“He feels threatened,” explained Ralph. “Brother Simon’s body is a temple of purity. He would die rather than let any monstrous females break into that temple.”
“Is that what I am? A monstrous female?”
“Only in his eyes.” He squeezed her hands. “Simon took the cowl in flight from feminine charms. He turned white with horror today when he discovered that the monks in Christ Church Priory had held wild orgies at one time.”
“Orgies?”
“Apparently. Wine in quantity and women in abundance. A potent mixture. Archbishop Lanfranc put a stop to all that. He has even enforced celibacy among the secular clergy now. That is why you see so many sad faces in Canterbury.” He chuckled, then gave her another kiss before abruptly changing the subject.
“I am hungry. When will we eat?”
“They are preparing the meal now.”
“Good.”
“But we cannot sit down without Gervase.”
“Forget him. He may be an hour or more.”
“Where has he gone?”
“Harbledown,” said Ralph. “I have told him he must not get drawn into this business but my words fall on deaf ears. Under that self-effacing manner, Gervase Bret has an iron will. When he wishes to do something, a whole army could not stop him.”
Released from the business of the day, Gervase rode out through Westgate and took a more wide-ranging look at Harbledown.
When he came to the archbishop’s palace, he slowed his horse to a trot so that he could survey the rambling manor house with its commodious interior and substantial, well-tended garden. It was built of timber and stone on a choice site.
Twenty-seven dwellings had been destroyed to make way for Lanfranc’s imposing new home and Gervase paused to wonder what had happened to all those luckless families who had been summarily evicted by religion. A day in the shire hall had given him an insight into the politics of Christ Church Priory and it occurred to him that some of its older monks must have been dismayed when the archbishop first arrived in the city and, instead of living in the enclave himself and sharing in its austerities, sacked their dean, installed Prior Henry in his place, then constructed the palace in Harbledown. The community at St.
Augustine’s Abbey were probably not alone in harbouring a grudge against Lanfranc.
Gervase rode off at a canter. Having mused on the small human imperfections of the archbishop, he was overwhelmed by a consideration of his good works. Lanfranc had brought a new zest and organisation to the religious life of the city. Centered in the cathedral and the priory, it reached out in all directions and spread slowly throughout the whole kingdom. It was churlish to criticise a man for living in a comfortable house when he had shown such compassion for the poor, the sick and the aged. The hospital of St. Nicholas was only one small monument to Lanfranc’s abiding charity.
Alain was sitting outside his hut when Gervase rode up. The leper watched as the newcomer tethered his horse to a yew tree and walked across to him.
“Good day to you, Alain!”
“There is no goodness in any of my days.”
“That is not true,” said Gervase. “I think that Bertha brought a species of goodness here. Do you miss her?”
“We must learn to live without Bertha.”
“Do you not pine?”
Alain fell silent but his sagging shoulders and downcast head were an eloquent answer. Gervase felt a rush of sympathy. The plight of the lepers was piteous. They would not easily find another friend like Bertha.
“We spoke yesterday,” Gervase reminded him.
“Not at my behest.”
“Do you remember what I said?”
“No.”
“You do, Alain. I asked you what you saw when you found Bertha.
You wouldn’t tell me. I need to know.”
“I saw only what you saw.”
“Nothing more?”
An insolent pause. “Nothing more.”
Gervase nodded. Alain was still unready to trust him. The only person who might get through to him was Brother Martin. It was time to enlist his help to win over Alain. When Gervase looked around, the leper lifted a hand to point.
“Brother Martin is in the church.”
“Thank you.”
“Do not come back.”
Gervase gave up for the second time and strolled up to the litle church, lifting the iron latch on the door. The place seemed empty as he stepped inside and his footsteps echoed in the hollow nave. Brother Martin was not there. Gervase was just about to leave when he caught sight of him at last, seated on a bench up a pillar. With his hood pulled up, his black cowl merged with the dark shadow. The old monk had evidently drifted off to sleep.
It was not surprising. Brother Martin had been like a second father to Bertha and his grief was intense. What made it even more unbearable was the knowledge that the girl had been murdered while returning from the leper hospital. The old monk was bound to reflect that she might still be alive if she had remained in the safety of the city instead of walking alone through the countryside. Loss and guilt were heavy burdens.
Gervase sought to lift some of them from his friend.
“Brother Martin!” he whispered. “It is Gervase.”
The monk did not stir. Gervase touched his arm.
“Brother Martin,” he said, giving him a firm shake.
Making no sound, the black-clad figure fell softly forward to land in an undignified heap on the floor. Gervase bent down to turn him over, and shook him again. But he was far too late.
Sightless eyes gazed up at him and the mouth hung open.
Brother Martin’s selfless life was over.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Gervase was completely numbed. He shook his head in disbelief. Brother Martin could not possibly be dead. The monk was old and weary but he had an inner spark which drove him on and which defied the nudging deteriorations of time. He would never leave his charges at the hospital without even the courtesy of a farewell. Brother Martin lived for his work. It animated his whole being. Surrounded by the ugliness of lepers, he showed the true beauty of God’s work. The Almighty would never call him so soon from his labours.
That thought made Gervase’s mind race. If Brother Martin had gone before his time, it had to be by the hand of another. Unnatural death had taken place in the church. Murder and sacrilege had worked cunningly together. Gervase knelt beside the prostrate form but his own shadow simply deepened the pool of gloom around the monk. Low in the sky, the evening sun was throwing only a meagre handful of light in through the small windows.
A single candle burned on the altar. Gervase swiftly retrieved it and held it close to the face of the fallen man, carefully peeling back the hood until his tonsured head was completely exposed.
As Gervase examined him with care, the flame slowly circled the head like a halo but Brother Martin was no slaughtered saint.
There was no blood, no bruising, no wound of any kind on the head, face or neck. When Gervase ran the candle over the chest and legs, he found no weapon protruding and no sodden patch of blood to show where one might have been inserted and withdrawn.
Rolling the corpse gently over, he conducted a similar search along the man’s back but that, too, showed no signs of violence or foul play. Gervase eased him over once more so that he lay face upward and used tender fingers to close the eyelids. It seemed as if Brother Martin had, after all, exhausted his natural span and slid serenely out of the world. The hospital which had given him his sense of purpose also took it away from him. His ceaseless toil among the lepers had eventually worn him down.
Bertha had taken some of the unremitting work onto her young shoulders. Now that it had been shifted back on to Brother Martin, he could no longer cope with it.
Anguish and stress must also have played their part. Shocked by the sudden death of a loved one, he was not able to mourn her passing in privacy. Brother Martin had also taken on the crushing responsibility of setting a murder inquiry in motion, gathering the evidence, submitting it to the sheriff, haggling with Helto the Doctor and then confronting Alwin the Sailor with the truth about his daughter’s death. Such strain and tension would have taxed a much younger man.