Hugh Corbett 13 - Corpse Candle (33 page)

‘We’ll soon be warm,’ Corbett murmured. ‘And I don’t think it will snow.’

‘The ground will be hard.’ Prior Cuthbert came up.

‘Only the top layer will be,’ Corbett explained. ‘I am a farmer’s son so I can tell that winter has yet to set in. Thank God it’s not February or March. Now, let’s proceed.’

Corbett went and picked up a spade from a barrow. Using this he climbed to the top of the funeral barrow and called the others around. He felt slightly ridiculous with the breeze whipping his hair and cloak. The ground underfoot was slippery, and he quietly prayed he wouldn’t fall. He glanced around the meadow, and the view so startled him he had to steady himself with the spade.

‘I didn’t think,’ he murmured. ‘Oh, Corbett, sometimes you can be a great fool!’

‘Master, what’s the matter?’

Ranulf stared anxiously up, grasping a hoe as if it was a spear. Corbett ignored him. Digging the spade into the ground he slowly turned, making sure he didn’t lose his foothold. The top of the funeral barrow was flat, about a yard across. Corbett kept turning as Ranulf, cursing under his breath, used the hoe to climb the mound and join him.

‘Oh, you stupid man!’ Corbett whispered. ‘Why did I never think of . . .?’

‘What is it, Sir Hugh? Have you lost your wits?’

‘No, I have just regained them. Ranulf, look around this field. What does it remind you of?’

The Clerk of the Green Wax turned so quickly he nearly slipped. Corbett steadied him. At the foot of the mound, Prior Cuthbert and his community were becoming restless. Corbett ignored them.

‘Think, Ranulf. This meadow is almost like a circle, with the burial mound in the centre. Look at the furrows leading off. You can only see them from up here.’

‘The wheel!’ Ranulf exclaimed. ‘Abbot Stephen’s wheel! The mosaic, the drawings he etched. The burial mound is the hub. These furrows, probably pathways to it, are the spokes, the edge of the field is the rim.’

‘Precisely,’ Corbett whispered. ‘And now we are going to find out why it is so important.’

‘Sir Hugh,’ Prior Cuthbert called. ‘We are beginning to freeze!’

Corbett, grasping the handle of the spade, stared down at them.

‘I want you to dig!’ he shouted. ‘Take away the top soil and begin to burrow in: from the side rather than the top.’

‘But it will collapse!’ someone shouted.

‘No, begin that way,’ Corbett declared. ‘I am looking for something. It will not be deep within the barrow.’

The monks acquiesced. Prior Cuthbert and members of the Concilium stood aside, wrapped in their cloaks. Brother Dunstan had a portable brazier brought out as well as jugs of mulled wine and trays of pewter cups. The labourers began their task, cursing and muttering, carefully removing the surface of frozen grass. They dug eagerly, now and again breaking off to warm their hands over the brazier, or scooping up handfuls of snow to cool their fingers as they grasped the hot mulled wine. Corbett and Ranulf chose their spot and began to dig whilst Chanson spent more time warming his fingers.

‘Not work for royal clerks,’ Ranulf muttered.

‘It takes me back to being a boy,’ Corbett grinned. ‘And it’s something to do.’

They must have worked for about an hour. Corbett and Ranulf were at the far side of the meadow near the Judas Gate when the alarm was raised. They hastened round: a group of labourers were now leaning on their mattocks and hoes, peering into the hole they had dug. Ranulf grasped a hoe and, pushing the wooden handle in, prodded gently.

‘It’s not mud,’ one of the labourers declared. He plucked a piece of rotting cloth from the soil and handed it to Corbett.

The clerk carefully rubbed it through his fingers.

‘I can’t tell what fabric it is but, although stained with mud, it was probably once quite costly.’

‘Wool?’ Ranulf queried. ‘It hasn’t rotted away very well.’

The labourers now dug more carefully. The rest ceased their labours to stand and watch. The hole widened and, under Corbett’s instructions, they gently pulled the bundle they had found out into the open. At last it was free. The top of the skull and the skeletal feet peeping out from beneath the rotting coverlet were quite clear. Everyone drew back. Corbett laid the macabre bundle gently on the ground and undid the makeshift winding-sheet. The skeleton beneath was white; it hadn’t yet turned a corrupting yellow, whilst the bones were still hard and firm.

‘The coverlet was his cloak,’ Corbett declared.

Ranulf could clearly see rotting chainmail which had once covered the chest, and the tabard above bearing a livery. The hose on the legs had rotted away.

‘The boots must have been removed,’ Corbett declared.

The hauberk was cut and mangled on one side. Corbett lifted this up to expose a smashed rib beneath. He carefully checked for signs of other wounds. Corbett got to his feet and looked down at the pathetic remains. The skull hung sideways, the jaw slightly open.

‘That’s not the body of King Sigbert!’ Brother Aelfric declared. ‘The skeleton is too well preserved.’ He stared down at the tattered, rotting remains of the livery. ‘Those are the Harcourt arms. Who is it?’ He glanced at Corbett.

‘Sir Reginald,’ Corbett replied. He crouched down and tapped the mud-caked coverlet. ‘This was probably his cloak, the boots have been removed and, apart from the chainmail and this surcoat, the rest has rotted away. I can detect no other wound except these smashed ribs.’

Once again he pushed back the chainmail.

‘It was probably a sword wound. A powerful thrust which penetrated his ribs and went up into his heart. He must have died instantly. Whoever killed him, quickly removed all insignia: the clasp of the cloak, rings – perhaps the boots had recognisable studs or buttons which might have identified the corpse?’

‘Then why not remove the surcoat?’ Ranulf asked.

‘Because it was stained with blood and caught in the mesh of the chainmail. As I said, whoever killed Sir Reginald had to act swiftly.’

Corbett got to his feet, peered into the makeshift grave and used the hoe to make sure there was nothing else.

‘But the stories?’ Prior Cuthbert protested. ‘Sir Reginald was seen leaving his house. Lady Margaret and Sir Stephen spent months searching for him!’

‘All a lie,’ Corbett replied, ‘though I am not too sure who was responsible. What really happened was that one summer’s evening, many years ago, Sir Reginald came down to Bloody Meadow to meet his assassin. He was killed and his corpse swiftly buried in the tumulus. His murderer moved quickly and expertly. He probably removed the top soil, dug out this make-shift grave, stripped the corpse as quickly as he could and slipped it in.’

‘Who?’ Prior Cuthbert asked.

‘I have yet to discover that. But look, Prior Cuthbert.’ Corbett wiped the mud from his gauntlets. ‘The remains of Sir Reginald Harcourt deserve decent burial.’

‘Oh, yes, yes.’

‘Other pressing matters await me,’ Corbett explained. ‘Have the remains put in your death house.’

‘And the mound?’

Prior Cuthbert’s face was white with cold, his eyes watered and his nose had turned a bright red.

‘You’ve been very helpful. The mound has now been disturbed. You and your brothers might as well finish the task and search for Sigbert’s corpse.’

Corbett strode away, with Ranulf and Chanson following. Once they were through the Judas Gate, Corbett ordered Chanson to prepare the horses.

‘Did you expect that?’ Ranulf asked.

‘Yes, I did and soon I’ll explain why.’

‘And the murderer?’

Ranulf peered at his master.

‘Sir Reginald was murdered by more than one person. It would have taken two or three people, to dig a hole like that and cover it quickly.’

Corbett didn’t wait for further questions but strode on. Chanson had their horses saddled by the main gate. A lay brother swung this open. They went through but, instead of going onto the main trackway, Corbett rode quickly round the walls. He was relieved to find the Watcher squatting outside his bothy.

‘He must have drunk deep and late,’ Corbett explained. ‘Otherwise he might have heard all the excitement and fled.’

The Watcher by the Gates got to his feet as Corbett approached.

‘Good morrow, Sir Hugh.’ He stared at the mud stains on the clerk’s cloak. ‘You’ve been travelling far?’

‘No, Master Salyiem. I’ve been digging! The burial mound in Bloody Meadow contained Sir Reginald Harcourt’s corpse, his murdered remains.’

The Watcher stared fearfully and stepped back. If Ranulf hadn’t urged his horse up alongside him, he would have fled.

‘But Sir Reginald . . .’ The hermit’s words died on his lips as he gazed up at this severe-faced clerk.

‘Come, man,’ Corbett stretched out his hand. ‘I could arrest you and drag you at the tail of my horse . . .!’

The hermit closed his eyes and quickly crossed himself.

‘Get up behind me!’

The Watcher had no choice but to agree. Forcing himself up behind Corbett, he put his arms round the clerk’s waist. Corbett could sense his fear from the quick, short gasps, and his trembling arms.

‘Where are we going?’ he whispered throatily.

‘You know where we are going.’

Corbett urged his horse into a canter back along the walls and onto the trackway. They reached Harcourt Manor a short while later. Only once did they pause, at the place in the forest where they had been ambushed. Apart from the scuffed earth and a few broken arrows, all signs of that bloody conflict had disappeared. The manor itself was quiet. Grooms came out to take their horses. Pendler the steward hurried up, huffing and puffing.

‘I wish to see the Lady Margaret now,’ Corbett demanded, helping the hermit to lower himself out of the saddle.

Pendler looked quickly at the Watcher by the Gates who nodded, his face as white as the snow which still covered the bushes on either side of the main entrance.

Corbett himself dismounted and went quickly up the steps. Ranulf and Chanson, with the Watcher between them, followed. Corbett was about to knock when the door abruptly swung open. Lady Margaret, dressed in a dark-blue robe, her white wimple covered by a furred cowl, greeted them.

‘Why, Sir Hugh, I was about to go for a walk.’ She grasped a cane in her hand, tapping it on the floor. ‘What do you want?’

‘I have news about your husband Sir Reginald. I can say it no other way, my lady. He did not leave for an Eastern port. His remains have been discovered in the burial mound at Bloody Meadow.’

Lady Margaret swayed. Corbett hastened to steady her. She lowered her head, gasping as if she found it difficult to breathe and, when she glanced up, Corbett was shocked at the sudden change. Her face seemed to have narrowed, the skin tight on the high cheekbones, her eyes haunted and fearful. Pendler came hurrying up the steps.

‘Madam, what is the matter?’

Lady Margaret, grasping Corbett’s arm, just lifted the cane, gesturing at him to go away.

‘You’d best come in.’

She took a deep breath, pushed away Corbett’s arm and led them into the parlour. Corbett sat where he had on his last visit. Lady Margaret, still grasping the cane, sat opposite. The three others came in behind and Corbett waved them to the window seat.

‘Do you wish some wine, my lady?

‘No. Tell me of Sir Reginald. You say you’ve discovered his remains? How did he die?’

‘Why, Madam, he was murdered.’

‘By whom?’

‘Madam, we both know that.’

OMNIBUS IGNOTAE MORTIS TIMOR
 
IN ALL CREATURES THERE IS THE FEAR OF
UNKNOWN DEATH

 
OVID

Lady Margaret didn’t move. She sat gripping her stick, staring at the weak fire, where the flames spluttered around the slightly damp logs.

‘You heard what I said, Madam?’

‘I heard what you said, clerk. You’d best say your piece.’

‘You loved Sir Stephen Daubigny, didn’t you?’

Lady Margaret started, as beads of sweat laced her forehead under the wimple.

‘Loved!’ she murmured harshly.

‘You know you did,’ Corbett continued matter of factly. ‘You were betrothed to Sir Reginald but your heart was Daubigny’s, as his was yours.’

‘He had a lover, Heloise Argenteuil.’

‘No, Madam, that was a jest or, perhaps it was more a tale to cover up what you had done. Decades ago in Paris the famous theologian Abelard fell in love with Heloise, a woman he was tutoring. Abelard was a brilliant scholar, a subtle theologian, a Master in the Schools. Heloise’s relatives, however, were furious. They seized Abelard and castrated him. He later withdrew from society but, in spite of all the protests and violence, Abelard and Heloise continued to love each other. Heloise entered a convent at Argenteuil. You took her name to create this fictitious woman whom Stephen Daubigny was supposed to have loved and lost. In reality, it was just to divert suspicion.’