“My husband is away at present,” said Ediva.
“Send him here as soon as he returns.”
“I will do so. And promptly.”
“May I keep this coin, my lord?”
“If you wish.”
“It is essential,” said Eadmer seriously. “I have to clear my own name here. Moneyers who turn forgers suffer mutilation or death.”
He looked at the coin again with faint disgust. “It is a fitting end for such an offence.”
Ralph questioned him some more about his trade and the controls under which it operated in Bedwyn and Marlborough. After expressing their gratitude, he and Ediva took their leave and were shown to the front door by the servant. Once outside, they found themselves alone. Laughter from the rear of the mint showed that the soldiers were chatting with the woman beside the river. Ralph looked at her with masculine frankness for the first time and she shed a wife’s enforced humility to stand before him in her own right.
“When may we meet again?” he whispered.
“As soon as may be, my lord.”
“That lies in your choosing, lady.”
“I’ll send word of time and place.”
“The evening finds me free.”
“What of the night?”
She extended her hand for him to plant a chaste kiss upon it, then she leaned forward to touch his cheek with her lips. Her softness and her delicate fragrance enchanted him even more and he could not wait for the moment of consummation. He heard fresh laughter from his men and a giggle from the woman. Ralph Delchard and Ediva put on their masks again.
“Lady,” he said respectfully, “allow us to conduct you home again.
The evening has been a constant delight to me, but it has yielded all that it may.”
Gervase Bret arrived at the abbey in the sober attire of his office. He had documents with him and he was admitted by the porter so that he could deliver them to Canon Hubert and Brother Simon. That, at least, was what he had told the monk in the gatehouse, knowing full well that the information would be swiftly relayed to Prior Baldwin.
The documents could be handed over later. Other business had to be first discharged. Gervase had timed his appearance well. Vespers was held later in the summer and there was every hope that he might be able to locate Brother Luke before the bell tolled out its command.
The novice was in the garden, standing outside the empty workshop of Brother Peter. Red-rimmed eyes showed that he had wept copiously and his shoulders were bent in dejection.
“What ails you, Brother Luke?” said Gervase.
“I suffer another’s pain.”
“All Christians do that.”
“Brother Peter has been beaten.”
Gervase was taken aback. “The kind sacristan? For what offence could such a man be punished?”
“He has been lax in attendance once or twice.”
“Is that a matter for harsh sentencing?” said Gervase. “Even the best horse stumbles. You do not thrash it with your whip for one or two mistakes.”
“There was more beside, master, but I may not tell it. Brother Peter has sworn me to secrecy.”
“Then I will pry no further.” He glanced around. “Is there some place where we may walk in the garden and talk unobserved? I would value conversation.”
“And so would I.”
“Lead on.”
Novices quickly learned the corners of the abbey where they could hide or seek respite. Brother Luke took him to the farthest edge of the garden where a cluster of crab-apple trees grew in the shade of the abbey wall. They would not easily be seen or interrupted there.
“Brother Peter is your closest friend, is he not?”
“My only friend within the enclave.”
“No, Luke,” said Gervase, slipping easily back into the reflex answers of his monastic days, “you have a friend above who looks down from heaven and pities you.” He put an arm on the youth’s shoulder. “Are you still troubled?”
“Mightily.”
“What is Peter’s counsel?”
“Watch and pray.”
“But you still wish to leave?”
“Only to flee my persecutors.”
“That would leave your dearest friend behind.”
“I know,” said the boy, sighing. “If I think of myself and am released from my vows, I lose Peter. If I stay here, I will lose my freedom.”
“To do what?”
Luke shrugged. “I do not know.”
“Consider it well before you decide.”
They heard voices and moved a few yards farther into their hiding place. The voices passed and they could resume.
“Why did you leave Eltham Abbey?”
Gervase looked into the open face of the novice and saw himself.
His dilemma had been exactly that of Brother Luke except in one particular. To win the boy’s confidence and to gain his help, Gervase knew that he would have to tell the truth. Even now, the confession could still touch off the pangs of guilt.
“I loved a woman.”
“While you were still a novice?”
“She lived nearby the abbey. I saw her often.”
“But we take vows of chastity here.”
“I found that commitment too final a one to make.”
Brother Luke looked uncomfortable, as if the same problem was vexing him but he was not able to share it. Instead, he asked for more detail, and Gervase supplied it with some misgivings. To talk of his precious Alys was always a source of immense pleasure, but it was soured a little by the present circumstance. He was not sure whether he was tempting Luke to flee from the order or convincing him that love of a woman was a sinful condition. What was certain was the rapt attention he was given. Luke was taking a first full and unequivocal look into a world to which he had been so far denied entry. Gervase was honest in the way that Brother Peter was honest.
They answered his questions directly and did not obstruct or evade.
Gervase now sought his own supply of information.
“Brother Peter is surely not your only kind face in the abbey,” he began. “What of the other novices?”
“They are too serious or too stupid for my liking.”
“Abbot Serlo?”
“A blessed man, but he has no dealings with me.”
“Prior Baldwin?”
“I fear him the most after Brother Thaddeus.”
“Why?”
Luke talked freely about life within the confines of the abbey and described, without realising it, the whole political structure of the house. His comments on both prior and subprior had a youthful raw-ness to them, but their spirit accorded with Gervase’s own observa-tions. He eased the boy along until the latter was reminded of some happier incidents during his novitiate, talking himself into an appreciation of the values of the monastic life. Gervase heard him out until the bell for Vespers chimed. Brother Luke started. After the punishment meted out to Brother Peter, he did not want to be found wanting.
Gervase strolled back towards the church with him so that he could put a last few questions.
“Who is the oldest monk at the abbey?”
“The oldest?” Luke shrugged. “Brother John.”
“Was he born in this area?”
“Not far from Burbage, I believe.”
“What age would he be?”
“Oh, ancient,” said the other. “I could not guess at his exact years, but he is weak and bedridden. The infirmarian sees Brother John the most. Seek of him.”
“Have you met this reverend old gentleman yourself?”
“Yes, master. All the novices are presented to him when they join the house. Brother John tells us of the joys of the Benedictine rule and is living proof of its goodness. His body may be broken, but his mind is as clear as ever.”
“Thank you, Brother Luke,” said Gervase. “Go in to Vespers. Say a prayer for Brother Peter and meditate on your own confusion of heart.”
The novice squeezed his arm in gratitude, then broke into a run as the last few monks converged on the church.
Gervase now had the information he needed.