Paul Doherty: Corpse Candle

Ranulf and Chanson were waiting for him in the stable yard. The horses had been saddled, and the sumpter pony had their baggage lashed firmly on its back. Corbett put on his cloak and swung himself into the saddle. He looked over his shoulder once more as if memorising the gables, turrets, cornices and towers of the abbey.

‘To Norwich, Master?’

‘By nightfall, Ranulf, if God is good and the weather is clear.’

A lay brother swung open the gate and they cantered through. The Watcher by the Gates was standing by the trackway, staff in one hand, a large bundle strapped to his back. Corbett reined in.

‘Where will you go to now?’

‘As far from here as possible, Sir Hugh, at least for a while.’ The Watcher brought up his shaggy cowl to hide his tangled hair. ‘A job well done, eh clerk? The malefactor exposed, justice carried out.’

‘I wouldn’t call it well done,’ Corbett retorted, leaning down from the saddle. ‘All my life, sir,’ Corbett held the Watcher’s gaze, ‘I’ve believed in logic and reason.’

‘But hate is stronger.’

‘No, sir, love is stronger: that was the root cause of all this. But it’s like a two-edged sword. Love frustrated can yield a terrible harvest.’ Corbett gathered his reins. ‘And the reaping time always comes!’