Authors: Stephen Wheeler
‘
Au contraire
. Saint Edmund is the one under attack from the forces of Evil. It is our duty to defend him and his interests.’
‘Are your sure you have Abbot Samson’s sanction for this?’
He laughed. ‘My poor little man, I don’t need Abbot Samson’s sanction. I already have it from a much higher authority.’
‘You mean the pope?’
‘No my friend. I mean God.’
THE BATTLE OF LAKENHEATH
I
didn’t want to go. Of course I didn’t want to go, but I’m a doctor and someone has to think about injuries despite Eustache’s insistence that there wouldn’t be any. I hesitated about taking young Gilbert along but I couldn’t do the job on my own, and if he was going to be a physician himself one day he would have to get used to the sight of blood and gore. I would just have to try my best to keep him away from any fighting - at least until the numbers of wounded started to mount up.
I’ve seen battlefield injuries. At the tender age of just nine I accompanied my father when he was summoned to attend the wounded at Saint Genevieve’s Field just outside Bury in the aftermath of the Great Rebellion of 1173. It was said that ten thousand were slain or injured that day, most of them Flemish mercenaries in the pay of King Henry’s eldest son, the young Henry, against his father. The injuries had been horrific: severed limbs, faces sliced off, disembowelments. There was no time for my father to protect me from the sights or the screams of the dying, we just had to get on with it. Most we were unable to save, but I like to think we gave them some comfort in their final moments. Afterwards we weren’t allowed to bury the bodies but had to leave their bones exposed as a warning to others. It is said that farmers still collect hundreds of bones every year.
Still, there is always prayer and pray I did in the dark hours before dawn that the matter might be resolved without us having to go. But already by the third hour we could hear the sounds of a horses baying, weapons clinking and men talking excitedly outside the great gate of the abbey. Whenever there is the prospect of a fight it seems that young men will flock to the banner. It is something that I could never comprehend. But I suppose when life has little else by way of excitement, a call to arms will stir young blood and get the stomach churning. All young men think themselves immortal, and most have never been to war so they don’t really know what it is.
But there was no time to rail against it now, not that any would have listened if I had. The pipes were fluting, the drums were beating and the battle songs were being rehearsed. With the barest glimmer of daylight brightening the eastern horizon we set off out the north gate of the town for Lakenheath.
Initially we were bunched together in a single group, but gradually as the morning wore on we began to spread out, those on horseback taking the lead and the rest straddled along the road for over a mile. Needless to say Eustache was in the vanguard - I could see his white robe reflecting the sunshine up ahead. Jocelin had changed his mind about going and decided to join us among the stragglers at the rear. True to his word Jocellus did not.
The route took us through several villages - Fornham, Hengrave, Flempton, Lackford and finally Icklingham, the last before Lakenheath. What the locals who saw us pass made of it all I could only guess. But the excitement was infectious. The prospect of a scrap with booty at the end of it was too much to resist. Some even stopped work in the fields and joined us armed only with their scythes and hoes, women and some children too. This is what it must have been like at Saint Genevieve’s Field I reflected gloomily as we passed it barely a quarter mile to our right.
To my immense relief the market was deserted when we arrived, Eustache had been right about that at least. We were met at the entrance by Prior Richard of Ely who was there with his bailiffs having been forewarned of our coming. My heart sank when I saw him who I recognized as having been one of Bishop Eustace’s advisors at my abortive mission to the cathedral a week earlier. He tried to persuade us to return to Bury but to no avail. Our numbers were far superior to his and he quickly withdrew to his house. Our own bailiffs did try to persuade him one last time to dismantle the market and pledge not to re-erect it, but he refused. Not that it would have made much difference had he agreed. Three score of armed and fired-up young men having marched the sixteen miles from Bury were not about to simply turn around and march back again. The market traders might not be there but their equipment was still set up on a patch of triangular land cleared for the purpose just south of the church. It was, as I suspected, a mere shadow of our own market, two dozen stalls at the most, but to listen to Abbot Eustache as he harangued his ramshackle army from atop an open wagon you’d have thought it was the beating heart of Sodom and Gomorrah. They thought he was referring to the market at Lakenheath, but I knew that what Eustache really meant was all markets - Bury’s included.
And so we set to work. Everything that was fixed was thrown down, much of it ending up in the village pond, while anything movable was carried off including a dozen head of cattle which were driven to Icklingham and locked in the village pound. And thank God the market was empty for who knows what worse acts of barbarism might have been perpetrated otherwise. Even so there were casualties although my skills were not needed to the extent that I had feared. Two young buffoons cracked their skulls falling off the back of a pig, while another ruffian, baring his arse for the world’s edification, had it singed by an old woman with a red-hot poker who ran out of a house and then ran back inside again having done the deed. She was cheered by onlookers while the ruffian’s burnt buttocks were scotched in the pond.
Inevitably it was in the ale-house where most of the vandalism was done. Despite Eustache’s insistence that no alcohol should be carried with us that didn’t take account of what we found when we got there. There is no more senseless violence than that fuelled by alcohol.
The bailiffs did their best to keep the damage to a minimum but there were just too many of us. By the time we had finished the centre of the village looked like a battlefield. The market was a smoking ruin as indeed were a few of the adjoining houses, and what had been a charming village pond when we arrived was now a quagmire of mud and broken timber. Most of the inhabitants had had the good sense to either hide in the fields or lock themselves in the church behind its strong oak door before which the parish priest stood defiantly warding off a group of louts. The last I saw if him he was being chased down the hill by a mob thrashing his arse with his own latten crucifix.
One thing about wanton vandalism, however, is that it is tiring work and eventually out of sheer exhaustion some sort of order was restored. But then another cry went up that split the fragile peace news of which was brought to me by Jocelin:
‘It’s Father Eustache. He’s been m-murdered!’
We barged our way into the centre of the crowd that had gathered around the pond. There, lying face-down in the middle was the body. There was no mistaking it was Abbot Eustache, his distinctive white robe clearly identifying him. Even though the water was by now thick and muddy from so many trampling boots I could see a large gash on the back of his head and oozing blood. No-one had tried to pull him out or even turn him over; they just stood there like a lot of goggled-eyed fish.
I leapt into the water which to my relief was just a couple of feet deep, and with difficulty waded over to the body. I managed to lift his face out of the water but Eustache’s thick woollen robe was making him heavy, too heavy to lift. But then his eyes flickered.
‘Quickly, someone, help me pull him out!’
But still no-one moved, fascinated evidently by the sight of the body. Even Gilbert and Jocelin were paralysed.
‘He’s alive,’ I yelled at them. ‘Jocelin! Gilbert!’
Saying their names seemed to bring them to their senses and between the three of us we managed to drag the abbot-legate onto the grassy bank and turn him over. He coughed and vomited a quantity of brackish water. When he opened his eyes at first he seemed groggy then manic. He grabbed my arm and pulled himself up.
‘You see, brother?’ he spluttered hoarsely. ‘You see?
Now
do you believe?’
An old door was found to convey Eustache into what was left of the alehouse and I had him laid on a table so I could get a better look at his injuries. Head wounds are notorious bleeders and can look much worse than they really are. I quickly sponged the gash and palpated around the site but the bone seemed intact, no permanent damage. I resisted the temptation to quip about thick skulls. It couldn’t have been much more than a glancing blow from something wooden judging from the fragments mixed up in the congealing blood, enough to knock him out and leave him befuddled and confused.
‘There is great evil here, brother,’ he raved still holding on to my arm. ‘But they will not succeed. T
he wicked will
perish and the enemies of the Lord will be like the glory of the pastures. They will be blown away like smoke as wax melts before the fire!’
‘Don’t excite yourself, father,’ I said patting his arm. ‘Just lie back, there’s a good abbot.’
Having cleaned the wound as best I could I left Gilbert to dress it while I went outside to lament the fact that I would need yet another new robe when I got back to Bury. The abbot-legate’s near-demise did have one good effect, however, that of sobering the crowd long enough for the prior of Ely to risk emerging from his house. He must have recognized me from Ely and came over.
‘Well, brother,’ he said surveying the scene of devastation, ‘are you satisfied with what you’ve achieved? You realise of course that after this there can be no question of our giving up our claims.’
I really couldn’t be bothered with wranglings over market charters today. ‘You’ll have to take that up with Abbot Samson,’ I sighed wearily.
‘Oh, I’m sure my bishop will have plenty to say to the abbot, brother, never fear.’
‘Good,’ I said. ‘And when he does perhaps he’d care to comment on the abbot-legate’s injuries. He was viciously attacked. I don’t suppose you’d care to suggest by whom?’
The prior merely snorted before turning and disappearing with his bailiffs back to Ely. Unfortunately a lot of our people did not return to Bury that day but remained in Lakenheath to avail themselves of all the pillaged ale and any women they could find. Such is the way with any victorious army I’m afraid. I just wanted to be away. I’ve no doubt when Jocelin comes to write up his account of the day in his Chronicle he will skip over the less savoury aspects and put a lighter gloss on it than reality, that’s if he mentions it at all. But the truth is to me the entire episode was one of shame and regret that has stayed with me to the present day.
MILKING IT
Our
long journey back was made all the longer by Eustache’s dignified silence as he rode his mule. He insisted on keeping his robe on even though it was sopping wet and streaked with mud which no doubt he saw as badges of his martyrdom. I’m sure he would have preferred to keep the blood streaking his face, too, if Gilbert and I hadn’t already cleaned it off. The injury itself was superficial - a gash that was already closing. If I were of a less charitable mien I might even have said it was self-inflicted in order to gain sympathy for his cause. But I have to admit that a blow on the back of the head would be difficult to self-administer. It could simply have been an accident - there was enough timber being hurled around in the orgy of destruction and Eustache had been in the thick of it. However if it wasn’t an accident or self-inflicted but a deliberate attack then the question was by whom? There was no shortage of candidates: disgruntled Bury traders for one; irate Lakenheath residents for another; peeved abbey physicians for a third. And his white robe made him an easily identifiable target for anyone with a grudge.
By mid-evening we were back in Bury, mayhem having been accomplished in the course of a single day. During our absence and with exquisite timing Samson had returned from London and was waiting at the abbey gate wringing his hands as we rode in.
‘My dear father abbot,’ Samson said coming quickly round to help Eustache down from his mule. ‘Whatever has happened to you?’
‘Please, no fuss,’ Eustache replied lowering himself gingerly to the ground. ‘I’m fine, truly I am - oh!’ He wobbled a bit as his feet touched the ground.
Samson caught him. ‘Walter, don’t just stand there. Help me with the legate.’
Gilbert and I exchanged glances. He’d been perfectly upright for most of the journey back. But we each took an arm as Eustache allowed himself to be helped, limping, into the palace.
‘Well?’ said Samson once we were settled in his study and refreshed by a cup of his best Bordeaux. ‘Will someone tell me what’s been going on?’
‘
Triomphe, frère abbé!
’ announced Eustache. ‘That I what we have achieved. Evil has been expunged this day! The market in Lakenheath, it is no more.’
The fleeting look of glee on Samson’s face was quickly replaced by a concerned frown. I shouldn’t celebrate too soon, I thought remembering Prior Richard’s words.
‘But you are injured, father abbot,’ said Samson. ‘How did it happen? Did you fall? Were you attacked?’
Eustache touched his scalp gingerly. ‘That I do not know. One moment I was supervising the orderly dismantling of the market stalls, and the next -
fotte!
’
‘
Fotte?
’ repeated Samson with alarm.
‘
Oui - fotte!
’ said Eustache demonstrating the sound by clapping his hands together. ‘On the back of the head. It was the Devil. Through some agent, no doubt, but it was the Evil One. The pain was...
indescriptible
.’
Indescribable it might have been but that didn’t stop Eustache trying:
‘I must have passed out for when next I opened my eyes I was looking up into the face of
frère
Walter staring down at me.’
I wasn’t sure I liked the sound of those two ideas being juxtaposed so close together.
‘It was M-master Walter dragged you out of the p-pond, father abbot,’ defended Jocelin gallantly. ‘And t-treated your injury.’
‘Nevertheless,’ sneered Eustache, ‘someone attacked me from behind and left me to drown in that filthy mire.’
‘Did you see who it was attacked you?’ asked Samson.
Eustache snorted. ‘It was the glove-seller, of course. Who else could it have been?’
‘Don’t you think we would have noticed if it was?’ I sighed.
Samson frowned at me. ‘Don’t quibble, Walter. The abbot-legate is injured. He requires your sympathy not your sneering. And what were you doing while all this was going on?’
‘W-we were trying to m-maintain order,’ defended Jocelin.
‘Evidently not very successfully. When I left for London it was with clear instruction for you, Walter and Jocellus to work together.’ He looked around the room. ‘Where is Jocellus? Why isn’t he here?’
‘He d-didn’t come w-with us to Lakenheath,’ said Jocelin. ‘He was otherwise eng-gaged.’
‘Busy with his merchants, you mean, doing the very thing the abbot-legate was specifically trying to stop. While the cat’s away.’ He gave Eustache a commiserating smile which the abbot-legate graciously acknowledged.
‘Do not distress yourself,
cher frère abbé
,’ Eustache simpered touching his wound again and flinching bravely. ‘I did not need the help of Brothers Walter, Jocelin or Jocellus. With God as my protector my enemies could confound me nought. Which should tell us something, should it not?’
‘What is that, father?’ I asked wearily.
‘That God approves of the work we do, of course.
L’abbé
was right to order this cleansing.’
‘Oh, it was Abbot Samson ordered it,’ I nodded. ‘Is that right father? Is it you we have to thank for what happened today?’
Samson demurred. ‘Instead of trying to apportion blame, Walter, what we should be doing is finding out who attacked Father Eustache.’
‘I told you,’ snarled Eustache, ‘it was the glove-seller. If the
frère docteur
had apprehended him when he had the chance I would not be incapacitated as I am now.’
‘Yes, I’ve been meaning to ask you about that, father. I don’t remember telling you what happened on the road to Ely. As far as I know only two other people knew. Brother Gilbert and father abbot. And Gilbert denies speaking to you.’ I looked pointedly at Samson.
‘Let us just be grateful the abbot-legate didn’t drown,’ said Samson, frowning. ‘I suggest we bury our differences and offer instead a prayer of thanksgiving for the abbot’s safe deliverance.’
Yes, I was sure Samson wanted nothing better than forget what had happened. We all stood for the Paternoster but inside I was still seething as I recited the familiar words that never seemed so poignant: forgive us our trespasses indeed. As for forgiving those that trespass against us - that I wasn’t so sure. As we were leaving Eustache sidled up to me:
‘I thank you for what you did for me in Lakenheath,
cher docteur
. But do not imagine that I do not hear the sarcasm in your voice. English may not be my first tongue but I always know when I am being mocked.’
‘Oh, I’m quite sure of that, father.’
He smiled. ‘There you see? Sarcasm again. It is a particularly English form of wit, so I am told. Well, ha ha. We can all enjoy a joke. But it would be a mistake to think me a fool,
mon fils
. I know what is going on.’
‘Going on,
père abbé
?’
‘
Oui
. I know, for instance, that you went to see your Arab friend immediately after you returned from Ely.’
‘Do you mean my brother Joseph?’
‘
Oui, le Juif
.’
‘Well which is it, Arab or Jew? You seem uncertain.’
‘Whichever he is, he is an enemy of Christ. And yet it is curious, is it not, that you should visit him so urgently after your meeting with Fidele’s murderer?’
‘I didn’t
meet
with Hamo. He followed me - as I’m sure Abbot Samson would have explained to you.’
‘But one has to ask why.’
‘For the money - obviously.’
‘And who told him you had any? I’m sure Abbot Samson did not. It is also curious that he managed to disappear so miraculously from the marketplace so close to your brother’s shop.’
‘What are you suggesting?’
‘Nothing. But it is plain that all is not as it appears. So let me warn you,
mon frère
, I shall be watching very closely from now on.’
Downstairs Jocellus was waiting for me by the entrance looking anxious.
‘How did it go? Did Samson ask where I was? Jocelin said he did.’
‘Oh Samson is very displeased with you, my friend. He thinks you should have been with us looking after the abbot-legate. Instead you take the opportunity to carry your nefarious trade behind his back.’
He frowned. ‘I couldn’t come. I had other matters to attend to.’
‘That’s exactly what Samson meant.’
‘I heard about the attack on Abbot Eustache. Could it have been Hamo?’
‘Foolish if it was with half the county on the lookout for him. Besides, what reason would he have?’
‘The obvious one, I suppose. If it hadn’t been for Eustache Fidele would still be alive and Hamo wouldn’t be on the run. If I were in his shoes it would be the abbot-legate I’d blame.’
‘I doubt whether Eustache would see it quite that way.’
My eye was caught by a lone figure standing at in the shadow of the abbey gate. Whoever the figure was seemed to be staring intently at me, and I had an idea who it might be.
‘You’ll have to excuse me, brother,’ I said to Jocellus. ‘I think I’m being summoned.’