The Medieval Murderers - The First Murder

Of course, Wigod had been a gentler, kinder man before Sylvanus – the canon he had exiled to Leven Sands in an act of poor judgement – had been killed by robbers on his journey north. Wigod had told everyone that he blamed himself for the death, but Wilfred knew it was a lie. Wigod held him responsible, which was unfair. It was not he who had ordered Sylvanus away. Wigod’s sour humour had not even improved when Oseney had been elevated from priory to abbey, with all the privileges that went with a more exalted status.

But three decades was a long time, and no one remembered Wigod now…

Wilfred closed his eyes and was just slipping into a pleasant doze when footsteps crunched on the path. It was Robert, the young canon Hugh had asked him to mind. Wilfred disliked the task for two reasons: firstly, it was unwelcome work for an indolent man, and secondly, Robert was shockingly impudent. To teach him his place, Wilfred used him like a servant, compelling him to bring wine and treats at specific times in the day – and as Robert considered himself destined for great things, it was proving to be a sore trial for him.

‘Two groups of visitors have just arrived,’ Robert reported excitedly as he handed his master a cup of wine. ‘A bishop elect from the See of St Davids and his retinue; and envoys from the Archbishop of Canterbury.’

‘Important men,’ mused Wilfred. ‘What do they want?’

‘Nothing, other than a bed for the night.’ Robert smirked. ‘They are old enemies, and started quarrelling the moment they set eyes on each other.’

‘Then I know how we shall keep them apart,’ said Wilfred, pleased. ‘With The Play of Adam . It is always popular with guests, and we have honed it to perfection over the last thirty years. Prior Wigod took against drama after… certain events, but I reinstated it after he died, and everyone loves our performances.’

‘Yes,’ said Robert without enthusiasm. He had been listening to Wilfred’s bragging conceit about this particular drama for longer than he could remember, and was heartily sick of it – especially as the old man could never be persuaded to reveal what the ‘certain events’ entailed. ‘I suppose you will play God, as usual?’

Wilfred glanced at him sharply. ‘Of course. Why?’

‘Because I should like to do it, for once. I am tired of being the serpent.’

Wilfred fixed him with an icy glare. ‘You will do as you are told, and be grateful you have a role at all. Now go and tell Abbot Hugh my suggestion.’

‘Will you include the bit about Cain and Abel this time?’ asked Robert chirpily, ignoring the order. ‘You always leave it out, but our brethren are bored to tears with the rest of the play after so many years, and a new section may revive their interest.’

‘How dare you!’ cried Wilfred, outraged. ‘They love The Play of Adam . Now go and do as you are told before I box your ears.’

Full of resentment, Robert slouched away, while Wilfred struggled to bring his irritation under control. Was the lad right? A number of canons had asked recently if he knew any other dramas, and their attendance was not what it had been. But that was too bad. Finding another one would mean work, and that was something Wilfred was unwilling to contemplate.

Still angry, he went to round up his actors.

As usual, The Play of Adam was scheduled to be performed after the office of nones, in the afternoon when the brethren had free time. Wilfred scowled when he saw how few of them were present. How could they prefer reading in their cells to his production? What was wrong with them?

The visitors were there, though, three standing in one group and four in another. Judging by the way they were glaring at each other, Robert had been right to say they were enemies. Abbot Hugh was between them, his face pale and strained: clearly, keeping them from each other’s throats was transpiring to be a trial.

Wilfred turned as someone came to stand next to him. It was Robert who, without being invited, began to tell him which visitors were which. Usually, Wilfred would have berated him for his audacity, but that day he was interested to hear what the boy had learned.

‘The tall, proud man is Gerald de Barri, Bishop Elect of St Davids. His companions are Pontius and Foliot, both canons from his cathedral, which voted unanimously to have him as their prelate. Unfortunately for Gerald, the Archbishop of Canterbury does not want him, and refuses to issue the necessary charters.’

Wilfred studied the trio. Gerald was a handsome man with thick grey hair and snapping black eyes; he was certainly elegant and haughty enough to be a bishop. His fellow priests were less imposing: Pontius had sharp, ratty features and wispy fair hair; Foliot was small and dark, but with a kind face and gentle eyes.

‘And the others?’ asked Wilfred, turning his attention to the four men on Hugh’s left.

‘Prior Dunstan from our sister house in Canterbury, and his secretary, Hurso. And the two knights who guard them are Roger Norrys and Robert Luci. Luci is the one who looks like a scholar, while the big, loutish brute is Norrys.’

The moment Wilfred saw Dunstan, he was put in mind of a goat. The Prior had a long, thin, white beard, and pale, widely spaced eyes. By contrast, Secretary Hurso possessed a comb of red hair and beady eyes that were redolent of a chicken.

The knights were Hospitallers, recognisable by their black surcoats with white crosses. Luci was cleaner than most warriors, with neatly cut hair and an air of quiet contemplation. Norrys, on the other hand, looked like most of the louts who had forged a bloody trail to the Holy Land a decade earlier: large, brutal, ruthless and stupid.

Time was passing, so Wilfred nodded that the play was to begin. An expectant hush fell over the little audience as the first actor stepped forward and began to tell the story of the Creation. Wilfred was gratified to see the visitors nodding approvingly. He felt vindicated. Guests always liked The Play of Adam , even if his brethren were uncouth ingrates. Indeed, he had sold many copies to admiring audiences over the years, keeping the modest profits for himself, of course. The vellum original, beautifully and painstakingly scribed by Wigod, had been purchased by no less a person than the Dean of Ely Cathedral, and put in the library there for posterity.

As usual, the play passed off without a hitch, and when it was over, Wilfred repaired to the kitchen for a cup of congratulatory wine, leaving his actors to dismantle the stage and store away the costumes and props. He had not been relaxing for long when Robert arrived.

‘Our visitors are arguing again,’ he reported gleefully. ‘Bishop Gerald said the Serpent reminded him of Prior Dunstan, and Prior Dunstan took offence. They are yelling loudly enough to be heard in Oxford!’

‘Why such vitriol?’ asked Wilfred curiously. ‘Such spats are hardly seemly.’

‘Because Dunstan is the Archbishop of Canterbury’s envoy, and he is travelling west to tell St Davids that they cannot have Gerald as their prelate. Meanwhile, Gerald is travelling east to tell the archbishop to mind his own business. It is the second journey for both of them, and they met on the first one, too. Their hatred is months old.’

‘Is that why Dunstan has two knights with him?’ asked Wilfred. ‘Lest St Davids objects to being told what to do?’

Robert nodded, his eyes gleaming, and Wilfred looked away in distaste. The lad really was disagreeably malevolent.

‘Gerald is popular in Wales, so Dunstan’s task will not be easy,’ Robert said. ‘He contrived to meet Gerald here, hoping to convince him to drop his claim and save him a journey, but Gerald refuses. Dunstan is furious, because he did not enjoy his first foray into Wales, and he thinks his second will be even more unpleasant.’