“A handsome Frenchman in his thirties with a scorn for the basic tenets of Christianity.”
“Who likes to hide behind a cowl,” said Ralph with a grin. “Pull back the hood of every monk in Canterbury and we will find the one without a tonsure. You take the priory and I will search the abbey.”
“Be serious, Ralph. We must catch him another way.”
“Alwin is still our surest guide.”
“But he refused to help you.”
“I’ll be more forceful this time, Gervase. My visit to Faversham has given me a powerful threat to use against him.”
“Threat?”
“Juliana. If Alwin will not tell us all he knows, I’ll set his sister-in-law onto him.” He chuckled merrily. “Juliana would beat the truth out of him with her bare fists.”
The first punch broke his nose and sent him staggering back with blood streaming down his lips. A second caught him on the ear and made his head ring. Third, fourth and fifth punches were delivered to the midriff and knocked all the breath out of him. It was the sixth blow which felled him, a vicious uppercut to his chin which made his teeth rattle. After that, he lost count.
Alwin the Sailor slumped to the floor in a flurry of punches and kicks. He was a strong man but all resistance was beaten out of him by the flailing fists and the swinging feet. It was no covert attack. Alwin was sitting in his boat when the two men accosted him. There were several witnesses near the quayside in Fordwich but none dared to intervene. Most turned their backs out of fear or indifference. Some felt that Alwin was getting no more than he deserved.
The punishment continued long after the victim was senseless.
It only stopped when the two assailants began to tire. Sweating profusely from their exertions, the brawny young men swayed over the body on the deck, their shoes stained by the blood now gushing from a dozen wounds. As a final act of violence, they suddenly grabbed hold of him and lifted him in the air before hurling him into the river with a loud splash. Their work was done. Heedless of his fate, they walked away from the quay.
It was only then that others leaped into action, rushing to save the drowning sailor. One man dived into the water to reclaim the body while another threw a rope after him. Two more lent their aid and the victim was hauled slowly back into his boat.
Alwin lay face-up on the deck, soaked to the skin, streaming with fresh blood, expelling water from his mouth and threshing wildly about like a beached whale.
Canon Hubert could not contain his sense of outrage. As soon as Brother Martin had been laid to rest in the cemetery at Christ Church Priory, the monks dispersed with dignified sorrow to mourn their loss in their own way. Hubert sought an immediate audience with Prior Henry and the two of them adjourned to the private parlour in his lodgings.
Behind the mask of impassivity, Henry was fuming.
“Could this not wait at least a decent interval?”
“I fear not, Prior Henry.”
“Brother Martin has only just been lowered into his grave.”
“This concerns his murder.”
“I find your conduct most unseemly, Canon Hubert.”
“You may not do so when you hear my explanation.”
“Pardon will not come easily from me.”
“Hear me out, Prior Henry. That is all I ask.”
The prior lowered himself into his chair and put the tips of his fingers together, regarding his visitor with an icy disapproval which would have quelled most people. Canon Hubert was made of more durable material. Standing before the table, he inhaled deeply and began his denunciation. He described exactly what he had experienced in Harbledown.
Henry’s reservations quickly melted and, once roused, his curiosity moved through keen interest and utter fascination to a controlled horror. By the time that Hubert had finished his account, the prior was back on his feet to put him under close questioning.
“Whom else have you told about this, Canon Hubert?”
“Gervase Bret was with me at the time.”
“Was he likewise scandalised?”
“Yes,” said Hubert. “But not to the same degree. He is a layman and does not have the same spiritual insight as someone who has spent his whole life in the Church.”
“He had the sense to take your opinion and for that we must be grateful. I have had vague warnings of all this from Brother Bartholomew and Brother Vitalis. They were sent to Harbledown to take over the running of the hospital when Brother Martin was killed. The urgency of the situation meant that have spent most of the time placating the lepers but they have obviously taken services in the church.”
“Did they not feel its malign influence?”
“They spoke only of a sense of unease.”
“Heresy is writ large across the altar cloth.”
“It has taken your sharper eye to decipher it. I will view the place myself in time but this is too sinister a development for independent action on my part. Archbishop Lanfranc must be informed at once.”
“I am gratified by your response, Prior Henry.”
“Your report is alarming,” confided the other. “All the more so because it is matched by intelligence we have gathered from other sources. Suffice to say that a threat has been identified more clearly. For such evil to appear anywhere would be a cause for dismay. But when it arrives on the very doorstep of Canterbury Cathedral, when it defies the anointed head of the English Church, when it hurls such vile abuse at Christianity itself, it must provoke an instant and merciless reaction.”
“I heartily endorse those sentiments,” said Hubert.
“Archbishop Lanfranc will say no less himself.”
“Please convey my warmest greetings to him.”
“You may do so yourself, Canon Hubert.”
“Myself?”
“The archbishop will want to hear your testimony in full. You will imagine his distress when he first heard that Brother Martin had been killed within the hallowed walls of a church which Archbishop Lanfranc himself founded. When he comprehends the full extent of the desecration, he will strike back like an avenging angel.”
Prior Henry snatched up a bell on his desk and rang it decisively.
A monk entered at once, received a whispered message and hastened away. Canon Hubert savoured the sudden improvement in his fortunes. He would not only meet Lanfranc in person, he would now do so with the status of a loyal intelligencer for the Church. It was impossible to bear any real affection for Prior Henry but Hubert disliked him considerably less. Uniting in the face of a common enemy, they clearly had distinct affinities.
Hubert stalked the room and washed his hands in the air, nervously awaiting the summons from Lanfranc. He soon worked himself back up into a lather of indignation.
“Jesus warned against false prophets who would take His Name in vain,” he said querulously. “We have one in our midst.”
“He will be exposed.”
“Where can such foul heresy have originated?”
“We may have the answer to that.”
“Was this devil sent from Hell itself?”
“No, Canon Hubert. We believe he comes from Orleans.”
They sat in a large circle around him with heads bowed and minds awaiting the illumination of his word. There was one empty chair.
Someone was missing. The man who stood at the centre of the circle showed no sign of impatience. He was tall, slim, well-favoured and unobtrusively commanding. His white robe accentuated the black beard, which in turn threw the sallow skin and the piercing green eyes into relief. There was a quiet charisma about him which everyone around him felt even when they were not looking at him. His presence seemed to fill the room.
They were in the parlour of the manor house. Shutters were closed to guarantee privacy and servants were posted outside to prevent any intrusion. The figures in the circle were drawn closer together by a common faith and a shared purpose but everything radiated out from their leader like the spokes of a wheel. He was the hub of all activity. They could feel him as surely as if he were reaching out to touch them.