Hugh Corbett 13 - Corpse Candle (23 page)

‘Oh, sweet Lord!’ Prior Cuthbert whispered. He threw his napkin down. ‘Francis would never leave candles glowing in the library.’

The meal ended in confusion. Corbett followed Chanson and Perditus, with Ranulf hastening behind. They reached the library door. Ranulf told them to stand aside and banged with the pommel of his sword. Brother Richard, who had been peering through a window, hurried over, white-faced.

‘I am not sure,’ he said, ‘as the glass is rather thick but I think Francis is lying on the floor. I glimpsed his leg and sandalled foot from behind the table.’

Corbett ordered Perditus to find a heavy log.

‘No, use that bench!’ Prior Cuthbert pointed to one just inside the porchway.

The door was of thick, solid oak. Corbett told them to hammer on the other side of the lock, loosening the leather hinges. At last the door gave way with a crash and they stumbled in. Corbett ordered them to stay back. The library was a rich, splendid chamber, a place of study. Now all this was shattered. Brother Francis lay in a widening pool of his own blood, slightly turned to one side, a long arrow shaft buried deep in his chest. Corbett felt his neck; there was no blood pulse whilst his skin was a clammy cold.

‘Stay back!’ Corbett shouted.

He went across to the writing table, picked up the pieces of vellum and read Abbot Stephen’s name and the phrase ‘the Roman way’. He studied the two books lying there, small, thin volumes. He closed them and hastily put them inside his jerkin.

‘You can come forward,’ he called.

The monks clustered round Brother Francis’s body amidst exclamations of grief echoing Prior Cuthbert’s low moan of despair. Brother Dunstan the treasurer was the first to recover his wits. He sent Perditus for the holy oils and quickly administered the sacrament of Extreme Unction, whispering the hallowed words into the dead man’s ear. Other members of the community arrived but Prior Cuthbert ordered them to stay outside.

‘Take the body to the death house!’ Corbett declared. ‘This time, Brother Aelfric, put a guard on the door. Let’s see if the killer tries to claim this corpse.’

‘How was it done?’ Ranulf demanded. ‘Sir Hugh, I’ve checked the door – it was locked and bolted and the windows were all closed.’

Corbett glanced back to where the corpse had been found. He went and checked but Ranulf was right, the windows were closed and the outside shutter of the nearest arrow slit looked secure.

‘Prior Cuthbert, excuse me.’

He gestured at Ranulf and Chanson to follow him outside. Corbett found the shutter covering the arrow slit: it was clasped securely against the ragstone wall. Chanson went back to fetch a lantern. Corbett inspected the shutter carefully. He loosened its clasps, and as he did so, it rattled and he heard exclamations from inside the library.

‘I see how it was done,’ Ranulf declared, peering through. ‘The librarian was studying inside. The assassin distracted him by rattling the shutter. Brother Francis would come to check. He’d be standing in the light, providing even a novice bowman with a good target. The shaft was loosed. Brother Francis collapsed. The shutter was re-clasped and the assassin came to hunt us down in the cellars.’

‘But surely Brother Francis had been warned not to be alone?’

‘Yes, he was, Chanson, that’s what intrigues me.’ Corbett patted the books beneath his doublet. ‘He was definitely excited, immersed in his studies. So much so that he neglected food and drink and didn’t join the rest of the community in the refectory. Now, why should a monk, in the depths of winter, study so late? Was he looking for something? Some evidence regarding these murders?’

‘Sir Hugh, what can be done?’ Prior Cuthbert came through the darkness towards them.

‘I’ve told you already,’ Corbett urged. ‘Members of the Concilium must not, where possible, be by themselves for long periods of time.’

‘But we have our own chambers, and our duties to perform!’

‘Then be prudent,’ Corbett urged. ‘Warn them about being ambushed. Oh, and by the way, I’d have all bows and arrows in the cellars collected up, put in one place and secured.’

‘And where’s Archdeacon Adrian?’ Ranulf demanded.

‘He refused my invitation to the refectory.’ Prior Cuthbert shook his head. ‘Perditus said he was in a terrible temper, declaring that he would keep to his own chamber and dine by himself.’

‘As we shall too,’ Corbett declared. ‘Prior Cuthbert, tell your monks to finish their meal. My companions and I will return to the guesthouse. We will eat whatever you send across.’

Once they were back, Chanson lit candles and oil lamps and fired the brazier. Ranulf secured the doors and windows.

‘Why?’ Ranulf demanded. ‘Why slay a librarian? An archivist?’

Corbett sat on the bed and took the books out of his jerkin.

‘For the same reason he attacked us, Ranulf.’ He smiled grimly. ‘To give the assassin his due, he warned me not to stay. If royal emissaries were driven out of an abbey, the King would not be pleased but, because we tarried, he struck. The same is true of poor Brother Francis. Think of a fox stalking chickens, Ranulf; that’s what our killer has become. I doubt if he knew Brother Francis was searching for something but he did learn that he was by himself.’

Corbett paused at a knock on the door. Perditus came through bearing a tray of steaming food which he placed on the table.

‘What is Father Prior planning?’ Ranulf asked.

The lay brother made sure the tray was carefully laid and shrugged.

‘I have told him he should send to the sheriff for armed retainers. But,’ he sighed, ‘that will take days. What we need are spearmen and archers to patrol the passageways. Guards on the trackways outside. I’ve told Father Prior that more braziers should be lit. There are high places in this abbey where sentinels could be positioned but . . . I am only a lay brother—’

Corbett glanced up. ‘Have you taken solemn vows, Perditus?’

‘No, just simple ones. I could, if I wished, leave this place.’

‘And will you?’

Perditus shook his head. ‘I love St Martin’s and the community here is good to me.’

‘And the killer?’ Corbett asked.

‘Oh, he is undoubtedly a member of this community.’

‘Or Archdeacon Adrian?’

‘True,’ Perditus agreed. ‘He does not like St Martin’s-in-the-Marsh. But, I must rejoin my brothers.’

Corbett excused him and opened the first book. He quickly thumbed through the yellowing, crackling papers: it was nothing more than a copy of an Anglo-Saxon chronicle, carefully transcribed by some long-dead monk. The loose pages at either end contained nothing remarkable. The second book was more interesting: it contained extracts of the Latin poet Ovid’s great work
On the Art of Loving
. Corbett smiled at some of the verses. In his youth he had seen such poetry in the libraries of Oxford and, in his courting of Lady Maeve, had even used some of the famous verses. The pages at the end allowed scholars to write their own thoughts. Corbett recognised Abbot Stephen’s hand in some simple verses of regret. He cleared his throat and studied it more carefully.

‘What is it, Master?’

Corbett began.

‘Who wrote that?’ Ranulf demanded.

‘Abbot Stephen did as a young monk.’

‘You can recognise his hand so well?’

Corbett smiled, turned the book and tapped the foot of the page. Ranulf peered at the drawing.

‘It’s the wheel!’ Ranulf exclaimed. ‘Look, the hubs, spokes, and rim! It’s like the mosaic down in the cellar. Why should Abbot Stephen have written that?’

‘A monk besotted by love, Ranulf. As Brother Dunstan is now, Abbot Stephen in his time was no better. I wonder—?’ Corbett weighed the book in his hands.

‘Do you want some food?’ Chanson called out.

‘Of course he does!’ Ranulf snapped.

Chanson placed a strip of pork on a trauncher, cut up the bread and served it. Corbett balanced it on his lap.

‘Before I left the King,’ Corbett paused as if distracted, ‘ah, yes, His Grace informed me that there were many theories as to why Stephen Daubigny entered a religious order. One of the most popular was that he fell in love with a young woman who became a nun and died rather young. Now the King said he had little proof of this except for an incident one day when he visited Abbot Stephen here in St Martin’s. Now you know our noble King likes nothing better than teasing a churchman, especially when he’s in his cups. The Queen was present with her beautiful ladies-in-waiting,’ Corbett winked at Ranulf, ‘who are always smiling at you. “Stephen”, the King declared. “Are you not distracted by beauty such as this?” The abbot replied that he was but he had his calling and they had theirs. His Grace laughed. “Have you ever loved, Stephen?”. The abbot grew sad. “Once, my lord, I did but the rose withered in a cold hard frost.” “Dead?” the King asked. “Oh yes,” Abbot Stephen replied. “And gone to God”.’

Ranulf listened with interest. He wished he had met Abbot Stephen, who seemed to have been a man after his own heart. Deep down Ranulf nursed great ambition. He wanted to be like Abbot Stephen: a warrior, a poet, a lover of fine things and beautiful women.

‘Ranulf, what’s the matter?’

‘Sorry, Master, just distracted.’

‘Aye.’ Corbett put the books down and picked up a piece of pork with his fingers. ‘Do you know, Ranulf, I suspect Abbot Stephen was distracted all his life. At first I thought it was by demons or all things Roman. Now, I’m beginning to believe it may have been by love.’

SEMPER IN ABSENTES
FELICIOR AESTUS AMANTES
 
PASSION IS ALWAYS STRONGER
FOR ABSENT LOVERS

 
PROPERTIUS

Corbett led Ranulf and Chanson out of the line of trees which fringed the trackway to Harcourt Manor. Snow had fallen heavily during the night, blanketing everything in its white stillness. It lay heavy on ledges and cornices, swept up deep against the wall of this great timber and stone mansion. Harcourt Manor was well situated on the brow of a gently sloping hill, surrounded by its own demesne. Corbett had passed barns and granges, seen labourers out in the fields doing what they could in such inclement weather. A line of hunters had greeted them, the corpses of rabbits and other game slung from a pole. Corbett now studied Harcourt Manor: the old house had probably been destroyed and replaced with this three-storeyed building of grey ragstone, red-tiled roof and large windows, some of them filled with coloured glass. The stonemasons had added gargoyles and statues, and it was a place of obvious wealth and power. The manor was approached by sweeping stone steps which led up to double oaken doors. One of these was now pulled apart, as grooms and ostlers hurried round to take their horses. Corbett glimpsed a lady with a white wimple on her head, dressed in a dark-blue dress with a silver belt round her waist.

‘My name is Pendler.’

A small, red-faced man bustled up, cowl pulled tightly over his head to protect his ears from the cold. He looked Corbett over from head to toe. He could tell this visitor was important.

‘I know who they are.’ The woman’s voice cut clean through the air. ‘The King’s emissaries are always welcome. Sir Hugh . . .’

Lady Margaret came and stood at the top of the steps. Corbett smiled, his breath hanging heavy in the air. He went up and kissed Lady Margaret’s proffered hand. It was soft and warm. She wore mittens against the cold but on one finger he glimpsed a sparkling amethyst ring.

‘Very much the courtier.’ Lady Margaret grasped his hand and led him forward. ‘And your companions, they are welcome too.’

At first glance Corbett considered Lady Margaret beautiful, despite the greying hair peeping from beneath the wimple, the furrows and lines in her creamy-skinned face. Her lips were full and red, her nose slightly pointed, her eyes large, grey and lustrous, amused but watchful.

‘You knew I was coming, Lady Margaret?’

‘Sir Hugh, everybody in the shire knows you are here with your henchmen Ranulf-atte-Newgate and Chanson the groom. You are at St Martin’s-in-the-Marsh? We have heard of the terrible murders there.’ Her eyes were no longer amused. She picked up the hem of her skirt. ‘You’d best come in.’

She stepped over the lintel and led Corbett into a dark oak-panelled hallway, warm and fragrant-smelling, its light was mirrored in the polished oak walls, the balustrade and newel post on the wide sweeping staircase. Servants hurried up to take Corbett’s cloak and war belt, after which Lady Margaret led her visitors into a small parlour. There was a window seat at one end, with the the shutters pulled back. The chamber was dominated by a huge carved hearth where a fire roared gustily. Lady Margaret gestured at a chair in front of this whilst she took the other. A servant led Chanson and Ranulf over to the window seat. A small table was set between Corbett and Lady Margaret. Plates of sweetmeats and sugared almonds were served whilst a scullion brought deep bowled cups of posset. Corbett took a cup and drank. The wine was hot, laced with nutmeg and other herbs: a welcome relief from the chill of his journey from St Martin’s. Lady Margaret sipped at hers, sitting back in the chair with her face slightly turned away. You have a great deal to hide, Corbett thought, you are welcoming but secretive. He stared round the chamber: its walls were half-panelled and above hung paintings, a crucifix and richly coloured cloths. Behind him a large Turkey carpet covered most of the floor. On each side of the fireplace were cupboards and, above these, rows of shelves bearing ornaments, statues, a gold crucifix and a triptych. He glanced back at the fire; its warmth made him relax and he stretched out his legs. Corbett was amused by the gargoyles on either side of the fireplace, which had women’s faces framed in chainmail and war-like helmets.