The Medieval Murderers - The Deadliest Sin

He glanced around, saw he had his companions’ complete attention, and began with his tale of…

Sloth

Autumn 1205, the Austin Priory of Llanthony, Monmouthshire

Prior Martin had many vices, but the one that disturbed his monks the most was his determination to enjoy an easy life. He disliked making decisions, and had a nasty habit of postponing them until they no longer mattered, while any problems brought to him were dismissed with an airy wave and the injunction to ask God for a solution instead.

Unfortunately, that would not do for the matter that currently troubled the monastery – one that his canons felt would not have arisen if Martin had not been so lazy. Their daughter house in Gloucestershire had grown rich and fat under its powerful patrons and energetic leaders, and was clamouring for independence. It could not be given. The ‘cell’ at Hempsted was an important source of revenue, one Llanthony could not afford to lose.

The canons stood in the refectory, hands folded demurely inside their sleeves and their heads bowed, although all were in a state of high agitation, because a deputation from Hempsted had just arrived – a dozen sleekly arrogant monks who looked around disdainfully, comparing Llanthony’s cracked plaster and leaking roofs to their own palatial dwellings. They were led by Canon Walter, a ruthlessly determined man who would do anything to be Hempsted’s first prior. He was unwell, as attested by his pallor and damp forehead, but that did not make his ambition burn any less fiercely. He was aided and abetted by Gilbert, his monkey-faced sacrist, who intended eventually to step into Walter’s shoes – and better a prior’s shoes than those of a mere deputy under the thumb of Llanthony.

Also among Walter’s entourage were two royal clerks, sly, slippery individuals there to ensure the King did not lose out on any deals that were made between the two foundations. The royal treasury was always empty, and King John’s officials were assiduous in sniffing out sources of free money on their monarch’s behalf. The Llanthony men only hoped that Martin would not accede to unreasonable demands just because he could not be bothered to do battle.

Walter and his companions were not the only ones who had braved the wild Monmouthshire hills to visit Llanthony. Bishop Geoffrey had also arrived. He had been prior of Llanthony himself before being elevated to the See of St David’s, and although he was a likeable, friendly man, it was expensive to keep a prelate in the style to which he was accustomed, and his company was an expense Llanthony could have done without.

Then there were three knights who had requested a few nights’ respite as they travelled west to join the military garrison at Carmarthen. They were battle-honed Norman warriors who had reacted indignantly when Prior Martin had evicted them from the guesthouse to make room for the bishop. Their surcoats showed them to be crusaders, and such men were known to be dangerous and unpredictable. The monks did not like them, and wished they would go.

‘You must make sure Martin stands firm,’ whispered Almoner Cadifor to Sub-Prior Roger, although he suspected he was wasting his breath. Roger had followed Martin’s example, and was shockingly indolent. ‘We may not survive if we lose Hempsted.’

‘Not even the King will dare strip us of our most valuable asset,’ said Roger with a complacent smile. ‘If he tries, we shall appeal to the Pope.’

‘Of course!’ Cadifor sagged in relief. ‘Martin has already contacted Rome to outline our position, so His Holiness will certainly find in our favour.’

Roger’s expression was sheepish. ‘Martin has not written yet, but I shall suggest he does it tonight. Or tomorrow, perhaps.’

Cadifor’s jaw fell. ‘But he promised to do it months ago, and you pledged to ensure it was done! We discussed it at length in chapter meetings, and you-’

‘Do not rail at me,’ snapped Roger. ‘You, who cannot possibly understand the trials and tribulations that running a large foundation like ours requires.’

Cadifor was so astounded by the statement – it was common knowledge that he did far more to ensure the monastery’s survival than anyone else – that he could do nothing but gape as Roger waddled away.

‘I recommend we retire to the chapel, to pray for our future,’ he said stiffly to his brethren, once he had found his tongue again. ‘I think our home is sorely in need of petitions.’

They did as he suggested, but it was not long before whispered conversations broke out. Why had Walter brought so many monks with him, and why were royal clerks in his retinue? The King had always preferred Hempsted’s manicured splendour to the bleak beauty of Llanthony, so had he decided to back Walter’s bid for freedom? The muttering stopped at the sound of clattering footsteps. It was Oswin, their youngest novice, racing up the nave.

‘I eavesdropped on Martin’s meeting with the Hempsted monks,’ he blurted. ‘I know it was wrong, but I wanted to find out what was in store for us.’

‘What did you hear?’ demanded Cadifor, overlooking the fact that he should not encourage such unseemly conduct by asking questions.

‘They came to present a writ from the Pope, giving Hempsted its independence. We have lost! Walter has become Prior Walter, and he is here to lay claim to numerous farms and manors that he says now belong to him.’

There was an immediate clamour of consternation, but Cadifor silenced it with an irritable gesture. Oswin had more to report.

‘Prior Martin told Walter that he should have warned us of his plan to petition His Holiness,’ Oswin went on. ‘Walter replied that he had, but that Martin had ignored the letter.’

‘There was a letter from Hempsted,’ recalled the cellarer. ‘Back in March. I saw Martin reading it, but when I asked what it was about, he told me it was nothing.’

‘Martin knew we would be furious,’ Oswin continued. ‘He called Walter a greedy pig, so Walter slapped him. Martin slapped Walter back, but much harder, and threats were made by everyone before things calmed down.’

‘Oh, Martin is indignant now,’ said Cadifor bitterly. ‘But we would not be in this position if he had written to Rome as he promised. He was too lazy – and so was Roger for failing to ensure that he did his duty. Damn them both!’

‘What will become of us?’ asked Oswin tearfully. ‘Will we starve?’

‘Hopefully not,’ replied Cadifor. ‘We shall have to tighten our belts, of course, but we did not take the tonsure to live in luxury.’

No one seemed particularly comforted by this, but the bell rang for vespers, so they took their places in the chancel. Before they settled down to their devotions, there were many angry whispers regarding what would be said to Martin at the next chapter.

But Martin did not live to hear them. He was found dead the following morning, just before the meeting at which the formal separation was to be discussed. There were no signs of foul play, but few thought his death was natural. The visitors claimed he had been killed by his own canons. His canons accused the visitors, citing the unseemly fracas in the solar. The knights did not escape censure either: they had been offended that Martin had evicted them from the guesthouse, and such men were sensitive about slights to their dignity.

Martin was carried to the church and laid in a coffin, but prayers were perfunctory, as everyone’s thoughts were on the upcoming meeting. This took place in the chapter house, and was a lengthy, acrimonious event. There was not a man among them who did not storm out at one point or another, so when it was over, no one could claim to have sat through the whole thing. Even Bishop Geoffrey, who had offered to mediate, had thrown up his hands in despair after several hours of continuous bickering, and gone to lie down until he had his exasperation under control.