Paul Doherty - Corpse Candle

‘I’ll send a lay brother,’ he declared. ‘When you are finished he’ll lock the door behind you.’ He rubbed his hands. ‘I have yet to appoint a replacement librarian.’

Prior Cuthbert hurried out, slamming the door behind him. Corbett walked round. The sombre blood-stain still marked the floor where the librarian had been killed — a grim reminder of what horrors haunted this abbey. Corbett sat down at the writing desk. What had the hermit said? He had mentioned the Roman philosopher Seneca and the woman, Heloise Argenteuil. Where had Corbett heard her name before? He stared up at the light pouring through one of the coloured stained-glass windows and idly wondered how long it would be before Ranulf-atte-Newgate returned.

Ranulf-atte-Newgate was furious. The senior Clerk in the Chancery of the Green Wax had made a careful study of the law. He and Corbett were royal messengers, and carried the King’s writ: they were his Commissioners in these parts. They had not travelled through bleak freezing marshes to become the playthings of outlaws.

‘An attack upon a royal clerk,’ Corbett often remarked, ‘is an attack upon the King himself, a malicious insult to the Crown, which must be answered.’

Corbett, however, could be lax in his interpretation, accepting insults and obstacles that Ranulf never would. Scaribrick had organised that ambush so why should he be allowed to squat in the Lantern-in-the-Woods and boast about his boldness? Ranulf approached the tavern by a circuitous route. He kept away from the well-worn paths but found it difficult to thread his way through the snow-capped trees, the gorse and briar hidden by an icy-white softness. The journey had not improved his temper. On one occasion he had become lost and had been forced to break cover but, at last, he found the route, led by the smoke which he knew came from the tavern hearth.

Ranulf had hobbled his horse deep in the trees opposite the tavern entrance. He now stood watching the main door, cloak about him, cowl pulled over against the icy splashes from the branches above. He’d watched travellers, tinkers and chapmen enter and leave. So far Ranulf had recognised no one. He calculated the time. Scaribrick and his men would probably have come straight here and were probably within. Blanche came out to empty a pot of dirty water and, eventually, Taverner Talbot emerged with a broken stool which he placed by the entrance. Ranulf called his name, stepped out of the trees, pulled back his cowl and gestured. The taverner looked fearfully back at the inn.

‘You’d best come,’ Ranulf called out softly. ‘Master Talbot, I mean you no mischief, at least not for now.’

The taverner closed the tavern door and hastened across. Ranulf gripped him by the shoulder and dragged him into the trees; his drawn dagger pricked Talbot’s fleshy neck, forcing his head back.

‘What’s the matter?’ the man wailed. ‘I’ve done no wrong. I heard about the attack on you but I can say nothing to such men. They will have their way.’

‘Aye, Master Talbot, and I will have mine. Scaribrick is in there, isn’t he?’ Ranulf pressed the tip of his dagger more firmly. ‘He’s there, isn’t he?’

Talbot blinked and nodded, swallowing hard, fearful of this hard-eyed clerk and the long, Welsh, stabbing dagger, its cruel tip like a razor under his chin.

‘I want to speak to him. Out here now!’

‘He won’t come out.’ The taverner shook his head. ‘And, if he does, sir, he’ll bring two or three of his companions with him.’

Ranulf withdrew the dagger. The taverner would have backed away but the clerk grasped him by the shoulder, this time the tip of the dagger rested against his protruding belly.

‘Very well,’ Ranulf ordered. ‘Tell Scaribrick that someone wants to meet him.’

‘I can’t,’ the taverner gasped. ‘It’s all very well for you, sir. You’ll leave this area but I live here and do my trade here.’

‘In which case-’

Ranulf re-sheathed his dagger, pushed by the taverner and, walking across the trackway, entered the tavern. Talbot came hurrying behind him, bleating and protesting. As soon as Ranulf entered he threw back his cloak, his hand on the hilt of his sword. He stared around the taproom at the tinkers and chapmen, traders and farmers, but then he found his quarry: a group of men in the far corner. They sat huddled round the table, hoods back, war belts on the floor beside them. They were sharing a jug of ale and a large platter of bread and meat. Ranulf walked slowly across, his gaze held by a cold-faced, thickset man who sat in the corner. Ranulf had only glimpsed him during the ambush but he recognised the face. Scaribrick muttered something to his companions and they turned, hands going for sword and dagger. Ranulf walked closer. Scaribrick’s fleshy face was well fed. A bully-boy, Ranulf thought, used to filling his belly and not so quick on his feet.

‘Don’t touch your weapons!’ Ranulf ordered. He opened the wallet on his belt and drew out a document bearing the King’s seal. ‘I am Ranulf-atte-Newgate, senior clerk in the Chancery of the Green Wax. You,’ he pointed to the outlaw leader, ‘are Scaribrick. You must consider yourself under arrest. Your list of crimes reads like a litany but, at the top, stands treason!’

‘Treason?’ Scaribrick half rose. ‘Who are you? A madcap?’

Ranulf was pleased that the other outlaws kept their hands well away from their war belts.

‘Where are the rest of your weasels?’ Ranulf jibed. ‘Nice and warm in some cave in the forest? They are all under arrest too and they can hang.’

Ranulf watched Scaribrick’s eyes, but the outlaw’s gaze had shifted. He looked at the outlaws and saw that Rat-Face wasn’t there. Ranulf heard a sound and, whipping out his dagger, turned round. Rat-Face stood behind him, knife in hand, ready to spring. Ranulf struck first. Moving slightly to one side, he thrust his dagger straight into the man’s belly, pulling it out and kicking him away. Stools shifted behind him. Ranulf whirled back, drew his sword and stood, feet apart. The outlaws were clumsy, tired and much the worse for drink. The first almost stumbled on to Ranulf’s sword. The clerk thrust deep and stepped away, up the tavern until he felt the barrels against his back. The outlaws, ignoring the cries of their wounded companions, now scrabbling on the floor, fanned out with Scaribrick in the centre. The rest of the customers hurriedly moved away, almost clinging to the walls on either side.

‘Two down,’ Ranulf jibed. ‘Like skittles, eh?’

The outlaws were frightened. They were used to secret attack, the sudden ambush, but a fighting man, sword and dagger ready, his back protected, was a different prospect. The screams of the wounded outlaws only unnerved them further. One of the outlaws on the far right stepped away and, ignoring Scaribrick’s curses, headed straight for the window. He jumped on a table, pulled back the shutters and was through.

‘I’m not here for all of you!’ Ranulf smiled. ‘Just your leader!’

That was enough. The outlaws broke and fled in many directions. Scaribrick tried to follow but Ranulf blocked his path.

‘I killed four of your companions,’ Ranulf taunted, ‘and we beat you off this morning.’ His voice rose. ‘By the time I’m finished, you’ll be a laughing stock-’ He broke off.

Scaribrick, snarling with rage, his sword and dagger out, came rushing forward. Ranulf stepped swiftly to the left. He parried Scaribrick’s weapon, forced his arm up and thrust his sword deep into the outlaw’s belly.

Corbett sat in the Abbot’s chamber, where Perditus had lit a fire and pulled the shutters close. The room was cold as if it had lost its very soul. The clerk gnawed his lip in frustration. His visit to the library had been fruitless. His mind was puzzled, his wits slightly dulled by the journey to Harcourt and that ferocious ambush on the lonely forest trackway. Corbett stared up at a gargoyle carved in the corner of the room: the face of a jester, staring, popping-eyed, mouth gaping to display a swollen tongue.