Paul Doherty - Corpse Candle

‘Why is it so important?’ Ranulf insisted.

‘Because it’s the only thing,’ Corbett lowered the torch, ‘out of the ordinary about Abbot Stephen. He came here often to look at it. He frequently sketched this image — I wonder why? There is something very familiar about this mosaic but I can’t place it. Can you, Ranulf?’

His servant, on his knees, stared at the hub, the spokes, the rim, the strange decorative figures in each corner.

‘What’s that?’

Chanson had returned to the steps and was peering back down the passageway. Ranulf sprang to his feet. The cellar was cold but he could sense danger, as in some alleyway in London, where though pitch black and seemingly empty, Ranulf would be aware of the footpad lurking in a doorway or down some needle-thin passage. He also trusted Chanson’s sharp ears.

‘I did hear something,’ Chanson warned. ‘The slither of a boot?’

Corbett, now alarmed, joined him. He went up the steps and glanced down the passageway, a place of flickering light and dancing shadows.

‘This is foolish,’ Ranulf whispered.

Corbett agreed and quietly cursed himself. He had broken the first rule. Nobody knew they were here, and there was no other escape except back along this eerie tunnel beneath the earth.

‘It could be a brother?’ Chanson’s voice did not sound convincing.

‘If it was a monk,’ Ranulf replied, ‘he would have seen our light and he would have declared himself.’ He pulled Corbett back down the steps. ‘If it’s one man,’ he hissed, ‘then he must be carrying a bow and arrow. Against the light we’d be ideal targets. A good archer, a master bowman, could hit all of us.’

‘We might be wrong.’ Corbett drew his sword. ‘It’s my mistake, Ranulf, I’ll find out.’

His henchman pulled him back.

‘No, I prefer to face an archer than Lady Maeve’s rage.’ He grinned over his shoulder. ‘Anyway, I am more nimble on my feet than you.’

Ranulf drew his sword and went up the steps. To his right lay the open caverns and storerooms. He narrowed his eyes against the gloom. He tensed, ready to spring. He heard a sound. Ranulf didn’t wait. He darted back, almost throwing himself down the steps, as the long bow, somewhere down the passageway, twanged. The arrow hummed through the air, smacking the wall above their heads.

‘I was right.’ Ranulf picked himself up. ‘One archer but a good one. If we try to go down that passageway, he’ll kill us one by one.’

‘We could wait,’ Chanson declared. ‘There are stores here, someone is bound to come down.’

‘That might not be for hours,’ Corbett replied. He stared round the cellar and glimpsed the wooden pallets. ‘Come on, Ranulf, quickly!’ Corbett pointed at them.

‘What are we going to do?’

‘Have you ever stormed a castle, Ranulf, and seen men take the battering ram up to the main gate?’

‘Ah, the mantlet!’ Ranulf grasped Chanson’s arm.

They pulled the pallet up and turned it round.

‘It’s about two yards high, Ranulf, narrow enough to go down the passageway. He could aim at our feet,’ Corbett warned. ‘So, slither it along the floor, and crouch behind it.’

Turning the pallet so the wooden boards were facing outwards, Ranulf and Chanson carried their makeshift shield up the steps. Corbett followed behind. They pushed the pallet along the ground. It left about a few inches on either side but afforded good protection. The bow twanged and arrows hurtled into their makeshift shield. They reached one doorway and Corbett sighed with relief as they managed to push their mantlet through. Two more arrows hit the pallet with such force Ranulf and Chanson had to brace themselves. This was followed by the sound of retreating footsteps. They heard a door bang. Ranulf and Chanson put the pallet to one side, and Corbett ran forward at a half-crouch, sword out, but the passageway was deserted. In one corner lay a long bow and a half-empty quiver of arrows. He raced up the steps, out beside the refectory. There was nothing to see but snow coating the dirty slush. Corbett realised the futility of continuing the pursuit. He waited for his two companions to join him.

‘We’ll never do that again,’ he breathed out.

‘My mistake as much as yours.’ Ranulf sheathed his sword. ‘Who is this killer, Master?’

‘A child could have done what he did,’ Corbett replied. ‘He just watched and waited. We went down into the cellar, and our killer followed. There is only one way out and, if that Chanson hadn’t been so sharp-eared, he could have taken care of at least two of us, seriously wounding or slaying.’

Corbett sat on a stone plinth. He heard voices and saw a line of monks moving across to the refectory doorway. Now the attack was over Corbett was frightened. The sweat on his body began to freeze. Chanson was shaking, teeth chattering. Ranulf was white-faced with fury, gnawing his lip, fingers nervously tapping the hilt of his dagger.

‘Why?’ Chanson stuttered. ‘We are not members of the Concilium.’

‘No,’ Ranulf snarled, ‘but we are King’s clerks. Certainly if Sir Hugh was killed or wounded, St Martin’s-in-the-Marsh would be disgraced. The King, his court and council would withdraw their favour from the monastery.’

‘Very good,’ Corbett murmured. ‘The attack opens a window into our would-be assassin’s dark soul. I’ve found his motive: destruction for the sake of destruction. No one is safe. Come on,’ he urged. ‘I’m freezing! We’ll eat in the refectory.’

They joined the monks who glowered at them from underneath their cowls. The refectory was a long hall, with great beams high above their heads. From these hung banners depicting the five wounds of Christ, the cross and an image of the Virgin and Child. As in many refectories, for the sake of cleanliness no rushes cluttered the floor. The wooden wall panelling was highly polished and the trestle tables along each side were covered with snow-white drapes. Halfway down the hall a log fire roared in a great hearth. Herb-scented braziers stood along the walls and in corners. Perditus, just inside the doorway, greeted them and came striding across.

‘Where have you been, Sir Hugh? I went to the guestroom to seek you. Prior Cuthbert would like you to join him at the high table.’ The lay brother studied him curiously. ‘Sir Hugh, is everything all right?’

‘Yes, yes.’ Corbett waved him forward.

They walked selfconsciously up the hall. Prior Cuthbert and the rest of the Concilium greeted them, and the Prior indicated that Corbett should sit on his right. The clerk glanced quickly around. Brother Dunstan looked fearful. Brother Richard the almoner smiled welcomingly enough whilst Aelfric stood looking like a prophet of old, face drawn, constantly rubbing his hands together. Corbett stared down the refectory. This was no longer a place of harmony, of prayer, worship and work. The atmosphere was of palpable fear. The brothers kept looking up at the dais, glowering at these royal clerks who’d brought so much disruption to their abbey. The muttering grew so loud, Prior Cuthbert picked up a handbell and rang it vigorously for silence. He raised his hand.

‘ Benedicite Domine . .’

Grace was said. They took their seats. Brother Richard went up to the lectern and, opening the book, read from St Augustine’s Sermon on the Resurrection. After he had finished, Prior Cuthbert rang the bell and got to his feet.

‘Since,’ his voice was tinged with sarcasm, ‘we have such distinguished guests amongst us, the rule of silence will be suspended. The community may talk.’

The meal began. Brother Perditus served the high table with fish soup, succulent pork roasted in mustard and pepper, small white loaves and dishes of vegetables. Corbett was offered a choice of wine. Ranulf and Chanson ate as if there was no tomorrow, nodding vigorously at Brother Richard’s questions. Prior Cuthbert waited until the courses had been served and then turned to Corbett.