“Rest here awhile and leave the search to us.”
“No, Brother Martin. She is my daughter. I must be there.”
The old monk saw the haunted eyes in the grim face.
“Is there something you have not told me?” he said.
Alwin winced then shook his head firmly in denial. He could not share his thoughts even with the kindly Brother Martin.
Remorse was stifled. Using his staff to ease hack some bushes, Alwin continued the search.
Appropriately, it was the leper who found her. Nobody had even noticed him, emerging from the trees like a ghost to join the end of the line. He was a tall, stooping figure in a leper’s cloak with his wooden begging bowl and clapper dangling from the cord at his waist. His head was enveloped by the hood and his face shrouded by a veil. The sound that came from his throat was high and piercing, like that of an animal caught in a snare.
Pointing with horror, the leper was standing beside a clump of holly. His withered hand seemed to feel no pain as it pushed through the sharp leaves. He let out another cry before shuffling away in the direction of the hospital. By the time they reached the holly, the leper had vanished.
Bertha was there. Lying on her back in the moist grass, she looked at first as if she were sleeping peacefully. Her apparel was slightly torn and soiled but there were no marks of violence upon her. The ring of faces watched as Alwin pushed his way through to her. Torn between hope and despair, he crouched beside his beloved daughter.
“Bertha,” he called softly. “Wake up, Bertha.”
He reached out to shake her arm but a sudden movement in the grass made him draw quickly back. Gasps went up from the watching group. A long, thick, gleaming snake darted from the shadow behind the girl’s head to make a bid for freedom. One savage blow from the mattock killed it instantly but its venom had already claimed a victim.
The telltale marks of fangs showed on Bertha’s exposed neck, dark spots of doom on white alabaster innocence. Alwin collapsed in tears beside his daughter. Her young life had been snatched away by one of the serpents of Harbledown.
CHAPTER ONE
Marriage had definitely mellowed him. There was no outward difference in Ralph Delchard but his attitudes subtly changed, his manner softened perceptibly and he even became acquainted with such virtues as patience and consideration for others. A quiet wedding had suited them both. He and Golde exchanged their vows in the tiny chapel at his manor house in Hampshire. Gervase Bret and Aelgar, the bride’s younger sister, were among the handful of witnesses, though a service of holy matrimony before a large congregation at a cathedral could not have bound the couple more indissolubly together. Ralph and Golde found an even deeper contentment. Only one shadow lay across their happiness.
“I am eternally sorry, my love,” sighed Ralph.
“You have been saying that since we left Winchester.”
“Had my wishes prevailed, we would never have stirred out of Hampshire. Nor out of the bedchamber. The delights of marriage are there to be savoured to the full.”
“They will be.”
“Not while we are riding across three counties.”
“The King’s orders must be obeyed,” said Golde.
“Even when they countermand our pleasure?”
“Being with you is pleasure enough, Ralph.”
She held out a hand and he squeezed it affectionately.
They were on the last stage of their journey into Kent, riding at the rear of the little cavalcade as it wended its way between trees in full leaf, hedgerows in their summer radiance and wildflowers in colourful abundance. Sheep and cattle grazed on rich pastures. Orchards blossomed. The warm air clung to them like familiar garments.
Golde looked around her with wonder and approval.
“Kent is one huge garden,” she observed.
“That is why we have been sent here,” he said sourly. “To pluck up weeds. To cut back brambles. To clear away stones. I yearn to be a lusty bridegroom and am instead employed as a royal gardner.”
“I will wait.”
“You will have to, my love. So will I. The King’s acres must be tended.” They rode on in companionable silence for a few minutes, then his shoulder accidentally brushed hers. He turned to smile down at her. “Are you happy?”
A deliberate pause. “I think so,” she teased.
“You only think? You do not feel it in your bones?”
“It will take time to grow accustomed to the shock.”
“Shock!” he exclaimed. “Becoming my wife was a kind of shock to you? Is that what you are saying?”
“I never expected to marry a Norman lord.”
“No more did I look to wed a Saxon brewer.”
“Then we have each surprised the other.”
“That is certainly true,” he agreed cheerily. “We are a portent of the future. Enemies blending into friendship. The conqueror reconciled with the conquered. The wolf lying down with the lamb.”
He gave a wry chuckle. “When time and the call of duty permit him that joy.”
They were seventeen in number. Apart from the newlyweds, there were twelve men-at-arms from Ralph’s own retinue, a vital escort through open country where bands of robbers and masterless men lurked in wait for prey. The sight of so many helms and hauberks, moving in disciplined formation, would deter any attack and lend status to the embassy when it reached its destination. Sumpter horses were pulled along on lead reins, though most of the provisions they carried had already been eaten on the previous day.
Ralph usually rode at the head of the column to set the pace, lead the way and attest his status. Pride of place on this occasion had been yielded to Canon Hubert, face aglow with missionary zeal, voluminous body overflowing and all but concealing the little donkey who toiled so gallantly beneath its holy burden. Behind Hubert was Gervase Bret, the shrewd young lawyer, riding beside the gaunt figure of Brother Simon, who sat astride a horse almost as frail and emaciated as himself. Plucked from the cloister against his will and suffering extreme embarrassment whenever he was thrust into lay company, Simon had nevertheless proved himself a loyal and efficient scribe to the commissioners.
Though a wedding ceremony had absolved Ralph and Golde of the sin of cohabitation, and made their love acceptable in the eyes of God, the monk still found the mere presence of a woman unnerving and he preferred to travel in the wake of the huge undulating buttocks of Canon Hubert rather than risk any contact with the gracious lady behind him. Simon also drew strength from the friendship of Gervase Bret, whose intelligent conversation was a blessed relief after the robust mockery to which Ralph Delchard often subjected the monk.
Hubert goaded a steady trot out of the hapless beast beneath him. Ordinarily, the canon was a reluctant traveller who punctuated even the shortest excursion with a series of harsh complaints but he was now beaming with satisfaction and making light of any bodily discomfort. He tossed words of explanation over his shoulder.
“Canterbury is not far away now,” he said excitedly. “I long to meet my old friend and mentor. Archbishop Lanfranc will be pleased to see me again.”
“He holds you in high regard,” said the admiring Simon. “And with good reason, Canon Hubert.”
“I was his sub-prior when he held sway at Bec.”
A memory nudged Gervase. “Was not Abbot Herluin the father of the house in your time?”
“He was indeed,” confirmed Hubert, “and held the office worthily.
But he was much troubled by sickness. Abbot Herluin was the first to admit that it was Prior Lanfranc who gave the house its spiritual lustre and its scholastic reputation. That is what drew me to Bee as it attracted so many others.” A fond smile danced around his lips. “I revere the man. He is an example to us all. A saint in human guise.”
Scattered copses thickened into woodland before giving way to pasture and stream. Canon Hubert pointed with almost childlike glee at the hill which came into view in the middle distance. It rose sharply toward a straggle of thatched cottages. Nestled cosily into the hillside, like a cat in a basket, was a small stone church with a steep roof and windows with rounded arches. Wattle huts were clustered below it in a crude semicircle.