Paul Doherty - Corpse Candle

‘And where’s Archdeacon Adrian?’ Ranulf demanded.

‘He refused my invitation to the refectory.’ Prior Cuthbert shook his head. ‘Perditus said he was in a terrible temper, declaring that he would keep to his own chamber and dine by himself.’

‘As we shall too,’ Corbett declared. ‘Prior Cuthbert, tell your monks to finish their meal. My companions and I will return to the guesthouse. We will eat whatever you send across.’

Once they were back, Chanson lit candles and oil lamps and fired the brazier. Ranulf secured the doors and windows.

‘Why?’ Ranulf demanded. ‘Why slay a librarian? An archivist?’

Corbett sat on the bed and took the books out of his jerkin.

‘For the same reason he attacked us, Ranulf.’ He smiled grimly. ‘To give the assassin his due, he warned me not to stay. If royal emissaries were driven out of an abbey, the King would not be pleased but, because we tarried, he struck. The same is true of poor Brother Francis. Think of a fox stalking chickens, Ranulf; that’s what our killer has become. I doubt if he knew Brother Francis was searching for something but he did learn that he was by himself.’

Corbett paused at a knock on the door. Perditus came through bearing a tray of steaming food which he placed on the table.

‘What is Father Prior planning?’ Ranulf asked.

The lay brother made sure the tray was carefully laid and shrugged.

‘I have told him he should send to the sheriff for armed retainers. But,’ he sighed, ‘that will take days. What we need are spearmen and archers to patrol the passageways. Guards on the trackways outside. I’ve told Father Prior that more braziers should be lit. There are high places in this abbey where sentinels could be positioned but. . I am only a lay brother-’

Corbett glanced up. ‘Have you taken solemn vows, Perditus?’

‘No, just simple ones. I could, if I wished, leave this place.’

‘And will you?’

Perditus shook his head. ‘I love St Martin’s and the community here is good to me.’

‘And the killer?’ Corbett asked.

‘Oh, he is undoubtedly a member of this community.’

‘Or Archdeacon Adrian?’

‘True,’ Perditus agreed. ‘He does not like St Martin’s-in-the-Marsh. But, I must rejoin my brothers.’

Corbett excused him and opened the first book. He quickly thumbed through the yellowing, crackling papers: it was nothing more than a copy of an Anglo-Saxon chronicle, carefully transcribed by some long-dead monk. The loose pages at either end contained nothing remarkable. The second book was more interesting: it contained extracts of the Latin poet Ovid’s great work On the Art of Loving . Corbett smiled at some of the verses. In his youth he had seen such poetry in the libraries of Oxford and, in his courting of Lady Maeve, had even used some of the famous verses. The pages at the end allowed scholars to write their own thoughts. Corbett recognised Abbot Stephen’s hand in some simple verses of regret. He cleared his throat and studied it more carefully.

‘What is it, Master?’

‘“In youth I served my time”,’

Corbett began.

‘“In kissing and making love.

Now that I must retreat,

I feel my heart breaking.

Ah God, it is your food today

That feeds me, not kisses.”’

‘Who wrote that?’ Ranulf demanded.

‘Abbot Stephen did as a young monk.’

‘You can recognise his hand so well?’

Corbett smiled, turned the book and tapped the foot of the page. Ranulf peered at the drawing.

‘It’s the wheel!’ Ranulf exclaimed. ‘Look, the hubs, spokes, and rim! It’s like the mosaic down in the cellar. Why should Abbot Stephen have written that?’

‘A monk besotted by love, Ranulf. As Brother Dunstan is now, Abbot Stephen in his time was no better. I wonder-?’ Corbett weighed the book in his hands.

‘Do you want some food?’ Chanson called out.

‘Of course he does!’ Ranulf snapped.

Chanson placed a strip of pork on a trauncher, cut up the bread and served it. Corbett balanced it on his lap.

‘Before I left the King,’ Corbett paused as if distracted, ‘ah, yes, His Grace informed me that there were many theories as to why Stephen Daubigny entered a religious order. One of the most popular was that he fell in love with a young woman who became a nun and died rather young. Now the King said he had little proof of this except for an incident one day when he visited Abbot Stephen here in St Martin’s. Now you know our noble King likes nothing better than teasing a churchman, especially when he’s in his cups. The Queen was present with her beautiful ladies-in-waiting,’ Corbett winked at Ranulf, ‘who are always smiling at you. “Stephen”, the King declared. “Are you not distracted by beauty such as this?” The abbot replied that he was but he had his calling and they had theirs. His Grace laughed. “Have you ever loved, Stephen?”. The abbot grew sad. “Once, my lord, I did but the rose withered in a cold hard frost.” “Dead?” the King asked. “Oh yes,” Abbot Stephen replied. “And gone to God”.’

Ranulf listened with interest. He wished he had met Abbot Stephen, who seemed to have been a man after his own heart. Deep down Ranulf nursed great ambition. He wanted to be like Abbot Stephen: a warrior, a poet, a lover of fine things and beautiful women.

‘Ranulf, what’s the matter?’

‘Sorry, Master, just distracted.’

‘Aye.’ Corbett put the books down and picked up a piece of pork with his fingers. ‘Do you know, Ranulf, I suspect Abbot Stephen was distracted all his life. At first I thought it was by demons or all things Roman. Now, I’m beginning to believe it may have been by love.’

Corbett led Ranulf and Chanson out of the line of trees which fringed the trackway to Harcourt Manor. Snow had fallen heavily during the night, blanketing everything in its white stillness. It lay heavy on ledges and cornices, swept up deep against the wall of this great timber and stone mansion. Harcourt Manor was well situated on the brow of a gently sloping hill, surrounded by its own demesne. Corbett had passed barns and granges, seen labourers out in the fields doing what they could in such inclement weather. A line of hunters had greeted them, the corpses of rabbits and other game slung from a pole. Corbett now studied Harcourt Manor: the old house had probably been destroyed and replaced with this three-storeyed building of grey ragstone, red-tiled roof and large windows, some of them filled with coloured glass. The stonemasons had added gargoyles and statues, and it was a place of obvious wealth and power. The manor was approached by sweeping stone steps which led up to double oaken doors. One of these was now pulled apart, as grooms and ostlers hurried round to take their horses. Corbett glimpsed a lady with a white wimple on her head, dressed in a dark-blue dress with a silver belt round her waist.

‘My name is Pendler.’

A small, red-faced man bustled up, cowl pulled tightly over his head to protect his ears from the cold. He looked Corbett over from head to toe. He could tell this visitor was important.

‘I know who they are.’ The woman’s voice cut clean through the air. ‘The King’s emissaries are always welcome. Sir Hugh. .’

Lady Margaret came and stood at the top of the steps. Corbett smiled, his breath hanging heavy in the air. He went up and kissed Lady Margaret’s proffered hand. It was soft and warm. She wore mittens against the cold but on one finger he glimpsed a sparkling amethyst ring.

‘Very much the courtier.’ Lady Margaret grasped his hand and led him forward. ‘And your companions, they are welcome too.’