“Did you tell him the whole truth, Gervase?”
“As much as I needed.”
“Then you lied to the boy.”
“I was prompt in my answers.”
“But deceitful.”
“There was no deceit practised, Ralph,” said the other. “What Brother Luke required to know, he was told. And more will be added on another occasion when we talk further.”
“Be honest with the lad.”
“Why, so I was.”
“Come to the heart of the matter.”
Gervase Bret almost blushed and had to turn away. Ralph Delchard laughed, then reached for his cup and drained it of the last of the wine. They were at supper in the hunting lodge and sat either side of the long table, with food, wine, and a few candles between them.
The accommodation had been put at their disposal by the Warden of Savernake, who had also provided a cook to feed them and servants to wait on them. The stabling was good, the beds comfortable, and the absence of Canon Hubert and Brother Simon a double boon. Six people sharing a lodge that had been built to house a king and his hunting retinue were given luxuries of space and attention which did not always fall their way.
Ralph returned to affectionate teasing of a friend.
“Have you written any letters?” he said.
“I have been too busy with my affairs.”
“Nothing should take precedence over that.”
“Nothing does,” promised Gervase.
“You will be sorely missed in Winchester.”
“The king’s business must be discharged.”
“So must a man’s more private offices.” Ralph refilled his cup and sipped more wine. “I’ll wager that the novice hears nothing of your real desires.”
“They do not concern him in the least.”
“Woman is every man’s concern. If Brother Luke could but see the Lady Alys, he would throw off that cowl with shouts of joy and run naked through Savernake to prove his manhood to the world.” He gave a low chuckle. “She is the reason you broke the vow of chastity.
Tell him, Gervase. Talk of Alys. Acquaint him with the meaning of true love. Release the lad from a life of toil in a house of eunuchs.”
Gervase nodded to close the discussion, but he would open his heart to no man, still less to a faltering novice. Alys was his betrothed.
Thoughts of her kept his mind pure and his life in a straight, clean furrow. It also made him critical of Ralph’s exaggerated interest in female company. He was sensible enough to make allowances for his friend. Ralph Delchard’s wife had died in childbirth trying to bring their only son into the world and the boy himself had lingered for only a week before following his mother to the grave. The experience had turned a caring husband into a suffering recluse for over a year.
He had buried himself on his estates in Hampshire, stirring out only at the express summons of the king. When the fever of remorse finally broke inside him, he vowed he would never marry again and looked to forge a lesser relationship with women. The recluse became such an energetic lecher that even Gervase was forced to lecture him from time to time. Ralph Delchard was a Norman lord of great distinction until his roving lust led him astray from the path of duty and sobriety.
“Tomorrow we dine with the reeve and his sweet wife.”
“Forget her, Ralph,” urged Gervase.
“Have you ever seen such a comely Saxon lady?”
“She is not for you.”
“That long-winded Saewold is not worthy of her.”
“It is a matter between the two of them.”
“When a marriage is that heavy, it sometimes takes three to bear the burden.”
“We have come to Bedwyn on urgent business.”
“Pleasure may help that business, Gervase,” argued Ralph with a pensive smile. “This reeve will gossip about everyone in the town, but Ediva may tell me things that even he does not know. If you wish to gain supremacy over another man, you must strike him at his weakest point. His wife, Ediva-that face, that skin, those eyes-is his weakest point.”
“No, Ralph,” said Gervase levelly. “She is yours.”
Canon Hubert was a visible Christian. He was a devout man who liked his devotion to be made manifest in front of others. Having taken up residence in the abbey, therefore, he joined in all its services when he could and competed for the attention of his God and of those around him. Brother Simon’s was an altogether more restrained and undemanding worship. He was simply waiting to inherit the earth. Hubert chose a more assertive route to heaven. Waiting was quite superfluous in his case. He did not need to inherit what he felt he already owned by right.
Abbot Serlo had received him as a courtesy and offered the comfort of his own quarters to the two guests. Hubert had refused on the grounds that an abbey was his spiritual base and that he felt happy within it only if he was on equal terms with its lowliest occupant. A hard bed would teach him the joys of self-abnegation. It is easy to play the willing martyr for a short while if you know you will be returning to your palatial quarters at Winchester Cathedral before too long. Abbot Serlo mumbled approvingly but he got the measure of this ostentatious canon. Appointing his prior to represent the abbey before the commissioners had been a sagacious move. Baldwin could outmanoeuvre Hubert.
The rivals met again at Matins and traded a faint nod. Lauds gave them a chance to lock their eyes for a second, and Prime set them next to each other on their knees. A silent battle took place, each trying to subdue the other with a show of piety and to make a deeper impression on the congregation of monks around them. Brother Simon remained indifferent to the struggle and did not realise he might become a weapon in it.
“Brother Simon …”
“Good day, Prior Baldwin.”
“I crave a word.”
“As many as you wish.”
“Abbot Serlo was asking after you and Canon Hubert.”
“We are indebted to his kindness.”
“He is troubled in his mind, Brother Simon.”
“On some matter in particular?”
“Indeed, yes,” said the prior solemnly. “And it lies within your power to allay his fears and ease his troubles.”
They were walking across the cloister garth with their heads down and their hands folded inside their sleeves. In the period immediately after Prime, the prior had stalked his prey until it was unprotected, then moved in for the kill.
“This dispute about the abbey lands …” he began.
“It is not my doing,” apologised Simon.
“But you know its import?”
“In bare essentials.”
“Has someone made a claim against the abbey?”
“It is not for me to say, Prior Baldwin. I am bound by my allegiance to Canon Hubert to divulge nothing that bears upon the work of the commission.”
“That is not what I ask,” said the other, guiding the wraith into a corner so that he could turn him and peer into his hollow eyes. “I search for reassurance for Father Abbot. Nothing more. May I tell him, then, that all the abbey lands are safe? That is what will relieve him most.”
Brother Simon’s mouth began to twitch. “I hope that they are safe,”
he said with obvious embarrassment.
“Who is this other claimant?” probed Baldwin before a show of retraction. “No, no, I withdraw that question. It is putting you in an invidious position, and that must never be. I know it cannot be Hugh de Brionne who contests that land, because that debate is over and won.”
The twitching mouth was eloquent once more. Hugh de Brionne was clearly involved and that fact defined the exact land in question.
Prior Baldwin was now forewarned and wished to be forearmed against any eventuality.
“Is this all that brings you back to Bedwyn?”
“This is weighty enough in its implications.”
“Hardly, Brother Simon,” reasoned the other. “We dealt with that stretch of land in half a day before the first commission, and you look to have able counsellors sitting beside you at the table.”