Edward Marston - The Serpents of Harbledown

“Here it is!” he promised.

“Take your time,” said Gervase tolerantly. “There is no rush. I want you to be quite sure, Brother Martin.”

“This is the place. I would swear to it.”

“Then let us take a closer look.”

The holly bushes grew in wild profusion around a slight depression in the earth. Someone lying in the hollow would be invisible to anyone passing by. It was hardly a place to search for herbs, still less one where a girl would choose to lie down and rest. Twigs, stones and some exposed roots would have made it an uncomfortable bed. Flies buzzed in-hospitably. The scratch of holly was an added deterrent.

“Where was she lying?” said Gervase.

“Right here.”

“On her face, her back or her side?”

“Her back.”

“Which way were her feet pointing?”

“Down the hill, I think,” said the monk, ransacking his brain.

“No, wait. That was not it. Bertha was stretched out the other way. Or was she? How strange! My memory is playing tricks on me again.” He looked at Gervase. “Is it important for you to know?”

“It could be.”

“Then I will try harder.”

Using his staff, he pushed back the holly and stepped down into the hollow. Prickly leaves attacked his hands and ankles but he was inured to such routine pain. He searched the tufted grass and flicked away the sharpest of the stones with his sandalled foot before lowering himself gently to the ground.

Gervase watched as the old man lay on his back and experimented with various positions, changing his angle each time. He eventually made up his mind.

“This is how she was, Master Bret.”

“Feet pointing this way?”

“I am certain of it.”

“Then she must have been dragged backward into her hiding place,” observed Gervase, running his eyes over the bushes. “You can see where some of the leaves have been snapped off. Unless you caused this damage when you reclaimed her body earlier.”

“No,” said Martin. “We eased her out on the other side with all due care. Bertha had suffered indignities enough.

We did not want to add to them by pulling her roughly out like a dead cat. Brother Bartholomew and I inflicted no further damage on her or her apparel.”

“Her apparel?”

“Yes, Master Bret. It was torn and soiled.”

“Then there may be a thread or two caught on the leaves,” said Gervase, searching in vain. “What colour was her kirtle?”

“Blue.”

Brother Martin groaned as he forced himself upright.

“Are you hurt?”

“My old bones do not like this mean bed.”

“Let me help you up.”

“Stay there and I will teach you how.”

Holding his staff in both hands, Martin extended it toward Gervase so that the latter could grasp it and haul his companion to his feet. The monk shouldered his way through the bushes and collected a few vengeful leaves in his cowl. A sudden thought made him swing round to stare back into the hollow.

“It is gone,” he said. “I knew something was missing.”

“Missing?”

“The snake. The adder curled up beside Bertha.”

“You told me that the swineherd killed it.”

“He did. And left it in two parts on the ground. There is no sign of it now. Where can it have gone?”

They got their answer within moments. The delighted screams of children hit their ears and they walked quickly past the bushes to witness an impromptu game. Two small boys were running around in happy terror, pursued by a third with the carcase of the snake in his hand, whirling it like a whip as he tried to strike his friends. When he failed to catch them, he instead hurled the severed head of the creature after them, hitting one boy on the side of the face and producing howls of ghoulish glee.

Brother Martin shook his head philosophically.

“The young show no respect for the dead,” he said without rancour. “It was ever thus. When I was their age, I found a human skull in a field. No thought of who he or she might have been or what form of death they had endured. It was a plaything to me. I kicked the skull along the ground for sport until it fell into a stream.” He gave a mirthless chuckle. “I often wonder if I became a monk by way of penance for my childhood sin.”

“It was only the sin of ignorance, Brother Martin.”

“That is no excuse.”

Gervase stopped to watch the three boys, haring down the hill together before vanishing out of sight among the trees. They had lost interest in the snake and it had been hurled with cruel indifference into the bracken. Excited laughter showed that they had found a new game.

“What now?” asked Brother Martin.

“I would like to speak to the man who found the body.”

“But he is a leper.”

“That will make no difference.”

“It would to most people.” He regarded Gervase with a mixture of admiration and curiosity. “You are an unusual man. When you have pressing business of your own, you give time and energy to something that is of no real concern to you. Why?”

“Because of the girl.”

“You have never met Bertha.”

“No, Brother Martin, but I have seen her through the eyes of those who did. She was deeply loved by all who knew her. Osbern the Reeve told me much about Bertha. He fed my interest.”

“What did he say?”

“That she was an exceptional person. Young, fair, full of sweetness, generous toward others.” He became wistful. “I have someone like that in my own life. We are betrothed and she waits for me even now in Winchester. When the reeve talked about Bertha, he might almost have been describing my beloved Alys.” He put a palm on his chest. “I am here to help. Make what use of me you see fit.”

“I am most grateful to you.”

“Let us go on.” The monk fell in beside him and they continued on up the hill. “We passed your hospital on our way here and offered up a prayer for the souls within.”

“Leprosy is a dreadful affliction. Its victims deserve the utmost sympathy and yet their very condition provokes disgust. Many turn away in horror.”

“Bertha did not.”

“No more do I. The lepers are my flock.”

“Which one of them discovered the body?”

“His name is Alain.”

“French?”

“Of mixed blood.”

“Then he and I will have something in common.”

“It will be the only thing, I fear.”

“What do you mean?”

“Be warned, Master Bret. He is an odd fellow. Withdrawn and often unfriendly. Even I cannot reach him at times. Alain is not liked by the others. Talk to him, if you must.”

“He may have seen something that nobody else noticed.”

“He may, indeed,” said Martin. “But will he tell you what it was? That is the question. Alain is very stubborn. The likelihood is that he will refuse to say a single word.”

Golde was saddened by the turn of events and anxious to do all she could to relieve the distress. She sat at Eadgyth’s bedside to console her, she helped to tend the baby, she took charge of the servants and she shouldered the household cares as if they were her own. Osbern the Reeve was struck by her maternal warmth and loving kindness. Ralph looked on with proud approval.

Canon Hubert, finding the house too full and too preoccupied, returned to the prior after asking that Gervase should send the requested documents after him in due course.

Eadgyth was patently unwell. When the first shock of the tragedy had worn off, it was replaced by a deep and agonising sense of loss. The effort of comforting Bertha’s father had also told on her. She was pale, distracted and very queasy. It was after she had been sick for the third time that her anxious husband sent for the doctor.

“How is she?” asked Ralph.