Hugh Corbett 13 - Corpse Candle Read online

  ‘Well.’ He got to his feet. He looked more composed than he had earlier in the day. He wiped the dust from his hands. ‘There’s wine over there and, if you want, I can get you food from the kitchens. You know where my chamber is and . . .’ His voice faltered.

  ‘Why did Father Abbot choose you to serve him?’ Corbett asked. ‘You’ve been a lay brother here for only a few years, yes?’

  ‘It was because of that.’ Perditus grinned. ‘Abbot Stephen confided that I was not a lifelong member of his community, so my loyalty would be to him.’

  Corbett gestured at the door.

  ‘Close that and sit down. Let’s share a goblet of wine.’

  Perditus looked surprised but agreed. Corbett studied the lay brother closely. Tall, youthful-faced, with broad shoulders and strong arms, he moved quickly and easily. A suitable candidate, Corbett reflected, to have as a manservant, fetching and carrying things up those stone stairs, protecting the Abbot when he left the abbey. Perditus poured two goblets of wine. He gave one to Corbett and sat opposite on a stool. Corbett leaned against the desk.

  ‘I hoped you’d be here, Brother, without your superiors flapping around like crows ready to pick at any morsel.’

  ‘I have little to say, Sir Hugh, or to add to what you already know. I loved Abbot Stephen as a father.’

  ‘The night he died you really heard nothing?’

  ‘Abbot Stephen was working late: he often did that, especially since Taverner has been here.’

  ‘Did he ever talk to you about his work?’

  Perditus slurped the wine and shook his head.

  ‘He told me a few things but really nothing much. He was looking forward to the dispute with Archdeacon Adrian and there was the business of the Concilium, his relationship with the Prior and the others. Abbot Stephen was a true spiritual lord,’ Perditus continued. ‘He knew it would be inappropriate to discuss such matters with a lay brother. Oh, he was kind and friendly. We discussed crops, the buildings, news brought by pedlars and tinkers but never once did I hear him criticise another member of this community.’

  ‘And the business of building on Bloody Meadow?’

  ‘Abbot Stephen was worried about that but he decided against it.’

  ‘The Watcher thought differently.’

  ‘Oh!’ Perditus gestured with his hands. ‘Our Watcher by the Gates wanders in his wits. True, Abbot Stephen did tell me on one occasion that he wondered if he should concede to Prior Cuthbert’s demands. But, remember Sir Hugh, I am a lay brother. I was never present at their discussions or any meeting of the Concilium.’

  ‘Isn’t there anything that you can tell me?’ Corbett demanded. ‘Look, I know you are not my spy on the brothers but Abbot Stephen lies dead and buried. Gildas has been murdered in a most hideous way, his corpse tossed onto the tumulus. I believe these killings are somehow connected with Bloody Meadow, possibly even with the disagreements between the Abbot and his Concilium.’

  ‘But they wouldn’t lead to murder, surely?’ Perditus rolled the wine cup between his hands. ‘Abbot Stephen was concerned about the meadow, as was Prior Cuthbert, but it was not a matter of life and death. The debate has been going on for as long as I was here. True, Prior Cuthbert had grown more insistent but . . .’

  Corbett sighed and sipped at the wine.

  ‘Do you think both deaths are linked to Bloody Meadow?’ Perditus asked.

  Corbett nodded absentmindedly. ‘Oh, I meant to ask you: Perditus, is that your real name?’

  ‘No, I was baptised Peter in the city of Bristol. I became a merchant’s apprentice and worked in the Low Countries, in Flanders and Hainault selling wool and cloth. I was good at my trade, and became accomplished as a traveller. I am fluent in French and Flemish. Abbot Stephen was impressed by that. We had something in common because, as you know, he led embassies there on behalf of the King.’

  ‘And how did you come to St Martin’s-in-the-Marsh?’

  ‘I went to a number of abbeys. However, as I was familiar with the Eastern ports, and Abbot Stephen and St Martin’s were well thought of, I came here. I didn’t want to join some lax house where the routine was disorderly and the monks lazy.’ He grinned. ‘I also came here because I thought I had a vocation. I have seen the world, Sir Hugh, or the little I lived in. What does it profit a man if he gain the whole world and lose his soul? I wanted to become a priest, a monk. Abbot Stephen said I should wait, remain for a while as a lay brother.’

  ‘And what will you do now?’ Corbett asked.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Have you ever met Lady Margaret Harcourt?’ Corbett asked.

  Perditus shook his head.

  ‘Abbot Stephen was a charitable man but he said he didn’t want anything to do with that woman. He told us to stay away from her. Prior Cuthbert dealt with the lady.’ Perditus drained the cup and got to his feet. ‘Sir Hugh, if there’s nothing else? The hour is late and the bell will ring soon enough for Matins and Prime. I’ll be in my chamber when you leave.’

  Corbett thanked him. Perditus closed the door. Corbett shot the bolts and turned the key in the inside lock. He went across to the fire and, pulling up a stool, warmed his hands, watching the flames turn the dry wood to white-hot ash. Corbett closed his eyes and thought of Lady Maeve and their two babes, Eleanor and Edward. They would be in bed now: the children in their cots and Maeve in her four-poster. Maeve would be lying against the bolsters, her beautiful, serene face composed in sleep, with her long, blonde hair like a halo around her head, and those red lips that Corbett loved to kiss both playfully and passionately, when he lay next to her. Corbett felt a pang of homesickness. He was tired, rather depressed after his conversation with Ranulf. He and his companion had walked the same road for many a year. Were they now approaching the crossroads? Corbett’s eyes grew heavy. For a while he dozed, drifting in and out of sleep. A log burst in a flurry of sparks. Corbett shook himself awake. He stared round the chamber. Never once, he reflected, have I met a man like Abbot Stephen. Everything in his room had its own place, the books and papers, household accounts, ledgers but there was nothing which betrayed the inner soul of the man, his likes and dislikes, virtues or faults. What had happened in his past? Corbett sighed and got to his feet. He searched the chests and coffers looking for a secret drawer, a hidden compartment, but there was nothing. He picked up breviaries, psalters and a Book of Hours, all well thumbed: little was written on the inside pages except prayers or notes for a homily. Nothing was out of the ordinary except those quotations from Seneca and St Paul and the reference to Corpse Candles scrawled on a scrap of parchment.

  Corbett opened one ledger and studied it. This was an account of the Abbot’s different embassies on behalf of the King, to the Scottish march, a few to France, some to Hainault, Flanders or Germany. Corbett smiled. He would have liked to have talked to Abbot Stephen about the King and his plans against Philip of France. Perhaps Stephen had met Corbett’s old enemy, Amaury de Craon? He noticed how Abbot Stephen’s handwriting was precise and neat. He always described things in the third person as if he was an observer, a spectator. Corbett closed the ledger and pushed it away. He took a piece of parchment, a tray of quills and an ink pot and began to list a series of questions.

  Why did Abbot Stephen die?

  Because of Bloody Meadow?

  How was he killed?

  Who killed him?

  Was it a member of the Concilium?

  Why was Gildas murdered?

  Was his corpse thrown on the tumulus in Bloody Meadow as a warning?

  And why the brand mark?

  What did the stories about Mandeville’s ghost have to do with this place?

  Corbett studied the questions. He put his quill down.

  ‘Nothing,’ he murmured. ‘Nothing at all.’

  He had done enough, he would have to leave. He blew out the candles and oil lamps, placing a wire mesh grille up against the fire. He left the chamber and knocked on Perditus’s door. The lay brothe
r opened it, sleepy-eyed, dressed in his shift.

  ‘I am going now,’ Corbett declared. ‘I would be grateful if you would check the Abbot’s chamber. Perhaps the fire should be doused?’

  Perditus said he would do so. Corbett went down the steps. He opened the door at the bottom and flinched at the blast of cold night air. He realised how tired he was. He tried to close the door but couldn’t. He crouched down; a piece of timber, stacked just inside, had slipped. Corbett worked this loose, placed it back and closed the door. He stood for a while to get his bearings and leisurely made his way across the grounds into the abbey buildings. He lost his way once and found himself in the cloister garth but, at last, he reached the portico which would take him down out to the courtyard before the guesthouse. He now walked quickly, his footsteps sounding hollow. The night was cold, and Corbett grew uneasy. He felt as if he was being watched, yet all around him the abbey lay silent. He paused halfway down the passageway and stared through one of the narrow windows. He recalled Ranulf’s warnings. He continued on and reached the heavy wooden door at the far end. He pulled at the ring but the latch didn’t lift. He tried again, pulling it vigorously but it still wouldn’t move. Corbett whirled round, to see nothing but shadows behind him. He didn’t want to go back. He tugged again. He started as the Judas squint high in the door suddenly had its flap thrown open. Corbett couldn’t see through due to the glow from a candle, which was held up, obscuring his view.

  ‘Who’s there?’ he demanded.

  ‘Corbett, Sir Hugh Corbett?’ The voice sounded muffled, the speaker was disguising his voice.

  ‘Let me through,’ Corbett replied.

  ‘Keeper of the King’s secrets, eh? Welcome to the Mansions of Cain!’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Corbett declared.

  ‘Murderers all!’ hissed the reply. ‘Steeped in blood!’

  ‘Who are?’ Corbett demanded.

  ‘Not men of God but hounds of the devil!’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Corbett demanded. He grasped the iron ring and tugged but the door still held fast.

  ‘A place of sudden death, Sir Hugh, of wickedness. All have to be punished. Sentence has been passed. Stand back, Sir Hugh, for your own safety’s sake!’

  Corbett had no choice but to obey. He heard footsteps. He tried the latch again, and this time the door gave way to reveal the empty darkness beyond.

  NAM CONCORDIA PARVAE RES CRESCUNT,

  DISCORDIA MAXIMAE DILABUNTUR

  HARMONY MAKES SMALL THINGS GROW,

  WHILE DISCORD DESTROYS EVEN WHAT IS

  GREAT

  SENECA

  Chapter 4

  Corbett gazed in astonishment round Taverner’s chamber. He had never seen so many crosses and statues: these seemed to cover the walls, filling every niche. Triptychs and crucifixes stood on tables. Fronds from Palm Sunday hung above the door. The chamber was spacious and clean. It was the only room in the abbey where Corbett had seen rushes, green and supple, strewn with herbs, scattered on the floor. A shelf high on one wall held some books, a bible and a tattered psalter. Taverner, sitting on the edge of the small four-poster bed, looked like some venerable monk. Dressed in a grey robe, with a balding pate, grey hair on either side of his head fell in tangled curls to his shoulders. He was bright-eyed and chirpy as a magpie with a round, florid face; Corbett noticed the generous bulging paunch above the cord round his waist. The room was warmed by a scented brazier and a small log fire burned in the hearth; it was a warm, comfortable place. Corbett had noticed the smoke coming out of the vent as he approached the far side of the infirmary. As usual, Chanson stood on guard outside. Ranulf looked subdued and sat on a bench just inside the door. Corbett stared curiously at this remarkable man who claimed to be possessed by a demon, the damned soul of Geoffrey Mandeville. So far Corbett had seen nothing remarkable about this middle-aged man, keen-eyed and sharp-witted, who’d welcomed them and offered some wine.

  Corbett picked a scrap of parchment off the desk and noticed the ink-filled ‘V’ drawn there. He stared down as he collected his thoughts. He had not told Ranulf what had occurred the previous night: about that mysterious visitor who had confronted him behind the grille, drawn the bolts and fled. Corbett had returned to the guesthouse in silence, his relationship with Ranulf still frosty. They had been woken early by a tolling bell, attended Mass in a side chapel and broken their fast in the abbey kitchens. Prior Cuthbert had met them briefly but he had been all a-fluster, claiming he had other business and knew nothing of the death of poor Gildas . . . Corbett had nodded and declared he needed to question Taverner. The Prior had shrugged in acceptance.

  Corbett still felt tired, heavy-eyed. He held up the piece of parchment. Taverner now had his head down.

  ‘Who drew Mandeville’s mark?’

  ‘How dare you!’

  Corbett gaped in astonishment. Taverner’s head came up, his face had completely changed, with hate-filled eyes, a snarling mouth, his voice totally different.

  ‘How dare you, you whoreson varlet! You base-born clerk! Question me, Mandeville, Custos of the Tower, Earl of Essex!’

  Ranulf leaned forward, ready to spring up.

  What Corbett found remarkable was the change in voice, which had become harsh and guttural. When they had first entered, Taverner’s voice was soft, barely above a whisper.

  ‘That’s my escutcheon, my livery,’ he continued, jerking his fingers towards the parchment. ‘Black chevrons on a red banner. “Scourge of Essex” they called me. “Plunderer of Ely”. I showed those mealy-mouthed monks, those fornicating friars and their soft-skinned nuns! I gave them fire and sword! “Igne Gladioque. Fire and sword! Gero bellum contra Deum. I wage war against God and strive to breach the very gates of Paradise!”’ Taverner lapsed into old Norman French, ‘“Le Roi Se Avisera. The King was advised. Sed Rex territus, but the King was terrified.”’

  ‘Who was King?’ Corbett asked.

  Taverner glanced slyly at him. ‘Why, Stephen, but he was challenged by Mathilda, Henry’s arrogant daughter. I lead a legion, do you know that, clerk? Men on horses who still ride the fens at night.’

  Corbett closed his eyes and tried to recall the rite of exorcism.

  ‘By what name are you called?’ he asked abruptly.

  ‘My name is Geoffrey Mandeville, damned in life and damned in death. I wander the dark places. I seek a place, a house to dwell.’

  ‘And you have chosen Taverner?’

  ‘The door was open,’ came the harsh reply. ‘The dwelling was prepared.’

  ‘And what do you do when you leave?’ Corbett asked curiously. He noticed the white foam gathering at either corner of Taverner’s mouth.

  ‘I go back into the darkness, into eternal night. You are Corbett, aren’t you? Keeper of the Secret Seal? Your wife is Maeve with the long, blonde hair, and that body, eh Corbett? Soft and white like skimmed milk.’

  ‘Watch your lewdness!’ Ranulf declared.

  Corbett held a hand up.

  ‘And where do I live?’

  ‘In Leighton Manor, in Essex, my shire, with fat, little Eleanor and Baby Edward. Come from the King, have we?’

  Corbett studied the man. He was surprised that Taverner, or whatever possessed him, knew as much as he did. But, there again, most of it was fairly common knowledge.

  ‘If you are a demon.’ Corbett smiled, ‘then you should know more. Have you met Abbot Stephen? His soul has left his body.’

  Taverner didn’t blink or change expression.

  ‘He has gone to judgement,’ he declared. ‘His crossing was never challenged. He’s begun his journey.’

  ‘But why was he killed? How was he murdered?’

  ‘I am not here to help you, Corbett!’

  ‘Come, come,’ the clerk teased. ‘You claim to be the great Geoffrey Mandeville who roams the fens, yet know less than a scullion in the abbey kitchens?’

  ‘He was killed by a dagger, thrust into his chest,’ came the sharp reply. ‘A
lways the Roman was Abbot Stephen. A man who will have to pay for his sin against the Holy Ghost.’

  ‘What do you mean, his sin against the Holy Ghost?’ Corbett demanded. Taverner seemed to know a little more than he should about the Abbot’s death.

  ‘Oh, he was murdered all right, like Abel, slain by Cain, by his brother . . .’

  ‘By the monks of St Martin’s?’ Corbett demanded.

  ‘Tu dixisti clerice,’ Taverner lapsed into Latin. ‘You have said it, clerk.’

  ‘Which monk?’ Corbett barked.

  ‘All are guilty in some way. Abbot Stephen’s blood stains their hands.’

  Corbett felt a chill of fear. He’d attended two exorcisms as a royal witness. One in Bermondsey Abbey and the other in St Peter ad Vincula in the Tower. Both had taken place years before, and had been terrifying experiences! Taverner’s hand snaked out, his fingers curled like the claw of some hunting bird.

  ‘Plucked he was, taken out of life, sent unprepared into the dark. I feel at home at St Martin’s, clerk. It is a house of demons.’ The white froth now laced his lips. ‘And you can tell Chanson outside the door to stop listening.’

  Ranulf, light-footed, opened the door. Chanson almost fell into the room. He stumbled and looked, embarrassed, at Corbett.

  ‘You are supposed to be guarding not eavesdropping.’ Corbett glanced quickly at Taverner. ‘But go now to the library. Ask Brother Aelfric if he has any books or chronicles about Geoffrey Mandeville.’

  ‘He has one there,’ Taverner declared.

  ‘What did Abbot Stephen say to you?’

  ‘He was going to help me.’ Taverner’s voice turned ugly. ‘But he couldn’t even help himself!’

  Corbett watched him in amazement. Taverner was two people: himself and the spirit who possessed him, alternating in both expression and voice, sometimes lapsing into French or Latin. Corbett glanced across at Ranulf: his henchman seemed fascinated by Taverner. At last the babble of conversation died. The possessed man sat on the edge of the bed, hands hanging by his side, head down.