Paul Doherty - Corpse Candle

Contented, grey-haired and calm-faced, Brother Gildas liked to be on his own. True, he felt a deep sorrow at Abbot Stephen’s death and looked forward to singing the psalms at the requiem Mass. Yet life would go on. Gildas was now busy in his own workshop at the far end of the abbey. The table beside him was littered with different types of stone, mallets, chisels and scraps of parchment. Brother Gildas hummed one of his favourite psalms.

‘Out of the depths have I cried unto thee, Oh Lord! Lord, hear my voice!’

Brother Gildas loved that song: surely it must have been written by a soldier. Didn’t the psalm refer to watchmen, to God the redeemer? Brother Gildas sat at his high desk, beating a slight tattoo on its hard, polished surface whilst he studied, yet again, his plans for the new guesthouse. Now Abbot Stephen was dead Brother Cuthbert would surely be elected Abbot. The burial mound in the Bloody Meadow would be removed. Brother Gildas felt excited at the prospect of fresh building work. Perhaps he should choose the hard grey stone from South Yorkshire? Or maybe he should have selected something new like that beautiful, honey-coloured stone in Oxfordshire now being used in the building of colleges and halls at the university? Gildas felt a pang of regret, closed his eyes and whispered a prayer. He should not be thinking like this! Abbot Stephen’s body was not yet buried. Gildas picked up the quill and sharpened it. How could their Father Abbot be murdered in such eerie circumstances? Gildas didn’t believe any outlaw had broken in, yet he’d been present when the door had been forced. There were no other entrances or passageways. The windows had been closed and, as a mason, Gildas knew it would be impossible for even the most nimble-footed assassin to climb those walls. They were sheer and smooth, offering no crevice or crack for toe or hand. Gildas wondered if the murder had anything to do with that mysterious, perfumed figure he’d met in his restless wanderings at night. Gildas was a light sleeper so he often went for a walk at night and, twice now, he’d passed that enigmatic figure. He’d thought he’d been dreaming and, to save himself from embarrassment and ridicule, had only confided in Brother Hamo. The sub-prior had agreed that it was impossible for a woman, disguised as a monk, to wander the abbey at night. Perhaps Gildas had been mistaken? Still dreaming? Ah well!

Brother Gildas stared round his workshop. He would have to leave soon. Prior Cuthbert had called a meeting of the Concilium. Gildas had glimpsed the arrival of that tall clerk in his heavy military riding cloak, its cowl making his dark face even more enigmatic. With the King involved, no doubt Corbett would haunt this abbey until the truth was found. Gildas climbed down from his high stool and walked over to a bench. For some strange reason he stared up at a painting on the far wall, a gift from a local merchant. It had been painted on wood and depicted Death outside a house knocking on the door. Death was dressed like a knight, one hand on his sword, the other beating angrily as if determined to collect the soul within. Brother Gildas did not realise it but Death was close by, hunting for his soul.

He was about to return to his desk when he heard sounds from the storeroom, just near the side door.

‘Who’s that?’ he called. Perhaps it was a rat, or it was not unknown for a fox, or even one of the wild cats which haunted the marshy copses, to come inside in search of warmth. Gildas walked to the half-open door and pushed it open. ‘Who’s there?’ he repeated. He walked inside, narrowing his eyes against the gloom. ‘Who’s there?’ he called.

‘Gildas!’ The words came as a hiss. ‘Gildas! Guilty Gildas!’

The stonemason decided to flee. Yet, even as he made to hasten away, he realised his mistake: no soldier should turn his back on an enemy. His foot slithering, Gildas turned. A dark figure hurtled towards him and then a club smacked against his head, sending him crashing to the ground. Brother Gildas lay half unconscious, his head throbbing with pain.

‘Please!’ he whispered. ‘Don’t. .!’

He was aware of his hands being tied behind his back, as the blood trickling from the gash in his head almost blinded him. His mouth was bone dry. He tried to look up at his assailant but all he could see were soft leather riding boots. His hands bound, he tried to struggle onto one side. He glimpsed his assailant who had closed the door to the workshop and was now standing over the brazier. Gildas gazed in horror as his attacker looked round. A red executioner’s mask covered his entire face. A cloak swathed his body. He could not be a monk, a brother of the abbey. Gildas recalled the stories of Mandeville’s wild huntsmen prowling along the fens. Gildas could smell something burning: his assailant was poking the coals. He turned and came back.

‘Gildas! Murderer!’ The words came out slowly, more of a hiss than a voice.

The assailant was moving behind him then suddenly he was standing over him. Gildas heard shallow breathing and glanced up. The black-garbed assassin was now carrying a heavy block of stone.

‘Oh no, please!’

The assailant lifted the stone higher and let go; it fell smashing Brother Gildas’s skull like a mallet would an egg.

Corbett sat behind Abbot Stephen’s great oaken desk. The clerk disliked such trappings of power and hid a self-conscious smile. He felt like one of the King’s Justices holding a court of Oyer and Terminer or Gaol Delivery. The desk itself had been cleared and Corbett had laid out sheets of vellum, a pumice stone and quill. Ranulf sat at the corner similarly prepared. Chanson stood guard at the door. Around the desk in a semi-circle were chairs and stools for the Abbey Concilium, Prior Cuthbert sitting in the centre. Corbett looked at these powerful monks, in truth lords of this abbey. Brother Francis, the archivist and librarian, rather elegant, soft-faced and dreamy-eyed. Aelfric the infirmarian who looked as if he suffered from a permanent cold, with white sallow cheeks, protruding red nose and watery eyes which never stopped blinking. Brother Hamo, plump and grey as a pigeon, with staring eyes and lips tightly compressed, he looked like a man ever ready to give others the benefit of his wisdom. Brother Richard the almoner, young, smooth-faced, he kept dabbing his lips and rubbing his protruding stomach. Dunstan the treasurer, being bald he had no tonsure, was heavy-featured, small-eyed and tight-lipped: a monk, Corbett considered, used to accounts, tallies, ledgers, bills and indentures. A man who would seek a profit in everything. Their lord and master, Prior Cuthbert, was more relaxed, studying Corbett, assessing his worth. Corbett realised why there had been a delay. Prior Cuthbert had probably gathered these monks together in his room and told them what he had learnt, how this King’s clerk would not stand on ceremony or be cowed by appeals to Canon Law, the Rule of St Benedict or the customs of the abbey. At the far end of the semi-circle sat Brother Perditus. The young man looked decidedly out of place, nervously plucking at his robe and shuffling his feet. Archdeacon Adrian, however, seemed to be enjoying himself, like a spectator at a mummer’s play. He clearly did not view Abbot Stephen’s death as a matter of concern to himself. Corbett sat up in the chair.

‘Are we all here?’

‘Brother Gildas is absent,’ Prior Cuthbert declared.

‘I delivered the summons, Father Prior,’ Perditus declared. ‘Gildas was the first I told but you know how busy he is: you can’t distract him from his work.’

‘Then we’ll begin.’ Corbett picked up his warrant, tapping the black and red seal at the bottom. ‘This is the King’s own seal,’ he declared. ‘It gives me the power to act as Commissioner over the death of Abbot Stephen or any other matter of concern. I do not wish to be challenged. The King’s writ runs here, as it does in Wales or the Marches of Scotland.’