Hugh Corbett 13 - Corpse Candle (20 page)

‘Don’t rein in!’ Ranulf whispered. ‘Keep the same pace.’

Chanson obeyed. They continued, the silence broken by the clopping of the horses’ hooves. The line of men across the path wavered. Ranulf smiled grimly, the oldest trick in the book. Their attackers had expected them to stop within bowshot, even to dismount. Ranulf urged his horse on.

‘Stop where you are!’ a voice rang out.

‘Continue!’ Ranulf whispered.

Chanson obeyed, only reining in when an arrow whipped over his head.

‘What is it you want?’

Ranulf stood up in the stirrups and looked from left to right. Good, he couldn’t see anyone in the trees on either side.

‘Your horses, your weapons, your money and then you can go back to the abbey in your shifts!’

Ranulf’s hand fell to the hilt of his sword, head down as if he was considering the request.

‘Now, Chanson!’

Ranulf dug his spurs in. The horse leapt forward and Ranulf’s sword came slithering out of its scabbard. Chanson grasped his throwing dagger. Their attackers had relaxed, and lowered their bows. By the time they realised their mistake it was too late. The two horsemen hit them. Chanson threw his dagger. One of the attackers took it full in the mouth. Ranulf, with a scything cut, hit another on the shoulder and turned just in time to deliver a second blow to the attacker on his right. Chanson was eager to continue the gallop but Ranulf turned his horse and went charging back. Only one bowman remained, the other had fled into the forest. Ranulf used his horse and the man went down under its pounding hooves. Ranulf turned, patting his horse, whispering reassuringly to it. Four bodies lay on the trackway. He dismounted and drew his dagger. Two were already dead. He cut the throats of the wounded men, ignoring Chanson’s horrified gasps.

‘Well, what am I supposed to do?’ Ranulf crouched down and wiped the blood off his dagger on the jerkin of one of the attackers. ‘Their wounds are grievous, it’s freezing cold and, if we took them back to the abbey, what’s the use of tending them? They attacked the King’s men, that’s treason! They died quickly.’

He ordered Chanson to collect the weapons but, when he inspected these, he kept only a dagger, throwing the rest into the darkness.

‘Let Master Talbot bury them,’ he murmured. ‘Now, let’s see what these men have?’

Ranulf opened their wallets and emptied the contents into his hand. He put the coins in his purse but gave a cry of surprise and held up what he had found against the poor light.

‘What is it?’ Chanson demanded.

‘It’s a seal,’ Ranulf declared, peering at it. ‘The seal of St Martin’s-in-the-Marsh. Now, why should an outlaw, a wolf’s-head, have a seal like this? It’s not valuable. So, it’s either a keepsake or . . .’

‘Or what?’ Chanson demanded.

‘Something like a licence or a warrant. You show it to someone, they recognise it and allow you to pass. Or it could be a sign?’

‘Are you saying the outlaws do business with the abbey?’

‘Possibly,’ Ranulf declared. ‘Perhaps for a payment they left the brothers alone? Allowed them to come and go unhindered.’

Ranulf got to his feet. He stared down at the stiffening corpses. Deep in the trees an owl hooted. Chanson tried not to shiver: the owl was a harbinger of death.

‘It’s time we returned,’ he said.

They remounted leaving their bloody handiwork behind them. Ranulf felt exhausted after the attack. He had no compunction about the men he had slain. They would have taken his life as quickly, and without thought, like someone snuffing a candle. Moreover, such outlaws did not kill swiftly: they often tortured their victims. Ranulf pulled his cloak tighter around him as the snowflakes began to fall. He reflected on what he had seen at the Lantern-in-the-Woods: Talbot’s daughter Blanche, her gold cross on its silver chain, the costly-looking bracelet, the rings. Who in these parts could afford such expensive items? Blanche certainly smelt sweetly. Ranulf recalled the story about a scented woman, disguised in the robe and cowl of a monk, being glimpsed in the abbey grounds at night.

‘Come on, Chanson!’ he urged.

Ranulf dug in his spurs, urging his horse into a gallop. Chanson was only too eager to follow. Darkness had fallen and the snow was already beginning to lie.

‘I wonder if it will continue all night?’ Chanson shouted.

‘I wonder what old Master Long Face is doing?’ Ranulf retorted.

At last the abbey came into sight. Dark massed buildings, with sconce torches flickering on either side of the entrance. A lantern gleamed in the window of the small chamber above the gatehouse. Ranulf reined in. A small postern door opened and a brother hurried out carrying a lantern.

‘Who are you?’ he called.

‘Ranulf-atte-Newgate and Chanson.’

‘Very well! Very well!’

The monk disappeared inside. The bar was removed and the door swung open. Ranulf was about to dig his spurs in when the first fire arrow shot out of the darkness and fell, leaving a trail of fiery light, into the abbey grounds.

Corbett sat on a stool before the brazier warming his fingers. Archdeacon Adrian had left his room abruptly. Corbett, once again, had ordered him not to leave the abbey until his investigations were completed. Corbett heard the cries from the courtyard below, and hastily put on boots and cloak and hurried down as a second fire arrow smacked into the cobbles, its flame spluttering out in the icy slush.

‘What is it?’ Corbett demanded of a lay brother who came hurtling round the corner.

‘Oh, thanks be to God, Sir Hugh!’ He peered through the darkness. ‘It is you?’

‘Is the abbey under attack?’ Corbett demanded.

‘We don’t know.’

Corbett stared up at the sky. Two more fire arrows were falling in a blazing arc.

‘Tell Prior Cuthbert to take comfort,’ Corbett declared. ‘They can do little harm. By the time they fall they are spent.’

Corbett watched another score through the night sky: the mysterious archer must be just beyond the walls, moving quickly to give the impression that more than one bowman was loosing these fiery shafts. The lay brother scurried off. There was little Corbett could do and it was now freezing cold, so he went back into the guesthouse. He had hardly reached his chamber when he heard voices downstairs. Ranulf and Chanson came clattering up, spurs jingling noisily.

‘It’s cold,’ Ranulf groaned. ‘I didn’t know how cold it was until after the attack.’

He and Chanson ripped off their gauntlets and held their fingers out to the flames.

‘Don’t warm them too long,’ Corbett warned. ‘You’ll have chilblains. What’s this about an attack?’

Corbett poured goblets of wine. As they drank, Ranulf quickly told him what had happened at the Lantern-in-the-Woods.

‘You did well,’ Corbett declared. ‘The outlaws deserved their deaths. Let me see the seal!’

Ranulf handed it over. Corbett scrutinised it carefully in the light of a candle.

‘And what happened here, Master?’

Corbett told him what he had seen, his meetings with Brother Dunstan and the Archdeacon. Ranulf whistled under his breath.

‘Nothing is what it appears to be, eh, Master?’

‘It never is,’ Corbett replied, still examining the seal.

‘What is so interesting about it?’

‘As you said,’ Corbett tossed the seal back to him, ‘why should an outlaw be carrying that? It was not taken from a letter or a charter. The seal is not broken. It was specially made and given to someone to use as a sign. You have your suspicions?’

Ranulf quickly told him about Blanche the tavern wench, the costly necklace, bracelet and rings. Corbett heard him out. He sat half listening to the bells tolling for vespers.

‘Do you ever read the divine office, Ranulf? The verse about Satan like a raging lion, hunting, seeking whom he may devour. Our assassin’s like that. He’s observed the foibles and weaknesses of others. I half suspect that Brother Dunstan could be his next victim.’

‘Why?’

‘Because he’s immoral,’ Corbett declared. ‘Chanson, go and fetch him. Tell him to come alone. I wish to have words.’

‘Do you really think he could be the next victim?’ Ranulf asked as the groom clattered down the stairs.

‘Ranulf, I believe the assassin intends to kill every member of that Concilium. I don’t know why, but I suspect that one of the roots of these present troubles is that damnable guesthouse and Bloody Meadow: the Concilium hid their feelings well but, I suspect, Prior Cuthbert and the rest championed that cause as fiercely as any lawyer before King’s Bench.’

‘You talked of
one
root?’

‘Ah!’ Corbett got up and stretched. ‘I’m getting hungry.’ He patted his stomach. ‘Not just for food but the truth. There is another deeper root, I don’t yet know what. Abbot Stephen may be the key.’

Chanson returned, with Brother Dunstan following dolefully behind.

‘Close the door,’ Corbett ordered. He gestured to a stool. ‘Sit down.’

‘Why do you wish to question me?’ Brother Dunstan’s hands were trembling so much he hid them up his sleeves.

Corbett took a stool and sat opposite.

‘You know why I do. When I met you down at Falcon Brook, Brother, you were like a man lost in your sins. What caused it? Guilt? Remorse?’

‘We all sin,’ Brother Dunstan tried to assert himself.

‘Yes, we do but some more secretly than others. I don’t want to torture you, Brother, so I’ll come swiftly to the point. You are treasurer of this great abbey. You and the brothers send carts to buy provender and sell your produce in the markets. You travel hither and thither. How many times have you been attacked by outlaws?’

‘Such men would never attack Holy Mother Church.’ Brother Dunstan coloured at Ranulf’s bellow of laughter.

‘That’s a lie,’ Corbett replied. ‘Such men couldn’t give a fig about the Church. You do what many abbeys and monasteries, even manor lords, do. You meet these outlaws, or their leaders, and you provide them with money and supplies. In return they give assurances that you can go untroubled about your business and they’ll make sure that everybody else who lurks in the woods obeys. It’s a convenient way of living. The outlaws really don’t want to take on a powerful abbot who might ask the local sheriff to hunt them down. Moreover some, but not all, of their coven are superstitious. They don’t want to be excommunicated, cursed and exiled from heaven by bell, book and candle. You, of course, and your abbey don’t want any trouble. You are the treasurer and, when these men come looking for food and drink, you pay them off and both parties are happy. The law might not like it but, there again, on a lonely forest path the law can do little to protect some unfortunate monk on an errand for his Father Abbot. Am I correct?’

‘It is a commonplace practice,’ Brother Dunstan replied. ‘Everyone does it.’

‘Of course they do and, as long as the outlaws don’t become troublesome, greedy or break their word, Abbot Stephen would look the other way. He might not like it but . . .’ Corbett waved a hand. ‘Now you, Brother Dunstan,’ he continued, ‘travel for the abbey and often visit the Lantern-in-the-Woods.’

The treasurer put his face in his hands.

‘Blanche is pretty, isn’t she? Long legs, generous lips, a sweet bosom and, if Ranulf is correct, saucy eyes and a pert mouth. You were much taken with her. Of course, she was flattered that a man of the Church should be interested. She was even more impressed when you took coins from your coffers to buy her bracelets and a silver chain with a gold cross, not to mention the rings and the cloth to make her a fine dress. Now, what began as mere dalliance,’ Corbett felt sorry for the monk who was now sobbing quietly, ‘became an obsession. Ranulf has travelled to the Lantern-in-the-Woods, and the outlaws also go there. Oh, by the way, some of them are dead – killed,’ Corbett added warningly. ‘I suggest that for the next few months any traveller from St Martin’s has an armed escort.’

Brother Dunstan took his hands away. ‘Dead?’

‘Well, at least four of them.’ Corbett turned to Ranulf and clicked his fingers. ‘Now, in one of the wallets of the dead outlaws we found this abbey seal. It’s unbroken, and is clearly specially made. You gave it to one of the outlaws? Perhaps their leader, Scaribrick? You must have bribed him. Sometimes you found it difficult to leave the abbey – after all, a monk out of his house is like a fish out of water – but you had a hunger for Blanche. You gave her the robe of a monk with a canopied cowl, and you actually brought her into the abbey, didn’t you? One of the outlaws was your go-between and when he showed the seal to Blanche, it was the sign to meet you near one of the postern gates. Now, in the warm days of spring and summer, a tumble in the long grass is perhaps safe enough but our Blanche is haughty. She would object to such rough bedding. On one or two occasions she came disguised to that postern door and made her way to your chamber. No doubt you objected, telling her how dangerous it was.’

Corbett leaned forward and prised Brother Dunstan’s fingers away from his face. The monk’s eyes were red-rimmed with crying.

‘For God’s sake,’ Corbett reassured him, ‘I am not going to denounce you before the full chapter. You won’t be the first man to break his vows. The world, the flesh and the devil, eh? It’s often the flesh which lays the most cunning traps.’

The treasurer rubbed the tears away from his cheeks.

‘It was as you say,’ Brother Dunstan declared. ‘The dalliance began two years ago. I was a clerk before I became a monk. I thought I could live a chaste life but – Blanche, she was so provocative! At night I used to dream about her hair, her lips, her breasts, her legs. At first she allowed some intimacy – a kiss or a cuddle – but she acted very much the lady. She wanted this and she wanted that. So I used money from the Abbey coffers. Sometimes we met in the cellars of her father’s tavern but that was too dangerous. Blanche is a hussy, saucy-eyed and sharp-tongued. She wanted to see my chamber and lie in a proper bed, she said. I tried to refuse but . . . One night she came disguised, as you say, and told me she had met a monk on her way. From her description I recognised Gildas. I begged her not to do it again but she refused to obey and only stopped when I bought her some Castilian soap. I confessed my sins to one of the old monks. He gave me absolution but said I should also confess to Father Abbot. I did, in a half-hearted way.’