Paul Doherty - Corpse Candle

His words created uproar.

‘A woman in our abbey at night! There’s certainly no proof of that!’ Brother Francis shouted.

Hamo banged on the table. ‘Well, there wouldn’t be, would there? It is not something you proclaim to the sound of trumpet and tambour.’

‘And Gildas told you this?’ The Prior leaned forward. ‘Why didn’t you inform me? I am responsible for discipline.’

‘Brother Gildas was uncertain.’

‘Didn’t you try and find out yourself?’

Hamo snorted with laughter. ‘I like my sleep, Prior Cuthbert. I am not wandering St Martin’s at night looking for some mysterious woman. After all, if it was true, such a visitation could be the work of one of the other monks or a lay brother. Some wench brought in from the villages. Or that tavern girl from the Lantern-in-the-Woods.’

Prior Cuthbert leaned back in his chair, fingers to his lips. He would have loved to have screamed at Hamo. If such scandal became known, together with these mysterious deaths whilst the abbey was in his charge, what chance did he have of being elected as Abbot and his appointment confirmed?

‘Gildas said she was dressed like a monk?’

‘I can only report what he told me. The figure was robed, cowled, with sandals on the feet. It was the fragrance which puzzled him. He would have challenged her but,’ Hamo sighed, ‘if he’d been wrong, he would have become the laughing stock of the abbey.’

‘Perfume?’ Prior Cuthbert exclaimed. ‘Does that mean someone high-born like Lady Margaret? If so, whom was she visiting?’

‘Well, not Father Abbot,’ Aelfric jibed. ‘Not only did they dislike each other, but the door to the abbot’s quarters is most visible. Prior Cuthbert, you are the one who deals with Lady Margaret.’

He saw the anger flush Prior Cuthbert’s face.

‘I am not implying anything,’ Aelfric hurriedly continued. ‘Like you, I am trying to find out who is responsible for these deaths. Lady Margaret is a strong-willed woman. If she thought the abbey of St Martin’s was going to seize some of her estate, her dislike of Abbot Stephen may have spilled over into murderous hatred.’

‘And, of course,’ Hamo interrupted, ‘Gildas may have been killed because of what he saw.’

‘And Taverner?’ Prior Cuthbert tried to keep the sneer out of his voice. ‘Perhaps he saw something as well?’

‘One other matter.’ Hamo clapped his hands softly. ‘The burial mound in Bloody Meadow. I decided to inspect it this morning. It’s got a grassy bank, and I noticed that a sod had been cut away so I pulled it out. Someone had burrowed into the mound and then replaced the sod to hide their handiwork. It was craftily done, I discovered it only by accident.’

‘You are not,’ Aelfric jokingly accused, ‘already destroying the burial mound, Father Prior?’

‘I know nothing of it.’ Cuthbert gestured at a side table where a jug of ale and small tankards had been placed, together with a platter of bread and cheese. The kitchen always sent refreshments up whenever the Concilium met. ‘We need to pause and reflect.’

Prior Cuthbert tried to recall what Abbot Stephen would have done when disagreements had taken place in this chamber. They had to speak, una voce , with one voice. Brother Dunstan, the treasurer, who had sat in silence during the entire meeting, was only too eager to push his chair back and serve his colleagues tankards of ale. The platter of bread and cheese was passed round. Prior Cuthbert shook his head. I am in a labyrinth, the Prior reflected. Cuthbert had been born in Kent, the younger son of a manor lord. One summer’s day his father had taken him to a friend’s house, a powerful merchant who had laid out a maze in his extensive garden, where Cuthbert had become lost, trapped in the narrowing rows of privet hedges. Even in his days as a soldier, Cuthbert had never experienced such terror. He felt as if he was back in that maze now but, this time, there was no one to lead him out. He closed his eyes and quietly thanked God that there had been no witness to the private conversations between him and Abbot Stephen. No one to eavesdrop on Cuthbert’s implied threats and warnings. Cuthbert accepted he had committed a sin and vowed that, next time he travelled to Norwich, he would seek absolution. He had hidden his sin away, buried deep in his soul. One thing truly worried him: had Abbot Stephen confided in anybody else? The Abbot had a confessor somewhere in the abbey. But who was it? One of the old monks, whose eyesight was too dim for the library? Their bodies too weak for any work in the monastery, they spent what was left of their lives in private, little cells, praying and sleeping. Now and again they joined the rest of the community in the abbey church for divine office or in the refectory for meals. Prior Cuthbert had often wondered if one of these — Luke, Simon or Ignatius — had been Father Abbot’s confessor? Yet, if that was true, they couldn’t say anything. Such confidences were covered by the seal of confession.

Prior Cuthbert picked up his tankard and sipped at the ale. He really shouldn’t drink, his stomach was already upset. He glanced down the table. Aelfric was deep in conversation with the librarian. The almoner and sub-prior were exchanging confidences. Dunstan the treasurer, however, just sat staring across the chamber. Prior Cuthbert studied him out of the corner of his eye. A strange one, Dunstan, with his small eyes and balding head. Secretive and rather sly! He now looked very worried.

‘Brother Dunstan! Is all well?’

The treasurer forced a smile.

‘I am concerned that these present troubles do not affect the abbey’s income. If the word spreads, labourers might be unwilling to till our fields or merchants come to buy our produce.’

‘Nonsense!’ the Prior scoffed, ‘these troubles will pass.’

‘I don’t think so,’ Dunstan whispered. He glanced fearfully at the Prior. ‘I feel as if we are in the Valley of Death and our sins press heavily against us.’

‘What sins?’

Dunstan shook his head and stared into the tankard.

‘I feel ill,’ he muttered, slamming his tankard down. ‘I need some fresh air.’

The treasurer walked out of the chamber. Prior Cuthbert finished his ale. He clapped his hands softly.

‘Brothers,’ he announced, ‘it’s time to return to the business in hand. First, I must warn the rest of the community to be vigilant against strangers and perhaps not to walk by themselves.’

‘That’s going to be difficult,’ Aelfric jibed. ‘Many of us sleep in separate cells. Moreover, the victims have all been members of this Concilium.’

‘Taverner wasn’t,’ Prior Cuthbert retorted.

He paused as the door opened and the treasurer rejoined them.

‘There must be peace. .’

Prior Cuthbert broke off. Hamo the sub-prior had pushed back his chair and was clutching his stomach, his fat face pallid.

‘Oh Lord!’ he breathed. ‘Oh, my God, the pain!’

Prior Cuthbert thought it must be a seizure. Hamo flailed his hands, head going back. The other brothers jumped to their feet and hastened to help. Hamo pushed them away, trying to rise. The Prior stared in horror. It was as if his colleague was being slowly strangled: his face sweat-soaked, his eyes popping, mouth opening and closing as if desperate for air. A froth appeared at Hamo’s lips. He turned as if he could walk away from the pain but collapsed to his knees, hands across his belly. The seizure grew worse. He crumpled to his side, legs kicking. Some of the others were shouting. Aelfric the infirmarian tried to grab Hamo by the shoulder.

‘Perhaps he’s choking!’

Prior Cuthbert knew what was wrong: a heart-stopping premonition. Hamo was now lost in his world of pain, arms and legs flailing, body jerking. Strange gargling sounds came from his throat. Aelfric tried to help him but it was impossible. Hamo was struggling like a landed fish. He gave a deep choking sound deep in his throat, shuddered once more and lay still, head slightly turned, eyes staring. Aelfric pulled him over on his back and desperately searched for a heart beat in the neck and wrists. He forced his fingers into the sub-prior’s mouth.