“How old is your baby?” she asked.
“Barely six months,” said Eadgyth with a faint blush.
“A boy or a girl?”
“A boy, my lady. Named after his father.”
“You must both be very proud of him.”
“We are,” she admitted, throwing a fond glance at Osbern. “But my husband has warned me that we must not let our son disturb you in any way. You are important guests and must not be bothered by our family matters.”
“That may be true for Ralph and Gervase,” said Golde. “They are here on royal business which claims their full attention. But I insist on seeing this wonderful baby.”
“You shall, my lady.”
“I want to see, hold and rock him in my arms.”
“Do you have children of your own?”
“Alas, no.”
“There is still time.”
“We shall see.”
Golde looked wistfully across at Ralph but she was not allowed to dwell on her thoughts. A servant appeared at the door and beckoned Osbern with some urgency, indicating that Eadgyth should also hear the news. The couple excused themselves and followed the man into the next room. A muttered conversation was heard through the door, then Eadgyth let out such a cry of grief that the three guests jumped to their feet in concern.
When Osbern came back in, his face was ashen.
“Bad tidings?” surmised Ralph.
“I fear so, my lord. The death of a close friend.”
“We are sorry to hear it.”
“My wife bears the heavier loss. She and Bertha spent much time together. The girl was almost one of our family.”
“Girl?” repeated Golde.
“She was but seventeen, my lady.”
“So young.”
“What cruel disease carried her off?” said Ralph.
“It was no sickness, my lord. Bertha was here in this house not twenty-four hours ago, as fit and healthy as any of us. No,”
said Osbern with a sigh, “it seems that she was bitten by a snake while gathering herbs in Harbledown.”
“Harbledown?” echoed Gervase. “That place on the hill? We rode through it on our way here.”
“Then you must have passed the spot where her dead body was found. Poor Bertha! I would not wish such a fate on anyone, but least of all on such a gentle creature as her.”
“Where is the girl now?” said Ralph.
“According to our report, they are bringing her down from the hospital of St Nicholas.” He looked up as they heard the front door of the house open and shut. “Please excuse Eadgyth’s rude departure.”
“No excuse is needed, Osbern.”
“My wife feels that she must be there.”
“We understand.”
“She can help to comfort the girl’s father.”
“Father?”
“Yes, my lord. Alwin. He will be utterly destroyed.”
It took them a long time to persuade him. Alwin sat motionless beside the dead body of his daughter and refused to let anyone touch her. Whenever they tried to move the corpse, he crouched protectively over it and let out a strange keening sound. Brother Martin and Brother Bartholomew were patient. Relieved that Alwin’s suicidal rage had spent itself, they now waited until he was ready to surrender his daughter to their care. A horse and cart stood outside. The lepers kept a silent vigil in the shadows.
Brother Martin crouched beside the suffering father.
“Bertha may not stay here, Alwin,” he whispered.
“I know.”
“Then let us carry her to a fitter place.”
“In time, Brother Martin. In time.”
“We leave the decision to you.”
Alwin looked disconsolately around the dank nave.
“Bertha loved this hospital,” he murmured.
“She was an angel of mercy,” said Martin. “She had an affinity with the piteous wretches who lodge here. It is such a brutal irony. Their hold on life is so tenuous and so painful yet it is Bertha who has gone to her Maker first. She will be sadly missed by all the friends she has here.”
“And what of me?”
“You, Alwin?”
“They have only lost a friend.”
“A friend and a benefactor.”
“I have lost everything.”
Alwin fell into a kind of trance. Oblivious to his surroundings, he stared unseeing at one of the stone pillars, his body slack, his mind empty, his mouth open. When they tried to speak to him, he did not hear a word.
Brother Martin decided that their moment had finally come.
He signalled to Bartholomew before crossing to open the heavy oak door. Sunlight flooded in. The two monks moved gingerly into position so that they could lift the body between them but Alwin came out of his reverie at once. Pushing them firmly away, he knelt beside his daughter in order to slip his arms under her, then he lifted her without effort and took her slowly out through the church door.
The waiting congregation of lepers at first stepped back with a gasp of horror. Realising that Bertha was now beyond reach of their contagion, they then moved in closer to take a final look at her, one of them, an old lady, putting out a flaking hand to touch the flimsy shroud as it fluttered past. Another fell to his knees to offer up a prayer for the soul of the departed. The cart was rough-hewn and covered in mud but someone had flung an old woollen blanket over it to hide the worst of its defects and kill some of its noisome stink.
Alwin laid the body in the back of the cart with great reverence before turning to survey the watching lepers. Their cloaks and hoods gave them a fearful anonymity and he could not even discern the male from the female victims, but he accorded each in turn a mute farewell. After glancing back at the corpse, he made a forlorn gesture of apology to everyone.
Brother Martin gave the order and the boy led the horse away from the church. Alwin walked behind it with the monks at his heels, chanting in unison. The little cortege crested the hill and began the long, bumpy downhill journey. As it passed the clump of holly where Bertha had been discovered, a tall, stooping figure seemed to materialise out of the trees. Face still hidden behind the veil, the leper who had found her waited until the cart trundled on out of sight.
Then he took something out of the fold of his sleeve and held it on the palm of his hand to examine it with an almost tentative affection. He felt its smoothness and held it up for the sun to polish its dull sheen. After placing a dry-lipped kiss on it, he opened his sleeve and put the object safely back in its hiding place.
It was his memento.
Ralph Delchard was in such a genial mood that even his protests had a chuckling mildness to them. They were the token complaints of a husband who can deny his wife nothing.
“We will be bored to death!” he said dramatically. “Who on earth could wish to look at a cathedral?”
“I could,” said Golde.
“But you have seen cathedrals before, my love.”
“Not this one.”
“Since you met me, you have visited Winchester, Lincoln and York Minster. They are enough to glut any appetite. When you lived in Hereford, you saw a cathedral every day.”
“Canterbury is different.”
“Why?”
“It is the best.”
“Yet not the biggest.”
“None can match its importance.”
“York Minster would try.”
“And fail. Look, Ralph!” she said, pointing a finger at the looming splendour before them. “From this cathedral, the whole of the English Church is ruled.”
“It is ruled by the whims of King William.”
“This is the spiritual centre of the country.”
“Dear God!” he said in mock alarm. “Have I married a devout Christian? Am I matched with a holy nun? Do I lay with a bride of Christ? Why did you keep this hideous truth from me?”
“I thought to convert you by stealth,” she teased.
“Horror of horrors!”
They shared a laugh and he embraced her warmly. The commission would begin its investigations on the next day and Ralph would be caught up in its activities. This was the only time when they might view the city together and they snatched eagerly at the chance. It was only a short walk from Osbern’s house to the cathedral precinct. While Ralph blustered amiably, she marvelled at what she saw.