Hugh Corbett 13 - Corpse Candle (36 page)

The Archdeacon gulped and looked at Corbett for protection. The clerk stared back.

‘I planned to take you on your horse. I was going to put a rope around your neck, half hang you from a branch and use you as an archer’s butt, to improve my aim and my skill.’

‘Were you an archer?’ Corbett interrupted. ‘A bowman?’

‘I was more than that,’ Perditus, now distracted, turned back.

‘Yes, I am sure you were,’ Corbett agreed. ‘Let me see, a professional mercenary, hired by the nobility and powerful merchants of Germany? You and Abbot Stephen discussed Vegetius treatise,
The Art of War
, so you must have been a professional soldier once?’

‘I was a Ritter, a knight,’ Perditus declared. ‘My real name is Franz Chaudenvelt. I led my own company,’ he added proudly. He sat, head back as if reminiscing with friends in a tavern, eyes bright with pride. ‘I commanded mounted men, hobelars and bowmen.’ Perditus faced him squarely.

Corbett wondered whether his look was admiration at Corbett’s discovery or pride in his own bloody deeds.

‘I made mistakes, didn’t I?’ Perditus confessed. ‘I knew I shouldn’t have left that book on the floor. And, of course . . .’

‘Yes,’ Corbett interrupted, eager to take over the conversation. ‘You talked of phalanxes, describing how the abbey could be defended. Of course, the irony was, you were talking about defending it against yourself!’

‘He is the assassin? He killed them all?’ Prior Cuthbert exclaimed, shaking his head as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

‘Of course he is,’ Corbett agreed. ‘Perditus saw himself as God’s justice, his vengeance on the men who had driven Abbot Stephen to his death.’

‘He told me, you know,’ Perditus almost shouted, ‘he told me how the dogs were snapping at his ankles, always demanding . . . Abbot Stephen didn’t fear any of you.’ His voice turned to a snarl.

‘Did he tell you what the funeral barrow contained?’ Corbett asked. ‘No, he wouldn’t, would he?’

Perditus shook his head. ‘He simply said it must not be disturbed. He made mysterious references to that funeral barrow being the hub of his life: he never explained what he meant.’ He smiled at Corbett. ‘You are a clever clerk. Abbot Stephen was always drawing that diagram of the wheel. When I climbed up the funeral barrow I realised what it had meant. No wonder he admired that mosaic in the cellars. But they,’ his voice rose as he pointed at the monks, ‘are the true assasins. Abbot Stephen was driven distracted by their pleas, their hints, their threats. Oh yes, Prior,’ Perditus jibed. ‘He told me how you had seen us out in Bloody Meadow; about your blackmail and your nasty threats. If I’d had my way I’d have cut your scrawny throat, but Abbot Stephen would have no violence.’

‘You were Abbot Stephen’s lover?’ Brother Dunstan spoke up.

‘Shut up, you fat, lecherous slob! What do you know about love except between the thighs of some tavern wench! Tell them, Corbett. You seem to know everything! ’

‘Abbot Stephen loved Perditus,’ Corbett replied quietly. ‘But it was not an unnatural vice but the most natural love: Perditus was his son.’

In any other circumstances the looks on the monks’ faces would have provoked Corbett to laughter.

‘Son?’ Brother Aelfric exclaimed. ‘How could a priest have a son?’

‘Don’t be stupid! Priests’ bastards litter one end of Christendom to another,’ Perditus snarled.

‘Abbot Stephen,’ Corbett explained, ‘did not father his child when he was a monk but when he was a member of Edward’s court, a knight banneret. Perditus?’

The lay brother lifted his head, tears in his eyes.

‘Did Abbot Stephen ever tell you about your mother?’

‘No.’ The reply was a half whisper. ‘No, he never did, he never would. He simply said she had died and that her name was Heloise. But, since his death and the events of this morning . . .’

‘You mean, what we found in the burial mound?’ Corbett asked.

‘And when you left for Harcourt Manor,’ Perditus replied, ‘I began to suspect.’

‘Lady Margaret!’ Wallasby exclaimed.

‘Lady Margaret,’ Corbett agreed.

‘I didn’t know.’ Perditus seemed lost in his own thoughts. ‘I didn’t even suspect. Abbot Stephen hardly mentioned Lady Margaret, and when he did, he described her only as a vexatious neighbour, an old woman he deeply disliked and resented. That was all pretence, wasn’t it, Corbett? I should go to her.’ He half rose. ‘I should see her, shouldn’t I?’

In the doorway Chanson quietly withdrew his dagger.

‘Sit down!’ Corbett ordered. ‘Perditus, sit down! Let me finish this matter. Let me explain how you wreaked justice and exacted vengeance?

Perditus, eyes narrowed, sat down.

‘There is a likeness, you know,’ Corbett said gently. ‘When I met Lady Margaret I thought I had seen those features before. You are very like her: the same glance; the way you move your eyes; your iron will; your inflexibility of purpose.’

Corbett deliberately flattered, hoping to soothe this man, whose soul was given up to hate and vengeance.

‘Go into the abbey church,’ Corbett declared, ‘and look carefully at the wall paintings: they describe, in their own secret code, the life of Daubigny and of Daubigny’s son. They show how this place became his refuge, his exile, though the painting of Cain slaying Abel was a constant reminder of the evil he had done.’

‘I wish Father had told me,’ Perditus was speaking to himself.

‘Perhaps he would have done,’ Corbett reassured. ‘In time.’

‘How did this all come about?’ Prior Cuthbert demanded.

‘I will tell you,’ Corbett retorted. ‘And, when I am finished,’ he pointed to the bible resting on the lectern at the far corner of the room, ‘you shall all take a solemn oath never to reveal or discuss what you hear today. Sir Stephen Daubigny and Margaret Harcourt have paid for their sins. Hate and rage have had their way. Enough blood has been spilt.’ He glanced at Perditus. ‘There will be truth and then there will be silence!’

FRANGIT FORTIA CORDA DOLOR
 
REJECTION CAN SMASH EVEN THE
STRONG AT HEART

 
TIBULLUS

‘Did Abbot Stephen tell you what he planned?’

‘No,’ Perditus seemed not to be concentrating. ‘No, not really. On one occasion he claimed the best solution was the Roman way. I didn’t truly understand what he meant. Afterwards I realised he had taken his own life: that was the only logical explanation.’

‘How did you discover you were Abbot Stephen’s son?

‘I was born and raised in Germany,’ Perditus declared. ‘For many years I believed the man and woman who raised me were my natural parents. They treated me kindly enough but there was always a distance between me and them. I didn’t want to be a merchant but a soldier. My foster father died when I was still young, and his wife later fell ill. On her deathbed she told me some of the truth: that my parents were English born, and my real mother was of noble birth.’ He shrugged. ‘But that was all. Abbot Stephen later confessed that, as he grew older, the thought of me haunted him. He often led embassies to the courts of Northern Europe and, as you know, he built up a wide circle of friends, who could advise and help him. Four years ago the Archbishop of Mainz asked to see me. He had Abbot Stephen waiting in the chamber. The Archbishop left us alone, and Abbot Stephen went down on his knees.’ Perditus’s voice grew thick with emotion. ‘He knelt like a penitent, hands joined before him. He confessed that he was my natural father, that he and my mother had travelled from England and given me away as a foster child.’

‘Did you believe him?’

‘At first I was dumbfounded yet I knew he spoke the truth. On one matter he was resolved. He would tell me very little about my true mother. He simply gave her name as Heloise and claimed she died shortly after my birth.’

‘Did you follow Abbot Stephen back to England?’

The chamber was now hushed. Archdeacon Wallasby and the monks sat like scholars in a schoolroom listening to one of their colleagues make a full confession of every offence he’d committed.

‘No, not at first. I cursed him. I nearly lashed out with my boot as he just knelt there, tears streaming down his cheeks. He said he loved me, that he’d paid for his sins, that he’d do anything in atonement. He was so calm, so full of remorse: it wasn’t easy for him. That same evening we dined alone in one of the city taverns. Despite my anger,’ Perditus half smiled, ‘I was much taken by Abbot Stephen. I considered him a genuinely holy man, a scholar. When I heard about his exploits as a warrior my heart glowed with pride. Abbot Stephen told me he would accept whatever I did; he said I could even travel to London and denounce him from St Paul’s Cross. He left for England. I waited a year before I followed, not for revenge or for justice – I just wanted to be with him. He welcomed me with open arms. I became a lay brother, and I took the name Perditus.’

‘Ah yes,’ Corbett interrupted. ‘I thought so. Perditus is Latin for “that which is lost”.’

‘Abbot Stephen laughed when I made my choice. I tell you this, clerk, despite the shaven heads around us, those years with my true father were the happiest of my life. Publicly I acted as his manservant, but in private we were truly father and son. He told me all about the marshes, the legends of Mandeville and how, as an impetuous young man he used to go out and blow his hunting horn.’

‘And so you did likewise?’

‘Yes.’ Perditus half laughed as if enjoying himself. ‘I never told Abbot Stephen but I think he suspected. I was so happy. I would have remained happy.’ Perditus’s face turned ugly. ‘Perhaps one day I would have been told the truth about my mother if it hadn’t been for that damnable Bloody Meadow and the greed of these monks! On spring and summer evenings, Abbot Stephen and I would often go out there to walk and talk. We thought we were safe. One night we heard the Judas Gate clatter and I knew we were being spied on.’

‘You hastened back,’ Corbett demanded. ‘You may be monkish in your studies and your singing but you are still an athletic young man.’

‘I climbed the wall, reached the Abbot’s lodgings and was there when our prying Prior came slithering along. The threats began soon afterwards. When Abbot Stephen took his own life, I hid my sorrow and turned to vengeance.’

‘To murder!’

‘No, clerk, I meted out justice. If I had my way I’d have burnt this abbey to the ground, not left one stone upon another. Gildas was first: a monk more at home in his workshop than his choir stall. I brained him, hid his body and, after dark, dragged it out and placed it on the burial mound as a warning to the rest. I went out onto the marshes. My father had hunted demons, but I called upon these same demons to help me.’

‘Why did you kill Taverner?’ Ranulf interrupted.

‘You heard him confess his subterfuge, didn’t you?’ Corbett said.

‘But I thought Perditus was helping Chanson in the library?’ Ranulf declared.

‘No, no, he was eavesdropping.’ Corbett winked at his henchman. ‘After Taverner confessed his trickery, Perditus, frightened of being caught, hastened back. He met Chanson coming from the library.’ Corbett glanced at his groom. ‘He offered to help you, didn’t he?’

‘Yes.’ The groom, in a reverie of astonishment at Corbett’s blatant lie, nodded quickly.

‘That’s the truth,’ Perditus remarked. ‘Why should that trickster escape? He planned to make a mockery of my father. Abbot Stephen had been so excited about his case. I took the fat Archdeacon’s bow and arrows from his quiver. This abbey is like a rabbit warren. Taverner came slipping through the morning mist and took an arrow straight through his heart.’

‘And then you branded him?’ Corbett demanded.

‘I wanted to put the fear of God into those mean-minded monks. I fashioned a branding iron. Gildas was the first and, when I was ready, I placed the same brand, the devil’s mark, on Taverner and Hamo. I was so excited about the sub-Prior’s death. I went into the kitchen with some powder from the infirmarian’s chest. I chose a tankard and slipped it in. It was like playing Hazard. I didn’t mind which one of these cowards drank the poison. All I knew was that one of them would die.’ Perditus shook his fist in Cuthbert’s direction. ‘I just hoped it wasn’t you. I wanted to save you to the last. I wanted you to experience the same fears and terrors my father did.’

‘And the librarian, Brother Francis?’ Corbett reminded him.

‘Ah, he was different. In a way I felt sorry for him. He was a member of the Concilium and had always been kind to me but he was dangerous. The day he died I went down into the library. I wondered if, perhaps, amongst the books Abbot Stephen borrowed, I might find further clues to my past. Brother Francis took me aside. He told me that he had been reflecting upon Abbot Stephen’s death. He wondered if it was suicide and claimed that Abbot Stephen must have had some great secret which perhaps could explain both his death and the bloody murders which followed. He questioned me closely. “Come on, Brother.” he urged. “You were not only Abbot Stephen’s manservant but also his friend.” I could see he was suspicious. I told him that I knew nothing, that I couldn’t help him. He still claimed the truth lay somewhere in that library.’