Paul Doherty - Corpse Candle

‘And he continued that interest as a monk, the only link with his former life?’

‘Sir Hugh,’ Lady Margaret put the cup she had been cradling back on the table, ‘I welcome you but I find your visit upsetting. Perhaps, if there is nothing more?’

She got to her feet and extended a hand. Corbett grasped it and kissed her fingers. Despite the fire they felt ice cold.

‘I am sorry to have troubled you, Madam, but. .’

‘I know, I know,’ she retorted, ‘if I recall anything, Sir Hugh, I will let you know.’

Ranulf and Chanson got to their feet. Lady Margaret grasped Corbett by the elbow.

‘There is one thing. The abbey has another visitor, Archdeacon Adrian Wallasby? I heard of his arrival. He had no love for Abbot Stephen.’

‘I know that.’ Corbett laughed. ‘They were rivals on the field of Academe.’

‘They were more than that.’

Corbett stopped, his hand on the latch of the door.

‘Madam?’

‘Hasn’t Archdeacon Adrian told you?’ she teased. ‘He comes from these parts. He and Daubigny went to the same cathedral school. More than just theological disputation separated them. There was some incident in their youth, hot words which led to blows. Abbot Stephen may have forgotten but I don’t think Wallasby did.’

She led Corbett out into the hallway. A steward brought their cloaks and war belts. Lady Margaret asked about what else was happening in the abbey and Corbett replied absentmindedly. They went out onto the steps. A groom brought their horses round. They whinnied and stamped in the ice-cold air, steam and breath rising like small clouds. Corbett stared up at the sky, which was grey and lowering, threatening more snow. A cold wind whipped their faces.

‘A safe journey, Sir Hugh.’

Lady Margaret extended her hand. Corbett kissed it again. He was about to go down the steps when a line of ragged men and women came out of the copse of trees which fringed the path down to the main gate. Corbett stared in amazement. There were thirty or forty people in all, leading short, shaggy ponies, their belongings piled high and lashed with ropes. They walked purposefully towards the manor. Pendler the steward came hurrying from the stables behind the house.

‘My lady, we have visitors.’

‘No, Pendler,’ she called merrily back, ‘we have guests!’

Corbett stared in astonishment as the motley collection of beggars drew nearer. They were followed by a cart, its wheels shaking and creaking, pulled by a thin-ribbed horse which looked as if it hadn’t eaten for days. The beggars were cloaked in a collection of rags, their heads and faces almost muffled. The leader came forward, hands raised, and greeted Lady Margaret. Corbett couldn’t decide whether they were travellers or Moon people, gypsies or an intinerant band of travelling mummers.

‘My lady, I did not know you were entertaining?’

Lady Margaret smiled and shook her head.

‘They look cold,’ she murmured. ‘They are travellers, Corbett. They have free passage across my demesne. They will be welcome here until the thaw comes. We give them food and drink, tend their horses, and provide them with fresh clothes.’

‘An act of great charity, my lady.’

‘Not really, Sir Hugh, more of compassion. I know what it is to travel on a hopeless quest and I have more than enough to share with them. Now I must tend to them.’

Corbett took the hint. He went down the steps, grasped the reins of his horse and pulled himself up into the saddle. His companions did likewise. Corbett lifted his hand in salutation, pulled up his cowl and turned his horse. Lady Margaret, however, was already tripping down the steps, eager to greet the travellers. Corbett was almost at the bend leading down to the gateway when he heard his name being called. Pendler the steward came hurrying up, slipping in the snow. He grasped Corbett’s stirrup and stared up, eyes watering.

‘A message from the Lady Margaret,’ he gasped. ‘A warning! In their approach to the manor, the travellers saw men in the forest. They are not of this estate. She tells you to be careful!’

Corbett leaned down and patted his hand.

‘Thank Lady Margaret, we will take care.’ He held the man’s hand. ‘Your mistress is kind and charitable. How long has this been going on?’

‘Oh, for a number of years. Longer than I can think. My mistress is a saint, Sir Hugh.’ He pulled his hand away. ‘And there are few of those.’

Corbett stared back towards the manor. Lady Margaret was now in the centre of the travellers. He gathered his reins, lost in thought, and led his companions towards the main gates.

Brother Richard the almoner came out from his Chamber of Accounts and stood in the small bricked courtyard. He stared up at the sky and quietly cursed the prospect of more snow. After the service of divine office, all lay quiet. Despite the chaos and bloody murder, the brothers were trying to adhere to their routine, working in the scriptorium of the cloister, the library or the infirmary. In a way Brother Richard was pleased at the harsh, cold weather. During the winter months visitors to the abbey were rare. He quietly echoed Prior Cuthbert’s belief that the sooner the royal clerks went the better. Perhaps the murders would end then? An idle thought.

Brother Richard sighed and closed the door of his chamber. He pulled up his cowl and reluctantly prepared to carry out the task Prior Cuthbert had assigned him. Since poor Gildas’s death, no one had entered the stonemason’s workshop. Yet a tally had to be made, and accounts drawn up. The almoner slipped through the snow, stopped and cursed. He had forgotten his writing wallet. He returned to his chamber, picked this up from a bench and placed his cowl over his head. He was about to leave when he saw the thick ash cane in the corner. Brother Richard grasped this. It would keep him steady in the snow as well as act as protection against any would-be attacker. Yet who had a quarrel with him? Brother Richard left and made his way carefully across to Gildas’s workshop. The almoner was confused. Why were these hideous murders taking place? Who had a grudge against poor Francis the librarian? Or hard-working Gildas? Even Hamo the sub-prior, an officious little man but kindly enough in his own way? And who would have a grudge against him? Richard had been a man-at-arms, an archer who had served in both Wales and Gascony. He really believed he had a call from God and he tried to live the life of a holy monk. True, he thought, as he swung the ash cane, he had his weaknesses. Women, the allure of soft flesh. Well, temptation came and went like a dream in the night. He did like his food, particularly those golden, tasty crusty pies, a delicacy of the abbey kitchens; he also had a weakness for the sweet white flesh of capon and the crackle of highly flavoured pork.

By the time he’d reached the workshop, Brother Richard’s mouth was watering. He took a bundle of keys, opened the door and went in. He looked round and felt a lump in his throat. This had been Gildas’s kingdom. A cheery, hard-working monk, Gildas had loved to talk about stone and building. Now he was gone, his head brutally smashed in. Brother Richard went slowly round the chamber, touching mallets, hammers, chisels, caressing the piece of stone Gildas had been working on. He went into the office at the far end of the workshop. Gildas’s manuscripts lay open on the table, all covered in intricate drawings, and calculations. There was even a tankard on the table, half full of stale ale. Brother Richard sighed and sat down. He put his writing bag on the floor and began to pull the manuscripts towards him. He tried to make sense of them but he felt uneasy. He went back into the workshop. He felt a draught of cold air and realised he had left the door unlocked.