Abbot's Passion

by Stephen Wheeler

  Excommunication. Being cut off from the comforts of the church, denied communion at the altar and shunned by other Christians. Not a position the highest legal officer in the county really wants to be in.

  ‘So a confessed murderer remains free to come and go as he pleases, is that what y’saying?’

  ‘No no,’ said Samson. ‘He cannot leave the church. If he does he immediately forfeits his right to asylum. He is virtually imprisoning himself. But if he chooses to stay where he is then I’m afraid there’s not much we can do about it, except wait for him to leave.’

  ‘Imprisoning himself. Yes, I see,’ nodded Sir Peter thoughtfully.

  Suddenly Eustache exploded: ‘This is absurd! Are you going to permit this charade, monsieur-le-shé-rif?’

  Sir Peter’s eyes narrowed. ‘If it’s the law, mon-sher legate, then it’s the law.’

  Eustache looked around each of us in turn, Samson, Sir Peter, Jocellus, Jocelin and me.

  ‘Ach, you English! You are such wimps! I shall be writing my report on all of this to the papal curia, never fear. It will not make happy reading.’

  So saying, he flounced off back to the abbot’s palace. I must admit I watched him go with considerable satisfaction.

  Sir Peter stood looking at the great west door of the church stroking his neatly-trimmed beard. ‘How many exits are there?’

  ‘Erm - four,’ said Samson. ‘Including this one.’

  I quickly ran through them in my head. I counted five - but who’s to say I was right?

  Sir Peter nodded his head thoughtfully. ‘Forty days, y’say? Fine. We’ll starve him out. I’ll post a guard on every door. Nothing in and nothing out. If he’s not dead within the week he’ll be begging to give himself up.’

  ‘Forty days,’ said Samson. ‘Forty days shut off from the world.’

  ‘Criminal isn’t it, f-father?’ frowned Jocelin.

  ‘It most certainly is. Have you any idea how much money I’m going to lose in forty days?’

  We were back in his study again. Just the three of us this time: Jocellus, me and Jocelin. Eustache was still sulking in his rooms.

  ‘Oh, I shouldn’t worry, father,’ I reassured him. ‘Pilgrims will still come to the shrine. In fact you could even make a profit. A man slowly going mad from hunger and thirst - folk will pay handsomely to witness that.’

  Samson glowered at me. ‘They wouldn’t have to witness it at all if Jocellus had kept his mouth shut. Is it true what you told Sir Peter?’

  ‘Would I lie to the high sheriff, father?’ said Jocellus.

  ‘I hope not for your sake.’

  ‘You mean lying like saying there are only four exits to the church, father, when you know there are five?’ I said.

  ‘What?’ Samson frowned.

  ‘I suppose you must have forgotten about the one in St Botolph’s chapel.’

  ‘I suppose I must have done,’ he growled.

  ‘Even so,’ sighed Jocellus, ‘it’s not going to be easy to get anything past Sir Peter’s men. They’re be searching everyone going in or out of the church. Have you seen the brute they’ve posted on the west door? He must be seven feet tall and nearly as broad.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve seen him,’ I said. ‘He matches exactly Cathrin’s description of the guard who raped her. There can’t be many like him.’

  ‘Don’t start all that again,’ said Samson.

  ‘What if the real murderer isn’t caught within the forty days?’ asked Jocellus. ‘What happens then?’

  ‘That’s when the fun really begins,’ said Samson. ‘If he hasn’t proved his innocence by then he will have to abju…abju… Oh, what’s the legal term, Jocelin?’

  ‘A-abjure the realm,’ supplied Jocelin, ‘quit the country. That means he must m-make his way to the nearest sea-port and f-find a ship willing to c-carry him abroad. It’s an ancient c-custom of our S-saxon forebears, so I believe.’

  ‘How ridiculous!’ I said.

  ‘What if he can’t find a ship to take him?’ asked Jocellus.

  ‘Th-then he must wade out into the sea every d-day up to his waist to sh-show he is sincere until he does.’

  ‘Barbaric!’ I said.

  ‘If he’s as innocent as you seem to think,’ snapped Samson, ‘why did he make that confession? And come to think of it, how did he know to confess? You, Walter, and Gilbert are the only ones who’ve had any contact with him and I don’t believe Gilbert has had much in the way of legal training.’

  ‘Neither did I. And if you recall, father, I was a little preoccupied at the time having a knife pressed to my windpipe. It must have slipped my mind to mention it.’

  We were interrupted by a clerk putting his head round the door to say a messenger had arrived post-haste from London. He handed Samson a letter which the abbot immediately unsealed and read. As he did so his face grew blacker and blacker.

  ‘B-bad news, father?’ asked Jocelin.

  ‘I’ve been summoned to the Exchequer to answer charges brought by Bishop Eustace of Ely over this Lakenheath business. He’s accusing me of violating St Etheldreda’s land and stealing their cattle - damn cheek! We gave him back his blessed cows, miserable bony specimens. I knew this would happen.’

  ‘Surely you’re not leaving us again, father?’ I said incredulously.

  ‘I’ve no choice. The bishop has complained personally to Justiciar Geoffrey. I’ve got fifteen days to reply. You three will have to sort out the Hamo problem between you. I dread to think what a mess you’ll make of it after last time. But I don’t want to come back to find an emaciated corpse draped over Edmund’s shrine. It’s bad for business.’

  ‘He’s done it again, hasn’t he?’ I said when we were back downstairs. ‘He’s managed to be absent just as things were getting difficult. No wonder he’s called the Norfolk Trickster.’

  ‘It’s hardly f-father abbot’s fault, Walter,’ defended Jocelin. ‘He couldn’t have known that writ was ccoming today.’

  ‘He could send a lackey. You for instance.’

  Jocelin blushed and looked away.

  ‘Maybe the abbot being away is no bad thing,’ said Jocellus. ‘At least he won’t know what we’re doing. Er, what are we doing, by the way?’

  ‘I don’t know yet. What did Hamo actually confess to you? Not to the murder that’s for sure. He’s consistently denied doing it.’

  Jocellus looked a little sheepish. ‘To be truthful I’m not sure either. With all the noise going on it was hard to hear precisely what he said. What about you? You said you heard the confession too.’

  ‘Hm? Oh - the same,’ I sniffed.

  ‘What are we going to do to help Hamo?’ said Jocelin, still a little peeved over my comment about lackeys. ‘We’re surely not g-going to let him starve?’

  ‘No we’re not,’ I said as an idea slowly formed itself in my mind. I stared critically at Jocellus.

  ‘What?’ he said, looking worried.

  ‘I was just thinking - have you put on weight lately, brother?’

  He looked down and himself. ‘No, I don’t think so.’

  ‘Oh I think you have. You’re looking decidedly plump to me. What do you say, Jocelin?’ I said raising quizzical eyebrows at him.

  ‘Y-yes, I agree,’ nodded Jocelin. ‘A distinct p-paunch around the m-middle.’

  Now Jocellus really was worried. ‘Plump? Paunch round the middle? What are you two talking about? I’m as thin as a rake.’

  ‘No no, fat, my friend, fat. This robe is far too tight,’ I said pulling at it. ‘Let’s go and speak to Sylvanus, see if he can provide you with a bigger one.’

  ‘Bigger robe?’ Jocellus said. Then he twigged. ‘Oh no, you don’t mean…? Please, you can’t. No really I -’

  But it was too late. Jocelin and I already had an arm each and were marching him towards the chamberlain’s office.

  Chapter Seventeen

  TESTING THE GROUND

  ‘Gilbert my boy, how’s your sewing?’

  ‘My
sewing, master?’

  ‘Yes, your sewing. You made a fair job of those money bags. Is that the limit of your skills or can you sew other things?’

  The boy shrugged. ‘One material is much like any other when it comes to needlework, master.’

  ‘That’s what I thought. I’ve a special job for you to do.’ I threw him the robe that Jocellus and I had managed to filch from Sylvanus the chamberlain. ‘Don’t look so worried. I won’t be asking you to come with me on another trip. This job is entirely domestic.’

  I left him threading his needle and made my way over to the west door of the abbey church. Samson had left for London earlier that morning and wouldn’t be back for a few days. So that left Jocellus, Jocelin and me free to get on with our plan.

  It wasn’t going to be easy. The sheriff’s men were ready to pounce on anyone who looked as though they might attempt to break the siege. We are used to queues waiting to get in to see the shrine but not like these. They stretched from the west door right back through Anselm’s Gate into Exchequer Square. Everyone was being searched and anything remotely resembling food or drink was being confiscated. Abbot Eustache, too, was watching us like a hawk. If our plan was going to work it would have to be organised with military precision, and as every general knows the first thing you do before any battle is reconnoitre the territory.

  The west door of the abbey church is by far the grandest and busiest entrance. It was being guarded, as Jocellus had said, by a giant of a man. He was frisking everyone and clearly enjoying his work, especially when it came to young female pilgrims who he seemed to linger over longer than the men. Since I had no desire to have my nether regions groped by the brute I decided to go on round the side of the church to the south transept entrance hoping to have better luck there. A guard was on duty here too but he was nothing like as intimidating as the one on the west door, nor as enthusiastic in his work. He made no attempt to stop me as I marched purposefully up to the door. But when I got there I realised why: it was locked. Normally the church doors are only locked at sunset when the abbey is free of visitors and we monks have the place to ourselves.

  ‘Why is this door locked?’ I demanded in my most officious tone.

  ‘Sorry brother, you can’t go in that way. You’ll have to go round to the front.’

  ‘Go round to the front? Do you know who I am?’

  The young man shrugged.

  ‘I am the abbey physician,’ I told him haughtily. ‘Let me in immediately please.’

  ‘I couldn’t even if I wanted to,’ he sighed. ‘I don’t have the key.’

  ‘Who does?’

  ‘The sheriff.’

  ‘This is iniquitous!’

  ‘No brother, it’s orders.’

  I left him and went on to the chapel of St Botolph which as every member of the congregation, with the exception of Abbot Samson it seems, knows was built around and concealing a former entrance to the chancel. But it too was locked and guarded. I’d had a feeling that would be the case. The sheriff wasn’t so gullible as to take Samson’s word without checking. That only left the two entrances from the cloisters which are normally reserved for the exclusive use of us monks. But even one of these was closed off while the other had two more soldiers guarding it - in case the monks tried to storm the place en masse, presumably.

  For now, though, all I wanted was to speak to Hamo, so I went in through the cloister door that was still open and picketed by two gawky-looking guards. One of these patted me down in the most perfunctory way while the other stood about picking his nose and looking bored. He searched my herb satchel which I had purposely brought with me. Unfortunately his hand touched something inside and he stopped and looked suspiciously up at me. A knowing smile spread slowly across his pimply features as he removed a leather bottle and held it up between finger and thumb as though it was a dead rat.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘It’s water.’

  I’d purposely placed the bottle right at the bottom of the bag to test how thoroughly they would search. The man was better at it than I’d credited him for. He grinned slyly at his mate and then back at me.

  ‘Water, did you say, brother?’ He shook his head. ‘Not allowed.’ He pulled the stopper and started to pour the liquid from the bottle.

  ‘Actually it’s Holy Water,’ I said. ‘From the well of Aqua Vita. Do you know what that is?’

  He stopped in mid-pour and stared at me. ‘Akwar -?’

  ‘Aqua vita. That means it’s very holy, very powerful. For medicinal purposes. I’m the abbey physician, by the way.’

  The man looked quizzically at me then carefully put his nose close - but not too close - to the neck of the bottle.

  ‘Doesn’t smell of anything.’

  ‘Of course not. It looks - and smells - just like ordinary water.’

  ‘What’s it for?’

  ‘Oh not to drink, if that’s what you’re thinking. Oh goodness me no, it’s far too precious to drink. It’s for external use only by way of being an embrocation.’

  He looked at me blankly.

  ‘You rub it on your skin.’

  Light seemed to dawn at last. ‘Like goose fat you mean?’

  ‘Exactly like goose fat. Only it’s not fat and it’s not from a goose.’

  He looked questioningly at his mate who shrugged.

  ‘All right,’ he said stuffing the stopper back in the neck of the bottle. ‘You can have it this time. Just don’t let me catch you drinking it.’

  Once inside I quickly made my way up through the church towards the apse at the far east end which contained the high altar and behind that the raison d’être of the abbey’s very existence: the shrine of the blessed king and martyr, Saint Edmund. This is indeed a wonder to behold. Newly renovated after the fire of 1198, it is the size of a small house set on a stand and covered in gold and silver plate and precious stones that glint and glisten in the candle-light. There are also spaces beneath for pilgrims to insert their own bodies in order to be as close as possible to the saint whose body lies within. After the fire these spaces had been filled with stones to prevent flammable material being stored there in order to avoid a repeat of the 1198 catastrophe. Hamo had removed some of these stones to make room for him to hide. Others had hidden there before him, most notably Samson forty years earlier in order to avoid wrath of Abbot Hugh. But even here I was not left unsupervised. A young guard was on duty right next to the shrine keeping pilgrims far enough away in case any of them tried to slip Hamo some food or drink. This man’s presence was more problematic in a way than the guards outside because it meant I wouldn’t be able to speak openly to Hamo. Clearly some decisive action was called for.

  ‘Young man,’ I said summoning my officious voice again. ‘May I have a word?’

  We stood to one side and I chatted to him confidentially. A minute later he was hurrying down the chancel his face having turned a sickly pale colour and his eyes popping out of his head. I watched him go with satisfaction before turning to the shrine:

  ‘It’s all right, he’s gone.’

  Pilgrims hovering nearby sniggered. For a moment I couldn’t think why but then I realised they must have thought I was addressing the saint. I didn’t have time to explain. The guard could return at any moment. I tried again:

  ‘Come along now,’ I said clapping my hands together. ‘I haven’t got all day.’

  More sniggering from the pilgrims. I smiled trying to reassure them:

  ‘It’s not what you think.’

  But then a muted voice came from the shrine. The pilgrims gasped in wonder.

  ‘What’s that?’ I frowned. ‘Speak up, I can’t hear you.’

  Hamo repeated his words, a little louder this time.

  I shook my head. ‘No, it’s no good. I still can’t hear you. You’ll have to come out.’

  To gasps of astonishment Hamo slowly emerged from beneath the shrine: first a foot, then a knee, then an arm and finally the whole body. By now most of the pi
lgrims were on their knees and staring wide-eyed at the apparition. I must say he did look a bit corpse-like - dirty, emaciated and looking as though he’d been lying inside a mausoleum for years. Hamo stood blinking bemused at the semi-circle of adoring faces gazing up at him. Ever the showman, he did a little twirl which the pilgrims applauded. Then he farted, scratched his head and smiled.

  ‘’Allo bruvver. Come to get yer money back, ’ave ya?’

  Hamo sat down on the altar step while I knelt to look at his injured leg which was still wrapped in the bandage I’d put on it at the roadside two weeks earlier. The pilgrims watched in wonderment and adoration.

  ‘I thought I told you to change this bandage?’

  ‘Funny enough I ain’t had a lot of time, brother.’ He frowned at the goggle-eyed pilgrims. ‘What’s wrong wiv them?’

  ‘A case of mistaken identity,’ I said unwinding the bandage. ‘Just ignore them.’

  ‘What did you say to that guard? He looked like he seen a ghost.’

  ‘I told him the story of Sweyn Forkbeard. I don’t suppose you’ve heard of him, have you?’

  ‘Can’t say as I ’ave.’

  ‘But you have heard of King Nut, the king who tried to hold back the tide and got his feet wet for his trouble?’

  He shook his head. ‘Nope. Not ’im either.’

  I tutted at the man’s ignorance of the rich history of our island race.

  ‘Sweyn Forkbeard was King Nut’s father. What I told the guard was that like him Sweyn was a soldier who had come here to the abbey bearing arms. But Saint Edmund was so outraged that anyone should dare to bring arms inside his church that he ordered him in a dream to desist and put away his weapon. When Sweyn refused the saint struck him dumb and the next morning he was found dead beside the shrine.’

  ‘And that boy thought the same was going to happen to him?’

  ‘Seems to have had the desired effect. I may have modified the details slightly, but essentially that’s right.’

  I removed the rest of the bandage and puckered my nose at the smell.

  ‘Good God, man, it’s a wonder the rats haven’t eaten it!’ I said flinging the thing aside in disgust. It was immediately pounced upon by one of the pilgrims who bore it away like a prized relic.