Paul Doherty - The Mysterium

Corbett turned and smiled at him.

‘But angels also tread here, yes, Brother?’ He carried on, turning right into the cloisters, where a group of novices stood gape-mouthed around one of the high desks illumined by glowing candles. The ancient scribe perched on his writing stool was relaying the horrors of hell as described in the legend of St Brendan, which he was busily transcribing. In a voice powerful but sepulchral the old monk described how across the river of death swirled a wind stinking of bitumen, sulphur and pitch, mingled with the stench of roasting human flesh. On the shores of hell clustered woods where the only trees were tall poppies and deadly nightshade from the branches of which hung a host of bats. The ground beneath bristled with swords and stakes whilst over these flew birds fierce as flaming firebrands. Corbett, who’d paused to listen, wondered about those souls whose cadavers he’d recently inspected — were they journeying through such a living nightmare?

He passed on into the great soaring nave. Torches, candles and lanterns glowed to make it a place of creeping shadows through which peered the carved and painted faces of the holy, the ugly and the demonic. He approached the sanctuary, where the majestic oaken choir stalls gleamed in the glow of freshly lit candles. Each tongue of flame shimmered in the precious cloths, jewels and ornaments that decorated the royal tombs either side of the high altar. The air was fragrant with perfumed incense smoke, the eerie silence broken by the shuffling of sandalled feet as two long lines of black-cowled monks filed into the stalls. It was too late for Corbett to join them, so instead he squatted just within the rood screen and watched the drama unfold. The monks took their positions in the stalls, psalters at the ready; the lector and cantor went to their places. A small handbell was rung and vespers began with its usual impassioned plea: ‘Oh God, come to our aid. Oh Lord, make haste to help us.’

Corbett closed his eyes. He needed such help if he was to clear the cloying murk gathering around him and bring to justice a most sinister killer.

In the chamber of oyer and terminer, Ranulf still sat at the chancery desk sifting amongst the papers. Chanson had wandered off. Ranulf paused as the royal choir, gathered in the small chapel below, rehearsed a song for some banquet or feast. He listened intently to the words:

My song is in sighing,

My soul in longing,

Till I see thee my King,

So fair in thy shining.

He glanced up as the door abruptly opened and Edward the King slipped in. Ranulf made to rise, but the King gestured at him to sit. Wrapped in a heavy military cloak, spurs jingling on his hunting boots, Edward strode across and sat in Corbett’s chair, turning slightly to stare at Ranulf, the amber-flecked eyes in his dark leathery face scrutinising the clerk as if searching his soul. The King’s iron-grey hair was all a-tangle, though the greying moustache and beard were neatly clipped. He smelled of rosewater, sweat and leather. Ranulf made to speak, but the King held up a hand for silence as he waited for a certain line of the choir’s song: ‘I want nothing but only thee.’ Then he let his hand drop, grinned and leaned a little closer.

‘Do you, Ranulf-atte-Newgate, Clerk in the Chancery of Green Wax, desire nothing but the King’s will?’

‘If it go not against God’s law or my conscience.’ Ranulf quoted Corbett’s common axiom.

‘You learn well, Ranulf.’ The King pointed to the stack of parchment. ‘And this business, tell me now. .’

Ranulf did so, swiftly listing what had happened, and emphasising Corbett’s questions about the murderous mysteries confronting them. Edward listened intently, saying nothing, though now and again he would glance swiftly around as if fearful of an eavesdropper. Once Ranulf was finished, the king slouched in his chair, eyes half closed.

‘I was hunting today,’ he remarked, ‘out on the moorlands north of Sheen. Good weather for it, Ranulf. I flew Roncesvalles, my favourite peregrine. Sickly he was, or so I think, wouldn’t listen to my voice. I’ve had a wax image of him sent to Becket’s shrine in Canterbury. Our martyred archbishop was a keen falconer; he’ll help. I’ll make an offering.’ Edward turned in a creak of leather to face Ranulf. ‘A king’s hawk is swift and dangerous. It can see and do what the King cannot, but,’ he picked at his teeth, ‘it is still a royal hawk. It brings down the quail and the herring not for itself but for the King, remember that! This business. .’ He rose to his feet. ‘I want no public clamour, Ranulf; the least said, the soonest mended.’ He grinned. ‘Yes, Waldene and Hubert the Monk are dead. Good, that’s how I like it! All dispatched to be judged by God, clean and quiet. I prefer to hang people by the purse rather than the neck; remember that as well. Do not forget,’ he leaned down and pressed a finger against the clerk’s lips, ‘the King’s will is paramount.’

‘You’ll say the same to Sir Hugh, your grace?’

‘No, Ranulf, I said it just for you. You do understand?’

‘Yes, your grace.’

‘Good.’ For a moment Edward’s eyes turned sad. ‘I can’t say that to Hugh. God knows, Ranulf, he’s a better man than you, and as the Lord is my witness, certainly a better one than I.’ And spinning on his heel, the King left as quietly as he’d entered.

In the darkened abbey, Corbett was becoming restless. The words of the psalm echoed powerful and sombre.

Lions surround me,

Greedy for human prey,

Their teeth like spears and barbs.

Their tongues like sharpened swords.

He blessed himself, got to his feet and left, hurrying back along the cloisters. He could not understand his own anxiety; he knew only that he was restless, impatient to make some progress in the mysteries confronting him. He left the abbey, following the winding path through the monks’ cemetery and into the Sanctuary, where he strolled purposefully, sword and dagger drawn, the glint of the steel sending the creatures of the night scuttling out of his path. He’d almost reached the far gate when he heard his name called. He whirled round, lifting sword and dagger up as a figure stepped out of the gloom.

‘I mean no ill, Sir Hugh. I heard your proclamation.’ The voice was low, almost cultured.

Corbett moved forward.

‘I’ll not talk to you here, sir. You’d best follow me.’ The Sanctuary man seemed reluctant.

‘Don’t worry.’ Corbett smiled through the darkness. ‘You have my word as Keeper of the King’s Secret Seal that no harm will befall you. If we can do business then we shall; if not, you will be allowed to return safely here. The choice is yours. Follow me.’

He led the way into the vestibule of the palace, where he turned and surveyed the wolfshead who had followed him. The man was of moderate height, with lank, greasy hair, face pitted with scars, beard and moustache stained with food. His clothing, a cotehardie, leggings and boots, was scuffed and dirty, his fingernails thick with black, though the eyes he rubbed were sharp and alert. Corbett sat on a stone bench just within the door and indicated for the stranger to join him.

‘What’s your name?’

The man remained standing.

‘You may sit down,’ Corbett declared.

The man sighed and did so. Corbett tried to ignore the offensive smell.

‘They call me Mouseman.’

‘Why?’

‘Because there is not a door, chest or coffer I cannot enter. I was baptised Edmund Arrowsmith at the font of the abbey church in St Albans.’

‘And now you’re utlegatum,’ Corbett declared, ‘beyond the law. Yes? Picking locks when you shouldn’t have done?’

‘Only one,’ Mouseman retorted in clipped tones. ‘I worked at the Abbey at St Albans. The prior owed me money. He refused to pay.’