Gervase watched as the old man lay on his back and experimented with various positions, changing his angle each time. He eventually made up his mind.
“This is how she was, Master Bret.”
“Feet pointing this way?”
“I am certain of it.”
“Then she must have been dragged backward into her hiding place,” observed Gervase, running his eyes over the bushes. “You can see where some of the leaves have been snapped off. Unless you caused this damage when you reclaimed her body earlier.”
“No,” said Martin. “We eased her out on the other side with all due care. Bertha had suffered indignities enough.
We did not want to add to them by pulling her roughly out like a dead cat. Brother Bartholomew and I inflicted no further damage on her or her apparel.”
“Her apparel?”
“Yes, Master Bret. It was torn and soiled.”
“Then there may be a thread or two caught on the leaves,” said Gervase, searching in vain. “What colour was her kirtle?”
“Blue.”
Brother Martin groaned as he forced himself upright.
“Are you hurt?”
“My old bones do not like this mean bed.”
“Let me help you up.”
“Stay there and I will teach you how.”
Holding his staff in both hands, Martin extended it toward Gervase so that the latter could grasp it and haul his companion to his feet. The monk shouldered his way through the bushes and collected a few vengeful leaves in his cowl. A sudden thought made him swing round to stare back into the hollow.
“It is gone,” he said. “I knew something was missing.”
“Missing?”
“The snake. The adder curled up beside Bertha.”
“You told me that the swineherd killed it.”
“He did. And left it in two parts on the ground. There is no sign of it now. Where can it have gone?”
They got their answer within moments. The delighted screams of children hit their ears and they walked quickly past the bushes to witness an impromptu game. Two small boys were running around in happy terror, pursued by a third with the carcase of the snake in his hand, whirling it like a whip as he tried to strike his friends. When he failed to catch them, he instead hurled the severed head of the creature after them, hitting one boy on the side of the face and producing howls of ghoulish glee.
Brother Martin shook his head philosophically.
“The young show no respect for the dead,” he said without rancour. “It was ever thus. When I was their age, I found a human skull in a field. No thought of who he or she might have been or what form of death they had endured. It was a plaything to me. I kicked the skull along the ground for sport until it fell into a stream.” He gave a mirthless chuckle. “I often wonder if I became a monk by way of penance for my childhood sin.”
“It was only the sin of ignorance, Brother Martin.”
“That is no excuse.”
Gervase stopped to watch the three boys, haring down the hill together before vanishing out of sight among the trees. They had lost interest in the snake and it had been hurled with cruel indifference into the bracken. Excited laughter showed that they had found a new game.
“What now?” asked Brother Martin.
“I would like to speak to the man who found the body.”
“But he is a leper.”
“That will make no difference.”
“It would to most people.” He regarded Gervase with a mixture of admiration and curiosity. “You are an unusual man. When you have pressing business of your own, you give time and energy to something that is of no real concern to you. Why?”
“Because of the girl.”
“You have never met Bertha.”
“No, Brother Martin, but I have seen her through the eyes of those who did. She was deeply loved by all who knew her. Osbern the Reeve told me much about Bertha. He fed my interest.”
“What did he say?”
“That she was an exceptional person. Young, fair, full of sweetness, generous toward others.” He became wistful. “I have someone like that in my own life. We are betrothed and she waits for me even now in Winchester. When the reeve talked about Bertha, he might almost have been describing my beloved Alys.” He put a palm on his chest. “I am here to help. Make what use of me you see fit.”
“I am most grateful to you.”
“Let us go on.” The monk fell in beside him and they continued on up the hill. “We passed your hospital on our way here and offered up a prayer for the souls within.”
“Leprosy is a dreadful affliction. Its victims deserve the utmost sympathy and yet their very condition provokes disgust. Many turn away in horror.”
“Bertha did not.”
“No more do I. The lepers are my flock.”
“Which one of them discovered the body?”
“His name is Alain.”
“French?”
“Of mixed blood.”
“Then he and I will have something in common.”
“It will be the only thing, I fear.”
“What do you mean?”
“Be warned, Master Bret. He is an odd fellow. Withdrawn and often unfriendly. Even I cannot reach him at times. Alain is not liked by the others. Talk to him, if you must.”
“He may have seen something that nobody else noticed.”
“He may, indeed,” said Martin. “But will he tell you what it was? That is the question. Alain is very stubborn. The likelihood is that he will refuse to say a single word.”
Golde was saddened by the turn of events and anxious to do all she could to relieve the distress. She sat at Eadgyth’s bedside to console her, she helped to tend the baby, she took charge of the servants and she shouldered the household cares as if they were her own. Osbern the Reeve was struck by her maternal warmth and loving kindness. Ralph looked on with proud approval.
Canon Hubert, finding the house too full and too preoccupied, returned to the prior after asking that Gervase should send the requested documents after him in due course.
Eadgyth was patently unwell. When the first shock of the tragedy had worn off, it was replaced by a deep and agonising sense of loss. The effort of comforting Bertha’s father had also told on her. She was pale, distracted and very queasy. It was after she had been sick for the third time that her anxious husband sent for the doctor.
“How is she?” asked Ralph.
“As well as can be expected.”
“Have you given her physic?”
“I have prepared a sleeping draught for her. Eadgyth needs rest.
Grief is a form of illness. It taxes the mind and debilitates the body. Sleep is the only cure.”
Helto the Doctor was a tall, thin, angular man with a peremptory manner which did nothing to recommend him to Ralph. The doctor was used to talking to patients who were too unwell to answer back and too weak to resist any medicine he prescribed or any course of treatment he advocated. Five minutes alone with Eadgyth had been followed by some clipped orders to Osbern. Intercepting him as he was about to leave, Ralph was less inclined to defer to him or to tolerate his professional brusqueness.
“Is there no more you can do for her?” he demanded.
“No, my lord.”
“Could you not at least show the woman some sympathy?”
“I do,” said Helto, bridling at the implied criticism. “I have the greatest sympathy for Eadgyth and by far the most understanding of her condition. She has been a patient of mine for many years and it was I who helped to bring her child into the world.”
“I am sure you are an able midwife,” said Ralph.
“Do I detect a note of sarcasm, my lord?”
“You hear only a slight irritation.”
“With me? What is the cause?”
“Your haste, for one thing. The lady of the house lies in obvious distress yet you do little more than look at her before you are rushing out of the house again.”
Helto was checked. There was an authority and firmness of purpose about Ralph that he did not care to challenge. A Norman lord who was the guest of the town reeve had to be a person of some consequence. The doctor rubbed his palms and swiftly adopted a more respectful tone.