Corpse Candle

Chapter 11

Corbett sat in the Abbot’s chamber, where Perditus had lit a fire and pulled the shutters close. The room was cold as if it had lost its very soul. The clerk gnawed his lip in frustration. His visit to the library had been fruitless. His mind was puzzled, his wits slightly dulled by the journey to Harcourt and that ferocious ambush on the lonely forest trackway. Corbett stared up at a gargoyle carved in the corner of the room: the face of a jester, staring, popping-eyed, mouth gaping to display a swollen tongue.

‘If only the stones could talk,’ Corbett murmured.

What had happened in this chamber? he wondered. This is where it had all begun. Corbett still nursed deep suspicions that the solution to all these mysteries lay in the very fabric of the abbey: its manuscripts, Bloody Meadow, that haunting, lonely burial mound. Corbett shuffled together the Abbot’s papers. He’d ordered them to be kept here and was searching through them again. He sifted them with his fingers and picked up a piece of paper, a draft of a letter to a merchant in Ipswich. At the end was the usual scribbled sketch of a wheel with its hub, spokes and rim. Corbett pulled across the piece of vellum on which he’d copied the Abbot’s quotations. The first came from the letter of St Paul, or rather the Abbot’s own interpretation of it: ‘For now I see through a glass, darkly: the corpse candle beckons.’ The other was a quotation from Seneca: ‘Anyone can take away a man’s life but no one his death’. Undoubtedly the Abbot had scrawled these words shortly before his death but what did they mean? What was their significance? Why had Abbot Stephen been so fascinated by the symbol of a wheel? Corbett pulled across the psalter and looked down the list of names at the back. He recognised Salyiem, the Watcher by the Gates’ real name, and Reginald Harcourt. Others were probably knights the Abbot had served with in his days as a soldier. Finally, that enigmatic name which pricked Corbett’s memory and teased his wits, Heloise Argenteuil! Corbett took his quill and wrote down the other interesting scraps: the Abbot’s fascination with Rome and ‘the Roman way’. What did that mean? Why had he considered changing his mind about Bloody Meadow? What about Brother Dunstan’s enigmatic remarks about his abbot’s compassion and his attitude towards sin.

A knock on the door roused him from his studies.

‘Come in!’ Corbett shouted.

Ranulf slipped like a cat into the room. Just from the way he stood, war belt in one hand, cloak in the other, Corbett knew his henchman had been bloodily busy.

‘You went searching for Scaribrick, didn’t you?’ Corbett accused. ‘You didn’t have my permission. When I returned to Norwich I would have issued warrants for his arrest.’

Ranulf dropped his cloak and sword belt to the floor.

‘Aye and he would have hidden like a rabbit in the forest. He’d have waited until the sheriff’s men became tired of the hunt and returned to his villainy. You know the law, Sir Hugh! Scaribrick feloniously and traitorously, with malice in his heart, assaulted and tried to murder three royal emissaries, clerks bearing the royal commission. The King would have had him hanged, drawn and quartered.’

‘Did the King order this?’ Corbett asked wryly.

‘No, Master, Lady Maeve did.’

Corbett glanced up in surprise.

‘I swore an oath, Sir Hugh, as I do every time we leave, that I will bring you back safely Master, they deserved to die. One day we will have to leave this benighted place, and travel down lonely, snow-frosted lanes. I don’t want Scaribrick and the others waiting amongst the trees with bows bent and arrows aimed.’

Corbett glanced down at a scrap of parchment in front of him. According to the law, particularly the statute of Winchester, Ranulf had acted legally and correctly. Malefactors had assaulted them on the King’s highway. As they were royal clerks, the law stringently instructed ‘all loyal servants of the Crown to hunt such malefactors down and mete out summary execution’. Corbett just wished that justice could have been carried out by the King’s Justices of Assize.

‘You met him fairly?’ he asked.

Ranulf grinned. ‘I even asked him to surrender. He refused and compounded his offence by drawing a sword and attacking me.’

‘How many?’ Corbett murmured.

‘Scaribrick and two others, the rest fled. They have learnt a lesson which will last for many a day. I met them in the Lantern-in-the-Woods tavern.’ Ranulf shrugged. ‘You can imagine the rest.’

Corbett could: Ranulf dancing like a cat, nimble as a monkey, sword and dagger snaking out.

‘Ah well!’ Corbett pushed away the manuscript.

‘I also found something else when I went through Scaribrick’s wallet. The coins I will give to the poor but I also discovered this.’

Ranulf came across and threw a greasy scrap of parchment onto the desk. Corbett picked it up and smoothed it straight. One name was scrawled on it: Archdeacon Adrian Wallasby.

‘What is this?’ Corbett handed it back. ‘Why would an Archdeacon from St Paul’s in London be dealing with a marsh outlaw?’

‘He is going to flee,’ Ranulf declared. ‘Brother Dunstan explained how it could be done.’

‘Yes, I believe you are correct,’ Corbett agreed. ‘Our Archdeacon intends to leave sooner than we think. He’s persuaded a member of the Concilium to write out his name and, through Brother Dunstan, passed it to Scaribrick for safe passage along the roads. Yet,’ Corbett mused, ‘would Brother Dunstan really have much to do with him?’

‘I have been thinking about that.’ Ranulf pulled up a stool. ‘Whenever I kill, Master, by sword or dagger, be it on a trackway, in a tavern, or some filthy London alley, memories come back. The way I used to fight when I was a boy, or the time when I was taken and was for the hangman’s cart, ready for that hideous jogging down to The Elms at Smithfield. Do you remember?’ Ranulf’s eyes grew softer. ‘You came into Newgate Yard and pulled me out.’

‘I remember.’

‘Well, it was the same after I met Scaribrick. Truly, Master, I didn’t want to kill him, not really.’

Corbett held his gaze.

‘Well, perhaps I did,’ Ranulf laughed abruptly. ‘I couldn’t forget how close we were to death this morning. Anyway, Scaribrick’s dead. As I rode back, I was thinking about what Taverner had said about my mother and about his disguise as a possessed man.’ Ranulf ran his finger round his lips. ‘It appeared as if he was frothing at the mouth. Now,’ Ranulf scratched his chin, ‘in my lawless youth I saw similar tricks in London. You have to be very careful what you chew, lest you choke or rot your guts.’

‘You mean, someone here supplied him with a powder?’

‘He wouldn’t have arrived with it,’ Ranulf declared. ‘Abbot Stephen was sharp and keen-witted: he would have had Taverner searched from head to toe.’

‘He didn’t find those licences bearing Wallasby’s name?’

‘Ah no,’ Ranulf gestured with his hand, ‘but they could be explained away. Abbot Stephen was really looking for the usual tricks; paints and dyes, powders, to change the colour of the face.’

‘Or to make a man froth at the mouth?’ Corbett added.

‘Taverner wasn’t skilled in physic,’ Ranulf continued, ‘so he must have obtained the powder from someone in St Martin’s which, logically, brings us to the infirmarian Aelfric.’

Corbett sat back in the chair.

‘Ranulf, if you’re correct, some of these monks were plotting against Abbot Stephen. Wallasby was at the root of it. He disliked Abbot Stephen and concocted a plot. But, to be successful, he’d need help here in St Martin’s.’

‘Prior Cuthbert?’

‘Perhaps. Certainly Aelfric. If Wallasby and Aelfric would go to such lengths as this, one must speculate as to whether murder was also in their minds? Ranulf, fetch them. Bring them now!’

Whilst his henchman went searching, Corbett paced up and down the room until Ranulf ushered a sombre-faced Wallasby and an agitated Aelfric into the Abbot’s chamber.

‘I’ll come swiftly to the point.’ Corbett sat down and rubbed his hands together. ‘Abbot Stephen, in many ways, was a compassionate father to his community. On one matter he would not be moved: that of the burial mound in Bloody Meadow! He was an exorcist.’ He pointed at Wallasby. ‘You not only opposed his views, you didn’t like him as a man. You didn’t tell us you were born in these parts, Archdeacon, and that your enmity with the Abbot ran so deep?’

Wallasby cleared his throat and shuffled his feet.

‘Where’s the crime in that, Sir Hugh? There’s many a man I don’t like, be they clerk or priest.’

Corbett smiled thinly.

‘You were trying to disgrace him, I know, under the guise of scholarship and academic friendship. You, Aelfric — infirmarian and a member of the Abbot’s Concilium at St Martin’s — you were Wallasby’s spy. You corresponded secretly and told him when Taverner had arrived and about Abbot Stephen’s reaction. You also supplied our cunning man with the necessary powders and potions to assist in his mummery. Is that why Abbot Stephen died? Because he turned the tables on you? Does this account for the arrow in Taverner’s heart? Because your well-laid plots and schemes went awry?’ Corbett banged his fist on the table. ‘The truth, Brother!’

Aelfric looked as if he was going to faint: without a by your leave he went and sat on a chair against the wall and put his face in his hands.

‘Peccavi! Peccavi!’ he intoned, striking his breast. ‘I have sinned and sinned again!’

‘Oh, don’t be so weak!’ Wallasby snarled.

‘Be quiet!’ Aelfric hissed. ‘It was your plan! Sir Hugh, you are correct. Abbot Stephen would not be moved on the matter of the guesthouse. Above all, he would not allow us to search for a holy relic. Like others on the Concilium, I dreamt of St Martin’s being a second Glastonbury, a shrine to rival Walsingham or even Canterbury. It wasn’t just the guesthouse. . it was the shrine, the pilgrims. .’

‘Of course,’ Corbett interrupted. ‘And, where there’s a shrine, miracles occur. And where miracles flourish there has to be a physician to attest to their worthiness, not to mention a hospital well furnished with beds and the best medicines. You were all dreaming of greatness, weren’t you?’

‘Archdeacon Wallasby was born in these parts,’ the infirmarian continued, staring at the floor. ‘Seven months ago he came here, supposedly visiting his family, and the plot was laid. I corresponded with him. The rest you’ve surmised. Taverner arrived at St Martin’s and I supplied him with the necessary potions and powders. I also wrote to Wallasby, using our own code, informing him that Abbot Stephen was much impressed. I didn’t mean any harm.’ The infirmarian wiped tears from his eyes. ‘I know I have sinned. Trickery was perpetrated. It would have broken Abbot Stephen’s heart and he didn’t deserve that. I was almost relieved when Taverner turned the tables. He said he would act the part through and not disgrace our Abbot’s name.’ The infirmarian spread his hands. ‘What could I do? The hunter had become the hunted. Taverner said if I told the truth, I’d be disgraced. How could I continue as infirmarian without the trust of Father Abbot? But I had nothing to do with Taverner’s murder, I swear. I have confessed my sin. I was going to let matters take their course until the. .’

‘Until these murders began,’ Ranulf interrupted.

‘Yes,’ the infirmarian muttered. ‘Wallasby here wanted to get away. He needed a secure passage along the lanes so I went to Brother Dunstan, and Scaribrick was advised to let him pass.’

‘Sir,’ Corbett pointed at Wallasby, ‘I have told you once and I will tell you for the last time: you will remain here until my investigations are finished!’

‘I am a clerk in Holy Orders!’ Wallasby bellowed.

Ranulf made to rise.

‘Lay a hand on me,’ Wallasby threatened, ‘and I’ll have you excommunicated from St Paul’s Cross!’ He walked to the door and paused, his hand on the latch. ‘I am no assassin, Corbett,’ he jibed over his shoulder.

‘Yes, you are, Archdeacon. You are a man of deep malice. You intended to kill the Abbot’s spirit, turn him into a laughing stock. Tell me,’ Corbett got to his feet, ‘why was it you hated Abbot Stephen so much?’

He knew Wallasby couldn’t resist the opportunity. The Archdeacon leaned against the door, face contorted with anger and hate.

‘I met Daubigny at the cathedral schools,’ he replied. ‘Even as a boy he was cynical and mocking, quick of wit, nimble of foot.’ Wallasby walked forward. ‘He didn’t believe in anything, Corbett: in God or his Church. He often mocked the priests and yet,’ he paused, ‘everywhere he went he won friends. He and Harcourt were like peas in a pod. A man like Daubigny should have been brought to book, but instead he became a knight banneret, friend, counsellor and confidant of the King, a soldier and self-proclaimed scholar. And, when he wanted to. .’ Wallasby snapped his fingers, ‘he abruptly converted, became a man of God, a monk. But not your lowly lay brother — oh, not Daubigny! — he not only rose to become Abbot of a great monastery but a scholar, a theologian, an exorcist. In truth, he was a hypocrite!’

‘Can’t a man change?’ Corbett asked. ‘Doesn’t Christ preach conversion, repentance?’

‘Cacullus non facit monachum: the cowl doesn’t make the monk,’ Wallasby retorted. ‘The rat does not change its coat. Yes, I admit I plotted against Daubigny, and I would have proved the truth about him, if Taverner hadn’t turned.’

‘Tell me,’ Corbett went back and sat in his chair, ‘have you ever heard of Heloise Argenteuil?’

‘The name means something,’ Wallasby replied, ‘but I cannot say more.’

The Archdeacon bowed mockingly at Ranulf.

‘And I must congratulate you. The news of your meeting with Scaribrick is all over the abbey. Sir, you have done more to impose the King’s writ than a dozen sheriff’s posses. At least, when I do depart this place, I’ll be safe.’

And, spinning on his heel, Wallasby left the room, slamming the door behind him.

‘No, you stay,’ Corbett gestured as Aelfric started to rise. ‘I have the further question. What if Abbot Stephen had agreed that the guesthouse could be built?’

‘We would have all rejoiced.’

‘Then let me take another path. If he continued to refuse,’ Corbett measured his words carefully, ‘could it have led to murder?’

Aelfric shook his head. ‘Not murder, Sir Hugh, but perhaps something just as heinous: hate, resentment, curses. You see, we met with Abbot Stephen as a group and, when we did, followed the Rule of St Benedict: our discussions had to be amicable, in the true spirit of Christ.’

‘But individually?’ Corbett interrupted.

‘God forgive us,’ Brother Aelfric breathed. ‘We all went our separate paths. You’ve discovered mine.’

‘And the rest?’

Aelfric shook his head. ‘As a group we were bound by holy obedience but I cannot speak for what happened in the souls of my brothers. Now, Sir Hugh, I must go.’

Once the infirmarian was gone, Corbett sighed and stood looking out of the window.

‘No one is fully truthful,’ he murmured. ‘You do realise that, Ranulf? Wallasby, Aelfric, Cuthbert — they are still not telling us what we really want to know!’

‘Can’t we use force?’

‘Against a monk, or an archdeacon? Secretly the King would agree. Publicly, we’d spend weeks cooling our heels in the Tower. I think we’ve exhausted everything.’

‘Are we to leave?’

‘No. The library won’t yield any secrets, Archdeacon Wallasby hides behind his hate and his holy orders, whilst the monks use their vows as a knight would a shield. Lady Margaret Harcourt is polite and courteous whilst the Watcher by the Gates spins his own tale.’

‘So, we come back to Abbot Stephen?’ Ranulf asked.

‘His manuscripts yield nothing,’ Corbett replied. ‘He did not say or do anything to provide a key to all these mysteries. All that remains is the burial mound in Bloody Meadow. Snow or not, come frost or hail, tomorrow, Ranulf, I intend to open and search that burial mound.’

‘For what?’

‘To be perfectly honest, I don’t know. If it yields nothing, we’ll stay two more days.’

Corbett stared at the crucifix and recalled Aelfric’s words: ‘I have sinned! I have sinned!’ The clerk picked up his cloak.

‘Where’s Chanson?’

‘Where he always is, down at the stables admiring the horses.’

‘As long as he doesn’t sing.’

Corbett smiled as they left the chamber. He had strictly ordered Chanson that, if he attended the Divine Office of the abbey, he was not to sing. Corbett had also warned Ranulf not to bribe or encourage him. Chanson was an excellent groom and a deft hand with the knife, but his singing! Corbett had never heard such an atrocious sound! The only person who appeared to admire it was his daughter Eleanor. She often begged Chanson for a song and, whilst Baby Edward screamed his head off, his daughter would laugh until the tears streamed down her cheeks.

They clattered down the stairs and out into the abbey grounds.

‘Where to, Sir Hugh?’

‘Why, Ranulf, to be shriven.’

‘Confession? Absolution?’ Ranulf teased. ‘Should the Lady Maeve know of this?’

Corbett threw his cloak over his shoulders and fastened the clasp. He stamped his feet on the icy ground and stared up at the overcast sky.

‘Abbot Stephen spoke openly with no one or appeared not to. He had no real confidant but, like any man, he had to be shriven. I am looking for Brother Luke.’

Corbett went up into the cloisters and stopped by a desk. A young monk, his face and hands almost blue with the cold, was poring over a manuscript. Corbett made his enquiries and the young monk’s face lit up with a smile.

‘My fingers are freezing, even the ink is sluggish. I’ll take you to Brother Luke.’

They crossed the abbey grounds to a long, one-storeyed, grey-ragstone building with a red tiled roof and a shaded colonnaded walk on one side. Their guide explained that this was where the ‘ancient ones’ lived: too old or infirm for other duties except prayer, reflection and, as the young monk laughingly put it, ‘chomping on their gums’. He paused at a door and knocked.

‘Go away!’ a voice bellowed. ‘I don’t want to be disturbed!’

The monk sighed, pressed down the latch and opened the door. The chamber inside was sweltering: it contained at least four braziers as well as a large chafing dish filled with charcoal on a table beside the high-backed chair where the occupant sat. The chamber also boasted a table, a stool, a small trunk and cupboard, a cot bed in the far corner and a lectern with a psalter on it facing a stark crucifix. Brother Luke certainly looked ancient with his scraggy neck, almost skeletal face stained with dark liverish spots, and a head as bald as an egg, but his eyes were bright with life. He pushed away the footstool and leaned forward.

‘You are the clerk,’ his voice was surprisingly strong. ‘A royal clerk and his bully-boys come to see poor old Brother Luke. I wondered if you would. You, Brother!’ he thundered at Corbett’s guide, ‘stop grinning like a monkey and go back to your studies!’

The young monk fled.

‘Prior Waldo once had a monkey,’ the Ancient One remarked. ‘God knows why the Abbot at the time allowed him to bring it in, for it climbed everywhere whilst its habits were none too clean!’ Brother Luke gave Corbett a red-gummed smile. ‘But that can be said for many of the sons of God. Come on! Come on!’ He gestured at a bench along the far wall. ‘Bring that over and sit down. I have some wine.’

Corbett shook his head. He and Ranulf sat down like schoolboys before a master.

‘I thought you’d come! I thought you’d come!’ A bony finger wagged in Corbett’s face.

‘Why, Brother?’

‘Because of the deaths — the murders! I always said this was an unhallowed place.’

‘St Martin’s?’

‘No, clerk, the marshes!’

‘Poor Abbot Stephen. You were his confessor?’ Corbett asked.

‘Aye, I listened to his sins and shrived him. And, before you ask, clerk, you know I can’t tell you anything of that. I have not many days left: for a priest to reveal what’s heard in confession is a sin to answer for in hellfire.’

‘But what sort of man was he?’ Ranulf demanded.

‘Why, of mankind.’ Brother Luke threw his head back and cackled with laughter. ‘He was like you or I, Red Hair.’ He peered at Ranulf. ‘A fighting man born and bred, eh? I wager the ladies like you.’ He patted his stomach. ‘They used to like me too. Sprightly, they called me, a nimble dancer. Aye, I’ve danced on moon-washed greens and listened to the tambour beat and the jingle of the bells.’

Corbett glanced at Ranulf and winked.

‘But, to answer your question,’ Brother Luke pushed out his chin, ‘Abbot Stephen was a good man but very troubled by something in the past. In many ways he was a sinner, perhaps even a great sinner: that’s why I felt comfortable with him for so am I.’

‘Did he ever talk of Heloise Argenteuil?’

Brother Luke stared impassively back.

‘Did he ever talk about Reginald Harcourt?’

Again the hard-eyed stare.

‘Did he ever talk about a wheel?’ Corbett insisted.

‘Yes, but in confession.’ The vein-streaked, brown-spotted hand clasped Corbett’s. The old monk’s eyes grew gentle. ‘The Good Lord and his Holy Mother know you have a dreadful task here, yet I can only speak on those matters not heard in the confessional pew.’

‘Why was he an exorcist?’ Ranulf asked.

‘Now, Sharp Eyes, I can answer that! I asked the same. Stephen had doubts, grave doubts, about everything! Sometimes he thought there was nothing after death but extinction: no heaven, no hell, no purgatory, no God, no demons. So, he took the view that, if he could prove the existence of demons, then it might mean something.’

Corbett nodded. He had heard this before, not only about Abbot Stephen but about others who struggled with their faith. As one priest had confided in Corbett, ‘If there’s a hell, there must be a heaven.’

‘He was trying to prove to himself,’ Brother Luke continued. ‘As the Creed puts it, “I believe in things visible and invisible”. He wanted to shift the mist which blinded his soul. I suppose he was searching for the truth.’

‘And Bloody Meadow?’ Corbett asked.

Again the old priest’s head went down.

‘I can tell you something of that. Abbot Stephen swore that, as long as he lived, that burial mound would not be opened. On that point he was obdurate. I don’t. .’ His voice trailed off. ‘I have spoken enough.’ He sighed.

‘What of the days before he died?’ Corbett demanded.

The old priest licked his lips. ‘Yes, he came to me agitated, troubled. A great darkness clouded his mind, heart and soul. I can tell you this, clerk, and I’ve told no one else — if you had not come to me, I suppose I would have asked to see you.’

Corbett held his breath. He could see the old monk was torn by the fear of betraying a confidence.

‘So, in his last days Abbot Stephen did not come for confession?’

‘No, clerk.’

The old priest turned away, his lower jaw trembling. Corbett grasped his hand and squeezed it gently.

‘You must help me. Blood has been shed. The souls of your brothers sent brutally, unshriven, before God’s tribunal might not cry for vengeance but they do call out for justice. God’s justice must be done and the King’s law upheld.’

‘Very well.’ The old priest grasped his Ave beads and threaded them through his fingers. ‘Abbot Stephen knelt before me. He did not confess his sin but he claimed how one of his brothers, a man close to him, had accused him of a hideous offence, not against the Rule but against God.’

‘A hideous offence!’ Ranulf exclaimed. ‘What wrong could a holy abbot do in such a hallowed place!’

‘Was he talking about the past?’ Corbett added.

‘No, no, of a recent event.’

‘And what was this sin?’

‘I will not tell you.’

‘But I can ask?’

The old priest nodded.

‘Was it murder?’

A shake of the head.

‘Was it fornication? Lying with a woman?’

Again the shake of the head.

‘Theft? Blasphemy?’

Brother Luke’s gaze held Corbett’s.

‘What sin?’ Corbett exclaimed.

‘Have you read the Book of Samuel? The story of David?’ Luke demanded.

Corbett closed his eyes. David of Israel had been accused of many crimes.

‘And Jonathan,’ Brother Luke added quietly.

Corbett opened his eyes.

‘Abbot Stephen was accused of unnatural practices with a fellow monk!’

‘Tu dixisti. You have said it, clerk.’

The Ancient One must have seen the consternation in Corbett’s face.

‘And this was recent?’ Ranulf asked.

‘Very much so.’ Brother Luke shook his head. ‘I would say about a month before his death.’

‘Did he say why? How?’

‘Abbot Stephen simply said that he had been accused of this.’

‘Did he deny it?’ Ranulf asked.

‘No. I told you, he just knelt here and sobbed like a child. He said the accusation had been made in a whispered conversation in his own chamber. I tried to reason with him, to soothe his soul but he got up abruptly and left. I sent a messenger after him but he never returned. My Abbot never came back.’ The old man’s eyes filled with tears. ‘Now he has gone. God forbid that he despaired, that he committed the sin against the Holy Ghost before that dreadful act was committed. May the angels take him to a place of peace and light. He was so different.’ Luke’s old face had a faraway look. ‘Do you know, clerk, when I was younger, I was the infirmarian here. Stephen Daubigny was a regular visitor, not so much to the Church, but to our library. He did love the world of books.’

‘But why come here?’ Corbett asked.

‘He came with his friend, Sir Reginald.’

‘And why would he visit St Martin’s?’

‘Do you know, clerk,’ the old man mused, ‘I never understood Sir Reginald, but if I had to choose between Harcourt and Daubigny becoming a monk, I would have chosen Sir Reginald.’

‘Why?’

‘He was very shy of women, embarrassed. I can tell you this because it is not a matter for the confessional.’ Brother Luke poked Ranulf in the shoulder. ‘You are a vigorous man, aren’t you?’

‘Thanks be to God!’ Ranulf teased back.

‘And you love the pleasures of the bed?’

Ranulf couldn’t stop himself blushing. Corbett laughed softly.

‘Well, come on!’ the old monk teased. ‘Are you sprightly or not? Once, I was a clerk, and served in the royal levies. I could resist anything but the temptations of the flesh and a deep bowl of claret. Sir Reginald was different: he came here for my help.’

‘He was impotent?’ Corbett asked.

‘He had problems. Sometimes such failings are a matter of the body: an injury, perhaps a growth. I have treated enough monks in my life to recognise the cause and recommend a possible cure. Other times the cause is not so clear.’

‘And Sir Reginald?’

‘Both, Sir Hugh.’ The old monk tapped his head. ‘Though more phantasms of the mind.’

‘But he married?’

‘I know, I know,’ Brother Luke sighed. ‘Sir Hugh, we have monks in this abbey who have problems — how can I put it — in relation to the ladies. Being repelled by women, they seek sanctuary and safety behind the walls of a monastery. Other men believe such problems can be resolved in holy wedlock. Sir Reginald was one of the latter. But,’ he held up a bony finger, ‘I could be wrong. Many men face such difficulties, and they are often of a temporary nature. The only people who can really know the truth in this case are Sir Reginald and Lady Margaret. You have met that redoubtable woman?’

Corbett nodded.

‘I doubt if she would say anything on a matter so intimate.’

‘And who was the monk that accused the Abbot of unnatural practices?’ Ranulf interrupted.

‘Not a hint, not a whisper, Red Hair. Do you play hazard?’ Brother Luke asked abruptly, not waiting for an answer. ‘If I was laying a wager, I would say such a heinous accusation was closely tied up with that damnable funeral barrow and, God forbid, the ambitions of some of my brothers.’

‘What did Harcourt ask for when he came to you?’

‘Powders, potions, some miraculous elixir. In reality, I was of little help.’

‘Did Sir Stephen Daubigny know of this?’

Brother Luke shook his head. ‘That’s why Harcourt came here. He said he would sooner trust a monk than some local physician.’

‘Did he return to you after his marriage to Lady Margaret?’

The old monk shrugged and played with the Ave beads.

‘You must have been here when Sir Stephen first entered St Martin’s?’

‘Oh yes.’

‘Were you his confessor then?’

Brother Luke shook his head. ‘For many years he avoided me. I admit I was surprised by both the change in him and his rapid promotion, yet he soon proved to be an ideal Benedictine.’ He paused. ‘More than that, Sir Hugh, I cannot tell you.’

The old man closed his eyes and started threading the beads through his fingers. He sat slumped as if tired by this conversation. Corbett and Ranulf thanked him, rose and moved the bench back.

‘I cannot break my vows.’

Corbett turned round. Brother Luke still sat with his eyes closed.

‘These bloody murders, Sir Hugh. Why should they start now?’

‘I don’t know, that’s what I am trying to find out.’

‘Search the past,’ the old priest murmured. ‘We sow our sins like seed. They take root and lie dormant but, in time, they sprout like black corn, their leaves full and fat with wickedness.’ He opened his eyes. ‘I wish you well, clerk. God be with you!’

Brother Luke sketched a blessing in the air as Corbett opened the door to leave.

Prior Cuthbert knelt on the cold flagstones of his own cell. He had locked and barred the door. The fire in the hearth was now dull ash, the braziers unlit. The Prior had removed his gown and undershirt. The hard paving stones bit into his bony knees. He found it difficult to keep his toes against the freezing floor. Above him a huge crucifix, showing Christ writhing in agony, stared down at him. Prior Cuthbert grasped the small whip, closed his eyes, gritted his teeth and began to flail his left and right shoulders. Even here, in the darkness of his cell, the demons seemed to be waiting. He whipped and whipped again as, in his mind, roaring griffins leapt from fires and a dark tunnel opened to spew forth blood-soaked demons, hair writhing like serpents. Prior Cuthbert opened his eyes. He forced himself to look at the crucifix. He had sinned most grievously.

‘Mea culpa! Mea culpa!’ He struck his breast. ‘Through my fault! Through my fault!’

He would have to make atonement, repent his ambition and greed. If only he could turn back time. He let the whip fall to the floor. He felt as if he was choked and cloaked by sin. All around him clustered its hideous consequences: the scrawny corpse of that cat hanging from the rood screen; the macabre deaths of his brothers; the fire arrows searing the night air; the whispering and the chatter. The Concilium had ceased to act. They were more like frightened rabbits cowering in their cells, terrified of shadows, loneliness and the long stretch of the night. Prior Cuthbert couldn’t stop trembling. He clambered to his feet, his knee brushing against the whip. He slipped on his sandals and put on his robe. A loud knocking on his chamber door made him start.

‘I am busy!’ he called out.

‘And so am I, Father Prior!’

Prior Cuthbert moaned in despair: that sharp-eyed clerk with his spate of questions!

‘I am busy.’ Even Prior Cuthbert realised how his voice was faltering.

‘Father, I need to speak to you urgently.’

Prior Cuthbert kicked the whip under a bench and, going across, unbarred and unlocked the door. Corbett and Ranulf stood on the threshold like avenging angels. One look at Sir Hugh’s face and Cuthbert knew that he would finally have to tell the truth.

‘I think it’s best if we came in.’

Prior Cuthbert stood aside. He closed the door behind them.

‘Satan’s Teeth!’ Ranulf clapped his hands together. ‘This chamber’s cold.’

Corbett had already walked across and stood staring down at where Prior Cuthbert had been kneeling.

‘Blood on the flagstones,’ he murmured.

Corbett crouched down, his gauntleted hands skimming the floor. He caught sight of the whip under the bench, pulled it out and held it up.

‘I am not a monk, Prior Cuthbert,’ he said quietly, ‘but I am a King’s clerk searching for the truth.’

The Prior sat down in a chair, head bowed, hands clasped as if in prayer.

‘Why should the Prior of St Martin’s whip himself so hard,’ Corbett demanded, ‘that the blood seeps through his robe?’

He stared round at the well-furnished chamber with its carved chairs and coffers, desk, benches, and shelves bearing books.

‘And why should he kneel almost naked,’ he pointed to the unstrapped sandal, ‘and punish himself in a freezing chamber?’

Prior Cuthbert closed his eyes and muttered.

‘Miserere mei Domine et exaudi vocem meam.’

‘Christ will have mercy on you and hear your voice,’ Corbett translated. ‘If you tell the truth.’ He got to his feet. ‘You were the Abbot’s loyal prior, weren’t you? You had dreams of building a great guesthouse and having Sigbert’s remains as a precious relic. What started off as a dream became a burning ambition. Under Abbot Stephen’s rule, St Martin’s had grown in fame and royal patronage. Yet Abbot Stephen was insistent: Bloody Meadow was not to be touched. So you and the rest of the Concilium plotted, turning a blind eye to each other’s activities. Did Aelfric take you into his confidence? Did he tell you the truth about Taverner and Archdeacon Wallasby?’

Prior Cuthbert sat, head bowed.

‘Perhaps he hinted at it? You turned a blind eye, didn’t you? As you did to Brother Dunstan’s infatuation with the tavern wench, Blanche. You are sharp-eyed, Cuthbert, and as Prior you are responsible for the discipline of this abbey, but of course you needed your treasurer’s allegiance. Like the priest in the parable of the Good Samaritan, you passed by on the other side and turned a blind eye.’

Corbett came and crouched before him. The Prior’s eyes were tightly shut.

‘Look at me!’ Corbett urged.

Ranulf stood fascinated. When they had first met Cuthbert, he had been very much the haughty prelate, the ruler of this abbey. Now he sat a broken man, on the verge of tears.

‘You saw something else, didn’t you?’ Corbett declared. ‘You weren’t really concerned with the plottings of Aelfric. You were hunting bigger quarry. You saw what you thought was a secret and hideous sin. You reproached your Father Abbot with it, hinting that if you had your way and were allowed to build a guesthouse, that sin would remain a secret between you. So, Father Prior, what did you see?’

Prior Cuthbert sat, shoulders shaking. When he opened his eyes tears coursed down his cheeks.

‘It was Gildas,’ he sobbed. ‘It was really his fault. The man couldn’t sleep and often returned to his workshop. I’d go down there at night and we’d sit and discuss the new guesthouse. One night, late in autumn, as I was coming back, I found the Judas gate off the latch so I went out into the open meadow. The sky was cloud free, the stars seemed to hang low, the meadow was moon-washed; an eerie place. By the burial mound, not hiding behind it but almost, stood two figures. At first I was going to call out but then one moved — his cowl and hood were pushed back and I recognised Father Abbot. The other was also dressed as a monk. I glimpsed cowl and robe but it was impossible to distinguish his features or see who it was. I hid in the shadows of the gate. I saw Father Abbot embrace the other person.’

‘How?’ Corbett asked.

Prior Cuthbert demonstrated with his hands.

‘He put one hand up behind the person’s head, and the other round his waist. They embraced and kissed.’

‘Full on the lips?’ Corbett asked.

‘I am not sure.’

‘Was the other person male or female?’

‘I cannot say.’

‘So, it could have been a woman disguised in the robe of a monk? Come, Father Prior,’ Corbett urged. ‘Up and down the the kingdom, scenes such as this take place in monasteries and abbeys. It is not unknown for a monk to bring his leman into the monastery disguised as one of the brothers. For all you can tell, that is what happened here.’

The Prior refused to hold his gaze.

‘Brother Dunstan had his paramour Blanche from the Lantern-in-the-Woods,’ Ranulf jibed. ‘Could it have been her?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Why didn’t you wait and see?’ Corbett asked.

‘I intended to but Father Abbot and this mysterious figure disappeared behind the tumulus. I didn’t dare walk across the meadow, as they would have heard me coming and the other person would have fled. I didn’t want to be accused of spying. I decided to wait for them to emerge again but Gildas came looking for me. I didn’t want him to see what I had so I went back through the Judas gate. I closed the gate more abruptly than I should, and it must have startled Father Abbot. I didn’t mention it to anyone else.’ The Prior beat his fists against his side. ‘I couldn’t get that image out of my mind. I was growing more and more frustrated with Abbot Stephen, so one morning I visited him in his chamber, and once again raised the question of the guesthouse, and the possibility of the abbey acquiring Sigbert’s holy remains. Abbot Stephen lost his temper and banged his fist on the desk. I was roused to fury and I told him what I had seen.’ Prior Cuthbert paused. ‘God forgive me, Sir Hugh, I wish I hadn’t. I really do. I expected him to deny it. He just sat, stricken, staring at me as I accused him of a hideous sin. I said that unless he agreed to my demands, I would accuse him of such before the full Chapter.’

‘And Abbot Stephen didn’t deny it?’

‘No, he sat like a man pole-axed.’

‘Did you repeat the blackmail?’

Prior Cuthbert nodded. ‘I was overwhelmed by my anger. I forgot my vows and charity. All I could see was this stubborn old man refusing a reasonable request whilst hiding his own secret sin.’

‘And you shared this information with no one?’

‘No.’

‘What made you think the sin was unnatural?’

‘I assumed it since the figure was dressed as a monk. Father Abbot didn’t deny it.’

‘And on the second occasion?’ Corbett asked.

‘He was more composed, serene. He quoted from the scriptures, “Your sin will find you out”. He said he would consider my request.’

‘But the other person could have been a woman? It might have been Blanche. After all, in his youth Abbot Stephen was known as a virile, young knight.’

‘True, true.’

‘Could it have been Perditus?’

‘No, why do you say that?’

‘Well, he was the Abbot’s manservant. He shared the same quarters.’

‘No, I am sure it wasn’t he. I went back to talk to Gildas but I was in a hurry to get away, as I thought I might find out who it was by watching the door to the Abbot’s lodgings. When I went across, I saw the lights shining from Perditus’s chamber. I went up, making some excuse. He was in his chamber reading a psalter by candlelight. I asked where the Abbot was and he replied that he had gone for a walk so I went back and hid again in the shadows. I must have been there some time before Abbot Stephen returned alone.’ Prior Cuthbert put his face in his hands. ‘I don’t know who it was but someone was there whom Abbot Stephen embraced and kissed. It must have been unnatural.’

‘It might have been the osculum pacis?’ Corbett queried. ‘The kiss of peace?’

‘In the dead of night, out in a lonely meadow?’ Prior Cuthbert gestured with his hands. ‘If you had seen Abbot Stephen’s face the day I accused him, you’d know I spoke the truth.’

The Prior put his face in his hands and began to sob uncontrollably.