“We do not wish this dispute to continue,” said Ralph. “It has already dragged on for far too long.”
“I could not agree with you more,” said Henry. “It is my hope-
and the archbishop’s fervent desire-that we may reach some sort of resolution by the end of the day.”
“It lies within your power to reach it immediately.”
“Does it, my lord?”
“Surrender your claim and the matter is ended.”
“I see that you mean to draw some amusement from this case,”
said Henry, drily. “Do you have any more jests to make before we address this dispute with requisite solemnity?”
“My suggestion was quite serious, Prior Henry.”
“Then make it to the Abbey of St. Augustine. Persuade them to abandon their folly and cede the property to its rightful owner, the Archbishop of Canterbury.”
“King William owns the land,” corrected Canon Hubert with terse pedantry. “His subjects only hold it from him as tenants.”
“A pointless quibble.”
“Not to royal officials, Prior Henry.”
Hubert sat back complacently, feeling that he had just repaid the prior for some of the slights he believed he had suffered at the man’s hands, and grateful to have been given an early opportunity to demonstrate to Ralph Delchard that he showed no favour toward the cathedral. Prior Henry seemed quite unperturbed. Any irritation or discomfort was carefully hidden behind an inscrutable expression and a voice of measured calm.
“Why do you offer such preposterous counsel, my lord?” he asked. “I presume that you have some sort of reason.”
“The desire for a swift and just solution.”
“Swift, it would certainly be-but hardly just.”
“A pointless quibble,” echoed Ralph with irony.
“I see that you are no lawyer, my lord.”
“Gervase fulfills that role,” said Ralph, turning to his colleague.
“He will refresh our minds on this issue.”
Gervase glanced down at the parchment in front of him and translated the Latin abbreviations with practised ease.
“This is the entry for Fordwich Hundred. ‘A small borough which is called Fordwich. King Edward gave two parts of this borough to St. Augustine’s; but the Bishop of Bayeux, with King William’s assent, also assigned to St. Augustine’s the third part, which had belonged to Earl Godwin. It answers for 1 yoke. There were 100 measures of land less 4 there which paid 13 shillings. Now there are 73 dwellings which pay as much. Value before 1066 and later 100 shillings; now?11,2 shillings. There are also 24 acres of land which St. Augustine’s always had, where there were and are six burgesses who pay 22 shillings.’ ”
Ralph smirked. “Note how often the name of St. Augustine’s Abbey is mentioned.”
“There is more,” said Henry. “Allow him to finish.”
“Gervase?”
“One last entry, my lord, ‘In this Borough Archbishop Lanfranc holds seven measures of land which served St. Augustine’s before 1066; now the Archbishop takes their service from it.’ That is a full extract from the returns.”
“There it stands,” said Ralph. “Such are the facts as elicited by our predecessors when they came into Kent to collect all the information germane to the Great Survey. They were exceedingly thorough.”
“They were,” said Prior Henry equably. “Thorough and conscientious. They worked to the best of their limited abilities.
I look for no less of their successors.”
Ralph was jangled. “ ‘Limited abilities’?”
“That is not meant as a criticism.”
“It does not have the ring of praise about it.”
“Let me explain,” said the prior easily. “The first commissioners were trusted laymen of high rank, sent into this county to assess the value of its property and to determine its ownership. Or,” he added, flicking a glance at Canon Hubert, “if that word offends you, to determine which of his tenant-in-chiefs held the land of the King. But your predecessors worked under two huge constraints.”
“Constraints?” said Hubert.
“They were not well versed in the laws of property and they were ordered to collect their evidence quickly and send their returns to the Exchequer. Ignorance and haste are the enemies of fair judgement. You see both reflected in the extract which Master Bret read out to us just now.” He aimed a polite smile at Gervase. “On which subject, may I say that I would have preferred to hear the original Latin so that I could place my own interpretation upon it. Certain words always pale in translation.”
“I am starting to pale under your strictures,” said Ralph in exasperation. “May I remind you that we are here by royal warrant, Prior Henry, and that entitles us to your respect? We sit in judgement on you and will not have our own work, or that of our predecessors, put on trial. You are not in the chapter-house now, talking down to a flock of monastic sheep, too frightened even to bleat in protest. If the meek are set to inherit the earth, you will not find any landholders sitting at this table.” He heard the squeak from the shocked Brother Simon. “Except, perhaps, our scribe.”
Canon Hubert goggled and the two monks from Christ Church Priory were so scandalised that they began to gibber. Gervase smiled inwardly. But the outburst had no discernible effect on Prior Henry. He remained calm and poised. It only served to annoy Ralph even more.
“Let us proceed to the crux of the matter,” he said.
“I am listening, my lord.”
“In the survey of this county, Fordwich is listed as part of the land held by St. Augustine’s Abbey. There is documentary evidence to support this. You have none.”
“The charters were destroyed by fire.”
“What proof do we have that they ever existed?”
“Letters and depositions from some of the brothers who were at the priory before it was caught in the blaze.”
“Saxon monks?” said Hubert.
“Naturally.”
“You accept their word?”
“Without reservation.”
“Then your memory betrays you, Prior Henry,” said the canon with relish. “When Archbishop Lanfranc first came to Canterbury in the year of our Lord, 1070, he was appalled by what he found.
The monks had dwindled in number and strayed disastrously from the Rule. They hunted, fished, bloated themselves on rich food and often drank themselves into a stupor. Some-I am ashamed to recall this-were given to carnal pleasure with women.”
“God protect us!” gasped Brother Simon.
“Duty and reverence were forgotten. They were a stain upon the reputation of the Benedictine Order.”
“All this is true,” confessed Henry. “The archbishop moved swiftly and sternly to remedy this disgrace. Those who stayed within the enclave are truly contrite.”
“I find it difficult to trust them wholeheartedly.”
“Because they are Saxon?” The prior clicked his tongue. “I am disappointed in you, Canon Hubert. The cowl makes us all equal.
Saxon, Norman, Welsh, Irish, Breton, Flemish or Spanish, monks are brothers who make no distinction about nationality.
Archbishop Lanfranc is an Italian. So am I. So, of course, is Anselm of Bec, who became prior there when you felt that you were destined for that office.”
Hubert smouldered. The reproof was all the more wounding for being delivered in such an even-tempered way. Prior Henry’s mild tongue had the power of a lash. It had been painful enough when they were alone together but this public humiliation was far worse.
“Our hopes of a speedy end to this dispute have been dashed,”
sighed Ralph. “You clearly mean to contest this case.”
“What is the alternative, my lord?”
“A sensible compromise.”
“Victory is the only compromise we will accept.”
“That will mean a long and bitter battle.”
“So be it. The abbey is grievously at fault here.”