Corpse Candle

Chapter 7

The Lantern-in-the-Woods was a large, spacious tavern which stood off the muddy trackway under a canopy of surrounding trees. Built of black timbers and snow-white plaster, the sight of its red-tiled roof and the garish sign hung above the doorway, was a welcoming beacon for any traveller. The taproom was broad and well lit. The ale casks and wine tuns stood stacked to the right of the great hearth and, to the left, a narrow passageway led into the kitchen. Chanson slipped the reins into a groom’s hands and joined Ranulf as he stood on the threshold peering in.

‘What are we to do?’

Ranulf threw his cloak over his shoulder and grasped the hilt of his sword.

‘This is the parish well, Chanson.’

The groom gazed back in puzzlement.

‘It’s where everybody gathers,’ Ranulf explained. ‘Peasants, tinkers, traders, chapmen, merchants. They all come to listen to the gossip, exchange news, spit and clasp hands on bargains.’ Ranulf looked into the taproom. ‘As well as drink and eat as much as their bellies can take. Now, Chanson, look at me.’

‘Are you making fun of my eye?’

‘No, I am not. What have I taught you about walking into a tavern?’

Chanson closed his eyes. ‘Always throw your cloak back over your shoulder.’ He did this hastily. ‘Grasp the hilt of your dagger. Swagger in. Stop and, when the landlord comes across, don’t look at him but rap out your orders.’

‘Very good!’ Ranulf smiled. ‘And why is that?’

‘Because you are a stranger and the people inside must get the measure of you.’

‘Very good! What else?’

‘Always sit with your back to the wall. Find out which door and windows you can escape through, if you have to leave in a hurry.’

‘Excellent!’ Ranulf grinned. ‘Lovely boy! You’re going to be a true clerk of the stables.’

‘And what about Sir Hugh’s rules?’ Chanson added mischievously.

‘Oh yes,’ Ranulf declared wryly. ‘Don’t engage in games of dice or hazard. Keep your hands off the wenches and be careful what you drink.’

Ranulf stood aside as a pedlar, a tray around his neck, hurried into the welcoming taproom.

‘Well, old Master Long Face would say that, wouldn’t he?’

‘Why are we here?’ Chanson asked.

‘Oh, to listen to the tittle-tattle and gossip. Now, come on, my belly thinks my throat’s been slit.’

Ranulf swaggered in. He stood, feet apart, staring round the taproom. The conversation died. A relic-seller wiped his nose on his sleeve and peered across.

‘Who are you?’ he bawled.

Someone grasped the relic-seller by the shoulder and whispered quickly into his ear, and he slunk into the shadows.

‘You are from the abbey.’

Talbot the taverner, his head bald as a gleaming egg, eyes almost hidden in folds of fat, his protruding belly covered by a blood-stained apron, bustled out from behind the counter.

‘How do you know that?’ Ranulf asked.

The taverner tapped his fleshy nose.

‘Oh come, sirs.’

He led them across as if they were princes, gesturing at a group of farmers who occupied the table near the window to move away. They hastily obeyed, taking their platters of food with them. A wet cloth appeared in the taverner’s hand and he cleaned the grease-covered table.

‘You’ll try the ale, sir? Home brewed with a dish of eels, salted and roasted? A nice vegetable sauce with chopped parsley and cream?’

‘That will do nicely.’ Ranulf eased himself down. ‘And bring a tankard for yourself.’

The smile disappeared from the taverner’s oily face.

‘But, sir, I run a tavern. I. .’

‘Sir, you run a tavern,’ Ranulf agreed, ‘and that’s why I want to talk to you. You don’t object to talking to a King’s man, do you?’ His voice rose slightly.

‘I’ll send Blanche across,’ Talbot muttered.

He finished cleaning the table and hurried away. Ranulf took off his war belt and slammed it down on the table. The rest of the customers decided not to continue staring. A young, spotty-faced man picked up his pet weasel and clutched it in his lap, turning his back as if fearful that the King’s man would come over and arrest it.

‘You enjoy this, don’t you?’ Chanson muttered. ‘You like the power?’

‘No, I don’t,’ Ranulf stared round the tavern. ‘If we become unpopular here, Chanson, I am afraid it’s through that window, round to the stables and away we go.’

‘You expect trouble?’

‘Well, as we came in,’ Ranulf indicated with his thumb to the door at the rear, ‘a small, greasy-haired, rat-faced man disappeared through there like a rabbit down a hole. Now, he’s either fearful or gone to warn someone. Ah well, we’ll see.’ Ranulf peered out through the mullioned glass to stare up at the sky. ‘I am not a country man, Chanson. Give me a London tavern and a smelly street in Southwark any day. However, even I know it’s going to snow: the clouds are low and grey.’

Chanson recalled their freezing journey along those lonely trackways and shivered.

‘We’ll be back in the abbey before dark, won’t we?’

‘We’ll be back when we’ve finished,’ Ranulf agreed. ‘Ah, who is this?’

A tavern wench came trotting across; she had red, curly hair under a white mobcap, slanted eyes with high cheekbones, and her face was slightly flushed. Ranulf admired her fine lips and the green smock, slightly too tight, which emphasized her generous bosom and broad hips. He looked down at her small buckled boots peeping out from beneath the flounced petticoats. She paused and grinned at Ranulf, allowing him a full view of her. She slowly put the tankards down, brushing Ranulf’s hand, almost thrusting her breasts into his face.

‘King’s men are we?’ she grinned. ‘With fine leather boots and broad war belts?’ She raised an eyebrow archly. ‘We don’t get your sorts often in these parts.’

‘What sorts do you get?’ Ranulf demanded.

The girl, hands on hips, shrugged. Ranulf noticed the beautiful gold cross on a silver chain round her neck, the fine rings on both hands and the silver chased bracelet clasping her left wrist.

‘You are Blanche, Talbot’s daughter?’

Her smile faded. ‘How do you know that?’

‘Oh, just by the way you act. A potboy was going to bring the tankards across but you took them off him.’

‘Why sir,’ Blanche cooed, ‘you are sharper than I am.’

And, turning on her heel, she flounced off.

‘The girls always like you, Ranulf.’

‘And I like them, Chanson.’ Ranulf leaned across and tapped the groom’s face with his gauntlets. ‘You are a good-looking lad. If you had your hair cut and washed more often, the girls would like you too.’

Chanson coloured and hid his face in the tankard to hide his embarrassment.

‘Would you ever marry, Master Ranulf?’

‘Better to marry than to burn, as St Paul says. Sometimes I wonder. Do you think, Chanson,’ Ranulf took another sip from the tankard, ‘that I should enter the church, become a priest?’

Chanson raised his tankard to hide his face. Ranulf often discussed this, and it was the only time Chanson ever felt like laughing out loud at his companion. Ranulf, however, didn’t think it was funny. He sat steely faced.

‘But you like the ladies, Master Ranulf?’

‘So do many priests.’

‘And you have never been in love?’

‘You know the answer to that.’ Ranulf mockingly toasted him with his tankard.

‘Ah sirs, how can I help you?’

The taverner came up, scooped up a stool and sat down between them.

‘You promised us some eels?’

‘They are coming.’

‘How old are you, Master Talbot?’

‘According to my accounts, I’ll be fifty-six summers on the eve of the Beheading of John the Baptist.’

‘And you have always lived here?’

‘Oh yes, and my father before me.’

‘So, you know about the Harcourts?’

‘Ah now, there’s a mystery.’ The landlord put his tankard down on the table. ‘Lady Margaret comes here once or twice a year. She’s always kindly and gracious, very much the high-born lady.’

‘And her husband?’

‘That’s a strange thing. Their marriage was arranged but the service was performed at the door to the abbey church. I was there as a young man. Oh, it was very splendid, with banners and pennants, lords and ladies in their velvets and silks. Lady Margaret rode a milk-white palfrey, Sir Reginald a great war horse. Sir Stephen Daubigny, who later became Abbot, looked a true warrior in his royal surcoat. There was feasting and revelry. Daubigny and Harcourt.’ The landlord held up his hand, two fingers locked together. ‘Sworn brothers they were, in peace and war, boon companions.’

‘And Lady Margaret? Did she like the man who later became the Abbot?’

‘I don’t know. I remember watching her, both on that day and afterwards. All three of them came here once to feast,’ Talbot pointed towards the doorway, ‘One bright summer’s day. Sir Reginald came in, one arm linked through Lady Margaret’s, the other through Sir Stephen’s. Some other guests were present. I laid out a special table and we served them with the best dishes. Roast venison. .’

‘Yes, yes, of course,’ Ranulf interrupted. ‘But what of Lady Margaret and Sir Stephen?’

‘They didn’t seem to like each other. Sir Reginald arranged the seating, so that Sir Stephen was supposed to sit on Lady Margaret’s left, but she objected. I remember Daubigny just shrugged. He went and sat beside his friend. During the meal, Daubigny and Lady Margaret hardly looked at each other or exchanged a word.’

‘And then Sir Reginald disappeared?’

‘Yes, one day in autumn. Why, it must be some thirty years ago! A potboy, who has now gone, said he saw Sir Reginald ride by with his pack pony. He recognised him by the livery and escutcheon. According to common report, he went to one of the Eastern ports, took ship and that’s the last anyone ever heard or saw of him again. And, before you ask, sir clerk, I don’t know why, though everyone has a theory.’

‘And what’s yours?’

‘Sir Reginald was a true fighting man, a knight errant. Perhaps he wanted to go on a pilgrimage?’

‘But why didn’t he tell his wife? People say she was as perplexed as anyone.’

‘I don’t know.’

Ranulf turned slightly. Rat Face had reappeared and Ranulf didn’t like his companions: men in boots and brown leggings armed with swords and daggers through the rings on their belts, faces almost hidden by cavernous cowls, the front part of their jerkins stretching up to their lower lip. Two carried bows with a quiver of arrows slung on their backs. Talbot followed Ranulf’s gaze. He became distinctly nervous whilst the rest of the customers didn’t look too happy either. The new arrivals went across and sat in a far corner where the shadows gave them some protection, so they could observe the rest of the taproom as closely as they wanted. Ranulf stared out of the window across the garden: the shrubs, herb plots and flowerbeds were still in the grip of a frost which had not thawed during the day. He glimpsed the first snowflakes fall. He knew what had happened. Taverner Talbot may act nervously but the new arrivals were as much a part of this tavern as the tables and chairs. Outlaws, wolf’s-heads, men like Ranulf himself in his early days, who lived in the twilight. They prowled taverns such as this, hunting for easy prey or rich pickings. The taverner always welcomed them, either because he shared their loot or, more importantly, because they provided a constant supply of fresh meat poached from the King’s forest — wild boar and venison. Ranulf wondered if they’d attack two officers of the Crown? He gently kicked Chanson under the table. The groom was staring across at the strangers. Chanson got the message and looked away.

‘I’ll get you those eels,’ Talbot blustered.

‘And some more ale!’ Ranulf insisted. ‘And do come back!’

‘Do you think those strangers will make trouble for us, Ranulf?’ Chanson whispered. ‘Would they harm us?’

‘Yes, they would.’ Ranulf’s hand went beneath the table and he tapped his purse. ‘I wager a shilling to a shilling, they have already inspected our horses and harness.’

Chanson gulped nervously. Of course the horses were some of the finest from the royal stables, whilst the saddles and harness would fetch high prices in any market.

‘Then there’s our weapons,’ Ranulf continued, ‘and our clothes, not to mention the purses we carry. And perhaps,’ he sighed, ‘just as importantly, there’s their reputations.’

‘What has that got to do with it?’

‘They are wolf’s-heads,’ Ranulf declared, keeping his voice at a whisper. ‘They regard these parts as the King does his crown. They decide who comes and goes. Most of these merchants and tinkers probably pay them to travel unscathed.’

Chanson thought of that cold journey back to the abbey, the silent trees, the deserted, frozen trackway.

‘Shouldn’t we go?’

Ranulf pulled his war belt nearer. ‘I’ve never run from a fight in my life, Chanson. Do you know why? It’s the best way not to get an arrow in your back.’

Talbot, aided by his now surly-faced daughter, served the eels and ale. Chanson took out his horn spoon and small dagger and began to cut, scooping the food into his mouth. Ranulf ate more slowly, now and again glancing across at the men watching him.

‘It’s good food,’ Chanson murmured between mouthfuls. ‘Hot and spicy.’

Talbot waited until they had finished and re-took his seat.

‘And what do you know about Lady Margaret?’ Ranulf demanded. ‘After her husband’s disappearance?’

‘She was distraught, according to common report. It became well known that she wanted to follow her husband. Sir Stephen Daubigny agreed to help. They both stopped here on their way to the coast. A few months later, Sir Stephen returned, travel-stained, face all haggard. As for Lady Margaret,’ Talbot lowered his eyes, ‘she was gone over a year and when she came back she was a shadow of her former self: thin, pale-faced. She passed by the tavern with an escort, clothed like the figure of death, in black from head to toe. From that day to this, she has lived as a recluse. I go up to the manor to take supplies and to buy from her. As I said, she comes here very rarely. Our conversations over the years wouldn’t fill half a page of a psalter.’

‘And Sir Stephen?’

The taverner shrugged his shoulders.

‘He went straight back to St Martin’s, gave up his arms and took the vows of a monk. The rest you know and, before you ask, clerk, he was a good Father Abbot. Honest and fair in his dealings. Blanche and I were always welcome in the abbey.’

‘And the others at St Martin’s?’ Ranulf insisted.

‘Oh, they are monks, priests, slightly pompous. We deal with two of them: Cuthbert the Prior, a man of great ambition, and Dunstan the treasurer. We go to them, sometimes they come to us. Now and again we have wine which they would like or,’ he gave a lop-sided smile, ‘meat, fresh from the forest. Well, sirs,’ Talbot drained his tankard and pushed back his stool, ‘more than that I cannot say.’

‘Oh, Master Talbot,’ Ranulf beckoned him closer. ‘I’m going to leave now.’

He was sure the taverner was almost going to thank him but Talbot held his tongue. ‘And when we do,’ Ranulf warned, ‘I don’t want our new arrivals to follow us out.’

The taverner leaned over. ‘I can only warn you and give some advice.’

‘Where will they come?’ Ranulf replied.

‘Out on the trackway,’ the taverner replied. ‘You are well mounted. They will try to force you down. You know what will happen then?’

Ranulf nodded.

‘And you can’t prevent them from leaving?’

Talbot shook his head. ‘They’re Scaribrick’s men. If I interfered, by tomorrow morning this tavern would be gutted.’

‘How many?’ Ranulf murmured.

‘There are five,’ Talbot whispered, grasping his empty tankard. ‘Thank God for the cold and that they didn’t know you were coming, otherwise it would have been a good score.’

He hurried away. Ranulf rose and strapped his sword belt on. They left by the rear entrance and walked round to the stables. Chanson checked the horses, their girths and saddles — nothing had been tampered with. They both swung themselves up.

‘Get up close!’ Ranulf urged. ‘Come on, Chanson, you’ve got two gifts. One is with horses and the other is with knives.’

‘But we are leaving first. They’ll never catch up.’

‘I wager they’ve already gone,’ Ranulf declared. ‘Do you remember how that trackway snakes and curves — they’ll be waiting there.’

They left the tavern. Chanson looked longingly over his shoulder at its warmth and light. The day was dying. Mist curled out from the trees. The trackway stretched before them like some haunted path.

‘Couldn’t we gallop?’ Chanson whispered.

‘And risk an accident? Haven’t you heard of tricks such as a rope tied across the path? Say your prayers, Chanson.’

Ranulf loosed the sword in its scabbard and, for the first time that day, Ranulf-atte-Newgate truly prayed.

‘Oh Lord, look after Ranulf-atte-Newgate, as Ranulf-atte-Newgate would look after you, if he was God and you were Ranulf-atte-Newgate.’

He urged his horse slightly forward of Chanson’s. The groom was now truly frightened. The trees on either side of the trackway stood like ghostly sentinels wrapped in a mist which shifted to show the darkness beyond. Now and again faint rustling echoed from the undergrowth or the lonely call of a bird shattered the silence. Chanson drew a throwing dagger from his belt and pushed it into the leather strap round his right wrist. They turned a bend. Ranulf almost sighed with relief. Five shadows stood across the path, arrows notched to their bows. He’d expected some sudden rush but the attackers were waiting.

‘Don’t rein in!’ Ranulf whispered. ‘Keep the same pace.’

Chanson obeyed. They continued, the silence broken by the clopping of the horses’ hooves. The line of men across the path wavered. Ranulf smiled grimly, the oldest trick in the book. Their attackers had expected them to stop within bowshot, even to dismount. Ranulf urged his horse on.

‘Stop where you are!’ a voice rang out.

‘Continue!’ Ranulf whispered.

Chanson obeyed, only reining in when an arrow whipped over his head.

‘What is it you want?’

Ranulf stood up in the stirrups and looked from left to right. Good, he couldn’t see anyone in the trees on either side.

‘Your horses, your weapons, your money and then you can go back to the abbey in your shifts!’

Ranulf’s hand fell to the hilt of his sword, head down as if he was considering the request.

‘Now, Chanson!’

Ranulf dug his spurs in. The horse leapt forward and Ranulf’s sword came slithering out of its scabbard. Chanson grasped his throwing dagger. Their attackers had relaxed, and lowered their bows. By the time they realised their mistake it was too late. The two horsemen hit them. Chanson threw his dagger. One of the attackers took it full in the mouth. Ranulf, with a scything cut, hit another on the shoulder and turned just in time to deliver a second blow to the attacker on his right. Chanson was eager to continue the gallop but Ranulf turned his horse and went charging back. Only one bowman remained, the other had fled into the forest. Ranulf used his horse and the man went down under its pounding hooves. Ranulf turned, patting his horse, whispering reassuringly to it. Four bodies lay on the trackway. He dismounted and drew his dagger. Two were already dead. He cut the throats of the wounded men, ignoring Chanson’s horrified gasps.

‘Well, what am I supposed to do?’ Ranulf crouched down and wiped the blood off his dagger on the jerkin of one of the attackers. ‘Their wounds are grievous, it’s freezing cold and, if we took them back to the abbey, what’s the use of tending them? They attacked the King’s men, that’s treason! They died quickly.’

He ordered Chanson to collect the weapons but, when he inspected these, he kept only a dagger, throwing the rest into the darkness.

‘Let Master Talbot bury them,’ he murmured. ‘Now, let’s see what these men have?’

Ranulf opened their wallets and emptied the contents into his hand. He put the coins in his purse but gave a cry of surprise and held up what he had found against the poor light.

‘What is it?’ Chanson demanded.

‘It’s a seal,’ Ranulf declared, peering at it. ‘The seal of St Martin’s-in-the-Marsh. Now, why should an outlaw, a wolf’s-head, have a seal like this? It’s not valuable. So, it’s either a keepsake or. .’

‘Or what?’ Chanson demanded.

‘Something like a licence or a warrant. You show it to someone, they recognise it and allow you to pass. Or it could be a sign?’

‘Are you saying the outlaws do business with the abbey?’

‘Possibly,’ Ranulf declared. ‘Perhaps for a payment they left the brothers alone? Allowed them to come and go unhindered.’

Ranulf got to his feet. He stared down at the stiffening corpses. Deep in the trees an owl hooted. Chanson tried not to shiver: the owl was a harbinger of death.

‘It’s time we returned,’ he said.

They remounted leaving their bloody handiwork behind them. Ranulf felt exhausted after the attack. He had no compunction about the men he had slain. They would have taken his life as quickly, and without thought, like someone snuffing a candle. Moreover, such outlaws did not kill swiftly: they often tortured their victims. Ranulf pulled his cloak tighter around him as the snowflakes began to fall. He reflected on what he had seen at the Lantern-in-the-Woods: Talbot’s daughter Blanche, her gold cross on its silver chain, the costly-looking bracelet, the rings. Who in these parts could afford such expensive items? Blanche certainly smelt sweetly. Ranulf recalled the story about a scented woman, disguised in the robe and cowl of a monk, being glimpsed in the abbey grounds at night.

‘Come on, Chanson!’ he urged.

Ranulf dug in his spurs, urging his horse into a gallop. Chanson was only too eager to follow. Darkness had fallen and the snow was already beginning to lie.

‘I wonder if it will continue all night?’ Chanson shouted.

‘I wonder what old Master Long Face is doing?’ Ranulf retorted.

At last the abbey came into sight. Dark massed buildings, with sconce torches flickering on either side of the entrance. A lantern gleamed in the window of the small chamber above the gatehouse. Ranulf reined in. A small postern door opened and a brother hurried out carrying a lantern.

‘Who are you?’ he called.

‘Ranulf-atte-Newgate and Chanson.’

‘Very well! Very well!’

The monk disappeared inside. The bar was removed and the door swung open. Ranulf was about to dig his spurs in when the first fire arrow shot out of the darkness and fell, leaving a trail of fiery light, into the abbey grounds.

Corbett sat on a stool before the brazier warming his fingers. Archdeacon Adrian had left his room abruptly. Corbett, once again, had ordered him not to leave the abbey until his investigations were completed. Corbett heard the cries from the courtyard below, and hastily put on boots and cloak and hurried down as a second fire arrow smacked into the cobbles, its flame spluttering out in the icy slush.

‘What is it?’ Corbett demanded of a lay brother who came hurtling round the corner.

‘Oh, thanks be to God, Sir Hugh!’ He peered through the darkness. ‘It is you?’

‘Is the abbey under attack?’ Corbett demanded.

‘We don’t know.’

Corbett stared up at the sky. Two more fire arrows were falling in a blazing arc.

‘Tell Prior Cuthbert to take comfort,’ Corbett declared. ‘They can do little harm. By the time they fall they are spent.’

Corbett watched another score through the night sky: the mysterious archer must be just beyond the walls, moving quickly to give the impression that more than one bowman was loosing these fiery shafts. The lay brother scurried off. There was little Corbett could do and it was now freezing cold, so he went back into the guesthouse. He had hardly reached his chamber when he heard voices downstairs. Ranulf and Chanson came clattering up, spurs jingling noisily.

‘It’s cold,’ Ranulf groaned. ‘I didn’t know how cold it was until after the attack.’

He and Chanson ripped off their gauntlets and held their fingers out to the flames.

‘Don’t warm them too long,’ Corbett warned. ‘You’ll have chilblains. What’s this about an attack?’

Corbett poured goblets of wine. As they drank, Ranulf quickly told him what had happened at the Lantern-in-the-Woods.

‘You did well,’ Corbett declared. ‘The outlaws deserved their deaths. Let me see the seal!’

Ranulf handed it over. Corbett scrutinised it carefully in the light of a candle.

‘And what happened here, Master?’

Corbett told him what he had seen, his meetings with Brother Dunstan and the Archdeacon. Ranulf whistled under his breath.

‘Nothing is what it appears to be, eh, Master?’

‘It never is,’ Corbett replied, still examining the seal.

‘What is so interesting about it?’

‘As you said,’ Corbett tossed the seal back to him, ‘why should an outlaw be carrying that? It was not taken from a letter or a charter. The seal is not broken. It was specially made and given to someone to use as a sign. You have your suspicions?’

Ranulf quickly told him about Blanche the tavern wench, the costly necklace, bracelet and rings. Corbett heard him out. He sat half listening to the bells tolling for vespers.

‘Do you ever read the divine office, Ranulf? The verse about Satan like a raging lion, hunting, seeking whom he may devour. Our assassin’s like that. He’s observed the foibles and weaknesses of others. I half suspect that Brother Dunstan could be his next victim.’

‘Why?’

‘Because he’s immoral,’ Corbett declared. ‘Chanson, go and fetch him. Tell him to come alone. I wish to have words.’

‘Do you really think he could be the next victim?’ Ranulf asked as the groom clattered down the stairs.

‘Ranulf, I believe the assassin intends to kill every member of that Concilium. I don’t know why, but I suspect that one of the roots of these present troubles is that damnable guesthouse and Bloody Meadow: the Concilium hid their feelings well but, I suspect, Prior Cuthbert and the rest championed that cause as fiercely as any lawyer before King’s Bench.’

‘You talked of one root?’

‘Ah!’ Corbett got up and stretched. ‘I’m getting hungry.’ He patted his stomach. ‘Not just for food but the truth. There is another deeper root, I don’t yet know what. Abbot Stephen may be the key.’

Chanson returned, with Brother Dunstan following dolefully behind.

‘Close the door,’ Corbett ordered. He gestured to a stool. ‘Sit down.’

‘Why do you wish to question me?’ Brother Dunstan’s hands were trembling so much he hid them up his sleeves.

Corbett took a stool and sat opposite.

‘You know why I do. When I met you down at Falcon Brook, Brother, you were like a man lost in your sins. What caused it? Guilt? Remorse?’

‘We all sin,’ Brother Dunstan tried to assert himself.

‘Yes, we do but some more secretly than others. I don’t want to torture you, Brother, so I’ll come swiftly to the point. You are treasurer of this great abbey. You and the brothers send carts to buy provender and sell your produce in the markets. You travel hither and thither. How many times have you been attacked by outlaws?’

‘Such men would never attack Holy Mother Church.’ Brother Dunstan coloured at Ranulf’s bellow of laughter.

‘That’s a lie,’ Corbett replied. ‘Such men couldn’t give a fig about the Church. You do what many abbeys and monasteries, even manor lords, do. You meet these outlaws, or their leaders, and you provide them with money and supplies. In return they give assurances that you can go untroubled about your business and they’ll make sure that everybody else who lurks in the woods obeys. It’s a convenient way of living. The outlaws really don’t want to take on a powerful abbot who might ask the local sheriff to hunt them down. Moreover some, but not all, of their coven are superstitious. They don’t want to be excommunicated, cursed and exiled from heaven by bell, book and candle. You, of course, and your abbey don’t want any trouble. You are the treasurer and, when these men come looking for food and drink, you pay them off and both parties are happy. The law might not like it but, there again, on a lonely forest path the law can do little to protect some unfortunate monk on an errand for his Father Abbot. Am I correct?’

‘It is a commonplace practice,’ Brother Dunstan replied. ‘Everyone does it.’

‘Of course they do and, as long as the outlaws don’t become troublesome, greedy or break their word, Abbot Stephen would look the other way. He might not like it but. .’ Corbett waved a hand. ‘Now you, Brother Dunstan,’ he continued, ‘travel for the abbey and often visit the Lantern-in-the-Woods.’

The treasurer put his face in his hands.

‘Blanche is pretty, isn’t she? Long legs, generous lips, a sweet bosom and, if Ranulf is correct, saucy eyes and a pert mouth. You were much taken with her. Of course, she was flattered that a man of the Church should be interested. She was even more impressed when you took coins from your coffers to buy her bracelets and a silver chain with a gold cross, not to mention the rings and the cloth to make her a fine dress. Now, what began as mere dalliance,’ Corbett felt sorry for the monk who was now sobbing quietly, ‘became an obsession. Ranulf has travelled to the Lantern-in-the-Woods, and the outlaws also go there. Oh, by the way, some of them are dead — killed,’ Corbett added warningly. ‘I suggest that for the next few months any traveller from St Martin’s has an armed escort.’

Brother Dunstan took his hands away. ‘Dead?’

‘Well, at least four of them.’ Corbett turned to Ranulf and clicked his fingers. ‘Now, in one of the wallets of the dead outlaws we found this abbey seal. It’s unbroken, and is clearly specially made. You gave it to one of the outlaws? Perhaps their leader, Scaribrick? You must have bribed him. Sometimes you found it difficult to leave the abbey — after all, a monk out of his house is like a fish out of water — but you had a hunger for Blanche. You gave her the robe of a monk with a canopied cowl, and you actually brought her into the abbey, didn’t you? One of the outlaws was your go-between and when he showed the seal to Blanche, it was the sign to meet you near one of the postern gates. Now, in the warm days of spring and summer, a tumble in the long grass is perhaps safe enough but our Blanche is haughty. She would object to such rough bedding. On one or two occasions she came disguised to that postern door and made her way to your chamber. No doubt you objected, telling her how dangerous it was.’

Corbett leaned forward and prised Brother Dunstan’s fingers away from his face. The monk’s eyes were red-rimmed with crying.

‘For God’s sake,’ Corbett reassured him, ‘I am not going to denounce you before the full chapter. You won’t be the first man to break his vows. The world, the flesh and the devil, eh? It’s often the flesh which lays the most cunning traps.’

The treasurer rubbed the tears away from his cheeks.

‘It was as you say,’ Brother Dunstan declared. ‘The dalliance began two years ago. I was a clerk before I became a monk. I thought I could live a chaste life but — Blanche, she was so provocative! At night I used to dream about her hair, her lips, her breasts, her legs. At first she allowed some intimacy — a kiss or a cuddle — but she acted very much the lady. She wanted this and she wanted that. So I used money from the Abbey coffers. Sometimes we met in the cellars of her father’s tavern but that was too dangerous. Blanche is a hussy, saucy-eyed and sharp-tongued. She wanted to see my chamber and lie in a proper bed, she said. I tried to refuse but. . One night she came disguised, as you say, and told me she had met a monk on her way. From her description I recognised Gildas. I begged her not to do it again but she refused to obey and only stopped when I bought her some Castilian soap. I confessed my sins to one of the old monks. He gave me absolution but said I should also confess to Father Abbot. I did, in a half-hearted way.’

‘So, Abbot Stephen knew?’

‘Yes, yes he did. He warned me that I would have to make reparation. Replace the money I had taken and end my relationship.’

‘That was compassionate,’ Ranulf interrupted. ‘Many a Father Abbot would have shown you the gate.’

‘Abbot Stephen said that if I truly repented, I would have to do so properly. He did not wish to disgrace me.’ Brother Dunstan held Corbett’s gaze. ‘I was surprised by Abbot Stephen’s compassion. He just stared at me, tears in his eyes.’

‘Did he give a reason for his compassion?’ Corbett asked.

‘He just said we were all sinners and, if there was a God, Compassion was His name.’

‘If there was a God?’ Corbett queried.

‘That’s what he said. I don’t think he was denying the existence of God, just stating that God’s compassion was most important.’ The treasurer took a deep breath. ‘And you, Sir Hugh, will you tell Prior Cuthbert?’

‘I’ll do nothing of the sort.’ Corbett clapped him on the shoulder and got to his feet. ‘I am not your father confessor, nor am I here to judge the morals of the monks. I want to catch a murderer. Brother Dunstan, I want to ask you one question, broken into different parts. On your oath now: the Concilium, it wanted that guesthouse built?’

‘Very much so.’

‘Why?’

‘To attract pilgrims, to increase the revenue.’

‘And what other reason?’ Corbett demanded.

‘To secure a relic so as to increase our fame.’

‘And would they have murdered for that?’

Brother Dunstan did not deny it but gazed bleakly back.