Corpse Candle

Chapter 4

Corbett gazed in astonishment round Taverner’s chamber. He had never seen so many crosses and statues: these seemed to cover the walls, filling every niche. Triptychs and crucifixes stood on tables. Fronds from Palm Sunday hung above the door. The chamber was spacious and clean. It was the only room in the abbey where Corbett had seen rushes, green and supple, strewn with herbs, scattered on the floor. A shelf high on one wall held some books, a bible and a tattered psalter. Taverner, sitting on the edge of the small four-poster bed, looked like some venerable monk. Dressed in a grey robe, with a balding pate, grey hair on either side of his head fell in tangled curls to his shoulders. He was bright-eyed and chirpy as a magpie with a round, florid face; Corbett noticed the generous bulging paunch above the cord round his waist. The room was warmed by a scented brazier and a small log fire burned in the hearth; it was a warm, comfortable place. Corbett had noticed the smoke coming out of the vent as he approached the far side of the infirmary. As usual, Chanson stood on guard outside. Ranulf looked subdued and sat on a bench just inside the door. Corbett stared curiously at this remarkable man who claimed to be possessed by a demon, the damned soul of Geoffrey Mandeville. So far Corbett had seen nothing remarkable about this middle-aged man, keen-eyed and sharp-witted, who’d welcomed them and offered some wine.

Corbett picked a scrap of parchment off the desk and noticed the ink-filled ‘V’ drawn there. He stared down as he collected his thoughts. He had not told Ranulf what had occurred the previous night: about that mysterious visitor who had confronted him behind the grille, drawn the bolts and fled. Corbett had returned to the guesthouse in silence, his relationship with Ranulf still frosty. They had been woken early by a tolling bell, attended Mass in a side chapel and broken their fast in the abbey kitchens. Prior Cuthbert had met them briefly but he had been all a-fluster, claiming he had other business and knew nothing of the death of poor Gildas. . Corbett had nodded and declared he needed to question Taverner. The Prior had shrugged in acceptance.

Corbett still felt tired, heavy-eyed. He held up the piece of parchment. Taverner now had his head down.

‘Who drew Mandeville’s mark?’

‘How dare you!’

Corbett gaped in astonishment. Taverner’s head came up, his face had completely changed, with hate-filled eyes, a snarling mouth, his voice totally different.

‘How dare you, you whoreson varlet! You base-born clerk! Question me, Mandeville, Custos of the Tower, Earl of Essex!’

Ranulf leaned forward, ready to spring up.

What Corbett found remarkable was the change in voice, which had become harsh and guttural. When they had first entered, Taverner’s voice was soft, barely above a whisper.

‘That’s my escutcheon, my livery,’ he continued, jerking his fingers towards the parchment. ‘Black chevrons on a red banner. “Scourge of Essex” they called me. “Plunderer of Ely”. I showed those mealy-mouthed monks, those fornicating friars and their soft-skinned nuns! I gave them fire and sword! “Igne Gladioque. Fire and sword! Gero bellum contra Deum. I wage war against God and strive to breach the very gates of Paradise!”’ Taverner lapsed into old Norman French, ‘“Le Roi Se Avisera. The King was advised. Sed Rex territus, but the King was terrified.”’

‘Who was King?’ Corbett asked.

Taverner glanced slyly at him. ‘Why, Stephen, but he was challenged by Mathilda, Henry’s arrogant daughter. I lead a legion, do you know that, clerk? Men on horses who still ride the fens at night.’

Corbett closed his eyes and tried to recall the rite of exorcism.

‘By what name are you called?’ he asked abruptly.

‘My name is Geoffrey Mandeville, damned in life and damned in death. I wander the dark places. I seek a place, a house to dwell.’

‘And you have chosen Taverner?’

‘The door was open,’ came the harsh reply. ‘The dwelling was prepared.’

‘And what do you do when you leave?’ Corbett asked curiously. He noticed the white foam gathering at either corner of Taverner’s mouth.

‘I go back into the darkness, into eternal night. You are Corbett, aren’t you? Keeper of the Secret Seal? Your wife is Maeve with the long, blonde hair, and that body, eh Corbett? Soft and white like skimmed milk.’

‘Watch your lewdness!’ Ranulf declared.

Corbett held a hand up.

‘And where do I live?’

‘In Leighton Manor, in Essex, my shire, with fat, little Eleanor and Baby Edward. Come from the King, have we?’

Corbett studied the man. He was surprised that Taverner, or whatever possessed him, knew as much as he did. But, there again, most of it was fairly common knowledge.

‘If you are a demon.’ Corbett smiled, ‘then you should know more. Have you met Abbot Stephen? His soul has left his body.’

Taverner didn’t blink or change expression.

‘He has gone to judgement,’ he declared. ‘His crossing was never challenged. He’s begun his journey.’

‘But why was he killed? How was he murdered?’

‘I am not here to help you, Corbett!’

‘Come, come,’ the clerk teased. ‘You claim to be the great Geoffrey Mandeville who roams the fens, yet know less than a scullion in the abbey kitchens?’

‘He was killed by a dagger, thrust into his chest,’ came the sharp reply. ‘Always the Roman was Abbot Stephen. A man who will have to pay for his sin against the Holy Ghost.’

‘What do you mean, his sin against the Holy Ghost?’ Corbett demanded. Taverner seemed to know a little more than he should about the Abbot’s death.

‘Oh, he was murdered all right, like Abel, slain by Cain, by his brother. .’

‘By the monks of St Martin’s?’ Corbett demanded.

‘Tu dixisti clerice,’ Taverner lapsed into Latin. ‘You have said it, clerk.’

‘Which monk?’ Corbett barked.

‘All are guilty in some way. Abbot Stephen’s blood stains their hands.’

Corbett felt a chill of fear. He’d attended two exorcisms as a royal witness. One in Bermondsey Abbey and the other in St Peter ad Vincula in the Tower. Both had taken place years before, and had been terrifying experiences! Taverner’s hand snaked out, his fingers curled like the claw of some hunting bird.

‘Plucked he was, taken out of life, sent unprepared into the dark. I feel at home at St Martin’s, clerk. It is a house of demons.’ The white froth now laced his lips. ‘And you can tell Chanson outside the door to stop listening.’

Ranulf, light-footed, opened the door. Chanson almost fell into the room. He stumbled and looked, embarrassed, at Corbett.

‘You are supposed to be guarding not eavesdropping.’ Corbett glanced quickly at Taverner. ‘But go now to the library. Ask Brother Aelfric if he has any books or chronicles about Geoffrey Mandeville.’

‘He has one there,’ Taverner declared.

‘What did Abbot Stephen say to you?’

‘He was going to help me.’ Taverner’s voice turned ugly. ‘But he couldn’t even help himself!’

Corbett watched him in amazement. Taverner was two people: himself and the spirit who possessed him, alternating in both expression and voice, sometimes lapsing into French or Latin. Corbett glanced across at Ranulf: his henchman seemed fascinated by Taverner. At last the babble of conversation died. The possessed man sat on the edge of the bed, hands hanging by his side, head down.

‘Who are you now?’ Corbett asked.

Taverner dipped his fingers into a stoup of holy water on the table near the bed: he blessed himself quickly three or four times. He dug into his gown and pulled out a bible which he clutched to his chest.

‘I am the man that I was born,’ he replied weakly. The white froth had disappeared. ‘Matthew Taverner.’

‘And why did you come here?’ Corbett demanded.

‘I lived out in Essex, in a village near Chelmsford. Ever since I was a child I have been plagued by fanciful dreams and hideous nightmares. My father died when I was young. My mother dabbled in the black arts. She sacrificed to Achitopel and Asrael, Beelzebub and the other Lords of the Wasteland. One afternoon I was out near a brook, fishing by myself. The sun went behind a cloud and I looked up. A man stood on the far side of the bank beneath the outstretched branches of an oak tree. He was tall, dressed in black from head to toe and his face was white and haggard.’ Taverner blinked. ‘He had eyes as cruel as a hawk’s. “Who are you, Sir?” I asked. “Why, Matthew, I am your old friend Geoffrey Mandeville.” I ran away and told my mother. She just laughed and said we all had demons. Mandeville kept returning. I met him in taverns and on lonely roads. “I’m hunting you, Matthew,” he’d taunt, “like a hound does a deer”.’

‘And he caught you?’ Corbett asked.

‘I hid in London,’ Taverner replied. ‘I took up with whores but Mandeville sought me out.’

He undid the collar of his robe and pulled it down. Corbett flinched at the great cruel ‘V’ etched on the man’s left shoulder. He got up and peered at it. The wound had now healed but it looked as if a branding mark had been used. Corbett returned to his chair.

‘And so you came to Abbot Stephen?’

‘At first I went for help to the Dominicans at Blackfriars. Oh yes, and Archdeacon Adrian.’

‘So, you know him?’

‘Oh yes.’

‘And what did Abbot Stephen promise?’

‘That he would exorcise me. He treated me like a son. He was kind and gentle. He said that afterwards I might be able to stay here. I sometimes helped Brother Aelfric in the library.’

‘Do you know why Abbot Stephen died?’ Corbett asked.

Taverner shook his head. ‘We never talked about anything except my possession and my earlier life. Sometimes he looked worried and distracted. I would often find him deep in conversation with his manservant, the lay brother Perditus.’

Corbett heard a sound outside, probably Chanson returning. Somewhere a bell began to toll. Ranulf started to get up but then sat down again.

‘And Abbot Stephen discussed nothing about the abbey?’

Taverner shook his head. ‘I feel sick.’ He murmured clutching his stomach. ‘I need. .’

He gestured feebly towards the tray containing the cup and platter of food on the table at the far side of the room. Ranulf sprang to his feet. He filled a cup and thrust it into the man’s hand. He then walked to the window behind the bed and pulled back the shutters. He seemed engrossed by something outside.

‘Did you ever talk to any of the other monks?’ Corbett demanded. ‘Prior Cuthbert?’

Taverner’s head came up: he was once more possessed.

‘Narrow heart, narrow soul,’ came the harsh reply. ‘In love with their abbey more than God. Them and their guesthouse. They want to plunder Bloody Meadow, dig up old Sigbert’s rotting bones, build a mansion for the fat ones of the soil. Have more visitors. Increase their revenue.’

‘John Carrefour!’

Corbett jumped at Ranulf’s harsh voice. Taverner whipped round.

‘John Carrefour!’ Ranulf repeated. He sauntered over to the bed and sat beside Taverner. ‘I’ll wager that on your right shoulder here,’ he punched Taverner’s shoulder, ‘is another brand mark in the shape of a diamond. An enpurpled birthmark.’

Ranulf glanced across at his master and smiled in apology.

‘What is all this?’ Taverner’s voice rose to a screech.

Ranulf, however, took out his dagger and pricked him under the chin.

‘Sir Hugh Corbett,’ he declared. ‘Keeper of the King’s Secret Seal, may I introduce the venerable and venomous John Carrefour, the mummer’s man, the cunning man, the faker and the counterfeit. Formerly a clerk in minor orders, taken up by the King’s Assizes, he’s spent some time abroad in exile. He was forced to serve in the King’s armies in both Flanders and Northern France.’

Taverner gazed beseechingly at Corbett.

‘I don’t know what he’s saying.’

Ranulf, however, had now loosed Taverner’s gown at the neck, roughly pulling down the grey robe, not caring whether he ripped it. He exposed Taverner’s shoulder and made the man turn to reveal the deep purple birthmark. Ranulf pricked the dagger a little deeper until a small trickle of blood appeared under Taverner’s chin.

‘I am ashamed of you, John,’ Ranulf continued conversationally. ‘Your memory is beginning to fade, isn’t it? I am Ranulf-atte-Newgate.’

‘I don’t know you,’ Taverner stammered.

Corbett remained silent.

‘No, you wouldn’t. When I met you I was simply Ranulf. I hadn’t yet been imprisoned. You knew my mother, Isolda: remember her? Red-haired and green-eyed, generous to a fault she was. She entertained you free, Master Carrefour.’ Ranulf winked at Corbett. ‘I don’t know if that’s his true name. He was called John of the Crossroads or, in French, Carrefour. He was nicknamed that because no one knew which direction he would take. A man of many parts is our John. A mummer’s man: a member of an actors’ troupe. He can mimic and imitate whomever he wishes. He doesn’t remember me: the little, red-haired boy sitting in a corner, thumb in mouth, watching Carrefour entertain his mother and other ladies. I bear you no ill will, John.’ Ranulf lowered the dagger. ‘You made my mother laugh. Do you remember your favourite roles? The begging friar? The portly priest?’

Taverner now looked woebegone and miserable.

‘I do admire your Mandeville,’ Ranulf continued. ‘But you made a mistake. You talked of fornicating friars, yet during the reign of Stephen there were no friars, as the Franciscan order had yet to be founded in this country. The rest was very good indeed: the Norman French, the Latin. He’s quite the scholar, our John!’

Ranulf re-sheathed his dagger and walked back to his stool. Corbett quietly admitted that it was rare for Ranulf to astonish him. He felt slightly embarrassed, Taverner had certainly fooled him.

‘Is this true?’ he demanded.

Taverner opened his mouth to reply but changed his mind. He sat in a crumpled heap on the edge of the bed, hands in his lap.

‘I don’t know what you are talking about,’ he mumbled.

‘Oh come!’ Ranulf teased. ‘He was once famous in the city, Master. He has since spent a considerable part of his life abroad, one step ahead of the sheriff’s men, particularly after his success as a relic-seller in Cheapside. He forged letters and licences, stained his skin and claimed to have a box of rocks from the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem. He fooled quite a few with his letters from the Patriarch and his marvellous tales about his pilgrimage. And, of course, there was the amazing jar of wine which he claimed to be Falernian, drawn from Pontius Pilate’s own cellar. The list of trickery is endless. Our friend has been everything: a pardoner, a summoner, a friar, a priest.’ Ranulf laughed and smacked his knee. ‘He provided more amusement in the taverns of Southwark than any troupe of jesters. What’s the matter, Taverner, are you becoming ill? I’ll call you Taverner, as it keeps things simple.’

His hapless victim continued to sit, head down.

‘I don’t want to hear anything more about Mandeville,’ Ranulf added. ‘Shall I tell you the truth, Sir Hugh? Our good friend here has become tired and old. He’s sick of trudging the lanes, keeping a wary eye out for the sheriff’s men. He wants a comfortable place to reside: some little burrow where he can nestle down and spend the rest of his days. Now, he can’t knock on a monastery door and declare himself to be a postulant or a novice, as enquiries would be made. I suspect our good friend came back here through the Eastern ports where he wouldn’t be noticed or recognised. He heard about Abbot Stephen at St Martin’s-in-the-Marsh and he prepared his charade, including the self-inflicted brand mark, and came seeking help.’

‘But he claimed to have met Archdeacon Adrian and the Dominicans at Blackfrairs?’

‘He may have done, over the years. However, I wager Master Taverner, as he now calls himself, would count on those busy men not recalling him. He arrived at St Martin’s-in-the-Marsh, where the other brothers ignored him but Abbot Stephen regarded him as a gift from heaven.’ Ranulf gestured round the chamber. ‘Our friend was shown every hospitality: good food and drink, a soft bed, a warm room. He had nothing to worry about. He could stay here for three or four years licking his wounds and leave whenever he wished.’

‘And Mandeville?’ Corbett asked.

‘If I remember correctly,’ Ranulf replied, ‘our friend was born in Essex. He’d know all about the legends. Of course, on his return he’d have refreshed his memory. St-Martin’s-in-the-Marsh does have chronicles and accounts. He probably volunteered to help Brother Aelfric and learnt a little bit more about exorcism and the black arts, not to mention his patron demon, Geoffrey Mandeville. Taverner is a good-enough scholar: he can read, write and, I suspect, is well versed in a number of tongues.’

Corbett got to his feet; he went and stood over Taverner.

‘Look at me,’ he demanded. ‘I am the King’s Commissioner.’

Taverner raised his head, his eyes filled with tears. He clasped his hands together as if in prayer.

‘Mercy, great lord!’ he wailed. ‘I was cold and lonely.’

‘Still acting!’ Ranulf laughed.

Corbett gazed down at the man.

‘Matthew Taverner, John Carrefour, Geoffrey Mandeville, whoever you are, I think you are a scoundrel, a rogue born and bred. You probably regard getting caught as simply a hazard of your trade.’ Corbett bit back his smile. ‘You’ve proved the old proverb: “It takes one rogue to recognise another”. Ranulf-atte-Newgate is correct, isn’t he? Don’t lie!’ Corbett pressed his finger against Taverner’s lips. ‘If you lie, Taverner, I shall drag you out and hang you!’

‘You can’t do that,’ the fellow whined. ‘I have done no wrong.’

‘You’ve stolen. You’ve defrauded. Come, Master Taverner, no one wants to hang you. I don’t even want you to leave the abbey. I am more interested in Abbot Stephen’s murder.’

The veteran cunning man sighed and stared down at his feet. He smiled slyly up at Ranulf.

‘I remember you now. God bless her, Ranulf, but I liked your mother. She died of a sickness, didn’t she? I always remember her red hair, thick and glorious, falling down beyond her waist, the tight dresses, the way she moved.’ He raised a hand.

Ranulf’s face was like cold stone.

‘I mean no offence. In many ways she had more courtesy than any lady at court.’

Ranulf’s face softened.

‘She did love you,’ Taverner continued. ‘Called you her pride and joy.’

‘Stop it!’ Ranulf snapped, making a cutting movement with his hand.

Corbett could see Ranulf was not far from tears.

‘She did love you,’ Taverner replied defiantly. ‘And I had forgotten all about you till now. You always sat watching in the corner when I visited: you reminded me of a little cat. Now, look at you. A fighting man, a clerk! God be blessed! Fortune’s fickle wheel is a thing to wonder at! You carry the King’s commission, eh? Not like poor me.’ He pressed his lips together. ‘God forgive me, Sir Hugh, but I have tried every cunning trick I know. I am not going to fool you. One of the great miracles of my life is that I’ve never been hanged. An old witch once told me: “You’ll never climb the ladder. Never feel the noose round your neck though you’ll die violently enough”. Everything turned to ashes in my mouth. All my plots and schemes came to nothing. I had to flee abroad. I even travelled into the German states for a while. I came back and landed in Hunstanton, cold, miserable and sick. I travelled inland and I knew I had to do something. I was tired of it all. I wanted a warm bed, a hot meal, a refuge from the law, the sheriffs, bailiffs and tipstaffs. I travelled to Ely and begged outside the cathedral, and there I heard about Abbot Stephen and St Martin’s-in-the-Marsh. I acted the madcap, the fey, the poor soul possessed by a demon called Mandeville and I travelled here.’

‘Did Abbot Stephen believe you?’

‘Listen to Ranulf, Sir Hugh. In my time I was the best. I have been taken for a bishop and, on one occasion, even a Royal Justice!’

Corbett hid his smile.

‘I felt guilty but what else could I do? Abbot Stephen was kind and gentle. Sometimes I’d catch him watching me carefully. You could see the smile behind his eyes. I even wondered if we were in a conspiracy together? He was so keen to prove a human soul could be possessed.’ He gestured round. ‘He gave me this chamber, warm clothes, good food. He said I could stay here if I wanted to when it was all finished. After a while I became aware of how determined he was to prove his theory. He was so generous, I did my best for him.’

‘And the night he was killed?’

‘I had nothing to do with that,’ Taverner retorted. ‘I was here, tucked up like a bird in its nest, snoring like a pig. Why should I want Abbot Stephen dead, or Prior Cuthbert and any of the others? They’ve left me alone till now but Cuthbert’s a hard man. He might ask me to move on. I would be grateful, sir, if you could do something for me.’

‘They are going to think it’s rather strange,’ Ranulf interrupted, ‘if Geoffrey Mandeville fails to reappear.’

Taverner grinned through chapped lips.

‘I’ve considered that. I was beginning to wonder whether I should go and pray before Abbot Stephen’s tomb, give one of the best performances of my life.’

‘Oh, I see.’ Corbett laughed. ‘A miraculous cure?’

‘Why not? I’d then go to see Archdeacon Adrian. Perhaps he could help?’

‘Do you know of any reason why the Abbot was murdered?’

‘No, Sir Hugh. The abbey here is a God-fearing community.’

Corbett recalled the hate-filled words hissed at him the previous evening. Taverner was a cunning man, who’d always lived by his wits, surely he’d sensed something was wrong?

‘You are certain of that?’ he demanded. ‘No bitter rivalry, no blood feuds?’

‘Not that I know of. Abbot Stephen walked quietly, talked quietly but carried a big stick. He was gentle but very, very firm. In this abbey his word was law.’

‘And his relationship with the Concilium? When you were pretending to be Mandeville, you said Abbot Stephen’s blood was on their hands!’

‘I was pretending.’

‘Were you?’ Corbett insisted. ‘Or do you think the resentment over Bloody Meadow might have boiled over into something worse?’

Taverner pulled a face.

‘From what I understand, they were certainly in fear and awe of him.’

‘Except over Bloody Meadow?’

‘The Abbot referred to that. I asked him once why he didn’t agree to their demands. “It’s a sacred place,” he replied. “It contains a tomb of a royal martyr who should be left in peace”.’

‘Was there anything else?’ Corbett demanded.

‘The Abbot seemed to like that lay brother, Perditus. I often saw them in deep conversation with each other.’

‘About what?’

‘Oh, the Abbot was a busy man. I think he found it easy to talk to Perditus. No wonder the other monks called him “the Abbot’s shadow”.’

‘Could Perditus have murdered the Abbot?’

‘No.’

‘How are you so sure?’

‘The morning Abbot Stephen was found murdered, I came across here, very early before dawn, as I often did. The Abbot liked to talk to me. I waited outside Perditus’s chamber. He woke up and let me stay in his room.’ Taverner tapped the side of his nose. ‘I know people, clerk, and I’d go on oath: Perditus worshipped his Abbot and, when I met him that morning, he was not upset or disturbed. Of course, all that changed when he failed to rouse Abbot Stephen.’

‘Did Perditus become agitated?’

‘At first, no. Abbot Stephen often worked late. He sometimes missed attending Divine Office, which he read in his own room.’

‘And you never left Perditus that morning?’

‘Never. Another monk came to see what was wrong: that’s when the alarm was raised. I was present when they forced the door. We all stood shocked, surprised. Perditus went to the Abbot’s chair, fell on his knees, put his face in his hands and began to sob. I have never seen a man cry like that before.’

‘You are keen eyed,’ Corbett murmured. ‘Did you see anything untoward in that chamber?’

‘Oh, I looked round immediately. I know every trick and sleight of hand. Yet, that door was locked and the windows secure. I noticed the Abbot’s war belt was lying on the floor. He must have taken it from his chest near the wall.’

‘Did Perditus ever talk to you?’

‘Sometimes. He liked me to read to him: his eyesight is not too good.’

‘And the other brothers?’

Taverner rocked backwards and forwards on the bed.

‘Many of them are former soldiers or clerks in the royal service.’ He grinned impishly at Ranulf. ‘Perhaps that’s how you will end your career?’

‘The other brothers?’ Corbett insisted.

‘Perhaps I am wrong, Sir Hugh. Perhaps there were rancourous feelings? Sometimes I overheard them talking, and it is true they were becoming increasingly angry with the Abbot’s refusal to build a guesthouse in Bloody Meadow. He fended them off, claiming the place was a sacred site. Of course, Lady Margaret Harcourt disputed the ownership of Falcon Brook, not that I could see why.’

‘What do you mean?’ Corbett asked.

‘Well, it’s only a rivulet. It’s not stocked with fat carp or salmon. For God’s sake, Sir Hugh, these are the fens! One thing this place is not short of is water!’

‘And who was the prime mover behind the plans for a guesthouse?’

‘Oh, certainly Prior Cuthbert. As the weeks passed I often wondered whether he wanted to be Father Abbot. He certainly had support from some of the others. Gildas, the one who was killed, his fingers positively itched to cut the ground and lay the first stone.’

‘And did Abbot Stephen ever talk to you? Discuss the past? Come on!’ Corbett urged. ‘You’ll be well rewarded, Master Taverner.’

The cunning man picked up the wine goblet and drank swiftly.

‘On occasions, Abbot Stephen talked as if I wasn’t there. He once said that everyone had demons, either in the present or from the past and, unless reparation was made, these demons would harass him: his face grew sad and tears pricked his eyes.’

‘Did Abbot Stephen elaborate?’

‘I teased him. I asked if a holy abbot could also be guilty of sin? “Some sins remain.” The Abbot replied. “And I am always fearful of the sin against the Holy Ghost”.’

‘Did he tell you what that was?’

Taverner shook his head. ‘He just said his life was a wheel: that what happened at the hub, or the centre, stretched out its spokes to affect the rim and all within it. Strange thing to say, wasn’t it, Sir Hugh?’

‘Do you think he had any secrets?’

Taverner looked at Corbett slyly from under his eyebrows.

‘He liked all things Roman.’

‘Meaning what?’

‘He showed me his secret.’

‘Secret?’

‘Yes, yes, come with me!’

Corbett got to his feet and went to the door. He’d been sure someone was outside but, when he opened it, the small entrance hallway was empty and the door to the abbey grounds was half open, through which a cold draught seeped. Ranulf joined him.

‘Our cunning man is searching for his sandals.’

Corbett gripped Ranulf by the arm.

‘That was very good, Ranulf. A memory worthy of a royal clerk! If it hadn’t been for you, Taverner would have fooled me as he did the Abbot and Archdeacon Adrian.’

Ranulf coloured with embarrassment.

‘I am sorry about last night, Master.’

Corbett linked his arm through Ranulf’s and they went out of the doorway into the grounds. The heavy mist was now clearing, and a weak sun making its presence felt: a sharp breeze had sprung up, sending the leaves whirling. Corbett stood and revelled in the silence. He was aware of the grey abbey buildings. Now and again a figure moved through the mist. He faintly heard the neigh of a horse and, on the morning breeze, the melodious chant from the church. He caught the words: ‘The Lord will rescue me from the huntsmen’s nets’. Corbett released Ranulf’s arm. But who is the huntsman here, he wondered? How could he find his way through the thick, treacherous mysteries which shrouded these heinous murders? A sound echoed behind him. Taverner came out, clasping a cloak.

‘Come with me! Come with me!’

They went down the side of the infirmary and almost bumped into Chanson who, helped by Perditus, was carrying some books.

‘Brother Aelfric sent these,’ Chanson gasped.

‘We don’t need them now,’ Corbett declared. ‘Master Taverner has other things to show us. Chanson, Brother Perditus, I would be grateful if you would take the books to my chamber in the guesthouse.’

He walked by them. Taverner was trotting ahead, beckoning them to follow as if they were playing some childish game. They crossed the empty cloisters, going past the main door of the abbey church and towards the refectory: a long, oblong building of grey ragstone with a red tiled roof. Taverner led them down the outside steps and pushed open the door. They stepped into a hollow, cavernous chamber. Taverner took a tinder and lit a sconce torch. Corbett realised they were in the cellars of the abbey. There was a long, dark gallery with open store chambers on one side which contained tuns of wine, sacks of grain, boxes of fruits and vegetables, some now shrivelled as winter approached. The air was flavoured with different fragrances and smells. Taverner hurried on, pausing now and again to light a sconce torch. Corbett felt as if he was in the underworld. He was aware of the passageway stretching before him, the hard cobbled ground and the yawning chambers to his left. At last they reached the end and went down some steps. Taverner pushed open a door and they stepped into a chamber. Corbett was aware of barrels and pallets of wood, shelves with pots on. One corner was completely empty except for a canvas cloth stretched over the ground. Taverner lit another sconce torch and pulled away the sheeting. At first Corbett couldn’t understand what it was until he grasped the torch and knelt down.

He exclaimed, marvelling at the different colours, the reds, greens, golds and blues. He studied it more carefully.

‘Abbot Stephen said it was very old,’ Taverner explained.

Corbett stroked its shiny smoothness.

‘It’s a mosaic,’ he explained. ‘I’ve seen similar both in this country and abroad. Beautiful isn’t it, Ranulf?’

‘The work of the monks?’ his manservant asked.

‘No, no, this is Roman.’ Corbett glanced up at the ceiling. ‘Of course it makes sense. This land must have always been cleared. I suspect the abbey was founded on an ancient Roman settlement, perhaps a farmhouse, or a temple, or both?’

‘How did Abbot Stephen find this?’

‘Years ago when he was Sub-prior,’ Taverner explained, ‘work was carried out on the foundations. The floor to this chamber was raised. When the paving stones were lifted, Abbot Stephen discovered this and kept it free. He always liked to come here. He’d sit and kneel before it as if it was a shrine.’

Corbett, his eyes now accustomed to the dark and the flickering torchlight, could admire the beauty of the mosaic. It was a square, probably part of a floor, of which only this section had been preserved, and depicted a huge wheel: its hub was of gold with red spokes and blue rim. Between the spokes were different colours, and in each corner were small figures dressed in tunics, carrying grapes and what resembled jugs of wine.

‘Why did Abbot Stephen love it so much?’

‘I don’t know. He said it was beautiful. He used to place his hand on the centre of the wheel as if it was something sacred. Ask the brothers, particularly Cuthbert. Abbot Stephen would often disappear down here and just kneel. Sometimes he’d bring a cushion. Sometimes. .’

‘Sometimes what?’ Ranulf demanded harshly.

‘One day, two weeks before his death,’ Taverner explained, ‘I went to see Father Abbot. He was not in his chamber so I came here. I reached the door to the steps. I could hear him praying, weeping, and the lash of a whip.’

‘What?’ Corbett exclaimed.

‘Abbot Stephen was leaning over the mosaic. He’d pulled his robe down to his waist. In one hand he held his ave beads, in the other a whip which he was using to lash his shoulders. “Father Abbot!” I exclaimed. He turned and stared at me, tears rolling down his cheeks. “I’m doing penance, Master Taverner,” he declared. “And you must never tell anyone what you have seen today. This is my secret”.’

Corbett stared down at the mosaic: the more he studied it the more intrigued he became. He recalled the pieces of parchment he had seen in the Abbot’s lodgings. He had dismissed these but now he remembered the doodles and etchings, which were always the same, a wheel with its rim, spokes and hub. What did that mean to the Abbot? And why had he to inflict such terrible penance on himself? Sins he had to atone for? And why here? Many monks would dismiss this mosaic as a pagan symbol. True, the abbot had liked all things Roman but he seemed to have revered this as he would a shrine or reliquary. This mosaic obviously symbolised something for Abbot Stephen. He’d confessed as much to Taverner whilst his obssession with the wheel explained his constant sketches. Wheels? Hidden sins? The dead Abbot did indeed have secrets but they were buried deep and hidden well. Corbett got to his feet and ordered Taverner to cover the mosaic.

‘I’ve told you all I could, Master.’ Taverner’s voice rose to a wail.

‘Don’t worry,’ Corbett reassured him, tapping him on the shoulder. ‘You are not going to be turned out in your shift on the highway. We have other people to visit.’ He walked to the steps and then turned. ‘Tell me, Master Taverner, last night, as I was walking back to the guesthouse, I tried to open a door but it held fast. I heard a voice hissing at me through the grille. It was muffled, disguised. It told me that the Abbey of St Martin’s was a house of demons, a place of Cain?’

‘You didn’t tell me of this!’ Ranulf exclaimed.

‘Hush!’ Corbett gazed round. ‘Was that you, Master Taverner?’

‘Oh no!’

‘Then which monk do you think wanders the corridors and passageways? I know it wasn’t Brother Perditus. He was in his shift when I left him. So, which monk is known for his wanderings?’

‘They all are, Sir Hugh, especially members of the Concilium, Prior Cuthbert in particular. The night Abbot Stephen was killed some of the brothers claimed he visited Bloody Meadow, staring at that burial mound.’

Corbett sighed. ‘Very well.’

Ranulf and Taverner doused the lights. They went back along the corridor and out into the abbey grounds. Perditus, carrying a basket to the kitchens, shouted a greeting. Corbett raised his hand in reply.

‘Where to now, Master?’

‘The guesthouse, Ranulf. Perhaps we should have something to eat? Master Taverner, I thank you. Stay where you are and tell no one what has happened.’

The cunning man needed no second urging. He bobbed in gratitude, profuse in his thanks and assurances before he hastened off into the mist. Taverner was pleased to be free of Corbett. He had told that harsh-faced clerk a great deal so perhaps he would be safe for a while. He paused and looked up at the tower of the abbey church looming above the mist. This was a good place to live. Perhaps even to die? He reached the path leading down past the infirmary. He heard a sound and stopped. A cowled figure had stepped out from behind a bush. He was holding something in his hands. Taverner, eyes popping, mouth gaping, realised it was a longbow. He could see the string pulled right back, the cruel barbed arrow — aimed directly at him. He could glimpse no face.

‘What do you want? What is it?’

He was about to sink to his knees but the arrow was already loosed. At such close range it thudded into Taverner’s body, thrusting deep into his chest. Taverner staggered forward, the blood already bubbling in his throat. He sank to his knees and, with a gasp, fell on his side.