Paul Doherty - Corpse Candle

‘Murderers always talk,’ Corbett had once remarked. ‘They begin by being secretive but, after a while, the power they have grasped goes to their heads. When they talk, they make mistakes.’

Ranulf also liked to see the powerful ones, the great and the so-called good, squirm before his master’s gaze.

‘Sir Hugh, are you praying?’

‘Yes, Brother Aelfric, I am.’

A bell began to toll.

‘It is time for divine office,’ Brother Dunstan declared, his hand against the table as if ready to rise.

‘Sit down,’ Corbett ordered. ‘I have read the rule of St Benedict. In times of danger and crisis, the office of the day can be suspended. This is the divine office we must address: the matins of murder, the prime of malice, the vespers of death, the nones of justice, the compline of law. I don’t think God wants to hear your prayers. He wants to see justice done. Prior Cuthbert, I suggest you hold a chapter meeting and tell your community that, until these matters are resolved, everyone should walk warily with an eye to his own safety.’

‘We are all in the hands of God,’ Prior Cuthbert declared.

‘Some of us are,’ Corbett retorted. ‘But others?’ He stirred in the chair.

‘What of others?’ Prior Cuthbert demanded.

‘There’s an assassin in this abbey,’ Corbett replied. ‘It will take time for the Hand of God to grasp him and mark him like he did Cain.’

‘And Brother Hamo?’ Prior Cuthbert demanded.

‘Shall I tell you something?’ Corbett pushed his chair back. He got to his feet and, hands down, leaned against the table. ‘Your brother was poisoned. I am no physician so I cannot tell you the substance. Aelfric, in your infirmary you must have many jars, phials, boxes of powder. In the fields outside grow plants which, if ground and drained, would slay a man within a few heartbeats. What chills me about Hamo’s death is that it wasn’t planned.’

‘What?’ Aelfric demanded.

‘The assassin is playing a game with us,’ Corbett continued. ‘Abbot Stephen’s puzzling death; Gildas branded, his corpse left sprawling on the burial mound; the cat, its throat slit, fastened to the rood screen; Taverner killed by an arrow. I think the assassin could have killed all of you this morning. Somehow or other he put that poison in the tankard. He really didn’t care who drank from it, as long as one of you did.’

Brother Dunstan gave a low groan. He buried his face in his hands.

‘Like a gambler playing Hazard.’ Corbett gestured with his hand. ‘He rolls the dice and it falls as it will. Our assassin does likewise: poison was put in a tankard when the tray was in the kitchen. It was brought up here,’ Corbett shrugged, ‘and the die was cast.’

‘So, any of us could have taken that tankard?’ Prior Cuthbert demanded, his eyes wild with horror.

‘Oh yes. The assassin is sending you a warning. He can strike when, and wherever, he wishes. If he wanted he could have killed two, three or all of you.’ Corbett re-took his seat. ‘He’ll play that game until he’s satisfied.’

‘What can we do?’ Brother Richard wailed.

‘Say your prayers, be careful where you walk, what you eat and drink.’ Corbett tapped the table. ‘And tell me the truth. So, Prior Cuthbert, you are going to tell me the truth, aren’t you? What did the Concilium discuss this morning? What else do I need to know about the abbey of St Martin’s-in-the-Marsh?’

The Griffin was snarling, fierce and repellent, its carved lips opened to display a flickering tongue and jagged teeth. Protuberant eyes glared out, its ears were up and pointed back, like a dog ready to attack. Carved in stone the Griffin lurched out of the corner of the wall, eternally springing on some unseen enemy. Corbett studied it carefully. As a boy he’d always been frightened of such images and, when his mother took him to the parish church, he’d avert his eyes. He had this childish fear that, at night, when the sun sank and the clouds gathered to hide the moon, these gargoyles, snarling griffins, tail-lashing dragons, ogres with the heads of baboons, monkeys with the faces of men, all came to life and crawled down the walls to dance on the tombstones in the graveyard. Corbett smiled to himself. In some ways he still believed this. When darkness fell, whatever that darkness was, loathsome creatures came slithering out.

‘In the soul,’ Corbett whispered. ‘That’s where you experience the horrid nights of Hell.’

Standing in front of the abbey church, Corbett gazed up at the tympanum above the doorway. Christ stood in eternal judgement, his left hand slightly raised, his right holding the sword of justice. Seraphs clustered about his haloed head. On the Saviour’s right were the virtuous, hands extended to receive his mercy. On his left stood the sinners, a line of condemned felons, with halters round their necks, being driven into the eternal fire by demons in the shape of centaurs, all armed with swords, spears, daggers and lances, to prod and prick their victims. Corbett would have loved to have climbed up and studied the carving more closely. The stonemasons had a dark sense of humour and often used such carvings to portray their enemies as well as their friends. On either side of the arched doorway beneath the tympanum, two great faces, carved in stone, peered out. On the right was a saintly monk, his eyes raised heavenwards. The one on the left was certainly drunk, with skewered eyeballs and gagging mouth. Corbett walked round the side of the abbey church and in through the Galilee porch. Benches stood on either side where, during inclement weather, the monks could sit to meditate, reflect or doze according to their inclination. Inside, the abbey church was deserted. Gusts of incense, like the prayers of angels, wafted about on the cold afternoon breeze. Beeswax candles, fixed in their iron sockets, provided light as well as the soft fragrance of summer.

Corbett walked round the church. Occasionally he paused to study the wall paintings, whose vivid colours depicted different themes from the bible. Christ amongst the dead, standing on the shores of Hell gazing sorrowfully across the Sea of Damnation at the army of the lost. Christ feeding the five thousand with little loaves and a basket of fishes. His passion and death depicted in all its horrors: the beaten, crowned head, the blood gushing from the holes in his hands and feet. The Resurrection and all the glories and horrors of the Second Coming. Some of the paintings were ancient and beginning to fade. Others were freshly done. Corbett realised that the more recent had one common theme, the exorcism of demons: Christ healing the Gadarene, a host of black imps bursting out of the poor man’s mouth, their leader shouting: ‘My name is Legion for we are many!’

Studying the wall paintings, Corbett became acutely aware of the war between the visible and the invisible. He realised most of this must have been done at the behest of Abbot Stephen. The artist had painted dramatically, giving free rein to his vivid imagination. The demons took many forms: sometimes dark figures with eyes burning like coal and the jagged teeth of a hunting dog; monkeys and baboons; even a rabbit with a gargoyle face. In others the theme starkly changed. Corbett recalled the scriptural verse: ‘How Satan could appear as an angel of light.’ In such paintings the fallen Seraph was portrayed as a beautiful young man with eyes of sapphire, hair of glowing gold and face lit by the sun. He was dressed in silken gowns with gold tassels edged with silver. The only clues to his real identity were the horned hands constantly close to the hilt of a dagger or sword. Beneath this, Christ’s words from the gospel of St John, ‘Satan was an assassin from the first’. In all these paintings Lucifer, Satan or Beelzebub appeared as a young courtier, even a handsome knight intent on war. Corbett stood fascinated. Abbot Stephen’s interest in demonology certainly made itself felt. One painting dominated the wall just before the Lady Chapel. It was entitled ‘The First Sin’ and showed Cain beating out the brains of his brother Abel with the bone of an animal. To their right was the altar of sacrifice, and above this the all-seeing eye of God. Corbett studied this painting closely. Beneath the altar were wheels with hub and spokes, very similar to that of the Roman mosaic, as well as the drawings Corbett had seen in the Abbot’s chamber. Corbett continued into the Lady Chapel and lit two candles. He placed both on the spiked candelabra, knelt on the cushions and recited three Aves for Maeve and his family. He then took one of the candles and returned to the painting. Corbett guessed it must be only a few months to a year since it was finished. The more he studied it, the deeper his interest grew.