Corpse Candle

Chapter 3

Corbett, helped by the lay brothers, managed to slide the corpse down the frost-encrusted grass. In the torch light, Gildas’s face, with that fearsome brand mark and the great open wound in the side of the head, drew horrified gasps and muttered prayers. Ranulf and Chanson, alarmed by the commotion, also joined them. For a while chaos reigned until Prior Cuthbert, at Corbett’s insistence, ordered the corpse to be taken to the death house under the care of Brother Aelfric. A cowled, shadowy figure thrust through the group, ignoring the protests of the brothers. When he reached the corpse, the man pulled his hood back to reveal a mass of wiry grey hair, glittering sharp eyes and a face half hidden by a luxurious beard and moustache. He was short and squat and smelt like a midden.

‘You have no right to be here!’ Brother Hamo declared.

Corbett realised this was the Watcher by the Gates.

‘I don’t give a fig what you think,’ the fellow grated. ‘I have warned you before and I will warn you again.

The demon Mandeville is loose and Death rides in his retinue!’

Corbett half smiled as he recognised the misquotation from the Book of Revelation.

‘And you!’ The Watcher turned, pointing at Corbett. ‘I saw you arrive. You are the King’s emissary? Come to wreak justice. Well, your Abbot is dead.’ He stared round the group.

‘And by the way you smell, you’d think you were!’

Ranulf grasped the man by the shoulder but the hermit shook him off.

‘Ah now!’ he exclaimed, peering up at Ranulf. ‘There’s a pretty boy, a street fighter if I ever saw one. Not like your master, eh? And, as for my smell, that’s because my body’s ripe.’ The Watcher’s voice fell to a dramatic whisper. ‘As are the bodies of these monks for death!’

‘That’s enough!’ Corbett intervened. He gestured at the lay brothers. ‘Take the corpse away!’

The hermit was about to leave.

‘No, sir, you’ll stay.’ Corbett lifted a hand. ‘I do not wish to hear your protests.’

The Watcher now preened himself.

‘I’ll follow where the King’s emissary says,’ he declared dramatically. ‘And I’ll thank you for a goblet of wine and some meat, juicy and hot from the spit.’

‘You’ll get that,’ Corbett stared down at him, ‘only when I learn why you are here. You didn’t see the corpse. So, how did you know he bore the brand of Mandeville on him?’

The Watcher looked crestfallen. He would have backed away but Ranulf now blocked his path.

‘Questions first, food later,’ Corbett declared. ‘Prior Cuthbert, Brother Hamo, let’s return.’

Corbett followed the lay brothers who carried the corpse back through the Judas Gate, across the abbey grounds to the white-washed infirmary. A chamber at the far end served as a corpse room. A great wooden table like that of a butcher’s stall stood in the centre. Trestle tables ranged round the sides bore bowls, jugs and jars of ointment. A single candle glowed. At Aelfric’s instructions, sconce torches were hastily lit, making the hollowed, canopied chamber even more macabre and ghoulish. Gildas’s body was placed on the table where Corbett studied it more carefully. Ignoring the rictus of horror carved on the dead man’s face, the clerk reckoned the brand mark was about an inch long.

‘That was burnt in,’ Corbett declared, ‘with a branding iron, probably after he was killed.’

He turned the head and looked at the bloody mess of what used to be the side of the monk’s head, now a congealed mass of blood, bone and brain. Corbett examined this carefully and, using the point of his dagger, lifted out small grains of stone. Helped by Aelfric, he turned the corpse over on its face. He felt a large bump, a raised bruise, at the back of the head. The hands were dusty but Corbett noticed the little red cuts on each wrist. The rest now clustered around: Prior Cuthbert, Hamo, Aelfric, Ranulf and Chanson, with the Watcher standing between them.

‘He was killed by a stone,’ Corbett declared, ‘dropped from a great force on to the side of his head.’

‘But surely, Sir Hugh,’ Prior Cuthbert stood, hand over his mouth, gagging at the grievous wound, ‘Gildas was a soldier, he would have resisted.’

‘No, I think he was struck first at the back of the head, probably with a club, and would drop to the ground stunned. The attacker then tied his hands behind him and brought down a heavy stone and crushed the side of his skull. He also took a branding-iron and put the bloody mark on his forehead. Now, why is that, eh? When was Gildas last seen?’

Prior Cuthbert turned and whispered to Hamo, who hurried off. He returned a short while later with the lay brother Perditus. A brief conversation took place between the monks. When Perditus glimpsed Gildas’s head, he retched and, holding his mouth, had to leave for a while. When he returned, he was wiping his lips.

‘I saw Brother Gildas this morning, when I delivered the Prior’s message about the meeting of the Concilium in the abbot’s quarters!’

‘Did anyone else see him?’

‘I saw him a short while later,’ Hamo declared. ‘I went across to consult him regarding some building work in one of our granges.’

‘Where was this?’ Corbett demanded.

‘The far side of the abbey,’ Hamo declared. ‘That’s where Gildas had his workshops, rather a lonely spot.’

‘And he had stone there?’

‘Oh yes, cut and hewn.’

‘And a brazier?’

‘Yes.’

Prior Cuthbert paused, rocking backwards and forwards on his feet.

‘What is it?’ Corbett demanded.

‘I have just realised,’ the Prior replied. ‘What with your meeting this morning, Sir Hugh, the requiem Mass and Abbot Stephen’s funeral, no one has seen Brother Gildas for the rest of the day.’

‘What I suspect. .’ Corbett declared. He paused and felt the corpse’s hands, shoulders, legs and ankles, the cadaver was already beginning to stiffen. ‘I suspect Brother Gildas has been dead for hours. Notice the hardness of the muscle, the chilling flesh, the stomach beginning to swell. Gildas was probably killed this morning in his workshop. The attacker stunned him, tied his hands and crushed his skull. But then he hid the corpse and, under the cover of darkness, brought it out and laid it on the tumulus: that’s where you saw it, wasn’t it?’ Corbett glanced at the Watcher.

In the light of the torches, the Watcher looked even more grotesque with his broad shoulders and squat body, dark eyes, straggling hair, moustache and beard, his face as brown as a nut. He reminded Corbett of some wood goblin or forest sprite. He was certainly strong enough to kill a man like Gildas and carry his corpse out here.

‘I know what you are thinking.’ The Watcher by the Gates stamped his foot. ‘You think it’s me, don’t you?’

‘And why not?’ Corbett declared. ‘You may have grey locks but you are strong and thickset, and your arms are muscular. You babble about Mandeville’s ghost. You know the corpse had a brand mark and you have no right to be wandering this abbey.’

The Watcher by the Gates blinked, his face crestfallen.

‘It’s not right,’ he moaned. ‘All because I wanted some meat!’ He waved his stubby fingers.

‘To be fair,’ Prior Cuthbert spoke up. ‘Our Watcher by the Gates is allowed to wander the abbey grounds. As a kindness, we often feed him from our kitchens.’

‘See,’ the Watcher replied, baring his teeth at Corbett. ‘I’ll tell you what happened. I came in, and was given some ale and a juicy strip of pork, salty and thick, and a small loaf of rye bread. I went out into Bloody Meadow to eat it.’

‘Do you always go there?’

‘I like it there, away from prying eyes! The burial mound is sacred and I am sure the fairies gather there. When I came out I noticed something lying on the top. I went up and even in the poor light I could see it was one of the monks. All I could glimpse was Mandeville’s mark on his forehead. “Oh, Lord save us!” said I. “Oh, Virgin Queen of Heaven, help me!”’ The Watcher clapped his hands. ‘I ran back in, got the lay brother, told him what I had seen, the rest you know.’

‘Cover Gildas’s corpse,’ Prior Cuthbert ordered.

Aelfric went to one of the chests. He brought out a large white cloth which he draped over the corpse. Corbett waited until he’d finished.

‘And what makes you think it’s Mandeville?’ he asked turning to the Watcher. ‘I don’t believe in ghosts. I don’t believe the dead ride. Gildas was killed by flesh and blood.’

‘Gildas was killed by something evil.’ The Watcher’s face became sly. ‘It’s a warning to the good brothers here.’

‘About what?’ Prior Cuthbert asked sharply.

The Watcher danced from foot to foot.

‘This is what I think! This is what I think! Abbot Stephen was going to allow you to build your guesthouse in Bloody Meadow, desecrate the sacred burial ground.’

‘How do you know that?’ Corbett demanded.

‘Oh, I know what I know,’ the Watcher replied. He tapped the side of his head. ‘I can hear things on the breeze.’

‘You’ll hear me,’ Ranulf declared, gripping him by the shoulder. ‘Tell my master, how did you know?’

‘The Abbot told me.’ The Watcher squirmed in Ranulf’s grip. ‘Take your hand off me, Red Hair!’

Corbett nodded at Ranulf who stepped back.

‘This is new to me,’ Brother Hamo declared. ‘Why should our Father Abbot tell such a thing to a hermit and not to members of his Concilium?’

‘Perhaps it was just a passing fancy?’ the Watcher declared. ‘You know how Abbot Stephen liked to walk outside the walls of the abbey, ave beads in one hand, crucifix in the other. And you, his shadow,’ he pointed at Perditus, ‘always walking behind him. Well, the day before he died. .’

‘That’s right,’ Perditus interrupted. ‘Father Abbot did stop and speak to you.’

‘I asked him why he looked so troubled,’ the Watcher continued. ‘“Guesthouses” the Abbot replied quickly. “Perhaps I should allow a new one to be built?” He seemed distracted and walked on. I tell you the truth, I tell you the truth!’

Corbett glanced back at the sheeted corpse and round at the others. Chanson guarded the door. Ranulf lounged, eyes on his master, watchful, tense as a cat. The monks stood like statues as if unable to cope with what had happened.

I could question you further, Corbett thought. Yet, in his mind’s eye he recalled the sprawling abbey buildings, the Judas Gate, the postern doors, the lonely fields and orchards outside beyond the wall. With darkness falling early, Gildas’s assassin could move with impunity, protected by the commotion caused by Abbot Stephen’s death and burial as well as Corbett’s arrival.

‘I think there’s nothing more we can do for the moment,’ Corbett declared. ‘The hour grows late.’

He was going across to take a sconce torch out of its bracket when the abbey bell began to toll, like a tocsin; not the slow melodious clang which is an invitation to prayer, but sharp and quick.

‘God and his Saints!’ Prior Cuthbert declared. ‘What’s the matter now?’

There was a pounding at the door. Chanson pulled it open. Brother Richard the almoner, out of breath, burst in, hand out to the Prior.

‘Father, you must come and see this! You, too, Sir Hugh!’

‘What about me?’ the Watcher by the Gates demanded.

‘Go home!’ Corbett retorted. ‘Though we’ll have words later, Watcher by the Gates.’

Corbett went out into the cold night air, striding fast to keep up with Brother Richard.

‘It’s in the church — desecration, blasphemy!’

They went up the steps and through the main door. To Corbett’s left, a monk still pulled at the bell.

‘Thank you!’ the clerk shouted. ‘We realise something’s wrong.’ He grasped the almoner by the arm. ‘But what?’

Brother Richard pointed down the nave. A few candles still glowed in the sanctuary. Corbett studied the entrance to the rood screen. Ranulf saw it first.

‘Angels’ wings!’ he breathed. ‘In God’s name, what is it?’

Corbett felt his skin prickle with fear. Brother Richard hung back as he walked up the nave, footsteps echoing hollowly. He could hear voices behind him. As he drew closer, Corbett’s stomach heaved. The corpse of a cat, throat cut, had been hooked by its tail and left to swing from the beam above the rood screen door. Its bristling fur, swinging body and the pool of blood beneath, turned his stomach and made his gorge rise. Corbett was about to turn away when he saw the piece of parchment pinned to the corpse. He covered his mouth and snatched at it. Plucking it out, his fingers brushed the animal’s fur, and Corbett felt as if he was going to be sick.

‘Ranulf!’ he shouted. ‘For God’s sake, take care of it!’

His henchman, muttering and cursing, cut the corpse down. Brother Richard hurried up with a wooden box he’d found in the bell tower. Ranulf put the cat in this and took it through a side door. Corbett stood for a while breathing deeply. He felt his stomach calm.

‘Are you all right, Sir Hugh?’

Chanson came up. His master’s face had gone pale.

‘It’s not the poor creature,’ Corbett replied, ‘but it just looked so hideous swinging there.’

He walked down the church. In the light of the torch he read the scrap of parchment. The words were scrawled like those of a child on a piece of slate: ‘JUSTICE WILL BE DONE. THE SWORD OF MANDEVILLE WILL NOT BE FAR FROM THIS HOUSE.’ Corbett studied it carefully. The parchment could have come from anywhere: it was jagged, rather dirty, the black ink was common and the words had been deliberately scrawled to conceal the writer’s style. Corbett handed it to Prior Cuthbert.

‘Where was the cat from?’ he asked.

‘One of the many we have round here, Sir Hugh. They wage eternal war against the rats in our barns. A senseless cruelty.’

‘Yes,’ Corbett agreed.

He took the Prior by the shoulder and led him away. Cuthbert looked frightened, agitated.

‘Believe me, Brother,’ Corbett whispered. ‘Abbot Stephen’s murder was not the last, neither will Gildas’s be. Someone with a sick mind and a rotten soul has declared war against your community. More deaths will occur. So, tell me, is there anything I should know?’

The Prior licked dry lips, and dropped his gaze.

‘There’s nothing,’ he declared. ‘Nothing at all. We have done no wrong, there is no sin here.’

‘In which case I would like to see Gildas’s workshop.’

Corbett joined Ranulf and Chanson outside the church.

‘I have disposed of the cat,’ Ranulf declared. ‘Poor animal! To be caught, have its throat cut and then trussed up like that.’

‘Thank you.’ Corbett patted him on the shoulder. ‘Long ago I saw a cat crushed by a cart, it’s an image which has never left me.’

‘And the message?’ Ranulf asked.

Corbett told him. A lay brother came out carrying a torch and led them across the abbey. Gildas’s workshop lay near the far wall. They went inside, where candles and oil lamps were lit. Corbett stared round at the table and work benches, the racks of tools, the heap of cut stone. The floor was covered with dust. He scraped it with his foot and eventually found a dark, wine-like stain.

‘This is where Gildas lay,’ he declared, crouching down. ‘He was probably struck on the head and then had his hands tied.’ He pointed to the pile of stone and the brazier. ‘He was killed here and branded.’

Corbett went outside. On the far side of the workshops stood an orchard, the stripped branches of its trees stark against the night sky.

‘A lonely enough place to hide a corpse,’ Corbett observed. ‘Then it would be carried out through that gate and taken to Bloody Meadow.’

‘Do you think,’ Ranulf asked, ‘that we are dealing with one assassin or two?’

‘I don’t know,’ Corbett said. ‘One fact I have grasped: Abbot Stephen and the leading officials of this abbey clashed over Bloody Meadow and the building of that guesthouse.’

He walked to the small postern gate built into the wall, drew back the bolts and went through: a narrow path divided the wall from a small copse of trees.

‘Bloody Meadow,’ Corbett whispered. ‘Gildas’s killer placed that corpse on the burial mound deliberately. But why? And why did Abbot Stephen change his mind so abruptly? If we believe our Watcher, the abbot was deep in thought, considering all possibilities and let slip that he was thinking of changing his mind. So why was he killed? And what is all this nonsense about Mandeville?’

He walked up the path, the curtain wall beside him rose high and sheer. On his left the woods gave way to grass and shrubs. A mist was curling in. Corbett paused and saw the lights flickering.

‘Corpse Candles,’ he declared. ‘I remember these when I was a child, they always terrified me. Some people claimed they were candles held by the angels of death hovering to reap their harvest.’ His voice sounded strange in the dark stillness. ‘Only when I was at Oxford, did a Magister explain how swamps and marshes give off a substance which can glow in the dark. Yet even knowing this, they are still frightening.’

Ranulf repressed a shiver and tapped the hilt of his dagger. He hated the countryside; he found it more dangerous and threatening than any alleyway in Southwark. Corbett was about to go back when he heard a hunting horn braying. He paused. The sound came from some distance away. Ranulf cursed under his breath as the shrill blast was repeated, two, three times.

‘It’s easy to scoff at Mandeville’s ghost,’ Ranulf declared. ‘But, out here in the dark, with the mist curling in. .?’

‘I wonder what that could be?’ Corbett murmured. ‘Why has it started again now? And what connection does it have with these deaths?’

‘Shall we try and find out?’ Chanson asked.

‘Not now, it is too dark for chasing ghostly huntsmen!’

And the clerk went back through the gate into the abbey grounds. Corbett told Ranulf and Chanson to return to the guesthouse.

‘Stay together,’ he warned.

Ranulf gestured at Chanson to walk away. He tugged at Corbett’s sleeve and pulled him into the buttress of one of the buildings.

‘And what about you, Master?’

Corbett felt how tense and watchful his companion had become.

‘You know the Lady Maeve’s instructions!’ Ranulf insisted. ‘I am not to leave you alone. This may be a house of God, Sir Hugh, but it is also the abode of murder with its lonely chambers, empty galleries and passageways. One monk looks much like another,’ Ranulf jibed. ‘They are quite capable of thrusting a dagger or loosing an arrow through the dark.’

‘And the King?’ Corbett asked. He wanted to resolve an issue which had been nagging at him since he’d left Norwich. ‘Why do you start, Ranulf? Are you under secret instructions from him?’

Ranulf stepped back and leaned against the wall.

‘Come, come, Ranulf-atte-Newgate, principal Clerk in the Chancery of the Green Wax,’ Corbett teased. ‘How ambitious are you? Why did the King take you by the arm and stroll through the rose garden with you?’

‘Why, Master, were you spying on me?’

‘Why, Ranulf, I didn’t have to. Most of those at the Bishop of Norwich’s palace saw you.’

‘Are you jealous?’

Corbett laughed merrily.

‘I am sorry,’ Ranulf apologised.

‘Ranulf, Ranulf!’ Corbett gripped him by the shoulder. ‘Once you ran ragged-arsed through the alleyways of White Friars and Southwark. Ranulf the riffler, the roaring boy, the night-walker, the footpad. Now you are a clerk with good linen shirts, and woollen hose, your shoulders protected by thick warm cloaks, and a broad leather belt strapped round your waist. Spanish boots are on your feet with clinking spurs; sword and dagger are fastened at your side. You carry the King’s Seal, you are his man in peace and war. What more do you want, Ranulf-atte-Newgate? You have monies salted away with the goldsmiths in London. You’ve hired a chantry priest to sing Masses for your soul. How many horses do you own — three or four, including one from Barbary, in our stables at Leighton. You are skilled in every form of writing, drawing up an indenture, sealing a charter, issuing a proclamation. Now the King walks with you arm-in-arm. Why, Ranulf-atte-Newgate? Does he trust you? Do you trust me, Ranulf?’

‘With my life, Master. You know that. Your enemies are mine.’

Corbett let his hand fall away. He thought of Edward the King: hair and beard now iron-grey; those cynical, watchful eyes, the right one slightly drooping; his swift changes of mood, either charming or coldly ruthless. Edward was a King who didn’t stand on ceremony; and could also play the warrior, clad in his black armour on Bayard his war horse, hanging Scottish rebels by the dozen, not turning a hair as villages were ravaged by fire and sword.

‘The devil can come in many forms, Ranulf, and tempt in many ways. Did the King take you up to a high mountain and show you the glory which could be yours?’

‘I don’t understand,’ Ranulf stammered.

‘My friend, you do. The King is impatient. I have read the records. Sir Stephen Daubigny, late Abbot of this place, was once one of the King’s boon companions, a knight who fought with him during the dark days of Simon de Montfort. The King owes Abbot Stephen his life. Remember the King’s motto: “My word is my bond”. Now, Ranulf-atte-Newgate, you know and I know, and the King suspects, that Abbot Stephen’s killer is a monk, a priest, a member of the Body Spiritual. If I catch him, and God willing I shall, I cannot hand him over to the sheriff or carry out judgement myself and hang him from the nearest gallows. So, what has the King told you? To carry out justice on his behalf? Summary execution? Do you carry in your wallet one of those writs: “What Ranulf-Atte-Newgate has done, he has done for the good of the King and the safety of his realm”.’ Corbett stepped closer. ‘You can’t do that, Ranulf. There is the King but above him stands the law. The law is all-important.’

Ranulf stepped aside.

‘I am your friend and henchman,’ he spoke quickly. ‘But, as you said, I am the King’s man in peace and war. Have you ever thought, Sir Hugh,’ he stepped forward, ‘of Ranulf-atte-Newgate as a knight? Ranulf-atte-Newgate as a courtier, or even a churchman?’

Although it was dark Corbett could sense the passion seething in this man whom he secretly regarded as his brother.

‘I made a mistake, Ranulf,’ Corbett whispered. ‘I thought you were my man in peace and war. I am certainly yours.’ His hand went out, then fell away. ‘I tell you this, Ranulf, here, in this dark, silent place, if I had to choose between Ranulf-atte-Newgate and Edward of England then Edward of England would come a poor second.’ Corbett gathered his cloak about him. ‘I will be in the Abbot’s lodgings and I will be safe.’

And, turning on his heel, Corbett walked away.

‘Ranulf! Ranulf!’ he whispered once he was out of earshot, tears stinging his eyes. He quietly cursed the King. Edward used Corbett by appealing to his loyalty, his love of the law, his need to create order and harmony. With Ranulf the King had played a different game, appealing to his ambition, playing on the fears of his poverty-stricken past, and the possibilities of a glorious future.

Engrossed in his own thoughts, Corbett, gripping the hilt of his sword beneath his cloak, walked along shadowy porticoes and across dark courtyards. Occasionally a figure flitted by, the silence broken by the slap of sandals. Corbett trusted Ranulf, except where the King’s secret orders cut like a knife, dividing them one from the other. Ranulf would have no qualms about executing the King’s enemy, as a soldier would a traitor after a battle. He’d force him to his knees and slice off his head as quickly and as coldly as a gardener would snip a rose. Ah well! Corbett paused and stared up at the star-filled sky. He would cross that bridge when he came to it. He revisited the church for a short prayer and then entered the abbey buildings. He lost his way until a lay brother directed him towards the Abbot’s lodgings. The door was locked so he carefully examined the outside. The lodgings were really a small mansion or manor house, the top and bottom floors linked by an inside staircase. He looked up at the great bay window and, to satisfy his own curiosity, tried to climb the wall but it was nigh impossible. Unless I was a monkey or a squirrel, Corbett thought. He smiled and thanked God the Lady Maeve couldn’t see him clambering like a schoolboy out in the dark. He went back to the door, knocked again and then banged with the pommel of his dagger. He heard an exclamation inside, the sound of footsteps and Brother Perditus, carrying a candle, unlocked the door and swung it open.

‘Ah, Sir Hugh, I. .!’

‘What are you doing here?’ Corbett asked. ‘I know you have a chamber here but the Abbot’s now dead and buried?’

‘Prior Cuthbert ordered me to stay here to assist you, as well as to look after the Abbot’s chamber.’

Corbett followed him up the stone steps. Perditus went to his own chamber further down the gallery and brought back two keys.

‘Here, Sir Hugh, you may as well have these.’ He thrust both keys into the clerk’s hand. ‘The larger key is for the outside door.’ He smiled through the dark. ‘I’ll open the Abbot’s chamber for you and light a candle. I know my way around.’

Corbett thanked him. Perditus opened the Abbot’s chamber. Corbett smelt the faint fragrance of incense and beeswax, the perfume of wood polish. Apologising loudly, Perditus stumbled around in the dark but, at last, oil lamps and candles were lit and placed on the mantel over the hearth. The fire was already prepared: using a little oil and a pair of bellows, Perditus soon had the dry wood crackling.

‘Well.’ He got to his feet. He looked more composed than he had earlier in the day. He wiped the dust from his hands. ‘There’s wine over there and, if you want, I can get you food from the kitchens. You know where my chamber is and. .’ His voice faltered.

‘Why did Father Abbot choose you to serve him?’ Corbett asked. ‘You’ve been a lay brother here for only a few years, yes?’

‘It was because of that.’ Perditus grinned. ‘Abbot Stephen confided that I was not a lifelong member of his community, so my loyalty would be to him.’

Corbett gestured at the door.

‘Close that and sit down. Let’s share a goblet of wine.’

Perditus looked surprised but agreed. Corbett studied the lay brother closely. Tall, youthful-faced, with broad shoulders and strong arms, he moved quickly and easily. A suitable candidate, Corbett reflected, to have as a manservant, fetching and carrying things up those stone stairs, protecting the Abbot when he left the abbey. Perditus poured two goblets of wine. He gave one to Corbett and sat opposite on a stool. Corbett leaned against the desk.

‘I hoped you’d be here, Brother, without your superiors flapping around like crows ready to pick at any morsel.’

‘I have little to say, Sir Hugh, or to add to what you already know. I loved Abbot Stephen as a father.’

‘The night he died you really heard nothing?’

‘Abbot Stephen was working late: he often did that, especially since Taverner has been here.’

‘Did he ever talk to you about his work?’

Perditus slurped the wine and shook his head.

‘He told me a few things but really nothing much. He was looking forward to the dispute with Archdeacon Adrian and there was the business of the Concilium, his relationship with the Prior and the others. Abbot Stephen was a true spiritual lord,’ Perditus continued. ‘He knew it would be inappropriate to discuss such matters with a lay brother. Oh, he was kind and friendly. We discussed crops, the buildings, news brought by pedlars and tinkers but never once did I hear him criticise another member of this community.’

‘And the business of building on Bloody Meadow?’

‘Abbot Stephen was worried about that but he decided against it.’

‘The Watcher thought differently.’

‘Oh!’ Perditus gestured with his hands. ‘Our Watcher by the Gates wanders in his wits. True, Abbot Stephen did tell me on one occasion that he wondered if he should concede to Prior Cuthbert’s demands. But, remember Sir Hugh, I am a lay brother. I was never present at their discussions or any meeting of the Concilium.’

‘Isn’t there anything that you can tell me?’ Corbett demanded. ‘Look, I know you are not my spy on the brothers but Abbot Stephen lies dead and buried. Gildas has been murdered in a most hideous way, his corpse tossed onto the tumulus. I believe these killings are somehow connected with Bloody Meadow, possibly even with the disagreements between the Abbot and his Concilium.’

‘But they wouldn’t lead to murder, surely?’ Perditus rolled the wine cup between his hands. ‘Abbot Stephen was concerned about the meadow, as was Prior Cuthbert, but it was not a matter of life and death. The debate has been going on for as long as I was here. True, Prior Cuthbert had grown more insistent but. .’

Corbett sighed and sipped at the wine.

‘Do you think both deaths are linked to Bloody Meadow?’ Perditus asked.

Corbett nodded absentmindedly. ‘Oh, I meant to ask you: Perditus, is that your real name?’

‘No, I was baptised Peter in the city of Bristol. I became a merchant’s apprentice and worked in the Low Countries, in Flanders and Hainault selling wool and cloth. I was good at my trade, and became accomplished as a traveller. I am fluent in French and Flemish. Abbot Stephen was impressed by that. We had something in common because, as you know, he led embassies there on behalf of the King.’

‘And how did you come to St Martin’s-in-the-Marsh?’

‘I went to a number of abbeys. However, as I was familiar with the Eastern ports, and Abbot Stephen and St Martin’s were well thought of, I came here. I didn’t want to join some lax house where the routine was disorderly and the monks lazy.’ He grinned. ‘I also came here because I thought I had a vocation. I have seen the world, Sir Hugh, or the little I lived in. What does it profit a man if he gain the whole world and lose his soul? I wanted to become a priest, a monk. Abbot Stephen said I should wait, remain for a while as a lay brother.’

‘And what will you do now?’ Corbett asked.

‘I don’t know.’

‘Have you ever met Lady Margaret Harcourt?’ Corbett asked.

Perditus shook his head.

‘Abbot Stephen was a charitable man but he said he didn’t want anything to do with that woman. He told us to stay away from her. Prior Cuthbert dealt with the lady.’ Perditus drained the cup and got to his feet. ‘Sir Hugh, if there’s nothing else? The hour is late and the bell will ring soon enough for Matins and Prime. I’ll be in my chamber when you leave.’

Corbett thanked him. Perditus closed the door. Corbett shot the bolts and turned the key in the inside lock. He went across to the fire and, pulling up a stool, warmed his hands, watching the flames turn the dry wood to white-hot ash. Corbett closed his eyes and thought of Lady Maeve and their two babes, Eleanor and Edward. They would be in bed now: the children in their cots and Maeve in her four-poster. Maeve would be lying against the bolsters, her beautiful, serene face composed in sleep, with her long, blonde hair like a halo around her head, and those red lips that Corbett loved to kiss both playfully and passionately, when he lay next to her. Corbett felt a pang of homesickness. He was tired, rather depressed after his conversation with Ranulf. He and his companion had walked the same road for many a year. Were they now approaching the crossroads? Corbett’s eyes grew heavy. For a while he dozed, drifting in and out of sleep. A log burst in a flurry of sparks. Corbett shook himself awake. He stared round the chamber. Never once, he reflected, have I met a man like Abbot Stephen. Everything in his room had its own place, the books and papers, household accounts, ledgers but there was nothing which betrayed the inner soul of the man, his likes and dislikes, virtues or faults. What had happened in his past? Corbett sighed and got to his feet. He searched the chests and coffers looking for a secret drawer, a hidden compartment, but there was nothing. He picked up breviaries, psalters and a Book of Hours, all well thumbed: little was written on the inside pages except prayers or notes for a homily. Nothing was out of the ordinary except those quotations from Seneca and St Paul and the reference to Corpse Candles scrawled on a scrap of parchment.

Corbett opened one ledger and studied it. This was an account of the Abbot’s different embassies on behalf of the King, to the Scottish march, a few to France, some to Hainault, Flanders or Germany. Corbett smiled. He would have liked to have talked to Abbot Stephen about the King and his plans against Philip of France. Perhaps Stephen had met Corbett’s old enemy, Amaury de Craon? He noticed how Abbot Stephen’s handwriting was precise and neat. He always described things in the third person as if he was an observer, a spectator. Corbett closed the ledger and pushed it away. He took a piece of parchment, a tray of quills and an ink pot and began to list a series of questions.

Why did Abbot Stephen die?

Because of Bloody Meadow?

How was he killed?

Who killed him?

Was it a member of the Concilium?

Why was Gildas murdered?

Was his corpse thrown on the tumulus in Bloody Meadow as a warning?

And why the brand mark?

What did the stories about Mandeville’s ghost have to do with this place?

Corbett studied the questions. He put his quill down.

‘Nothing,’ he murmured. ‘Nothing at all.’

He had done enough, he would have to leave. He blew out the candles and oil lamps, placing a wire mesh grille up against the fire. He left the chamber and knocked on Perditus’s door. The lay brother opened it, sleepy-eyed, dressed in his shift.

‘I am going now,’ Corbett declared. ‘I would be grateful if you would check the Abbot’s chamber. Perhaps the fire should be doused?’

Perditus said he would do so. Corbett went down the steps. He opened the door at the bottom and flinched at the blast of cold night air. He realised how tired he was. He tried to close the door but couldn’t. He crouched down; a piece of timber, stacked just inside, had slipped. Corbett worked this loose, placed it back and closed the door. He stood for a while to get his bearings and leisurely made his way across the grounds into the abbey buildings. He lost his way once and found himself in the cloister garth but, at last, he reached the portico which would take him down out to the courtyard before the guesthouse. He now walked quickly, his footsteps sounding hollow. The night was cold, and Corbett grew uneasy. He felt as if he was being watched, yet all around him the abbey lay silent. He paused halfway down the passageway and stared through one of the narrow windows. He recalled Ranulf’s warnings. He continued on and reached the heavy wooden door at the far end. He pulled at the ring but the latch didn’t lift. He tried again, pulling it vigorously but it still wouldn’t move. Corbett whirled round, to see nothing but shadows behind him. He didn’t want to go back. He tugged again. He started as the Judas squint high in the door suddenly had its flap thrown open. Corbett couldn’t see through due to the glow from a candle, which was held up, obscuring his view.

‘Who’s there?’ he demanded.

‘Corbett, Sir Hugh Corbett?’ The voice sounded muffled, the speaker was disguising his voice.

‘Let me through,’ Corbett replied.

‘Keeper of the King’s secrets, eh? Welcome to the Mansions of Cain!’

‘What do you mean?’ Corbett declared.

‘Murderers all!’ hissed the reply. ‘Steeped in blood!’

‘Who are?’ Corbett demanded.

‘Not men of God but hounds of the devil!’

‘What are you talking about?’ Corbett demanded. He grasped the iron ring and tugged but the door still held fast.

‘A place of sudden death, Sir Hugh, of wickedness. All have to be punished. Sentence has been passed. Stand back, Sir Hugh, for your own safety’s sake!’

Corbett had no choice but to obey. He heard footsteps. He tried the latch again, and this time the door gave way to reveal the empty darkness beyond.