Corpse Candle

Chapter 13

Lady Margaret didn’t move. She sat gripping her stick, staring at the weak fire, where the flames spluttered around the slightly damp logs.

‘You heard what I said, Madam?’

‘I heard what you said, clerk. You’d best say your piece.’

‘You loved Sir Stephen Daubigny, didn’t you?’

Lady Margaret started, as beads of sweat laced her forehead under the wimple.

‘Loved!’ she murmured harshly.

‘You know you did,’ Corbett continued matter of factly. ‘You were betrothed to Sir Reginald but your heart was Daubigny’s, as his was yours.’

‘He had a lover, Heloise Argenteuil.’

‘No, Madam, that was a jest or, perhaps it was more a tale to cover up what you had done. Decades ago in Paris the famous theologian Abelard fell in love with Heloise, a woman he was tutoring. Abelard was a brilliant scholar, a subtle theologian, a Master in the Schools. Heloise’s relatives, however, were furious. They seized Abelard and castrated him. He later withdrew from society but, in spite of all the protests and violence, Abelard and Heloise continued to love each other. Heloise entered a convent at Argenteuil. You took her name to create this fictitious woman whom Stephen Daubigny was supposed to have loved and lost. In reality, it was just to divert suspicion.’

Lady Margaret didn’t disagree. A smile appeared on her bloodless lips as if she was relishing a tale she’d once delighted in.

‘Reginald Harcourt was your husband,’ Corbett continued, ‘but Stephen Daubigny was the knight of your heart. You concealed it well under what others considered to be mutual dislike, even contempt. In truth you were lovers. Sir Reginald may have been a personable man but what of his virility?’ Corbett glimpsed the surprise on Lady Margaret’s face. ‘The old infirmarian from St Martin’s remembers him well. Stephen Daubigny became a constant visitor at Harcourt Manor and everyone thought it was for love of Sir Reginald, whereas in fact, it was for love of Harcourt’s wife. Daubigny played out a game.’ Corbett glanced across at the Watcher. ‘Whenever he approached the house, he blew three long blasts on his hunting horn. Sir Reginald considered it a jest and, like Charlemagne’s knights at Roncesvalles, he would answer back. If Sir Reginald was absent, the lack of any reply was enough for Daubigny to know he was safe. When he and you were closeted alone together, you could continue your deep love for each other.’

Lady Margaret sat upright, clutching the table. She wasn’t staring at the fire but gazing straight across at the Watcher. Corbett followed her gaze.

‘No, no, Lady Margaret. He has not betrayed you. What I tell you is merely surmise but based on a logic.’

‘Then continue with your logic, clerk!’

‘I suspect Sir Reginald never knew of your affair until it was too late. Something occurred during the great tournament held here the summer he disappeared. To cut a long story short, he and Daubigny met late one evening in Bloody Meadow. By then Sir Reginald was highly suspicious and accusations were hurled. God forgive them, perhaps these former friends were even drunk. Swords were drawn and, known for his prowess, Daubigny killed Harcourt instantly. His body was stripped of as much as possible so, if discovered, there would be little indication of who he really was. Daubigny removed the top soil from the burial mound, and dug a makeshift grave. He wrapped Sir Reginald’s body in its cloak, eased it in and covered it up. Before Bloody Meadow became a matter of contention between the Abbot and his monks, it was a lonely place, where few people would ever go. Any trace of a furtively dug grave was soon well hidden. Daubigny had chosen well. Local lore regarded the grave as something sacred: protected by its own sanctity as well as the religious fervour, or superstition, of others. Sir Stephen, however, was consumed by guilt. Sir Reginald’s death had not been planned or wished for: more a matter of hasty words, red wine and hot blood. The next morning Daubigny left Harcourt manor pretending to be Sir Reginald. Dressed in his clothes, cloaked and hooded, he travelled to the Eastern ports, before slipping quietly back.’

Lady Margaret closed her eyes, breathing in deeply.

‘Sir Stephen accompanied you abroad to search for Sir Reginald,’ Corbett continued. ‘He might as well have been chasing moonbeams. He left you in the Low Countries and returned to England. By now he was a changed man. Consumed by remorse, Daubigny entered the Abbey of St Martin’s and became to all appearances a model monk. However, his life was haunted by the hideous murder of his friend. He had only to walk a short distance through the Judas Gate to see that threatening funeral mound, reminding him of his great sin. Abbot Stephen viewed Bloody Meadow as a symbol of his life, in fact a wheel, its hub being the burial mound containing the corpse of his murdered friend. He often drew it, probably sub-consciously, for that meadow in the shape of a wheel was never far from Abbot Stephen’s thoughts.’

‘And the mosaic?’ Ranulf called across.

‘Yes, when Abbot Stephen found that he must have regarded it as a sign from God. He must have been fascinated by the similarity between an ancient picture and an image which dominated his very being, his soul, his heart, his mind, his every waking moment. He’d betrayed you not only by taking the life of your husband but also, of course, there was the well-proclaimed story of his abandoning you abroad and returning to England. No wonder there was enmity, a barrier of silence between you — it had its roots in the past.’ Corbett paused. ‘Of course, Madam, my story is incomplete, isn’t it? You were also there when your husband was killed. You, and I suspect Salyiem the reeve, the faithful squire, were both party to it. You must have been. You yourself told me that Sir Reginald had left that morning. You made no mention of not seeing him the night before, whilst Salyiem actually claimed he helped Sir Reginald leave the manor house and watched him go.’

Lady Margaret opened her eyes.

In the window seat the Watcher by the Gates had jumped up as if to protest. Lady Margaret gestured for him to re-take his seat. She sat chewing the corner of her mouth.

‘God forgive you, clerk, you are sharp. I’ll not deny it. You have the truth. I loved Stephen Daubigny from the day I met him. I committed two great sins. I should have followed my heart and married him but, I didn’t, I married Sir Reginald. Harcourt was, as you say, likeable but he was not a lady’s man. He was impotent.’ She sighed. ‘Our lovemaking wasn’t how the troubadours describe the act of love. I tried my best.’ Tears brimmed in her eyes. ‘I desperately wanted to remain faithful to Sir Reginald and, to be fair, so did Stephen. Yet, we might as well have tried to stop the sun from rising. We concocted a story that we disliked each other, couldn’t abide to be in one another’s company. And Stephen, to make it even safer, fabricated the tale about being in love with some young noblewoman called Heloise Argenteuil. At the time we considered it a piece of trickery to distract others. Sir Reginald never suspected, not till late that hot, sun-filled summer’s day.’

‘You told him?’

‘No, Sir Hugh, he found out that I was pregnant. Stephen asked to meet both of us under the shade of the oak trees in Bloody Meadow. Sir Reginald had enjoyed a good day at the tournament but he’d drunk more than he should have done. We met by Falcon Brook. Salyiem, here, was Stephen’s squire and held the horses. Daubigny went down on his knees, like a penitent before his confessor. He told Reginald the truth. I shall never forget my husband’s face. He stood like a man stricken, all colour drained away from his face, his tongue searched for words. Then it happened, like a fire bursting up. He suddenly drew his sword and raised it in one sweeping arc. Daubigny moved, nimble as a dancer. He rolled aside and drew his own sword, as Reginald rushed in. Daubigny tried to disarm him. It happened in the twinkling of an eye — more of an accident than an intended blow. Sir Stephen’s sword entered here,’ she tapped her left side, ‘where the chainmail shirt was tied, deep up into his chest. I watched in horror, as did Daubigny. My husband took one step forward, blood bubbling at his lips. He was dead before he hit the ground. What could we do on that beautiful summer’s evening, with the brook gurgling by! Salyiem had heard the clash of swords and came running over.’

‘It was my plan,’ the Watcher called out. ‘My scheme. Sir Stephen would have surrendered his sword to the King but I warned him not to. What use would it be?’

Salyiem approached and, pulling up a stool, sat by Corbett’s chair.

‘We waited till darkness. We stripped the body but the chainmail and the surcoat proved too difficult to remove so we left them. I went to the burial mound. It was summer but there had been rain and the soil was soft. As a reeve, I knew about cutting and planting, so I removed the top soil, folding back the grass verge and, helped by Sir Stephen using sword and dagger, we hollowed out Sir Reginald’s grave. We slipped the corpse inside, wrapped in its cloak, and covered our makeshift grave as best we could. The peasants, even some of the monks, regarded Bloody Meadow as a haunted place. Any sign of our digging was soon covered over. We went back to Falcon Brook and washed ourselves, cleaned away bloodstains. Sir Reginald’s clothes, boots and hose were put in a sack, tied with a cord, and burnt. Now the corpse was hidden we were all committed to one plan.’ Salyiem glanced at Corbett; he smiled coldly, combing his straggling beard with his fingers. ‘Once Sir Reginald was buried, we knew that any discovery could lead to the execution of Sir Stephen, if not all three of us. We then devised our plan and returned to the manor. Early the next morning, Daubigny, cloaked and cowled, and pretending to be Sir Reginald, left Harcourt on his warhorse with his sumpter pony.’

‘But wasn’t Sir Stephen missed?’ Corbett interrupted.

‘I gave out he had to leave,’ Lady Margaret declared. ‘Who would object? At that time the mystery had not begun. Daubigny rode disguised as my husband, to the Eastern ports. He created quite a fuss so that people would remember him. In looks and colouring, Daubigny and my husband were like brothers. He then got rid of his disguise, sold the horse, pony and harness and, buying the fastest mount, rode swiftly and secretly back to Harcourt.’

‘So,’ Corbett took up the story, ‘Sir Reginald was dead and you were pregnant. You could have claimed the child was posthumous.’

‘It would have been too dangerous,’ she replied with a shake of her head. ‘The pregnancy had hardly begun. People would later think it was a remarkable coincidence. And, as you have discovered, Sir Hugh, Sir Reginald’s impotence, his lack of virility, had not remained a chamber secret.’

‘So, you pretended to go searching for Sir Reginald?’

‘The child was growing within me. Daubigny felt responsible. We crossed the Narrow Seas, through Hainault and Zeeland and into the German states. We deliberately took no servants. We stopped near Cologne, where I stayed in one of the pilgrim taverns. Daubigny went searching and at last discovered a merchant and his wife, who were English and had moved to Germany because of trade. She had always wanted a child but was barren. They accepted Daubigny’s suggestion as a parched man would water. I went and lived with them. They never knew who I was: I had changed my name, as had Stephen, and was well furnished with money. We both decided it would be too suspicious if Sir Stephen stayed until I was birthed. Before he left, we discussed the future. Daubigny was distraught. A man who had believed in neither God nor man, a young warrior with his head full of glory, he was now solemn and silent, broken in spirit. He was overcome by guilt at Sir Reginald’s death. We both vowed to make reparation.’ She tapped the walking cane on the floor. ‘The rest you know. Daubigny travelled back to England and entered St Martin’s. I gave birth to a beautiful boy. To surrender him broke my heart but that was the price of my sin. When I was ready I left Germany. The merchant furnished me with retainers who took me to the border. There I hired fresh servants and came back to England. Daubigny was already in the monastery.’ She pointed across at the Watcher. ‘He, too, was consumed with guilt.’ She paused. ‘I couldn’t forget my child. I begged Salyiem to travel back to Cologne to see what had happened to him.’

‘I did as my lady asked,’ the Watcher interrupted, ‘but, when I arrived, the family had gone and a wall of silence greeted me.’

‘They suspected that I might return,’ Lady Margaret declared, ‘so they’d moved elsewhere. Salyiem searched far and wide before coming back. He thought of entering the abbey but,’ she gazed sadly at the hermit, ‘our Watcher by the Gates had a soft spot for the ladies; the celibate life wasn’t for him.’

‘He was your go-between, wasn’t he?’ Corbett asked. ‘Between Abbot Stephen and yourself?’

She nodded. ‘We had taken a vow never to meet again. Salyiem was our messenger: nothing in writing, just words. We pretended to be enemies, arguing over Falcon Brook. I am sure you guessed, clerk, that I couldn’t give a fig for Falcon Brook. I took a vow to entertain no other man. You saw those travellers, the beggars who visited the manor the last time you visited us? They too are part of my reparation. Poor Stephen!’ She sighed. ‘He became a priest even though he believed in nothing. He was an avid scholar and proved to be a skilled theologian. He thought that by hunting demons he could exorcise his own and find something substantial on which to build his faith.’

Lady Margaret began to cry, not loudly but dramatically; an old woman, tears streaming down her cheeks.

‘God forgive me,’ she whispered. ‘I loved Daubigny more than life itself, I still do. One night of passion, Corbett.’ She held up her hand. ‘Just one night and our entire world was shattered. I thought I had made reparation but always, deep in my heart, I knew the demons would return. Sir Reginald’s body lay in unhallowed ground. Blood demands blood. Vengeance seeks retribution. Murder shrieks for justice.’

‘And Abbot Stephen’s death?’

‘It came as a bolt out of the blue, like a thunderstorm on a summer’s afternoon. I assure you, clerk, I know nothing of it.’ She gripped Corbett’s hand. ‘You do though, don’t you?’

Corbett smiled sadly.

‘You won’t tell me?’

‘Not now, not till it’s over. Tell me, my lady, did you ever meet Abbot Stephen, by day or night, here or elsewhere?’

‘Never! We kept our vow!’

‘Did he ever ask about his son?’

‘Not at first. But, about three or four years ago, through Salyiem, he began to question me closely. I realised that the loss of his son hurt as much as the death of Sir Reginald.’

‘I brought messages,’ the Watcher spoke up. ‘Abbot Stephen wanted the names of the foster parents, everything Lady Margaret knew about them.’

‘He went searching, didn’t he?’ Lady Margaret asked.

‘Of course,’ Corbett agreed. ‘Abbot Stephen was used by the King to lead embassies to many of the courts of Europe. He had a wide circle of friends, people who could help him.’

Lady Margaret closed her eyes.

‘I. . I think. .’

‘You suspect what happened,’ Corbett finished the sentence for her.

She glanced at him sharply, opened her mouth to reply but paused at a sound from outside.

‘How did you get to know, Corbett? When I heard of your arrival I thought it would take you years even to suspect the truth.’

‘Heloise Argenteuil. .’

‘That silly, little secret!’ she interrupted. ‘A fairy tale, a jest.’

‘It was obvious that Sir Stephen loved someone.’ Corbett remarked. ‘Once I knew Heloise Argenteuil was a fiction I began to wonder why. I suspected that your enmity was not as real as it appeared. And, as for you, Salyiem. .’

‘I didn’t betray my master.’

‘Not deliberately,’ Corbett agreed. ‘I always wondered why the Abbot should open his heart to you, but, of course, he was accustomed to do so. And then there was his Remembrance Book — why should Abbot Stephen pray for a woman who never existed? I finally realised that Heloise Argenteuil was what he called you, wasn’t it?’ Corbett placed his hand over Lady Margaret’s.

‘Will I be arrested?’ Lady Margaret asked.

Corbett shook his head. ‘It may be a sin to love unwisely but it’s not a crime.’

‘I was present at my husband’s death.’

‘But you did not will it. If the truth be known, I doubt Daubigny wanted him killed either. It just happened and the poisoned flower took root. Now, decades later, it comes to full flower.’

Corbett got to his feet, he felt slightly stiff, tense.

‘But you will arrest someone?’

‘Oh yes, my lady. I must ask you and your servant Salyiem to remain here at Harcourt. He is not to return to St Martin’s until tomorrow.’

Corbett bowed and, followed by Chanson and Ranulf, left the hall. Their horses were brought round. Corbett swiftly mounted, bracing himself against the cold breeze which seemed to have strengthened.

‘Heloise Argenteuil!’ Ranulf exclaimed. ‘So much from so little?’

Corbett gathered the reins. ‘So much for so little, Ranulf, but that’s the way of the human heart, isn’t it? We’ll travel swiftly back to St Martin’s. I will go direct to the Abbot’s chamber. Once there I will tell you whom to gather.’

‘Will it be dangerous?’ Chanson asked.

‘Oh yes.’ Corbett dug his spurs in. ‘We are dealing with a heart full of hate!’

Corbett sat in the Abbot’s lodgings. He’d arrived back and walked around St Martin’s, measuring out distances. He felt as if the abbey had closed in around him. Gargoyle faces contrasted with the holy demeanour of saints depicted in the stained glass windows. The statues in their carved niches staring stonily down at him. The hollow creak of his boots echoed along pavement and passageways. He opened his eyes and mind to impressions of the abbey: the dark, musty cellars and cavernous chambers; the different smells of the abbey, beeswax and ink, vellum and manuscripts; the coldness of the death house; the sweet warmth of the kitchens. Now he was ready for the final confrontation. There was a knock on the door and Prior Cuthbert came in. He still looked frozen, whilst mud heavily caked his robe and sandals.

‘Sir Hugh, I would like to speak to you alone.’

‘What is it?’

Prior Cuthbert shuffled his feet in embarrassment.

‘We opened the funeral barrow.’

‘And?’ Corbett asked.

‘We found a coffin, many centuries old. The wood was rotting but of good quality. Inside lay a skeleton, a person of rank.’

‘So, you found your saintly Sigbert?’

‘No, from the fabric and the ornaments we could tell the coffin must have contained the corpse of a woman.’

The Prior looked sheepishly at Corbett, who threw his head back and bellowed with laughter.

‘You are sure?’ he asked.

‘As sure as I am of standing here. The skeleton was whole and undecayed. It is miraculous! It even had tufts of blonde hair still on the skull. It bore a sword mark here.’ The Prior touched his left shoulder, just below his neck.

‘And who do you think it was?’ Corbett asked, drying his eyes on the back of his hand.

‘We consulted the manuscripts. It may have been Sigbert’s eldest daughter Bertholda, a Frankish princess. She, too, ruled the small kingdom which once existed here. The heathens may have martyred her because of her faith.’

Corbett leaned back in the chair and studied this shrewd Prior.

‘So, you have your relic?’

‘Yes, Sir Hugh, we have our relic. It’s being preserved in the death house.’

Corbett clapped his hands. ‘You mean until this matter is over. Ranulf!’ he shouted at his henchman who had been guarding the door. ‘Bring the rest up! Father Prior, we have business!’

One by one they entered the chamber: the members of the Concilium, Dunstan, Aelfric and Richard; Archdeacon Wallasby and finally Perditus. They sat on the stools Ranulf had prepared. Chanson guarded the door whilst Ranulf came and sat beside Corbett. Sir Hugh took out his commission, displaying the royal seal, and laid it on the desk. To show he was one of the King’s Justices, his sword was placed beside it.

‘I am the King’s Commissioner in these parts,’ Corbett began. ‘For all intents and purposes this is a court, busy on the matters of the Crown. First, I wish to comment on the death of Abbot Stephen and the hideous murders perpetrated in this abbey. So, Abbot Stephen’s death,’ Corbett pulled himself up and stared round. ‘To all intents and purposes you are all guilty.’ He made a cutting movement with his hand to quell their protests. ‘In many ways,’ he continued, ‘Abbot Stephen was an eccentric man. A priest searching for a reason for both his faith and his vocation. I shall not explain, not yet, why Sir Stephen Daubigny became a monk but he had his secrets, including the violent death of his old friend Sir Reginald Harcourt whose pathetic remains were found in that funeral barrow.’ Corbett paused. ‘Daubigny was responsible for his death.’

‘No!’ Aelfric protested. ‘It cannot be!’

‘Yes, it is true and I can prove it. He killed Harcourt, not maliciously but in a violent quarrel over a woman they both loved. Daubigny hid his sin behind pretence but atoned for it by a life of reparation. Daubigny, however, didn’t believe in God, His angels or the power of the Church. He constantly searched for proof. He became an avid scholar, a peritus, a theologian skilled in the study of demonology. By pursuing Satan,’ Corbett added, ‘Abbot Stephen thought he might find God. I suppose his life as an Abbot provided some peace until his ambitious Concilium started to make demands about the funeral barrow.’

‘So, he wasn’t protecting sacred remains?’ Prior Cuthbert interrupted. ‘But his own secret sin?’

‘Of course. Now,’ Corbett continued, trying to hide his gaze from the man he knew to be the assassin, ‘the Concilium waged their own private secret war against their Abbot.’

‘We did not!’ Brother Dunstan exclaimed.

‘You did!’ Corbett banged his fist on the table. ‘Not openly! The Rule of St Benedict is quite clear about the obedience of a community to its Abbot. You all went your different ways until Archdeacon Wallasby entered these hallowed precincts to wreak his own mischief. He wanted to humiliate Abbot Stephen, to prove that he wasn’t an exorcist. He was helped, was he not, by some of you? But as he plotted, treachery curled back like a viper and struck its handlers. Taverner, the cunning man, was much impressed by your Father Abbot; at first involved in Wallasby’s malicious scheming, Taverner later refused any part in the mummery and mischief you’d planned.’

‘What is this?’ Prior Cuthbert exclaimed.

He stared round at his companions but the expressions on Aelfric’s and Wallasby’s faces showed him Corbett was telling the truth.

‘Oh, Father Prior, don’t be so sanctimonious,’ Corbett declared, ‘you must have heard whispers about what was plotted?’

‘Yes, yes, he did,’ Aelfric interrupted. ‘Oh come, come, Brother,’ the infirmarian jibed. ‘You knew Wallasby and I met. Surely you suspected Taverner wasn’t what he claimed to be?’

‘You did worse than that, didn’t you, Father Prior?’ Corbett tapped his fingers on the pommel of his sword. ‘You went hunting by yourself. One night you saw your Father Abbot embrace and kiss a shadowy figure, dressed like a monk, out in Bloody Meadow. You accused him of unnatural vice, hinted that exposure might bring disgrace, threatened that if you did not have your way regarding the building of the guesthouse. .’

Corbett paused at the protests and exclamations which broke out. Prior Cuthbert sat, head down, like a convicted prisoner ready to be led off to Newgate and the executioner’s cart. Aelfric sneered whilst Richard and Dunstan looked horrified.

‘How could you!’ the Almoner shouted. ‘How could you!’

‘It’s a lie,’ the treasurer declared leaning forward, red-faced. ‘Sir Hugh, that’s a lie!’

‘No, Prior Cuthbert had half the truth. He saw Father Abbot kiss and embrace a member of his community but he didn’t know the reason why. I’ll come to that in a while. Anyway, Father Abbot felt trapped. He knew a gulf had opened up between himself and his brothers. The issue of Bloody Meadow was a dagger pointed at his heart, an invitation to all the demons from his past to return. He could never give way, so the tension between him and you only intensified. If he did surrender, his secret sin would be exposed. A man of shaky faith, Abbot Stephen retreated into himself, believing his past had returned to haunt him. On the day that Abbot Stephen died, something in his soul snapped, shattered.’ Corbett paused. ‘On that same evening Abbot Stephen came up to this chamber. He locked and barred the windows and doors and he began to brood. He could see no way out of his predicament. The night wore on. He drank some wine and glanced through the window.’ Corbett half turned and pointed. ‘He saw the reflection of the candles in the glass. In the Abbot’s fevered, distraught imagination he believed he was seeing his own Corpse Candles beckoning him to death: that’s why he wrote down the quotation from St Paul, about seeing things through a glass, darkly and about the Corpse Candles, those mysterious lights seen on the marshes beyond the abbey, beckoning him to death. The Scriptures provided little comfort for him. Instead Abbot Stephen reflected on the ancient Romans, their culture, the civilisation he so deeply loved. He recalled Seneca, the famous Roman philosopher, who wrote: “Anyone can take away a man’s life, but no one his death”. Abbot Stephen brooded on those words, sinking deeper and deeper into a morass of despair and depression, what the theologians called the sin against the Holy Ghost.’

Corbett stared at the Prior. The awful realisation had dawned on Cuthbert. He sat like a man facing death, mouth opening and closing as if he wished to speak but couldn’t find the words to express himself.

‘Oh Domine Jesu, Miserere Nobis!’ the Prior whispered. ‘Sir Hugh, are you saying Abbot Stephen committed suicide?’

The chamber fell deathly silent. Corbett stared at each of them.

‘Abbot Stephen,’ Corbett chose his words carefully, ‘was a man driven to the brink and finally tipped over. He could see no way out except the Roman way, the fate of Seneca.’ Corbett pointed at the coffer. ‘He took out his dagger, sat in his chair, positioned it carefully and thrust it deep into his chest. It would have taken only a matter of seconds, a terrible searing pain, before he lost consciousness, which is why no clamour was heard, no cry, no disturbance. Abbot Stephen’s soul slipped silently into endless night.’

Prior Cuthbert sat with his face in his hands, shoulders shaking.

‘You can weep,’ Brother Aelfric shouted, ‘but his blood is on your hands!’

‘His blood is on all your hands!’

Everyone turned to Perditus. He had moved his stool as if he wished to study each of their faces.

‘You are all murdering bastards! This is not a monastery, it’s the place of the Red Slayer!’ He lapsed into German, ‘Der Rode Schlachter. You call yourselves the sons of Benedict? No, you are the sons of Cain!’

They all stared at this lay brother who sat erect, his face contorted with hatred and rage.

‘How dare you!’ Brother Aelfric shouted.

‘Oh be quiet!’ Perditus showed his teeth, like the snarl of an attacking dog. ‘You with your drooling eyes and ever-wet nose! You are worse than animal shit!’

Corbett watched intently. Perditus wasn’t angry with him. All the while Corbett had been speaking, Perditus had sat with a slight smile on his face, head imperceptibly nodding in agreement at his words. Now the truth was out and he couldn’t contain himself. Corbett glanced at Ranulf, to see that his henchman had quietly withdrawn his dagger and had it balanced in his lap.

Corbett banged the pommel of his sword on the desk. Perditus paused in his diatribe, not so much because of Corbett but more because he could no longer vent his rage but sat like a man who had run a long, demanding race, gasping and gulping for air.

‘Abbot Stephen’s death,’ Corbett remarked quietly, ‘was a hideous sin and the consequence of a heinous threat. It marked the beginning of the real horrors. Isn’t that right, Perditus? How much did Abbot Stephen tell you?’

The lay brother’s face was ashen except for the red spots of anger high in his cheeks. He shook his head.

‘You can speak both English and German,’ Corbett continued matter of factly. ‘I noticed that when I took you back to your chamber after the alleged attack upon you. One of the manuscripts you were reading was in German. I don’t know the tongue but I recognised the cursive script. Where did you get it from, the library?’

Perditus smiled coldly.

‘You were raised to speak German and English fluently. You no more come from Bristol than I do. If I made careful search there, I am sure no one would recall you.’

‘What is this?’ Wallasby demanded, stamping with his boot.

‘You!’ Perditus turned on him. ‘Will. . shut. . up! Because. . you!’ Perditus jabbed his finger at the frightened Archdeacon, ‘were also on my list. You should thank God, Wallasby, that this clerk kept you from leaving St Martin’s. You were special to me, and if you had left, I would have followed.’

Ranulf was about to interrupt but Corbett gestured him to stay silent.

‘Scaribrick and his wolf’s-heads may not have captured you,’ Perditus taunted, ‘but I would have done.’

The Archdeacon gulped and looked at Corbett for protection. The clerk stared back.

‘I planned to take you on your horse. I was going to put a rope around your neck, half hang you from a branch and use you as an archer’s butt, to improve my aim and my skill.’

‘Were you an archer?’ Corbett interrupted. ‘A bowman?’

‘I was more than that,’ Perditus, now distracted, turned back.

‘Yes, I am sure you were,’ Corbett agreed. ‘Let me see, a professional mercenary, hired by the nobility and powerful merchants of Germany? You and Abbot Stephen discussed Vegetius treatise, The Art of War, so you must have been a professional soldier once?’

‘I was a Ritter, a knight,’ Perditus declared. ‘My real name is Franz Chaudenvelt. I led my own company,’ he added proudly. He sat, head back as if reminiscing with friends in a tavern, eyes bright with pride. ‘I commanded mounted men, hobelars and bowmen.’ Perditus faced him squarely.

Corbett wondered whether his look was admiration at Corbett’s discovery or pride in his own bloody deeds.

‘I made mistakes, didn’t I?’ Perditus confessed. ‘I knew I shouldn’t have left that book on the floor. And, of course. .’

‘Yes,’ Corbett interrupted, eager to take over the conversation. ‘You talked of phalanxes, describing how the abbey could be defended. Of course, the irony was, you were talking about defending it against yourself!’

‘He is the assassin? He killed them all?’ Prior Cuthbert exclaimed, shaking his head as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

‘Of course he is,’ Corbett agreed. ‘Perditus saw himself as God’s justice, his vengeance on the men who had driven Abbot Stephen to his death.’

‘He told me, you know,’ Perditus almost shouted, ‘he told me how the dogs were snapping at his ankles, always demanding. . Abbot Stephen didn’t fear any of you.’ His voice turned to a snarl.

‘Did he tell you what the funeral barrow contained?’ Corbett asked. ‘No, he wouldn’t, would he?’

Perditus shook his head. ‘He simply said it must not be disturbed. He made mysterious references to that funeral barrow being the hub of his life: he never explained what he meant.’ He smiled at Corbett. ‘You are a clever clerk. Abbot Stephen was always drawing that diagram of the wheel. When I climbed up the funeral barrow I realised what it had meant. No wonder he admired that mosaic in the cellars. But they,’ his voice rose as he pointed at the monks, ‘are the true assasins. Abbot Stephen was driven distracted by their pleas, their hints, their threats. Oh yes, Prior,’ Perditus jibed. ‘He told me how you had seen us out in Bloody Meadow; about your blackmail and your nasty threats. If I’d had my way I’d have cut your scrawny throat, but Abbot Stephen would have no violence.’

‘You were Abbot Stephen’s lover?’ Brother Dunstan spoke up.

‘Shut up, you fat, lecherous slob! What do you know about love except between the thighs of some tavern wench! Tell them, Corbett. You seem to know everything! ’

‘Abbot Stephen loved Perditus,’ Corbett replied quietly. ‘But it was not an unnatural vice but the most natural love: Perditus was his son.’

In any other circumstances the looks on the monks’ faces would have provoked Corbett to laughter.

‘Son?’ Brother Aelfric exclaimed. ‘How could a priest have a son?’

‘Don’t be stupid! Priests’ bastards litter one end of Christendom to another,’ Perditus snarled.

‘Abbot Stephen,’ Corbett explained, ‘did not father his child when he was a monk but when he was a member of Edward’s court, a knight banneret. Perditus?’

The lay brother lifted his head, tears in his eyes.

‘Did Abbot Stephen ever tell you about your mother?’

‘No.’ The reply was a half whisper. ‘No, he never did, he never would. He simply said she had died and that her name was Heloise. But, since his death and the events of this morning. .’

‘You mean, what we found in the burial mound?’ Corbett asked.

‘And when you left for Harcourt Manor,’ Perditus replied, ‘I began to suspect.’

‘Lady Margaret!’ Wallasby exclaimed.

‘Lady Margaret,’ Corbett agreed.

‘I didn’t know.’ Perditus seemed lost in his own thoughts. ‘I didn’t even suspect. Abbot Stephen hardly mentioned Lady Margaret, and when he did, he described her only as a vexatious neighbour, an old woman he deeply disliked and resented. That was all pretence, wasn’t it, Corbett? I should go to her.’ He half rose. ‘I should see her, shouldn’t I?’

In the doorway Chanson quietly withdrew his dagger.

‘Sit down!’ Corbett ordered. ‘Perditus, sit down! Let me finish this matter. Let me explain how you wreaked justice and exacted vengeance?

Perditus, eyes narrowed, sat down.

‘There is a likeness, you know,’ Corbett said gently. ‘When I met Lady Margaret I thought I had seen those features before. You are very like her: the same glance; the way you move your eyes; your iron will; your inflexibility of purpose.’

Corbett deliberately flattered, hoping to soothe this man, whose soul was given up to hate and vengeance.

‘Go into the abbey church,’ Corbett declared, ‘and look carefully at the wall paintings: they describe, in their own secret code, the life of Daubigny and of Daubigny’s son. They show how this place became his refuge, his exile, though the painting of Cain slaying Abel was a constant reminder of the evil he had done.’

‘I wish Father had told me,’ Perditus was speaking to himself.

‘Perhaps he would have done,’ Corbett reassured. ‘In time.’

‘How did this all come about?’ Prior Cuthbert demanded.

‘I will tell you,’ Corbett retorted. ‘And, when I am finished,’ he pointed to the bible resting on the lectern at the far corner of the room, ‘you shall all take a solemn oath never to reveal or discuss what you hear today. Sir Stephen Daubigny and Margaret Harcourt have paid for their sins. Hate and rage have had their way. Enough blood has been spilt.’ He glanced at Perditus. ‘There will be truth and then there will be silence!’