Edward Marston - The Serpents of Harbledown

“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.

“The place had such a sense of power,” she said.

“All I can see is a pretty pile of Caen stone.”

“Are you blind to the beauty before your eyes?”

“No, my love,” he said, holding her face between gentle hands.

“It is what drew me to you in the first place.”

“I talk of the cathedral.”

“A finer edifice stands before me.”

“Be serious, Ralph.”

“I am. Never more so.”

It was difficult to have a private moment in such a public place.

Dozens of people were going past in both directions and others were idling in corners. Golde was conscious that curious eyes were upon them but that did not hold her back from broaching a delicate subject. Ralph was her husband now and she had never felt closer to him than at that precise second.

“Did you know that Eadgyth has a baby?” she said.

“It does not surprise me.”

“She asked me if we had children.”

“What did you tell her?”

“The truth. We do not.”

“Yet.”

She held his gaze, wanting reassurance, hoping for a sign of commitment, searching for a need in him as deep as her own.

“I am somewhat older than Eadgyth,” she warned.

“I am somewhat younger than Osbern.”

“A child never came with my first husband.”

“Perhaps it rebelled against your choice of a father.”

“Do not jest about it, Ralph.”

“It was no jest.”

“This weighs heavily with me.”

“Then so it does with me,” he promised, squeezing her shoulder.

“Whatever touches your heart finds it way straight to mine. Is that plain enough for you?”

She nodded. “We have never talked about this before.”

“I took it for granted.”

“It is not as simple as that.”

“You will have to teach me the way,” he said with a grin.

“If a child comes …”

“It would give me such joy and pride, Golde.”

“But if it does not …?”

He winced slightly as a distant memory jabbed at him. With an arm around her, he looked up at the cathedral.

“Come, my love,” he said. “It is time to go inside.”

When Osbern decided to visit the bereaved man, Gervase Bret immediately offered to bear him company. It would not only allow him to explore part of the city and to glean further information from the reeve on the way, it would help to assuage his keen interest in the circumstances of the girl’s death. The bare facts of the case intrigued and puzzled him.

“She was killed by the venom of a snake?” he said.

“That is my understanding.”

“When? How?”

“I have no details beyond those I have given you,” said Osbern as they strode along. “And they may prove to be wrong. News changes in the telling. I do not know how many hands the report of this tragedy passed through before it reached us, but I would guess at several.”

“Your wife was distressed at the tidings.”

“She had cause, Master Bret. They have known each other many years. Before she wed me, Eadgyth was a near neighbour of Bertha and her father.”

“No mother?”

“She died some years ago.”

“What is the father’s occupation?”

“Alwin is a sailor. The captain of a small boat which brings stone from Normandy for building work. You have seen how much reconstruction there is in Canterbury. Alwin’s vessel has been in constant demand.”

“Tell me about his daughter.”

“The one delight in Alwin’s life. A fair maid in every sense.

Bright, lively, dutiful yet not without an independent spirit. A true friend to Eadgyth. Kindness itself.”

“Why would she be gathering herbs?”

“For the leper hospital of St. Nicholas. Bertha was given to charitable impulse. She was a regular visitor to Harbledown. The lepers came to know and trust her.”

“So young and yet so caring toward others?”

“Her goodness may have cost Bertha her life.”

Alwin the Sailor lived in Worthgate Ward and so the body of his daughter was taken to the tiny morgue at the parish church of St. Mildred. When he saw her bestowed there, he was led back to his home by Eadgyth and by Brother Martin. Both were still trying to comfort him when the visitors arrived. Profoundly moved by Alwin’s plight, but concerned as well about the intensity of his wife’s grief, the considerate Osbern went into the house to lend support to both of them.

Gervase did not wish to intrude. He stayed outside and pondered further on the girl’s demise. It was a long wait but it brought an unexpected reward. Brother Martin came out alone and fell into conversation with him. The duty of helping Alwin through his pain had given the monk little time to express his own sadness. When he left the house of mourning, he was able to confront the enormity of the loss. It made him go weak at the knees. Seeing his distress, Gervase steadied him then eased him down onto the hearth stone.

“Rest here awhile,” he counselled.

“Thank you, my son. Sorrow has taken all my strength.”

“You knew the girl?”

“Knew her well and loved her dearly.”

“Have you heard how she was found?”

“I was there.”

Gervase gave him time to recover before introducing himself to the monk. His bearing and his gentle manner enabled him to win Brother Martin’s confidence and the latter was soon giving a full account of what had happened. Gervase listened with rapt attention as the old man relived the ordeal. Only when Brother Martin had completed his tale did Gervase raise a few queries.

“How long had Bertha been coming to the hospital?”

“A few years or more,” said Brother Martin.

“So she would know Harbledown well?”

“Every tree, bush and blade of grass.”

“And every hazard, too, I think,” said Gervase.

“Hazard?”

“Wild animals or snakes.”

“Bertha knew how to look after herself, Master Bret.”

“Until yesterday, it seems. You mentioned holly.”

“That is where she lay when we stumbled upon her. She was surrounded by it. Caught in a holly wreath, as it were.”

“What herbs would she find there?”

“None that I know of, my friend.”

“Then why subject herself to the scratch of holly?”

“It is a question I have asked myself,” confided the monk. “And it is matched with others that arouse suspicion.”

“Suspicion?”

“That wound upon her. Bertha would have had to be on her back for a snake to sink its fangs into her neck. Why would the girl risk lying down in a place of danger?”

“Perhaps she tripped and fell,” said Gervase.

“She was too strong and surefooted.”

“How, then, do you explain the mark upon her neck?”

“I cannot,” admitted the monk. “There are poisonous snakes in Harbledown and Bertha would not be their first victim. I have treated others who have met with the same misfortune. Treated them, Master Bret, and saved them.”

“What are you telling me?”