Hugh Corbett 13 - Corpse Candle (22 page)

‘Couldn’t Brother Dunstan have told us more?’ Corbett disagreed.

‘And the assassin?’ Ranulf asked.

‘Is there one or are there two?’ Corbett wondered.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, Abbot Stephen’s head wasn’t branded, was it? And Taverner wasn’t a member of the Concilium?’

‘You have forgotten about Gildas?’

‘No, no, I haven’t. Gildas was certainly murdered in his workshop, his forehead branded and the corpse taken out to the burial mound. Somehow or other we are back to Bloody Meadow, and the rivalry between Abbot Stephen and the Concilium. But all we do is keep going round and round like a dog chasing its tail.’

‘Why don’t we open the burial mound?’ Chanson demanded.

‘Perhaps we will,’ Corbett declared. ‘But we have to show we have good reason. I just wish—’ He tapped his fingers on his knee. ‘Pieces of the puzzle are missing, Ranulf. I wish I could find them.’ He sighed. ‘So now we come to the assassin.’ He pulled a face. ‘It could be anybody. Taverner killed by an arrow. Hamo by poison. Gildas by a stone. You have seen this abbey, Ranulf – think of it as a maze of alleyways in London. I know,’ Corbett swung his feet off the bed, ‘let’s go and look at that mosaic again.’

Chanson and Ranulf grumbled but Corbett insisted.

‘It’s dark,’ Ranulf declared. ‘It will be pitch black down there.’

‘We can carry torches. Come on!’

They put on boots and cloaks and Corbett strapped on his war belt. They went down the stairs into the courtyard. The snow was now falling heavily, carpeting the yard. From around the abbey rose different sounds: a horse whinnying in its stables; the shouts of the brothers in the kitchen as they prepared the evening meal. Corbett led Ranulf along the same route that Taverner had shown him. The snow was transforming the abbey, carpeting ledges and cornices. It made St Martin’s look even more menacing and grim. A sheet of freezing whiteness muffled their footsteps.

‘I’ll be glad to be gone from this place,’ Ranulf murmured. ‘Master, is this really necessary?’

Corbett ignored him. They reached the refectory, its windows full of light as the brothers prepared for their evening meal. They went down the steps. Ranulf found an empty brazier full of sconce torches and lit two. Corbett went first. At night the passageway seemed like a tunnel from the underworld, and Corbett recalled the stories his mother had told him about a strange mythical kingdom which lay beneath the earth. It was freezing cold. Every so often Ranulf stopped to light the sconces. At last they reached the end chamber. Corbett had more torches lit and, removing the covering sheet, crouched down to look at the mosaic.

‘Why is it so important?’ Ranulf insisted.

‘Because it’s the only thing,’ Corbett lowered the torch, ‘out of the ordinary about Abbot Stephen. He came here often to look at it. He frequently sketched this image – I wonder why? There is something very familiar about this mosaic but I can’t place it. Can you, Ranulf?’

His servant, on his knees, stared at the hub, the spokes, the rim, the strange decorative figures in each corner.

‘What’s that?’

Chanson had returned to the steps and was peering back down the passageway. Ranulf sprang to his feet. The cellar was cold but he could sense danger, as in some alleyway in London, where though pitch black and seemingly empty, Ranulf would be aware of the footpad lurking in a doorway or down some needle-thin passage. He also trusted Chanson’s sharp ears.

‘I did hear something,’ Chanson warned. ‘The slither of a boot?’

Corbett, now alarmed, joined him. He went up the steps and glanced down the passageway, a place of flickering light and dancing shadows.

‘This is foolish,’ Ranulf whispered.

Corbett agreed and quietly cursed himself. He had broken the first rule. Nobody knew they were here, and there was no other escape except back along this eerie tunnel beneath the earth.

‘It could be a brother?’ Chanson’s voice did not sound convincing.

‘If it was a monk,’ Ranulf replied, ‘he would have seen our light and he would have declared himself.’ He pulled Corbett back down the steps. ‘If it’s one man,’ he hissed, ‘then he must be carrying a bow and arrow. Against the light we’d be ideal targets. A good archer, a master bowman, could hit all of us.’

‘We might be wrong.’ Corbett drew his sword. ‘It’s my mistake, Ranulf, I’ll find out.’

His henchman pulled him back.

‘No, I prefer to face an archer than Lady Maeve’s rage.’ He grinned over his shoulder. ‘Anyway, I am more nimble on my feet than you.’

Ranulf drew his sword and went up the steps. To his right lay the open caverns and storerooms. He narrowed his eyes against the gloom. He tensed, ready to spring. He heard a sound. Ranulf didn’t wait. He darted back, almost throwing himself down the steps, as the long bow, somewhere down the passageway, twanged. The arrow hummed through the air, smacking the wall above their heads.

‘I was right.’ Ranulf picked himself up. ‘One archer but a good one. If we try to go down that passageway, he’ll kill us one by one.’

‘We could wait,’ Chanson declared. ‘There are stores here, someone is bound to come down.’

‘That might not be for hours,’ Corbett replied. He stared round the cellar and glimpsed the wooden pallets. ‘Come on, Ranulf, quickly!’ Corbett pointed at them.

‘What are we going to do?’

‘Have you ever stormed a castle, Ranulf, and seen men take the battering ram up to the main gate?’

‘Ah, the mantlet!’ Ranulf grasped Chanson’s arm.

They pulled the pallet up and turned it round.

‘It’s about two yards high, Ranulf, narrow enough to go down the passageway. He could aim at our feet,’ Corbett warned. ‘So, slither it along the floor, and crouch behind it.’

Turning the pallet so the wooden boards were facing outwards, Ranulf and Chanson carried their makeshift shield up the steps. Corbett followed behind. They pushed the pallet along the ground. It left about a few inches on either side but afforded good protection. The bow twanged and arrows hurtled into their makeshift shield. They reached one doorway and Corbett sighed with relief as they managed to push their mantlet through. Two more arrows hit the pallet with such force Ranulf and Chanson had to brace themselves. This was followed by the sound of retreating footsteps. They heard a door bang. Ranulf and Chanson put the pallet to one side, and Corbett ran forward at a half-crouch, sword out, but the passageway was deserted. In one corner lay a long bow and a half-empty quiver of arrows. He raced up the steps, out beside the refectory. There was nothing to see but snow coating the dirty slush. Corbett realised the futility of continuing the pursuit. He waited for his two companions to join him.

‘We’ll never do that again,’ he breathed out.

‘My mistake as much as yours.’ Ranulf sheathed his sword. ‘Who is this killer, Master?’

‘A child could have done what he did,’ Corbett replied. ‘He just watched and waited. We went down into the cellar, and our killer followed. There is only one way out and, if that Chanson hadn’t been so sharp-eared, he could have taken care of at least two of us, seriously wounding or slaying.’

Corbett sat on a stone plinth. He heard voices and saw a line of monks moving across to the refectory doorway. Now the attack was over Corbett was frightened. The sweat on his body began to freeze. Chanson was shaking, teeth chattering. Ranulf was white-faced with fury, gnawing his lip, fingers nervously tapping the hilt of his dagger.

‘Why?’ Chanson stuttered. ‘We are not members of the Concilium.’

‘No,’ Ranulf snarled, ‘but we are King’s clerks. Certainly if Sir Hugh was killed or wounded, St Martin’s-in-the-Marsh would be disgraced. The King, his court and council would withdraw their favour from the monastery.’

‘Very good,’ Corbett murmured. ‘The attack opens a window into our would-be assassin’s dark soul. I’ve found his motive: destruction for the sake of destruction. No one is safe. Come on,’ he urged. ‘I’m freezing! We’ll eat in the refectory.’

They joined the monks who glowered at them from underneath their cowls. The refectory was a long hall, with great beams high above their heads. From these hung banners depicting the five wounds of Christ, the cross and an image of the Virgin and Child. As in many refectories, for the sake of cleanliness no rushes cluttered the floor. The wooden wall panelling was highly polished and the trestle tables along each side were covered with snow-white drapes. Halfway down the hall a log fire roared in a great hearth. Herb-scented braziers stood along the walls and in corners. Perditus, just inside the doorway, greeted them and came striding across.

‘Where have you been, Sir Hugh? I went to the guestroom to seek you. Prior Cuthbert would like you to join him at the high table.’ The lay brother studied him curiously. ‘Sir Hugh, is everything all right?’

‘Yes, yes.’ Corbett waved him forward.

They walked selfconsciously up the hall. Prior Cuthbert and the rest of the Concilium greeted them, and the Prior indicated that Corbett should sit on his right. The clerk glanced quickly around. Brother Dunstan looked fearful. Brother Richard the almoner smiled welcomingly enough whilst Aelfric stood looking like a prophet of old, face drawn, constantly rubbing his hands together. Corbett stared down the refectory. This was no longer a place of harmony, of prayer, worship and work. The atmosphere was of palpable fear. The brothers kept looking up at the dais, glowering at these royal clerks who’d brought so much disruption to their abbey. The muttering grew so loud, Prior Cuthbert picked up a handbell and rang it vigorously for silence. He raised his hand.

‘
Benedicite Domine
. . .’

Grace was said. They took their seats. Brother Richard went up to the lectern and, opening the book, read from St Augustine’s Sermon on the Resurrection. After he had finished, Prior Cuthbert rang the bell and got to his feet.

‘Since,’ his voice was tinged with sarcasm, ‘we have such distinguished guests amongst us, the rule of silence will be suspended. The community may talk.’

The meal began. Brother Perditus served the high table with fish soup, succulent pork roasted in mustard and pepper, small white loaves and dishes of vegetables. Corbett was offered a choice of wine. Ranulf and Chanson ate as if there was no tomorrow, nodding vigorously at Brother Richard’s questions. Prior Cuthbert waited until the courses had been served and then turned to Corbett.

‘I understand that your henchmen were attacked by outlaws in the forest today. Has anything else occurred during your investigation?’

Corbett winked quickly at Brother Dunstan.

‘No, Father Prior, just one mystery after another.’

‘Such as?’

‘Not now.’ Corbett sipped from his wine. ‘But you are pleased the outlaws are dead?’

‘Four less to feed,’ Prior Cuthbert murmured. ‘Even as a monk, Sir Hugh, sometimes you have to sit down and sup with the devil. Your henchman Ranulf-atte-Newgate,’ the monk gestured with his head, ‘is truly a man of war.’

‘He’d make a good Hospitaller or Templar,’ Corbett agreed. ‘The outlaws were stupid. I would not challenge a man like Ranulf-atte-Newgate.’ He glanced sideways and grinned. ‘Sometimes he even frightens me.’

‘Are you frightened now?’ Brother Dunstan asked from where he sat on Corbett’s left.

‘I’m always fearful, Brother.’ He paused. ‘Did your Father Abbot fear demons? What persuaded him to become an exorcist and take such an interest in demonology. After all, he was a member of this community, and grew old alongside you.’

‘Stephen was always a scholar,’ Brother Dunstan replied. ‘Theology and philosophy were the fields he furrowed.’ He gestured with his spoon. ‘You know how it is? Some scholars become interested in the cult of the Virgin or the finer points of philosophy. Stephen chose to specialise in demonology, the power of the night.’

‘And in all things Roman?’ Corbett added.

‘Ah!’ Brother Dunstan popped a piece of bread into his mouth and chewed it slowly. ‘That’s because of our library; it holds many precious manuscripts. Abbot Stephen used to sit here and regale us with stories of the ancients and the doings of the mad emperors. His great ambition was to visit the Scottish march and inspect the great wall the Romans built. He discussed the classics and the ancient empire of Rome with anyone who would listen. I remember, early in the summer, he and his manservant Perditus in heated discussion over a manuscript on the Roman army. Who was the author? Veg . . .?’

‘Vegetius,’ Corbett declared. ‘He wrote a famous tract
De Re Militari
: a treatise well loved by our King. Oh, by the way,’ Corbett looked round, ‘where is Brother Francis the librarian?’

‘He asked to be excused,’ Prior Cuthbert explained. ‘He’s in the library working, quite excited about something.’

Corbett put down his horn spoon.

‘Is anything wrong, Sir Hugh?’

‘Is he by himself?’

‘Of course.’

‘He shouldn’t be.’ Corbett recalled that dark figure in the passageway, those death-bearing arrows thudding into the darkness.

‘He’ll be safe,’ Brother Dunstan declared.

Corbett half rose to his feet.

‘Chanson! Find Perditus! Go to the library!’

‘It’s not necessary,’ Brother Dunstan stuttered.

Corbett sat down. All conversation at the high table died.

‘He should not be alone,’ Corbett urged. He snapped his fingers at Chanson who was staring lovingly at his soup. ‘Don’t worry, Chanson, Ranulf won’t eat it.’

The groom scurried off into the kitchens for Perditus. Corbett continued eating, half listening to Prior Cuthbert’s protestations. A short while passed and Perditus came hurrying back.

‘Prior Cuthbert, you’d best come!’

‘What is it?’ Corbett glanced at the lay brother.

‘We can see lights in the library but the doors and windows are locked. Brother Francis does not reply.’