Paul Doherty - Corpse Candle

‘A hideous offence!’ Ranulf exclaimed. ‘What wrong could a holy abbot do in such a hallowed place!’

‘Was he talking about the past?’ Corbett added.

‘No, no, of a recent event.’

‘And what was this sin?’

‘I will not tell you.’

‘But I can ask?’

The old priest nodded.

‘Was it murder?’

A shake of the head.

‘Was it fornication? Lying with a woman?’

Again the shake of the head.

‘Theft? Blasphemy?’

Brother Luke’s gaze held Corbett’s.

‘What sin?’ Corbett exclaimed.

‘Have you read the Book of Samuel? The story of David?’ Luke demanded.

Corbett closed his eyes. David of Israel had been accused of many crimes.

‘And Jonathan,’ Brother Luke added quietly.

Corbett opened his eyes.

‘Abbot Stephen was accused of unnatural practices with a fellow monk!’

‘ Tu dixisti . You have said it, clerk.’

The Ancient One must have seen the consternation in Corbett’s face.

‘And this was recent?’ Ranulf asked.

‘Very much so.’ Brother Luke shook his head. ‘I would say about a month before his death.’

‘Did he say why? How?’

‘Abbot Stephen simply said that he had been accused of this.’

‘Did he deny it?’ Ranulf asked.

‘No. I told you, he just knelt here and sobbed like a child. He said the accusation had been made in a whispered conversation in his own chamber. I tried to reason with him, to soothe his soul but he got up abruptly and left. I sent a messenger after him but he never returned. My Abbot never came back.’ The old man’s eyes filled with tears. ‘Now he has gone. God forbid that he despaired, that he committed the sin against the Holy Ghost before that dreadful act was committed. May the angels take him to a place of peace and light. He was so different.’ Luke’s old face had a faraway look. ‘Do you know, clerk, when I was younger, I was the infirmarian here. Stephen Daubigny was a regular visitor, not so much to the Church, but to our library. He did love the world of books.’

‘But why come here?’ Corbett asked.

‘He came with his friend, Sir Reginald.’

‘And why would he visit St Martin’s?’

‘Do you know, clerk,’ the old man mused, ‘I never understood Sir Reginald, but if I had to choose between Harcourt and Daubigny becoming a monk, I would have chosen Sir Reginald.’

‘Why?’

‘He was very shy of women, embarrassed. I can tell you this because it is not a matter for the confessional.’ Brother Luke poked Ranulf in the shoulder. ‘You are a vigorous man, aren’t you?’

‘Thanks be to God!’ Ranulf teased back.

‘And you love the pleasures of the bed?’

Ranulf couldn’t stop himself blushing. Corbett laughed softly.

‘Well, come on!’ the old monk teased. ‘Are you sprightly or not? Once, I was a clerk, and served in the royal levies. I could resist anything but the temptations of the flesh and a deep bowl of claret. Sir Reginald was different: he came here for my help.’

‘He was impotent?’ Corbett asked.

‘He had problems. Sometimes such failings are a matter of the body: an injury, perhaps a growth. I have treated enough monks in my life to recognise the cause and recommend a possible cure. Other times the cause is not so clear.’

‘And Sir Reginald?’

‘Both, Sir Hugh.’ The old monk tapped his head. ‘Though more phantasms of the mind.’

‘But he married?’

‘I know, I know,’ Brother Luke sighed. ‘Sir Hugh, we have monks in this abbey who have problems — how can I put it — in relation to the ladies. Being repelled by women, they seek sanctuary and safety behind the walls of a monastery. Other men believe such problems can be resolved in holy wedlock. Sir Reginald was one of the latter. But,’ he held up a bony finger, ‘I could be wrong. Many men face such difficulties, and they are often of a temporary nature. The only people who can really know the truth in this case are Sir Reginald and Lady Margaret. You have met that redoubtable woman?’

Corbett nodded.

‘I doubt if she would say anything on a matter so intimate.’

‘And who was the monk that accused the Abbot of unnatural practices?’ Ranulf interrupted.

‘Not a hint, not a whisper, Red Hair. Do you play hazard?’ Brother Luke asked abruptly, not waiting for an answer. ‘If I was laying a wager, I would say such a heinous accusation was closely tied up with that damnable funeral barrow and, God forbid, the ambitions of some of my brothers.’

‘What did Harcourt ask for when he came to you?’

‘Powders, potions, some miraculous elixir. In reality, I was of little help.’

‘Did Sir Stephen Daubigny know of this?’

Brother Luke shook his head. ‘That’s why Harcourt came here. He said he would sooner trust a monk than some local physician.’

‘Did he return to you after his marriage to Lady Margaret?’

The old monk shrugged and played with the Ave beads.

‘You must have been here when Sir Stephen first entered St Martin’s?’

‘Oh yes.’

‘Were you his confessor then?’

Brother Luke shook his head. ‘For many years he avoided me. I admit I was surprised by both the change in him and his rapid promotion, yet he soon proved to be an ideal Benedictine.’ He paused. ‘More than that, Sir Hugh, I cannot tell you.’

The old man closed his eyes and started threading the beads through his fingers. He sat slumped as if tired by this conversation. Corbett and Ranulf thanked him, rose and moved the bench back.

‘I cannot break my vows.’

Corbett turned round. Brother Luke still sat with his eyes closed.

‘These bloody murders, Sir Hugh. Why should they start now?’

‘I don’t know, that’s what I am trying to find out.’

‘Search the past,’ the old priest murmured. ‘We sow our sins like seed. They take root and lie dormant but, in time, they sprout like black corn, their leaves full and fat with wickedness.’ He opened his eyes. ‘I wish you well, clerk. God be with you!’

Brother Luke sketched a blessing in the air as Corbett opened the door to leave.

Prior Cuthbert knelt on the cold flagstones of his own cell. He had locked and barred the door. The fire in the hearth was now dull ash, the braziers unlit. The Prior had removed his gown and undershirt. The hard paving stones bit into his bony knees. He found it difficult to keep his toes against the freezing floor. Above him a huge crucifix, showing Christ writhing in agony, stared down at him. Prior Cuthbert grasped the small whip, closed his eyes, gritted his teeth and began to flail his left and right shoulders. Even here, in the darkness of his cell, the demons seemed to be waiting. He whipped and whipped again as, in his mind, roaring griffins leapt from fires and a dark tunnel opened to spew forth blood-soaked demons, hair writhing like serpents. Prior Cuthbert opened his eyes. He forced himself to look at the crucifix. He had sinned most grievously.

‘ Mea culpa! Mea culpa !’ He struck his breast. ‘Through my fault! Through my fault!’

He would have to make atonement, repent his ambition and greed. If only he could turn back time. He let the whip fall to the floor. He felt as if he was choked and cloaked by sin. All around him clustered its hideous consequences: the scrawny corpse of that cat hanging from the rood screen; the macabre deaths of his brothers; the fire arrows searing the night air; the whispering and the chatter. The Concilium had ceased to act. They were more like frightened rabbits cowering in their cells, terrified of shadows, loneliness and the long stretch of the night. Prior Cuthbert couldn’t stop trembling. He clambered to his feet, his knee brushing against the whip. He slipped on his sandals and put on his robe. A loud knocking on his chamber door made him start.