Corpse Candle

Chapter 1

Prior Cuthbert had turned one of the vesting rooms, which lay off the gallery leading to the sacristry, into a mourning chamber. The white plaster walls were covered in gold and black drapes. On either side of the bier stood three great brass candlesticks with dark-purple candles specially made by the abbey’s chandler. A huge cross was nailed to the wall. The drapes covering Abbot Stephen’s corpse were embroidered in silver thread depicting Christ harrowing Hell. Despite the late season, some flowers had been found and placed in silver vases at each corner of the bier. Scented braziers, sprinkled with dried thyme, kept the air sweet. Prior Cuthbert felt proud of what he had achieved since the Abbot’s death four days earlier. The corpse had been washed, cleaned and prepared for burial. Later that day, just after noon, he would celebrate the solemn requiem Mass in the abbey church. Prior Cuthbert had warned the brothers not to gossip. The abbey had expected some representative from the King. As soon as Abbot Stephen’s corpse had been discovered, an abbey messenger, taking two of the swiftest horses from the stables, had ridden to Norwich where the King and court were on royal progress through the Eastern shires.

Prior Cuthbert stood aside and allowed his visitors to approach the bier. He felt distinctly nervous. He’d expected the King to send an earl, or one of his principal barons. Instead the tall, dark, close-faced Sir Hugh Corbett, Keeper of the King’s Secret Seal, had arrived, together with his henchman, Ranulf-atte-Newgate, the red-haired, sharp-featured Clerk of the Green Wax, and Chanson, that strange-looking clerk of the stables with a mop of unruly hair and a cast in one eye. All three were dressed in travel-stained clothes, dark-brown cote-hardies, leggings of the same colour pushed into high-heeled Spanish leather riding boots. Spurs clinked, sword and dagger tapped against thigh. They were men of war, Prior Cuthbert reflected, yet they emanated as well an air of quiet authority and menace: Corbett in particular, handsome, clean-shaven, pleasant-featured but with deep-set, brooding eyes. A man who didn’t say much but seemed to listen and watch everything around him. He didn’t stand on ceremony. As soon as he was ushered into the Prior’s quarters, he showed his warrant bearing the King’s Seal, splaying out his fingers to display the Chancery ring emblazoned with the arms of England.

‘We expected someone else,’ Prior Cuthbert murmured.

Corbett unfastened his cloak and tossed it to Chanson. Ranulf did the same, stretching his arms and legs to ease the cramp after the long ride in the saddle.

‘Whom did you expect?’ Corbett asked, a half-smile on his face.

‘I. . I. .’ Prior Cuthbert’s words died on his lips. ‘Do you wish some wine? Some food?’

He gestured Corbett to a chair. Ranulf he ignored. He didn’t like the cynical look in the clerk’s keen, green eyes.

‘No, thank you.’ Corbett ignored the chair. ‘We have ridden hard, Prior Cuthbert, but the King was most insistent that I view Abbot Stephen’s corpse and pay my respects. I would be grateful if you would show it to me now.’

Prior Cuthbert had hastened to obey. He kept silent as Corbett, without any ceremony, pulled back the coverlet. Abbot Stephen was serene and composed in death, dressed in the full pontificals of an abbot, his body was placed in an open casket before being taken into the church. Prior Cuthbert watched the clerk closely: the raven-black hair was streaked with grey, pulled back and tied at the nape of the neck; his face was more olive-skinned than sallow; the hands now free of their heavy gauntlets were soft-looking, the fingers long and strong. An orderly, precise man, Prior Cuthbert concluded: the clerk’s cote-hardie and leggings were of pure wool, the shirt beneath crisp and white. The sword belt which Corbett had not taken off, as was customary in an abbey, was of thick brown leather: the sheaths for both dagger and sword were brocaded with red and blue stitching. Prior Cuthbert thought hard and fast as Corbett stood staring down at the dead Abbot’s face. Yes, he had heard about this clerk. More powerful than an earl, Corbett was King Edward’s spy master, his limner, his greyhound, his searcher for the truth. Abbot Stephen had once spoken of how Corbett had investigated a strange community, the Pastorales out on the Norfolk coast. Oh yes, a clerk who enjoyed the King’s favour without stint or hindrance! Prior Cuthbert felt the sweat break out on his brow. Even before Corbett spoke he knew which way this was going. Edward of England was not going to be satisfied with some coroner’s report. Abbot Stephen’s death was to be investigated. Corbett stood, staring down at the dead Abbot’s face as if memorising every detail. Then he went and knelt on the prie-dieu and crossed himself. Ranulf and Chanson knelt on the hard paving floor so Prior Cuthbert had no choice but to follow.

‘Requiem eternam,’ Corbett intoned. ‘Eternal rest grant unto Abbot Stephen, Oh Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon him. May he find a place of light and peace. May he rest in your favour and enjoy your smile for all eternity.’

Corbett crossed himself, got to his feet and replaced the purple cloth over the Abbot’s face.

‘I will not speak to you now, Prior Cuthbert. I want to see you and the Abbey Concilium, shall we say within a quarter of the hour? You have chambers prepared for us?’

‘Yes, yes, in our guesthouse.’

Corbett took his cloak from Chanson.

‘One for me and one for my companions?’

‘Yes, Sir Hugh.’

Prior Cuthbert felt uneasy, used to exercising authority, Corbett made him nervous, agitated. The clerk seemed to sense this.

‘Prior Cuthbert, I am here on the King’s business. I understand the grief of your community but Abbot Stephen was a close friend of the King. A priest, one of the leading clerics of the Lords Spiritual. His death, or rather his murder, has saddened and angered the King. The assassin undoubtedly was a member of your community. I and my companions, and I swear this in the presence of Abbot Stephen’s corpse, will not leave this abbey until both God and the King’s justice is done and seen to be done!’

‘Of course.’ Prior Cuthbert tried to assert himself. ‘We understand the King’s grief, indeed, anger. Abbot Stephen was much loved. Yet his assassin may not be a member of our community. Sinister figures prowl the fens outside: outlaws, wolfs-heads under their leader Scaribrick. It is not unknown for such reprobates to trespass on our property.’

‘In which case,’ Corbett replied drily, tightening his sword belt, ‘they have powers denied to you and me, Prior Cuthbert. Wasn’t Abbot Stephen’s chamber locked and bolted from the inside, its latticed windows firmly closed? There are no secret entrances, I suppose?’

Prior Cuthbert stepped back.

‘What are you implying, Sir Hugh?’

‘I am implying nothing,’ Corbett declared, ‘except that Abbot Stephen was found in his chamber with a dagger from his own coffer thrust deep into his chest. No one heard a sound, let alone a cry for help. The room was not disturbed. Nothing was stolen. How could some ragged-arsed outlaw perpetrate such a crime, waft in and out like God’s own air?’

‘You are implying,’ Prior Cuthbert declared, ‘that Abbot Stephen was murdered and his assassin must be a member of our community? If that is true then it is a matter for the church courts. This is church property. Until the election and installation of a new abbot, I am the law in this abbey.’

Corbett put on his cloak. He fiddled with the clasp as if ignoring what the Prior had said. He glanced over his shoulder at Ranulf who stood, thumbs tucked into his sword belt. The Prior could see the Clerk of the Green Wax was enjoying himself. Corbett’s henchman, Prior Cuthbert thought, his bully-boy, was clearly not impressed by church authority. His cat-like eyes were half-closed and he was biting his lip to hide the mockery bubbling inside. Chanson, their groom, stood open-mouthed like some peasant watching a mummer’s play. Prior Cuthbert knew that he was handling this matter badly yet Corbett wasn’t going to let him off the hook so lightly.

‘What do you think, Ranulf? Shall we collect our saddle-bags and horses, ride back to Norwich and tell the King that his writ does not run in certain parts of Lincolnshire?’

‘I have a better idea,’ Ranulf retorted. ‘Why not call up the local sheriff’s posse and have them escort Prior Cuthbert to Norwich so he can explain to the King personally? And, whilst he is gone, we can get on with this business.’ He grinned at the Prior. ‘As well as God’s.’

Prior Cuthbert spread his hands.

‘You have me wrong, sirs. However, I am Prior of this abbey. I have certain powers and jurisdiction. We are in the archdiocese of Canterbury, the local bishop will expect me to act in accordance with the Constitutions of Clarendon.’

Corbett walked over and placed a hand on the Prior’s shoulder.

‘Prior Cuthbert.’ Corbett’s face was now unsmiling. ‘I respect what you say: you are a churchman and must protect the rights of Holy Mother Church. However,’ Corbett tightened his grip, ‘one of the lords spiritual — a leading abbot of this country, a personal friend of the King, a theologian of some renown, an envoy who has led embassies abroad — has been found murdered in his own chamber. Holy Mother Church is going to demand an explanation. The King wants justice. If you frustrate me, people will begin to wonder whether Prior Cuthbert is the man to lead an abbey. Indeed, some will whisper that he may have things to hide.’

The Prior shook off Corbett’s hand.

‘You are threatening me.’

‘I am not threatening you,’ Corbett retorted, eyes blazing with anger. ‘I have a task to do, Prior Cuthbert, and I shall do it! I am merely giving you a choice. You can either co-operate or be summoned by the King to explain why you will not. So, before we leave this room, what is it to be?’

Prior Cuthbert swallowed hard.

‘You want to meet the Concilium?’

‘Yes, I do, in the Abbot’s own chamber.’

Corbett stopped and cocked his head to one side as if listening to the faint strains of chanting coming from the abbey church.

‘I agree!’

Prior Cuthbert walked to the door.

‘I will send Brother Perditus, a lay brother who was the Abbot’s manservant. He will take you to your quarters and show you the Abbot’s chamber. I will make sure it is unlocked. Since the Abbot’s death I have kept it secure, and the doors sealed.’

‘Good!’ Corbett murmured.

He extended his hand for the Prior to clasp. Cuthbert did so reluctantly and quietly left.

Corbett made sure the door was closed behind him. He stood for a while, listening to the sound of the sandals slapping on the hard paved floor before he turned and looked at his companions.

‘He still shows a lack of respect,’ Ranulf declared.

He picked at the hem of his cloak, scraping some mud off before remembering where he was and letting it fall.

‘He’s a churchman,’ Corbett replied coming away from the door. ‘He’s protecting his rights, his jurisdiction. I expected him to do that. I’ve met his like before. It’s a little dance we have to perform, like knights testing each other on the tournament ground before the real battle begins.’

‘Did you ever meet Abbot Stephen?’ Ranulf asked.

‘On a few occasions.’ Corbett stared down at the figure lying beneath the purple cloth. ‘He was a good man, a scholar, very erudite, skilled in a number of languages. He led embassies to Flanders and the German States. He did good work for the King.’

‘You said he was a good friend of the King’s?’

‘Perhaps I should have said “had been”. Many years ago, Ranulf, long before you saw the light of day, our Abbot was a knight banneret, a member of the King’s own personal bodyguard. He fought with Edward at Evesham against de Montfort. When the King was struck down during the battle, Sir Stephen Daubigny, as he was then known, saved the King’s life. They became boon companions, drinking from the same loving cup. There was another, Sir Reginald Harcourt. He and Daubigny were the firmest of friends, close allies. In fact, people thought they were brothers. They went everywhere together.’

‘What happened?’ Ranulf asked.

‘We don’t know. Before I left Norwich I asked the King, but even he did not know the details. Apparently Sir Reginald left on some mysterious pilgrimage.’

‘To the Holy Land?’

‘No, no, to Cologne in Germany. According to rumour, he left by one of the Eastern ports and landed at Dordrecht in Hainault but then disappeared.’

‘Disappeared?’ Chanson queried, he loved to eavesdrop on his master’s conversations.

‘That’s right, my cross-eyed clerk of the stables,’ Ranulf declared. ‘Disappeared. That’s what Sir Hugh said.’

‘Hush now!’

Corbett walked to the door and opened it but the gallery outside was empty. He could still hear the chant of the monks. He closed the door.

‘Harcourt’s wife, Lady Margaret, was so distraught she begged Sir Stephen to help find her husband. They both travelled abroad. They were away for months. When they came back, according to the King, they were sworn enemies. Lady Margaret became a recluse. The King tried to find her a suitable husband but she always refused to marry again and he respected her wishes.’

‘And Sir Stephen?’

‘He entered the abbey of St Martin’s as a brother and was ordained a priest. He would not explain his decision to the King. He became as good a monk as he had been a knight. He was able, a skilled administrator. He became prior and, after the death of Abbot Benedict, the obvious successor.’

‘And Lady Margaret?’

‘The King does not know the cause of the enmity between the two. Lady Margaret once confided to the Queen that she believed if Stephen Daubigny had gone with her husband, he would not have disappeared. She also begged Sir Stephen, when they were looking for Sir Reginald, to continue the search but he claimed Sir Reginald had vanished. He refused to travel any further and returned to England. She followed some months afterwards. From the day they separated, they never spoke to each other again.’

‘But they were neighbours!’ Ranulf exclaimed.

‘Aye, but ones who never talked or met. Lady Margaret refused to do business with Abbot Stephen and earnestly challenged any attempt by the abbey to extend its rights. She jealously guarded the privileges of her estates. There was bad blood between them.’ Corbett stared down at the corpse. ‘I wonder if she has come to pay her last respects? It’s something I must ask Prior Cuthbert. Well, what have you learnt, my clerk of the Green Wax?’

Ranulf loosened his sword belt and rubbed where it was chafing his side. He had left Norwich before his master and spent the previous night at a local tavern, The Lantern-in-the-Woods, listening to the tales of chapmen, travellers and tinkers.

‘I heard about the enmity between Lady Margaret and Abbot Stephen though people seem to regard it as they do the weather, something to be accepted. Abbot Stephen was respected and loved by his monks. The abbey was well managed, with no hint of laxity or scandal. There’s a hermit who calls himself the “Watcher by the Gates”. Abbot Stephen allowed him to build a small bothy close to the wall. People regarded him as a madcap, slightly uncanny. He tells travellers chilling tales about demonic horsemen and the ghost of Geoffrey Mandeville.’

‘Ah yes, I have heard of that.’

‘Nothing but fireside tales,’ Ranulf continued, ‘except for one thing. A tinker told me how, over the last few weeks, a hunting horn has been heard at night.’

‘A horn?’ Corbett exclaimed.

‘That’s what the tinker claimed. One night he was unable to get lodgings, and the abbey gates were closed so he went to seek help from Lady Margaret. She allowed him to sleep in one of the outhouses. He woke in the middle of the night when it was dark, and as clear as a clarion call on a summer’s day, he heard three long blasts and then silence. The following day he made enquiries. It seems to be quite common, occurring two or three times a week for the last few months. No one knows why or who is doing it?’

Ranulf was about to continue when there was a knock on the door.

‘Come in!’ Corbett ordered.

The lay brother who stepped through was dressed in a long, woollen gown, with a white cord around his waist, and stout brown sandals on his feet. He was tall, his fair hair cropped in a tonsure, bold-eyed and firm-jawed. His face was pale, rather ascetic, and the high cheek-bones gave him an imperious air. He seemed unabashed by Corbett.

‘I am Brother Perditus,’ he declared in a loud, guttural voice.

Corbett noticed his eyes were red-rimmed from weeping. He suspected the man had just washed his face and was putting on a brave front.

‘You’ve been crying, haven’t you?’

The lay brother’s haughty expression crumpled, his hands fell loosely by his side. He stared down at the floor and nodded. When he lifted his head tears glistened in his eyes. He refused to look at the funeral bier but kept close to the door, glancing at Corbett then at Ranulf.

‘I think we’ll leave,’ Corbett said softly.

Brother Perditus led them out. He walked quickly before them, using the opportunity to dry his eyes on the sleeve of his gown. They went down the gallery and out across the great cloister garth. A weak sun had melted the frost on the grass. The desks and lecterns used by the monks for their study were all deserted, books firmly closed, ink pots sealed. Usually this would be a hive of activity; the abbey illuminators and scribes using the precious daylight to continue their work.

‘The brothers are still in church,’ Perditus explained over his shoulder. ‘But I wager they all know you’ve arrived.’

He led them down another gallery, out past the church where Corbett could smell the fragrant incense and beeswax, and into a courtyard. In the centre stood a rose garden. On the far side was a half-timbered building with black beams and white plaster. Inside the polished floor gleamed in the weak morning sunlight. The lower storey of the guesthouse consisted of small, white-washed rooms. Brother Perditus explained that meals could be served to them in one of these, which served as a small refectory. He led them up the wooden staircase. The walls were decorated with pictures and coloured hangings. A crucifix hung in the stairwell, and small statues stood in the niches. Rather incongruously the carving of a woodman, with popping eyes and snarling mouth, had also been placed on the wall. Corbett smiled, it was a carving which would frighten his little daughter Eleanor and it certainly jarred with the serenity and calmness of the guesthouse. The top floor was a polished gallery, with large arrow-slit windows on one side and the doors to the chambers on the other. Corbett was shown the first.

‘There’s a key in the inside lock,’ Brother Perditus explained. ‘The door can also be bolted.’ He blinked in embarrassment. ‘Not that we need such protection in an abbey!’

He then took Ranulf and Chanson to their room. Corbett’s saddle-bag had already been placed on the small chest at the foot of the bed. He quickly checked the buckles and straps; they had not been tampered with. He stared around at the white-washed walls, and the window which overlooked the courtyard, its glass thick and mullioned with a small latticed door that could be shuttered from the inside. The bed was long and narrow with grey woollen blankets, crisp white linen sheets and bolsters. Corbett felt the mattress, it was thick and soft.

‘Probably featherdown,’ he murmured.

The rest of the furniture was simple but beautifully carved. A writing table stood under the window, a smaller table by the bed. A chair, stools, coffers, chests and a large aumbry were also available. Corbett placed his war belt on a peg driven into the wall. He removed his spurs from the pocket of his cloak and placed them on the window sill, undid his cloak and loosened his shirt. Corbett sat on the edge of the bed and took off his boots. He closed his eyes as the tension and cramp of his long ride eased. In one corner stood a small wooden lavarium, jug, bowl and coloured cloths. Corbett went across and washed his hands and face, half-listening to the sounds from the gallery. Brother Perditus knocked on the door and came in.

‘Prior Cuthbert says you are most welcome to join us in church. He would like you to be his guest in the refectory. Otherwise you may eat in here or downstairs.’

‘You are still mourning, aren’t you?’ Corbett asked. ‘Come in, man.’ He gestured to a stool.

Corbett couldn’t make up his mind about this abbey. Everything was clean, serene, orderly and harmonious. The brothers went about their duties. Prior Cuthbert had protested but he seemed upright and capable enough. Brother Perditus was the ideal host and guide. Yet Corbett felt the hairs on the nape of his neck curl in danger. Once, while soldiering in Wales, he had stumbled into a sun-filled glade. Butterflies danced in the breeze, the air was sweet with the fragrance of wild flowers. Wood pigeons cooed, birds sang. Corbett had sensed that, beyond the glade, hideous dangers lurked. One of his companions had scoffed and abruptly changed his mind as cruel barbed arrows whipped above their heads. So it is now, Corbett thought. The lake may be serene on the surface but he wondered how deep it was and what treacheries lurked beneath.

Perditus sat, head bowed, hands dutifully up the sleeves of his gown, patiently waiting to answer anything Corbett asked.

‘You are a lay brother?’

‘Yes, sir. I have been for four years.’

‘And you were the Abbot’s personal servant?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And you liked him?’

‘I loved him.’

Perditus’s head came up. Corbett was surprised at the fierce expression in his eyes.

‘He was truly a father to me, kind and learned. You are here to trap his murderer, aren’t you?’

Corbett took a stool and sat opposite.

‘He was murdered,’ Perditus continued. ‘I have heard the whispers amongst the brothers. It was not the work of some outlaw or wolf’s-head, wild men from the fens. They had no quarrel with Father Abbot.’

‘So, who do you think murdered him?’

Perditus’s face broke into a sneer.

‘One of our Christ-like community.’

‘And why?’

‘Because he was a hard taskmaster. He made them obey the rule of St Benedict. He wanted the abbey to remain an abbey, not some glorified guesthouse for the powerful lords of the soil!’

‘Tell me.’ Corbett undid his leather wrist guard and threw it on the chest at the bottom of the bed. ‘How did you serve Father Abbot?’

‘I would bring him meals to the refectory, clean his chamber, collect books from the libraries, run errands.’

‘And the night he died?’

‘I was sleeping in a small chamber nearby.’

‘And you heard nothing untoward?’

‘No, sir, I did not. The bell rang for matins. Father Abbot did not come down so I thought he was sleeping late or working, he had so much to do. Later in the morning, when he didn’t appear and wouldn’t answer my calls, I became alarmed. I summoned Prior Cuthbert.’

Corbett held a hand up. ‘Enough for now. I wish you to join the Concilium when it meets in the Abbot’s quarters.’

‘But they will object. I am only a lay brother!’

‘And I am only a King’s clerk.’ Corbett smiled. ‘Brother Perditus, I would be grateful if you would bring my companions and myself a jug of ale, some bread and dried meat. We would like to break our fast.’

The lay brother agreed. He almost leapt from the stool, eager to be out of the way of this hard-eyed clerk. Corbett went to the window and watched Perditus scurry across the courtyard. Ranulf and Chanson entered the room. They, too, had taken off their belts, cloaks and boots. Ranulf had splashed water on his hair, forcing it back from his brow, and this gave him a lean and hungry look. Corbett studied this Clerk of the Green Wax: Ranulf was changing. Tall and muscular, his interests in the ladies hadn’t waned but he now had a greater hunger, a burning ambition to rise high in the King’s service. Ranulf had hired an Oxford clerk, one of his own subordinates, to teach him Latin and Norman French as well as perfect his handwriting, both the cursive script and the elegant copperplate used on charters and official proclamations. Now he stood on the balls of his feet, eager to press on with the task in hand.

‘A serene place, Sir Hugh, though not what it appears. .?’

‘No abbey or monastery is,’ Corbett replied, leaning against the window sill and folding his arms. ‘Or any community! That even goes for my own family, Ranulf. Look at the tension which can surface at Leighton. The sea of troubles which,’ he grinned, ‘sends us both scurrying to our private chambers.’

Ranulf coloured slightly with embarrassment. Leighton Manor was ruled by Corbett’s wife, the Lady Maeve. A small, beautiful, blonde-haired, Welsh woman, Maeve had the face of an angel and a tongue like a sharpened razor. When she lost her temper, Ranulf particularly would always find something interesting to do at the other side of the manor. Everyone — Uncle Morgan who was their permanent guest, Corbett, Ranulf and even Chanson, who rarely reflected on anything — feared the dimunitive Lady Maeve more than they did the King.

‘I thought we were going back home,’ Chanson moaned.

The groom had two gifts. He could manage any horse and he loved Corbett’s children, Eleanor and Baby Edward. Although not the cleanest or best looking of men, Chanson was always a source of delightful curiosity to them as well as the other children on the manor.

‘Aye.’ Corbett sighed. ‘We were supposed to go home.’

He half closed his eyes. He had joined the King at Norwich after that business in Suffolk. Edward had promised him leave from his service but then the dusty, mud-spattered courier had arrived from St Martin’s. The King had begged him to take on this task and what could Corbett do?

‘It was murder, wasn’t it?’ Ranulf asked sitting down on a stool.

‘Murder and a cunning one,’ Corbett agreed. ‘But proving it and discovering the assassin will be difficult. We are going to have to poke with a long, sharp stick. In many ways Abbot Stephen was a strange man. Oh, he was holy enough and learned but self-contained and mysterious; a knight-banneret who decided to become a priest. A soldier who decided to hunt demons.’

‘Demons!’ Ranulf exclaimed.

Corbett smiled thinly. ‘Yes, Ranulf, our late Abbot was an officially appointed exorcist. Abbot Stephen would be called to assist with people who claimed to be possessed, and houses that were reputedly haunted.’

‘Sprites and goblins!’ Ranulf scoffed. ‘A legion of devils wander Whitefriars and Southwark, but they are all flesh and blood. The wickedness they perpetrate would shame any self-respecting demon. You don’t believe in that nonsense, do you?’

Corbett pursed his lips. Ranulf stared in disbelief. Chanson, delighted, stood rooted to the spot. He loved nothing better, as he’d often whispered to Ranulf, than sombre tales about witches, warlocks and sorcerers.

‘Surely, Sir Hugh, it’s arrant nonsense!’

‘Yes and no,’ Corbett replied slowly. ‘Ranulf, I am a true son of Holy Mother Church, as you should be.’

‘But you are also an Oxford clerk skilled in logic. You deal in evidence, in that which can be proved.’

‘But I can give you proof,’ Corbett teased back. ‘Ranulf, think of something.’

The Clerk of the Green Wax closed his eyes.

‘Well, of what are you thinking?’

‘Sweet Amasia.’ Ranulf grinned. ‘Her father owns a tavern on the road outside Leighton.’

‘And do you see her?’

‘Oh yes, Master.’

‘But I can’t.’

Ranulf opened his eyes. ‘Well, of course not, it’s just an idea in my head.’

‘So, it’s invisible to me.’ Corbett warmed to his theme. He enjoyed such debate. He recalled the hurlyburly days in the schools of Oxford, of argument and disputation, the clash of mind and wit. ‘The point I am making, Ranulf, is that there is evil in our own experience, both visible and invisible. Indeed, following the great Plato, I would argue that that which is visible only comes into being from that which is invisible!’

Ranulf glared at Chanson who giggled softly.

‘A tree’s visible,’ he countered.

‘But a tree came from that which is hardly visible and, if you push the argument through, I would say a tree is the work of the mind of God. Man is the same: he is conceived in a woman’s womb but born of a love, an idea, which existed before he did.’

‘Or lust?’ Ranulf added.

‘Or lust,’ Corbett conceded. ‘However, my hypothesis could apply to anything.’ He pointed to a coloured tapestry on the wall depicting St Antony preaching to the birds. ‘Before that picture existed, someone must have conceived it, had an idea. He, or she, worked out what colours would be used, how the scene would be depicted.’

‘What’s this got to do with demons?’ Chanson broke in.

‘Everything,’ Corbett declared. ‘My learned Clerk of the Green Wax challenged my belief in the invisible. In a word, I believe two worlds exist at the same time, the visible and the invisible. In both worlds, beings exist who possess intelligence and will. Whether that intelligence and will are inclined for good or evil is a matter for individual choice. More importantly. .’

Corbett was about to continue when they heard footsteps on the stairs. Brother Perditus came in carrying a tray with a jug, three cups and a small breadboard. The white manchet loaf had been cut, and each piece smeared with butter and honey.

‘Father Prior asks for more time,’ he stuttered. ‘Nones have just finished. He has to summon the others.’ He placed the tray on the table and stepped back. ‘I have other duties. Father Prior does not believe that I should attend the meeting in the Abbot’s chamber.’

‘I thank you for the refreshments,’ Corbett replied kindly. ‘And never mind what Prior Cuthbert says. Please be there.’

The lay brother fled. Chanson went to serve them but Ranulf pulled at his sleeve and pointed to the groom’s dirty hands.

‘I know enough about physic,’ he said.

Chanson, scowling, stepped back. Ranulf filled three tankards and served them. Each took a piece of bread and ate hungrily.

‘There’s no meat,’ Chanson declared mournfully. ‘They’ve forgotten the meat.’

‘We’ll dine soon enough,’ Corbett declared.

Ranulf drained his tankard and smacked his lips, the ale was tangy sweet. He took the jug and refilled it.

‘One thing about monks,’ he muttered. ‘They make good ale. Master, you were saying?’

‘Ah yes, I believe two worlds exist and the beings I described can cross from one to the other.’

‘Rubbish!’ Ranulf declared, his mouth full of bread.

‘I believe it,’ Corbett declared. ‘Every time you pray you enter the invisible world. Every time you love and, more dangerously, hate or curse. When you call out into the dark, Ranulf, and if you call long and hard enough, someone always answers.’

‘Like murder?’ Chanson asked.

‘Like murder,’ Corbett agreed. ‘A man or a woman can decide on evil. The idea takes root first. Only afterwards comes their bloody work.’

‘You don’t need a demon to be an assassin,’ Ranulf countered.

‘No, but when you kill, you’re allying your will with the powers of darkness. Read the gospels, Ranulf, especially St John’s. Christ describes Satan as a “killer from the start”. Adam’s sin was disobeying God but the first real sin was that of Cain slaying his brother, hiding his corpse and refusing to answer God’s summons. We all have some of Cain in us,’ Corbett murmured.

‘Not you, Master, surely?’

Corbett closed his eyes. He recalled the bloody hand-to-hand fighting in Wales when the wild tribesmen broke into the royal camp: the painted faces, glaring eyes, the clash of sword, the sheer desperation to kill and survive.

‘Oh yes, I have.’ He opened his eyes. ‘But I pray God that I never be put into that position.’

Ranulf was about to continue when they heard fresh sounds outside: someone slowly climbing the stairs.

‘Our Perditus has returned,’ Ranulf observed.

But the man who entered was a stranger. He was small, thickset, and youngish-looking, with closely cropped black hair, a smiling rubicund face, snub nose and the bright eyes of a sparrow. He was dressed in a long, dark-green gown, soft brown leather boots, with a cloak of dark murrey fastened round the neck with a gold clasp. Beneath it was a white collar band, with a small and elegant crucifix on a gold chain round his neck, and rings sparkling on his plump fingers. He stood in the doorway and smiled round.

‘Am I interrupting something?’

‘It depends on who you are,’ Corbett declared.

He could tell from the man’s dress that he was a priest and vaguely recalled Edward telling him what had been planned at St Martin’s Abbey.

‘Archdeacon Adrian Wallasby.’

The man’s face broke into a gap-toothed smile. He stretched out his hand and walked towards Corbett.

‘Like you, I am a visitor to this holy place. I heard about your arrival and thought I should meet you.’

Corbett shook his hand and introductions were made.

‘I am Archdeacon of St Paul’s,’ Wallasby declared, ‘sent here by the Archbishop of Canterbury and the Dominican Order.’

‘For what purpose?’

‘Oh, to confront the devil and all his demons!’ Wallasby threw his head back and gave a deep belly laugh. ‘A wasted journey, mind you. I am well entertained in the guesthouse across the courtyard but my journey was fruitless. And you, Sir Hugh, you must be here because of Abbot Stephen’s mysterious death?’

‘Murder,’ Corbett replied. ‘I believe the abbot was murdered. Anyway, what has the devil and all his demons to do with the Abbey of St Martin’s? I know Abbot Stephen was an exorcist. .?’

‘And a famous one,’ the Archdeacon countered. ‘That’s why I was here. Abbot Stephen wrote extensively on demonic possession. He performed exorcism both in Lincolnshire and in London, very celebrated cases. He was supposed to carry one out here: a man named Taverner has asked for the abbot’s help.’

‘And you came to witness this?’

‘No, Sir Hugh, I came to disprove it. I agree with the Dominican school of thought. What many people regard as possession is, I believe, some sickness of the mind, a malady of the humours, lunacy, madness and, in many cases, simply suggestion or even downright trickery.’

Ranulf clapped his hands quietly.

‘Ah!’ The Archdeacon smiled at him. ‘I believe I have a kindred spirit here?’

‘And when was this exorcism to take place?’ Corbett asked.

‘Tomorrow.’

‘And have you met this Taverner?’

‘I have interrogated him.’

‘And?’

The Archdeacon shrugged, took a piece of bread from the platter and popped it into his mouth, chewing slowly.

‘He’s one of the strangest cases I’ve encountered. I half believed I’d chosen the wrong ground to fight Abbot Stephen.’

‘You mean to say the man is truly possessed?’

‘Perhaps?’

The Archdeacon paused as footsteps were heard on the stairs. Brother Perditus almost stumbled into the room.

‘Prior Cuthbert and the Concilium are ready,’ he gasped.

Sir Hugh picked up his boots.

‘Then we’d best join them and, as we are going to deal with the workings of the devil,’ he smiled at the Archdeacon, ‘perhaps you would be so kind as to join us?’