Corpse Candle

Chapter 9

Corbett led Ranulf and Chanson out of the line of trees which fringed the trackway to Harcourt Manor. Snow had fallen heavily during the night, blanketing everything in its white stillness. It lay heavy on ledges and cornices, swept up deep against the wall of this great timber and stone mansion. Harcourt Manor was well situated on the brow of a gently sloping hill, surrounded by its own demesne. Corbett had passed barns and granges, seen labourers out in the fields doing what they could in such inclement weather. A line of hunters had greeted them, the corpses of rabbits and other game slung from a pole. Corbett now studied Harcourt Manor: the old house had probably been destroyed and replaced with this three-storeyed building of grey ragstone, red-tiled roof and large windows, some of them filled with coloured glass. The stonemasons had added gargoyles and statues, and it was a place of obvious wealth and power. The manor was approached by sweeping stone steps which led up to double oaken doors. One of these was now pulled apart, as grooms and ostlers hurried round to take their horses. Corbett glimpsed a lady with a white wimple on her head, dressed in a dark-blue dress with a silver belt round her waist.

‘My name is Pendler.’

A small, red-faced man bustled up, cowl pulled tightly over his head to protect his ears from the cold. He looked Corbett over from head to toe. He could tell this visitor was important.

‘I know who they are.’ The woman’s voice cut clean through the air. ‘The King’s emissaries are always welcome. Sir Hugh. .’

Lady Margaret came and stood at the top of the steps. Corbett smiled, his breath hanging heavy in the air. He went up and kissed Lady Margaret’s proffered hand. It was soft and warm. She wore mittens against the cold but on one finger he glimpsed a sparkling amethyst ring.

‘Very much the courtier.’ Lady Margaret grasped his hand and led him forward. ‘And your companions, they are welcome too.’

At first glance Corbett considered Lady Margaret beautiful, despite the greying hair peeping from beneath the wimple, the furrows and lines in her creamy-skinned face. Her lips were full and red, her nose slightly pointed, her eyes large, grey and lustrous, amused but watchful.

‘You knew I was coming, Lady Margaret?’

‘Sir Hugh, everybody in the shire knows you are here with your henchmen Ranulf-atte-Newgate and Chanson the groom. You are at St Martin’s-in-the-Marsh? We have heard of the terrible murders there.’ Her eyes were no longer amused. She picked up the hem of her skirt. ‘You’d best come in.’

She stepped over the lintel and led Corbett into a dark oak-panelled hallway, warm and fragrant-smelling, its light was mirrored in the polished oak walls, the balustrade and newel post on the wide sweeping staircase. Servants hurried up to take Corbett’s cloak and war belt, after which Lady Margaret led her visitors into a small parlour. There was a window seat at one end, with the the shutters pulled back. The chamber was dominated by a huge carved hearth where a fire roared gustily. Lady Margaret gestured at a chair in front of this whilst she took the other. A servant led Chanson and Ranulf over to the window seat. A small table was set between Corbett and Lady Margaret. Plates of sweetmeats and sugared almonds were served whilst a scullion brought deep bowled cups of posset. Corbett took a cup and drank. The wine was hot, laced with nutmeg and other herbs: a welcome relief from the chill of his journey from St Martin’s. Lady Margaret sipped at hers, sitting back in the chair with her face slightly turned away. You have a great deal to hide, Corbett thought, you are welcoming but secretive. He stared round the chamber: its walls were half-panelled and above hung paintings, a crucifix and richly coloured cloths. Behind him a large Turkey carpet covered most of the floor. On each side of the fireplace were cupboards and, above these, rows of shelves bearing ornaments, statues, a gold crucifix and a triptych. He glanced back at the fire; its warmth made him relax and he stretched out his legs. Corbett was amused by the gargoyles on either side of the fireplace, which had women’s faces framed in chainmail and war-like helmets.

‘A fanciful notion of Sir Reginald’s father,’ Lady Margaret observed, following Corbett’s gaze. ‘The manor house is full of them. He had more than a fair sense of humour.’

She put the goblet on the table and laid the white napkin across her lap, smoothing it out, folding it and unfolding it.

‘Well, Sir Hugh, I am sure you aren’t here just out of courtesy.’ She turned to face him fully. ‘There is other business?’

‘Your friend Stephen Daubigny is dead.’

‘I had no friend called Stephen Daubigny,’ she replied quietly.

Lady Margaret stared across at Ranulf and Chanson in the window seat, both pretending to be distracted by something in the garden outside.

‘I do regret Abbot Stephen’s death.’

‘Murder, Madam! Sir Stephen Daubigny was murdered.’

‘Are you sure of that?’ Lady Margaret refolded her napkin.

‘He was found in his chamber with his own dagger thrust through his chest.’

‘I am sorry, Sir Hugh — no man should die like that.’ Lady Margaret looked away. ‘Abbot Stephen was a good man but, to me. .’ She shrugged one shoulder.

‘Did you like him?’

‘Abbot Stephen was my rival. He laid claim to Falcon Brook, and that tiresome Prior Cuthbert has also hinted that a codicil existed whereby St Martin’s could claim more of our land. I informed him that my lawyers would fight such claims tooth and nail in the Court of Chancery.’

‘Did you ever meet Abbot Stephen?’

‘On occasions, from afar. But no, Sir Hugh, I did not like him and he did not like me.’

‘Because he was an abbot who claimed some of your lands? Or because he was Sir Stephen Daubigny?’

‘Both.’

Corbett sipped from his wine and deliberately moved his chair to the side to get a better view. Lady Margaret reminded him of some of the noble widows at Edward’s court: graceful, comely, charming but with a tart tongue and a will of steel.

‘You manage these estates yourself?’

‘I have stewards, bailiffs.’ She smiled impishly. ‘And, above all, lawyers.’

‘And you never married again?’

Lady Margaret blinked. ‘Oh, Sir Hugh,’ she murmured, ‘don’t play games with me.’ She leaned over and patted his hand. ‘I met you at court once. We were not introduced so don’t be embarrassed that you can’t recall my name or face. It was three years ago, on the Feast of the Epiphany, at a Crown-Wearing ceremony. You know how Edward loves such occasions?’

Corbett laughed softly.

‘He was there charging about as he always did. Golden-haired Edward,’ she added wistfully, ‘with a young man’s mind and an old man’s body. Lord, how he’s changed, eh, with his iron-grey hair? I remember him in his youth: he reminded me of a golden leopard.’ She smiled. ‘A magnificent animal, coiled and ready to spring. Anyway, His Grace did as he always did: he hugged and kissed me. I looked over his shoulder and saw a tall, dark-faced, sad-eyed man dressed like a priest near the door. “Who’s that?” I asked the King. “Oh, that’s Corbett my hawk.” Edward replied. “He’d prefer to fly than bow and peck at court”.’

Corbett smiled.

‘You don’t like the court, Sir Hugh?’

‘Sometimes I find it difficult, Madam.’ Corbett ignored Ranulf’s sharp bark of laughter. ‘Everything is shadows with very little substance.’

‘You are married?’ Lady Margaret asked.

Corbett’s smile answered the question.

‘As for my remarriage,’ she continued, ‘I am sure the King told you. Oh, he wanted me to marry this or that person, but I begged him, for the sake of Reginald, to excuse me and he agreed.’ She chewed the corner of her lip. ‘I also quoted canon law, and you know how our King loves the law. There is no evidence, I pointed out, that Sir Reginald is dead so I may not be a widow.’

‘Do you think he is dead, Madam? Do you consider him so?’

‘Yes and no. In the harsh light of reason I know he must be, otherwise he would have returned. But, in my heart, never!’

The words came out almost as a shout.

‘Madam,’ Corbett chose his words carefully, ‘I am here to question you on that, as well as to learn all you know about Sir Stephen Daubigny.’

Lady Margaret put her hands on the arms of the chair and rocked herself backwards and forwards.

‘It is painful,’ Corbett added, ‘but hideous murders are occurring at St Martin’s. Abbot Stephen’s was the first. Now members of the Abbey Concilium are being slain, each hideously branded.’ He paused. ‘They have died by poison, and by arrow, whilst Brother Gildas, the mason, had his brain crushed with a rock.’

Lady Margaret gasped and closed her eyes. She tried to stop it but she began to tremble. She took a deep breath, opened her eyes and picked up the posset cup, cradling it in her hands.

‘Please, Madam, tell me of Sir Stephen?’

‘He and Reginald were like brothers. Remember the Book of Proverbs: “Brothers united are as a fortress”? Well, that’s how it was. Stephen came from a noble but poor family. His parents died young and Reginald’s father took him in, as an act of kindness. So,’ she sighed, ‘they were raised as brothers. When civil war broke out between Edward and his barons, led by De Montfort, Reginald and Stephen flocked to the royal banner. Edward called them his young lions. They were his men in peace and war, enduring all the hardships and privations of campaign. As you know, on one occasion, Stephen saved the King’s life. The war ended and, to the victors, came the spoils. Reginald’s estates were extended: he gained meadows and pastures, granges and barns. I own properties in Cornwall, Somerset, South Yorkshire and Kent. Stephen also prospered. He was given rebels’ estates in Lincolnshire and Norfolk. They both became knight bannerets, members of the King’s Council. They shared Edward’s chamber, and were of that select band of knights who were allowed to carry arms in his presence. They loved each other and Edward loved them both: anything they wanted, they could have. My family come from Lincolnshire. The King arranged our marriage. I was only seventeen but when I met Sir Reginald I fell in love. He was kind and gentle, albeit a born warrior. Oh, he could bore you to death with details about the hunt or the virtues of this war horse compared to another, yet he was a good man.’

‘And Sir Stephen?’

‘Ah yes! The briar in the garden patch, the thorn on the rose.’ Lady Margaret took a deep breath. ‘I disliked him from the start: hot-eyed, impetuous, slightly mocking. Sir Hugh, I don’t think he believed in anything except the King, Sir Reginald and his own sword arm.’

‘Anything?’ Corbett queried.

‘Oh, he’d go to Mass and chat through it, if he didn’t fall asleep. Daubigny had little time for priests or religion. He wasn’t blasphemous or offensive, just cynical and mocking. Nobody was more surprised than I when he entered St Martin’s.’

‘And you continued to dislike him?’

‘Sir Hugh, sometimes I hated him.’ Lady Margaret turned, her face now harsh, eyes narrowed, lips set in a determined line. ‘Reginald talked about him continuously and they couldn’t bear to be apart for any length of time. Not a Christmas, Easter, Midsummer or Michaelmas passed without Sir Stephen in attendance. Sometimes I felt as if I was married to two not one man.’

‘Was he mocking towards you?’

‘He wasn’t lecherous, just hot-eyed and slightly insolent. I think he resented Reginald’s marriage. The years passed. Sir Stephen was still employed on various tasks by the King. When he went away, I fell to my knees and thanked Le Bon Seigneur but he always came back.’ Lady Margaret spat the words out.

‘And Sir Reginald?’

‘We were happy.’

‘How many years were you married?’

‘Five.’

‘And what of Sir Reginald’s disappearance?’

‘In my heart I have always blamed Daubigny. You have heard, Sir Hugh, about the legend of Arthur and his knights. Well, Reginald loved such tales. He collected the stories, and never turned away a troubadour or a minstrel. Stephen fed him these fancies like a man would his dog. I grew alarmed. Sir Reginald nourished a great dream to go on crusade, and then, with the Turks so successful in Outremer, Sir Reginald considered travelling east to join the Teutonic knights in their war against the heathen along the Eastern March. I was aghast. I begged him not to go. It was the only matter over which we quarrelled, sometimes bitterly.’ Lady Margaret sipped the posset cup. ‘One midsummer Stephen arrived here. He and Reginald were like two mischievous schoolboys. They put their heads together and began to plan their crusade. First they would hold a tournament, a tourney here at Harcourt Manor in one of our great meadows. Knights from all over the shire were invited. The feasting and celebrations lasted for days. Reginald was a redoubtable jouster, a master of the tournament. He became full of excitement, talking more and more about his crusade. The wine drank in Sir Stephen’s company did not help matters. On the last day of the tournament Reginald told me he would definitely be leaving. We quarrelled late that evening. He slept in a different chamber. The next morning he was gone.’

Lady Margaret cradled the wine goblet and stared into the fire, rocking herself backwards and forwards.

‘Madam, how did he leave?’

‘He took one war horse, a sumpter pony, money, provisions and clothing. He was seen by some of the tenants but Reginald often travelled-’

‘They actually saw him?’ Corbett interrupted.

‘Well, my husband seemed to be in a hurry, and did not even pause to raise his hand but they recognised his horse and his livery. No one could mistake those.’

‘He took no groom or manservant?’

‘Nobody. At first I thought he was sulking, indulging in some madcap scheme and that he would soon return. A week passed and I grew alarmed. Sir Stephen was still here. He made careful enquiries. The taverner at the Lantern-in-the-Woods had glimpsed my husband, and he’d also been seen at Hunstanton where he had taken ship for Dodrecht. He paid good silver for he took his horse and sumpter pony with him.’

‘And Daubigny?’

‘I turned on him. I screamed abuse and threats. I told him it was all his fault and that the least he could do was help me. I left stewards in charge of Harcourt and then Sir Stephen and I followed the same route as my husband did. We journeyed to Hunstanton and endured the most vile sea voyage to Dordrecht. At first we met with good news. Sir Stephen went out and spoke to the burgesses and mayor. He brought back a chapman who definitely swore he had seen Sir Reginald and that my husband had declared he was determined to travel to the Eastern March. We followed but could find no trace. Sir Stephen said he could make little sense of it. After three months he left me on the border outside Cologne.’

‘Why there?’ Corbett asked.

‘So far our journey had been relatively easy. However, Daubigny argued that once we entered the wastelands and the deep forests of Eastern Germany, our task would be impossible. He claimed we should stay in Cologne and wait. I refused. We quarrelled and he left. I cursed him as a coward, a varlet, a caitiff but. .’

‘But what?’ Corbett asked.

‘He had done what he could. He had been an honourable companion and, on reflection, years later, I realised he was correct. I hired a small household and continued my search. I was away a full year and then came home. By then Stephen Daubigny had changed. No longer the knight errant, the fearsome warrior, he had given up sword and shield, taken the vows of a monk and entered St Martin’s-in-the-Marsh.’

‘And you never met again?’

‘I wrote him one letter. I reminded him that he was responsible for my husband’s disappearance and that I did not wish to see or hear from him again. He never replied.’

‘And Sir Reginald?’

‘From the moment he left Harcourt to this very hour, I have neither seen nor heard from him again. Sometimes rumours come in, that he has been glimpsed in one place or another; nothing more than fanciful tales, not worth a farthing of sense. I became a widow. I consider myself such.’

‘And Daubigny?’

‘Oh, I watched from afar. The King was bemused but Stephen was able. I watched his ascendancy with the help of royal patronage to sub-prior and eventually Father Abbot. Of course we had business dealings, especially after Cuthbert became Prior. Now, Sir Hugh, there’s a jackdaw in human flesh. He wanted this and he wanted that. Wasn’t Falcon Brook really the property of the abbey? Cuthbert also informed me he was searching for the codicil and I told him he could go hang. Nevertheless, he was insistent. Insults seemed to have as much effect on him as arrows against a shield.’ She smiled. ‘I listened to his chatter. How the Abbey of St Martin’s did not have a relic, about the burial mound, and how Bloody Meadow could be used for the site of a guesthouse.’

‘Were you concerned?’

Lady Margaret laughed and turned to face Corbett squarely.

‘Concerned, Sir Hugh? There’s not a monk under heaven I fear. What do I care if some mouldy bones are placed in a silver casket? As far as I am concerned, they can build a cathedral in Bloody Meadow, provided they do not interfere with my demesne or infringe my seigneurial rights.’

Corbett drained the posset and put the cup back on the table. He paused as he heard shouting outside but Lady Margaret ignored this.

‘And you know nothing about these heinous murders?’

‘Sir Hugh, I know nothing about St Martin’s-in-the-Marsh that you don’t, probably less.’

Corbett felt heavy-eyed, sleepy after the wine. He rubbed his eyes. Just for a moment he felt as if he was back in Leighton Manor and wished to God he was. Lady Margaret Harcourt was of implacable will, yet there was something puzzling about what she had said, as if she was describing a dream rather than what actually happened in the past. He studied her face and, although he could not remember meeting her, now, up close, she looked familiar: the shift in her eyes, the way she spoke. Corbett heard Ranulf cough, and he pulled himself up in his chair.

‘So, you had nothing to do with Abbot Stephen?’

‘Why should I? He was a priest. I am a widow.’

‘But the marshes?’ Corbett insisted. ‘They contain a close community?’

‘There are outlaws in the forest.’ Lady Margaret smiled. ‘That doesn’t mean I have to meet them. Oh, by the way, Sir Hugh,’ she glanced across at Ranulf, ‘I understand your henchmen killed four such men, leaving their bodies like a farmer would rats at the side of a trackway. The news is all over the area. People are pleased, though they hide their smiles behind their fingers. Nevertheless, you should be careful. Oh yes,’ she paused, ‘the outlaw leader, Scaribrick, claims to be a small tenant farmer. My steward Pendler believes he organises and leads these wolf’s-heads. You have been to the Lantern-in-the-Woods?’

‘No, but my henchmen have.’

‘Well, according to common report,’ Lady Margaret seemed more relaxed now they had moved away from the bloody doings at the abbey, ‘Scaribrick was at the Lantern-in-the-Woods last night, breathing threats and curses. You killed four of his men, and made the rest look fools; they are bullyboys used to swaggering around, receiving admiring glances from that hot-eyed wench Blanche.’

Corbett hid his unease.

‘You seem very well informed, Madam.’

‘I am a seigneur in my own right, Sir Hugh. I look after my tenants and they tell me what’s going on.’

‘You don’t have tenants at the Abbey of St Martin’s?’

‘No, but I do have the Watcher by the Gates, our self-proclaimed hermit. He worked here once, you know. What was his name? Ah yes, Salyiem! He claims to be the descendant of a French lord. He was a minor official, a bailiff or reeve, I forget which. Sir Reginald liked him. Salyiem’s wife died of some contagion so he went on his travels. When he returned, I offered him a cottage and some work, but the sun had turned his wits. He built that bothy against the abbey wall, with Abbot Stephen’s permission. I don’t know what Salyiem really is. A man of God? A warlock? Or a madcap? He often comes to our kitchens when, as he says, he tires of the monks. He gives us all the news. For the last few days he has been chattering like a magpie.’

‘And does he tell you about the mysterious horn-blower?’

‘Ah yes.’

‘Have you searched for him?’ Corbett demanded.

Lady Margaret shrugged. ‘I don’t believe, Sir Hugh, in legends about wood-goblins and sprites. Or that the demon ghost of Sir Geoffrey Mandeville prowls the marshes.’

‘So, the horn-blower is flesh and blood?’

‘Of course! Apparently,’ she continued, ‘Mandeville used to have a standard-bearer, a herald, a trumpeter who always proclaimed his evil lord’s arrival in the area. As you know, Mandeville was killed and his soul gone to hell. However, Daubigny, when he was a young knight, rather liked the story. Whenever he approached Harcourt Manor, he’d stop and bray his hunting horn.’ Her lips compressed in annoyance. ‘He used to come at all hours. Sir Reginald thought it was a great joke. He’d go to the window and answer, blowing likewise on a hunting horn.’

‘But Sir Stephen’s dead and the horn can still be heard late at night.’

‘I know, I have sent out bailiffs but they cannot discover who it is. One of these days I’ll send them down to the Watcher by the Gates.’

‘Do you think it’s him?’

‘It must be. I know he has a hunting horn. He is always chattering about what he hears at night. He loves to agitate the maids with his gossip.’

Corbett silently promised himself a visit to this eccentric hermit.

‘The marshes are full of such incidents,’ Lady Margaret continued absentmindedly. ‘Ghastly stories about demon riders, the howling of beasts from hell. You know about the Corpse Candles?’

Corbett nodded.

‘Be wary of them! Scaribrick has been known to use lanterns and lights at night to trick unwary travellers from their paths.’

Corbett sat and watched a log snap and break in the hearth. His conversation with Lady Margaret had provided no light, nothing new, yet he was certain she could tell him more. He felt as if he had entered a dark chamber, with the lights doused, the windows firmly shuttered. He was just stumbling around, feeling his way, tripping and slipping.

Corbett reflected, staring into the fire: Lady Margaret had everything prepared, the story came tripping off her tongue like the lines of some mummery but for what reason? To hide her own grief? To conceal, perhaps, her deep hatred for Abbot Stephen? She showed little grief at his going and no interest in the details of that hideous death: how a man, who once loved her husband, had a dagger thrust deep into his chest.

‘Will you stay the day?’ Lady Margaret murmured.

‘No, my lady. However, I would like to return to the question of Sir Stephen Daubigny. Madam,’ Corbett chose his words carefully, ‘what of the relationship between Sir Stephen and your husband?’

‘What are you implying, clerk?’ Lady Margaret lifted her hand deprecatingly. ‘I shouldn’t really be angry. So many years have passed. But, yes, there were whispers, malicious gossip that the love between them was like that of David and Jonathan in the bible.’

‘And was it true?’

‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘Sir Stephen was a lady’s man, heart, body and soul. He loved nothing more than a teasing dalliance. It was all part of being a knight errant, a troubadour. Daubigny knew all about the courts of love, the songs and poems from Provence. Moreover, he did fall in love.’

‘Yes, I thought he did,’ Corbett interrupted. ‘I found a book in the abbey library, which had in the back a love poem in Abbot Stephen’s hand.’

‘A poem, Sir Hugh? Do you recall it?’

Corbett closed his eyes. ‘I only read it quickly. Something about: “In my youth I served my time, in kissing and love-making. Now I must retreat, I feel my heart is breaking”. .’

Lady Margaret leaned forward: try as she might she could not stop her lower lip quivering, tears pricking her eyes.

‘So long ago,’ she whispered, ‘Reginald use to write love poetry to me.’ She paused, composing herself. ‘Couplets, quatrains, verses and odes.’

‘And Daubigny’s great love?’

‘I know little about her, Sir Hugh. Reginald told me a few of the details, just before he disappeared. She was a young woman from noble family — I think her name was Heloise Argenteuil. Stephen fell deeply in love with her but she did not respond, and would have nothing to do with him.’ Lady Margaret stared blankly at the wall above the hearth. ‘She forsook the world and entered a convent, I forget which one, but it was an enclosed community which turned Sir Stephen away. I suppose that was another reason for our enmity: whilst Sir Stephen was with me across the seas, Heloise died and was buried in the convent grounds. Perhaps that turned his mind, tipped his wits. He was never the same again.’

‘And all things Roman?’ Corbett demanded.

‘Ah yes.’ Lady Margaret touched the white wimple on her head, re-arranging its drapes and folds. ‘Now, that did fascinate Sir Stephen. During the war against de Montfort, Sir Stephen and my husband had to go into hiding. According to one story, they sheltered in a forest, somewhere in the south-west, and stumbled upon the ruins of a Roman house or villa. Stephen never forgot the beautiful mosaics and pictures. After the war, he spent time visiting the Halls of Oxford and Cambridge, the cathedral schools, begging librarians and archivists for the loan of manuscripts on anything Roman.’

‘Sir Stephen was a scholar?’

‘Yes, both he and Sir Reginald attended Merton Hall in Oxford. When he talked about the ancient times,’ she continued, ‘I’ll be honest, Sir Hugh, he became a different man, no longer the arrogant knight or the witty courtier. Apart from his love for Heloise and his regard for my husband, the only time he showed true feelings were for “all things Roman”, which was his favourite expression.’

‘And he continued that interest as a monk, the only link with his former life?’

‘Sir Hugh,’ Lady Margaret put the cup she had been cradling back on the table, ‘I welcome you but I find your visit upsetting. Perhaps, if there is nothing more?’

She got to her feet and extended a hand. Corbett grasped it and kissed her fingers. Despite the fire they felt ice cold.

‘I am sorry to have troubled you, Madam, but. .’

‘I know, I know,’ she retorted, ‘if I recall anything, Sir Hugh, I will let you know.’

Ranulf and Chanson got to their feet. Lady Margaret grasped Corbett by the elbow.

‘There is one thing. The abbey has another visitor, Archdeacon Adrian Wallasby? I heard of his arrival. He had no love for Abbot Stephen.’

‘I know that.’ Corbett laughed. ‘They were rivals on the field of Academe.’

‘They were more than that.’

Corbett stopped, his hand on the latch of the door.

‘Madam?’

‘Hasn’t Archdeacon Adrian told you?’ she teased. ‘He comes from these parts. He and Daubigny went to the same cathedral school. More than just theological disputation separated them. There was some incident in their youth, hot words which led to blows. Abbot Stephen may have forgotten but I don’t think Wallasby did.’

She led Corbett out into the hallway. A steward brought their cloaks and war belts. Lady Margaret asked about what else was happening in the abbey and Corbett replied absentmindedly. They went out onto the steps. A groom brought their horses round. They whinnied and stamped in the ice-cold air, steam and breath rising like small clouds. Corbett stared up at the sky, which was grey and lowering, threatening more snow. A cold wind whipped their faces.

‘A safe journey, Sir Hugh.’

Lady Margaret extended her hand. Corbett kissed it again. He was about to go down the steps when a line of ragged men and women came out of the copse of trees which fringed the path down to the main gate. Corbett stared in amazement. There were thirty or forty people in all, leading short, shaggy ponies, their belongings piled high and lashed with ropes. They walked purposefully towards the manor. Pendler the steward came hurrying from the stables behind the house.

‘My lady, we have visitors.’

‘No, Pendler,’ she called merrily back, ‘we have guests!’

Corbett stared in astonishment as the motley collection of beggars drew nearer. They were followed by a cart, its wheels shaking and creaking, pulled by a thin-ribbed horse which looked as if it hadn’t eaten for days. The beggars were cloaked in a collection of rags, their heads and faces almost muffled. The leader came forward, hands raised, and greeted Lady Margaret. Corbett couldn’t decide whether they were travellers or Moon people, gypsies or an intinerant band of travelling mummers.

‘My lady, I did not know you were entertaining?’

Lady Margaret smiled and shook her head.

‘They look cold,’ she murmured. ‘They are travellers, Corbett. They have free passage across my demesne. They will be welcome here until the thaw comes. We give them food and drink, tend their horses, and provide them with fresh clothes.’

‘An act of great charity, my lady.’

‘Not really, Sir Hugh, more of compassion. I know what it is to travel on a hopeless quest and I have more than enough to share with them. Now I must tend to them.’

Corbett took the hint. He went down the steps, grasped the reins of his horse and pulled himself up into the saddle. His companions did likewise. Corbett lifted his hand in salutation, pulled up his cowl and turned his horse. Lady Margaret, however, was already tripping down the steps, eager to greet the travellers. Corbett was almost at the bend leading down to the gateway when he heard his name being called. Pendler the steward came hurrying up, slipping in the snow. He grasped Corbett’s stirrup and stared up, eyes watering.

‘A message from the Lady Margaret,’ he gasped. ‘A warning! In their approach to the manor, the travellers saw men in the forest. They are not of this estate. She tells you to be careful!’

Corbett leaned down and patted his hand.

‘Thank Lady Margaret, we will take care.’ He held the man’s hand. ‘Your mistress is kind and charitable. How long has this been going on?’

‘Oh, for a number of years. Longer than I can think. My mistress is a saint, Sir Hugh.’ He pulled his hand away. ‘And there are few of those.’

Corbett stared back towards the manor. Lady Margaret was now in the centre of the travellers. He gathered his reins, lost in thought, and led his companions towards the main gates.

Brother Richard the almoner came out from his Chamber of Accounts and stood in the small bricked courtyard. He stared up at the sky and quietly cursed the prospect of more snow. After the service of divine office, all lay quiet. Despite the chaos and bloody murder, the brothers were trying to adhere to their routine, working in the scriptorium of the cloister, the library or the infirmary. In a way Brother Richard was pleased at the harsh, cold weather. During the winter months visitors to the abbey were rare. He quietly echoed Prior Cuthbert’s belief that the sooner the royal clerks went the better. Perhaps the murders would end then? An idle thought.

Brother Richard sighed and closed the door of his chamber. He pulled up his cowl and reluctantly prepared to carry out the task Prior Cuthbert had assigned him. Since poor Gildas’s death, no one had entered the stonemason’s workshop. Yet a tally had to be made, and accounts drawn up. The almoner slipped through the snow, stopped and cursed. He had forgotten his writing wallet. He returned to his chamber, picked this up from a bench and placed his cowl over his head. He was about to leave when he saw the thick ash cane in the corner. Brother Richard grasped this. It would keep him steady in the snow as well as act as protection against any would-be attacker. Yet who had a quarrel with him? Brother Richard left and made his way carefully across to Gildas’s workshop. The almoner was confused. Why were these hideous murders taking place? Who had a grudge against poor Francis the librarian? Or hard-working Gildas? Even Hamo the sub-prior, an officious little man but kindly enough in his own way? And who would have a grudge against him? Richard had been a man-at-arms, an archer who had served in both Wales and Gascony. He really believed he had a call from God and he tried to live the life of a holy monk. True, he thought, as he swung the ash cane, he had his weaknesses. Women, the allure of soft flesh. Well, temptation came and went like a dream in the night. He did like his food, particularly those golden, tasty crusty pies, a delicacy of the abbey kitchens; he also had a weakness for the sweet white flesh of capon and the crackle of highly flavoured pork.

By the time he’d reached the workshop, Brother Richard’s mouth was watering. He took a bundle of keys, opened the door and went in. He looked round and felt a lump in his throat. This had been Gildas’s kingdom. A cheery, hard-working monk, Gildas had loved to talk about stone and building. Now he was gone, his head brutally smashed in. Brother Richard went slowly round the chamber, touching mallets, hammers, chisels, caressing the piece of stone Gildas had been working on. He went into the office at the far end of the workshop. Gildas’s manuscripts lay open on the table, all covered in intricate drawings, and calculations. There was even a tankard on the table, half full of stale ale. Brother Richard sighed and sat down. He put his writing bag on the floor and began to pull the manuscripts towards him. He tried to make sense of them but he felt uneasy. He went back into the workshop. He felt a draught of cold air and realised he had left the door unlocked.

‘No, no, I’ll leave it,’ he whispered. If anything happened he might wish to get out quickly. He didn’t want to die trapped like Brother Francis. The almoner walked round. He still felt uncomfortable as if he was intruding. He glimpsed a shiny brass vase high on the shelf. He smiled. In summer Gildas always took this out and filled it with flowers. The almoner went across and took it down, holding it up, turning it to catch the light. As he did so, he glimpsed a shadow in the reflection. He turned quickly and gaped in terror. Murder had slunk in like a poacher; the awesome figure before him was dressed in the grey robe of a Benedictine but his face was covered by a red leather mask. Black gauntleted hands held a dagger in one and a club in the other. The assassin lurched forward, knife snaking out. Brother Richard, grasping the brass vase, struck out wildly and parried the blow. The assailant stepped back. Brother Richard realised he was wearing soft leather boots. The almoner tried to control his panic, recalling his days as a soldier. He couldn’t really see the man’s eyes but the vase he grasped had saved his life. If he hadn’t turned in that second of time. . Again the assailant came at him but Brother Richard composed himself. He used the vase as a war club: steel and brass clanged together shattering the silence. The red-masked attacker tried once more — a parry, a feint. Brother Richard, torn between fear and courage, lashed back. The attacker drew off. He came dancing forward. Brother Richard gave a loud shout, stepped away and stumbled. He expected his assailant to take full advantage. He twisted round, only to see his red-masked attacker flee towards the door.