Gervase turned over the possibilities in his mind. None of them brought comfort and most induced deep apprehension. The conclusion seemed inescapable. On her way to the doctor’s house, Golde had been intercepted.
“I’ll find Ralph,” he said.
When Prior Gregory arrived, his usual combative demeanour had been replaced by a deep distress. His head was down, his brow troubled and his hands clasped inside his sleeves. He all but collided with Canon Hubert. Greetings were exchanged, then Hubert tried to detach himself in order to evade yet another outburst on the subject of the abbey’s property dispute with the cathedral. But a new imperative had brought the prior on this occasion and it pushed his differences with the archbishop into the background.
“Heresy in our midst, Canon Hubert!”
“It is profoundly alarming.”
“We must all be thankful to you for helping to bring it out into the open. The archbishop sent word of what has transpired and I have been summoned to discuss how the whole monastic community of Canterbury can best meet this crisis.”
Hubert relaxed, enjoying the unexpected flattery. “We have taken decisive steps already, Prior Gregory,” he said easily. “Archbishop Lanfranc and I were equally appalled by this shocking development.”
“Who is this Philippe Berbizier?”
“A proselytising Gnostic.”
“Has that been established without question?”
“Why do you ask?”
“The archbishop’s letter gave little detail of the man’s heretical opinions, stating only that his sect taught that the body of Christ was an illusion and rejecting the notion of a resurrection.”
“That is at the heart of Gnosticism.”
“And part of the Bogomil tradition, too,” reminded the prior.
“Their dissidence has spread to many parts of the Byzantine Empire and-who knows? — may have insinuated itself into France.
Bogomils could easily be confused by the untutored eye with Gnostics.”
“Not in this case,” explained Hubert. “Berbizier formed a sect in Orleans which was exposed and destroyed. He alone escaped the sentence of death.”
“How was the sect denounced?”
“From the inside, Prior Gregory. When rumours of its existence began to grow, a spy was introduced into their circle as a neophyte.
He gathered sufficient information, then revealed it to the secular and ecclesiastical authorities. Arrest and trial were immediate.”
“That is heartening.”
“It will happen here when Philippe Berbizier is taken. Every member of his sect will be hunted down but he is the prime target. This priory has a special reason to see the man brought to justice. Brother Martin was buried here only yesterday.”
“His death was a warning to us all, Canon Hubert.”
“The manner of it was so calculated.”
“That is what I mean,” said Gregory. “It serves as an image of the heresy which threatens us.”
“I do not follow.”
“Brother Martin was poisoned inside a church.”
“The ultimate desecration!”
“That is their way, Canon Hubert. What else is heresy but a poison which spreads through the body of Christianity? That message is inherent in the nature of the murder. Why was he not stabbed, bludgeoned or strangled to death? Why was the crime perpetrated in that particular place?” The prior’s voice darkened.
“Heresy is a poison that works from within.”
Canon Hubert was so impressed with the vivid phrasing that he made a mental note to use it himself in conversation with others. It dawned on him that he had misjudged both Prior Henry and Prior Gregory. The former had been almost supercilious toward him and the latter overtly truculent. Under the pressure of a crisis, however, both men had emerged as committed Christians with a horror of any threat to their beliefs. It superseded all other considerations. Like Hubert himself, they were true defenders of the word of God and that gave all three men a solidarity which was quite invigorating.
“I will not detain you,” said Hubert, ushering him on his way and falling in beside him. “This will be a critical discussion with Archbishop Lanfranc.”
“That is why I came so promptly.”
“What steps have been taken at St. Augustine’s Abbey?”
“Prayer and vigilance. The whole community has been praying for the early capture of this fiend. And those holy brothers who leave the enclave will use their eyes and ears in support of the swords and spears. Philippe Berbizier must have made more than one visit to Canterbury.”
“A number, Prior Gregory. That is evident.”
“Then somebody must have seen him come and go.”
“Tell me all that you know about him,” said Ralph Delchard.
“I know nothing at all, my lord.”
“Is that the truth?”
“I swear it.”
“Your memory must be at fault.”
“No, my lord.”
“It will come back in the castle dungeon.”
The man blenched. “Dungeon?”
“That is where I’ll have you thrown.”
“But I must sail for Sandwich this afternoon.”
“You will be lying in chains instead.”
“My boat is expected.”
“I’ll have it impounded,” warned Ralph. “If the stench of the castle dungeon does not revive your memory, I’ll burn the boat and send the ashes to you. Speak, you vermin!”
The sailor’s name was Leofstand. His face still bore the evidence of Alwin’s fist but he had sustained nothing like the injuries of the man who had attacked him. He was fit enough to work at his trade and was loading baskets into his boat when Ralph arrived with his men-at-arms. The assault on Leofstand was only verbal this time but it was just as effective.
“I hate liars,” said Ralph, fixing him with a glare. “Everybody in Fordwich knows what Alwin was trying to beat out of you. And you must have told him something or you would not be standing before me. Now, Leofstand. Let us try once more, shall we? If you want to spend a month in the dungeon, inhaling the stink of your own excrement, I will make sure that the castellan can accommodate you. But he, too, has a wayward memory.” Ralph put his face inches from the sailor. “He may forget completely that you are there.”
Leofstand’s resistance turned to dust. Ralph had the power to do all that he warned and he was obviously not a man who made empty threats. The sailor capitulated.
“I brought the man from Normandy,” he admitted.
“When?”
“We sailed into harbour on Monday morning.”
“Did he say why he was coming here?”
“He said nothing, my lord. He never did. I was not paid to hold a conversation with him. Safe passage was all he craved. I gave him that.”
“How many times?”
“Three or four.”
“When was the last occasion?”
“A month ago, my lord.”
“You carried him here and back?”
“Each time.”
“So you were his chosen captain.”
Ralph could see why. Leofstand was a big, solid, taciturn man who scraped a living from the sea. Money would easily buy his loyalty and seal his lips. Philippe Berbizier had used Alwin the Sailor on his first voyage but the friendship with Bertha made it impossible for her father’s boat to be brought into service again.
It was crucial that Alwin had no idea of the Frenchman’s whereabouts or of his deepening involvement with the girl.
“This last voyage,” resumed Ralph. “Was it from Caen?”
“Nearby, my lord. My boat sprung a leak. I had it repaired in the shipyard at Dives-sur-Mer. My passenger joined me there.”
Ralph knew the area well. The invasion fleet had sailed from the mouth of the River Dives. He had been part of a large and impatient army which waited for a favourable wind.
“Did he always embark there?”
“No,” said Leofstand. “I twice picked him up at St. Valery at the mouth of the Somme. And once returned him there. He pays me well enough to nominate the port.”
St. Valery was another name Ralph heard with displeasure.
Duke William’s army had anchored off there on its way to England, held up once more by unhelpful winds and contrary tides. One difficult voyage had been enough to convince Ralph he was no sailor. If Philippe Berbizier could cross the Channel so readily, he must either enjoy sailing or be impelled by a purpose which made light of any discomfort at sea.