The Hand of God

by David Coles

The massive front wall was pierced by windows far too small for the temptations of the outside world to enter the Abbey and the great oaken doors barred all but a few from ever leaving.

A flock of starlings perched in the denuded trees, shrieked abuse at them as the Abbot slid gratefully from the donkey’s back.

‘I really don’t like arriving this late you know,” said the Abbot Rutilius. “Mealtimes should not be rushed.”

They waded through drifts of autumn leaves piled against the steps by the wind.

*

Rutilius’ startled eyebrows rose when he was met by the Prior Gervais rather than the hostiller and shown into guest accommodation within minutes of ringing the door bell. The Prior himself prodded the logs in the fireplace to a better blaze and left him to warm up.

St. Hipolyte was not a poor Abbey. Glass filled many of its window spaces, including the wonderfully gold tinted window in the chapel; gold leaf and cinnabar and lapis lazuli also went into decorating the Abbey’s manuscripts. The river had been damned into a fish pond; that and a pigeon cote guaranteed the high table never lacked for meat. A grant of woodland furnished fuel to warm the visitor and the odours of cooking promised a pleasant evening ahead. Not poor at all – a comfortable retreat.

The Abbot held his hands to the blaze and no sooner had the fire warmed him front and back than the door opened again to admit the abbot of St. Hipolyte: Thomas.

“My Lord Abbot, a pleasure to meet you. You had a good journey I trust?”

Abbot Rutilius was warm and comfortable, the privations of his journey forgotten, he beamed at the other. “As good as might be expected for the season.” They clasped hands.

“Of course, of course.” Thomas smiled and gestured to his guest to be seated. “And judging by your accent, from Avignon?”

“Indeed” Rutilius was happy to admit to coming from the Neapolitan possession though not to his own origins in Naples. It was 1281 and the French Pope’s election had been secured by intrigue to end a succession of Italian popes; there were bad feelings on both sides and Rutilius was never happy with politics.

The pleasantries over with, Thomas sighed and came to the point. “There are concerns which I must speak to you about before you start your work.”

The visiting Abbot nodded, having already decided his welcome had been suspiciously warm. “This sounds serious.”

“Quite so, my friend. We have heard of your skill in exposing mysteries, we have looked forward to your arrival,” he sighed loudly. “You will hear the rumours soon enough but in short: about four weeks ago, one of our brothers committed suicide. I do not believe word has yet reached beyond our walls, but it will, it will. What I need to know, my Lord Abbot, is why?”

“And I can tell you?” Rutilius raised his eyebrows.

“You have a certain… renown, Rutilius. What is it now? Hmm? Twice in the past year you have unravelled murders, surely suicide is no more difficult.”

“Hmm.” The Abbot Rutilius frowned. His complexion, a matter of reds and purples, intensified. “You flatter me my Lord, to some extent the resolutions you mention were fortuitous. Still, tell me what you can.”

Thomas sighed again, even more extravagantly: relief that his trouble, if not halved was, at least, shared. “Brother Bernard. A good man, an excellent supervisor. He has overseen building and repair projects for the Abbey since he came to us. But four weeks ago last Tuesday, he left the monastery and never returned. We sent out a search party on the following day and they returned with his habit, it was found at the edge of a cliff overlooking the river.”

“And the body?”

“The body was not found. The river is quite high at the moment, it would have been washed away overnight.”

“But why do you leap to this conclusion of suicide?”

“What other conclusion is there?”

“Waylaid by thieves, perhaps?”

Thomas shook his head. “I would prefer such a simple outcome if only it were possible, there would be no gossip, no calumny. But murder, theft? There would surely be rumour if he had been attacked and where is the sense in robbing a monk?”

Rutilius shrugged and folded his hands over his paunch. “I was set upon by a thief not too long ago. The vagabond robbed me of my donkey and, but for my assistant, he’d have had my life too.”

“But you are an Abbot. We have precious things about our persons, enough to excite jealousy.”

Rutilius nodded. “Very well then. Suppose he ran away, what of that?”

“Brother Bernard was a conscientious man, my Lord. The cloister was coming along well, he had every reason to be content. No, he could not have left us, he was proud of the work, he told me so.”

“Hmm.” Rutilius drummed his fingers on the table for a moment. “Be assured I will do my best, my Lord… Aha.”

Behind Thomas, the door had opened, a lad of fifteen or so entered. “Master, Mariette is stabled now… ah, oh.” The Acolyte put his hand to his mouth. “Oh, excuse me.”

“That’s all right. I’m sure my Lord will forgive the interruption.” Rutilius turned back to his fellow Abbot. “This is William who assists me in my inspections. I assure you, in the not so distant future, he will make an excellent inspector for his Holiness.”

William bowed. Thomas nodded, looked at the boy then shook his head; that appearance of innocence and vulnerability would be enough to make many a mother jealous.

“And the cloister, was it, my Lord? That Brother Barnard was overseeing?” Asked Rutilius, capturing the other’s attention once more.

“Ah yes. A new cloister, the original was in a quite dangerous condition.”

*

In the morning, the Abbot related the story of Brother Bernard’s suicide to his assistant while he fed crumbs to sparrows on the window sill.

The Acolyte wrinkled his forehead. “I cannot believe people really commit suicide, Master. Nobody would want to kill themselves and besides, it is a great sin.”

“Only your last argument holds weight, boy. There are many unfortunates who conceive a desire to leave this life. But for a man of God,” the Abbot paused, thinking, he continued, “as you say, the aspect of sin should surely have persuaded him otherwise.”

“I think we need to see this place he is supposed to have jumped from,” suggested the Acolyte.

“Now there, boy, I do agree with you.” The Abbot stood up. “But first or at least, after Matins and breakfast, we must do some work. I might look at Brother Bernard’s account of moneys for the cloister work too, that may shed some light.”

*

“Well.” The Abbot placed a marker in the stack of meticulous records of payments and receipts to mark his position. “Two of Brother Bernard’s workers were cheating him but there are always one or two like that. Nothing special. Masons.”

“Aha.” William brandished a finger. “Brother Bernard realised what was going on, he confronted them and they tossed him over the cliff.”

“Well, I suppose there is such a possibility,” the Abbot conceded, “but it’s unlikely. They were just lazy.”

“How can you tell?” William stepped across to the table and split the stack of bills and payments.

“Well now. Rutilius sees all.” The Abbot grinned. “They did little work for their pay. It is all in the pattern of when they are here and how much lime is purchased for mortar, how many bricks and stones.”

Rutilius pointed out the entries.

“No, “he said. “They would not carry Brother Bernard’s body all the way to the river. Far easier to bury him under the new paving stones.” The Abbot blinked at the implication and made a note. “Which must be verified.”

*

Time passed by way of breakfast, mid-morning snack, lunch and early afternoon refreshment. During the day, Michel, the villager who had discovered Brother Bernard’s discarded habit, had been persuaded to guide the Abbot and the Acolyte to the place. They left in time to return for the evening meal.

Michel was a man of many flourishes. “This is the spot,” he told them, pointing dramatically at the ground. “The very place, lying damp and dirty on the…” Perhaps too, Michel had theatrical ambitions.

“Oh yes. We understand entirely.” The Abbot’s tone was brisk and business like. “And no sign of a body?”

“Washed away. See down there? The river runs fast, treacherous.” There was a melodramatic sweep of the arm. “There are many sharp rocks.”

“There’s a pathway down the side. Perhaps we will climb down and look more closely.”

“No more than a rabbit run, my Lord. Dangerous and muddy too, not fit for a person of your … fine figure, my Lord.” The guide knew how to choose his words too.

“What do you think, Boy? I’m sure God will watch over us and guide our feet.”

“Well.” William’s faith was less robust than his master’s. “We must be careful.”

“I shall watch from here,” Michel told them, his arms held out to each side. “If you fall, I shall carry the news to the Abbey.”

The Abbot thanked their guide for his foresight and set off, leading the way with the rock face to one side and a sheer drop to their right. He stopped after some minutes and William bumped into him. “There,” his gesture borrowed something of Michel’s sense of theatre. “Are those not footmarks in the mud?”

William tied a large knot in the end of his girdle and lodged it in a crack. “Did Brother Bernard have big feet?”

“How would I know?” The Abbot asked in a pained voice. “Even if sandals had been charged in his lists, I doubt the size would have been recorded. Let us go on. In fact, you may lead the way.”

Releasing his tether, William squeezed past his master and took small steps along the ledge, peering ever and again at the wicked fall below them and muttering the prayers he considered most appropriate.

“The Hand of God will bear us up, Boy. Have no fear, we are here on His business.”

William came to a sudden stop. “Master.”

“Boy?”

“An undershirt or something,” he bent to retrieve it from a thorn bush which grew from the very edge, but it was too far to reach.

“Placed there, do you think, or dropped?”

“Hmm,” William replied. Thoughtfully, he flung his girdle over the stem of a nearby bush and wound it round. “Placed, perhaps,” he said. “Or perhaps, it dropped,” he leaned out again and recovered the crumpled garment.

“You must learn to observe and to draw conclusions”

“I draw two at once, Master.” William spied another item of clothing further along; he pointed it out to the Abbot.

Eager to collect all the evidence, the Abbot squeezed carefully past the Acolyte and. back to the wall, sidled along until he could see the garment.

‘Oh yes,” he nodded, squatted, stretched out his arm and failed to reach it. “A pair of drawers. He must have taken everything off.”

“If he was about to kill himself, why do it naked?” William asked. “It is certainly not high summer.” He moved further along to a more sheltered niche, out of the wind; here, he anchored the knotted end of his girdle and drew his robe closed and shivered.

‘Symbolic?” suggested the Abbot. “Divorcing himself from the order before he committed this great sin? Such enactment is not uncommon.” The Abbot tried once more, one foot on the very brink of the ledge.

The ledge crumbled, the Abbot's foot shot out from under him. The Abbot overbalanced and flailed his arms wildly. He touched William’s habit, grasped at the girdle with the grip of a drowning man, flailed and caught hold of the boy’s arm.

He tumbled. He fell.

William was tugged after him willy-nilly.

Below, the water foamed between the broken rocks.

*

Had it not been for the knotted cord, jammed firmly into a crack in the cliff wall, the Abbot may have had words to say at first hand to a Maker who did not necessarily, bare up from harm, the least of His creatures.

As it was, he smiled across his cup of warm herbal infusion at William and sipped. “Did I not say the Lord looks after those who perform His work?”

William was tenderly massaging the great bruises around his mid-section, his shoulder and arm. The boy’s foresight may have saved them both but in the Abbot’s view of events, his own grasp had been Divinely guided.

The Acolyte made no reply; it would have been wasted effort.

“So what do we think we know?” Asked the Abbot, separating the grease spotted sheets of the kitchen bills.

William turned over the sandals which, only after their fall and Divine deliverance, had been found thrust into the bush where they’d found the drawers. “The laces on these sandals have been untied, not cut or broken. Brother Bernard deliberately took off his clothes before he jumped. If he jumped.”

“Except that there were no prints of bare feet in the mud,” the Abbot cautioned.

“Exactly, Master,” William agreed. “I think he ran away. I think he had some spare clothes, villagers’ clothes, including new sandals.”

“Well it’s possible I suppose but hardly likely. He would have had no money,” the Abbot was a little dismissive. He reached forward and picked up a pen, dipped it in the ink pot. “To work Boy, let’s make a start on this.” He handed the pen to William. “Note this down: page two, um, line fourteen - mixing basins, no price marked. You have that?”

*

After the evening meal, William went to the stables and talked to two of the Abbey servants. They were employed to bring produce up from the small town half a mile or so down the hill. He spent an hour asking about their work and the town.

“There is a place you can buy clothes,” He told the Abbot later, as they went to the great chapel for Vespers. “A market on the main street, close to where the river runs.”

“Very good. After our prayers, we shall discuss how we will interview the market people.”

They went to prayers. The huge and lofty place echoed to the sound of scores of sandaled feet, the grunts of elderly monks kneeling, the groans, the creek of aged joints, the coughs and throat clearings which always precede such gatherings.

“Great Father in Heaven, show us the way,” whispered the Abbot as he settled his elbows on the lectern.

Later, it was decided, somewhat unilaterally, that William should make the enquiry. “You will have a better understanding of rustics, my boy. They would only view me with suspicion.”

The Abbot would not have thought of his Acolyte’s approach. Indeed, the boy’s idea seemed quite bizarre.

*

The market was in progress: a few trestle tables offering greens and onions, apples, nuts, mushrooms; a man with two barrels filled with rusting knives and axes; a table bearing cooking pots and two racks of used clothing. One of the latter was securely positioned on the small patch of cobbles outside the mayor’s house, the rest made do with the damp mud of the roadway.

‘You ask around the market people there,” the Abbot suggested. “I shall perhaps, find the local rector, have a word with him.”

‘The grave digger too,” said William. “He might sell, er, old clothes you know.”

‘Old clothes? Oh…from the er, graves… He’s not going to tell me, is he?” The Abbot patted William’s shoulder.

‘Ow,” howled William as his bruises reacted.

‘Sorry.” And the Abbot watched his Acolyte dash away as if running for his life. He shook his head as William disappeared into the small crowd shuffling around the street market. William hid himself behind one of the racks of sour-smelling clothes.

‘Here,” grumbled the man in command of the cobbled area, “what do you want?” He had a short, stiff beard that stuck out like the bowsprit of a cargo boat and wore a once-elegant surcoat with shoes far too long for the day.

‘Change my clothes, Sir,” He said in a shaky voice. “So I look different.”

The man fingered the coarse cloth of William’s habit. “You’ve coin too?” And when William shook his head, he nodded towards another man. “Try Jules over there, he’s cheaper than me.”

‘I’d heard you had let one of the brothers change his habit for a coat and hose.”

The other looked down sharply at William. “A lie,” he said, genuinely offended. “No such thing. I’d be in more trouble than I could talk myself out of.” The stall holder shook his head. “Oh no, definitely not. Jules,” he indicated the other haberdasher again, “he’s more of a fool than I am.”

William looked towards Jules whose stock seemed to be largely smocks and shapeless gowns. He made his way across to the other stall where a woman was repairing a tear in the sleeve of a russet coloured coat.

‘Master,” he said, taking melodramatic precautions to stay out of the Abbot’s sight where he still stood irresolutely at the side of the road. William clutched at the other’s arm.

‘Eh?” Jules asked loudly. He was watching his wife work with needle and thread and now he twitched his sleeve from William’s grasp. “What’s that?

‘I want to change this habit for something else.”

Jules looked down at him. “Change? His voice was rough, more used to shouting than whispering, but he lowered it somewhat. “Didn’t I see you with the Abbot just now? Hm? You’re from the Abbey, aren’t you?”

‘Well, er…”

‘Get off with you boy. Think I want the wrath of God on me?” He looked around, no one was paying attention.

‘Wrath of that foreign Abbot, you mean,” said Jules’ wife, tying off the end of the thread with a disdainful thrust of the chin.

‘Foreign?” asked Jules.

‘Of course, foreign.”

William let the neck of his habit fall open, the purple bruise across his shoulder showing starkly against his paler skin.

“Good heavens…” The wife stopped, bent over in the act of biting off the thread close to the knot. “What have you done to yourself?”

“I was late,” he said, pulling the cloth up as though self-conscious. “For Lauds, last night.”

She straightened up, reached across and pulled the garment even further open.

The imprint of the Abbot’s hand on his skin was clear. “Savages,” she said, savages in the house of God.”

“Wife,” said Jules, worried. “The Abbot is over there, take care or he’ll see you.”

The woman glanced towards the Abbot. “My husband is wise to be cautious. Are you trying to run away?” She turned back and shook the boy’s arm gently.

William made his mouth tremble and Jules’ wife pressed her hand against her own lips. He nodded quickly and looked guiltily at the Abbot as though his Master might hear every word. “I thought Brother Bernard might have come to you, before.”

“Barnard,” said Jules. “There was one,” he closed his eyes, remembering. “September I think…”

The woman interrupted her husband quickly. “You will have made no vows yet?” the first thing to come to mind.

“No. Two years or more.” He turned his great dark eyes upon her.

“Of course not, no, you’re too young. You see the house down there, with the red door?”

William looked and nodded.

“It is not something we’d do lightly.” She said in a serious sounding whisper. “Tell no one but come back tonight when it is dark and knock on the window, twice. “I’ll find you something. And maybe some apples and bread too. Now go and hide somewhere.”

William put out his hand and gripped the woman’s wrist. “Thank you Mother,” he said fiercely and turned away to slip through the most crowded part of the market.

Moments passed, the boy vanished.

“Did you hear that, Husband?” She asked softly, her eyes moist and clouded. “He called me Mother,” she heaved a great sigh. “God knows, such a beautiful child.”

When the Abbot returned to the Abbey, it was to find William already there and arranging papers for their work. “Yes,” he said in reply to the Abbot’s question. “They sold some to a monk, Brother Bernard’s name seemed familiar but it was some time ago though.”

“Hmm,” said the Abbot, sucking his bottom lip and nodding.

“So perhaps, he was running away.”

“Perhaps. I’ll go through the records again, there may be some clue I missed,” he picked up a pen and as quickly put it down again. He turned to look at William. “I was further up the street, talking to the rector but I didn’t see you leave the market, yet here you are before me.”

“No, Master. The woman insisted I leave by the back way.” “Whatever for?” The Abbot was mystified.

“To hide from you, in case you had me beaten,” William explained how he had ingratiated himself. “After running away from you at the start.”

The Abbot’s face grew redder, remembering. “I confess that… In fact…”

“Suppose…” William interrupted, in case a list of punishments developed.

“Well?” The Abbot frowned. “Suppose what?”

William shook his head. “Nothing really, but what if Brother Bernard’s accounting of moneys was made up?”

“Made up? It adds up, Boy. That’s what matters with accountings.” The Abbot chewed his lip. “But what do I tell Thomas? Which is worse? Running away or killing himself?”

William remained silent.

“The Abbot would prefer thieves and murderers if possible, but he forgets that needs evidence. I don’t know what to do. Suicide or the truth?” The question kept him awake until Lauds and through the homily.

*

‘Another week and we can put this behind us,” The Abbot observed after breakfast, “there’s the kitchen to finish, the rest should not take too long.”

‘Before, we’ve usually started with the kitchen records.”

‘That’s true. The kitchen is often typical of the whole. But Abbot Thomas brought us the problem of Bernard’s disappearance. Now, ready to take notes?” He put his finger to the scrawled words.

‘Certainly Master.”

William waited, pen poised over the inkpot. The Abbot remained silent.

‘Master?”

‘Pass me the cloister records will you?”

William put the pen down and brought the bundle of papers over.

‘Now. Look at that.” The Abbot pointed to several lines on the kitchen papers and then to those in Brother Bernard’s ledgers. “What do you make of it?”

The Acolyte looked from one to the other, uncertain what he was searching for. Then he saw it. “The lettering, the writing is quite similar.”

‘Not quite, it’s identical. It’s the same hand. Look at those A’s.”

‘So Brother Bernard has neither run away nor committed suicide?”

‘It does not appear so. Now he calls himself Brother Nathaniel, according to this signature. I shall ask to see him when we have finished the checking.”

*

‘I’m sorry m’Lord. Brother Nathaniel is down in the village. One of the kettles has to be mended and we needed tallow too. Can I help you?” The kitchener looked anxious.

‘There’s nothing for you to worry about Brother Mark, I assure you. Some of Brother Nathaniel’s writing needs clarifying, that’s all. Can you ask him to see me when he returns?”

‘Well of course, m’Lord. So long as there’s nothing I need to know about.”

*

‘Ah. Brother Nathaniel, I assume.”

The monk nodded and came into the room, closing the door behind him. “Brother Mark told me you needed help with our records,” his voice was hoarse, hesitant.”

‘Indeed, a question of writing, that is all.”

Nathaniel nodded.

The Abbot gestured to a chair at a table in the corner. He sat down and the Abbot pulled a stool over and seated himself too. “William, the kitchen lists, if you please,” he smiled at the monk. “Ah, thank you William,” he took the sheets of paper from the Acolyte and spread the top one out carefully. He pointed to an entry and then to another. “This is your writing?”

Nathaniel peered closer.

‘Let me give you more light.” The Abbot pulled the candle stick closer, it flickered and smoke plumed from the flame for a few heartbeats before it burned steadily once more.

‘Now. Do you see? Here.”

Nathaniel nodded. “Yes. It’s one of mine.”

‘I see your notes started quite recently Brother. New to the Abbey?”

The other hesitated a moment. “A few weeks, only,” he said slowly, thinking about each word before he uttered it. “I came from St. Peter’s when the old Abbot died.”

‘You like the work?”

‘Work is work, my Lord Abbot.”

The Abbot leaned closer, looking at Brother Nathaniel’s face. “Shaved a beard off recently?”

The cook fingered his face. “I shave each day.”

‘Mm. Your chin is pale though, often due to a beard. You didn’t run very far, Brother Bernard, did you.”

‘My Lord?”

‘Don’t lie any more, Brother. I assure you, I know who you are.”

Bernard’s expression held for a few heartbeats longer and then collapsed. The tension went out of his body and he seemed to take on a new personality.

‘How?” His voice neither hoarse nor slow, now.

‘Your writing, Brother. On the kitchen records and on those for the building work, it is the same. And your hands, look, calloused, rough.”

‘Well.” Bernard nodded. “You have told the Abbot?”

Rutilius shook his head. “Not yet. Suppose you tell me about it first.”

The monk pulled his greasy habit closed, his face assumed a troubled expression. “Responsibility, my Lord. Just too much, you see. I’d overseen several small schemes but this was too big,” he shook his head. “I just couldn’t control it,” he put his head in his hands. “I’m so ashamed my Lord.”

The Abbot cleared his throat once or twice. “Your hired stone masons were swindling you all along, Brother.” And Bernard looked up, his expression one of unaccountable relief. “I shall inform the Bursar and no doubt, they’ll be taken before Lord Guillaum at the castle, made to pay for their sins.”

Brother Bernard nodded, his hands on his cheeks.

‘Why the business with your old clothes, though? Why did you carefully leave them near the river?”

Bernard looked at the Abbot and smiled meekly, then hung his head. “I had hoped everyone would think I had ended it all. What gave it away?”

The Abbot shrugged. “It seemed – arranged, somehow. We traced your dealings for clothes at the market in the village. We had thought you’d run away.”

‘Oh well, I’m not so clever as I thought, then. I was going to run away. I, er, I just changed my mind.” He scratched at an ink mark on the table. “When I came to think about it – where else would I go, m’Lord? This is my refuge and once I’d shaved my beard off, no one here recognised me.” Bernard bit his lip, his fingers shook against the table.

*

“I don’t like it, Boy.” Rutilius drummed his fingers on the arm of the couch. “Something’s wrong. So content with his story then so anxious.” Nathaniel had gone and the Abbot settled and re-settled himself on the big couch William had pushed up before the fire. The logs crackled and sent flames leaping up the chimney. “Bring the candle closer will you and the kitchen papers, please.”

Minutes only passed before they were interrupted by a knock at the door. William went to open it and showed in Brother Mark, the kitchener.

‘My Lord, I apologise for interrupting you at this late hour.”

‘Do not trouble yourself Brother. How can I help?”

‘Brother Nathaniel has just returned and is in a sad state. His hand trembles on the knife while he cuts the bread; he spills more soup than he pours into the jugs. I’ve never seen him in such a plight all the time he’s been here.”

The Abbot stood up, a perplexed expression on his face. “I can’t say, his entries on the listings were correct. In fact, I thought he had done remarkably well for a newcomer.”

‘New, m’Lord? He’s been with us for years. The only thing new about Brother Nathaniel is his talking. Never had more than a grunt out of him since he joined us a year last Easter - came from a silent order - now he drives us mad with his chatter.

The Abbot’s eyes bulged a little. “A year last Easter?” he said. He spoke quickly, urgently. “Brother Mark, find two monks of burley build and have brother Nathaniel sequestered at once. Is this clear? At once. I will see Abbot Thomas now, before Lauds.”

Brother Mark left in haste.

The Abbot waved his hands urgently at William. “The kitchen lists Boy, quickly.” And quickly, the Abbot scanned the entries. “Never looked,” he said to himself. “Never thought to look. Boy,” he pointed to other entries, earlier ones. “These must be Brother Nathaniel’s hand. See? Grain, fine flour they couldn’t grind here, two skillets from the blacksmith. Nathaniel would be the one to bring things from the village; he would not linger, nor speak more than he had too. Not used to talking.”

“And Brother Bernard…” William started to say.

“And Brother Bernard has taken his place.”

“So where is the real Brother Nathaniel?”

“Where indeed, Boy.” A bell clanged close by. “What was that?”

“Only the visitor’s bell. Master. Nothing to do with us.”

And while the Abbot pondered, William took the ribbon from the cloister papers and set them out on the table. He went back to the start and looked closely at the entries.

“Master, how much do tiles cost?”

“Tiles?” He looked at what William was doing. “I don’t know, are there other entries for tiles?”

“Yes. Later on. Twelve dozen, one denier and nine pence.”

“And the item you queried?” The Abbot was excited now for he could see what the boy had realised.

“Twenty deniers for a five score.”

“It’s an artifice, isn’t it?” The Abbot nodded, answering himself. “Oh yes. Is there more?”

“A month before that. The same and again, in June. And at the same time – I’m guessing but what about sixty deniers and eighty pence for five hand carts?”

“It could be the right price but who would want five hand carts at once in June when the work started as far back as March? Oh, the wretched man, the miscreant.”

William was grinning. “We have found him out Master; we were too clever for him.”

“Only just, Boy. Barely and what of the money, eh? Somewhere there is a bag of silver or gold.”

“And Brother Nathaniel too, Master.”

“Just so, dressed in hand-me down clothes and dropped into a ditch somewhere.” The Abbot’s eyes hardened uncharacteristically. “Duke Guillaum will ring the answers from him though, never fear.”

“And…” William’s rejoinder was cut off by the door opening.

Abbot Thomas stood there. Rutilius might have been forgiven for mistaking the expression on the other’s face for triumph, but such an emotion was unlikely in one so holy, surely? “They have found the body, Rutilius,” he said. “This afternoon. Brother Bernard. As I surmised, he was killed.” Thomas flicked his fingers beneath his chin, made a moue of distaste. “Throttled, actually. Murder.”

Rutilius shook his head slowly. “No, Thomas. I’m afraid not.”

“Not?” Abbot Thomas frowned. “No?”

“No. He will be unidentifiable by now of course, but the corpse they have found for you is Brother Nathaniel’s.”

“Nathaniel?”

“God rest his soul, from the kitchen.”

*

“You are certain this is the same bush?” The Abbot called down to William suspended on the end of a thick rope. “The ones where the sandals were?”

“There’s no doubt Master. Another span or two, please Michel.”

Michel let the loops slip around the tree trunk and the Acolyte dropped a little further. He flinched at the jerk. “Ooh.”

“God will guard you, Boy,” Rutilius said, vaguely, “He holds you in His hands.” The Abbot peered down but could see no more than the top of his assistant’s head. “Well?”

“Nothing, no… Ah, just… Yes, just where the sandals were pointed Master. Pull, Michel, please. Pull me up.”

Even the Abbot lent a hand.

“Brother Barnard’s little hoard, Master.”

The Acolyte handed a jar to the Abbot; it was sealed with soft clay. There was a hole where William had dug his finger in and inside was the glint of silver.