Corpse Candle

Chapter 5

The Concilium of St Martin’s-in-the-Marsh was meeting in the Star Chamber, a large room at the centre of the abbey building. It had its name because of the gold stars on the lime-painted walls whilst similar emblems were carved on the stone floor. A spacious, circular chamber with windows looking out over every aspect of the abbey: a place of solemn conferrings and council. However, on that morning, the feast of St Clement the Martyr, confusion and chaos reigned. Taverner’s corpse had been found slumped on an abbey path. The arrow which had killed him had passed almost clean through his body. Of course that interfering royal clerk had taken over and the corpse had been taken to the death house.

Prior Cuthbert declared he’d convoked this meeting of the Concilium to discuss the deteriorating situation. For the first time since it had happened, Prior Cuthbert deeply regretted Abbot Stephen’s death and wished he could exercise the authority of his late, if not lamented, superior. The principal officers of the abbey clustered round the oak table staring up at him. They were led by Aelfric the infirmarian, Cuthbert’s bitter rival. Now Abbot Stephen had departed this life, such intense rivalries were beginning to surface. Aelfric, with his red nose and watery eyes, sat, tight-lipped, next to his henchman, Brother Richard the almoner.

‘Father Prior,’ Brother Richard led the attack, ‘things are not going well. We have royal emissaries prowling our abbey whilst the number of corpses increases daily.’

‘Listen! Listen!’ Prior Cuthbert held up his hand. ‘Abbot Stephen died, we don’t know how or why. He was stabbed. Gildas’s murder is also a mystery. Now Taverner has been killed too but whose fault is that? Moreover, we cannot oppose the royal clerk. If we did, the King himself may come here, or worse, we might be summoned to appear before him in Norwich, or even in London. Do you want that?’

‘We want these hideous deaths stopped!’ Brother Richard snapped. ‘And the clerks to go about their business. To be frank, Father Prior, matters are going from bad to worse.’

‘And there’s the question of the guesthouse,’ Aelfric spoke up. ‘Now Abbot Stephen is dead, why can’t the building work begin? The tumulus or burial mound can be levelled. We could even open it up and see what’s inside.’

‘That would be inappropriate!’ Prior Cuthbert retorted. ‘An unseemly haste and a lack of reverence for Abbot Stephen’s memory: the rest of the community would not like it.’

‘That’s true,’ Brother Francis the librarian spoke up. ‘We really should wait for the new abbot.’ He smiled dreamily at Cuthbert. ‘Whoever that may be?’

The monks sat in silence. Prior Cuthbert smoothed the top of the table with his fingers. Matters were not going to plan. Abbot Stephen had said that Bloody Meadow would never be built upon as long as he was leader of this community. Now, even dead, he still remained Father Abbot. Did his ghost haunt these buildings? It was possible, with his unseemly interest in demonic possessions. On one matter Prior Cuthbert was quietly relieved: Taverner, Abbot Stephen’s protege, was dead. The man had been a nuisance and would have posed problems. What could they have done with him?

‘Father Prior?’ Aelfric asked softly. ‘What do you counsel? What is your advice?’

Prior Cuthbert glared malevolently back.

‘Perhaps we should be more honest,’ Aelfric declared, pushing back the sleeves of his robe.

‘Honest? What do you mean by that?’

‘About Abbot Stephen’s death! We all know about your plans for Bloody Meadow.’

Prior Cuthbert jabbed a finger at him. ‘And you were party to those plans!’

‘Are you implying that Abbot Stephen’s death was caused by one of us?’ Brother Richard demanded. ‘We might be holy men but we cannot go through locked doors or walls!’

‘I have looked at that door,’ Aelfric retorted. ‘Perhaps the hinges were loosened?’

His sallow cheeks blushed as the other monks guffawed with laughter.

‘And why did Gildas die?’ the infirmarian almost screeched. ‘Brother Aelfric, spit out what you are saying!’

‘Gildas was your confidant, Prior! His fingers positively itched to build that guesthouse. He lived, dreamed and drank what he called his vision. You supported him in that. How often did we sit here as you hectored Father Abbot?’

‘I didn’t hector him.’ Prior Cuthbert tried to control his anger; he could see Aelfric was losing his temper. He was just pleased Corbett wasn’t present.

‘And there’s the other matter!’

Cuthbert’s heart sank. Aelfric leaned on the table.

‘What other matter, Brother?’

‘You know full well! We all do: Sir Eustace’s codicil.’

Prior Cuthbert’s throat went dry. Aelfric was now pointing at him, a skeletal finger wagging the air. Cuthbert wanted to stretch forward, grasp and snap it.

‘We all know about Sir Eustace’s codicil,’ Cuthbert explained. ‘We all agreed to keep it from Abbot Stephen, though of course we would have told him eventually.’

‘I found it, you know,’ Brother Francis the librarian spoke up, ‘in a book of charters high in the library.’

‘We haven’t had it tested,’ Prior Cuthbert declared. ‘We all recognise,’ he continued, ‘that Sir Eustace Harcourt founded this abbey. If the document that Brother Francis discovered is genuine, then we own not only Falcon Brook but the meadows lying on the other side of it, which are still part of Lady Margaret’s estate. However, the charter is old; it bears no seal so it cannot be verified.’

‘There may be a copy at Westminster?’

‘Why didn’t you show it to Abbot Stephen?’ Aelfric demanded.

‘Because we all decided on that. Of course,’ Prior Cutbert added slowly, ‘I can only speak for myself.’ He looked for help from Hamo and Dunstan the treasurer but they sat silent. ‘I mean,’ Cuthbert continued, ‘one of us could have told Abbot Stephen?’

‘Did you tell Lady Margaret Harcourt?’ Aelfric retorted.

Prior Cuthbert squirmed in his chair.

‘You did, didn’t you?’ Hamo, sitting on his left, leaned forward, hands joined as if in prayer.

‘I didn’t tell her. I simply hinted that if we built the guesthouse, she could either concede gracefully to our demands or there might be another way.’

‘You did that!’ Hamo hissed. ‘Lady Margaret’s dislike for Abbot Stephen was well known. Could she be behind these murders? Did the mention of some secret codicil tip her into killing?’

‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous!’ Prior Cuthbert snapped. ‘No woman is allowed in this abbey.’

‘Father Prior, I know the rule of St Benedict as well as you do. Just because a woman is not allowed in our abbey, doesn’t mean they are not welcome.’

Prior Cuthbert stared in disbelief. The Star Chamber had fallen silent. Hamo was hinting at something.

‘We have pilgrims,’ the almoner declared. ‘Travellers, their wives, the womenfolk of merchants. .? And we also have mysterious visitors at night.’ Hamo was now enjoying himself.

‘Impossible!’ Prior Cuthbert snapped.

‘Is it really?’ Hamo stared up at the ceiling. ‘We all know about Brother Gildas: a man who found it difficult to sleep at night. Perhaps he wasn’t the only one?’

‘Oh, come to the point!’

‘Our abbey is a large, sprawling place,’ Hamo continued. ‘We have a gatehouse but there are small postern doors, not to mention the Judas Gate. Gildas could never stay still. Remember, he was always first in the abbey church to sing the divine office. Anyway, at night he often used to go for a walk. Now, the rule is that a monk, if he meets another monk at night, simply whispers “Pax Vobiscum” and offers a blessing. Gildas claimed that, on two occasions, he passed a robed, cowled figure who did not respond to his blessing, whilst he also caught a faint trace of perfume.’

His words created uproar.

‘A woman in our abbey at night! There’s certainly no proof of that!’ Brother Francis shouted.

Hamo banged on the table. ‘Well, there wouldn’t be, would there? It is not something you proclaim to the sound of trumpet and tambour.’

‘And Gildas told you this?’ The Prior leaned forward. ‘Why didn’t you inform me? I am responsible for discipline.’

‘Brother Gildas was uncertain.’

‘Didn’t you try and find out yourself?’

Hamo snorted with laughter. ‘I like my sleep, Prior Cuthbert. I am not wandering St Martin’s at night looking for some mysterious woman. After all, if it was true, such a visitation could be the work of one of the other monks or a lay brother. Some wench brought in from the villages. Or that tavern girl from the Lantern-in-the-Woods.’

Prior Cuthbert leaned back in his chair, fingers to his lips. He would have loved to have screamed at Hamo. If such scandal became known, together with these mysterious deaths whilst the abbey was in his charge, what chance did he have of being elected as Abbot and his appointment confirmed?

‘Gildas said she was dressed like a monk?’

‘I can only report what he told me. The figure was robed, cowled, with sandals on the feet. It was the fragrance which puzzled him. He would have challenged her but,’ Hamo sighed, ‘if he’d been wrong, he would have become the laughing stock of the abbey.’

‘Perfume?’ Prior Cuthbert exclaimed. ‘Does that mean someone high-born like Lady Margaret? If so, whom was she visiting?’

‘Well, not Father Abbot,’ Aelfric jibed. ‘Not only did they dislike each other, but the door to the abbot’s quarters is most visible. Prior Cuthbert, you are the one who deals with Lady Margaret.’

He saw the anger flush Prior Cuthbert’s face.

‘I am not implying anything,’ Aelfric hurriedly continued. ‘Like you, I am trying to find out who is responsible for these deaths. Lady Margaret is a strong-willed woman. If she thought the abbey of St Martin’s was going to seize some of her estate, her dislike of Abbot Stephen may have spilled over into murderous hatred.’

‘And, of course,’ Hamo interrupted, ‘Gildas may have been killed because of what he saw.’

‘And Taverner?’ Prior Cuthbert tried to keep the sneer out of his voice. ‘Perhaps he saw something as well?’

‘One other matter.’ Hamo clapped his hands softly. ‘The burial mound in Bloody Meadow. I decided to inspect it this morning. It’s got a grassy bank, and I noticed that a sod had been cut away so I pulled it out. Someone had burrowed into the mound and then replaced the sod to hide their handiwork. It was craftily done, I discovered it only by accident.’

‘You are not,’ Aelfric jokingly accused, ‘already destroying the burial mound, Father Prior?’

‘I know nothing of it.’ Cuthbert gestured at a side table where a jug of ale and small tankards had been placed, together with a platter of bread and cheese. The kitchen always sent refreshments up whenever the Concilium met. ‘We need to pause and reflect.’

Prior Cuthbert tried to recall what Abbot Stephen would have done when disagreements had taken place in this chamber. They had to speak, una voce, with one voice. Brother Dunstan, the treasurer, who had sat in silence during the entire meeting, was only too eager to push his chair back and serve his colleagues tankards of ale. The platter of bread and cheese was passed round. Prior Cuthbert shook his head. I am in a labyrinth, the Prior reflected. Cuthbert had been born in Kent, the younger son of a manor lord. One summer’s day his father had taken him to a friend’s house, a powerful merchant who had laid out a maze in his extensive garden, where Cuthbert had become lost, trapped in the narrowing rows of privet hedges. Even in his days as a soldier, Cuthbert had never experienced such terror. He felt as if he was back in that maze now but, this time, there was no one to lead him out. He closed his eyes and quietly thanked God that there had been no witness to the private conversations between him and Abbot Stephen. No one to eavesdrop on Cuthbert’s implied threats and warnings. Cuthbert accepted he had committed a sin and vowed that, next time he travelled to Norwich, he would seek absolution. He had hidden his sin away, buried deep in his soul. One thing truly worried him: had Abbot Stephen confided in anybody else? The Abbot had a confessor somewhere in the abbey. But who was it? One of the old monks, whose eyesight was too dim for the library? Their bodies too weak for any work in the monastery, they spent what was left of their lives in private, little cells, praying and sleeping. Now and again they joined the rest of the community in the abbey church for divine office or in the refectory for meals. Prior Cuthbert had often wondered if one of these — Luke, Simon or Ignatius — had been Father Abbot’s confessor? Yet, if that was true, they couldn’t say anything. Such confidences were covered by the seal of confession.

Prior Cuthbert picked up his tankard and sipped at the ale. He really shouldn’t drink, his stomach was already upset. He glanced down the table. Aelfric was deep in conversation with the librarian. The almoner and sub-prior were exchanging confidences. Dunstan the treasurer, however, just sat staring across the chamber. Prior Cuthbert studied him out of the corner of his eye. A strange one, Dunstan, with his small eyes and balding head. Secretive and rather sly! He now looked very worried.

‘Brother Dunstan! Is all well?’

The treasurer forced a smile.

‘I am concerned that these present troubles do not affect the abbey’s income. If the word spreads, labourers might be unwilling to till our fields or merchants come to buy our produce.’

‘Nonsense!’ the Prior scoffed, ‘these troubles will pass.’

‘I don’t think so,’ Dunstan whispered. He glanced fearfully at the Prior. ‘I feel as if we are in the Valley of Death and our sins press heavily against us.’

‘What sins?’

Dunstan shook his head and stared into the tankard.

‘I feel ill,’ he muttered, slamming his tankard down. ‘I need some fresh air.’

The treasurer walked out of the chamber. Prior Cuthbert finished his ale. He clapped his hands softly.

‘Brothers,’ he announced, ‘it’s time to return to the business in hand. First, I must warn the rest of the community to be vigilant against strangers and perhaps not to walk by themselves.’

‘That’s going to be difficult,’ Aelfric jibed. ‘Many of us sleep in separate cells. Moreover, the victims have all been members of this Concilium.’

‘Taverner wasn’t,’ Prior Cuthbert retorted.

He paused as the door opened and the treasurer rejoined them.

‘There must be peace. .’

Prior Cuthbert broke off. Hamo the sub-prior had pushed back his chair and was clutching his stomach, his fat face pallid.

‘Oh Lord!’ he breathed. ‘Oh, my God, the pain!’

Prior Cuthbert thought it must be a seizure. Hamo flailed his hands, head going back. The other brothers jumped to their feet and hastened to help. Hamo pushed them away, trying to rise. The Prior stared in horror. It was as if his colleague was being slowly strangled: his face sweat-soaked, his eyes popping, mouth opening and closing as if desperate for air. A froth appeared at Hamo’s lips. He turned as if he could walk away from the pain but collapsed to his knees, hands across his belly. The seizure grew worse. He crumpled to his side, legs kicking. Some of the others were shouting. Aelfric the infirmarian tried to grab Hamo by the shoulder.

‘Perhaps he’s choking!’

Prior Cuthbert knew what was wrong: a heart-stopping premonition. Hamo was now lost in his world of pain, arms and legs flailing, body jerking. Strange gargling sounds came from his throat. Aelfric tried to help him but it was impossible. Hamo was struggling like a landed fish. He gave a deep choking sound deep in his throat, shuddered once more and lay still, head slightly turned, eyes staring. Aelfric pulled him over on his back and desperately searched for a heart beat in the neck and wrists. He forced his fingers into the sub-prior’s mouth.

‘What is it?’ Brother Dunstan asked fearfully. ‘A seizure?’

‘I don’t think so.’ Aelfric pressed the back of his hand against the dead man’s cheek. ‘Father Prior, Brother Hamo has been poisoned.’

Prior Cuthbert just shook his head. ‘He can’t have been! He can’t have been!’

‘He has all the symptoms,’ Aelfric insisted. ‘The pains were in his belly, not his chest or head. He was hale and hearty till he drank the ale and ate the bread and cheese.’

Prior Cuthbert gestured at the table.

‘Take your seats. No one must touch the food or drink. Brother Aelfric, you know something of noxious substances?’

The infirmarian picked up the jug of ale. He sniffed at it and carefully scrutinised what was left on the platter. He examined his own cup.

‘No one else is ill,’ Brother Francis declared.

Aelfric picked up Hamo’s small tankard. He took a sheet of vellum and poured the dregs out onto it. He then thrust the tankard towards Prior Cuthbert. The Prior could see the grains on the bottom, as if some powder had been distilled.

‘I do not think ale was poisoned,’ Aelfric declared. ‘Or the bread and cheese. The poison was placed in Brother Hamo’s tankard. I can detect no odour and, if there was any taste, the ale would hide it.’

‘What is it?’ Prior Cuthbert asked.

Aelfric, his hands trembling, put the tankard down on the table. He stared down at the dregs forming little pools on the piece of vellum.

‘God knows,’ he whispered. ‘I have many such powders in my infirmary. Whilst our herb garden contains henbane, foxglove, belladonna, potions which. .’

‘Can kill,’ Prior Cuthbert finished the sentence for him.

Brother Dunstan, collapsed in his chair, put his face in his hands and began to sob. Prior Cuthbert sighed.

‘Sir Hugh Corbett must be informed.’

Corbett was busy in Taverner’s chamber, with Ranulf the other side of the room, and Chanson on guard outside.

‘Who do you think killed our cunning man?’ Ranulf asked.

‘I don’t know,’ Corbett sifted through Taverner’s possessions, ‘but, looking at the corpse, it wouldn’t have taken a master archer. Mind you, an arrow straight through the heart requires some skill.’ He paused in his searches. ‘One thing is missing. There was no brand mark on Taverner’s forehead. I wonder whether it was because the assassin had to act quickly or because he doesn’t regard Taverner in the same way as Gildas?’

‘Or there are two assassins?’

‘Very good, my Clerk of the Green Wax. God knows what’s happening here? Taverner’s might not be connected to the other deaths.’

‘But why kill him?’ Ranulf demanded. ‘He was just a trickster.’

‘I think he was more than that,’ Corbett breathed. ‘Do you know, Ranulf, when I was questioning him, just for a moment, I thought I heard someone outside. I assumed it was Chanson returning with the books but, of course, we met him after with Perditus.’

‘So, what are we searching for now?’

‘I’m not sure, Ranulf-atte-Newgate. You knew the dead man better than I. I think he did not tell us the full truth.’

‘He wouldn’t know what that was if it jumped up and bit him on the arse!’

‘Precisely,’ Corbett replied. ‘I find it difficult to believe that Taverner simply turned up at St Martin’s with this farrago of nonsense. True, like any wandering sailor, he may have looked for a quiet port to shelter in, but put yourself in his place, Ranulf. If you came to this grand abbey with all its wealth, what would you do?’

Ranulf, at a half-crouch, turned.

‘I’d sit, wait and watch.’

‘Taverner did the same.’ Corbett opened a battered leather saddlebag and fished around inside. ‘Taverner would demand some surety, just in case his trickery went wrong. I have never yet known a villain who hasn’t got a bolt hole ready, should his villainy turn awry.’

‘Does the abbey hold bows and arrows?’

‘Probably more than a castle. They have to hunt, don’t they? Defend themselves. When we went into the storerooms I glimpsed baskets full of arrows as well as stacks of bow shafts.’

‘And the skill to use them?’

‘Most men can use a bow,’ Corbett declared absentmindedly. ‘Many of these monks were former soldiers. I wager a few were royal clerks. They would have been trained to stand in the battle line. I am truly intrigued by Taverner’s death. His assassin wanted him out of the way as quickly as possible. I wonder why?’

Ranulf watched as Corbett grasped one of Taverner’s boots and searched carefully inside.

‘You don’t think. .?’

‘Yes, I do.’ Corbett pushed his hand further down. ‘Do you remember when Taverner was about to lead us down to the cellars? He said he wanted to change his sandals?’

‘He did.’

‘I also think that he was busy hiding documents: Taverner knew I would be back. Ah, here we have it.’

Corbett drew out a small ledger bound by a red cord, as well as a thin, battered leather wallet, worn with age and covered in dark patches of mildew.

‘I thought as much.’

Corbett finished his search and went and sat on a stool, his back to the window so he could use the light.

‘Ha!’

‘What is it?’

‘Licences, warrants, letters of permission: some old, some new, some genuine, others probably forged.’

‘Why didn’t you persist with Taverner?’ Ranulf murmured. ‘Let me take him by the neck and shake him?’

‘Taverner had told us enough for one day. Like any cunning man he’d wait to find out the lie of the land, see what arrangements he could reach, what he might garner. A man like Taverner, Ranulf, as you know, doesn’t chatter like a squirrel.’

Corbett was about to continue when he heard the sound of running footsteps; a brief conversation outside and Chanson burst into the room.

‘Master, you are needed in what they call the Star Chamber — one of these monks has died!’

Corbett grasped the manuscripts he’d found in Taverner’s room and pushed them inside his jerkin. The old lay brother outside was deeply agitated and scurried off, shouting over his shoulder to follow hastily. When they reached the Star Chamber, Hamo’s corpse has already been laid out in a more composed fashion on the floor. Someone had brought a blanket and draped it over him. Ignoring Prior Cuthbert and the rest; Corbett went across and pulled the blanket back. One look was enough. Hamo’s popping eyes, gaping mouth and discoloured swollen tongue, the strange pallor of his face and the hard tension of his muscles, showed he’d been poisoned.

‘God save him!’

Corbett threw the sheet back over the face and got to his feet. He quickly muttered a requiem.

‘Poisoned!’ he exclaimed. ‘No man should die like that, certainly not a priest, a man dedicated to the work of Christ.’ He stared round at each member of the Concilium. ‘There is no brand mark on his forehead,’ Corbett declared. ‘But,’ he chewed the corner of his lip, ‘I suspect it’s the work of the same bloody-handed assassin!’

He paused as Brother Perditus brought Archdeacon Adrian, and both stood in the doorway.

‘What do you want?’ Corbett demanded.

‘I heard about the death,’ the Archdeacon replied. ‘I was talking to Brother Perditus about Abbot Stephen’s writings when the message arrived. .’ He swallowed hard. ‘I wish to be away from here. Prior Cuthbert, there’s no need for me to delay.’

‘Oh, there’s every reason.’

Corbett came across and tapped him lightly on the shoulder. The Archdeacon’s face was no longer jovial. A deeply frightened man, so agitated he couldn’t keep still, he tried to avert his gaze from the corpse sprawled beneath the blanket.

‘No one will leave here,’ Corbett declared, ‘until I say. Especially you,’ he added in a whisper, ‘Archdeacon Adrian.’

The Archdeacon’s head came back. He tried to speak but Corbett turned away.

‘Brother Perditus, you can stay as well.’

Corbett rested against a chair at the end of the table.

‘I suggest we all sit down. Prior Cuthbert,’ he gazed round the chamber, ‘you all gathered here after Taverner’s death?’

‘Of course, there were matters to discuss.’

‘Good!’ Corbett smiled. ‘Then you can discuss them with me.’

Brother Dunstan was about to protest but Corbett smacked the table with his fist. Ranulf went across, kicked the door shut and stood with his back to it. Chanson sat on a stool on the far side. Corbett clasped his hands and gestured at the table. The monks and Archdeacon Adrian dutifully took their seats. Corbett could tell, by the way they pushed the tankards away, what had been the source of the poison.

‘Brother Hamo lies dead,’ Corbett began. ‘His corpse lies sprawled over there, his soul has gone to God. The source of the poison?’

‘It wasn’t in the jug of ale or the bread and cheese,’ Aelfric replied, ‘but in Hamo’s tankard.’

‘And who served these?’

‘I did,’ Dunstan replied meekly, raising his hand. ‘But my colleagues saw me. I held the tray in both hands. The brothers could take whatever tankard they wanted.’

‘Shouldn’t we have the corpse removed?’ Prior Cuthbert demanded.

‘Read your history,’ Corbett replied. ‘Years ago, after a man was murdered, the questioning took place in the presence of his corpse. They claimed that his ghost would stay to help find the truth, though I suspect this will take a little longer. I mean no disrespect but Hamo can wait a while. So,’ Corbett rubbed his hands, ‘Brother Dunstan took the tray and went round the table? You each took a tankard?’

Again nods of agreement.

‘I then put the jug on the table. The bread and cheese were passed round.’

‘And Brother Hamo’s ale was poisoned?’ Corbett asked. ‘But no one knew which tankard Hamo would take?’

‘Of course not,’ the almoner replied. ‘They are all the same. No one gave it a second thought.’

‘And when was this tray brought up?’ Corbett demanded. ‘Before the Concilium met or during it?’

‘Just after we’d begun,’ Prior Cuthbert replied. ‘We were busy taking our seats when Brother Oswald brought it in.’

Corbett nodded at Chanson who scurried away. They sat in silence. Corbett deliberately wanted that. The pool is being stirred, he reflected, yet its calm surface still hides a lot. One of these men was an assassin but which? Prior Cuthbert, now looking so worried? Aelfric, preening himself as if pleased at the way things were going? Francis the librarian, who kept glancing over his shoulder at Corbett? Richard the almoner, hands clasped together as if reciting his beads? Brother Dunstan, with that faraway look in his eyes as if he couldn’t believe what was happening? Archdeacon Adrian sat with his head down, moving backwards and forwards in his chair. Beside him Perditus, his eyes screwed up, stared across at the corpse as if fascinated by it. There was a knock on the door: a grey-haired, ashen-faced lay brother was ushered in. He immediately fell to his knees, hands clasped.

‘Father Prior! Father Prior!’ he wailed. ‘I brought the ale and tankards up.’

‘Speak to me,’ Corbett said gently.

The man turned, still on his knees.

‘You are Oswald the scullion?’

The man blinked through rheumy eyes and nodded, clearly terrified out of his wits.

‘You have nothing to worry about,’ Corbett reassured him. ‘Who told you there was a meeting of the Concilium?’

‘Hamo. He came down to the kitchen. I laid out the usual platter of bread and cheese, tankards and a jug of ale. I covered the jug with a napkin and left them there. I sent up one of the kitchen boys, a lad from the village. He came back and reported that the meeting had begun, so I brought up the tray.’

‘And no one stopped you?’

A shake of the head.

‘Father Prior and the others were just getting ready. The meeting hadn’t really begun. I placed the tray on the table and left immediately.’

‘Prior Cuthbert,’ Corbett demanded, ‘did anyone go across to the table whilst the meeting was taking place?’

‘Not till I did,’ Brother Dunstan answered.

‘In which case,’ Corbett turned to Oswald, ‘when the tray was in the kitchen, who came in?’

The lay brother waved his arms in exasperation.

‘Sir, how can I say?’

‘Try and think,’ Corbett urged. ‘Look around this chamber. Study each face carefully.’

Oswald moved restlessly on his knees.

‘There were some strangers,’ he declared. ‘Well, visitors. Talbot the taverner from the Lantern-in-the-Woods, with that saucy-eyed daughter of his. What’s her name?’

‘Blanche,’ Prior Cuthbert provided the name. ‘They often come here to buy provisions. Talbot is a good customer.’

‘He is,’ Oswald said abruptly. ‘But she’s bold-eyed and sniggers too much.’

‘Did they go near the table?’ Corbett asked.

‘I can’t tell you. Anyway, why would they do something like that?’ Oswald’s eyes were now shifting about the chamber. ‘We had brothers coming in and out, a stack of wood was brought for the ovens but none of the Concilium entered.’ Oswald licked his lips. ‘Though he did!’ He shifted and pointed to Archdeacon Adrian.

‘God’s teeth!’ Wallasby bellowed. ‘I was hungry, I wanted some ale, something to eat. I was preparing to leave.’

‘But now you’re not,’ Corbett smiled.

‘Yes, he came in,’ Oswald clambered to his feet, fingers shaking, ‘demanding this and demanding that. He had words with Taverner Talbot, asked if he could stay at the inn for the night on his journey back to London.’

Archdeacon Adrian simply waved his hand. Corbett could tell he was furious.

‘I will not deign to answer this. I am a priest, Sir Hugh, a high-ranking official of the Church. I was only here at Abbot Stephen’s insistence and that of the Dominican Order.’

‘Were you?’ Corbett asked. ‘Were you really?’ He turned. ‘Brother Oswald, you may go.’

Ranulf let him out and closed the door. He leaned against it, arms crossed, head back, staring at these assembled notables under heavy-lidded eyes. Ranulf watched Corbett like a cat: sometimes old Master Long Face infuriated him with his brooding ways and taciturn speech. Ranulf had never met a man so self-contained. Corbett was closer than any brother but, over the years, Ranulf had learnt little about this enigmatic clerk. The only passion he showed was when he was with his beautiful wife Maeve. Ranulf smiled to himself. Lady Maeve, with those piercing blue eyes, always frightened Ranulf. It was as if she could stare directly into his soul, and read his thoughts, his secret desires. Oh yes, Corbett’s only passions were Lady Maeve, his children and the law. Always the law! Corbett had once told him that he had seen the work of wolf’s-heads in Wales, an entire hamlet destroyed: women gutted from crotch to neck; men hanging from trees; children butchered. He had never forgotten the sight and learnt a bitter lesson.

‘If the law is removed,’ Corbett declared, ‘that’s what we become, Ranulf: animals in the dark tearing at each other.’

Corbett loved the King but this was tinged with a deep cynicism and wariness, and that was the difference between them. In Ranulf’s eyes whatever the King wanted was the law. Ranulf recalled Taverner and the cunning man’s description of his early days. Ranulf-atte-Newgate was determined on one thing: he would never go back to that. Corbett was his friend and companion but he was also his master and mentor. Ranulf studied Corbett like a hunting dog did its quarry. He glanced at Corbett who sat, elbows on the table, hands clasped over the lower part of his face: a favourite trick, to sit in silence and make the guilty nervous.

‘Murderers always talk,’ Corbett had once remarked. ‘They begin by being secretive but, after a while, the power they have grasped goes to their heads. When they talk, they make mistakes.’

Ranulf also liked to see the powerful ones, the great and the so-called good, squirm before his master’s gaze.

‘Sir Hugh, are you praying?’

‘Yes, Brother Aelfric, I am.’

A bell began to toll.

‘It is time for divine office,’ Brother Dunstan declared, his hand against the table as if ready to rise.

‘Sit down,’ Corbett ordered. ‘I have read the rule of St Benedict. In times of danger and crisis, the office of the day can be suspended. This is the divine office we must address: the matins of murder, the prime of malice, the vespers of death, the nones of justice, the compline of law. I don’t think God wants to hear your prayers. He wants to see justice done. Prior Cuthbert, I suggest you hold a chapter meeting and tell your community that, until these matters are resolved, everyone should walk warily with an eye to his own safety.’

‘We are all in the hands of God,’ Prior Cuthbert declared.

‘Some of us are,’ Corbett retorted. ‘But others?’ He stirred in the chair.

‘What of others?’ Prior Cuthbert demanded.

‘There’s an assassin in this abbey,’ Corbett replied. ‘It will take time for the Hand of God to grasp him and mark him like he did Cain.’

‘And Brother Hamo?’ Prior Cuthbert demanded.

‘Shall I tell you something?’ Corbett pushed his chair back. He got to his feet and, hands down, leaned against the table. ‘Your brother was poisoned. I am no physician so I cannot tell you the substance. Aelfric, in your infirmary you must have many jars, phials, boxes of powder. In the fields outside grow plants which, if ground and drained, would slay a man within a few heartbeats. What chills me about Hamo’s death is that it wasn’t planned.’

‘What?’ Aelfric demanded.

‘The assassin is playing a game with us,’ Corbett continued. ‘Abbot Stephen’s puzzling death; Gildas branded, his corpse left sprawling on the burial mound; the cat, its throat slit, fastened to the rood screen; Taverner killed by an arrow. I think the assassin could have killed all of you this morning. Somehow or other he put that poison in the tankard. He really didn’t care who drank from it, as long as one of you did.’

Brother Dunstan gave a low groan. He buried his face in his hands.

‘Like a gambler playing Hazard.’ Corbett gestured with his hand. ‘He rolls the dice and it falls as it will. Our assassin does likewise: poison was put in a tankard when the tray was in the kitchen. It was brought up here,’ Corbett shrugged, ‘and the die was cast.’

‘So, any of us could have taken that tankard?’ Prior Cuthbert demanded, his eyes wild with horror.

‘Oh yes. The assassin is sending you a warning. He can strike when, and wherever, he wishes. If he wanted he could have killed two, three or all of you.’ Corbett re-took his seat. ‘He’ll play that game until he’s satisfied.’

‘What can we do?’ Brother Richard wailed.

‘Say your prayers, be careful where you walk, what you eat and drink.’ Corbett tapped the table. ‘And tell me the truth. So, Prior Cuthbert, you are going to tell me the truth, aren’t you? What did the Concilium discuss this morning? What else do I need to know about the abbey of St Martin’s-in-the-Marsh?’