The Clerkenwell Tales by Peter Ackroyd (good short books .txt) 📕

“‘God has ordained that I should suffer. So this is my house.’ ” The prior crossed himself. “Poor boy. Listen. Can you hear them?” He opened a small door at the back of the chapter-house; outside, in the churchyard, there was a tumult of singing and shouting. “Some wicked aspect of Saturn has given us this.” The prior believed in the efficacy of the stars and planets. “I have dark imaginings. Could there be others in the abbey who are casting some plot?”

“Oh no.” Exmewe was again quick to speak. “I can smell a Lollard in the wind. There are no others here. Hamo was alone in this.”

“Then how did he contrive the Greek fire?”

“He is skilled in all workmanship, father. I have seen him build quaint devices.”

“Is it so? Well, he has created infinite harms. Why have I lived so long to see the abbey desecrated? My grass time is done. My white top writes my old years.” The prior sighed and walked about the room. “We will shrive him and then urge him to leave of his free will.”

“If he leaves here,” the old monk said, “he will be engined and pained. Perhaps he will die in the pain.”

Exmewe smiled, and then wiped his mouth with his hand. “Certainly he will be in woe and not in bliss.”

The prior was growing impatient. “If he has committed sacrilege then he has no place here.”

“He may cry innocence, father.”

“He must go. Otherwise our souls are in jeopardy. How can we harbour a burner of churches? It is a thing impossible.”

“Leave him a little,” Exmewe urged. “Let him sleep upon the altar tonight. The sun may bring back his wits.”

“I doubt that. But give him barley-bread and water from the brook. Let him drink with the ducks. We will challenge him at daybreak.”

William Exmewe was perturbed and angry. He had never expected Hamo to flee for sanctuary and return to St. Bartholomew in so open a fashion; the boy was like a mad dog running to his kennel. If the prior heard his confession, he might tell all.

So, later that night, in the silent time between vespers and compline, Exmewe walked quietly down the stone stairway which connected the dorter to the church; there could in any case be no devotions while Hamo remained beside the altar. He went up to the boy, who was already watching him with wide eyes.

“How now, Hamo. How have you fared?”

“Badly. I am spilled.” He seemed to be fighting for breath still, as if he had just escaped pursuit.

“Checkmate?”

“So it seems.”

“Have patience, Hamo. The sorrows of this world are short. They pass like shadows on the wall.”

“It is easy to say. Hard to endure.”

“Go on. Make your moan. But consider this. You have not served me well. Could you not accomplish your purpose without all this noise and clattering?” Hamo said nothing. “Have you filed your tongue? You are dumb as any stone.” The boy began weeping silently. Exmewe wiped his eyes, as clear and as trusting as those of a child, with the sleeve of his gown. “You have caught a thorn, and I cannot prise it loose.”

“You have taken away the key of my world,” the boy whispered to him.

“Am I to blame? Did I mar all? I might as well hold April from rain as keep you steadfast. Your wit is overcome, Hamo. I give you up for now and evermore.” The boy looked at him in shock. He had been Exmewe’s shadow and had not expected this last dismissal. That was perhaps why he had fled to St. Bartholomew – to be protected by Exmewe. But now his protector had cast him out. “Fortune has thrown the dice for you, Hamo.”

“Is fortune the cause, then?”

“The far cause is Almighty God, that is the cause of all things. But fortune is your foe.” Exmewe smiled. “How do you like the foul prison of this life?”

“I would that I were out of this world.”

“Then I may help you a little.” Swiftly he took a long dagger out of his belt, and put it through Hamo Fulberd’s heart. “Hoo,” he whispered to the boy. “No more. It is done.” He drew out the dagger and replaced it in his belt.

When he was sure that Hamo lay dead, Exmewe walked softly to the porch and unbarred the main door.16 He opened it very slightly, so that those on watch outside would eventually notice the faintest glimmer of churchlight. Any one of them might have entered and murdered Hamo upon the altar.

Chapter Fifteen

The Wife of Bath’s Tale

As soon as he learned about the explosion in St. Sepulchre, Thomas Gunter rode out to the church; he had been intrigued by the summoner’s murmurings about the conspiracies of secret men, and wished to examine the remains of the latest fire. When he saw the tumult he dismounted, and gave his horse in keeping to a porter. A large crowd had gathered on the steps. According to custom, the body of Hamo Fulberd had been removed from sanctuary and returned to the place where he had committed sacrilege. Here he could be viewed as an object of God’s vengeance. He had been stripped of his clothes, and various devils’ heads and zodiacal signs had been daubed upon his naked corpse. He had been placed in the aisle, in a square cart made of wicker, with a cross placed upside down upon his chest. The coroner had already declared that Hamo Fulberd was lying dead, but no one had seen the wrathful agent of his killing; this was considered to be an image of divine justice, and the empanelled jury had decided that they did not wish to meddle further in the matter.

Thomas Gunter made his way through the press of people in order to view the body; and, when he examined the face for signs of injury, he experienced the faintest tremor of recollection. Where had he seen this poor boy? In what previous