Paul Doherty - Corpse Candle

‘I would advise, Brother, to let it burn: the real danger is when it collapses.’

The almoner agreed. He hurried off, calling out to the monks to stop their fruitless efforts with the water. Burning plaster and wood were now falling away from the building and the heat, wafted by the night breeze, became searing. Corbett stood with the monks, watching the fire totally destroy the building.

‘What was in there?’ Corbett asked.

‘Wine, corn, flour, some vellum, charcoal and oil.’ Brother Richard listed the stores.

‘But none of the brothers?’

‘No, no, it’s a very dark building inside. In autumn and winter the doors are secured late in the afternoon.’

‘It could have been an accident.’ Aelfric had now joined them.

Corbett shook his head. ‘I doubt it,’ he replied. ‘The fire took hold quickly, yes? There was no reason for candlelight or a fire within?’

Brother Richard agreed. ‘Like any house we are most vigilant. I agree, Sir Hugh, our assassin has struck again.’

‘But how?’ Ranulf demanded.

‘Perhaps a fire arrow through the window.’

Corbett watched the flames as they began to die and coughed as a swirl of smoke gusted towards them.

‘Yes, a fire arrow or a lighted torch thrown through a window would have started such a blaze, particularly if it landed near the oil.’

Prior Cuthbert came hastening up. In the glow from the fire he still looked pallid-faced and red-eyed. The almoner told him what had happened as Prior Cuthbert stood, eyes half closed.

‘I am sorry,’ he apologised. ‘I was in a deep sleep.’

He walked away to organise the brothers. Some were just sitting on the frozen ground staring helplessly at this fire which had consumed an entire building. The walls and roof had now collapsed, and only the red brick base remained, but flames still leapt up, licking hungrily at blackened timbers. The breeze brought grey and black ash towards them and, occasionally, the sweet smell of the spices stored inside. Prior Cuthbert set up a system of watches and the community began to drift away. Corbett could tell the monks also believed the fire was deliberate: an act of terror by the assassin lurking within their community. Corbett watched the fire as if fascinated.

How could it have happened, he wondered? Who was responsible?

Perditus had been with him for some time before the tocsin began, but what about the rest? Richard and Dunstan had been present. Aelfric had joined them later but the Prior had claimed he had slept through all the commotion.

‘Why?’ Ranulf asked, standing behind Corbett.

Chanson had already left to make sure his precious horses were safe.

‘All men are terrified of fire.’ Corbett whispered. ‘Sudden and fierce, it wreaks havoc and instils terror: that’s what our assassin wanted to do. He’s aping the wicked Lord Mandeville who liked nothing better than to see a monastery burn beneath God’s own sky. He was probably frustrated that the attacks on Perditus and Dunstan had failed so he lashed out. He doesn’t want these monks to forget his presence. Corpses, sacrilege in church, fire arrows and now the destruction of one of their main storehouses.’

‘Sir Hugh?’ Aelfric hurried through the darkness. ‘Sir Hugh, you’d best come!’

‘I know why, Aelfric. The corpses in the death house — Hamo and Brother Francis. Both have been branded, haven’t they?’

Aelfric pushed his hands up the sleeves of his gown and stifled a sob.

‘The tocsin rang and the guard left his post, as did we all,’ he explained. ‘When I returned the sheets were ripped back.’ Aelfric pulled out his hand and tapped his forehead. ‘Both bear the brand marks. The killer has claimed his own.’

Aelfric gazed bleakly at the dying fire, then round at the snow-capped buildings as if he was seeing this abbey for the first time.

‘This is my home, Sir Hugh, yet it’s becoming a place of hideous terrors. We are being punished for our sins.’

He walked off into the darkness. Corbett told Ranulf to bring some food from the abbey kitchens and returned to the guesthouse. He met Wallasby on the stairs.

‘You’ve heard of the fire, Archdeacon?’

‘Yes, Sir Hugh, I have, but I will not leave my chamber except for food.’

And, brushing by the clerk, he clattered down the stairs. Corbett went into his own chamber, checked all was well and sat at his writing desk. Ranulf brought across food. Chanson joined them for a meal of pike with galentyne sauce, buttered vegetables, dates and spiced wine. Corbett chewed his food absentmindedly. Once finished, he crossed to his desk and wrote down all that had happened. Ranulf asked questions but he ignored him. Corbett went and lay down on his bed, plucking the coverlet over him. He tried to think of Maeve: how much he loved her, the poetry he would recite to her. He recalled that enigmatic name, Heloise Argenteuil. Corbett sat up so quickly he startled Ranulf.

‘Heloise Argenteuil!’ Corbett shouted. ‘Oh Ranulf, I am dim! Who hasn’t heard of Heloise and Abelard!’

‘Master?’

Corbett threw back the coverlet.

‘Tonight I work. Tomorrow, Ranulf. .’

Corbett was almost dancing from foot to foot, rubbing his hands.

‘Tomorrow, for the first time since we came here, the truth will emerge!’

When he started to unlock a mystery, Corbett hovered like a hawk so that Ranulf was always unsure who was the marked quarry. This time was no different. Corbett began to hum a hymn under his breath. No longer tired, he busied himself about his desk, taking out sheets of vellum, scrubbing them with the pumice stone, sharpening quills, stirring ink pots, talking and singing under his breath as if the rest of the world had disappeared. He looked over his shoulder.

‘Go back to your chamber, Ranulf,’ Corbett murmured. ‘I cannot yet tell you what I do not know for sure myself. However, we will be up early. Make sure you bring your boots and gauntlets. We are going to start digging in Bloody Meadow.’

‘What for?’

‘The truth. Now leave me.’

Corbett worked late into the night. Now and again Ranulf would check on Chanson, who, fully dressed, lay snoring on his bed oblivious to the cares of the world. Every time he went into his master’s chamber, the clerk was still bowed over his desk. Corbett was doing what he loved best. Like an Oxford scholar, he’d form a hypothesis, develop that as far as he could and, for each supposition, look for proof. If the hypothesis didn’t work he would simply start again. At last Ranulf himself grew tired, and threw himself on his cot bed. It seemed only a matter of minutes before Corbett, washed and changed, was shaking him by the shoulder urging him to get up. Ranulf hastened to obey. Chanson was already jumping from foot to foot eager to break his fast in the refectory.

‘Don’t you ever wash or change?’ Ranulf asked crossly when they met in the corridor. ‘Your horses are cleaner than you.’

‘Sir Hugh needs me,’ Chanson retorted. ‘Ablutions will have to wait.’

‘Ablutions? Who taught you that word?’

‘Lady Maeve. She told me to attend to my ablutions more often.’

‘A wise woman,’ Ranulf muttered as they clattered down the stairs.

Corbett was already striding across to the refectory where the monks were filing in after Prime. Corbett didn’t go to the High Table but sat down at the table just within the doorway specially reserved for guests. They broke their fast on oatmeal, fresh loaves and butter, with a small pot of honey and stoups of watered ale. Once he had finished, Corbett cleaned his hornspoon with a napkin and put it back in his wallet. Perditus, still looking bruised and rather tired, came in. Corbett grasped him by the arm.