Hugh Corbett 13 - Corpse Candle (28 page)

‘Are you sleeping, master clerk?’

Corbett opened his eyes and raised his head.

‘No, master hermit, I am thinking.’ He stretched out his arms. ‘On the one hand we have the Harcourt estates and the mystery of Sir Reginald. On the other the Abbey of St Martin’s and, in between, these eerie, wild marshlands with their copses and woods. I suspect Mine Host at the ‘Lantern-in-the-Woods’ doesn’t pay full import duties on his wine or other commodities, whilst Scaribrick the outlaw probably resents my interference here.’ Corbett lowered his hands. ‘But Ranulf will deal with him. What I am trying to unearth are these mysteries of the marsh. The fire arrows. The hunting horn. Are these part of Scaribrick’s world? Or are they part of some other mystery?’ Corbett got to his feet. ‘Master hermit, I will have other questions for you.’ He stared down at him. ‘They call you the Watcher by the Gates and I suspect you have seen more than you have told me.’

The Watcher held his gaze.

‘You will not be travelling far.’

Corbett opened his purse and threw a silver coin into the man’s bowl and, lifting the leather awning, went out to join Chanson.

They mounted their horses. Corbett gathered the reins and they followed the wall back along to the main gate. He called out and the gate was opened and they entered the cobbled yard. They had hardly dismounted, Chanson offering to see to the horses, when Brother Richard came hurrying out of a doorway.

‘Sir Hugh, you are back! Thank God!’

And in brief, gasping sentences Brother Richard described what had happened earlier in the morning. Corbett took him by the elbow and led him out of the cold. He asked the monk to go through it once again, told him to be careful, then dismissed him. Corbett walked across to the stables and helped Chanson unsaddle the horses and dry them down. Brother Richard, he reflected, was most fortunate. He had been attacked but had escaped death. So, the killer must be in the abbey, and was definitely not an outsider like Scaribrick who, at the time, must have been planning his ambush. Nor was it Lady Margaret, who had been entertaining him at Harcourt Manor. Brother Richard had described the attack vividly.

‘A soldier!’ Corbett exclaimed.

‘What’s that, Master?’ Chanson asked.

‘Brother Richard the almoner was attacked this morning and was able to defend himself, probably because he was a former soldier. But, listening to his account carefully, I would say the same holds time for the attacker.’

‘But there are a number of monks here,’ Chanson wiped his nose on the cuff of his jerkin, ‘according to Ranulf, who once served in the royal levies.’

‘Oh, I know that,’ Corbett retorted. ‘And there’s something else. Lady Margaret talked of a young woman called Heloise Argenteuil with whom our Abbot, in a former life, was supposed to be infatuated. The Watcher repeated the same story.’

‘And?’

Corbett shook his head. ‘I’ve heard that name before. I know of no Argenteuil, certainly not at court, but the name strikes a chord. Chanson,’ he patted his horse’s neck, ‘see to the horses. I am going down to the library.’

Corbett left the stables.

‘Sir Hugh?’

Prior Cuthbert came bustling up, red-eyed and grey-faced with exhaustion.

‘You’ve heard of the attack on Brother Richard?’

‘Aye.’ Corbett glanced at the gaggle of monks who stood in the doorway behind the Prior. ‘Tell your brothers to be careful. I wish to ask you a question.’

He led the Prior out of earshot.

‘Does the name Heloise Argenteuil mean anything to you?’

‘Ah yes, Abbot Stephen once mentioned her. As a young knight, he supposedly fell deeply in love with her.’

‘And you know nothing else?’

‘Oh no.’

Now he was out of the shadows the Prior looked even more stricken. Corbett noticed his face was unshaven, and he had dark circles beneath his eyes.

‘Father Prior, I believe you have more to tell me.’

‘I assure you, Sir Hugh, I have nothing to say.’ The Prior flailed his hands.

Corbett realised that Prior Cuthbert was not prepared to talk.

‘Is the library locked?’

The Prior tapped the ring of keys on his belt.

‘I’ll take you there.’

He seemed only too willing to be away from Corbett’s watchful gaze, walking in front, gesturing with his hands for the clerk to follow. Corbett did so and was about to walk up beside him when he noticed the dark blotches high on the back of the Prior’s robe. The cowl hid the Prior’s neck but Corbett was sure that the stains were caused by blood. Had the Prior been whipping himself? What secret sins would compel this proud priest to inflict such a terrible punishment? They reached the library and Prior Cuthbert unlocked the door. He hastened around to light the candles and oil lamps under their steel caps.

‘I’ll send a lay brother,’ he declared. ‘When you are finished he’ll lock the door behind you.’ He rubbed his hands. ‘I have yet to appoint a replacement librarian.’

Prior Cuthbert hurried out, slamming the door behind him. Corbett walked round. The sombre blood-stain still marked the floor where the librarian had been killed – a grim reminder of what horrors haunted this abbey. Corbett sat down at the writing desk. What had the hermit said? He had mentioned the Roman philosopher Seneca and the woman, Heloise Argenteuil. Where had Corbett heard her name before? He stared up at the light pouring through one of the coloured stained-glass windows and idly wondered how long it would be before Ranulf-atte-Newgate returned.

Ranulf-atte-Newgate was furious. The senior Clerk in the Chancery of the Green Wax had made a careful study of the law. He and Corbett were royal messengers, and carried the King’s writ: they were his Commissioners in these parts. They had not travelled through bleak freezing marshes to become the playthings of outlaws.

‘An attack upon a royal clerk,’ Corbett often remarked, ‘is an attack upon the King himself, a malicious insult to the Crown, which must be answered.’

Corbett, however, could be lax in his interpretation, accepting insults and obstacles that Ranulf never would. Scaribrick had organised that ambush so why should he be allowed to squat in the Lantern-in-the-Woods and boast about his boldness? Ranulf approached the tavern by a circuitous route. He kept away from the well-worn paths but found it difficult to thread his way through the snow-capped trees, the gorse and briar hidden by an icy-white softness. The journey had not improved his temper. On one occasion he had become lost and had been forced to break cover but, at last, he found the route, led by the smoke which he knew came from the tavern hearth.

Ranulf had hobbled his horse deep in the trees opposite the tavern entrance. He now stood watching the main door, cloak about him, cowl pulled over against the icy splashes from the branches above. He’d watched travellers, tinkers and chapmen enter and leave. So far Ranulf had recognised no one. He calculated the time. Scaribrick and his men would probably have come straight here and were probably within. Blanche came out to empty a pot of dirty water and, eventually, Taverner Talbot emerged with a broken stool which he placed by the entrance. Ranulf called his name, stepped out of the trees, pulled back his cowl and gestured. The taverner looked fearfully back at the inn.

‘You’d best come,’ Ranulf called out softly. ‘Master Talbot, I mean you no mischief, at least not for now.’

The taverner closed the tavern door and hastened across. Ranulf gripped him by the shoulder and dragged him into the trees; his drawn dagger pricked Talbot’s fleshy neck, forcing his head back.

‘What’s the matter?’ the man wailed. ‘I’ve done no wrong. I heard about the attack on you but I can say nothing to such men. They will have their way.’

‘Aye, Master Talbot, and I will have mine. Scaribrick is in there, isn’t he?’ Ranulf pressed the tip of his dagger more firmly. ‘He’s there, isn’t he?’

Talbot blinked and nodded, swallowing hard, fearful of this hard-eyed clerk and the long, Welsh, stabbing dagger, its cruel tip like a razor under his chin.

‘I want to speak to him. Out here now!’

‘He won’t come out.’ The taverner shook his head. ‘And, if he does, sir, he’ll bring two or three of his companions with him.’

Ranulf withdrew the dagger. The taverner would have backed away but the clerk grasped him by the shoulder, this time the tip of the dagger rested against his protruding belly.

‘Very well,’ Ranulf ordered. ‘Tell Scaribrick that someone wants to meet him.’

‘I can’t,’ the taverner gasped. ‘It’s all very well for you, sir. You’ll leave this area but I live here and do my trade here.’

‘In which case—’

Ranulf re-sheathed his dagger, pushed by the taverner and, walking across the trackway, entered the tavern. Talbot came hurrying behind him, bleating and protesting. As soon as Ranulf entered he threw back his cloak, his hand on the hilt of his sword. He stared around the taproom at the tinkers and chapmen, traders and farmers, but then he found his quarry: a group of men in the far corner. They sat huddled round the table, hoods back, war belts on the floor beside them. They were sharing a jug of ale and a large platter of bread and meat. Ranulf walked slowly across, his gaze held by a cold-faced, thickset man who sat in the corner. Ranulf had only glimpsed him during the ambush but he recognised the face. Scaribrick muttered something to his companions and they turned, hands going for sword and dagger. Ranulf walked closer. Scaribrick’s fleshy face was well fed. A bully-boy, Ranulf thought, used to filling his belly and not so quick on his feet.

‘Don’t touch your weapons!’ Ranulf ordered. He opened the wallet on his belt and drew out a document bearing the King’s seal. ‘I am Ranulf-atte-Newgate, senior clerk in the Chancery of the Green Wax. You,’ he pointed to the outlaw leader, ‘are Scaribrick. You must consider yourself under arrest. Your list of crimes reads like a litany but, at the top, stands treason!’

‘Treason?’ Scaribrick half rose. ‘Who are you? A madcap?’

Ranulf was pleased that the other outlaws kept their hands well away from their war belts.

‘Where are the rest of your weasels?’ Ranulf jibed. ‘Nice and warm in some cave in the forest? They are all under arrest too and they can hang.’

Ranulf watched Scaribrick’s eyes, but the outlaw’s gaze had shifted. He looked at the outlaws and saw that Rat-Face wasn’t there. Ranulf heard a sound and, whipping out his dagger, turned round. Rat-Face stood behind him, knife in hand, ready to spring. Ranulf struck first. Moving slightly to one side, he thrust his dagger straight into the man’s belly, pulling it out and kicking him away. Stools shifted behind him. Ranulf whirled back, drew his sword and stood, feet apart. The outlaws were clumsy, tired and much the worse for drink. The first almost stumbled on to Ranulf’s sword. The clerk thrust deep and stepped away, up the tavern until he felt the barrels against his back. The outlaws, ignoring the cries of their wounded companions, now scrabbling on the floor, fanned out with Scaribrick in the centre. The rest of the customers hurriedly moved away, almost clinging to the walls on either side.

‘Two down,’ Ranulf jibed. ‘Like skittles, eh?’

The outlaws were frightened. They were used to secret attack, the sudden ambush, but a fighting man, sword and dagger ready, his back protected, was a different prospect. The screams of the wounded outlaws only unnerved them further. One of the outlaws on the far right stepped away and, ignoring Scaribrick’s curses, headed straight for the window. He jumped on a table, pulled back the shutters and was through.

‘I’m not here for all of you!’ Ranulf smiled. ‘Just your leader!’

That was enough. The outlaws broke and fled in many directions. Scaribrick tried to follow but Ranulf blocked his path.

‘I killed four of your companions,’ Ranulf taunted, ‘and we beat you off this morning.’ His voice rose. ‘By the time I’m finished, you’ll be a laughing stock—’ He broke off.

Scaribrick, snarling with rage, his sword and dagger out, came rushing forward. Ranulf stepped swiftly to the left. He parried Scaribrick’s weapon, forced his arm up and thrust his sword deep into the outlaw’s belly.

QUASI NIX TABESCIT DIES
 
THE DAY MELTS AWAY LIKE SNOW

 
PLAUTUS

Corbett sat in the Abbot’s chamber, where Perditus had lit a fire and pulled the shutters close. The room was cold as if it had lost its very soul. The clerk gnawed his lip in frustration. His visit to the library had been fruitless. His mind was puzzled, his wits slightly dulled by the journey to Harcourt and that ferocious ambush on the lonely forest trackway. Corbett stared up at a gargoyle carved in the corner of the room: the face of a jester, staring, popping-eyed, mouth gaping to display a swollen tongue.

‘If only the stones could talk,’ Corbett murmured.

What had happened in this chamber? he wondered. This is where it had all begun. Corbett still nursed deep suspicions that the solution to all these mysteries lay in the very fabric of the abbey: its manuscripts, Bloody Meadow, that haunting, lonely burial mound. Corbett shuffled together the Abbot’s papers. He’d ordered them to be kept here and was searching through them again. He sifted them with his fingers and picked up a piece of paper, a draft of a letter to a merchant in Ipswich. At the end was the usual scribbled sketch of a wheel with its hub, spokes and rim. Corbett pulled across the piece of vellum on which he’d copied the Abbot’s quotations. The first came from the letter of St Paul, or rather the Abbot’s own interpretation of it: ‘For now I see through a glass, darkly: the corpse candle beckons.’ The other was a quotation from Seneca: ‘Anyone can take away a man’s life but no one his death’. Undoubtedly the Abbot had scrawled these words shortly before his death but what did they mean? What was their significance? Why had Abbot Stephen been so fascinated by the symbol of a wheel? Corbett pulled across the psalter and looked down the list of names at the back. He recognised Salyiem, the Watcher by the Gates’ real name, and Reginald Harcourt. Others were probably knights the Abbot had served with in his days as a soldier. Finally, that enigmatic name which pricked Corbett’s memory and teased his wits, Heloise Argenteuil! Corbett took his quill and wrote down the other interesting scraps: the Abbot’s fascination with Rome and ‘the Roman way’. What did that mean? Why had he considered changing his mind about Bloody Meadow? What about Brother Dunstan’s enigmatic remarks about his abbot’s compassion and his attitude towards sin.