Paul Doherty - The Waxman Murders

‘Master Gleeman, I would like an escort, maybe two of your men?’

‘Sir Hugh, I can’t spare any. I’ve sent some out to snare rabbits in the wasteland, but I can ask two of our boys.’ The Gleeman stood up, and went outside shouting. A short while later two lads, merry-faced, bright-eyed and clothed in rags, came leaping up. They introduced themselves as Jack o’ the Lantern and David of the Mist. They danced around Corbett like sprites, asking him questions, chattering away in a patois he couldn’t understand. He bade adieu to the Gleeman and moved away, the boys dancing in front of him, shoving and pushing, kicking up the snow, scaring the birds, flinging their arms out. Corbett smiled at the sheer exuberance of youth, a welcome relief from that dank cottage and the sombre news he’d received.

‘Come here, lads,’ he called. ‘Come here.’

Both boys fell silent and came running up. Corbett noticed they were barefoot.

‘You have no shoes.’

‘It’s not our turn to wear them, sir; it’s our turn to collect sticks, so we are pleased to act as your guides.’

‘And very good guides you are. Where are you from?’

‘We live in Birch Hall or Birch Manor,’ Jack o’ the Lantern replied.

‘We have lived there for years,’ David of the Mist teased as he chased his brother off.

Again Corbett called them back. ‘Birch Hall, Birch Manor, what do you mean?’

The two lads started laughing, pushing and shoving each other, and pointed to the trees on either side of the trackway.

‘This is Birch Manor; this is Birch Hall: the trees, that’s where we live.’ And chattering like squirrels on a branch, they ran ahead of Corbett, leading him back into the grounds of St Augustine’s Abbey.

Corbett was well down the lane when he heard his name being called. He turned and watched the figure emerge from the mist. The Gleeman hurried limping towards him.

‘Sir Hugh! Sir Hugh!’

Corbett walked back. The Gleeman paused, hands on his side, gasping for breath.

‘What is it, man?’

‘I forgot something about Griskin! When we cut him down from the scaffold and buried him. .’

‘Yes?’

‘His left hand had been cut off, severed completely at the wrist. I never understood why. I’ve heard stories, but I thought I should tell you.’

Corbett stared down the path; the mist was growing thicker. Behind him he could hear the boys shouting at him to come, how the abbey buildings were in sight, just a short walk, almost as if they could sense his apprehension.

‘I thank you, Gleeman.’ He raised his hand and bowed. ‘I am grateful; as you say, God knows why anyone should do that.’

He went back to join the boys, now skipping and leaping like hares in front of him. They passed through a gate into the abbey grounds. The boys, still dancing from foot to foot, asked him if he wanted anything else. Could they look around? Corbett called them closer and pressed a coin into each of their grubby hands.

‘No, no,’ he declared, smiling down at them. ‘Go back. The Gleeman is waiting for you. I think he has other errands waiting.’

The boys left as swift as lurchers, heading for the gate, jostling each other. Corbett watched them go. For a brief moment he felt a deep sense of envy at their innocence. They had no fear. To them this was not an icy, mist-strewn place where all sorts of demons and dangers lurked. He sighed and walked on across the snow-covered yards and gardens. Now and again a brother would pass him and whisper a salutation, Corbett would reply absent-mindedly; all he could really think of was poor Griskin, naked, bloated, and hanging from that lonely scaffold over those icy marshes. He had reached the small cloisters leading down to the guesthouse when he heard his name being called.

‘Sir Hugh, Sir Hugh!’

He turned round. The guest master came hobbling up, one hand held out, the other containing a leather sack bound and sealed at the neck. The monk handed this over, saying it had been left for Corbett at the abbey lodge, but by whom he couldn’t say. He then questioned Corbett about his lodgings. Were they warm and comfortable? Corbett nodded distractedly and the guest master, remembering other duties, hastened away.

Corbett walked into a shadowy alcove and lifted the bag up. It was of thick Spanish leather, the string pulled tight, the neck sealed with wax. He broke the seal and undid the knot, loosened the sack and put his hand in. He drew out a linen cloth containing something cold and hard. Even as he undid the folds, he felt a shiver of apprehension, then stared in horror at what he’d uncovered: a human hand, severed at the wrist, blackened like a piece of cured meat, and in between the forefinger and thumb, a blood-red tarot candle, its wick charred from burning. Corbett swallowed hard and tried to control the nausea in his stomach. Bile gathered at the back of his throat. He wanted to scream, to throw it away. He turned the hand over. The flesh had been smoke-dried, shrunk like a scrap of rotten pork. He placed it gently back in the linen folds and dropped the gruesome package back into the sack, tying the knot tightly. Then he sat down on a small bench in the alcove to control his breathing, the hot sweat on his back turning icy.

‘Griskin’s hand!’ he whispered.

He stared across at a small fountain covered in ice, the garden bed around it frosted and dead, then closed his eyes and leaned back. He knew what he’d been sent. A talisman, a diabolic token, the Hand of Glory, the curse of a hanged man. He fought to control his anger. He didn’t believe in such nonsense, but he recognised that Griskin’s killer, possibly Hubert the Monk, had done this to frighten him.

He took a deep breath, rose to his feet and walked through the abbey buildings until he found the smithy in the main stable yard. A lay brother stood at the entrance hammering a piece of metal with a huge mallet. The crashing stilled as Corbett approached.

‘What can I do for you, sir?’ The brother looked Corbett over from head to toe, then glimpsed the ring on his left hand. ‘Ah, you must be our guest, the King’s man.’

‘You have a fire,’ Corbett asked, ‘a forge?’

The man nodded. Corbett handed the sack over. ‘Do not look inside; burn it, burn it now!’

The smith shrugged, took the sack and walked inside. Corbett stood and watched the great door of the forge opened, the abomination was thrust in and the door closed.

‘Push it deeper into the coals,’ he urged.

The smith shrugged, opened the forge, pushed the sack further into the coals with a poker, closed the door again, then walked back outside.

‘Sir, what was in there?’

‘Something devilish,’ Corbett replied, ‘but fire will cleanse it!’

He stood for a while in the smithy, relishing its warmth, the smell of horses, hay, and roasting iron. Then he went across to a makeshift lavarium and, pouring water over his hands, washed them carefully, drying them on a napkin. He thanked the smith, took directions to the guesthouse and returned there. He could hear Ranulf and Chanson as soon as he entered the small downstairs refectory; they were singing, and Ranulf was teasing his comrade. Corbett stamped up the stairs. Ranulf and Chanson came out of their room to meet him, took one look at Corbett’s face and hastily retreated.

Corbett went into his chamber, slamming the door behind him. He slung down the small arbalest from his shoulder, took off his war belt and lay down on the bed. He found it difficult to concentrate. He tried to recall a Goliard song he loved to sing to Maeve: ‘ Iam dulcis amica — now my sweet friend. .’ but the words and tune were difficult to recall. He swung his legs off the bed. Ranulf and Chanson knocked on the door and came in.