‘Oh Walter,’ groaned Samson.

  ‘Once I have seen him I promise I will trouble you no more on the subject. Is there some reason why I should not see him?’

  Samson sighed heavily. ‘Maynus?’

  The prior smiled. ‘I will take you myself.’

  At last I seemed to be getting somewhere. He led the way out through the parlour to the rear of the church and from there we continued on past the infirmary. But with each step my trepidation grew for we were leaving behind the conventual buildings and setting out into the open. Finally we went through a small wicker gate into the monks’ cemetery where Maynus stopped by a newly-dug grave. The earth was piled into a mound, newly dug and black and friable against the compacted whiteness of the snow.

  I rounded angrily on Samson: ‘You knew didn’t you?’

  He put his hands up defensively. ‘How could I?’

  ‘Oh yes, you knew all right.’

  It was then that I must have lost my presence of mind for what I did next became one of those embarrassing moments that I would really rather forget. Glancing round I saw what I wanted - a discarded spade. I grabbed it and rapped my knuckles on the blade. It gave back a satisfyingly metallic ring.

  ‘Aha!’ I said. ‘No
nonsense about wooden blades here.’

  Striding over to the grave I rolled up my sleeves and started shovelling the earth for all I was worth. Fortunately before I managed more than two or three shovelfuls another, firmer hand took hold of my wrist and I looked up to see Brother Lambert’s face bearing down on me. His cold stare instantly brought me back to my senses and I let him take the implement from my hand. I looked round at the incredulous faces staring at me.

  ‘Have you completely lost your mind?’ Samson said quietly.

  I opened my mouth to speak but no words came out.

  What had I done? Made a fool of myself - well, nothing new in that. Still I felt wretched as I stood watching Samson and Maynus march off back to the priory leaving me alone by the graveside. If the grave could have opened and swallowed me then it would have been a mercy. Lambert thrust the spade’s blade into the earth and without a word followed his master back to the priory. He could at least have had the decency to look smug, I thought, but his sallow face showed no emotion at all - damn him!

  But then I became aware of someone else’s presence - a little man leaning over the wicker fence and chuckling to himself.

  ‘What are you grinning about?’ I asked him irritably.

  ‘Just observin’, brother. And laughing.’

  ‘Well don’t.’

  He shrugged and pushed himself off the fence. As he did so I saw that he was wearing a workman’s smock.

  ‘Just a minute. Would you be the grave-digger here?’

  ‘Mebbe I am.’

  ‘So you will have dug this one?’

  ‘Mebbe I did.’

  He waited still grinning idiotically at me. I sensed he had something he wanted to tell me but he also wanted me to tease it out of him. Very well, let’s go fishing:

  ‘What do you know about this grave?’

  ‘Not a lot. ’Cept it been empty a while.’

  ‘Empty? You mean it was dug some time ago and left unused?’

  ‘As I said.’

  ‘How long - how long has been left empty?’

  He sucked on his teeth. ‘Ooh, reckon I dug that one at Halloween.’

  I frowned. ‘But that was months ago. Is that usual, to dig a grave and leave it empty for so long?’

  The man’s grin broadened again and winked at me. ‘Best to be prepared, eh brother?’

  ‘So someone was expected to die and then didn’t - is that what happened?’

  ‘No-one died as far as I knowed.’

  I snorted. ‘Of course someone died. There’s been a winter since Halloween. Someone always dies in winter.’

  ‘Mebbe they did, but they didn’t go there. Tha’s why it’s empty,’ he grinned.

  This was getting us nowhere. We were going round in circles. I tried another tack:

  ‘Who uses this part of the graveyard? Other monks, presumably?’

  He shook his head. ‘Monks don’t go here. There’s where they go.’ He nodded to another part of the cemetery. ‘Like little piggies all in a row - teehee.’

  I frowned at the ranks of anonymous mounds reminding me, if they needed to, that I would end up somewhere similar one day stitched into a shroud with no marker to say who I was. I shivered at the thought.

  ‘Then who besides monks gets buried in this cemetery?’

  ‘No-one. Only monks here. Ev’yone else goes in James’s boneyard.’ He nodded towards the parish church.

  ‘This man wasn’t a monk. He was a parish priest.’

  The man shrugged. ‘Special then.’

  I looked around. I hadn’t noticed before but Ralf’s grave was indeed on it’s own in a quiet corner of the cemetery.

  ‘If you dug this grave last year, why are you here today? Did you bury him?’

  He shook his head. ‘Wouldn’t let me touch him. Very particular they was about that. They did the burying. All I did was fill it in afterwards. Dig it and fill it, that’s my job. Monks don’t like to get dirt under their fingernails, see? Spoils their scribbling.’ He made prissy little finger movements in the air to show his idea of writing.

  ‘Who do you mean? Who buried him?’

  ‘Well now,’ he cleared his throat and counted off his fingers. ‘The carrier who brought him - and that tall monk.’

  ‘You mean Brother Lambert? The monk who took the spade away from me?’

  ‘Aye,’ he grinned broadly. ‘That one. He wanted prayers spoke afterwards, but the prior, he say no.’

  I stared at the man. ‘The prior was here as well? Prior Maynus?’

  The man nodded. ‘Uhuh.’

  ‘And he said no to prayers?’

  ‘Aye. He said there were no need for prayers.’

  ‘Are you sure those were his exact words? There was no need for prayers?’

  For answer the man just grinned again, his eyes sparkling with interest. He was clearly enjoying himself no doubt sensing some juicy gossip to take to his cronies. But I had no intention of fuelling his speculations any more than I had to. Anyway, I’d heard enough. I looked over to Ralf’s grave, at the dark clean soil standing proud above the snow. I now thought I had a good idea of what might have been going on. And if I was right it changed everything.

  Chapter 12

  SUSPICIONS POSTPONED

  ‘Why are you grinning at me in that obsequious way?’

  ‘Am I, father? I didn’t realise I was.’

  ‘Well stop it. It’s unnerving.’

  ‘Of course. My apologies.’

  ‘And stop apologizing. You’re getting as bad as Jocelin. I didn’t bring you on this trip to fawn.’

  I leaned towards him. ‘I know exactly why you brought me on this trip, father.’

  ‘Do you, indeed?’

  ‘Yes. And may I say I think it’s commendable.’

  ‘That’s not the impression you gave up at the cemetery.’

  ‘I’ve explained all that, father. A momentarily loss of self-control. It won’t happen again. If there is a suitable penance I will gladly submit to it.’

  ‘Just at the moment I can’t think of one.’

  ‘It just seemed to me that at every turn some obstacle was being deliberately put in my way.’

  ‘I don’t know why. I’ve told you what happened. Ralf’s body arrived at the priory unexpected. They didn’t know what to do with it so they did the only thing that can be done with a dead body - they buried it. Seems perfectly reasonable to me.’

  ‘It’s all right father, there’s no need to keep up the pretence. Your secret is safe with me. I’m just a little hurt that you didn’t feel you could trust me with it as you clearly have Mother Odell and Fathers Absalom and Maynus.’ I hesitated over my next question. ‘By the way, what does Father Maynus think about it - about the way I behaved? At the graveside I mean.’

  ‘He thinks you were possessed by devils.’

  I grimaced. ‘I will go and apologize.’

  ‘In his case I think you should.’ He looked at me speculatively. ‘Well go on then. What’s this great secret you’ve uncovered?’

  It was leprosy of course. It was the only explanation that fitted all the facts: Ralf’s mysterious illness; the indecent haste to remove the body; the isolation of the grave; the refusal to allow anyone to touch the body - for fear of contamination, naturally. And the secrecy - above all the secrecy for such is the hysteria surrounding leprosy that the mere hint of it can cause panic. If word had got out that it was in the convent it would have meant immediate isolation and all good work of the nuns - the school, the infirmary, alms-giving - would have come to a halt. It was pure coincidence that Ralf should die just as we arrived - fortuitously as it turned out for the prioress was able to ask for Samson’s help to remove the body with as little fuss as possible. No wonder she showed him such gratitude.

  For much the same reason Father Absalom would not have wanted the body in Tottington churchyard either. All that nonsense about having no spades to dig a grave - a ruse to move the body on. It was just a pity I could not have k
nown earlier I might have been able to help. Not that I could have done much for there is no cure for leprosy. I might have pointed out, however, that the disease is less of a scourge than is generally thought. I’ve known several cases in my time even among monks at the abbey. Often the symptoms amount to nothing more than a loss of sensation or stiffening of the joints or mild deformity. Apart from a slight limp most could pass unnoticed, although blindness is one indicator. Unfortunately the disease has an appalling reputation and in this I have to say Holy Scripture has not been helpful. The Bible tells us that leprosy is an instrument of divine punishment for wrong-doers. Given Ralf’s unconventional marital arrangements, some may have thought his condition was a sign of God’s displeasure. Another reason for secrecy.

  Most telling of all, however, was what the grave-digger had said about the prior not wanting prayers said at the graveside - or rather, there being no need for prayers. In the eyes of the church a leper is already dead and therefore in no need of the last rites. Hence Samson’s reluctance to give them either.

  I have to say that it was a relief to know Samson hadn’t murdered Father Ralf after all. When I thought about it I could see the idea had been absurd from the beginning and that reality, as ever, was at once both far more mundane and far more tragic.

  ‘And that is your considered opinion, is it?’

  ‘Are you saying I’m wrong, father?’

  He didn’t reply which was as good as confirming it.

  ‘Can I take it, then, that we’ve heard the last about examining corpses?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ I assured him.

  ‘And no more digging up graves?’

  I put my hands up defensively. ‘Oh, in cases of leprosy burial is by far the most hygienic solution. I entirely concur. Yes indeed.’

  He nodded. ‘Good. Well then to other matters. I can now reveal the purpose of our visit here. I couldn’t tell you before because the matter is highly sensitive as you’re about to hear. I don’t know how much you know about this place but the lord of Acre is a man called Count Hamelin de Warenne, earl of Surrey.’

  I nodded. ‘I’ve heard the name. A worthy knight, I believe.’