Paul Doherty - Corpse Candle

‘What are we to do?’

Ranulf threw his cloak over his shoulder and grasped the hilt of his sword.

‘This is the parish well, Chanson.’

The groom gazed back in puzzlement.

‘It’s where everybody gathers,’ Ranulf explained. ‘Peasants, tinkers, traders, chapmen, merchants. They all come to listen to the gossip, exchange news, spit and clasp hands on bargains.’ Ranulf looked into the taproom. ‘As well as drink and eat as much as their bellies can take. Now, Chanson, look at me.’

‘Are you making fun of my eye?’

‘No, I am not. What have I taught you about walking into a tavern?’

Chanson closed his eyes. ‘Always throw your cloak back over your shoulder.’ He did this hastily. ‘Grasp the hilt of your dagger. Swagger in. Stop and, when the landlord comes across, don’t look at him but rap out your orders.’

‘Very good!’ Ranulf smiled. ‘And why is that?’

‘Because you are a stranger and the people inside must get the measure of you.’

‘Very good! What else?’

‘Always sit with your back to the wall. Find out which door and windows you can escape through, if you have to leave in a hurry.’

‘Excellent!’ Ranulf grinned. ‘Lovely boy! You’re going to be a true clerk of the stables.’

‘And what about Sir Hugh’s rules?’ Chanson added mischievously.

‘Oh yes,’ Ranulf declared wryly. ‘Don’t engage in games of dice or hazard. Keep your hands off the wenches and be careful what you drink.’

Ranulf stood aside as a pedlar, a tray around his neck, hurried into the welcoming taproom.

‘Well, old Master Long Face would say that, wouldn’t he?’

‘Why are we here?’ Chanson asked.

‘Oh, to listen to the tittle-tattle and gossip. Now, come on, my belly thinks my throat’s been slit.’

Ranulf swaggered in. He stood, feet apart, staring round the taproom. The conversation died. A relic-seller wiped his nose on his sleeve and peered across.

‘Who are you?’ he bawled.

Someone grasped the relic-seller by the shoulder and whispered quickly into his ear, and he slunk into the shadows.

‘You are from the abbey.’

Talbot the taverner, his head bald as a gleaming egg, eyes almost hidden in folds of fat, his protruding belly covered by a blood-stained apron, bustled out from behind the counter.

‘How do you know that?’ Ranulf asked.

The taverner tapped his fleshy nose.

‘Oh come, sirs.’

He led them across as if they were princes, gesturing at a group of farmers who occupied the table near the window to move away. They hastily obeyed, taking their platters of food with them. A wet cloth appeared in the taverner’s hand and he cleaned the grease-covered table.

‘You’ll try the ale, sir? Home brewed with a dish of eels, salted and roasted? A nice vegetable sauce with chopped parsley and cream?’

‘That will do nicely.’ Ranulf eased himself down. ‘And bring a tankard for yourself.’

The smile disappeared from the taverner’s oily face.

‘But, sir, I run a tavern. I. .’

‘Sir, you run a tavern,’ Ranulf agreed, ‘and that’s why I want to talk to you. You don’t object to talking to a King’s man, do you?’ His voice rose slightly.

‘I’ll send Blanche across,’ Talbot muttered.

He finished cleaning the table and hurried away. Ranulf took off his war belt and slammed it down on the table. The rest of the customers decided not to continue staring. A young, spotty-faced man picked up his pet weasel and clutched it in his lap, turning his back as if fearful that the King’s man would come over and arrest it.

‘You enjoy this, don’t you?’ Chanson muttered. ‘You like the power?’

‘No, I don’t,’ Ranulf stared round the tavern. ‘If we become unpopular here, Chanson, I am afraid it’s through that window, round to the stables and away we go.’

‘You expect trouble?’

‘Well, as we came in,’ Ranulf indicated with his thumb to the door at the rear, ‘a small, greasy-haired, rat-faced man disappeared through there like a rabbit down a hole. Now, he’s either fearful or gone to warn someone. Ah well, we’ll see.’ Ranulf peered out through the mullioned glass to stare up at the sky. ‘I am not a country man, Chanson. Give me a London tavern and a smelly street in Southwark any day. However, even I know it’s going to snow: the clouds are low and grey.’

Chanson recalled their freezing journey along those lonely trackways and shivered.

‘We’ll be back in the abbey before dark, won’t we?’

‘We’ll be back when we’ve finished,’ Ranulf agreed. ‘Ah, who is this?’

A tavern wench came trotting across; she had red, curly hair under a white mobcap, slanted eyes with high cheekbones, and her face was slightly flushed. Ranulf admired her fine lips and the green smock, slightly too tight, which emphasized her generous bosom and broad hips. He looked down at her small buckled boots peeping out from beneath the flounced petticoats. She paused and grinned at Ranulf, allowing him a full view of her. She slowly put the tankards down, brushing Ranulf’s hand, almost thrusting her breasts into his face.

‘King’s men are we?’ she grinned. ‘With fine leather boots and broad war belts?’ She raised an eyebrow archly. ‘We don’t get your sorts often in these parts.’

‘What sorts do you get?’ Ranulf demanded.

The girl, hands on hips, shrugged. Ranulf noticed the beautiful gold cross on a silver chain round her neck, the fine rings on both hands and the silver chased bracelet clasping her left wrist.

‘You are Blanche, Talbot’s daughter?’

Her smile faded. ‘How do you know that?’

‘Oh, just by the way you act. A potboy was going to bring the tankards across but you took them off him.’

‘Why sir,’ Blanche cooed, ‘you are sharper than I am.’

And, turning on her heel, she flounced off.

‘The girls always like you, Ranulf.’

‘And I like them, Chanson.’ Ranulf leaned across and tapped the groom’s face with his gauntlets. ‘You are a good-looking lad. If you had your hair cut and washed more often, the girls would like you too.’

Chanson coloured and hid his face in the tankard to hide his embarrassment.

‘Would you ever marry, Master Ranulf?’

‘Better to marry than to burn, as St Paul says. Sometimes I wonder. Do you think, Chanson,’ Ranulf took another sip from the tankard, ‘that I should enter the church, become a priest?’

Chanson raised his tankard to hide his face. Ranulf often discussed this, and it was the only time Chanson ever felt like laughing out loud at his companion. Ranulf, however, didn’t think it was funny. He sat steely faced.

‘But you like the ladies, Master Ranulf?’

‘So do many priests.’

‘And you have never been in love?’

‘You know the answer to that.’ Ranulf mockingly toasted him with his tankard.

‘Ah sirs, how can I help you?’

The taverner came up, scooped up a stool and sat down between them.

‘You promised us some eels?’

‘They are coming.’

‘How old are you, Master Talbot?’

‘According to my accounts, I’ll be fifty-six summers on the eve of the Beheading of John the Baptist.’

‘And you have always lived here?’

‘Oh yes, and my father before me.’

‘So, you know about the Harcourts?’

‘Ah now, there’s a mystery.’ The landlord put his tankard down on the table. ‘Lady Margaret comes here once or twice a year. She’s always kindly and gracious, very much the high-born lady.’

‘And her husband?’

‘That’s a strange thing. Their marriage was arranged but the service was performed at the door to the abbey church. I was there as a young man. Oh, it was very splendid, with banners and pennants, lords and ladies in their velvets and silks. Lady Margaret rode a milk-white palfrey, Sir Reginald a great war horse. Sir Stephen Daubigny, who later became Abbot, looked a true warrior in his royal surcoat. There was feasting and revelry. Daubigny and Harcourt.’ The landlord held up his hand, two fingers locked together. ‘Sworn brothers they were, in peace and war, boon companions.’