“We believe so, Hubert.”
For the first ten minutes of the audience, Canon Hubert was too overwhelmed to do anything more than stand, listen and nod in agreement. The situation in which he found himself surpassed his most ambitious imaginings. In company with Prior Henry, he was in the exalted presence of no less a personage than Archbishop Lanfranc, primate of the Holy Church of Canterbury and the appointed voice of Christianity in the kingdom. Hubert was in a state of high exhilaration.
There had been nothing formal about Lanfranc’s welcome. He had risen from his seat to embrace Canon Hubert with warm affection, apologising for not being able to see him before and assuring him that their happy days together at Bec were often in his mind. Hubert was overjoyed. Lanfranc had aged considerably since their last meeting but he was still recognisable as the inspirational prior of Bec under whom Hubert had served with such love and alacrity.
Now in his late seventies, he was worn down by the cares of state and by the immense ecclesiastical responsibilities which he carried. Rounded shoulders, a curving spine and silver hair told one tale but it was contradicted by the vitality in the wrinkled face and by the astonishing power of his mind.
They were in his parlour. While his visitors stood before him, Lanfranc was sitting in his high-backed carved chair, a large gold crucifix on the wall behind his head. He made the self-effacing gesture which Hubert remembered so well.
“I was content as prior of Bec,” he said. “I was even more content as abbot of Caen. What more could a man want on this earth?
Nothing! Why should I choose to leave all that and come to Canterbury? When the King invited me, I tried to decline. When Pope Alexander, of blessed memory, sent his legates to enforce that invitation, I pleaded in vain my incapacity and unworthiness, my ignorance of the language and of the barbarous people here.
King William would have me.”
“The English Church has been the beneficiary,” said Henry.
“I have done my best, ill-suited as I am.”
“No man could have done more, Your Grace.”
“They could, they could, Prior Henry.” He held his palms up to heaven. “The miseries I endured when I came here! The suffering, the harshness, the avarice, the lust and the baseness I saw all around me! Why was I dragged from the monastic life I love into this wilderness? Without Henry as my prior and Ernulf of Beauvais to teach scholarship, I never could have survived. Yet by the grace of God, and by His divine mercy, I did.”
“With honour, Your Grace,” said Hubert.
“We tried. And there have been successes. We have built and we have educated. We have brought the fruits of civilisation and culture to a land devoid of both when we first arrived. When I depart this world-and God cannot put off the call much longer- I wish to leave the English Church in a far healthier state than when I found it.” A note of rancour was injected. “And I cannot do that when it is threatened by the worm of heresy.”
“Tell Canon Hubert about Orleans,” suggested Henry.
“Oh, dear! Yes, Orleans. Philippe Berbizier.”
“They drove him out in time.”
“He should have been caught and burned to death like the rest of them. Fire consumes evil. It is the only way to rid ourselves of it.” The furrows deepened in his brow. “Philipe Berbizier is a monster. Orleans is a centre of learning and a city of great spiritual worth. It was into this place of beauty that Philippe Berbizier crawled like a serpent, tempting the weak-minded and corrupting the young. He even drew one of the canons of the church of Holy Cross into his circle of damnation.”
“What was the nature of their heresy?” asked Hubert.
“They spurned orthodoxy,” said Lanfranc. “They claimed that Christ was not born of the Virgin Mary.”
“God preserve us!”
“They said that Christ did not suffer on the Cross for mankind.
He was not buried in the sepulchre or raised from the dead.
And,” he continued, grasping the arms of his chair, “that the sacraments themselves had no validity.”
“This is intolerable.”
“There is worse, Canon Hubert. It involves carnal acts with young women as part of their ritual. One of the accused even talked about the ashes of a murdered baby, born to a woman who had been unwittingly drawn into the circle.”
“Horrors!” gasped Hubert, swaying at the contemplation of such wickedness. “These are abominations!”
“But exposed,” said Lanfranc. “The heretics were caught and interrogated in chains in Holy Cross before an assembly of king, queen and bishops. Confessions were wrung out of them. They were condemned and properly burned to death.”
“All but Philippe Berbizier,” noted Prior Henry.
“All but him.”
“He looked elsewhere for converts.”
“Here in Canterbury, it seems,” said Lanfranc with foreboding.
“That is what has brought him to the city. The search for those he can convert to heresy.”
“Converts,” added Henry. “And unsuspecting young women.”
Canon Hubert thought of Bertha and shuddered.
The girl dressed without once raising her eyes to him. When she knelt before him, he offered his hand and she kissed it with reverence before leaving the room. Philippe Berbizier got up from the bed and yawned with satisfaction. He kept them waiting for a long time before he finished his glass of wine, put on the white robe and went back into the parlour.
The girl had taken her place in the circle and sat, like the others, with her head bowed. Berbizier brushed a hand against her shoulder as he stepped back into the centre of his followers.
Restored to his place, his power was stronger than ever, flowing out like waves to lap over each one of them. When he chanted a prayer, they sang the responses in unison. The service ended with his benediction.
As the members of the circle left the house, Berbizier stood at the door to bid them farewell and to have a private moment with each. The last man to arrive at the service was also the last to depart. Berbizier waited until everyone was completely out of earshot.
“I have been meditating on our problem,” he said.
“It will not easily go away.”
“What are their names?”
“Ralph Delchard and Gervase Bret.”
“Who is the greater threat to us?”
“The lord Ralph. He is the soldier of the two.”
“How many men does he have?”
“Twelve,” said the other. “Eight of them are helping the sheriff while four stay with their master.”
“He is well-protected, then?”
“Yes, Philippe. That is not the way. The lord Ralph is impregnable. You would tangle with him at your peril.”
“Every man has a weak spot.”
“That is true.”
“Every woman, too,” said Berbizier with a smile. “That is their attraction. However well-defended they may seem, any woman can be conquered if you know how to lay a siege.”
“You have taught me much in that respect, Philippe.”
“You will learn much more before I have finished.”
“My eyes have been opened to the flames of passion.”
“Good. This turbulent soldier …”
“Ralph Delchard?”
“We must divert his attention.”
“How?”
“Where is his weakness?”
Golde was deeply grateful to Reinbald the Priest. His arrival was a surprise and his time spent alone with Eadgyth was immensely beneficial. He was not only able to offer her a sustenance and understanding outside the capacity of any doctor, his presence in the house reassured Osbern the Reeve and released Golde to get on with the domestic management. She liked Reinbald. His relative inexperience was offset by a dedication to his ministry which bordered on obsession. Before he left, Golde made sure that she spoke to him.
“Thank you for coming, Father Reinbald.”
“It was a duty which brought me pleasure, my lady. I have known Eadgyth since the time when I became a deacon at St. Mildred’s.