Corpse Candle

Chapter 2

Brother Gildas, architect and stonemason in the Abbey of St Martin’s-in-the-Marsh, always prided himself that he would be ready for death. He was an old man but still keen-eyed, a former soldier, a craftsman who had helped build Edward’s great castles in South Wales. Brother Gildas had often confronted death, in lonely, mist-filled valleys or forest clearings, where it could strike quickly with arrow, lance, club, axe or dagger. To prepare for death, Brother Gildas had entered the abbey twenty years ago and the brothers had been quick to use his skill. A close friend of Prior Cuthbert, Brother Gildas loved to sketch plans with quill and parchment, to choose stone and feel its texture, to cut and measure, to design and build in his mind before the first sod was cut and the corner stone laid.

Contented, grey-haired and calm-faced, Brother Gildas liked to be on his own. True, he felt a deep sorrow at Abbot Stephen’s death and looked forward to singing the psalms at the requiem Mass. Yet life would go on. Gildas was now busy in his own workshop at the far end of the abbey. The table beside him was littered with different types of stone, mallets, chisels and scraps of parchment. Brother Gildas hummed one of his favourite psalms.

‘Out of the depths have I cried unto thee, Oh Lord! Lord, hear my voice!’

Brother Gildas loved that song: surely it must have been written by a soldier. Didn’t the psalm refer to watchmen, to God the redeemer? Brother Gildas sat at his high desk, beating a slight tattoo on its hard, polished surface whilst he studied, yet again, his plans for the new guesthouse. Now Abbot Stephen was dead Brother Cuthbert would surely be elected Abbot. The burial mound in the Bloody Meadow would be removed. Brother Gildas felt excited at the prospect of fresh building work. Perhaps he should choose the hard grey stone from South Yorkshire? Or maybe he should have selected something new like that beautiful, honey-coloured stone in Oxfordshire now being used in the building of colleges and halls at the university? Gildas felt a pang of regret, closed his eyes and whispered a prayer. He should not be thinking like this! Abbot Stephen’s body was not yet buried. Gildas picked up the quill and sharpened it. How could their Father Abbot be murdered in such eerie circumstances? Gildas didn’t believe any outlaw had broken in, yet he’d been present when the door had been forced. There were no other entrances or passageways. The windows had been closed and, as a mason, Gildas knew it would be impossible for even the most nimble-footed assassin to climb those walls. They were sheer and smooth, offering no crevice or crack for toe or hand. Gildas wondered if the murder had anything to do with that mysterious, perfumed figure he’d met in his restless wanderings at night. Gildas was a light sleeper so he often went for a walk at night and, twice now, he’d passed that enigmatic figure. He’d thought he’d been dreaming and, to save himself from embarrassment and ridicule, had only confided in Brother Hamo. The sub-prior had agreed that it was impossible for a woman, disguised as a monk, to wander the abbey at night. Perhaps Gildas had been mistaken? Still dreaming? Ah well!

Brother Gildas stared round his workshop. He would have to leave soon. Prior Cuthbert had called a meeting of the Concilium. Gildas had glimpsed the arrival of that tall clerk in his heavy military riding cloak, its cowl making his dark face even more enigmatic. With the King involved, no doubt Corbett would haunt this abbey until the truth was found. Gildas climbed down from his high stool and walked over to a bench. For some strange reason he stared up at a painting on the far wall, a gift from a local merchant. It had been painted on wood and depicted Death outside a house knocking on the door. Death was dressed like a knight, one hand on his sword, the other beating angrily as if determined to collect the soul within. Brother Gildas did not realise it but Death was close by, hunting for his soul.

He was about to return to his desk when he heard sounds from the storeroom, just near the side door.

‘Who’s that?’ he called. Perhaps it was a rat, or it was not unknown for a fox, or even one of the wild cats which haunted the marshy copses, to come inside in search of warmth. Gildas walked to the half-open door and pushed it open. ‘Who’s there?’ he repeated. He walked inside, narrowing his eyes against the gloom. ‘Who’s there?’ he called.

‘Gildas!’ The words came as a hiss. ‘Gildas! Guilty Gildas!’

The stonemason decided to flee. Yet, even as he made to hasten away, he realised his mistake: no soldier should turn his back on an enemy. His foot slithering, Gildas turned. A dark figure hurtled towards him and then a club smacked against his head, sending him crashing to the ground. Brother Gildas lay half unconscious, his head throbbing with pain.

‘Please!’ he whispered. ‘Don’t. .!’

He was aware of his hands being tied behind his back, as the blood trickling from the gash in his head almost blinded him. His mouth was bone dry. He tried to look up at his assailant but all he could see were soft leather riding boots. His hands bound, he tried to struggle onto one side. He glimpsed his assailant who had closed the door to the workshop and was now standing over the brazier. Gildas gazed in horror as his attacker looked round. A red executioner’s mask covered his entire face. A cloak swathed his body. He could not be a monk, a brother of the abbey. Gildas recalled the stories of Mandeville’s wild huntsmen prowling along the fens. Gildas could smell something burning: his assailant was poking the coals. He turned and came back.

‘Gildas! Murderer!’ The words came out slowly, more of a hiss than a voice.

The assailant was moving behind him then suddenly he was standing over him. Gildas heard shallow breathing and glanced up. The black-garbed assassin was now carrying a heavy block of stone.

‘Oh no, please!’

The assailant lifted the stone higher and let go; it fell smashing Brother Gildas’s skull like a mallet would an egg.

Corbett sat behind Abbot Stephen’s great oaken desk. The clerk disliked such trappings of power and hid a self-conscious smile. He felt like one of the King’s Justices holding a court of Oyer and Terminer or Gaol Delivery. The desk itself had been cleared and Corbett had laid out sheets of vellum, a pumice stone and quill. Ranulf sat at the corner similarly prepared. Chanson stood guard at the door. Around the desk in a semi-circle were chairs and stools for the Abbey Concilium, Prior Cuthbert sitting in the centre. Corbett looked at these powerful monks, in truth lords of this abbey. Brother Francis, the archivist and librarian, rather elegant, soft-faced and dreamy-eyed. Aelfric the infirmarian who looked as if he suffered from a permanent cold, with white sallow cheeks, protruding red nose and watery eyes which never stopped blinking. Brother Hamo, plump and grey as a pigeon, with staring eyes and lips tightly compressed, he looked like a man ever ready to give others the benefit of his wisdom. Brother Richard the almoner, young, smooth-faced, he kept dabbing his lips and rubbing his protruding stomach. Dunstan the treasurer, being bald he had no tonsure, was heavy-featured, small-eyed and tight-lipped: a monk, Corbett considered, used to accounts, tallies, ledgers, bills and indentures. A man who would seek a profit in everything. Their lord and master, Prior Cuthbert, was more relaxed, studying Corbett, assessing his worth. Corbett realised why there had been a delay. Prior Cuthbert had probably gathered these monks together in his room and told them what he had learnt, how this King’s clerk would not stand on ceremony or be cowed by appeals to Canon Law, the Rule of St Benedict or the customs of the abbey. At the far end of the semi-circle sat Brother Perditus. The young man looked decidedly out of place, nervously plucking at his robe and shuffling his feet. Archdeacon Adrian, however, seemed to be enjoying himself, like a spectator at a mummer’s play. He clearly did not view Abbot Stephen’s death as a matter of concern to himself. Corbett sat up in the chair.

‘Are we all here?’

‘Brother Gildas is absent,’ Prior Cuthbert declared.

‘I delivered the summons, Father Prior,’ Perditus declared. ‘Gildas was the first I told but you know how busy he is: you can’t distract him from his work.’

‘Then we’ll begin.’ Corbett picked up his warrant, tapping the black and red seal at the bottom. ‘This is the King’s own seal,’ he declared. ‘It gives me the power to act as Commissioner over the death of Abbot Stephen or any other matter of concern. I do not wish to be challenged. The King’s writ runs here, as it does in Wales or the Marches of Scotland.’

Prior Cuthbert opened his mouth to protest. Corbett held his gaze. The other members of the Concilium stirred restlessly.

‘We have a requiem Mass starting soon,’ Brother Aelfric wailed. ‘For Abbot Stephen.’

‘If the Mass is delayed,’ Corbett declared, ‘then so be it.’

He got to his feet, turning his back on the Concilium, and walked to the great bay window and stared down into the courtyard.

‘Correct me if I am wrong but as I understand it, four days ago, on Tuesday the eve of the feast of St Leo the Great, Abbot Stephen did not go down to the abbey church to sing Matins?’

Prior Cuthbert agreed.

‘You, Brother Perditus, were the Abbot’s manservant. Was it customary for the Abbot to miss the hours of Divine Office occasionally?’

‘He was often busy, sometimes distracted,’ Perditus replied. ‘As the morning went on and Abbot Stephen hadn’t appeared, I became alarmed. I knocked on the door and tried the handle of the latch, but it held fast. I went and informed Prior Cuthbert.’

Corbett came back and rested his hands on the back of the chair.

‘Then what happened?’

The Prior gestured over his shoulder at the door.

‘We forced the lock. When we broke in, Abbot Stephen was sitting in his chair, slightly slumped, with his head to one side. The dagger had been driven in,’ he pointed, ‘just above his stomach. The thrust was deep, almost up to the hilt.’

‘It was obvious,’ Brother Aelfric declared, ‘the Abbot was dead, and had been for some time.’

‘And the door was definitely locked?’ Corbett asked.

He went round and studied the door. He could see it had been re-hung on new leather hinges. The carpenter had also repaired the inside latch as well as the bolt and clasps at top and bottom.

‘Of course it was,’ Prior Cuthbert snapped, half turning in his chair.

He resented being questioned like a criminal, as this soft-footed clerk walked round the Abbot’s chamber, and Corbett’s red-haired henchman sat carefully taking down everything said. Now and again Ranulf would lift his head. Prior Cuthbert didn’t like the faint smile, or those heavy-lidded eyes which seemed to be mocking him, as if Ranulf didn’t believe anything he saw or heard.

‘Continue!’ Corbett demanded.

‘The Abbot’s body was removed.’

‘And the chamber itself?’

‘There were papers on the desk, the fire had burnt low. Abbot Stephen had drunk some wine but, apart from the pool of blood on the floor. .’

‘There was also this.’ Corbett held up a scrap of parchment.

‘Ah yes.’ Prior Cuthbert smiled bleakly.

‘Look.’ Corbett turned it round. ‘What does this wheel mean? I have glimpsed it on a number of the abbot’s papers.’

‘It was just a favourite sketch of his.’

Corbett turned the paper round. ‘And these quotations? Both are rather garbled. One from St Paul’s about seeing through a glass darkly and the corpse candles beckoning. The other,’ Corbett narrowed his eyes, ‘is quite famous, often quoted by the spiritual writers: a saying of the Roman writer Seneca. “Anyone can take away a man’s life but no one his death”.’ He gazed round, they all stared blankly back. ‘These were the last words Abbot Stephen wrote. He was apparently fearful of something.’ Corbett paused. ‘What did he mean about “Seeing through a glass, darkly”? Whilst the quotation from Seneca seems to indicate that he was expecting death?’

‘I don’t know,’ Prior Cuthbert retorted tartly. ‘Sir Hugh, I can’t say what was in our abbot’s mind that night.’

‘Can anyone?’ Corbett asked expectantly but no one answered. ‘Ah well!’ Corbett threw the piece of parchment down. ‘We were talking of the Abbot’s blood. Was it fresh or congealed?’

‘It was congealed.’ Aelfric spoke up.

The rest of the brothers agreed.

‘So, Abbot Stephen had been dead for some time?’

‘Naturally,’ Hamo snapped. ‘As the blood had congealed.’

‘What’s your name?’ Ranulf interrupted.

‘Hamo.’

‘And you are sub-prior?’ Ranulf smiled at his master.

‘You know both my name and my office.’

‘Yes I do, Brother, just as you know my Lord Corbett’s name and office. You will keep your tone respectful.’

Corbett, standing behind the brothers, crossed his arms and stared at the floor. He and Ranulf had held so many investigations. He felt like an actor in a play. They assumed their roles without even thinking. Ranulf, who regarded it as his own private privilege to tease and mock his solemn master, was very keen not to allow anyone else to do likewise. Hamo muttered an apology.

‘So, there was nothing wrong?’ Corbett came back and sat down, beating his hands on top of the desk. ‘This room has no other door, the windows were locked, no secret passageways exist yet someone came here and thrust a dagger deep into your Abbot’s chest.’ Corbett didn’t wait for the chorus of agreement. ‘The Abbot was sitting slumped, yes?’

‘I’ve told you that,’ Prior Cuthbert declared.

‘And his hands?’

‘They were down by his side.’

‘And there was no disturbance? Nothing else appeared wrong?’

‘Nothing.’

‘But the dagger was Abbot Stephen’s?’

‘Ah, that’s right,’ Hamo said. ‘Only one thing I noticed. Abbot Stephen had taken his old war belt out of the coffer. It lay on the floor. His dagger sheath was empty.’

‘Fetch me this dagger!’ Corbett insisted.

Prior Cuthbert snapped his fingers at Perditus who left and came back holding a folded cloth. Corbett undid the cloth and took the dagger out. It had been cleaned and polished. The hilt was of steel, the handle specially wrought so as not to slip in the hand, its blade was long, ugly and sharp. Corbett wore something similar: close up, a thrust from such a weapon was deadly. He sat for a while balancing the dagger in his hand before putting it down on the table.

‘Had the doors really to be forced?’ he asked.

‘I was there!’ the Prior exclaimed. ‘So were Hamo, Aelfric and Brother Dunstan. We went straight to the Abbot’s corpse.’

‘No one wandered off?’ Corbett insisted.

‘Of course not! We were shocked at what we saw.’

Corbett stared down at the dagger and hid his unease. Before this meeting had begun, he had carefully inspected this chamber as well as the outside. The door was locked and the window closed. How could anyone get in?

‘And none of you?’ he asked, voicing his concern, ‘know how the assassin entered this chamber or how he left?’

The row of monks shook their heads. Corbett caught a gleam of triumph in Prior Cuthbert’s eyes. You know I am trapped, Corbett reflected, and can make no sense of this. He stared towards the door. It was heavy oak, its outside was reinforced with metal studs and hung on thick leather hinges. It would take hours for someone to prise it free.

‘What if someone had come through a window?’ Chanson had queried. ‘And, when the door was forced, the assassin used the ensuing chaos to seal this?’

Ranulf, who in a former life had been a night-walker in London, declared it virtually impossible to climb the sheer outside wall. And, of course, there was one further problem. .

‘Abbot Stephen was in good health?’ Corbett asked.

‘Oh yes, a vigorous man in good health.’

Corbett smiled. ‘So, you know what I am going to say? Your Abbot was also a former knight-banneret, a warrior, a soldier. He was used to the cut and thrust of battle. Such a man would not give up his life lightly, would he?’

He paused at the sound of a sob. Perditus sat, head down, hands in his lap, shoulders shaking.

‘Abbot Stephen would have resisted. There would have been shouts, noise, tumult. Brother Perditus, I am sorry for your grief but are you a light sleeper?’

‘I would have heard such a commotion!’

Corbett shifted in his chair; he glanced at Ranulf who was making notes, using the cipher Corbett had taught him.

‘Let’s be honest,’ he said. ‘I do not want to put you on oath but did Abbot Stephen have any enemies in the community?’

‘None whatsoever,’ Brother Richard answered swiftly. ‘He was our Father Abbot. He was severe but he could also be gentle and kind, a true scholar, a holy man.’ He glared at his companions.

‘Brother Richard speaks the truth,’ Prior Cuthbert declared.

‘But come, in a community such as this there are always jealousies, rivalries. .?’

‘Father Abbot was above such rivalries, Sir Hugh.’

‘Are you accusing one of us?’ The sub-prior demanded. ‘Sir Hugh, there are other monks in this community?’

‘Brother Hamo, I thought you would never ask that.

You are here for three reasons. First, you are all members of the Concilium. You had direct dealings with the Abbot, whilst the other brothers did not. Secondly, I understand you all have your own bed-chambers? So, if you went missing during the night, it would not be noticed, as it would in the cells and dormitories of the other monks. Finally,’ Corbett continued remorselessly, ‘the Abbot’s quarters are approached by a staircase. The door to the outside courtyard is always locked at night. Brother Perditus, I believe that was your responsibility?’

The lay brother nodded.

‘The only people who have keys to that door are the Abbot’s manservant and members of the Concilium.’

‘So, you are accusing one of us?’ the Prior demanded.

‘I am not accusing anyone. I am simply answering your sub-prior’s question. So, let’s return to your relationship with the Father Abbot. There was no disagreement?’

Brother Richard the almoner now became agitated. He was glaring along the table at Prior Cuthbert.

‘There was something, wasn’t there, Brother Richard? Please, tell me!’

‘There is no need to,’ the Prior declared. ‘We had one disagreement with Father Abbot. We own a field called Bloody Meadow, which has a tumulus or burial mound in the centre. According to local lore, many centuries ago, one of the first Christian Kings, Sigbert, was martyred and buried there. We, the members of the Concilium, believed the meadow would have been an ideal site for an enlarged guesthouse. Abbot Stephen disagreed. He said the meadow and the burial mound were sacred and should not be disturbed.’

Corbett studied the Prior closely. You speak so quickly, he thought, as if it was a minor matter. Yet I suspect it was very important to you but would it lead to murder? He glanced sideways, to where Archdeacon Adrian Wallasby sat bored, picking at his teeth.

‘And you?’ Corbett pointed to him. ‘You had been in the abbey days before the murder took place? You met with Abbot Stephen? He gave you a key to his lodgings?’

Archdeacon Adrian was no longer bored. He scratched his cheek nervously.

‘Abbot Stephen was well known as an exorcist,’ Wallasby replied. ‘He carried out exorcisms both here and in London witnessed by scholars and theologians.’ He paused, choosing his words carefully. ‘As you know, Sir Hugh, the Dominican Order are the papal inquisitors. They are used to root out heresy and magic. Many Dominicans now agree with me: the so-called possessed are either sick in their souls, counterfeit or simply madcaps.’

‘And Abbot Stephen challenged that?’

‘The challenge was scholarly, an exchange of letters. A few weeks ago Abbot Stephen wrote to me about a man called Taverner who had come to St Martin’s asking for his help. Taverner claims that he is possessed by the demon spirit of Geoffrey Mandeville.’

Corbett started in surprise.

‘The robber baron who plagued this area?’

‘The same.’

‘And how does Taverner express this?’ Ranulf asked curiously.

‘I have questioned him,’ Prior Cuthbert replied. ‘He is a man of no learning but he can lapse into Norman French or Latin. He also seems to know a great deal about Mandeville’s life. He is, in fact, two people in one.’

‘This man I must meet,’ Corbett declared. ‘Is he safe?’

‘He’s kept in a chamber near the infirmary,’ Prior Cuthbert declared. ‘He is given good lodgings, food and drink. Abbot Stephen was particularly interested in him.’

‘And what do you think?’ Corbett asked.

The Prior pulled a face. ‘Sir Hugh, I am a Benedictine monk, I have my duties and tasks.’

‘So, you don’t see the devil peeping round corners or hiding in the shadows?’

‘Neither did Father Abbot.’ Perditus had lost his nervousness. He was hard-faced and defiant. ‘Father Abbot didn’t see demons and imps lurking in trees or hiding in pools. He truly believed that demons were lords of the air and were given the authority to enter certain people.’

‘Abbot Stephen doesn’t need your defence,’ Cuthbert snapped. ‘The gospels talk of demons. Didn’t the Gadarene claim to have a legion of devils possessing him?’

Corbett pointed at the Archdeacon.

‘And what were your thoughts on Taverner?’

‘A remarkable case.’ The Archdeacon rubbed his hands together. ‘Sir Hugh, in London I have met counterfeit men, cunning deceivers, but I must admit Taverner half convinced me.’

‘Half convinced?’

‘I don’t deny the existence of Satan and his legions,’ the Archdeacon simpered. ‘It’s just that I don’t accept they have power to interfere in our lives. After all, human will can perpetrate enough wickedness without those our learned lay brother calls lords of the air. My discussions with Abbot Stephen were over the writings of the Fathers such as Ambrose and Augustine. Yet it is rather strange,’ he mused.

‘What?’ Corbett demanded.

‘The sorcerers and necromancers, those who study the Kabbala, believe in powerful spells and incantations. Sir Hugh, have you heard about the College of the Invisibles?’

Corbett shook his head.

‘It’s a belief that a sorcerer, by certain spells, can make himself invisible for a matter of hours and pass through matter such as wood and stone.’

Corbett caught his meaning.

‘You are referring to the murder of Abbot Stephen?’

‘I have listened to you carefully, Sir Hugh. How else, except through the black arts, could the Abbot be stabbed to death in his own chamber? The door at the foot of the stairs was unlocked, the lay brother Perditus heard no one come up. The Abbot’s windows and doors were firmly closed. There are no secret passageways. There appears to have been no struggle yet our Abbot was found murdered. I wonder-’

Corbett interrupted. ‘Before we move to matters celestial, to quote you, Archdeacon Adrian, the human will can perpetrate evil enough.’

‘But it’s still a mystery,’ the Archdeacon insisted.

Corbett beat his fingers on the table.

‘For the moment it is. Tell me, Prior Cuthbert, did anything extraordinary happen, in or around the abbey, in the days preceding Abbot Stephen’s death?’

‘Our abbey is a place of calm and harmony, Sir Hugh. Beyond the walls, however, you’ve seen the countryside; marshes, swamps, fields, thick copses of woods. Outlaws such as Scaribrick prowl there.’

‘But they are no threat to the abbey?’

‘None whatsoever.’

‘And Lady Margaret Harcourt?’

‘The dislike between her and the Abbot was well known. They never met or corresponded.’

‘Falcon Brook,’ Dunstan the treasurer intervened. He saw Corbett’s look of surprise. ‘Falcon Brook,’ he explained, ‘is a stream which runs at the foot of Bloody Meadow. Lady Margaret and our Father Abbot disputed its true ownership.’

‘But I managed the dispute,’ Prior Cuthbert intervened. ‘That’s how Father Abbot wanted it.’

Corbett stared across at a painting on the wall, a piece of canvas stretched across a block of wood. Its colours were brilliantly vivid, the brushwork vigorous. He narrowed his eyes. At first the figures it contained meant nothing: he glimpsed a tower in the background all a-fire. A young man in armour was leading an older one whose eyes were bandaged. Corbett at last recognised the scene: Aeneas leading his father from Troy. He gazed round the room. Other paintings had similar motifs. He recognised the story of Romulus and Remus, Caesar and other themes from the history and legends of ancient Rome. Prior Cuthbert had followed his gaze.

‘An idiosyncrasy of Father Abbot,’ he explained. ‘He liked all things Roman. I understand that, both as a knight-banneret and as a monk, he often served on embassies to the Holy Father in Rome. He was much taken by the ruins there and collected ancient histories.’

‘Abbot Stephen was, in all things, a lover of ancient Rome.’ Brother Francis the librarian spoke up. ‘He collected books and manuscripts about it.’

‘Why?’ Corbett queried.

‘I asked him that once myself,’ the librarian replied. ‘Abbot Stephen answered that he admired the gravitas of ancient Rome, its honour, its love of order and discipline. We even have a copy of the “Acts of Pilate”. He was a great scholar,’ the librarian added wistfully. ‘He lived a good life and deserved a better death.’

Corbett glanced quickly at Ranulf who was busily writing. He found it difficult to hide his disappointment and frustration. Here was an Abbot foully murdered but, apart from the issue of Bloody Meadow, Corbett could sense no antipathy or hatred towards the dead man, certainly not enough to cause murder. And just how had it been perpetrated? He closed his eyes and suddenly felt the weariness of his rushed journey here. The King had been so insistent that they leave immediately. Corbett wished he could lie on his bed and pull the coverlets over his head to sleep and dream.

‘Sir Hugh?’

He opened his eyes quickly.

‘Sir Hugh.’ Prior Cuthbert smiled placatingly. ‘If there are no other questions? The daily business of the abbey demands our attention and we do have the requiem Mass?’

Corbett apologised and agreed. The Concilium left, followed by Archdeacon Adrian and Perditus. Corbett waited until Chanson had closed the door behind them. Ranulf threw his quill down on the desk and buried his face in his hands.

‘Nothing, Master, nothing at all! Here we have an abbot, a scholar, a theologian with an interest in antiquities, well loved and respected by his community.’

‘But is that only the surface?’ Corbett asked. ‘Or is there something else?’

He banged the desk in frustration. He was about to continue when there was a knock on the door. Archdeacon Adrian stepped into the chamber.

‘There is one thing, Sir Hugh, that the brothers never mentioned.’ He took the seat Ranulf offered. ‘I have only been here a few days. .’

‘And how do you find the community?’ Corbett asked. ‘After all, Master Wallasby, you are an archdeacon, a sniffer-out of scandal and sin.’

Wallasby took this in good heart.

‘I’ll be honest, Sir Hugh, the abbey is well managed. If I was making an official visitation. .’ He shook his head. ‘The divine office is orderly and well sung. The brothers work assiduously in the library, scriptorium, kitchen and fields. No women are allowed within the enclosures. There are the usual petty rivalries but nothing significant except. .’

‘And that’s why you’ve come back?’

‘It’s the huntsman,’ the Archdeacon explained. ‘Two nights before the Abbot died I couldn’t sleep. I went for a walk in the grounds. At first I thought I imagined the first blast but two more followed, similar to that heard in a hunt before the hounds are released. I understand, from talking to some of the older brothers, that Lady Margaret Harcourt’s husband, the one who disappeared, used to sound a hunting horn at night as a jest, pretending to be the ghost of Sir Geoffrey Mandeville. I have also learnt that the horn has been heard frequently over the last four or five months.’ He got to his feet. ‘But more than that I cannot say.’

‘What will happen to Taverner?’ Corbett asked.

The Archdeacon shrugged. ‘I suppose the good brothers will give him some money, food, a change of clothing and he’ll be sent on his way. However, I understand from Brother Richard that Taverner has asked to stay for a while, and our good Prior is inclined to permit this.’

He left quietly. Corbett turned to his companions.

‘Ranulf, Chanson, I want you to wander the abbey.’ He grinned. ‘Act, if you can, like wide-eyed innocents.’

‘You mean snout amongst the rubbish?’ Ranulf retorted.

‘Yes, to be blunt.’

Ranulf and Chanson left. Corbett stared round the chamber and got to his feet. It was well furnished, with paintings and crucifixes on the wall, statues of the Virgin and saints in small niches. The floor was of polished wood, and the many beeswax candles exuded their own special fragrance. In a small recess stood the bed, a narrow four-poster with curtains, testers and blankets. Woollen carpets, dyed different colours, covered some of the floor. Corbett moved these aside and began to look for any secret entrances or trap door but there was none. The walls were of hard stone, the floor of unbroken, shiny planks of wood. He moved the bed, desk and tables but could detect nothing.

Corbett then moved to the chests and coffers but these only confirmed Abbot Stephen’s ascetic nature. There were very few rings or trinkets; the large chest contained pieces of armour, a surcoat, war belt, relics of the Abbot’s days as a knight. Nothing remarkable or significant. Corbett gathered up the papers and books and placed these on the desk and slowly began to go through them. He could find nothing untoward: letters, bills, treatises, most of these concerned the government of the abbey, Abbot Stephen’s journeys abroad and, of course, his work as an exorcist. Some of the books were histories of ancient Rome or tracts by Fathers of the Church on demonology and possession. There was a Book of Remembrance listing those individuals Abbot Stephen would pray for at Mass but this too was unremarkable. Corbett picked up the sheet of vellum containing the quotation from St Paul about seeing through a glass darkly, the reference to corpse candles and that enigmatic quotation from the Roman philosopher Seneca. What did all these mean? Corbett studied the doodle or diagram at the bottom. He’d seen it on other scraps of parchment: a wheel sketched in ink with a hub, spokes and rim. Did this hold any special significance?

Corbett pushed the parchment away and stared at the door. Here was a man, he reflected, a churchman, between fifty-three and fifty-five summers old, with very little to show concerning his past. Corbett, exasperated, left the chamber and went down to the spacious abbey kitchens for some bread, meat and ale. The brothers there were kindly but distant and Corbett realised that the abbey was now preparing for the solemn requiem Mass. He met Ranulf and Chanson wandering like lost souls along the corridors and galleries. They, too, reported that the brothers were friendly enough but they had learnt nothing from them. Corbett sent them back to the guesthouse and returned to the abbot’s chamber. Going through letters and books, he could find no clue, no reason why this saintly abbot’s life ended so brutally.

A servant came to announce that the requiem Mass was about to begin. Corbett joined the community in the great abbey church with its long nave and shadow-filled transepts, cut off from the sanctuary by an ornately carved rood screen. The lay brothers gathered here whilst the monks sat in their stalls. Prior Cuthbert entered, garbed in the magnificent pontificals for the mass of the dead: black and gold vestments. The Abbot’s coffin, draped in purple cloth of gold, lay in state on trestles before the high altar.

Corbett was lulled by the rise and fall of the plain chant, the solemn words of invocation as censors swung, sending up billowing clouds of perfumed incense. The sanctuary was ablaze with the light from tall purple candles. The clerk felt as though he was in another world. He was aware of statues, the faces of gargoyles peering down at him; of Father Prior and his concelebrants moving round the high altar, lifting chalice and host, interceding with God for the soul of their departed brother. He was chilled by the final, solemn invocation to the Archangels of heaven that they go out to meet the Abbot’s soul and not allow him to ‘fall into the hands of the enemy’. Corbett became acutely aware of his own mortality and recalled Maeve’s warning about tasks such as this, investigating sudden, mysterious death, hunting down the bloody-handed sons of Cain. He found it difficult to accept, in the midst of so much peace, that members of this community, participating in this sacred, gorgeous ceremony, could have planned, plotted and perpetrated this foul murder. Nevertheless, that was the conclusion Corbett had reached and he would have to stay here until it was resolved.

Corbett gazed up at the stained-glass windows of the sanctuary. Darkness was falling. He glanced over his shoulder back through the rood screen. The shadows in the nave were growing longer like extended, dark fingers stretching towards him. Were Maeve’s warnings relevant to this sacred place? Would he and his two companions escape unscathed? He turned back and watched Prior Cuthbert solemnly wave incense over the coffin. Corbett had hunted many an assassin and, although he accepted the serenity and harmony of St Martin’s-in-the-Marsh, he had his own premonitions that the Abbot’s murder was the flower of a hideous plant with deep, twisted roots.

Corbett had not shared such macabre thoughts with his companions but this abbey, with its shadow-filled corridors and galleries, its lonely fields and gardens was just as dangerous as any battlefield, or the alleys in Whitefriars or Southwark. Indeed, death had already struck and would be all the more surprising and sudden in any fresh assault. Corbett’s hand fell to the hilt of his dagger. He studied the brothers in their stalls and the three celebrants, Prior Cuthbert, Hamo and Aelfric. They seemed to ignore his presence but now and again a cowled head would turn and he would catch a furtive glance or a sharp look.

After the Mass was finished Corbett returned to the nave. He leaned against a pillar as the brothers lowered the coffin into a prepared pit just before the Lady Chapel. Corbett said his own prayers, crossed himself and left. He walked down to the guesthouse and found Ranulf and Chanson fast asleep. Corbett returned to his own chamber. For a while he lay on the bed reflecting on what he had heard and seen but nothing made any sense. He drifted into sleep and was awoken by the abbey bell tolling the Vespers for the Dead. Again he joined the brothers in the sanctuary, sitting on a stool just within the rood screen. This time he joined in the singing. Corbett loved the melodious descants of plain chant and many of the vesper psalms were his favourites. Corbett was a strong, vigorous singer, and his participation provoked smiles and welcoming glances. The sanctuary was starker than it had been earlier in the afternoon. Only one candle glowed on the altar. Prior Cuthbert sat in the Abbot’s seat. Corbett had the opportunity to study the other brothers. Most of them were middle-aged men with a sprinkling of novices and newly professed brothers. He noticed a few stalls were empty. He recalled that Gildas the architect and stonemason, had not attended the meeting of the Concilium and wondered what had happened to him. Vespers drew to an end. Prior Cuthbert was about to give the final blessing when the service was interrupted by the sound of hurried footsteps. A sweating lay brother came hurtling through the door of the rood screen and stopped, one hand resting against the polished wood as he caught his breath.

‘Father Prior!’ he gasped. ‘Father Prior, you’ve got to come!’

‘We have not finished vespers,’ the Prior replied, leaning down from his stall. ‘You know the rule, Brother Norbert, Divine Office is never interrupted.’

‘It’s Gildas!’ the lay brother gasped. ‘On the burial mound in Bloody Meadow!’

The Prior looked at Corbett who grasped the lay brother by the arm and led him out. The man was shaking.

‘He’s dead!’ he gasped. ‘Oh sir, he’s dead! In a hideous way!’

‘Show me.’

Corbett almost pushed the lay brother down the nave, aware of others following him. They went out through the main door. Corbett flinched at the blast of cold night air. He glanced up; the sky had remained overcast and it was pitch black. He had to depend on the lay brother as they raced across the cloisters and gardens, down pebble-dashed paths and out through what the lay brother described as the Judas Gate. Corbett waited until the others caught up with him, Prior Cuthbert and members of the community carrying blazing pitch torches.

‘The ground is hard underfoot,’ the Prior declared.

He led Corbett across the meadow. The clerk’s eyes grew accustomed to the darkness. To his left he was aware of a long line of trees. He heard a bird call and saw the great burial mound looming up before him. The lay brother pointed upwards. Corbett grasped a torch and, slipping and cursing, he climbed to the top. The corpse of Gildas sprawled there. Corbett covered his mouth as he saw the hideous wounds to the side of his head. In the flickering flame of the torch he glimpsed a dark bubbling mess. He was aware of staring eyes and the hideous mark, in the shape of a ‘V’, which had been branded on the dead man’s forehead.