Paul Doherty - Corpse Candle

‘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.’