House of Shadows (29 page)

One of the remaining monks made the sign of the cross over the body while the other kneeled down beside it. Chaucer heard the murmur of prayer.

‘What happened? Who did this?' said Geoffrey.

‘Calls himself Adam,' said the man. ‘Anyone can call themselves Adam, though, can't they? Argumentative bastard, looking for trouble from the moment we started this job.'

Both men spoke almost in whispers. The freckle-faced apprentice kept silent but gazed in fascination, it seemed, at the monks, both of whom were now on their knees.

‘You didn't know him, then? He's a newcomer?' said Geoffrey, indicating the direction taken by the fleeing man.

‘We were short-handed. Michael the cellarer wished Adam on us.'

The cellarer or bursar of the priory was responsible not only for provisioning the priory but also kept the office which oversaw the upkeep of the buildings.

‘Adam has only the use of one hand,' said Geoffrey, reluctant to add that this might seem to disqualify the man from building work.

‘Cellarer said we should show charity. Adam came to him with a sob story of how his hand'd been crushed by some falling scaffolding when he was working over Lewes way. There's another whatsisname over Lewes way.'

‘St Pancras of Lewes. It's a Cluniac house,' said Geoffrey.

‘That's the one. St Pancras. You're not a religious?' said the man, looking at Chaucer's clothes and apparently surprised at his knowledge of the Cluniac order. He continued to hold his cap over the wound in his upper arm.

‘I am a visitor to the priory. Geoffrey Chaucer is my name. You are…?'

‘I am Andrew. This here is Will and that there on the ground is John.'

He meant the freckled boy and the dead man.

‘Cellarer Michael says we should look after our own,' continued Andrew, ‘so he takes this Adam on even though he only had the one good hand. Did enough damage to old John Morton, didn't he, with that one good hand? Though you might say it was a bad hand.'

The two monks who'd been attending to the dead man were joined by other brothers and some lay workers. One of them had brought a makeshift carrier made of coarse cloth fastened to two poles. He placed it on the ground and unfurled it. Several of them half lifted, half rolled the dead man on to the stretcher.
The irrelevant thought occurred to Chaucer that at least their black habits would not easily show the blood which must be staining them.

As they lifted up the stretcher holding the body, the apprentice gasped. It was the first sound Will had made.

‘John on the ground is Will's uncle,' said Andrew. ‘His father's sick, which is the reason we were short-handed. Will's a bit…you know…'

He rolled his eyes in his head. A bit simple, he meant. Geoffrey looked at the boy again. Will was watching as the group made its way towards the corner of the yard, presumably on its way to the infirmary.

‘You know why he's simple?' said Andrew.

Geoffrey shook his head. He didn't know why the man was talking so much. Shock, he guessed.

‘It's because his mother was sired by a priest. The boy's state is God's punishment for her father's sin, though you wouldn't know it from the way she carries on. Giving herself airs and all.'

Chaucer said nothing. The comments seemed out of place. He was familiar with the idea that the sins of the fathers might be visited on succeeding generations. It was not an idea that he liked very much, although, looking around at the world, there seemed to be a grain of truth in it. Rather than saying anything in reply, he continued to gaze at the retreating procession carrying the body of the mason. Before they'd gone far, Richard Dunton intercepted them. The carriers paused. The prior stood by the stretcher and bowed his head. His lips moved in silent prayer, then he strode briskly to where Chaucer stood with the mason and the apprentice.

‘This is a bad business, Geoffrey, very bad,' he said. ‘Did you see it happen?'

‘Not altogether. This man was a witness.'

‘Andrew, isn't it?' said Dunton. ‘You are hurt, Andrew.'

‘Yes, sir,' said the mason, pleased to have been recognized despite everything. ‘It's nothing much, sir. Just a scratch.'

‘It is your fellow that is dead? John Morton?'

Geoffrey understood that Richard Dunton had the knack, very useful in someone with authority, of knowing the names even of those in lowly positions.

‘The boy here is his nephew,' said Andrew. ‘John is – he was – brother to the lad's father.'

The Prior said: ‘I know.' He reached out and grasped Will by the shoulder. The boy started and blinked as if he had been woken from a dream.

‘Has the villain been caught, sir?' asked Andrew.

‘He will be,' said the prior. ‘I understand that he arrived here only recently.'

Andrew nodded and Dunton said: ‘We will scour the grounds and buildings. He will find no home or sanctuary here.'

‘Must go home,' said Will, picking up on the prior's last words. The boy's voice was surprisingly steady. ‘My father, he is sick at home.'

‘In the Morton house? I did not hear of any sickness,' said the prior.

‘No reason
you
should hear, sir,' said Andrew. He removed the woollen cap from his damaged arm. The blood was seeping more slowly now. As he'd said, it wasn't much more than a scratch.

‘Go to the infirmary, man. Get that wound attended to.'

‘Home,' Will repeated. He made as if to set off but did no more than walk in a half-circle, as if he'd forgotten his whereabouts.

‘Wait,' said the prior. ‘You shall not go by yourself.'

Dunton's glance shifted between Geoffrey Chaucer and Andrew, who hadn't moved, despite being ordered to the infirmary. The prior said: ‘Geoffrey, would you
mind accompanying Will? I must stay here. But the boy should not go alone. There is a bad man on the loose and, besides, it may be necessary to…to give an account…'

Chaucer understood. The prior did not wish the news of John Morton's death to come from the mouth of the boy, even assuming he was capable of delivering it. Young Will would probably recover soon enough, but at the moment he was still affected by witnessing the mortal violence done to his uncle.

‘Of course,' he said.

‘The family live outside the main gate, Master Chaucer,' said Andrew. ‘There is a row of dwellings. Theirs is a house apart. It is Mistress Susanna's you are looking for.'

Geoffrey indicated to Will that he should go with him. They walked through the gatehouse and turned left into the outer court. There was a second arched gateway at the end. Chaucer had been greeted here the previous evening by Brother Philip. Now a lay figure was lounging in the shadow of the gate. He was a hulky man. He was picking at his teeth with a twig. His face lightened when he saw Will but not in a pleasant way.

‘Morning, young Will,' he said. ‘How are you this fine morning? How's your mother?'

He cupped his hands under imagined breasts. The boy did not respond. Then the man seemed to notice Chaucer for the first time.

‘You keep this gate?' said Geoffrey.

‘I help the brother who does. Who wants to know?'

‘Never mind that. What I want to know is whether anyone has passed through here.'

The large man pretended to think. He scraped between his teeth with the twig and examined the result with more interest than he was giving to his questioner. ‘Many people pass through this gate,' he said finally.
Then, seeing Geoffrey's expression, added: ‘What's happened?'

‘A workman is dead. Killed by one of his fellows. If the killer attempts to pass, you must stop him.'

The hulking man stopped lounging and stood up straight. Geoffrey took pleasure at the confusion and fear which settled on his face.

‘How will I know him? How can I stop him if there is only one of me?'

‘Then you are equally matched because there is only one of him. You should recognize him easily. He has a hand like this.' Geoffrey held up his left hand like a crooked claw. ‘Oh, and he may be running away. Adam is his name.'

The gatekeeper started. He obviously recognized the description. Without waiting to see any further results of his words, Geoffrey ushered Will through the arch and into the street beyond. He didn't really think that the murderous Adam would try to leave the priory by the main gate, but he was satisfied enough to have alarmed the deputy gatekeeper. The chances were that the fugitive would make his escape to the south or east where the priory's grounds joined the flat countryside surrounding them. It wasn't surprising that the insolent keeper had heard nothing. The scuffle and the murder had taken place in the inner courtyard a hundred yards away, behind thick walls and buildings that blocked the noise. Anyway, the monks did not go in for the uproar and the hue and cry which would have followed a similar attack in the city streets.

Outside the gate he paused. ‘Where is it you live, Will? Where is your home?'

The freckle-faced lad hesitated, then pointed to his right. The wall of the priory continued for a distance. They passed the entrance to another cemetery. The crosses and stone markers here were dotted more at
random than their equivalents in the monks' graveyard. Chaucer guessed this was where the lay workers would be buried. Quite a few of them, accumulated over the two hundred and fifty years of the priory's existence. Never any shortage of the dead.

To their left the land stretched away to the muddy foreshore of the river, which glinted in the sun. The further bank was half-obscured by the haze of the morning, although the White Tower of the great castle on the northern bank was visible. The sails of a few boats stood prominent against the flatness. Gulls swooped and squawked above the water. It must be somewhere here that the miraculous little cross had landed, dropped from the beak of a bird that was larger than the largest eagle.

They came to a row of mean dwellings, more or less single rooms equipped with a door and walls and a roof with a hole to allow smoke out and a window-space at the front to let light in. Each house seemed to be leaning against the one next to it for support. If you took away the end one, they might all topple down. A couple of children were playing outside a doorway. One of them waved at Will and he waved back. Chaucer assumed that they were heading for the row, but Will wandered beyond it, in the direction of a house standing a little apart from the others.

At that instant a woman emerged from the door. She was carrying a leather bucket. She was about to throw its contents beyond the door but stopped when she saw Geoffrey and Will. Chaucer realized who she must be from her face. She was attractive, with an ample figure apparent even under a loose smock, but there was an echo of her looks in the boy. This was the woman, he remembered, who supposedly had a priest for a father. It was possible. Priests were human. They might not be allowed to marry, but they had female housekeepers and other servants.

‘What's he done?' she said to Geoffrey.

‘He's done nothing. Are you Mistress Morton? Susanna Morton?'

‘Yes. What's wrong?'

‘Is your husband here?'

‘Inside, sir.'

The woman moved from the door. She stood uncertainly clasping the bucket of water. Chaucer peered into the room. After the brightness of the day, he couldn't see much. The remains of a fire sent up a spiral of smoke, some of which found its way through the hole in the roof. On the far side was a large bed, which took up perhaps a quarter of all the available space. A man was lying on it, a blanket pulled up to his chin. Next to him was a great bolster. Since the bed would contain the whole family, the bolster was probably used to demarcate areas of it. Even as Geoffrey watched, the sleeping man groaned and murmured some inaudible words. Meantime, Will ignored his mother and father. He brushed past Chaucer and went to a corner of the room. He crouched down and busied himself about some activity.

‘Have you come to report on him, sir?' said Mistress Morton. ‘He's sick. Celler knows he's sick and cannot work.'

Celler? She meant the cellarer of the priory.

‘He tried to get up this morning but his legs would not stand him,' continued the woman. ‘He was sweating and very feeble.'

‘What is the matter with him?'

She shrugged. ‘Fever. He has had it ever since he was down underground.'

‘It's all right,' said Geoffrey, not sure what the woman was talking about. ‘I haven't come to check on your husband. Anyone can see he is too ill to work. Can we speak somewhere private?'

Even as he said the words he realized that it was a foolish question. This was as private as they were going to get. Already the presence of an unfamiliar figure had caused the occupants of other dwellings to poke their heads out, perhaps alerted by the playing children. Geoffrey moved into the shadow of the Mortons' doorway.

‘It is the wife of John Morton I wish to speak to.'

‘John's wife? He has a wife over Chatham way. But they had a falling-out and so John has been living here with us for as long as there is work at the priory. He is brother to my Simon.'

She nodded towards the man in the bed. Then, realizing the drift of Chaucer's words and picking up on his half-whispered tones, she said: ‘Something has happened, hasn't it? Something's happened to our John?'

‘I'm afraid so.'

Swiftly Geoffrey explained the circumstances of her brother-in-law's death. He thought it best to give her an unvarnished account. A fight of some kind in the inner court of the priory – and even as he said this, he realized he didn't know whether there had been a fight or a simple, unprovoked attack by the claw-handed Adam – which had resulted in a shocking death. In truth, there wasn't very much more to say. Mistress Morton dropped the leather bucket, and dirty water splashed over their feet and leggings. She stood wringing her hands. She swayed against the doorpost. Will looked up at his mother from the corner where he was still crouched.