“Where are we?” asked the man, now panting freely.
“About to lay a siege.”
“A siege, my lord?”
“Of that.”
The boat thudded into the bank and the man grabbed at an overhanging branch to steady it. He was then able to look across the river to the object of Ralph’s curiosity.
“You saw the mint but yesterday,” he complained.
“Only from the inside.”
“My lord?”
“There is a castle. How do we take it?”
The soldier recovered his humour. Fighting was his trade. He was on firm ground now and entered willingly into the game with his master.
“Storm it from the front.”
“It is too well fortified.”
“Approach from the sides.”
“Both have solid walls with tiny windows,” said Ralph. “You would be picked off with arrows by an enemy that you never even saw.”
“Then take it from the river,” rejoined the man. “Scale the walls and enter by force.”
Ralph clicked his tongue. “Ladders could not be used from boats.
They need firm foundation. Ropes could not be thrown to the roof.
There is no place to get a purchase.” He pointed at the windows.
“How would you get past those iron bars if you ever managed to reach them? No, my friend. Stones and boiling oil could be poured onto your boats and a man foolish enough to scale that wall would be exposed to attack from every window. You are no siege-master.”
“I would starve them out.”
“There is an easier way if you but look.”
The soldier studied the building with more attention to the detail of its construction. It was half-timbered but used solid brick where others settled for wattle and daub. Around each window was a protective square of sharp iron spikes. Its roof was thatched and might succumb to fire, but he sensed that Ralph had found an easier mode of entry. He turned back to his lord and shrugged his failure.
“Think of a real castle,” advised Ralph.
“This is but a well-defended mint.”
“Place a motte and bailey on the same spot. Raise your walls and reinforce them at their weakest points. Build your keep so that it uses the river as its moat, just like the mint. Now,” said Ralph with a knowing smirk, “what would you set over the river itself? What use would you make of this convenient water?”
The man realised and laughed coarsely. A garderobe or two would be built at the rear of the keep. The castle inhabitants would relieve themselves into the water below. If a concerted attack could not be made, one stealthy man might gain entrance through a garderobe under cover of darkness and find a means to open the main gate. The soldier grinned his admiration, but he had only learned how to take a mythical castle on that same spot. Ralph Delchard had discovered how to gain access to a royal mint.
“Take me across there now,” he said, “and go in under the building that I may gaze up at Eadmer’s recreation. Silver bullion may go into the place, but I warrant that a baser metal drops out.”
Their raucous laughter skimmed across the water.
“You have a visitor, Brother John. Will you receive him?”
“Gladly. Who is he that calls so early?”
“A young man from the king’s household.”
Slight alarm showed. “I am summoned by his majesty?”
“No, brother. Your visitor only pays you his respects.”
“What is his name?”
“Gervase Bret.”
“Norman or Breton?”
“I vouch the fellow has more Saxon in him.”
“Show him to me.”
“Wait there, Brother John.”
A croak of a laugh. “God leaves with me no choice.”
Gervase Bret reached the abbey before Prime and gained entry through the gatehouse. Monastic architecture obeyed a set pattern, so he needed no direction to the infirmary range. It consisted of a hall, chapel, and kitchen and stood east of the cloister, so it was well away from the noise of the outer court to the west. Sick or ancient monks who could no longer meet the demands of claustral life were cared for here by the infirmarian and his assistant. Gervase had been a regular caller at the infirmary in Eltham Abbey and he knew that even monks of advancing years retained a vestigial discipline whenever possible. Confined to bed, they could still wake when the bell rang for Matins and join in each service of the day with gladsome hearts.
Brother John was such a faithful servant of the order. Approaching seventy and racked with disease, his old bones still rustled at the fixed hours of the day. He lay propped up on his bed, with a rough blanket over his meagre body. His face was gaunt and shrunken, but there was still a glimmer of light in his watery eyes. When he was shown into the hall by the padding infirmarian, Gervase Bret walked past the other patients and gave them each a respectful nod. He was then introduced to Brother John and offered a low stool. The infirmarian warned him that his visit must be short, so that the oldest occupant of the abbey was not tired by the effort of speech and concentration. Gervase was left alone with the remarkable Brother John, looking at the blue-veined skull, which still displayed a silver tonsure, and wondering how such a narrow head could hold in so many long years of prayer and meditation.
“Why did you come?” asked a reedy voice.
“Brother Luke talked of you,” said Gervase.
“Do I know Brother Luke?”
“He is one of the novices.”
“There was a Brother Luke here when I first joined the order,”
recalled the old man. “The precentor, no less. He died the year that poor King Harold died.”
“After the Battle of Hastings?”
“Oh, no, young sir,” said John with a throaty chuckle. “I talk of King Harold who followed King Cnut and was himself then succeeded by King Harthacnut.”
“How long have you been a brother here?”
“Through six reigns. King William is my last.”
“Luke tells me that you hail from Burbage.”
“Brother Luke the Precentor?”
“The novice.”
“Burbage was my home until I found God.”
“You have seen many changes during all those reigns,” noted Gervase. “Has it vexed your soul?”
“Profoundly at times, but I have prayed for help.” The old man wheezed and brought a trembling hand up to his mouth as he coughed.
“Who are you, young man? I see by your manner that you are no stranger to these walls.”
“I was a novice myself at Eltham Abbey.”
“Eltham!” Brother John pursed his lips in a weak smile. “I went to Eltham once with gifts from this abbey when it was first raised. The abbot received me himself. What was his name now … Abbot Waleran?”
“Abbot Maurilius,” corrected Gervase, knowing that his word was being tested. “He was still Father Abbot when I wore the cowl. You will also remember Prior Richard?”
“Indeed I do. He showed me much kindness.” He nodded his approval of his visitor’s credentials. “You come from Eltham, a place of blessed memory. How may I help you, my son? My strength is waning and you must ask before I doze off once again.”
“Brother Luke told me …”
“The precentor?”
“The novice.”
“Oh, yes. Of course. The novice.”
“He says you know this stretch of country well. If I wish to hear the history of this part of the shire, you are the person who can best advise me.”
“Use me in any way you may.”
“You must be well acquainted with abbey lands.”
“Bless my soul!” said Brother John, and he went off into such a paroxysm of coughing that Gervase had to pass him a cup of water and hold him up so that he could drink it. The fit finally subsided.
“I am sorry, but you made me laugh.”
“If that was laughter, I will not provoke it again,” said Gervase with sympathy. “Wherein lies the humour?”