Hugh Corbett 13 - Corpse Candle (10 page)

Ranulf stepped aside.

‘I am your friend and henchman,’ he spoke quickly. ‘But, as you said, I am the King’s man in peace and war. Have you ever thought, Sir Hugh,’ he stepped forward, ‘of Ranulf-atte-Newgate as a knight? Ranulf-atte-Newgate as a courtier, or even a churchman?’

Although it was dark Corbett could sense the passion seething in this man whom he secretly regarded as his brother.

‘I made a mistake, Ranulf,’ Corbett whispered. ‘I thought you were my man in peace and war. I am certainly yours.’ His hand went out, then fell away. ‘I tell you this, Ranulf, here, in this dark, silent place, if I had to choose between Ranulf-atte-Newgate and Edward of England then Edward of England would come a poor second.’ Corbett gathered his cloak about him. ‘I will be in the Abbot’s lodgings and I will be safe.’

And, turning on his heel, Corbett walked away.

‘Ranulf! Ranulf!’ he whispered once he was out of earshot, tears stinging his eyes. He quietly cursed the King. Edward used Corbett by appealing to his loyalty, his love of the law, his need to create order and harmony. With Ranulf the King had played a different game, appealing to his ambition, playing on the fears of his poverty-stricken past, and the possibilities of a glorious future.

Engrossed in his own thoughts, Corbett, gripping the hilt of his sword beneath his cloak, walked along shadowy porticoes and across dark courtyards. Occasionally a figure flitted by, the silence broken by the slap of sandals. Corbett trusted Ranulf, except where the King’s secret orders cut like a knife, dividing them one from the other. Ranulf would have no qualms about executing the King’s enemy, as a soldier would a traitor after a battle. He’d force him to his knees and slice off his head as quickly and as coldly as a gardener would snip a rose. Ah well! Corbett paused and stared up at the star-filled sky. He would cross that bridge when he came to it. He revisited the church for a short prayer and then entered the abbey buildings. He lost his way until a lay brother directed him towards the Abbot’s lodgings. The door was locked so he carefully examined the outside. The lodgings were really a small mansion or manor house, the top and bottom floors linked by an inside staircase. He looked up at the great bay window and, to satisfy his own curiosity, tried to climb the wall but it was nigh impossible. Unless I was a monkey or a squirrel, Corbett thought. He smiled and thanked God the Lady Maeve couldn’t see him clambering like a schoolboy out in the dark. He went back to the door, knocked again and then banged with the pommel of his dagger. He heard an exclamation inside, the sound of footsteps and Brother Perditus, carrying a candle, unlocked the door and swung it open.

‘Ah, Sir Hugh, I . . .!’

‘What are you doing here?’ Corbett asked. ‘I know you have a chamber here but the Abbot’s now dead and buried?’

‘Prior Cuthbert ordered me to stay here to assist you, as well as to look after the Abbot’s chamber.’

Corbett followed him up the stone steps. Perditus went to his own chamber further down the gallery and brought back two keys.

‘Here, Sir Hugh, you may as well have these.’ He thrust both keys into the clerk’s hand. ‘The larger key is for the outside door.’ He smiled through the dark. ‘I’ll open the Abbot’s chamber for you and light a candle. I know my way around.’

Corbett thanked him. Perditus opened the Abbot’s chamber. Corbett smelt the faint fragrance of incense and beeswax, the perfume of wood polish. Apologising loudly, Perditus stumbled around in the dark but, at last, oil lamps and candles were lit and placed on the mantel over the hearth. The fire was already prepared: using a little oil and a pair of bellows, Perditus soon had the dry wood crackling.

‘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.

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 brother 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!’