Fortune Like the Moon Read online

  ‘He’d have to be desperate,’ someone behind Josse muttered, too quietly for the woman to pick up. Several men standing close heard, however, and there were a few sniggers.

  ‘He’d have to find it first,’ came a hoarse whisper. ‘Be a case of fart and give me a clue, I reckon.’

  ‘Be a well-travelled path when he did get there,’ someone else added. ‘Dear old Goody Anne, she didn’t earn herself the money for this place by sewing fine seams or peddling her wares in Tonbridge Market.’

  ‘She peddled them behind Tonbridge Market,’ the original speaker said. ‘On her back in the bushes!’

  Josse joined in with the general laughter. Anne couldn’t have been totally unaware of the ribaldry, and she didn’t seem to mind. Maybe the respectable trade of innkeeper which she now practised hadn’t entirely ousted the odd foray into her former profession. He glanced at her. She was still comely, even if she was a little on the large side. Good luck to her, either way.

  He drew back from the counter and found a place on the bench that ran around three walls of the tap room. The evening’s company was quite well away now – it had, after all, been a hot and dusty day, and there was nothing like a draught of ale to soothe a rasping throat – and he listened to several conversations going on around him.

  You would have thought, he reflected some time later, that there had never been a murder around here before. Surely it couldn’t be that rare an occurrence? Tonbridge was a busy place, always had been. The market attracted all sorts, and there was the river, and the main London road, going plumb through the town. And only a few miles away was the Wealden Forest, and, as everyone knew, there were all manner of odd goings on in there. Even Josse, whose youthful spells in England had been spent a score or so miles away, knew of the forest’s dark reputation. It was like all old places – its many former inhabitants had filled it with their own mysteries and legends, and nobody was prepared even to try to sort out fact from fiction.

  Hawkenlye Abbey was on the fringes of the Wealden Forest. Were these men right, and was this murder simply a matter of a released criminal leaping on the first woman he came across, then fleeing into the sanctuary of the great tract of woodland?

  Perhaps it was.

  But passing judgement on that, Josse thought, is not what I’m here for. My job is to stop this whole sorry business tainting the start of King Richard’s reign.

  And how I’m going to manage that, the good Lord alone knows.

  * * *

  He sat on for another hour, sipping at his ale, not wanting to fuddle his wits by ordering a refill. Tempting though it was – Goody Anne, whatever she did when the lamps were out and nobody was looking, knew how to keep her beer.

  Eventually, the company began to disperse. Few were thoroughly drunk, but most had consumed enough to make them garrulous. And, depressingly from Josse’s point of view, few had a good word to say about the prospect of their new king.

  How accurate an indicator was tap room gossip? Did it reflect what the population at large thought, or were more educated and thoughtful men reserving their judgement?

  The thought provided a glimmer of hope, but, almost as soon as he’d come up with it, Josse dismissed it. There might very well be such wise and cautious men, yes, but they would undoubtedly be few in number. The great mass of the English people – the ones whom this whole exercise of Eleanor’s and Richard’s had been designed to impress – were represented by the men who had been there in the tap room tonight.

  Josse turned from that depressing conclusion to a plan of action for the next day. Stay on here in Tonbridge, and ask around some more? But that might bring his presence and his interest to the notice of the Clares. Did he want that?

  No. If he were to fulfil King Richard’s hopes, he ought to keep his head down. Work behind the scenes. Had Richard wanted a public investigation, he wouldn’t have given the task to an outsider like Josse, he’d have sent word to the Clares to sort it out.

  Josse put down his empty mug and got to his feet, nodding a goodnight to the few remaining drinkers. Climbing up to his room, he was relieved to find that the two other cots remained empty. He pulled off his boots and stripped off his clothes, slipping naked into bed and pulling up the light cover.

  Then he blew out the lamp and closed his eyes.

  He knew what he was going to do in the morning. He would ride up on to the ridge and locate Hawkenlye Abbey. One of the convent’s nuns had been murdered, and he was ready, now, to go to the scene of the crime.

  The men he had talked with and listened to that night had, although he was sure they didn’t realise it, raised a number of questions, for which their hasty and simplistic version of what must have happened hadn’t supplied answers. Josse let the questions float in his head for some minutes, turning them over, conjecturing a few possible solutions.

  But it was too soon – far too soon – for solutions.

  Deliberately emptying his mind, he turned over and was very soon falling asleep.

  Chapter Three

  The dead nun was named Gunnora. Her body had been taken back to Hawkenlye Abbey, and the infirmarer had done her best to disguise how she had died. With the wimple back in place, the dreadful slit throat was no longer visible, but it would have taken greater skill than the infirmarer possessed to do anything about the dead woman’s terrified expression.

  Abbess Helewise, emerging from the abbey church after her third session of kneeling in vigil beside the cadaver, wished the dead girl’s family would hurry up and send word as to what should be done with the body. The coffin lid had been sealed now – thankfully – but, in this hot weather, the whole church, indeed the whole abbey, seemed to be corrupted with the stench of death.

  It is not, Helewise said firmly to herself as she crossed the courtyard with brisk steps, good for morale. I shall have to do something about it.

  It was all very well treating a grieving family with sympathetic tact – always assuming they were grieving, which was, Helewise had concluded, by no means certain. She had detected some strange attitudes there, in her dealings with them over Gunnora’s admission to the convent. I have refrained from pressing them for a decision, Helewise thought, for possibly they themselves, in shock at this sudden death, do not yet know what they want to do. Whether it would be best to take their daughter home or leave her here with her sisters in God.

  But there were others to consider. Helewise had a convent of living nuns in her charge, not to mention the monks in their nearby establishment and all those unfortunates of various stations who, for whatever reason, were temporarily accommodated at Hawkenlye, and she could not go on indefinitely allowing the very air they all breathed to be corrupted by the dead. And, when one looked at it practically – Helewise was very good at looking at things practically – the sooner Gunnora was decently buried, the sooner everyone could get over the horror of her murder and proceed with ordinary life.

  Helewise ducked her head and left the bright sunshine of the courtyard, crossing the shady cloister and entering through the door in the corner that led to the small room where she conducted the business of the convent. Of Hawkenlye Abbey in its entirety, for she was not only the superior of her nuns, but also of the small group of monks who lived beside the holy spring a quarter of a mile away, down in the little valley beneath the convent.

  She had held the post now for five years. She knew she suited the Abbey – false modesty was not one of Helewise’s character traits – and she also knew that the Abbey suited her.

  Frowning, she sat down at the long oak table which, at considerable effort and cost, she had brought with her from her former life, and, focusing her mind, began to go logically through the whole disturbing question of the life and death of the late Gunnora of Winnowlands.

  * * *

  The foundation at Hawkenlye was new, in terms of the construction of a major abbey, so new that it was still a blessed relief to be rid of the carpenters, stonemasons, and the endless crowd of workmen
who, so it had seemed, were set on becoming as permanent a feature as the nuns and the monks. Building had begun in 1153, under the direct order of the new Queen of England, Eleanor of Aquitaine, and it had been because of a genuine miracle which had happened, right there on the very spot.

  For time out of mind, there had been nothing more to Hawkenlye than a huddle of huts among the thinner tree growth at the edge of the great Wealden Forest. The forest was a lonely place, and many believed it to be haunted; there were tales of strange noises from the ancient iron workings, where men had laboured before history began, and more than one traveller lost down some long-forgotten track spoke of a phantom group of Roman soldiers who appeared to march off right through the trunks of a copse of birch trees …

  Since the Romans had abandoned the old iron workings, little use had been made of the forest other than for the fattening of swine, on the abundant acorns and beech mast which littered the forest floor in autumn. The only time of year that the area could be called busy was the seven-week period between the autumn equinox and the feast of St Martin, when the woodlands were uncharacteristically crowded with people fattening their livestock before slaughtering them for winter provisions.

  Into this strange and deserted place, on a hot day early one summer, came a band of French merchants, who had been on their way from Hastings to London when they were overcome by a mysterious sickness. They had been ill during the crossing from France, but, believing it to be nothing more than mal de mer, had proceeded towards London. By the time the group reached the ridge about the Medway Vale, however, all five were incapable of going any further. Delirious with fever, they were suffering excruciating pains in the limbs, and two of them had developed swellings in the groin. Their companions, terrified of contagion, found them what shelter there was in the primitive settlement at Hawkenlye, then abandoned them.

  The Frenchmen were on the point of giving themselves up into the Almighty’s hands when, to their amazement, they began to recover. They had been drinking from a little spring in a shallow valley near to where they had been left, a spring whose water was reddish, slightly brackish. And the least sick of the merchants, who had undertaken the arduous task of bringing water back to his companions, had a vision. Still burning with fever, head throbbing and sight blurred, he thought he saw a woman standing over him, on the bank out of which the spring flowed. She was dressed in blue, and in her long white hands she carried lilies. She smiled at the merchant, and he seemed to hear her praise him for his devoted care of his friends; giving them the spring water, she said, was the best cure.

  The merchants, naturally, told their story far and wide. The more entrepreneurial of those who heard it set out for Hawkenlye, and soon a brisk trade sprang up in phials of the miracle water. The Church, alarmed both at the lack of reverence being shown in the face of a true miracle, and at the loss of potential revenue to themselves, stepped in and built a shrine over the spring, with a small dwelling nearby to accommodate the monks who were to tend it.

  Rumour of the wonderful appearance of the Virgin Mary, in an obscure glade in the faraway Wealden Forest, reached the great Abbey of Fontevraud, on the Loire close to Queen Eleanor’s home town of Poitiers. The Queen’s strong links with Fontevraud stimulated her ambition to create similar communities elsewhere, and, at her coronation in May 1152, she was already planning the first English abbey on the Fontevraud model.

  Synchronism is a strange phenomenon, with an intrinsic power which often leads to the irresistible belief that certain things are meant. Thus it was for Eleanor, who first received pressure from Fontevraud to adopt this fledgling community at Hawkenlye in the name of the mother house – for was this not most suitable, Fontevraud also being dedicated to the Blessed Virgin? – at the very time when, just crowned Henry II’s Queen, she had the power to do so.

  Hawkenlye Abbey was spectacular; both Eleanor and the Fontevraud community saw to that. The abbey church and the nuns’ house, up on top of the ridge, were designed by a French architect and built by French stonemasons; the pièce de résistance of the master mason was the tympanum over the church’s main doors. In common with many of his fellow craftsmen, he requested, and was granted, permission to adopt the theme of the Last Judgement; few who gazed upon his creation remained unmoved by its power.

  In the centre of the domed space sat Christ in majesty, pierced hand raised, expression a combination of sorrow and severity. The blessed ones advanced towards him on his right, the Holy Virgin Mary leading them, St Peter ushering them gently along from the rear, sun, moon and stars above them bathing them in the heavenly light of righteousness. Angels blowing trumpets played a fanfare, as if welcoming the good to the eternal reward of being in the presence of God.

  On Christ’s left were the damned.

  If the promised joys of heaven were not sufficient to persuade the sinful to mend their ways, then surely the picture of hell as depicted in the Hawkenlye tympanum would have done the trick. Satan’s kingdom, in the eye of the master mason, was a place of unbelievable torment, with a particular torture, chosen for its appropriateness, reserved for each of the Seven Deadly Sins. Pride was personified by a king, naked but for his crown, being forced to walk on burning coals by two demons with pitchforks; Lust by a curvaceous woman whose breasts were being gnawed by rats whilst serpents slithered into her groin. Gluttony, rotund and fat-buttocked, was upturned into a barrel of excrement; Anger, face contorted with rage and agony, had his skull prised open and his brains sucked out by hunchbacked devils. Envy and Avarice, too busy coveting the worthless riches of others to look behind them, were on the point of being flayed alive by a quartet of demons with ropes and sharp knives in their long-taloned hands. Sloth, fast asleep on a pile of faggots, was bound by a fanged devil while another put flames to his pyre.

  Tactfully, the Abbey’s founders also employed local workmen alongside the imported Frenchmen. English woodcarvers, working with sound English oak, beautified the abbey church interior with their craft, and, kept under lock and key in the Treasury, was an English-made carving in walrus ivory of the dead Christ supported by Joseph of Arimathea, said to have been a secret gift from Eleanor herself. The shrine down in the vale also received loving attention, and even the simple lodgings of the nuns and monks were made adequately comfortable.

  The new abbey was to be headed by an abbess.

  There was considerable opposition to this novel concept, not least from the monks in the vale. But the precedent had been set, and set, moreover, in the community at Fontevraud. Founded by the Breton reformer Robert d’Arbrissel, who, among other revolutionary ideas, believed in the supremacy of women, Fontevraud had fought for and won its right to appoint an abbess almost a hundred years previously. And d’Arbrissel had been proved right; were not women, because of their experience in raising children and running homes, far better organisers than men? Should it, then, have surprised anyone that the same skills required for a noblewoman in charge of her husband’s great estates adapted perfectly to running an abbey?

  The Hawkenlye opposition did not stand much of a chance, and even that evaporated when Queen Eleanor herself paid a visit. A handful of senior nuns with the temperament and the experience to run her new abbey had been suggested to her, and she had made her choice with customary decisiveness and speed. Her first appointee was a success, so was her second. By 1184, when the need arose to select a fourth abbess, the precedent was established; Eleanor spared time from her busy schedule to return to Hawkenlye and view the shortlisted nuns, and she made her selection within minutes of meeting the successful candidate.

  Helewise Warin, thirty-two years old, was as enchanted by Queen Eleanor as Eleanor was by her. From the moment of her appointment onwards, Helewise made up her mind that she would be the most efficient, most effective abbess that Hawkenlye had ever had.

  This determination arose, to a large extent, from a laudable desire not to let the Queen down, not to make her, even for a moment, regret her choice.

 
But it also arose from Helewise’s pride.

  Pride had no place in a nun, she was well aware. And was she not reminded of the penalty, every time she entered the church and looked up at the Last Judgement tympanum? But, reasoned her intellect – another quality which a nun ought to suppress, especially when it was at war with obedience and humility – I am no longer merely a nun. I am an abbess, with an immediate community of nearly a hundred sisters, fifteen monks and twenty lay brothers dependent on me, and, in addition to them, the secular population of this small but thriving little place.

  If pride led to her doing the job well, Helewise concluded, then proud she would be. The good of the community would undoubtedly benefit from her resolve not to let either the Queen or herself down. And if that pride was a dirty stain on her soul which earned her prolonged aeons naked and walking on flames in purgatory, then that was a price she would just have to pay.

  Perhaps some kind soul would remember her in their prayers or have a Mass or two said for her.

  * * *

  Josse obtained directions for Hawkenlye Abbey. They were fairly vague, but he realised as he reached the summit of the rise that they had been quite adequate; from there, he could see the tall sloping roof of the Abbey church, and from then on, it was easy.

  Nearing the entrance, he looked about him. The forest crept almost up to the road on his left-hand side, but on the right, the trees and undergrowth had been cleared. Some of the land was under cultivation, some was pasture. A small flock of sheep raised nervous heads as he rode by, and he noticed a nanny goat tethered to a post, a well-grown kid running around her. In the distance, where the cleared land gave way once more to the surrounding forest, he caught sight of a huddle of dwellings, from one of which a thin spire of smoke rose up into the still morning air.