Edward Marston - The Serpents of Harbledown

“When venom gets into the blood, it can kill as surely as a sword or an arrow. But nowhere near as quickly. Bertha was young and healthy. Had she been bitten by a snake, why did she not run for help before the poison took full effect?”

“Have you raised these matters with anyone else?”

“No, my friend. I dare not.”

“Why?”

“Because I have no proof.”

“Your evidence is sound enough to me.”

“It is only an old man’s foolish instinct,” said Brother Martin.

“And I do not wish to go where it leads me.”

“What do you mean?”

The monk looked around to make sure that they were not overheard, then pulled his companion closer. Gervase saw the watery apprehension in his eyes.

“Bertha may not have died from the snakebite.”

“But you saw the marks upon her neck.”

“The girl was bitten,” confirmed the monk. “No doubt about that. There was poison in her veins. The signs were clear. I begin to think that they were too clear.”

Gervase’s interest quickened. “Are you suggesting that she was killed by other means and bitten by the snake when she was already dead?”

“It is possible. Bertha may have been murdered.”

Canon Hubert was in his element. The visit to Canterbury was both a duty and a form of pilgrimage and it never occurred to him that these might be in any way contradictory. His status as a royal commissioner gave him a thrusting self-importance while his presence in Christ Church Priory brought out an ostentatious humility. Within the safety and sanctity of the cloister, Brother Simon was able to accommodate both aspects of his colleague with relative ease.

“Seven years!” boomed Hubert.

“A miracle in stone.”

“Seven years. When Archbishop Lanfranc first came here from Caen, he found the cathedral in ruins and this priory in disarray.

Behold what seven years of prayer and planning and ceaseless labour can achieve.”

“It is a monument to the archbishop’s genius.”

“It is an inspiration, Brother Simon!”

“Yes, Canon Hubert.”

“I see the hand of the blessed Lanfranc everywhere.”

“You would recognise its character.”

“That is why I am so grateful that my work has at last brought me to Canterbury,” said Hubert, looking around with a proprietary air. “This is truly uplifting. I belong .”

Simon was also experiencing a sense of joyous kinship but he was too mild-mannered even to mention it. When Hubert was in such a state of spiritual replenishment, his buoyancy left no room for the thoughts and feelings of others. Simon did not complain.

At the heart of the community, the priory was yet gloriously isolated from it, high walls and a protective austerity allowing its monks to serve God without any worldly distraction. No woman could ever penetrate the enclave. Brother Simon was at home.

Christ Church Priory was built on a scale which showed vision and high aspiration. As they perambulated around the spacious cloister garth, the visitors noted the large chapter house, the sizeable refectory and a dorter range capable of housing a hundred and fifty monks. Particular care had been lavished on the scriptorium so that it could in time become a centre of learning unrivalled in England. Canon Hubert might dream of high office within this monastic community but Brother Simon’s ambition stretched no further than the wish to be shackled in perpetuity to a desk in the scriptorium like one of the great chained Bibles.

The two men were still luxuriating in their respective fantasies when they were joined by a fresh-faced young monk with a message for Hubert. Abandoning his companion without a word, the canon followed his guide to the prior’s lodging.

“Welcome to Canterbury!”

“Thank you,” said Hubert deferentially. “This visit is the fulfillment of a long-held wish.”

“I trust that you will enjoy and benefit from your time here in the city.”

“That is a foregone conclusion.”

“You might be wiser to reserve your judgement.”

“There is no need.”

“There is always need for caution.”

Prior Henry was a striking man of medium height and middle years. The slim, intelligent face had a swarthy complexion which showed his Italian ancestry and the remains of a handsomeness which was at odds with his tight-lipped asceticism. Dark eyes probed from beneath black eyebrows and the high forehead had a quizzical frown. It was almost as if he were assessing the strengths of a possible adversary.

They were in his private parlour, the chamber from which the whole monastic community was administered. Henry sat behind a table which was covered with letters, documents and accounts.

Hubert was irresistibly reminded of his time at the famous abbey of Bee when a conference with the prior was a daily event. Across just such a table, he and Lanfranc had discussed every aspect of monastic business in exhaustive detail. Those memories were cherished afresh now.

Prior Henry read his thoughts. Indicating a chair so that his guest might sit down, he sounded an apologetic note.

“Archbishop Lanfranc sends his greetings to you and regrets that he is not able to meet you in person.”

“I understand,” said Hubert, lowering his bulk onto the carved oak chair. “The archbishop is extremely busy. When he has the affairs of the entire Church of England to conduct, he cannot easily break off to see an old friend.”

“Indeed not,” agreed the other. “If he did that, he would never begin to address the huge volume of work that confronts him. He has rather too many old friends, I fear.”

Hubert was momentarily stung. Feeling that he was being both rebuked and patronised, he displayed his credentials at once.

“I was sub-prior at Bec under Prior Lanfranc.”

“I am aware of your brief tenure of that office.”

“He and I worked closely and harmoniously together.”

“That was over a quarter of a century ago.”

“It gave us a deep and lasting mutual respect. Prior Lanfranc, as he then was, paid me the highest compliment when he left to be abbot of Caen.”

“Not quite, Canon Hubert.”

“His praise was unstinting.”

“Yet it still fell short of the highest accolade,” said Henry coolly.

“That would have been to take you with him to Caen to occupy a higher station. As it was, you did not even succeed him as prior of Bee. That honour fell to Anselm.”

“I approved wholeheartedly.”

“You had no choice.”

Hubert was even more annoyed. There was no enmity or malice in Henry’s voice. It was his cold statement of facts which discomfited his guest. Hubert had indeed never risen above the position of sub-prior at Bec. Having leapfrogged over him, Anselm had gone on to become abbot of the house.

“There is another reason,” continued Henry.

“For what?”

“The archbishop’s reluctance to give you an audience.”

“Reluctance? He has a personal objection?”

“No, Canon Hubert. He spoke well of you. But he is also mindful of the role in which you have come back to him.”

“I do not follow.”

“You are part of a royal commission. One of the disputes to come before you concerns Archbishop Lanfranc. He does not wish to meet you beforehand in case the renewed ties of friendship might influence your judgement.”

“I would be wholly impartial,” asserted Hubert.

“You must also be seen to be impartial,” emphasized the other,

“and that would not be possible if it were known that you had a private audience with the archbishop. When your work is complete-and the cathedral no longer implicated-the situation will be different. Archbishop Lanfranc may well be able to create some small space in his day for you.”