Paul Doherty - Corpse Candle

‘So, you had nothing to do with Abbot Stephen?’

‘Why should I? He was a priest. I am a widow.’

‘But the marshes?’ Corbett insisted. ‘They contain a close community?’

‘There are outlaws in the forest.’ Lady Margaret smiled. ‘That doesn’t mean I have to meet them. Oh, by the way, Sir Hugh,’ she glanced across at Ranulf, ‘I understand your henchmen killed four such men, leaving their bodies like a farmer would rats at the side of a trackway. The news is all over the area. People are pleased, though they hide their smiles behind their fingers. Nevertheless, you should be careful. Oh yes,’ she paused, ‘the outlaw leader, Scaribrick, claims to be a small tenant farmer. My steward Pendler believes he organises and leads these wolf’s-heads. You have been to the Lantern-in-the-Woods?’

‘No, but my henchmen have.’

‘Well, according to common report,’ Lady Margaret seemed more relaxed now they had moved away from the bloody doings at the abbey, ‘Scaribrick was at the Lantern-in-the-Woods last night, breathing threats and curses. You killed four of his men, and made the rest look fools; they are bullyboys used to swaggering around, receiving admiring glances from that hot-eyed wench Blanche.’

Corbett hid his unease.

‘You seem very well informed, Madam.’

‘I am a seigneur in my own right, Sir Hugh. I look after my tenants and they tell me what’s going on.’

‘You don’t have tenants at the Abbey of St Martin’s?’

‘No, but I do have the Watcher by the Gates, our self-proclaimed hermit. He worked here once, you know. What was his name? Ah yes, Salyiem! He claims to be the descendant of a French lord. He was a minor official, a bailiff or reeve, I forget which. Sir Reginald liked him. Salyiem’s wife died of some contagion so he went on his travels. When he returned, I offered him a cottage and some work, but the sun had turned his wits. He built that bothy against the abbey wall, with Abbot Stephen’s permission. I don’t know what Salyiem really is. A man of God? A warlock? Or a madcap? He often comes to our kitchens when, as he says, he tires of the monks. He gives us all the news. For the last few days he has been chattering like a magpie.’

‘And does he tell you about the mysterious horn-blower?’

‘Ah yes.’

‘Have you searched for him?’ Corbett demanded.

Lady Margaret shrugged. ‘I don’t believe, Sir Hugh, in legends about wood-goblins and sprites. Or that the demon ghost of Sir Geoffrey Mandeville prowls the marshes.’

‘So, the horn-blower is flesh and blood?’

‘Of course! Apparently,’ she continued, ‘Mandeville used to have a standard-bearer, a herald, a trumpeter who always proclaimed his evil lord’s arrival in the area. As you know, Mandeville was killed and his soul gone to hell. However, Daubigny, when he was a young knight, rather liked the story. Whenever he approached Harcourt Manor, he’d stop and bray his hunting horn.’ Her lips compressed in annoyance. ‘He used to come at all hours. Sir Reginald thought it was a great joke. He’d go to the window and answer, blowing likewise on a hunting horn.’

‘But Sir Stephen’s dead and the horn can still be heard late at night.’

‘I know, I have sent out bailiffs but they cannot discover who it is. One of these days I’ll send them down to the Watcher by the Gates.’

‘Do you think it’s him?’

‘It must be. I know he has a hunting horn. He is always chattering about what he hears at night. He loves to agitate the maids with his gossip.’

Corbett silently promised himself a visit to this eccentric hermit.

‘The marshes are full of such incidents,’ Lady Margaret continued absentmindedly. ‘Ghastly stories about demon riders, the howling of beasts from hell. You know about the Corpse Candles?’

Corbett nodded.

‘Be wary of them! Scaribrick has been known to use lanterns and lights at night to trick unwary travellers from their paths.’

Corbett sat and watched a log snap and break in the hearth. His conversation with Lady Margaret had provided no light, nothing new, yet he was certain she could tell him more. He felt as if he had entered a dark chamber, with the lights doused, the windows firmly shuttered. He was just stumbling around, feeling his way, tripping and slipping.

Corbett reflected, staring into the fire: Lady Margaret had everything prepared, the story came tripping off her tongue like the lines of some mummery but for what reason? To hide her own grief? To conceal, perhaps, her deep hatred for Abbot Stephen? She showed little grief at his going and no interest in the details of that hideous death: how a man, who once loved her husband, had a dagger thrust deep into his chest.

‘Will you stay the day?’ Lady Margaret murmured.

‘No, my lady. However, I would like to return to the question of Sir Stephen Daubigny. Madam,’ Corbett chose his words carefully, ‘what of the relationship between Sir Stephen and your husband?’

‘What are you implying, clerk?’ Lady Margaret lifted her hand deprecatingly. ‘I shouldn’t really be angry. So many years have passed. But, yes, there were whispers, malicious gossip that the love between them was like that of David and Jonathan in the bible.’

‘And was it true?’

‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘Sir Stephen was a lady’s man, heart, body and soul. He loved nothing more than a teasing dalliance. It was all part of being a knight errant, a troubadour. Daubigny knew all about the courts of love, the songs and poems from Provence. Moreover, he did fall in love.’

‘Yes, I thought he did,’ Corbett interrupted. ‘I found a book in the abbey library, which had in the back a love poem in Abbot Stephen’s hand.’

‘A poem, Sir Hugh? Do you recall it?’

Corbett closed his eyes. ‘I only read it quickly. Something about: “In my youth I served my time, in kissing and love-making. Now I must retreat, I feel my heart is breaking”. .’

Lady Margaret leaned forward: try as she might she could not stop her lower lip quivering, tears pricking her eyes.

‘So long ago,’ she whispered, ‘Reginald use to write love poetry to me.’ She paused, composing herself. ‘Couplets, quatrains, verses and odes.’

‘And Daubigny’s great love?’

‘I know little about her, Sir Hugh. Reginald told me a few of the details, just before he disappeared. She was a young woman from noble family — I think her name was Heloise Argenteuil. Stephen fell deeply in love with her but she did not respond, and would have nothing to do with him.’ Lady Margaret stared blankly at the wall above the hearth. ‘She forsook the world and entered a convent, I forget which one, but it was an enclosed community which turned Sir Stephen away. I suppose that was another reason for our enmity: whilst Sir Stephen was with me across the seas, Heloise died and was buried in the convent grounds. Perhaps that turned his mind, tipped his wits. He was never the same again.’

‘And all things Roman?’ Corbett demanded.

‘Ah yes.’ Lady Margaret touched the white wimple on her head, re-arranging its drapes and folds. ‘Now, that did fascinate Sir Stephen. During the war against de Montfort, Sir Stephen and my husband had to go into hiding. According to one story, they sheltered in a forest, somewhere in the south-west, and stumbled upon the ruins of a Roman house or villa. Stephen never forgot the beautiful mosaics and pictures. After the war, he spent time visiting the Halls of Oxford and Cambridge, the cathedral schools, begging librarians and archivists for the loan of manuscripts on anything Roman.’

‘Sir Stephen was a scholar?’

‘Yes, both he and Sir Reginald attended Merton Hall in Oxford. When he talked about the ancient times,’ she continued, ‘I’ll be honest, Sir Hugh, he became a different man, no longer the arrogant knight or the witty courtier. Apart from his love for Heloise and his regard for my husband, the only time he showed true feelings were for “all things Roman”, which was his favourite expression.’