The thing, whatever it was, lay in the midst of a thorny bramble, and he was most reluctant to do anything about it. In truth, he was just thinking about leaving it, when he noticed that a large stick had fallen from a tree nearby. It appeared so fortuitous, that he wondered whether God had been leaving him a most virile clue, and he groaned to himself, dropped from the saddle, and picked up the stick. With it, he was able to push aside the worst of the brambles and see what it was that had glinted so fascinatingly.
There was a thong of leather set in it, and he hooked this with his stick and tried to lift it free, but naturally the thong was untied. It had been removed from a man’s throat, after all. Mark had to push down the worst of the brambles, and then risk reaching in to grab his prize. It was a marvellously wrought crucifix, a most rare item, made from silver, with tiny enamelled decorations up and down each part. Truly, it was a beautiful piece of workmanship.
‘Mark? Mark, where are you?’ he heard Simon call, and he poked about a little more in the brambles, hoping to find something else, but there was nothing.
‘Look. I found this over there in the bushes,’ Mark said. ‘I know this piece of work. It was Pietro de Torrino’s. It’s not English-made. I think he brought it with him from his homeland.’
Simon picked it up and sighed. ‘Yes. I suppose they took it from him and dropped it as they left.’
Mark nodded. The coroner, however, was less convinced. ‘What do you mean? Over there? That’s far from the way in or out, ain’t it?’
It was Mark who frowned and said, ‘So what? Perhaps he took it off himself and flung it away so that no one would take that which he most prized?’
Simon said, ‘Sir Richard, do not forget — we were told that the monk had been tortured. His eyes were put out before he died, so they thought. If that was so, perhaps they were questioning him about where he had thrown his cross?’
‘If they saw it fly through the air, they’d have known. Oh, I suppose the bastards could have just been trying to make him suffer for throwing the thing away. They wouldn’t have found it in the middle of the night, though, would they? No one with a brain would think they could in a wood like this, eh?’
Simon weighed the crucifix in his hand. ‘You’re sure this was Pietro’s? Well, if so, you’d best keep hold of it and take it to the cardinal. But it is curious that it was thrown away. A man like Pietro, surely, would value something like this so highly that he wouldn’t fling it into the woods? He would hold on to it, hoping that he might escape death from his captors. Not many would willingly slay a priest or a monk.’
‘You have a point,’ Sir Richard said. ‘But slay him they did, and the cross was in the bush, so read me the riddle, Simon.’
‘If I could do that, I would be a coroner or keeper!’ Simon chuckled. ‘But I’m a mere seeker of the truth in my own little way. Come! Let’s see what else may be found.’
Chapter Sixteen
Tavistock Abbey
Abbot-elect Robert Busse was a genial man in appearance. He had the good fortune to have been a brother within the abbey for many years already, and he was known and loved by most of his brothers here in the abbey.
It had been a dreadful shock when Abbot Robert Champeaux suddenly died. But the working of the abbey must continue, no matter what tragedy was sent to test the brothers.
After all, monks were one of the most important of the three classes of man. They were the religious arm, whose duty was to save souls. They worked ceaselessly, praying and honouring God for the protection of those who were dead, and those who would die.
The bellatores were the second. These, the warriors, the knights, squires and men-at-arms, existed to protect all others. They had a duty to uphold the laws, to serve the religious, and to keep the third class in their place. These, the peasants, had the task of providing their labour such that the other two classes, and their own, would have enough to eat and drink.
These were the three legs of the world, the tripod that supported all mankind. And like any tripod, the three had to balance. If one was enormously more powerful than another, the leg too long, then the tripod would be unbalanced. As soon as a weight was hung from it, the lack of symmetry would become obvious. If one leg was too weak, the same rule applied. Ideally, like a tripod, all the legs should be exactly the same. Strong enough to support each other, strong enough to carry a heavy load.
But today in the kingdom, so much was out of balance. If the king was taken as the head of the bellatores, then the warrior class was vastly overpowerful. The men who were supposed to serve and protect were instead like wolves running down a hill to attack a flock of sheep. Meanwhile the other two arms were weaker, relatively. The Church had suffered so much in recent years. There were the obvious stories of Pope Celestine V being murdered by Boniface VIII, and the tales of corruption that were so hard to deny — no man who had travelled to Avignon to see the papal palace could have any doubt about that. And no man who had read the life of St Francis could fail to be moved by the appalling waste, the profligacy, and the shameful misuse of so many funds.
Certainly Robert Busse was not going to make excuses for the men who lived so well. He and his brethren in Tavistock were far more humble. Their own meagre rations were perhaps a little more generous than those of the average peasant living in one of the nearby vills, but no one could have accused the brothers of living a life of ease and extravagance. The only one who truly deserved such a reputation was Brother John de Courtenay. The man was a dreadful spendthrift, and his habit of hunting with his hounds was a local disgrace. Added to that was his atrocious dress sense, for the man would keep trying to follow all the new fashions, and he was rapidly becoming a laughing stock among the lay brothers and other servants.
The abbey needed certainty. Especially now, with money being paid to the king for the period of voidance. There had been stories that Hugh le Despenser was trying to take the cash for himself. Robert Busse found that all too easy to believe. From all he had heard and seen, the man had an insatiable appetite for money. Still, the fact was that the money must be paid. And the sooner the abbacy was settled, the sooner they could stop paying out vast sums.
He crossed from the cloister out to the abbot’s private little garden, and sat on a turf bench. A curious innovation, which would have been more in keeping in a lady’s garden, he wondered whether it would give him piles, it was often so damp. But today, in the sun, it felt very comfortable.
And he needed comfort so that he could consider the note the messenger had brought to him. Opening it again, he scanned the contents of the little parchment roll once more. It told him that the king desired to see the matter of the abbot’s election completed, and would like to have Robert installed. If Robert were able to arrange for a sum of money to be deposited with Sir Robert de Traci, the king would use all his good offices to see to it that the abbacy was once and for all settled upon Robert Busse. After all, he had won the election. There was no sense whatever in leaving matters dragging on.
Robert Busse tapped his lips with the roll of parchment. It made sense. The appalling greed of Sir Hugh le Despenser was known to everyone in the land. From all he had heard, the king would always enthusiastically reward his favourite with money when he was given it, and perhaps the idea was that he would take any funds from Tavistock and settle the abbacy, while giving the money to his friend. And all Robert Busse need do was take the money to Sir Robert de Traci.
One of the series of accusations levelled against Abbot-elect Robert was that he had stolen £1,200 from the abbey earlier this year. Oh, and that he had taken gold and silver plate worth another £800 — and a silver casket. Clearly the stories of his greed had become widespread, he noted sadly. A man who began his reign as abbot with all these tales against him was bound to the handicapped from the start. There was little he could do about the malicious lies being told about him by the de Courtenay faction in the abbey, though. It would seem that the stories had spread so widely that they had come to the attention of the king and his friend in London already. And knowing his reputation, they had come to consider him open to this proposal.