Corpse Candle

Chapter 10

‘Guard us as thou wouldst the apple of thine eye. Under the shadow of thy wings keep us safe.’

Corbett mouthed the verse from the psalms as they made their way along the trackway. It was now almost noon. The ground underfoot was slushy and wet, and the horses kept slipping. On either side stretched snow-filled fields, white empty expanses, their eerie silence, which so unnerved Ranulf, broken only by the sharp cawing of circling crows and rooks. Chanson rode slightly behind Corbett, with Ranulf a little distance ahead. Corbett tried to hide his unease. They were in open countryside, with hedges on either side broken now and again by wide gaps, cut through for drovers and shepherds. The warning about Scaribrick and his outlaws had slightly unnerved Corbett. He’d thought of returning and asking Lady Margaret for an escort but that would be unfair. Manor tenants and officials were not soldiers. They would be reluctant to take up arms against men with whom they were compelled to live. He could tell by the way Ranulf sat rigid in his saddle that his henchman was also highly wary. Ahead of them rose a dark mass of trees on either side of the path. Corbett made sure his sword slipped easily in and out of its scabbard. Without warning Ranulf broke into a trot, only to rein in and jump down; he raised his horse’s left hind leg to check on the hoof.

‘Don’t be startled,’ he hissed, not looking up. ‘Get down and join me.’

Corbett and Chanson obeyed. Ranulf’s green eyes gleamed at the prospect of a fight.

‘They are waiting up ahead,’ he said, ‘within the trees.’

‘How do you know?’ Corbett demanded. ‘There was no flurry of birds?’

‘It’s not the birds,’ Ranulf retorted. ‘There’s a tree, covered in snow, across the trackway. No, Chanson, don’t look. Pretend something’s wrong with my horse.’

The groom obeyed.

‘You saw it?’ Corbett asked.

‘I glimpsed it. The trackway dips then rises. It’s on top of the rise.’

‘It could be the work of the assassin from St Martin’s.’ Chanson murmured.

‘Don’t be stupid!’ Ranulf let his horse’s leg fall and patted its neck. ‘It wasn’t there when we came by and it takes more than one man to fell a tree and drag it out. There’s been no fresh snowfall, so where did the snow on top come from? I didn’t actually see the trunk, just the branches to one side. Well, Master, what do you recommend?’

‘We could go back and seek help but I am not sure what assistance could be given. We could try and find another route but we might become lost and the outlaws would certainly pursue us.’ Corbett steadied his voice. ‘What I recommend, Ranulf, is that we mount and pretend there is something wrong with your horse. We will ride either side of you as if in deep conversation and then, at my word, charge. However, we must break up. Ranulf, you go first, Chanson second, I’ll go last. If the obstacle is too high or too dangerous we’ll try and go round it: that’s up to you to decide.’

Ranulf kept his back turned to the trees.

‘We’ll probably have to go round it,’ he declared. ‘Watch your horses’ footing. Either way, we are going to have to fight our way through.’

Ranulf eased his own sword and dagger out.

‘Chanson, don’t show any weapon until you are round the obstacle. If necessary, lash out with your boot. They will be armed with bows and arrows.’ Ranulf grasped Chanson’s wrist. ‘It doesn’t make them skilled bowmen, my master of the horse. They are probably used to loosing at a standing target. They will also be cold, their fingers numb. There’s no other way — prayer might help.’

They mounted their horses, Ranulf in the centre. Corbett acted as if he was concerned, paying attention to his henchman’s horse whilst, at the same time, trying to control the fear and panic which curled his stomach and set his heart beating faster. He glanced up. The shadowy avenue of trees was drawing closer. He could make out the tree trunk which had been cut down, dragged across the path and covered with a powdering of snow. Images, memories of the war in Wales, rose up to haunt him. Dark valleys, hillsides covered in snow, wild tribesmen breaking out of the brooding line of trees. This would be similar. He closed his eyes and said a quick prayer. They were drawing closer. The silence was ominous, broken not even by a bird call. He glanced up again, his heart sank. The tree had been pulled across at an angle: on the right it was too high to jump.

‘Ranulf, go for the left,’ he murmured, ‘but take care of any ditch.’

Ranulf abruptly spurred forward, his horse breaking into a canter, then into a gallop. Chanson followed. Corbett came next. His world narrowed to an awareness only of the trees on either side and the pounding hooves of their horses. They drew closer. Ranulf abruptly moved to the left. In one leap he cleared the obstacle. Chanson did likewise. Even as he did so, arrows whipped through the air. Corbett followed suit. His horse cleared the fallen tree but landed clumsily: it skittered, iron hooves scrambling on the forest path. Corbett’s right foot broke loose from its stirrup. He was thrown sideways and had to fight to regain his balance. His horse reared up, and Corbett was aware of shouts, and cries. He managed to control his mount but it turned abruptly as if it wanted to go back. Men came rushing out of the trees. An arrow flew by Corbett’s face. He was aware of a whirl of faces. Someone came from behind but his war horse, now angry, lashed out with its back legs. The man’s scream rent the air even as Corbett drew his sword. A hooded face came round his horse’s head. Corbett swiped with his sword, slicing the man from eye to chin. Ranulf and Chanson joined the fray. It was a bloody, bitter struggle, with the three horsemen fighting off assailants desperate to claw them out of the saddle. Corbett felt a slight pain in his right thigh and drove the pommel of his sword into a masked outlaw’s face. They were moving forward. The horses settled down. Men garbed in brown and green, their faces covered by hideous masks, clustered about. Chanson was hacking clumsily with his sword but, in the thick of the press, he wreaked as much damage as the skilful, silent swordplay of Ranulf, his bloodlust fully roused.

‘Ride!’ Corbett shouted.

He dug his spurs in. He was aware of Chanson following; Ranulf left last. He followed a man staggering away and, bringing his sword down, cleft him clear through the skull. Then he, like Corbett, galloped low in the saddle up the forest path, arrows whipping above them. They rode until they were safe. Corbett reined in. He was sweat-soaked, his stomach lurching so badly he felt he was going to be sick. Chanson, head bowed, was coughing and retching. If it hadn’t been for Ranulf he would have fallen from the saddle. Corbett began to tremble. It took three attempts before he could sheath his sword, which seemed to have become part of his hand. He checked his horse and looked at his leg. He could see no blood or cut and realised he must have been struck by a club or the pommel of a sword. The Clerk of the Green Wax was composed and impassive. He betrayed no sign of the conflict except the occasional gasp. However, his face was white, his lips a thin bloodless line, his green, cat-like eyes full of fury. Once he made sure Chanson was well, Ranulf dismounted. He cleaned his sword in the snow, picking up handfuls to wash spots of blood and gore from his saddle and harness.

‘You did well, Chanson!’ he called out.

‘Shouldn’t we move on?’ the groom mumbled. ‘They may pursue us.’

Corbett turned his horse and looked down the forest path.

‘I doubt it,’ Ranulf jibed. ‘How many do you think there were, Sir Hugh? About a baker’s dozen, eh? Five at least dropped. They’ll be dead by nightfall. Two or three others suffered wounds. They have had enough for one day. We took them by surprise.’ He laughed sharply. ‘Thought we’d dismount, eh? They’ll be scuttling like rabbits into the trees. They’ll tend their wounds and slink back to the Lantern-in-the-Woods to describe what brave warriors they are.’

Corbett half listened. He felt cold and tired, a sleepy exhaustion which he recognised as the aftermath of battle.

‘Although it’s a place of terror,’ Chanson spoke up, ‘I think we should go back to the abbey. I want some wine, and hot broth, then to lie on my bed and wrap the coverlet round me.’

Ranulf sheathed his sword and leapt into the saddle.

‘You seem as fresh as a spring flower,’ Corbett teased.

His henchman stared coolly back.

‘You enjoyed that, didn’t you?’ Corbett murmured. He leaned down and patted his horse’s sweat-soaked neck.

‘I enjoyed dispensing well-deserved justice to those wolf’s-heads,’ Ranulf declared. ‘I glimpsed Scaribrick the leader. He didn’t take part in the fight. He was under the trees watching it all.’ He gathered up his reins. ‘Well, Master, where to now?’

‘We’ll go back to the abbey but, first, we’ll visit the Watcher by the Gates.’ Corbett ignored Chanson’s groan. ‘We have to see him; he could be our assassin, as much as any monk!’

Ranulf turned his horse. ‘Then, as the priests say, Procedamus in Pace — let us go forward in peace.’

Corbett followed Ranulf. He pulled his cowl back up, tugging his cloak tighter about him. He tried to think of Maeve, his children, the manor of Leighton on a warm summer’s day, of feasts and banquets as he tried to control the terrors which still shook him. He had been in many fights. It was always the same, especially with these sinister ambushes: the sudden lunge of knife and sword; the assassin’s arrow whipping through the air. He let his body relax. All he was conscious of was the thinning trees giving way to snow-filled fields, the occasional bird call or sudden flurry in the ditches on either side.

‘And there it is!’ Ranulf shouted.

They had now entered the abbey demesne: the spire of its church soared up against the grey clouds. Corbett could make out the tiled roofs, the broad gables and fretted stonework of the abbey buildings above the grey curtain wall. They passed Bloody Meadow. Corbett reined in and peered through the oak trees at the burial mound in the centre.

‘If the living can’t help me,’ he whispered, ‘perhaps the dead will?’

They went on, past the main gateway, following the wall. Ranulf abruptly reined in and pointed to the small wooden straw-thatched bothy, more like a cow byre, built against the wall near one of the postern gates. A black column of smoke rose from the hole in the roof. The ground outside was littered with broken pots, bits of bones and rags.

‘Not the cleanest or tidiest of men,’ Ranulf laughed. ‘But there’s our hermit. Sir Hugh, I wish you well.’ He turned his horse.

‘Where are you going?’ Corbett asked sharply.

‘I have business of my own,’ Ranulf replied.

And, before Corbett could object, he’d spurred his horse along the trackway.

‘Where is he going?’ Chanson wailed.

Corbett had his suspicions but he kept them to himself. He dismounted and led his horse along the wall. The Watcher came shambling out of his bothy. He stood, legs apart, hands on his hips.

‘You are just in time for some food!’ he bawled. ‘I wondered when you’d come. Bread and meat?’

He darted back in. Corbett glanced at Chanson: some colour had returned to the groom’s face.

‘Look after the horses!’ the clerk ordered.

He followed the Watcher inside. The bothy was cleaner and tidier than he had expected. It was very similar to a poor peasant’s cottage: earth-beaten floor, two makeshift windows on either wall, no door but instead a thick leather covering. The vent in the straw roof allowed smoke to escape from the fire built in a circle of stones. Above it was a bubbling iron pot on a makeshift tripod. The place smelt sweet, rather fragrant. In the far corner stood a trestle bed; in the other a large, battered chest, which bore pewter bowls, cups and jugs, all cracked and weathered.

‘Aren’t you afraid of fire?’ Corbett murmured.

‘Well, if there was one,’ the Watcher was now crouching by the pot stirring it with a wooden ladle, ‘I’d flee like a greyhound and come back and build another. The monks are very kind and so is Lady Margaret, as you probably discovered.’

He brought across a rather unsteady three-legged stool, pressing it down against the floor as if he wanted to make it more secure.

‘Sit there!’

He took a bowl and filled it, thrusting it into Corbett’s hands. There was a similar one for Chanson waiting outside with the horses. Corbett took his hornspoon out and dipped it in. The broth was very good: thick and dark with pieces of succulent meat, vegetables and bread. He even tasted a little salt. He sipped it carefully. The Watcher by the Gates came back, pulling down the leather awning, turning the hut gloomy.

‘I have an oil lamp,’ he offered.

‘Sit down,’ Corbett replied. ‘You were expecting me, weren’t you?’

The Watcher filled a bowl for himself and crouched cross-legged before Corbett, his face almost masked by the tangle of hair, as he slurped noisily on the broth.

‘Of course I expected you. You’re a clerk, aren’t you? You have questions to ask?’

‘You were baptised,’ Corbett began, ‘Salyiem. I understand from the Lady Margaret that you were born in this area and spent your youth on the Harcourt estates.’

The Watcher smacked his lips.

‘If Lady Margaret says that, then she’s right.’

‘Were you there when Sir Stephen and Sir Reginald were friends?’

‘Of course, they were comrades-in-arms.’

‘And Lady Margaret’s marriage was a happy one?’

The Watcher lowered his face and licked the broth from the battered spoon.

‘Of course.’

‘Were you there the day Sir Reginald disappeared?’

‘Of course.’ The Watcher lifted his head, his moustache and beard stained with the broth.

‘Of course! Of course! Of course!’ Corbett mimicked. ‘What were your duties at the manor house?’

‘I was what you call a reeve, more concerned with the household than the estates.’

‘And you remember the day Sir Reginald left?’

‘Yes, early in the morning, I helped him saddle his horse. Don’t look surprised,’ he continued, ‘that was my task.’

‘And it was definitely Sir Reginald?’

‘Who else could it be?’

‘And how was his manner? Was he shaved and changed?’

‘He loaded the sumpter pony himself, then he left with hardly a word. I did ask him where he was going. “A great adventure, Salyiem,” he replied and he was gone. I believe it was a Friday, the feast of St Iraeneus. The rest of the household were asleep because of the tournament. Sir Stephen was agitated, when Sir Reginald didn’t return after a few days, and that’s when the search began.’

‘Were you involved in it?’

‘Of course I was. I liked Sir Reginald. He was always very kind to me. He’d promised to make me his squire.’

Quick and easy, Corbett thought. He recalled the first time he had met the Watcher by the Gates: he had been tense and excited. Corbett almost had to pinch himself. Was this the same man? The Watcher spoke fluently, without pausing to recall or test his memory.

‘I even offered,’ he chattered on, ‘to accompany Sir Stephen and Lady Margaret but they refused.’

‘They took no servants?’

‘None whatsoever. A few months later Sir Stephen returned.’ The Watcher put down his bowl and gesticulated with his hands. ‘All changed he was, thinner, harsh-faced, no longer teasing or laughing. He came back to the hall. I couldn’t believe it when he announced that he was entering the Abbey of St Martin’s. A few months later Lady Margaret returned. She, too, had changed. She put on widow’s weeds, and hung black cloths round the hall. I realised life had altered forever: the summer and autumn had gone, a harsh winter had arrived. It wasn’t the same after that. Harcourt Manor became the haunt of ghosts. No more jousting or revelry, troubadours or minstrels, jesters or mummers men.’

‘So you went wandering?’

‘Aye, I went wandering. Across to France, down into Italy. I even visited Rome and took ship to Outremer. I came back a sick man and spent some time at St Bartholomew’s Hospital in Smithfield. Then I travelled north. When I arrived here Stephen Daubigny was Prior.’ He heard the horses whinny outside and glanced towards the door.

‘Chanson will look after them. Continue with your story.’

‘He greeted me like a long-lost brother. He allowed me to build this bothy.’ The Watcher pointed to the chest. ‘He even gave me a letter of permission and so I settled down. I have bread and meat, and the skies to watch. I love this place.’

‘Everybody likes you, don’t they?’ Corbett remarked. ‘Abbot Stephen was kind; Lady Margaret the same, though she’s compassionate to everyone, isn’t she?’

‘Always has been.’

‘Even before Sir Reginald disappeared?’

The Watcher opened his mouth, a guarded look in his eyes.

‘Well, no,’ he stumbled over his reply, ‘only since her return.’

‘And she and Sir Stephen never met again?’

‘Never once.’

‘But that’s strange? They had so much in common yet they never met?’ Corbett insisted. ‘Never exchanged letters?’

The hermit picked up his bowl.

‘I asked Abbot Stephen about that. He said the past was closed, blocked by a steel door. There was no handle, no lock, only death would open it.’

‘And Bloody Meadow?’ Corbett decided to change the conversation backwards and forwards as quickly as possible.

The Watcher leaned over to fill his bowl but it was only to gain more time.

‘What about Bloody Meadow?’ he declared. ‘It contains a burial mound, oaks on either side, the abbey wall at the top and Falcon Brook at the bottom.’

‘You said Abbot Stephen was going to change his mind?’

‘Well, yes he was. I told you he passed me one day and I. .’

‘Why should he tell you?’

‘I don’t know. Sometimes he did talk to me. He was worried about Bloody Meadow.’

‘Have you ever tried to dig into the tumulus, the funeral mound?’ Corbett asked.

The Watcher shook his head and slurped more broth into his mouth.

‘Oh no, that would have been blasphemous. Why?’ He became all agitated. ‘Has someone tried?’

‘Yes, they did.’

The Watcher put the bowl down and shot to his feet, almost doing a dance. ‘But that’s sacrilege!’ he spluttered. ‘It’s blasphemy!’

‘I suspect the person responsible is now dead, murdered.’

‘What? What’s that? One of the monks?’

‘No, Taverner.’

‘Ah!’ The Watcher sat down on the floor and grabbed his bowl. ‘Now, there’s a cunning man if there ever was one.’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘Oh,’ the Watcher tapped the side of his nose, ‘I can tell a rogue when I see one.’

‘Did Abbot Stephen know Taverner was a villain?’

‘He may have done but he was very trusting.’

‘Was Abbot Stephen worried or agitated in the days before he died?’

‘Murdered, Sir Hugh. He was murdered. And, yes, you could see he was very worried but he kept his own counsel. Only that morning, when he talked to me about giving in to the Concilium, he mentioned something about the Romans. I asked him what he meant but I couldn’t understand him. He replied it was a quotation from a philosopher called Sen-’

‘Seneca.’

‘Ah, that’s right.’ The Watcher cleaned his bowl with his fingers and licked them hungrily. ‘I can’t remember the quotation.’

Corbett stared at the bubbling pot. This hermit was a strange one. For an outsider he knew a great deal about Abbot Stephen; the clerk could sense a deep respect, even affection for the dead abbot. Why was this? Because of his kindness? Or what had happened years previously?

‘Did Abbot Stephen ever talk about Lady Margaret?’

‘Never.’

‘Or the great love of his life, a young woman called Heloise Argenteuil?’

‘Ah, Heloise!’ The hermit bit his lower lip.

‘Did you ever meet her?’

‘No, no, but we knew about Sir Stephen’s passion. She entered a convent and died and that was the end of the matter.’

‘Do you think Heloise’s death turned Abbot Stephen’s mind? Led him to become a monk and a priest?’

‘Possibly. He never told me.’

Corbett stared at a point beyond the Watcher’s head. He recalled the Book of Remembrance he had seen in Abbot Stephen’s chamber, really a psalter for the dead: it also included lists of names the Abbot would remember at Mass. This Watcher was one of them — that’s right, the name Salyiem had been inscribed! Now Lady Margaret had mentioned the name, Corbett also recalled seeing an entry for Heloise Argenteuil.

‘Who was she?’

The Watcher shook his head.

‘Sir Hugh, I really don’t know. A young noblewoman at one of the manors Stephen visited. She was frail of health, and would have nothing to do with him. She entered a convent and died there whilst Sir Stephen was abroad, searching for Sir Reginald.’

‘And the hunting horn?’

‘Ah.’ The Watcher’s face broke into a smile. ‘Sir Stephen used to love doing that. Whenever he approached the hall, he’d always blow three long blasts and Reginald would reply. It was based on one of those legends about knights fighting in valleys and calling on each other for help. They loved that sort of thing,’ the Watcher added wistfully. ‘Pretending to be members of Arthur’s Round Table or the Paladins of Charlemagne.’

‘Paladins of Charlemagne?’ Corbett echoed his words. ‘For a reeve you are very well read.’

‘When I was a stripling Sir Stephen taught me. In my travels I learnt even more.’

‘So you don’t believe in ghosts and demon riders? Or that Sir Geoffrey Mandeville rides the marshes with his legion of the damned? That he’s the source of our mysterious hunting horn?’

‘Strange things happen here, master clerk.’

‘No, they don’t,’ Corbett replied drily. He leaned closer. ‘Master Salyiem, humble hermit, Watcher by the Gates, for a man who wants to leave the world you seem very much part of it. You visit the abbey. You talk to Abbot Stephen. You also visit Lady Margaret. Who do you think is blowing that horn at night? It’s not some ghost, some courier from the household of hell. Is it you? You do have a hunting horn?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ The Watcher drew away, a stubborn look on his face.

‘Or could it be Scaribrick the outlaw? I am the King’s officer,’ Corbett added quietly. ‘I am sure you know Master Scaribrick.’ Corbett rubbed his thigh. ‘I had the pleasure of meeting him and his merry men on my journey here.’

‘I thought you looked dishevelled, mud-flecked.’ The Watcher picked up his bowl and cradled it as if it was a toy.

‘Yet you never asked me why. Did you know Scaribrick was out on the marshes hunting me? Don’t Scaribrick and his merry coven patrol here at night? Do they pay a certain hermit money to stir the muddy waters and spread stories about ghosts and ghouls on the marshes? Is that where Scaribrick meets with his smugglers, those who bring in illicit goods by sea and river? Of course, you have to live with these people. Does Master Scaribrick slip you a few coins to look the other way? To embroider stories to frighten others?’

‘I have never done anything wrong. Yes, Sir Hugh, I am a hermit and I travel hither and thither. I try to live at peace with everyone, it’s the only way.’

‘Did you go searching for Sir Reginald?’ Corbett abruptly changed. ‘I mean, in your travels abroad, surely you questioned people? After all, an English knight travelling by himself would attract some attention?’

‘Oh yes! Oh yes!’ the Watcher gabbled. ‘In northern France and Germany I heard rumours, whispers, but they came to nothing.’

Corbett glanced down. Outside he could hear Chanson stamping his feet against the cold and the snorting of the horses eager for their warm stables. The clerk was convinced some great mystery lurked here. He was in a maze but, so far, he kept wandering around and around with no path out. The assassin could be this Watcher! He was strong and resourceful enough. He could have weapons hidden away. He could climb the wall into the abbey and wreak terrible damage. One moment he could be the rather wild-eyed hermit, the next a man bent on vengeance for whatever reason. Corbett wondered what Ranulf was doing? He half suspected but, in such matters, Ranulf was his own man with his own keen sense of justice. Ranulf-atte-Newgate never took kindly to being attacked.

‘Are you sleeping, master clerk?’

Corbett opened his eyes and raised his head.

‘No, master hermit, I am thinking.’ He stretched out his arms. ‘On the one hand we have the Harcourt estates and the mystery of Sir Reginald. On the other the Abbey of St Martin’s and, in between, these eerie, wild marshlands with their copses and woods. I suspect Mine Host at the ‘Lantern-in-the-Woods’ doesn’t pay full import duties on his wine or other commodities, whilst Scaribrick the outlaw probably resents my interference here.’ Corbett lowered his hands. ‘But Ranulf will deal with him. What I am trying to unearth are these mysteries of the marsh. The fire arrows. The hunting horn. Are these part of Scaribrick’s world? Or are they part of some other mystery?’ Corbett got to his feet. ‘Master hermit, I will have other questions for you.’ He stared down at him. ‘They call you the Watcher by the Gates and I suspect you have seen more than you have told me.’

The Watcher held his gaze.

‘You will not be travelling far.’

Corbett opened his purse and threw a silver coin into the man’s bowl and, lifting the leather awning, went out to join Chanson.

They mounted their horses. Corbett gathered the reins and they followed the wall back along to the main gate. He called out and the gate was opened and they entered the cobbled yard. They had hardly dismounted, Chanson offering to see to the horses, when Brother Richard came hurrying out of a doorway.

‘Sir Hugh, you are back! Thank God!’

And in brief, gasping sentences Brother Richard described what had happened earlier in the morning. Corbett took him by the elbow and led him out of the cold. He asked the monk to go through it once again, told him to be careful, then dismissed him. Corbett walked across to the stables and helped Chanson unsaddle the horses and dry them down. Brother Richard, he reflected, was most fortunate. He had been attacked but had escaped death. So, the killer must be in the abbey, and was definitely not an outsider like Scaribrick who, at the time, must have been planning his ambush. Nor was it Lady Margaret, who had been entertaining him at Harcourt Manor. Brother Richard had described the attack vividly.

‘A soldier!’ Corbett exclaimed.

‘What’s that, Master?’ Chanson asked.

‘Brother Richard the almoner was attacked this morning and was able to defend himself, probably because he was a former soldier. But, listening to his account carefully, I would say the same holds time for the attacker.’

‘But there are a number of monks here,’ Chanson wiped his nose on the cuff of his jerkin, ‘according to Ranulf, who once served in the royal levies.’

‘Oh, I know that,’ Corbett retorted. ‘And there’s something else. Lady Margaret talked of a young woman called Heloise Argenteuil with whom our Abbot, in a former life, was supposed to be infatuated. The Watcher repeated the same story.’

‘And?’

Corbett shook his head. ‘I’ve heard that name before. I know of no Argenteuil, certainly not at court, but the name strikes a chord. Chanson,’ he patted his horse’s neck, ‘see to the horses. I am going down to the library.’

Corbett left the stables.

‘Sir Hugh?’

Prior Cuthbert came bustling up, red-eyed and grey-faced with exhaustion.

‘You’ve heard of the attack on Brother Richard?’

‘Aye.’ Corbett glanced at the gaggle of monks who stood in the doorway behind the Prior. ‘Tell your brothers to be careful. I wish to ask you a question.’

He led the Prior out of earshot.

‘Does the name Heloise Argenteuil mean anything to you?’

‘Ah yes, Abbot Stephen once mentioned her. As a young knight, he supposedly fell deeply in love with her.’

‘And you know nothing else?’

‘Oh no.’

Now he was out of the shadows the Prior looked even more stricken. Corbett noticed his face was unshaven, and he had dark circles beneath his eyes.

‘Father Prior, I believe you have more to tell me.’

‘I assure you, Sir Hugh, I have nothing to say.’ The Prior flailed his hands.

Corbett realised that Prior Cuthbert was not prepared to talk.

‘Is the library locked?’

The Prior tapped the ring of keys on his belt.

‘I’ll take you there.’

He seemed only too willing to be away from Corbett’s watchful gaze, walking in front, gesturing with his hands for the clerk to follow. Corbett did so and was about to walk up beside him when he noticed the dark blotches high on the back of the Prior’s robe. The cowl hid the Prior’s neck but Corbett was sure that the stains were caused by blood. Had the Prior been whipping himself? What secret sins would compel this proud priest to inflict such a terrible punishment? They reached the library and Prior Cuthbert unlocked the door. He hastened around to light the candles and oil lamps under their steel caps.

‘I’ll send a lay brother,’ he declared. ‘When you are finished he’ll lock the door behind you.’ He rubbed his hands. ‘I have yet to appoint a replacement librarian.’

Prior Cuthbert hurried out, slamming the door behind him. Corbett walked round. The sombre blood-stain still marked the floor where the librarian had been killed — a grim reminder of what horrors haunted this abbey. Corbett sat down at the writing desk. What had the hermit said? He had mentioned the Roman philosopher Seneca and the woman, Heloise Argenteuil. Where had Corbett heard her name before? He stared up at the light pouring through one of the coloured stained-glass windows and idly wondered how long it would be before Ranulf-atte-Newgate returned.

Ranulf-atte-Newgate was furious. The senior Clerk in the Chancery of the Green Wax had made a careful study of the law. He and Corbett were royal messengers, and carried the King’s writ: they were his Commissioners in these parts. They had not travelled through bleak freezing marshes to become the playthings of outlaws.

‘An attack upon a royal clerk,’ Corbett often remarked, ‘is an attack upon the King himself, a malicious insult to the Crown, which must be answered.’

Corbett, however, could be lax in his interpretation, accepting insults and obstacles that Ranulf never would. Scaribrick had organised that ambush so why should he be allowed to squat in the Lantern-in-the-Woods and boast about his boldness? Ranulf approached the tavern by a circuitous route. He kept away from the well-worn paths but found it difficult to thread his way through the snow-capped trees, the gorse and briar hidden by an icy-white softness. The journey had not improved his temper. On one occasion he had become lost and had been forced to break cover but, at last, he found the route, led by the smoke which he knew came from the tavern hearth.

Ranulf had hobbled his horse deep in the trees opposite the tavern entrance. He now stood watching the main door, cloak about him, cowl pulled over against the icy splashes from the branches above. He’d watched travellers, tinkers and chapmen enter and leave. So far Ranulf had recognised no one. He calculated the time. Scaribrick and his men would probably have come straight here and were probably within. Blanche came out to empty a pot of dirty water and, eventually, Taverner Talbot emerged with a broken stool which he placed by the entrance. Ranulf called his name, stepped out of the trees, pulled back his cowl and gestured. The taverner looked fearfully back at the inn.

‘You’d best come,’ Ranulf called out softly. ‘Master Talbot, I mean you no mischief, at least not for now.’

The taverner closed the tavern door and hastened across. Ranulf gripped him by the shoulder and dragged him into the trees; his drawn dagger pricked Talbot’s fleshy neck, forcing his head back.

‘What’s the matter?’ the man wailed. ‘I’ve done no wrong. I heard about the attack on you but I can say nothing to such men. They will have their way.’

‘Aye, Master Talbot, and I will have mine. Scaribrick is in there, isn’t he?’ Ranulf pressed the tip of his dagger more firmly. ‘He’s there, isn’t he?’

Talbot blinked and nodded, swallowing hard, fearful of this hard-eyed clerk and the long, Welsh, stabbing dagger, its cruel tip like a razor under his chin.

‘I want to speak to him. Out here now!’

‘He won’t come out.’ The taverner shook his head. ‘And, if he does, sir, he’ll bring two or three of his companions with him.’

Ranulf withdrew the dagger. The taverner would have backed away but the clerk grasped him by the shoulder, this time the tip of the dagger rested against his protruding belly.

‘Very well,’ Ranulf ordered. ‘Tell Scaribrick that someone wants to meet him.’

‘I can’t,’ the taverner gasped. ‘It’s all very well for you, sir. You’ll leave this area but I live here and do my trade here.’

‘In which case-’

Ranulf re-sheathed his dagger, pushed by the taverner and, walking across the trackway, entered the tavern. Talbot came hurrying behind him, bleating and protesting. As soon as Ranulf entered he threw back his cloak, his hand on the hilt of his sword. He stared around the taproom at the tinkers and chapmen, traders and farmers, but then he found his quarry: a group of men in the far corner. They sat huddled round the table, hoods back, war belts on the floor beside them. They were sharing a jug of ale and a large platter of bread and meat. Ranulf walked slowly across, his gaze held by a cold-faced, thickset man who sat in the corner. Ranulf had only glimpsed him during the ambush but he recognised the face. Scaribrick muttered something to his companions and they turned, hands going for sword and dagger. Ranulf walked closer. Scaribrick’s fleshy face was well fed. A bully-boy, Ranulf thought, used to filling his belly and not so quick on his feet.

‘Don’t touch your weapons!’ Ranulf ordered. He opened the wallet on his belt and drew out a document bearing the King’s seal. ‘I am Ranulf-atte-Newgate, senior clerk in the Chancery of the Green Wax. You,’ he pointed to the outlaw leader, ‘are Scaribrick. You must consider yourself under arrest. Your list of crimes reads like a litany but, at the top, stands treason!’

‘Treason?’ Scaribrick half rose. ‘Who are you? A madcap?’

Ranulf was pleased that the other outlaws kept their hands well away from their war belts.

‘Where are the rest of your weasels?’ Ranulf jibed. ‘Nice and warm in some cave in the forest? They are all under arrest too and they can hang.’

Ranulf watched Scaribrick’s eyes, but the outlaw’s gaze had shifted. He looked at the outlaws and saw that Rat-Face wasn’t there. Ranulf heard a sound and, whipping out his dagger, turned round. Rat-Face stood behind him, knife in hand, ready to spring. Ranulf struck first. Moving slightly to one side, he thrust his dagger straight into the man’s belly, pulling it out and kicking him away. Stools shifted behind him. Ranulf whirled back, drew his sword and stood, feet apart. The outlaws were clumsy, tired and much the worse for drink. The first almost stumbled on to Ranulf’s sword. The clerk thrust deep and stepped away, up the tavern until he felt the barrels against his back. The outlaws, ignoring the cries of their wounded companions, now scrabbling on the floor, fanned out with Scaribrick in the centre. The rest of the customers hurriedly moved away, almost clinging to the walls on either side.

‘Two down,’ Ranulf jibed. ‘Like skittles, eh?’

The outlaws were frightened. They were used to secret attack, the sudden ambush, but a fighting man, sword and dagger ready, his back protected, was a different prospect. The screams of the wounded outlaws only unnerved them further. One of the outlaws on the far right stepped away and, ignoring Scaribrick’s curses, headed straight for the window. He jumped on a table, pulled back the shutters and was through.

‘I’m not here for all of you!’ Ranulf smiled. ‘Just your leader!’

That was enough. The outlaws broke and fled in many directions. Scaribrick tried to follow but Ranulf blocked his path.

‘I killed four of your companions,’ Ranulf taunted, ‘and we beat you off this morning.’ His voice rose. ‘By the time I’m finished, you’ll be a laughing stock-’ He broke off.

Scaribrick, snarling with rage, his sword and dagger out, came rushing forward. Ranulf stepped swiftly to the left. He parried Scaribrick’s weapon, forced his arm up and thrust his sword deep into the outlaw’s belly.