Edward Marston - The Serpents of Harbledown

Prior Henry rose to his feet with a dismissive smile to signal that the interview was at an end. Bristling with dissatisfaction, Hubert struggled out of his chair. Contact with his revered friend would only be through the agency of Prior Henry and he sensed that the latter would be an obstructive interlocutor. Hubert eyed him warily.

“I may, then, still hope to meet the archbishop?”

“When this issue is resolved.”

“Even if the judgement goes against him?”

“There is no chance of that, Canon Hubert,” said Prior Henry, briskly. He forced a thin smile. “Is there?”

“Why did you not raise these doubts earlier?” asked Gervase.

“I had no chance, my son,” said Brother Martin. “And I must stress that they still are lingering doubts rather than firm convictions. I did not examine the body closely.”

“Why not?”

“Her father would not permit it. Alwin is a powerful man. He was in no mood to be resisted. All I saw of Bertha was the glimpse I had when we first discovered her.”

“But that was enough to feed your suspicion?”

“To plant a tiny seed of doubt, Master Bret.”

“More than that, I think.”

Brother Martin was in a quandary. Having confided his worries to Gervase, he was now deeply troubled by regret and uncertainty, wondering if he should have spoken so openly to a complete stranger and questioning the suppositions he had made about Bertha’s untimely death. He felt that he needed far more evidence before he made accusations of foul play.

Gervase persuaded him to go in search of that evidence and the two of them were now walking towards the parish church of St. Mildred. When it came into view, the hesitant monk stopped in his tracks and shook his head.

“We should not be doing this,” he complained.

“Would you let Bertha’s murderer go unpunished?”

“I am not at all sure that she was murdered.”

“Inspect the body and you will satisfy yourself on that score,”

argued Gervase. “If you then decide that she was killed by the venom of a snake, you can let the burial take place and no harm will have been done. If, however, you detect any signs of foul play, we can take appropriate action.”

“I am not happy about this, Master Bret.”

“You owe it to Bertha to find out the truth.”

“Do I?”

“Of course. And you owe it to her father.”

“Alwin concerns me the most,” sighed Martin. “He was so crazed by the death of his daughter that he sought to kill himself in a fit of grief. Brother Bartholomew and I had to fight to keep him alive.

I still bear the bruises about me. Think how much more violently he will react if he is told that Bertha was slain by a human hand.”

“It would be a sin to keep that intelligence from him.”

Brother Martin thought long and hard before coming to his decision. The image of Bertha, assisting him at the hospital, was at the forefront of his mind throughout. Drawing himself up, he set his jaw and nodded.

“You are right,” he said firmly. “Truth is paramount here. I must know if my old eyes deceived me or if those lingering doubts of mine are justified.”

“Let us go.”

St. Mildred’s Church stood in the southwest of the city near the town wall. A Saxon foundation, it was built of flint and local stone and comprised a long, narrow, aisleless nave, a small vestry and an even smaller morgue. When they let themselves into the church, they found Reinbald the Priest kneeling before the altar in an attitude of submission. They waited for some minutes until he rose, genuflected, then turned toward them.

“Brother Martin,” he said, recognising the familiar face. “What brings you back to St. Mildred’s?”

“I came to pay my respects to Bertha.”

“But you delivered her up to me only an hour ago.”

“I would value a moment alone with her,” said the monk. “When I came earlier, her father’s grief was my main concern. I fear I have neglected the girl herself.”

“She lies in the morgue. You know the way.”

Brother Martin first introduced Gervase to the priest, then slipped quietly away. Reinbald came slowly down the nave toward the stranger, regarding him with trepidation. Gervase spoke in Saxon to put him at his ease.

“Where do the bones of St. Mildred lie?” he asked.

Reinbald was surprised. “You have heard of St. Mildred?”

“Indeed I have. She was the abbess of Minster-in-Thanet, not far from Canterbury. Her mother, as I recall, was Princess of Kent. Ermenburga. Am I correct?”

“You already know more than my parishioners.”

“Mildred was a virtuous lady. Her charity toward widows and children was legendary. When she died, her tomb became a place of pilgrimage. Her relics were translated to St. Augustine’s Abbey.”

“That is true. Some fifty years ago.”

“A portion of those relics was sent to Holland. Is that not so, Father Reinbald?” The priest nodded. “How, then, did Archbishop Lanfranc come to bestow her relics at the hospital of St. Gregory, here in the city?”

“That is a vexed question, Master Bret.”

“Hospital, abbey or foreign shrine? Which, if any, holds the true bones of St. Mildred?”

“Nobody can be certain.”

“The archbishop is. So, I understand, is the abbey.”

“It is a source of friction between them,” lamented the other.

“I hesitate to call it a bone of contention.” He repented of his levity at once. “Forgive me. That was unseemly. Our thoughts should be with that poor girl in the mortuary. God rest her soul!”

Reinbald the Priest was young, earnest and open-faced. He had the look of someone who had found his desired place in life and who would serve his flock with diligence for the rest of his days. There was a slightly defensive air about him but Gervase put that down to his own presence. Being the servant of the King always created unease and distrust among the Saxon populace.

“To answer your question honestly,” said Reinbald with quiet dignity. “Wherever her relics lie, we believe that the spirit of St.

Mildred is here in the church which bears her name. We celebrate her Feast Day with great joy.” He cocked his head to one side and studied his guest. “How do you come to know Brother Martin?

Is he an old friend?”

“A new acquaintance,” said Gervase. “We met outside the home of Alwin the Sailor. I was taken there by Osbern the Reeve with whom we are lodging while in Canterbury.”

“You have a fine host. Osbern is a good man.”

“So I have noticed.”

“His wife, Eadgyth, was very close to Bertha. She was here when the body was brought in from Harbledown. Then she helped to convey Alwin back to his house.”

“Has anyone else been here since?”

“Been here?”

“To view the body.”

“None save Brother Martin. And Helto, of course.”

“Helto?”

“The doctor. He came to verify the cause of death. He examined the girl with great care before he pronounced.”

“And what was his verdict?”

“Snakebite.”

“Is he sure?”

“He was absolutely certain.”

Gervase found himself curiously disappointed but he was ready to accept the diagnosis of a doctor. Their visit to the church had been in vain. Brother Martin’s reappearance seemed to confirm this. His head was low, his face expressionless and his gait unhurried. After a nod of farewell to the priest, he led Gervase back out into the street. They were several yards away before the monk stopped.

“I owe a debt of gratitude to you,” he said softly.

“Why?”

“Your voice compelled me to go back to the mortuary.”

“Unnecessarily, Brother Martin.”

“Not so.”