“Not only here,” intervened Gervase. “I believe that cathedral and abbey have other differences to settle.”
“Other differences?”
“The election of their new abbot.”
“He has already been appointed.”
“Without their endorsement.”
“Abbot Guy is the archbishop’s nominated choice.”
“Why does St. Augustine’s resist it so strongly?”
“Their obstinacy is no concern of yours,” said Henry with his equanimity intact. “It is an internal matter and has no bearing whatsoever on the business in hand.”
“Unless it provides a motive,” added Ralph.
“Motive?”
“Abbey and cathedral are at each other’s throat. The cowl may make you equal brothers but that does not stop you squabbling like fishwives.” Ralph stared him in the eye. “I have heard of this wrangling over the new abbot. Is that why you lay claim to St.
Augustine’s property? Is the archbishop punishing them for daring to defy him? Tell him this, Prior Henry. We will not be used as a stick to beat the abbey into submission.”
“I will report all that has passed between us,” said the other, quite unruffled. “What more can be done now?”
“Nothing, until we have studied your documents.”
“Then I will leave them in your safekeeping.” He rose to his feet and the two monks leaped up obediently, hanging on his command. “When will I be required again?”
“When we send for you, Prior Henry.”
“We must hear from the abbey first,” said Hubert with a placatory note, fearing what might be said about him to the archbishop.
“Prior Gregory is on his way here now.”
“Yes,” said Ralph pointedly. “Had you been more amenable, we might have saved him the journey. But your mind is plainly set on joining battle.”
Prior Henry looked along the table with a quiet smile.
“We mean to fight,” he vowed. “Tooth and nail.”
Golde sat with her beside the crib and gazed down at the sleeping baby. He looked peaceful and contented. Eadgyth had been well enough to feed him and her love had surged when she saw her son guzzling happily at the breast. The needs of the child had pushed her grief aside and concentrated her mind.
Golde sought other ways to deflect her from a brooding sadness.
In the brief time they had known each other, she had grown fond of the young mother. Studying her now, Golde found it hard to believe that someone who looked so robust could really be so delicate.
“You are blessed in your husband,” said Golde.
“I know,” agreed the other, “and I am never likely to forget it.
Osbern is a wonderful man. He is so tolerant of my weaknesses and so uncomplaining about my follies.”
“He is a lucky man to have such a beautiful wife.”
“That is what he tells me.”
“How did you meet him?”
“By chance, Golde. It was in the market. I had been sent to buy some fish. When I looked up from the stall, I saw him not five yards away. Osbern was arguing with one of the stallholders. It was about payment of rent, he later told me. Osbern suddenly caught my eye and gave me such a sweet smile that I carried the memory of it around with me for days.”
“Did you not speak to him?”
“I did not dare, Golde.”
“Nothing else passed between you?”
“Just the look. And the smile. They were enough.”
“When did you see him again?”
“Not for a week or more,” said Eadgyth. “I thought he had forgotten me. Or left Canterbury altogether. For all I knew, he was just a visitor to the city. I had no idea that he was so important. The town reeve, no less.” She gave a girlish laugh. “It seemed impossible. I was so young and silly. Osbern was so mature and serious.”
“But it happened.”
“Yes, Golde! He came looking for me.”
“And all because you went to buy some fish!”
They exchanged a laugh and Eadgyth’s face lit up with joy.
She looked at her son, remembered the loving husband whose name he bore and she basked for a moment in her good fortune.
The clouds soon came. A frown distorted her brow and her lip began to quiver. Golde embraced her and rocked her gently to and fro.
“It is a sin to be so happy,” sobbed Eadgyth.
“No, it is not.”
“Bertha lies dead and I am boasting about my husband.”
“He will help you through your bereavement.”
“I cannot believe I will never see her again.”
“Fate can be very cruel.”
“Bertha was so kind to me. She took such a pleasure in my joy.
At our wedding, Bertha was the first person to rush up to kiss me. She was delighted that I found Osbern. She loved to see me happy. Bertha was never jealous.”
“That is true friendship, Eadgyth. To look on the joy of others and feel no envy. You and she were so close. When you married Osbern and committed yourself to him, there must have been a sense of loss for her.”
“Bertha never complained. She understood.”
“Understood?”
“Yes,” said Eadgyth dreamily. “It happened for her, too. Bertha knew what it was to love a man so completely. She told me about him.” She clutched at Golde as the sobbing started again. “Bertha is dead. He has lost her forever.”
“Who has?”
“Her friend.”
CHAPTER SIX
The confrontation took place in the parish church of St.
Mildred’s. Reinbald the Priest was there with two of the sheriff’s officers but they were largely silent witnesses. Monk and doctor went into the morgue together with a candle apiece. Earnest discussion was heard in the cramped chamber where the girl’s body lay under its shroud. When the two finally emerged into the nave, each was firmly convinced that he was in the right.
“Will you agree with me now?” asked Brother Martin.
“Indeed I will not,” said Helto the Doctor. “My initial diagnosis was correct. Bertha was bitten by a snake.”
“After she was dead.”
“That is an absurd suggestion, Brother Martin.”
“All the evidence points to it.”
“Only in your mind. And that, with respect, is befuddled by the natural grief you feel at this terrible loss. You knew Bertha as a dear friend and a loyal assistant at the hospital. Her death is bound to affect you deeply.”
“Her murder affects me even more.”
“The girl was killed by snakebite.”
“Then how do you explain the bruising on her neck?”
“The result of the poison.”
“The throat would not be so discoloured.”
“Strange things happen to a body after death. They can be very misleading to the untutored eye. I see nothing here to indicate foul play.”
“Then you are badly mistaken!” insisted the old man.
“And you are very confused!”
The priest stepped in. “Do not raise your voices in the house of the Lord,” he chided. “If you want an argument, take it outside into the street.”
“It is no argument, Father Reinbald,” said Helto. “It is just an honest difference of opinion. Brother Martin and I have viewed the body together. He sees one thing, I see another.”
“Who is right?” asked one of the officers.
“I am,” said the doctor peremptorily.
“No, I am,” argued the monk. “Helto the Doctor may know more about medicine than I do. I accept that. He looks on corpses in this city every week and recognises death in its various guises.
His reputation is high.”
“Then why do you challenge him?” asked Reinbald.
“Because he is mistaken for once.”
“Impossible!”
“You are wrong, Helto!”
“Not so, Brother Martin!”
“It is! I would take an oath on it!”
“Who is the physician here!”
“Peace, sirs!” implored Reinbald, moving between them to push them gently apart. “Remember the poor creature who lies not ten yards away from us. She is entitled to respect.”
“Respect and reverence,” added the monk sadly. “We are justly rebuked, Father Reinbald. I beg your forgiveness.”