Bernard Knight - Fear in the Forest

‘Do you want me to collect the little turd from his devotions?’ asked Gwyn, as they approached the door to the abbey cloisters.

‘No, let him be for now. I know he’s afraid of being recognised if he’s with us. Give him an hour of make-believe, poor sod.’

They went into the passage and reached the arched cloister, Gwyn scowling at the sight of silent Cistercians perambulating the paved arcades.

‘How they can think that keeping their gobs shut for years on end makes them holy, I just can’t see!’ he muttered under his breath.

John grinned at his officer’s determined antipathy to religion, a most unusual phenomenon and one for which he had never discovered the cause. He asked a passing lay brother, who was lugging a leather bucket of hot water, where he might find Father Edmund Treipas.

‘He’s not here, sir,’ said the old man. ‘He went off to Plymouth yesterday to arrange a shipment of the abbey’s wool to Barfleur.’

De Wolfe cursed under his breath at the prospect of a wasted journey from Exeter. ‘Well, is the abbot in residence?’

‘I’ll take you to his secretary, sir, if you’ll follow me.’

He dumped his bucket in the cloister and shuffled ahead of them to another door which led to the abbot’s house, on the south-west corner of the cloister. Inside the abbot’s lodgings, they were led up a staircase to a room where a young, rather supercilious monk sat behind a table covered with scrolls and writing materials. The Cistercian rule of silence was hardly compatible with the administration of a large organisation like Buckfast and, having enquired as to their identity, the secretary’s aloof manner moderated in the presence of the King’s coroner. He went to an adjacent door, tapped and went in. A moment later he returned and ushered them into the abbot’s parlour, a large, plainly furnished room with a glazed window that overlooked the outer court.

Abbot William was an austere man, with a shock of white hair surrounding his shaven crown. He reminded de Wolfe of his friend John de Alençon, with his narrow face and clear blue eyes. William was an eminent personage, having acted as a Papal Legate five years earlier. He graciously waved them to chairs on the other side of his plain table and John sat down, but Gwyn stood stiffly behind his master. The abbot enquired politely as to the nature of their business with him.

‘It’s a delicate matter, sir,’ began de Wolfe, rather unsure of his ground here. ‘I am investigating a series of crimes and disturbances in the Royal Forest, especially in this bailiwick. We have problems with a band of outlaws who appear to be getting support from outside for their nefarious actions.’

Abbot William looked mildly surprised.

‘The abbey is outwith the Royal Forest, though some of our more distant land and pastures lie within its bounds. What is this to do with us?’

John made one of his gargling noises to cover his indecision about suggesting that one of the senior monks was involved in treason.

‘It has been noted that a certain trader has been involved as a go-between with this band of outlaws,’ he said, in as neutral terms as possible. ‘This trader is also a frequent visitor to the abbey and seems to have close ties with one of your brethren.’

The abbot’s brows came together in a frown. ‘We have many traders coming to us. We are one of the largest landowners in the area and produce a great deal of wool, beasts, honey and other provender. It is inevitable that such dealers frequent the place.’ Of a sudden, the atmosphere in the chamber seemed to have become chilly.

‘This priest has also met with our suspect dealer well away from the abbey, such as at an alehouse near Ashburton.’

William became impatient. ‘Let us not beat about the bush, Sir John. Why not name names? You are no doubt referring to Father Edmund, as you said ‘priest’, not ‘monk’?’

John inclined his dark head. ‘Indeed, that is so. And the dealer was Stephen Cruch, a fellow of dubious reputation from the company he keeps.’

The abbot waved a hand as if brushing away a fly. ‘I know nothing of the tradesmen who deal with the abbey,’ he said sharply. ‘In fact, that is why Edmund came to us, as he had a reputation for worldly expertise and seemed capable of managing the outside affairs of the abbey.’

‘How was it that he did come to Buckfast?’

‘My friend in God, Bishop Henry, arranged it. I understand that Father Edmund was beneficial in restoring the fortunes of the See of Coventry and had in fact been a merchant in that city before he gave up the worship of Mammon for the cloth and later the cloister.’

He fixed de Wolfe with a steely eye. ‘I fail to see what gain you expected by coming to Buckfast, Crowner. I can assure you that this abbey has no interest whatsoever in fomenting trouble in the Royal Forest. What exactly is it you think has been going on?’

John decided that it would be best to be quite frank with this perceptive old man.

‘There are coincidences that need explanation. Undoubtedly forces are at work stirring up trouble in the forest, the object of which is not clear at the moment. But money is changing hands towards that end and this horse-dealer seems to be one of the channels through which it passes. Your cellarer, Edmund Treipas, is in regular contact with the man — and that good father came via Bishop Henry Marshal from his previous master, the Bishop of Coventry. It is common knowledge where their sympathies lie.’

Abbot William stared at de Wolfe for a long moment.

‘Ah, I see how your mind is working, Sir John! You suspect the common factor is the Count of Mortain, don’t you?’

His voice was level and controlled, but John sensed the anger beneath.

‘You are well known as a staunch King’s man and I applaud you for that. And I am no traitor either, though my allegiance must be to God first and to men second.’

He paused to choose his words carefully. ‘Yet you must understand that many people, especially in this abbey, have mixed feelings about who would make the best king. We can hardly feel unstinting devotion to Richard Coeur-de-Lion, who openly expresses his dislike of the Cistercians.’

William slapped his hands on the edge of his table.

‘And what of his actions two years ago, when he stripped us of every penny of our wool revenues for a whole year, to help pay for his ransom? We almost fell into financial ruin through that punitive act — our brethren ate poorly that winter, I can assure you! And before that, we had to forfeit some of our treasured silver chalices from the very altar itself, to fund his wars!’

De Wolfe always took poorly to any criticism of his monarch.

‘Buckfast was not alone in that, Abbot. The whole country had to make sacrifices at the times of the wars, the Crusade and the King’s capture.’

‘But why should we? We have a king who thinks of nothing but fighting abroad. He spends no time in England, he bleeds the country dry and yet expects unswerving allegiance! Is it any surprise that some wonder if his brother John might make a better sovereign? He certainly has promised we monastic orders some preferment when he comes to the throne, as come he must before long. It’s only a matter of time before our foolhardy Richard gets himself killed in some rash combat.’

John testily thought that anyone other than a senior cleric could be arraigned for sedition for uttering such sentiments, yet an abbot could get away with it.

‘Are you saying that you condone any activities such as I suspect your cellarer might be engaged in?’

‘Of course not!’ snapped William. ‘And I am confident that Edmund is not involved in anything illegal or unchristian. Frankly, I think your suspicions are based on nothing but rumour and supposition.’