Corpse Candle

Chapter 8

Brother Francis, the archivist, was pleased to have the library to himself. The small scriptorium at the far end was also empty. The rest of the brothers had gone to celebrate divine office before the evening meal. Brother Francis was so excited, and his stomach so agitated, that he had no time for food or drink. He hadn’t told anybody the reason but had sought permission from Prior Cuthbert to absent himself. The librarian now sat at a table and stared round his domain. This was his kingdom with its specially hooded candles and lanterns to diminish the risk of fire. He gazed lovingly at the stacked rows of shelves containing the abbey archives, as well as the manuscripts collected over the years: Augustine’s Confessions and City of God: Beothius’s On Consolation, the sermons of Ambrose, the writings of Jerome and other fathers: the theological treatises of Bernard, Aquinas and Anselm. Brother Francis got up and walked along the shelves. Here were the jewels of the collection: the works of Aristotle and Plato, the speeches of Cicero, the histories of Tacitus and the thoughts of the philosopher Seneca. These had been Abbot Stephen’s favourites, with his love of Roman culture. Brother Francis stopped, closed his eyes and sniffed. He relished the smell of the library, as a gardener did the fragrance of flowers: the perfume of vellum, of leather, ink, beeswax and the sweet-smelling polish which his assistants used on the shelves, tables and floor. Brother Francis liked nothing better than to check everything was in its appointed place. Some of the books were so rare and precious that they were locked away in heavy coffers. He touched the ring of keys on his belt and recalled why he was here. His face flushed. Brother Francis had thought long and hard about these deaths, these heinous murders, which hadn’t just started because of a guesthouse or Prior Cuthbert’s desire to acquire a precious relic.

Of all the members of the Concilium, Brother Francis had served the longest at St Martin’s. He had entered the abbey as a mere stripling. The old abbot had been so impressed by his desire to learn he had sent him to the cathedral schools of Ely and Norwich, as well as the Benedictine house in Oxford. Francis stopped and gnawed at his lip. He must marshal his thoughts carefully, as a true scholar would. Above all, he had to be sure he was alone. Brother Francis went to one of the latticed windows and peered through. The fire arrows had been alarming but surely they had merely been some cruel jape? Brother Francis moved back to the lectern. Didn’t one of those chronicles which described the evil depredations of Geoffrey Mandeville mention how the wicked earl always signalled his coming by fire arrows? So, if it wasn’t his ghost or demon, who was loosing such fiery shafts on St Martin’s-in-the-Marsh?

‘I mustn’t be distracted! I mustn’t be distracted!’ Brother Francis murmured.

He also had to be prudent. Both doors to the library were locked and bolted, the latticed windows were also secure, their handles pulled down. Brother Francis checked the arrow slit apertures. In summer the shutters on the outside of these would be removed to allow in the light. Now, of course, they were clasped firmly shut. Brother Francis picked up his ash walking-cane and tapped at each to ensure this was the case. He returned to the piece of vellum laid out on his writing desk, excited by its blank, creamy smoothness. He sat down, picked up a quill and wrote down Abbot Stephen’s name and three words: ‘the Roman way?’ Brother Francis stared down at what he had written. The murders, he reflected, had begun with Abbot Stephen’s death. What was the tinder spark which had started this conflagration? What did he know about Abbot Stephen? A former knight, the boon companion of Sir Reginald Harcourt? The man who had assisted Lady Margaret to search for her husband only to return and spend the rest of his life as a member of St Martin’s community.

‘I know I have seen it,’ Brother Francis whispered.

He rose to his feet and went to a shelf. Somewhere here, many years ago, he’d found a Book of Hours — or maybe a psalter — which had contained a carefully written poem. Brother Francis had suddenly remembered this earlier in the day and begun his searches whilst the library was still busy. He had used the index but had been unable to trace the exact volume. The brothers had become curious as their librarian took one book down after another. Brother Francis glimpsed one slender volume, pulled it out and caressed the calf-skin cover with its decorative glass studs. He opened the crackling yellow pages only to grimace with disappointment. This was not the one! He found two more and carried them to his desk. He was about to continue his searches when one of the shutters rattled. The librarian absentmindedly cursed the wind and continued with his studies, as the rattling increased. Brother Francis got to his feet and hastened along the gallery to the arrow slit which stood between two latticed windows. Bang! bang! The clatter unnerved him. He grasped his stick, took up a lantern and peered closer. A cold draught of air hit him. Brother Francis put the lantern down on a table and peered through the arrow slit. The shutter had fallen loose. He was about to turn away in annoyance when the arrow, loosed by the bowman outside, sped through the slit and struck deep in his chest. Brother Francis staggered back, clasping the shaft, coughing blood. He slumped to his knees and collapsed onto the hard, wooden floor.

‘So, it wasn’t just a guesthouse Prior Cuthbert wanted?’

Ranulf stared across at Corbett sitting on the bed, his back against the bolsters.

‘Oh, no.’ Corbett shook his head.

Brother Dunstan had left Corbett and Ranulf to summarise what they had learnt.

‘I walked round the church,’ Corbett explained. ‘Every great religious house, be it Canterbury, Walsingham, Glastonbury or even the abbey of St Paul’s, has its relics. St Martin’s has none. People travel across Europe to pay respects to the lance which pierced the side of Christ, a phial of his precious blood or the cloth which wiped his face. Now, Ranulf, you know and I know that most of these relics are spurious, and many others are also growing more discerning.’ He smiled. ‘The best relic is a corpse. Look at the revenues Canterbury receives because they hold the remains of Thomas a Becket. Prior Cuthbert certainly wants to build his guesthouse but, more importantly, he wanted that tumulus opened and the corpse removed to the abbey church. With a bit of luck, and God’s own help, a few miracles would take place. The news would spread through the great trading centres of Lincolnshire, Norfolk, and Ely. Remember our journey to Suffolk?’

Ranulf grimly recalled their departure from their last investigation and the sight of that grisly corpse swinging from a stark black gibbet.

‘Those townspeople we visited were rich. When people have wealth, Ranulf, they like to travel: that’s one of the reasons Brother Dunstan paid off those outlaws. I wager a tun of wine to a cask of malmesy that he did so at Prior Cuthbert’s insistence. You can’t have stories circulating about wolf’s-heads attacking travellers to St Martin’s.’

‘But would eagerness for a relic lead to murder?’

‘It could do, Ranulf. You are talking about a tremendous increase in wealth and importance for this abbey. Moreover, Prior Cuthbert is a stubborn man: he may have fiercely resented Abbot Stephen’s intransigence over Bloody Meadow, so that the dispute assumed monstrous proportions for him.’ Corbett spread his hands. ‘To be fair to Prior Cuthbert, I can understand his frustration.’ Corbett ran his thumb nail along his lower lip. ‘What is important is how Abbot Stephen was murdered. We know he had a dispute with his Concilium, led by Prior Cuthbert, and now members of that Concilium are being murdered.’

‘Taverner wasn’t a member,’ Chanson called out from where he sat on a stool near the brazier, mending a belt buckle.

‘No, he wasn’t,’ Corbett smiled in agreement. ‘And that, too, is a mystery. So, Ranulf, arm yourself with quill and ink, parchment and writing tray. Let’s see what sense we can make of this puzzle.’

Ranulf agreed. Once he had made himself comfortable, Corbett emphasised the points on his fingers.

‘Abbot Stephen, the noble scion of the Daubigny family and once a knight banneret, was loved by the King, and the boon companion of Sir Reginald Harcourt. In his early years, Daubigny showed no indication of becoming a priest or monk. He was fighting man par excellence. His good friend Reginald Harcourt married the Lady Margaret; it was an arranged betrothal but one that seemed happy enough. However, the relationship between Lady Margaret and Sir Stephen, as he was then called, was frosty to say the least. Apparently Sir Stephen was a constant visitor at the Harcourt Manor.’

‘Why should Lady Margaret dislike him?’

‘A good question, Ranulf, though I have seen such a reaction before. Perhaps she resented the closeness of the two friends. But it certainly means that Lady Margaret and I must meet.’ Corbett paused, watching Ranulf’s quill skim over the manuscript. ‘In addition, we have Sir Reginald’s mysterious disappearance, followed by Lady Margaret’s search and the help given by Sir Stephen. But we can’t comment on that until we have seen Lady Harcourt herself.’

‘Shouldn’t we have visited her before?’

Corbett shook his head. ‘No, no. She’ll just give the accepted story and I am convinced there’s more to it than that. So, let’s stay with Abbot Stephen. To all intents and purposes, he became the model monk and rose swiftly in the Benedictine Order. Probably due to royal influence he was appointed Abbot. How would you describe him, Ranulf?’

The clerk pulled a face. ‘Reserved, aloof? Certainly a man of sanctity. A fair and just abbot.’

‘Yet a strange one,’ Corbett mused. ‘To some extent he appeared very strict, particularly about Sigbert’s burial mound in Bloody Meadow. He didn’t like Lady Margaret yet his treatment of Dunstan was very compassionate. For some strange reason he became interested in demonology, studying to be an exorcist. He won widespread repute which explains the visit of Taverner and Archdeacon Adrian. Abbot Stephen dealt with ghouls and devils but he also had a great love of the classics, to quote one phrase: ‘all things Roman’. He treated that mosaic in the abbey cellars as if it was sacred. He referred mysteriously to a wheel of life and hinted at his own secret sins. An enigmatic character! He not only showed compassion to Dunstan but also to Perditus and Taverner. I do wonder if he saw through our cunning man? He also had to manage a Concilium which had become increasingly impatient over his views on Bloody Meadow and the new guesthouse. And then he was murdered. But how did the assassin get in and out of that chamber? Why didn’t Abbot Stephen raise the alarm? How did the murderer know there was a war belt in that chest? Or did Abbot Stephen take it out himself? That’s another mystery.’

‘And the other murders?’ Ranulf asked.

‘Taverner was a cunning man, hired by Archdeacon Adrian to disgrace Abbot Stephen. However, Abbot Stephen’s charm impressed Taverner who may have turned the tables on our visitor from London. He was killed by an arrow, certainly taken from a quiver belonging to Archdeacon Adrian, but that doesn’t mean our self-important ecclesiastic is a murderer. Hamo’s death? Well, that is truly perplexing. The assassin was lashing out indiscriminately. He didn’t really care who drank from the poisoned tankard. Finally, there are other strange occurrences. The cat hung up from the rood screen; the fire arrows; the brand marks left on the victims. These bring us to Sir Geoffrey Mandeville.’ Corbett pointed to the chronicles taken from the library. ‘Our assassin certainly knows all about him. The brand mark is taken from Mandeville’s livery, as are the cat and the fire arrows. The rest is now clear: the mysterious woman glimpsed walking through the abbey grounds at night was certainly Blanche from the Lantern-in-the-Woods.’

‘Couldn’t Brother Dunstan have told us more?’ Corbett disagreed.

‘And the assassin?’ Ranulf asked.

‘Is there one or are there two?’ Corbett wondered.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, Abbot Stephen’s head wasn’t branded, was it? And Taverner wasn’t a member of the Concilium?’

‘You have forgotten about Gildas?’

‘No, no, I haven’t. Gildas was certainly murdered in his workshop, his forehead branded and the corpse taken out to the burial mound. Somehow or other we are back to Bloody Meadow, and the rivalry between Abbot Stephen and the Concilium. But all we do is keep going round and round like a dog chasing its tail.’

‘Why don’t we open the burial mound?’ Chanson demanded.

‘Perhaps we will,’ Corbett declared. ‘But we have to show we have good reason. I just wish-’ He tapped his fingers on his knee. ‘Pieces of the puzzle are missing, Ranulf. I wish I could find them.’ He sighed. ‘So now we come to the assassin.’ He pulled a face. ‘It could be anybody. Taverner killed by an arrow. Hamo by poison. Gildas by a stone. You have seen this abbey, Ranulf — think of it as a maze of alleyways in London. I know,’ Corbett swung his feet off the bed, ‘let’s go and look at that mosaic again.’

Chanson and Ranulf grumbled but Corbett insisted.

‘It’s dark,’ Ranulf declared. ‘It will be pitch black down there.’

‘We can carry torches. Come on!’

They put on boots and cloaks and Corbett strapped on his war belt. They went down the stairs into the courtyard. The snow was now falling heavily, carpeting the yard. From around the abbey rose different sounds: a horse whinnying in its stables; the shouts of the brothers in the kitchen as they prepared the evening meal. Corbett led Ranulf along the same route that Taverner had shown him. The snow was transforming the abbey, carpeting ledges and cornices. It made St Martin’s look even more menacing and grim. A sheet of freezing whiteness muffled their footsteps.

‘I’ll be glad to be gone from this place,’ Ranulf murmured. ‘Master, is this really necessary?’

Corbett ignored him. They reached the refectory, its windows full of light as the brothers prepared for their evening meal. They went down the steps. Ranulf found an empty brazier full of sconce torches and lit two. Corbett went first. At night the passageway seemed like a tunnel from the underworld, and Corbett recalled the stories his mother had told him about a strange mythical kingdom which lay beneath the earth. It was freezing cold. Every so often Ranulf stopped to light the sconces. At last they reached the end chamber. Corbett had more torches lit and, removing the covering sheet, crouched down to look at the mosaic.

‘Why is it so important?’ Ranulf insisted.

‘Because it’s the only thing,’ Corbett lowered the torch, ‘out of the ordinary about Abbot Stephen. He came here often to look at it. He frequently sketched this image — I wonder why? There is something very familiar about this mosaic but I can’t place it. Can you, Ranulf?’

His servant, on his knees, stared at the hub, the spokes, the rim, the strange decorative figures in each corner.

‘What’s that?’

Chanson had returned to the steps and was peering back down the passageway. Ranulf sprang to his feet. The cellar was cold but he could sense danger, as in some alleyway in London, where though pitch black and seemingly empty, Ranulf would be aware of the footpad lurking in a doorway or down some needle-thin passage. He also trusted Chanson’s sharp ears.

‘I did hear something,’ Chanson warned. ‘The slither of a boot?’

Corbett, now alarmed, joined him. He went up the steps and glanced down the passageway, a place of flickering light and dancing shadows.

‘This is foolish,’ Ranulf whispered.

Corbett agreed and quietly cursed himself. He had broken the first rule. Nobody knew they were here, and there was no other escape except back along this eerie tunnel beneath the earth.

‘It could be a brother?’ Chanson’s voice did not sound convincing.

‘If it was a monk,’ Ranulf replied, ‘he would have seen our light and he would have declared himself.’ He pulled Corbett back down the steps. ‘If it’s one man,’ he hissed, ‘then he must be carrying a bow and arrow. Against the light we’d be ideal targets. A good archer, a master bowman, could hit all of us.’

‘We might be wrong.’ Corbett drew his sword. ‘It’s my mistake, Ranulf, I’ll find out.’

His henchman pulled him back.

‘No, I prefer to face an archer than Lady Maeve’s rage.’ He grinned over his shoulder. ‘Anyway, I am more nimble on my feet than you.’

Ranulf drew his sword and went up the steps. To his right lay the open caverns and storerooms. He narrowed his eyes against the gloom. He tensed, ready to spring. He heard a sound. Ranulf didn’t wait. He darted back, almost throwing himself down the steps, as the long bow, somewhere down the passageway, twanged. The arrow hummed through the air, smacking the wall above their heads.

‘I was right.’ Ranulf picked himself up. ‘One archer but a good one. If we try to go down that passageway, he’ll kill us one by one.’

‘We could wait,’ Chanson declared. ‘There are stores here, someone is bound to come down.’

‘That might not be for hours,’ Corbett replied. He stared round the cellar and glimpsed the wooden pallets. ‘Come on, Ranulf, quickly!’ Corbett pointed at them.

‘What are we going to do?’

‘Have you ever stormed a castle, Ranulf, and seen men take the battering ram up to the main gate?’

‘Ah, the mantlet!’ Ranulf grasped Chanson’s arm.

They pulled the pallet up and turned it round.

‘It’s about two yards high, Ranulf, narrow enough to go down the passageway. He could aim at our feet,’ Corbett warned. ‘So, slither it along the floor, and crouch behind it.’

Turning the pallet so the wooden boards were facing outwards, Ranulf and Chanson carried their makeshift shield up the steps. Corbett followed behind. They pushed the pallet along the ground. It left about a few inches on either side but afforded good protection. The bow twanged and arrows hurtled into their makeshift shield. They reached one doorway and Corbett sighed with relief as they managed to push their mantlet through. Two more arrows hit the pallet with such force Ranulf and Chanson had to brace themselves. This was followed by the sound of retreating footsteps. They heard a door bang. Ranulf and Chanson put the pallet to one side, and Corbett ran forward at a half-crouch, sword out, but the passageway was deserted. In one corner lay a long bow and a half-empty quiver of arrows. He raced up the steps, out beside the refectory. There was nothing to see but snow coating the dirty slush. Corbett realised the futility of continuing the pursuit. He waited for his two companions to join him.

‘We’ll never do that again,’ he breathed out.

‘My mistake as much as yours.’ Ranulf sheathed his sword. ‘Who is this killer, Master?’

‘A child could have done what he did,’ Corbett replied. ‘He just watched and waited. We went down into the cellar, and our killer followed. There is only one way out and, if that Chanson hadn’t been so sharp-eared, he could have taken care of at least two of us, seriously wounding or slaying.’

Corbett sat on a stone plinth. He heard voices and saw a line of monks moving across to the refectory doorway. Now the attack was over Corbett was frightened. The sweat on his body began to freeze. Chanson was shaking, teeth chattering. Ranulf was white-faced with fury, gnawing his lip, fingers nervously tapping the hilt of his dagger.

‘Why?’ Chanson stuttered. ‘We are not members of the Concilium.’

‘No,’ Ranulf snarled, ‘but we are King’s clerks. Certainly if Sir Hugh was killed or wounded, St Martin’s-in-the-Marsh would be disgraced. The King, his court and council would withdraw their favour from the monastery.’

‘Very good,’ Corbett murmured. ‘The attack opens a window into our would-be assassin’s dark soul. I’ve found his motive: destruction for the sake of destruction. No one is safe. Come on,’ he urged. ‘I’m freezing! We’ll eat in the refectory.’

They joined the monks who glowered at them from underneath their cowls. The refectory was a long hall, with great beams high above their heads. From these hung banners depicting the five wounds of Christ, the cross and an image of the Virgin and Child. As in many refectories, for the sake of cleanliness no rushes cluttered the floor. The wooden wall panelling was highly polished and the trestle tables along each side were covered with snow-white drapes. Halfway down the hall a log fire roared in a great hearth. Herb-scented braziers stood along the walls and in corners. Perditus, just inside the doorway, greeted them and came striding across.

‘Where have you been, Sir Hugh? I went to the guestroom to seek you. Prior Cuthbert would like you to join him at the high table.’ The lay brother studied him curiously. ‘Sir Hugh, is everything all right?’

‘Yes, yes.’ Corbett waved him forward.

They walked selfconsciously up the hall. Prior Cuthbert and the rest of the Concilium greeted them, and the Prior indicated that Corbett should sit on his right. The clerk glanced quickly around. Brother Dunstan looked fearful. Brother Richard the almoner smiled welcomingly enough whilst Aelfric stood looking like a prophet of old, face drawn, constantly rubbing his hands together. Corbett stared down the refectory. This was no longer a place of harmony, of prayer, worship and work. The atmosphere was of palpable fear. The brothers kept looking up at the dais, glowering at these royal clerks who’d brought so much disruption to their abbey. The muttering grew so loud, Prior Cuthbert picked up a handbell and rang it vigorously for silence. He raised his hand.

‘Benedicite Domine. .’

Grace was said. They took their seats. Brother Richard went up to the lectern and, opening the book, read from St Augustine’s Sermon on the Resurrection. After he had finished, Prior Cuthbert rang the bell and got to his feet.

‘Since,’ his voice was tinged with sarcasm, ‘we have such distinguished guests amongst us, the rule of silence will be suspended. The community may talk.’

The meal began. Brother Perditus served the high table with fish soup, succulent pork roasted in mustard and pepper, small white loaves and dishes of vegetables. Corbett was offered a choice of wine. Ranulf and Chanson ate as if there was no tomorrow, nodding vigorously at Brother Richard’s questions. Prior Cuthbert waited until the courses had been served and then turned to Corbett.

‘I understand that your henchmen were attacked by outlaws in the forest today. Has anything else occurred during your investigation?’

Corbett winked quickly at Brother Dunstan.

‘No, Father Prior, just one mystery after another.’

‘Such as?’

‘Not now.’ Corbett sipped from his wine. ‘But you are pleased the outlaws are dead?’

‘Four less to feed,’ Prior Cuthbert murmured. ‘Even as a monk, Sir Hugh, sometimes you have to sit down and sup with the devil. Your henchman Ranulf-atte-Newgate,’ the monk gestured with his head, ‘is truly a man of war.’

‘He’d make a good Hospitaller or Templar,’ Corbett agreed. ‘The outlaws were stupid. I would not challenge a man like Ranulf-atte-Newgate.’ He glanced sideways and grinned. ‘Sometimes he even frightens me.’

‘Are you frightened now?’ Brother Dunstan asked from where he sat on Corbett’s left.

‘I’m always fearful, Brother.’ He paused. ‘Did your Father Abbot fear demons? What persuaded him to become an exorcist and take such an interest in demonology. After all, he was a member of this community, and grew old alongside you.’

‘Stephen was always a scholar,’ Brother Dunstan replied. ‘Theology and philosophy were the fields he furrowed.’ He gestured with his spoon. ‘You know how it is? Some scholars become interested in the cult of the Virgin or the finer points of philosophy. Stephen chose to specialise in demonology, the power of the night.’

‘And in all things Roman?’ Corbett added.

‘Ah!’ Brother Dunstan popped a piece of bread into his mouth and chewed it slowly. ‘That’s because of our library; it holds many precious manuscripts. Abbot Stephen used to sit here and regale us with stories of the ancients and the doings of the mad emperors. His great ambition was to visit the Scottish march and inspect the great wall the Romans built. He discussed the classics and the ancient empire of Rome with anyone who would listen. I remember, early in the summer, he and his manservant Perditus in heated discussion over a manuscript on the Roman army. Who was the author? Veg. .?’

‘Vegetius,’ Corbett declared. ‘He wrote a famous tract De Re Militari: a treatise well loved by our King. Oh, by the way,’ Corbett looked round, ‘where is Brother Francis the librarian?’

‘He asked to be excused,’ Prior Cuthbert explained. ‘He’s in the library working, quite excited about something.’

Corbett put down his horn spoon.

‘Is anything wrong, Sir Hugh?’

‘Is he by himself?’

‘Of course.’

‘He shouldn’t be.’ Corbett recalled that dark figure in the passageway, those death-bearing arrows thudding into the darkness.

‘He’ll be safe,’ Brother Dunstan declared.

Corbett half rose to his feet.

‘Chanson! Find Perditus! Go to the library!’

‘It’s not necessary,’ Brother Dunstan stuttered.

Corbett sat down. All conversation at the high table died.

‘He should not be alone,’ Corbett urged. He snapped his fingers at Chanson who was staring lovingly at his soup. ‘Don’t worry, Chanson, Ranulf won’t eat it.’

The groom scurried off into the kitchens for Perditus. Corbett continued eating, half listening to Prior Cuthbert’s protestations. A short while passed and Perditus came hurrying back.

‘Prior Cuthbert, you’d best come!’

‘What is it?’ Corbett glanced at the lay brother.

‘We can see lights in the library but the doors and windows are locked. Brother Francis does not reply.’

‘Oh, sweet Lord!’ Prior Cuthbert whispered. He threw his napkin down. ‘Francis would never leave candles glowing in the library.’

The meal ended in confusion. Corbett followed Chanson and Perditus, with Ranulf hastening behind. They reached the library door. Ranulf told them to stand aside and banged with the pommel of his sword. Brother Richard, who had been peering through a window, hurried over, white-faced.

‘I am not sure,’ he said, ‘as the glass is rather thick but I think Francis is lying on the floor. I glimpsed his leg and sandalled foot from behind the table.’

Corbett ordered Perditus to find a heavy log.

‘No, use that bench!’ Prior Cuthbert pointed to one just inside the porchway.

The door was of thick, solid oak. Corbett told them to hammer on the other side of the lock, loosening the leather hinges. At last the door gave way with a crash and they stumbled in. Corbett ordered them to stay back. The library was a rich, splendid chamber, a place of study. Now all this was shattered. Brother Francis lay in a widening pool of his own blood, slightly turned to one side, a long arrow shaft buried deep in his chest. Corbett felt his neck; there was no blood pulse whilst his skin was a clammy cold.

‘Stay back!’ Corbett shouted.

He went across to the writing table, picked up the pieces of vellum and read Abbot Stephen’s name and the phrase ‘the Roman way’. He studied the two books lying there, small, thin volumes. He closed them and hastily put them inside his jerkin.

‘You can come forward,’ he called.

The monks clustered round Brother Francis’s body amidst exclamations of grief echoing Prior Cuthbert’s low moan of despair. Brother Dunstan the treasurer was the first to recover his wits. He sent Perditus for the holy oils and quickly administered the sacrament of Extreme Unction, whispering the hallowed words into the dead man’s ear. Other members of the community arrived but Prior Cuthbert ordered them to stay outside.

‘Take the body to the death house!’ Corbett declared. ‘This time, Brother Aelfric, put a guard on the door. Let’s see if the killer tries to claim this corpse.’

‘How was it done?’ Ranulf demanded. ‘Sir Hugh, I’ve checked the door — it was locked and bolted and the windows were all closed.’

Corbett glanced back to where the corpse had been found. He went and checked but Ranulf was right, the windows were closed and the outside shutter of the nearest arrow slit looked secure.

‘Prior Cuthbert, excuse me.’

He gestured at Ranulf and Chanson to follow him outside. Corbett found the shutter covering the arrow slit: it was clasped securely against the ragstone wall. Chanson went back to fetch a lantern. Corbett inspected the shutter carefully. He loosened its clasps, and as he did so, it rattled and he heard exclamations from inside the library.

‘I see how it was done,’ Ranulf declared, peering through. ‘The librarian was studying inside. The assassin distracted him by rattling the shutter. Brother Francis would come to check. He’d be standing in the light, providing even a novice bowman with a good target. The shaft was loosed. Brother Francis collapsed. The shutter was re-clasped and the assassin came to hunt us down in the cellars.’

‘But surely Brother Francis had been warned not to be alone?’

‘Yes, he was, Chanson, that’s what intrigues me.’ Corbett patted the books beneath his doublet. ‘He was definitely excited, immersed in his studies. So much so that he neglected food and drink and didn’t join the rest of the community in the refectory. Now, why should a monk, in the depths of winter, study so late? Was he looking for something? Some evidence regarding these murders?’

‘Sir Hugh, what can be done?’ Prior Cuthbert came through the darkness towards them.

‘I’ve told you already,’ Corbett urged. ‘Members of the Concilium must not, where possible, be by themselves for long periods of time.’

‘But we have our own chambers, and our duties to perform!’

‘Then be prudent,’ Corbett urged. ‘Warn them about being ambushed. Oh, and by the way, I’d have all bows and arrows in the cellars collected up, put in one place and secured.’

‘And where’s Archdeacon Adrian?’ Ranulf demanded.

‘He refused my invitation to the refectory.’ Prior Cuthbert shook his head. ‘Perditus said he was in a terrible temper, declaring that he would keep to his own chamber and dine by himself.’

‘As we shall too,’ Corbett declared. ‘Prior Cuthbert, tell your monks to finish their meal. My companions and I will return to the guesthouse. We will eat whatever you send across.’

Once they were back, Chanson lit candles and oil lamps and fired the brazier. Ranulf secured the doors and windows.

‘Why?’ Ranulf demanded. ‘Why slay a librarian? An archivist?’

Corbett sat on the bed and took the books out of his jerkin.

‘For the same reason he attacked us, Ranulf.’ He smiled grimly. ‘To give the assassin his due, he warned me not to stay. If royal emissaries were driven out of an abbey, the King would not be pleased but, because we tarried, he struck. The same is true of poor Brother Francis. Think of a fox stalking chickens, Ranulf; that’s what our killer has become. I doubt if he knew Brother Francis was searching for something but he did learn that he was by himself.’

Corbett paused at a knock on the door. Perditus came through bearing a tray of steaming food which he placed on the table.

‘What is Father Prior planning?’ Ranulf asked.

The lay brother made sure the tray was carefully laid and shrugged.

‘I have told him he should send to the sheriff for armed retainers. But,’ he sighed, ‘that will take days. What we need are spearmen and archers to patrol the passageways. Guards on the trackways outside. I’ve told Father Prior that more braziers should be lit. There are high places in this abbey where sentinels could be positioned but. . I am only a lay brother-’

Corbett glanced up. ‘Have you taken solemn vows, Perditus?’

‘No, just simple ones. I could, if I wished, leave this place.’

‘And will you?’

Perditus shook his head. ‘I love St Martin’s and the community here is good to me.’

‘And the killer?’ Corbett asked.

‘Oh, he is undoubtedly a member of this community.’

‘Or Archdeacon Adrian?’

‘True,’ Perditus agreed. ‘He does not like St Martin’s-in-the-Marsh. But, I must rejoin my brothers.’

Corbett excused him and opened the first book. He quickly thumbed through the yellowing, crackling papers: it was nothing more than a copy of an Anglo-Saxon chronicle, carefully transcribed by some long-dead monk. The loose pages at either end contained nothing remarkable. The second book was more interesting: it contained extracts of the Latin poet Ovid’s great work On the Art of Loving. Corbett smiled at some of the verses. In his youth he had seen such poetry in the libraries of Oxford and, in his courting of Lady Maeve, had even used some of the famous verses. The pages at the end allowed scholars to write their own thoughts. Corbett recognised Abbot Stephen’s hand in some simple verses of regret. He cleared his throat and studied it more carefully.

‘What is it, Master?’

‘“In youth I served my time”,’

Corbett began.

‘“In kissing and making love.

Now that I must retreat,

I feel my heart breaking.

Ah God, it is your food today

That feeds me, not kisses.”’

‘Who wrote that?’ Ranulf demanded.

‘Abbot Stephen did as a young monk.’

‘You can recognise his hand so well?’

Corbett smiled, turned the book and tapped the foot of the page. Ranulf peered at the drawing.

‘It’s the wheel!’ Ranulf exclaimed. ‘Look, the hubs, spokes, and rim! It’s like the mosaic down in the cellar. Why should Abbot Stephen have written that?’

‘A monk besotted by love, Ranulf. As Brother Dunstan is now, Abbot Stephen in his time was no better. I wonder-?’ Corbett weighed the book in his hands.

‘Do you want some food?’ Chanson called out.

‘Of course he does!’ Ranulf snapped.

Chanson placed a strip of pork on a trauncher, cut up the bread and served it. Corbett balanced it on his lap.

‘Before I left the King,’ Corbett paused as if distracted, ‘ah, yes, His Grace informed me that there were many theories as to why Stephen Daubigny entered a religious order. One of the most popular was that he fell in love with a young woman who became a nun and died rather young. Now the King said he had little proof of this except for an incident one day when he visited Abbot Stephen here in St Martin’s. Now you know our noble King likes nothing better than teasing a churchman, especially when he’s in his cups. The Queen was present with her beautiful ladies-in-waiting,’ Corbett winked at Ranulf, ‘who are always smiling at you. “Stephen”, the King declared. “Are you not distracted by beauty such as this?” The abbot replied that he was but he had his calling and they had theirs. His Grace laughed. “Have you ever loved, Stephen?”. The abbot grew sad. “Once, my lord, I did but the rose withered in a cold hard frost.” “Dead?” the King asked. “Oh yes,” Abbot Stephen replied. “And gone to God”.’

Ranulf listened with interest. He wished he had met Abbot Stephen, who seemed to have been a man after his own heart. Deep down Ranulf nursed great ambition. He wanted to be like Abbot Stephen: a warrior, a poet, a lover of fine things and beautiful women.

‘Ranulf, what’s the matter?’

‘Sorry, Master, just distracted.’

‘Aye.’ Corbett put the books down and picked up a piece of pork with his fingers. ‘Do you know, Ranulf, I suspect Abbot Stephen was distracted all his life. At first I thought it was by demons or all things Roman. Now, I’m beginning to believe it may have been by love.’