Paul Doherty - Corpse Candle

‘When I was a stripling Sir Stephen taught me. In my travels I learnt even more.’

‘So you don’t believe in ghosts and demon riders? Or that Sir Geoffrey Mandeville rides the marshes with his legion of the damned? That he’s the source of our mysterious hunting horn?’

‘Strange things happen here, master clerk.’

‘No, they don’t,’ Corbett replied drily. He leaned closer. ‘Master Salyiem, humble hermit, Watcher by the Gates, for a man who wants to leave the world you seem very much part of it. You visit the abbey. You talk to Abbot Stephen. You also visit Lady Margaret. Who do you think is blowing that horn at night? It’s not some ghost, some courier from the household of hell. Is it you? You do have a hunting horn?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ The Watcher drew away, a stubborn look on his face.

‘Or could it be Scaribrick the outlaw? I am the King’s officer,’ Corbett added quietly. ‘I am sure you know Master Scaribrick.’ Corbett rubbed his thigh. ‘I had the pleasure of meeting him and his merry men on my journey here.’

‘I thought you looked dishevelled, mud-flecked.’ The Watcher picked up his bowl and cradled it as if it was a toy.

‘Yet you never asked me why. Did you know Scaribrick was out on the marshes hunting me? Don’t Scaribrick and his merry coven patrol here at night? Do they pay a certain hermit money to stir the muddy waters and spread stories about ghosts and ghouls on the marshes? Is that where Scaribrick meets with his smugglers, those who bring in illicit goods by sea and river? Of course, you have to live with these people. Does Master Scaribrick slip you a few coins to look the other way? To embroider stories to frighten others?’

‘I have never done anything wrong. Yes, Sir Hugh, I am a hermit and I travel hither and thither. I try to live at peace with everyone, it’s the only way.’

‘Did you go searching for Sir Reginald?’ Corbett abruptly changed. ‘I mean, in your travels abroad, surely you questioned people? After all, an English knight travelling by himself would attract some attention?’

‘Oh yes! Oh yes!’ the Watcher gabbled. ‘In northern France and Germany I heard rumours, whispers, but they came to nothing.’

Corbett glanced down. Outside he could hear Chanson stamping his feet against the cold and the snorting of the horses eager for their warm stables. The clerk was convinced some great mystery lurked here. He was in a maze but, so far, he kept wandering around and around with no path out. The assassin could be this Watcher! He was strong and resourceful enough. He could have weapons hidden away. He could climb the wall into the abbey and wreak terrible damage. One moment he could be the rather wild-eyed hermit, the next a man bent on vengeance for whatever reason. Corbett wondered what Ranulf was doing? He half suspected but, in such matters, Ranulf was his own man with his own keen sense of justice. Ranulf-atte-Newgate never took kindly to being attacked.

‘Are you sleeping, master clerk?’

Corbett opened his eyes and raised his head.

‘No, master hermit, I am thinking.’ He stretched out his arms. ‘On the one hand we have the Harcourt estates and the mystery of Sir Reginald. On the other the Abbey of St Martin’s and, in between, these eerie, wild marshlands with their copses and woods. I suspect Mine Host at the ‘Lantern-in-the-Woods’ doesn’t pay full import duties on his wine or other commodities, whilst Scaribrick the outlaw probably resents my interference here.’ Corbett lowered his hands. ‘But Ranulf will deal with him. What I am trying to unearth are these mysteries of the marsh. The fire arrows. The hunting horn. Are these part of Scaribrick’s world? Or are they part of some other mystery?’ Corbett got to his feet. ‘Master hermit, I will have other questions for you.’ He stared down at him. ‘They call you the Watcher by the Gates and I suspect you have seen more than you have told me.’

The Watcher held his gaze.

‘You will not be travelling far.’

Corbett opened his purse and threw a silver coin into the man’s bowl and, lifting the leather awning, went out to join Chanson.

They mounted their horses. Corbett gathered the reins and they followed the wall back along to the main gate. He called out and the gate was opened and they entered the cobbled yard. They had hardly dismounted, Chanson offering to see to the horses, when Brother Richard came hurrying out of a doorway.

‘Sir Hugh, you are back! Thank God!’

And in brief, gasping sentences Brother Richard described what had happened earlier in the morning. Corbett took him by the elbow and led him out of the cold. He asked the monk to go through it once again, told him to be careful, then dismissed him. Corbett walked across to the stables and helped Chanson unsaddle the horses and dry them down. Brother Richard, he reflected, was most fortunate. He had been attacked but had escaped death. So, the killer must be in the abbey, and was definitely not an outsider like Scaribrick who, at the time, must have been planning his ambush. Nor was it Lady Margaret, who had been entertaining him at Harcourt Manor. Brother Richard had described the attack vividly.

‘A soldier!’ Corbett exclaimed.

‘What’s that, Master?’ Chanson asked.

‘Brother Richard the almoner was attacked this morning and was able to defend himself, probably because he was a former soldier. But, listening to his account carefully, I would say the same holds time for the attacker.’

‘But there are a number of monks here,’ Chanson wiped his nose on the cuff of his jerkin, ‘according to Ranulf, who once served in the royal levies.’

‘Oh, I know that,’ Corbett retorted. ‘And there’s something else. Lady Margaret talked of a young woman called Heloise Argenteuil with whom our Abbot, in a former life, was supposed to be infatuated. The Watcher repeated the same story.’

‘And?’

Corbett shook his head. ‘I’ve heard that name before. I know of no Argenteuil, certainly not at court, but the name strikes a chord. Chanson,’ he patted his horse’s neck, ‘see to the horses. I am going down to the library.’

Corbett left the stables.

‘Sir Hugh?’

Prior Cuthbert came bustling up, red-eyed and grey-faced with exhaustion.

‘You’ve heard of the attack on Brother Richard?’

‘Aye.’ Corbett glanced at the gaggle of monks who stood in the doorway behind the Prior. ‘Tell your brothers to be careful. I wish to ask you a question.’

He led the Prior out of earshot.

‘Does the name Heloise Argenteuil mean anything to you?’

‘Ah yes, Abbot Stephen once mentioned her. As a young knight, he supposedly fell deeply in love with her.’

‘And you know nothing else?’

‘Oh no.’

Now he was out of the shadows the Prior looked even more stricken. Corbett noticed his face was unshaven, and he had dark circles beneath his eyes.

‘Father Prior, I believe you have more to tell me.’

‘I assure you, Sir Hugh, I have nothing to say.’ The Prior flailed his hands.

Corbett realised that Prior Cuthbert was not prepared to talk.

‘Is the library locked?’

The Prior tapped the ring of keys on his belt.

‘I’ll take you there.’

He seemed only too willing to be away from Corbett’s watchful gaze, walking in front, gesturing with his hands for the clerk to follow. Corbett did so and was about to walk up beside him when he noticed the dark blotches high on the back of the Prior’s robe. The cowl hid the Prior’s neck but Corbett was sure that the stains were caused by blood. Had the Prior been whipping himself? What secret sins would compel this proud priest to inflict such a terrible punishment? They reached the library and Prior Cuthbert unlocked the door. He hastened around to light the candles and oil lamps under their steel caps.