Paul Doherty - Corpse Candle

‘I would be grateful if you could ask Father Prior to meet me outside, he and all members of the Concilium.’

Corbett told Ranulf and Chanson to follow him. They went out of the refectory and down the steps. The morning was turning grey and hard. The smell of burning still hung heavy on the breeze but the snow was turning into an icy slush, treacherous underfoot.

Corbett stood clapping his gauntleted hands. Despite his lack of sleep he looked fresh: eyes glittering in the cold, hair tied back. Prior Cuthbert and the rest came bustling up.

‘I’ve held a meeting,’ Prior Cuthbert explained. ‘After checking the fire damage, we had to discuss all that has happened. Sir Hugh, we can discover no solution.’

‘I can,’ the clerk declared merrily. He pointed to a carved, gargoyle face on the lintel of the refectory doorway. ‘The truth may be as ugly as that but just as real. Right, Cuthbert.’ He clapped the Prior on the shoulder as if the monk was a close friend. ‘By the powers invested in me and- Well, we don’t want to go through that again, do we? I want every able-bodied man with hoe, mattock and spade out in Bloody Meadow.’

Prior Cuthbert’s face was a joy to see. He just gaped.

‘Well, isn’t it the fulfilment of your dreams,’ Corbett teased.

‘But it’s a burial place!’

‘That’s not what you said to Abbot Stephen. Now look, Father Prior,’ Corbett laid a hand on each shoulder, ‘the solution to all these bloody mysteries lies in that burial mound. You can either help me or I shall have to send for the sheriff and his posse. The sooner that grave is opened, the sooner these matters can be brought to an end and I will be gone.’

‘Open it!’ Brother Aelfric snapped. ‘Let’s put an end to this, Father Prior!’

Prior Cuthbert agreed.

‘Have the tocsin rung,’ he said. ‘I want all the brothers to assemble in the Chapter House. The spiritual hours of this abbey will be set aside. Sir Hugh, you have your way.’

Corbett thanked him and went back to the refectory where he ordered another bowl of oatmeal and a stoup of ale. He ate and drank lustily, tapping his feet, humming between mouthfuls.

‘Sir Hugh,’ Ranulf leaned across the table, ‘won’t you share your wisdom with us?’

‘It’s not wisdom, Ranulf, it’s just intuition. So, please, bear with me. I’ll explain as this murderous tale unfolds.’

He finished the oatmeal and went back out towards the Judas gate. Father Prior had acted quickly. Labourers and tenant farmers were all assembling in the meadow, their breath rising like steam as they stamped their feet on the icy ground. Bloody Meadow had lost its macabre loneliness and the crows, roused from their nests in the oak trees, cawed raucously, whirling aloft as if they sensed what was about to happen. The sky was full of iron-grey clouds, though these were not threatening or lowering. The only discomfort was the biting breeze and the cold which seemed to creep through boots and gloves to freeze toes and fingers.

‘We’ll soon be warm,’ Corbett murmured. ‘And I don’t think it will snow.’

‘The ground will be hard.’ Prior Cuthbert came up.

‘Only the top layer will be,’ Corbett explained. ‘I am a farmer’s son so I can tell that winter has yet to set in. Thank God it’s not February or March. Now, let’s proceed.’

Corbett went and picked up a spade from a barrow. Using this he climbed to the top of the funeral barrow and called the others around. He felt slightly ridiculous with the breeze whipping his hair and cloak. The ground underfoot was slippery, and he quietly prayed he wouldn’t fall. He glanced around the meadow, and the view so startled him he had to steady himself with the spade.

‘I didn’t think,’ he murmured. ‘Oh, Corbett, sometimes you can be a great fool!’

‘Master, what’s the matter?’

Ranulf stared anxiously up, grasping a hoe as if it was a spear. Corbett ignored him. Digging the spade into the ground he slowly turned, making sure he didn’t lose his foothold. The top of the funeral barrow was flat, about a yard across. Corbett kept turning as Ranulf, cursing under his breath, used the hoe to climb the mound and join him.

‘Oh, you stupid man!’ Corbett whispered. ‘Why did I never think of. .?’

‘What is it, Sir Hugh? Have you lost your wits?’

‘No, I have just regained them. Ranulf, look around this field. What does it remind you of?’

The Clerk of the Green Wax turned so quickly he nearly slipped. Corbett steadied him. At the foot of the mound, Prior Cuthbert and his community were becoming restless. Corbett ignored them.

‘Think, Ranulf. This meadow is almost like a circle, with the burial mound in the centre. Look at the furrows leading off. You can only see them from up here.’

‘The wheel!’ Ranulf exclaimed. ‘Abbot Stephen’s wheel! The mosaic, the drawings he etched. The burial mound is the hub. These furrows, probably pathways to it, are the spokes, the edge of the field is the rim.’

‘Precisely,’ Corbett whispered. ‘And now we are going to find out why it is so important.’

‘Sir Hugh,’ Prior Cuthbert called. ‘We are beginning to freeze!’

Corbett, grasping the handle of the spade, stared down at them.

‘I want you to dig!’ he shouted. ‘Take away the top soil and begin to burrow in: from the side rather than the top.’

‘But it will collapse!’ someone shouted.

‘No, begin that way,’ Corbett declared. ‘I am looking for something. It will not be deep within the barrow.’

The monks acquiesced. Prior Cuthbert and members of the Concilium stood aside, wrapped in their cloaks. Brother Dunstan had a portable brazier brought out as well as jugs of mulled wine and trays of pewter cups. The labourers began their task, cursing and muttering, carefully removing the surface of frozen grass. They dug eagerly, now and again breaking off to warm their hands over the brazier, or scooping up handfuls of snow to cool their fingers as they grasped the hot mulled wine. Corbett and Ranulf chose their spot and began to dig whilst Chanson spent more time warming his fingers.

‘Not work for royal clerks,’ Ranulf muttered.

‘It takes me back to being a boy,’ Corbett grinned. ‘And it’s something to do.’

They must have worked for about an hour. Corbett and Ranulf were at the far side of the meadow near the Judas Gate when the alarm was raised. They hastened round: a group of labourers were now leaning on their mattocks and hoes, peering into the hole they had dug. Ranulf grasped a hoe and, pushing the wooden handle in, prodded gently.

‘It’s not mud,’ one of the labourers declared. He plucked a piece of rotting cloth from the soil and handed it to Corbett.

The clerk carefully rubbed it through his fingers.

‘I can’t tell what fabric it is but, although stained with mud, it was probably once quite costly.’

‘Wool?’ Ranulf queried. ‘It hasn’t rotted away very well.’

The labourers now dug more carefully. The rest ceased their labours to stand and watch. The hole widened and, under Corbett’s instructions, they gently pulled the bundle they had found out into the open. At last it was free. The top of the skull and the skeletal feet peeping out from beneath the rotting coverlet were quite clear. Everyone drew back. Corbett laid the macabre bundle gently on the ground and undid the makeshift winding-sheet. The skeleton beneath was white; it hadn’t yet turned a corrupting yellow, whilst the bones were still hard and firm.

‘The coverlet was his cloak,’ Corbett declared.

Ranulf could clearly see rotting chainmail which had once covered the chest, and the tabard above bearing a livery. The hose on the legs had rotted away.