The Medieval Murderers - Hill of Bones

‘You must have taken them out of the abbey, into the city,’ rasped Brother Gilbert, the cellarer. ‘Tell us what you did with them, if you want any chance of saving your neck!’

Two of the others also had their turn at haranguing the luckless lay brother, threatening him with every penalty from excommunication to flaying alive. One was Brother Thomas, the treasurer, the other the precentor, Brother Seymour, who was responsible for organising the cathedral services.

The only one of the five who did not castigate Eldred was Hubert of Frome, under whose supervision the lay brother worked. The sacrist looked sadly at him, either from sorrow at the man’s present plight or disillusionment at his presumed treachery. Though usually a miserable, carping fellow, Hubert now seemed inclined to defend his lowly assistant.

Eldred had done all he could to protest his innocence, but he could hardly get a word in between the harsh accusations pouring from the senior monks. Only when their vituperations eased off from lack of breath, did the sacrist manage to speak on Eldred’s behalf.

‘Brothers, I fail to see what evidence we have of this man’s guilt,’ he offered tentatively. ‘As he pointed out, he has a key, so why should he break the lock?’

‘For the very reason that you are making the suggestion, Hubert,’ ranted the cellarer. ‘It is a device to mislead us. I too have a key, but if I were to pillage the aumbry, I would also break it open to deflect suspicion.’

‘That is a very illogical argument, Brother Gilbert,’ answered Hubert, stubbornly. ‘Eldred has not left the abbey since the theft and he has had no chance to secrete the stolen items, as he was arrested straight away.’

‘You too are lacking in logic,’ snapped the prior. ‘How do we know when the treasures were stolen? He could have taken them during the night and only claimed to have discovered their disappearance today.’

‘That would have given him plenty of opportunity to hide them away,’ agreed the precentor, a stout, blustering émigré from Brittany.

The bad-tempered dispute went on for a time, again with no chance for Eldred to protest his innocence. Eventually, Prior Robert tired of their attempt to bully a confession from him and brought the meeting to a close.

‘The bishop returns tomorrow and he will be appalled to hear of this loss. I will ask him to hold an immediate session of the Consistory Court to try this miserable wretch. Eldred, you have until the morning to confess your great sin and to tell us what you have done with those priceless relics. Bailiffs, take him back to his cell!’

Riocas of Dinan was a Breton who had lived in Bath for many years, since he had been chased out of his home town over the Channel for seducing the daughter of the harbour master.

He had a shop-house and a stall in the street market selling cheap fur linings and trimmings, mainly coney, squirrel, otter and cat. In fact, he was known locally as ‘Riocas the Cat-Catcher’, as this was how he obtained much of his stock.

Selwyn found him in one his usual evening haunts, the Black Ox alehouse in Fish Lane, an alley off High Street. They met there once or twice a week to grumble and put the world to rights over quarts of thin ale. Tonight, Riocas was sitting on a plank seat below a small window in the crowded taproom, staring out at the twilight. Selwyn dropped down alongside him and signalled a slatternly girl to bring him a pot of ale.

‘We have a problem, friend,’ he began without any preamble, then went on to tell the cat-catcher about Eldred’s predicament and Gytha’s plea for help. He paused as the serving wench, who looked about ten years old, banged an empty pewter pot on the window sill and filled it from a large earthenware jug, before topping up Riocas’ half-empty quart. When she had moved away, Selwyn explained that they needed to get Eldred out of the abbey that very night.

‘Unless we do, the next time we see him might well be from the foot of the gallows!’ he concluded in sombre tones.

His companion nodded gravely. ‘We can’t let the poor little devil swing, I agree,’ he grunted. Though Eldred was indeed rather small, he was almost a dwarf compared to these two men. Selwyn was tall, but Riocas was enough of a giant for the mothers of Bath to use him to frighten their misbehaving children. Not only was he huge in height and girth, but his massive head and spade-like hands seemed straight from some ancient forest legend. His face was a rocky crag, with heavy eyebrow ridges, a bulbous nose and a lantern jaw like the prow of a ship.

Selwyn resumed his story after a long swig from his tankard.

‘We must get him out before the morning, because that bastard of a prior is intent on finding a culprit – any culprit – so that he can appease the bishop when he returns tomorrow.’

‘I suppose he’s in that fleapit that the proctors use, next to the stables?’ growled Riocas. ‘That’s no problem – a pig with the palsy could break into that – but where could we take him?’

‘It will have to be out of the city. Bath is too small to hide him for long. We’ll have to keep him hidden until the real thief is discovered.’

Riocas ran sausage-like fingers through the wiry black stubble that passed for his hair. ‘Out in the country then! Somewhere that most folk keep clear of, but near enough for us to get food to him.’

Their commitment to a friend in need was assumed without question and Selwyn responded with a suggestion.

‘What about Solsbury Hill? Not too far away for us – and all these daft tales of haunting and evil spirits will help keep folk from snooping around there.’

They discussed details for the space of two more quarts and agreed to meet at the King’s House as soon as they heard the abbey bell for matins, soon after midnight. When he left the alehouse, Selwyn called on Gytha and told her what they had planned.

‘I’ll hide him in the King’s House for the rest of the night; we could never get him out of the city until morning, when the gates are opened. They’ll come here to seek him straight away as soon as they discover he’s gone, but just play dumb. You know nothing, right?’

Leaving the wife worried but hopeful, the steward went back to his kitchen, thankful that his fellow servant, the bottler, was away. With the house empty and no guests expected for several weeks, he was free to find a hiding place for Eldred. The cellar, with its stores of food and wine, were obvious targets for a search and, deciding that boldness was the best solution, he went upstairs to the four bedchambers and chose the largest, the one reserved for King John himself. A thick mattress stuffed with lambswool lay on a wooden plinth and two large clothes chests stood opposite. A chair and a table were the only other furniture, set near the empty fireplace. As steward, Selwyn knew every inch of the house and decided that here was the best place for concealing his unfortunate friend.

Soon after the abbey bell rang out its midnight summons to matins, the first holy office of the day, Riocas slipped into the house, moving very quietly for a man of such bulk. After a quick consultation, he and Selwyn went out into the abbey yard and sidled along the back of the stables, taking care not to awaken any of the grooms and cleaners, young boys who slept on the hay with the horses. Rounding the far end, they went to the last door, that of the proctor’s cell, where Riocas examined the securing bar in the dim starlight.

‘Not even a lock on it!’ he whispered, as he carefully lifted the stout piece of oak from its iron brackets. It was never contemplated that any outsider would wish to rescue the usual run of prisoners, mostly drunks and petty thieves.

Selwyn vanished inside and almost immediately reappeared with a dishevelled Eldred, who seemed quite composed, considering the tribulations of the day. The cat-catcher quietly replaced the bar and they slid back behind the row of stables and made their way back along the palace wall to the King’s House.