by Paul Doherty
‘I have a better idea,’ Ranulf retorted. ‘Why not call up the local sheriff’s posse and have them escort Prior Cuthbert to Norwich so he can explain to the King personally? And, whilst he is gone, we can get on with this business.’ He grinned at the Prior. ‘As well as God’s.’
Prior Cuthbert spread his hands.
‘You have me wrong, sirs. However, I am Prior of this abbey. I have certain powers and jurisdiction. We are in the archdiocese of Canterbury, the local bishop will expect me to act in accordance with the Constitutions of Clarendon.’
Corbett walked over and placed a hand on the Prior’s shoulder.
‘Prior Cuthbert.’ Corbett’s face was now unsmiling. ‘I respect what you say: you are a churchman and must protect the rights of Holy Mother Church. However,’ Corbett tightened his grip, ‘one of the lords spiritual – a leading abbot of this country, a personal friend of the King, a theologian of some renown, an envoy who has led embassies abroad – has been found murdered in his own chamber. Holy Mother Church is going to demand an explanation. The King wants justice. If you frustrate me, people will begin to wonder whether Prior Cuthbert is the man to lead an abbey. Indeed, some will whisper that he may have things to hide.’
The Prior shook off Corbett’s hand.
‘You are threatening me.’
‘I am not threatening you,’ Corbett retorted, eyes blazing with anger. ‘I have a task to do, Prior Cuthbert, and I shall do it! I am merely giving you a choice. You can either co-operate or be summoned by the King to explain why you will not. So, before we leave this room, what is it to be?’
Prior Cuthbert swallowed hard.
‘You want to meet the Concilium?’
‘Yes, I do, in the Abbot’s own chamber.’
Corbett stopped and cocked his head to one side as if listening to the faint strains of chanting coming from the abbey church.
‘I agree!’
Prior Cuthbert walked to the door.
‘I will send Brother Perditus, a lay brother who was the Abbot’s manservant. He will take you to your quarters and show you the Abbot’s chamber. I will make sure it is unlocked. Since the Abbot’s death I have kept it secure, and the doors sealed.’
‘Good!’ Corbett murmured.
He extended his hand for the Prior to clasp. Cuthbert did so reluctantly and quietly left.
Corbett made sure the door was closed behind him. He stood for a while, listening to the sound of the sandals slapping on the hard paved floor before he turned and looked at his companions.
‘He still shows a lack of respect,’ Ranulf declared.
He picked at the hem of his cloak, scraping some mud off before remembering where he was and letting it fall.
‘He’s a churchman,’ Corbett replied coming away from the door. ‘He’s protecting his rights, his jurisdiction. I expected him to do that. I’ve met his like before. It’s a little dance we have to perform, like knights testing each other on the tournament ground before the real battle begins.’
‘Did you ever meet Abbot Stephen?’ Ranulf asked.
‘On a few occasions.’ Corbett stared down at the figure lying beneath the purple cloth. ‘He was a good man, a scholar, very erudite, skilled in a number of languages. He led embassies to Flanders and the German States. He did good work for the King.’
‘You said he was a good friend of the King’s?’
‘Perhaps I should have said “had been”. Many years ago, Ranulf, long before you saw the light of day, our Abbot was a knight banneret, a member of the King’s own personal bodyguard. He fought with Edward at Evesham against de Montfort. When the King was struck down during the battle, Sir Stephen Daubigny, as he was then known, saved the King’s life. They became boon companions, drinking from the same loving cup. There was another, Sir Reginald Harcourt. He and Daubigny were the firmest of friends, close allies. In fact, people thought they were brothers. They went everywhere together.’
‘What happened?’ Ranulf asked.
‘We don’t know. Before I left Norwich I asked the King, but even he did not know the details. Apparently Sir Reginald left on some mysterious pilgrimage.’
‘To the Holy Land?’
‘No, no, to Cologne in Germany. According to rumour, he left by one of the Eastern ports and landed at Dordrecht in Hainault but then disappeared.’
‘Disappeared?’ Chanson queried, he loved to eavesdrop on his master’s conversations.
‘That’s right, my cross-eyed clerk of the stables,’ Ranulf declared. ‘Disappeared. That’s what Sir Hugh said.’
‘Hush now!’
Corbett walked to the door and opened it but the gallery outside was empty. He could still hear the chant of the monks. He closed the door.
‘Harcourt’s wife, Lady Margaret, was so distraught she begged Sir Stephen to help find her husband. They both travelled abroad. They were away for months. When they came back, according to the King, they were sworn enemies. Lady Margaret became a recluse. The King tried to find her a suitable husband but she always refused to marry again and he respected her wishes.’
‘And Sir Stephen?’
‘He entered the abbey of St Martin’s as a brother and was ordained a priest. He would not explain his decision to the King. He became as good a monk as he had been a knight. He was able, a skilled administrator. He became prior and, after the death of Abbot Benedict, the obvious successor.’
‘And Lady Margaret?’
‘The King does not know the cause of the enmity between the two. Lady Margaret once confided to the Queen that she believed if Stephen Daubigny had gone with her husband, he would not have disappeared. She also begged Sir Stephen, when they were looking for Sir Reginald, to continue the search but he claimed Sir Reginald had vanished. He refused to travel any further and returned to England. She followed some months afterwards. From the day they separated, they never spoke to each other again.’
‘But they were neighbours!’ Ranulf exclaimed.
‘Aye, but ones who never talked or met. Lady Margaret refused to do business with Abbot Stephen and earnestly challenged any attempt by the abbey to extend its rights. She jealously guarded the privileges of her estates. There was bad blood between them.’ Corbett stared down at the corpse. ‘I wonder if she has come to pay her last respects? It’s something I must ask Prior Cuthbert. Well, what have you learnt, my clerk of the Green Wax?’
Ranulf loosened his sword belt and rubbed where it was chafing his side. He had left Norwich before his master and spent the previous night at a local tavern, The Lantern-in-the-Woods, listening to the tales of chapmen, travellers and tinkers.
‘I heard about the enmity between Lady Margaret and Abbot Stephen though people seem to regard it as they do the weather, something to be accepted. Abbot Stephen was respected and loved by his monks. The abbey was well managed, with no hint of laxity or scandal. There’s a hermit who calls himself the “Watcher by the Gates”. Abbot Stephen allowed him to build a small bothy close to the wall. People regarded him as a madcap, slightly uncanny. He tells travellers chilling tales about demonic horsemen and the ghost of Geoffrey Mandeville.’
‘Ah yes, I have heard of that.’
‘Nothing but fireside tales,’ Ranulf continued, ‘except for one thing. A tinker told me how, over the last few weeks, a hunting horn has been heard at night.’
‘A horn?’ Corbett exclaimed.
‘That’s what the tinker claimed. One night he was unable to get lodgings, and the abbey gates were closed so he went to seek help from Lady Margaret. She allowed him to sleep in one of the outhouses. He woke in the middle of the night when it was dark, and as clear as a clarion call on a summer’s day, he heard three long blasts and then silence. The following day he made enquiries. It seems to be quite common, occurring two or three times a week for the last few months. No one knows why or who is doing it?’
Ranulf was about to continue when there was a knock on the door.
‘Come in!’ Corbett ordered.
&n
bsp; The lay brother who stepped through was dressed in a long, woollen gown, with a white cord around his waist, and stout brown sandals on his feet. He was tall, his fair hair cropped in a tonsure, bold-eyed and firm-jawed. His face was pale, rather ascetic, and the high cheek-bones gave him an imperious air. He seemed unabashed by Corbett.
‘I am Brother Perditus,’ he declared in a loud, guttural voice.
Corbett noticed his eyes were red-rimmed from weeping. He suspected the man had just washed his face and was putting on a brave front.
‘You’ve been crying, haven’t you?’
The lay brother’s haughty expression crumpled, his hands fell loosely by his side. He stared down at the floor and nodded. When he lifted his head tears glistened in his eyes. He refused to look at the funeral bier but kept close to the door, glancing at Corbett then at Ranulf.
‘I think we’ll leave,’ Corbett said softly.
Brother Perditus led them out. He walked quickly before them, using the opportunity to dry his eyes on the sleeve of his gown. They went down the gallery and out across the great cloister garth. A weak sun had melted the frost on the grass. The desks and lecterns used by the monks for their study were all deserted, books firmly closed, ink pots sealed. Usually this would be a hive of activity; the abbey illuminators and scribes using the precious daylight to continue their work.
‘The brothers are still in church,’ Perditus explained over his shoulder. ‘But I wager they all know you’ve arrived.’
He led them down another gallery, out past the church where Corbett could smell the fragrant incense and beeswax, and into a courtyard. In the centre stood a rose garden. On the far side was a half-timbered building with black beams and white plaster. Inside the polished floor gleamed in the weak morning sunlight. The lower storey of the guesthouse consisted of small, white-washed rooms. Brother Perditus explained that meals could be served to them in one of these, which served as a small refectory. He led them up the wooden staircase. The walls were decorated with pictures and coloured hangings. A crucifix hung in the stairwell, and small statues stood in the niches. Rather incongruously the carving of a woodman, with popping eyes and snarling mouth, had also been placed on the wall. Corbett smiled, it was a carving which would frighten his little daughter Eleanor and it certainly jarred with the serenity and calmness of the guesthouse. The top floor was a polished gallery, with large arrow-slit windows on one side and the doors to the chambers on the other. Corbett was shown the first.
‘There’s a key in the inside lock,’ Brother Perditus explained. ‘The door can also be bolted.’ He blinked in embarrassment. ‘Not that we need such protection in an abbey!’
He then took Ranulf and Chanson to their room. Corbett’s saddle-bag had already been placed on the small chest at the foot of the bed. He quickly checked the buckles and straps; they had not been tampered with. He stared around at the white-washed walls, and the window which overlooked the courtyard, its glass thick and mullioned with a small latticed door that could be shuttered from the inside. The bed was long and narrow with grey woollen blankets, crisp white linen sheets and bolsters. Corbett felt the mattress, it was thick and soft.
‘Probably featherdown,’ he murmured.
The rest of the furniture was simple but beautifully carved. A writing table stood under the window, a smaller table by the bed. A chair, stools, coffers, chests and a large aumbry were also available. Corbett placed his war belt on a peg driven into the wall. He removed his spurs from the pocket of his cloak and placed them on the window sill, undid his cloak and loosened his shirt. Corbett sat on the edge of the bed and took off his boots. He closed his eyes as the tension and cramp of his long ride eased. In one corner stood a small wooden lavarium, jug, bowl and coloured cloths. Corbett went across and washed his hands and face, half-listening to the sounds from the gallery. Brother Perditus knocked on the door and came in.
‘Prior Cuthbert says you are most welcome to join us in church. He would like you to be his guest in the refectory. Otherwise you may eat in here or downstairs.’
‘You are still mourning, aren’t you?’ Corbett asked. ‘Come in, man.’ He gestured to a stool.
Corbett couldn’t make up his mind about this abbey. Everything was clean, serene, orderly and harmonious. The brothers went about their duties. Prior Cuthbert had protested but he seemed upright and capable enough. Brother Perditus was the ideal host and guide. Yet Corbett felt the hairs on the nape of his neck curl in danger. Once, while soldiering in Wales, he had stumbled into a sun-filled glade. Butterflies danced in the breeze, the air was sweet with the fragrance of wild flowers. Wood pigeons cooed, birds sang. Corbett had sensed that, beyond the glade, hideous dangers lurked. One of his companions had scoffed and abruptly changed his mind as cruel barbed arrows whipped above their heads. So it is now, Corbett thought. The lake may be serene on the surface but he wondered how deep it was and what treacheries lurked beneath.
Perditus sat, head bowed, hands dutifully up the sleeves of his gown, patiently waiting to answer anything Corbett asked.
‘You are a lay brother?’
‘Yes, sir. I have been for four years.’
‘And you were the Abbot’s personal servant?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And you liked him?’
‘I loved him.’
Perditus’s head came up. Corbett was surprised at the fierce expression in his eyes.
‘He was truly a father to me, kind and learned. You are here to trap his murderer, aren’t you?’
Corbett took a stool and sat opposite.
‘He was murdered,’ Perditus continued. ‘I have heard the whispers amongst the brothers. It was not the work of some outlaw or wolf’s-head, wild men from the fens. They had no quarrel with Father Abbot.’
‘So, who do you think murdered him?’
Perditus’s face broke into a sneer.
‘One of our Christ-like community.’
‘And why?’
‘Because he was a hard taskmaster. He made them obey the rule of St Benedict. He wanted the abbey to remain an abbey, not some glorified guesthouse for the powerful lords of the soil!’
‘Tell me.’ Corbett undid his leather wrist guard and threw it on the chest at the bottom of the bed. ‘How did you serve Father Abbot?’
‘I would bring him meals to the refectory, clean his chamber, collect books from the libraries, run errands.’
‘And the night he died?’
‘I was sleeping in a small chamber nearby.’
‘And you heard nothing untoward?’
‘No, sir, I did not. The bell rang for matins. Father Abbot did not come down so I thought he was sleeping late or working, he had so much to do. Later in the morning, when he didn’t appear and wouldn’t answer my calls, I became alarmed. I summoned Prior Cuthbert.’
Corbett held a hand up. ‘Enough for now. I wish you to join the Concilium when it meets in the Abbot’s quarters.’
‘But they will object. I am only a lay brother!’
‘And I am only a King’s clerk.’ Corbett smiled. ‘Brother Perditus, I would be grateful if you would bring my companions and myself a jug of ale, some bread and dried meat. We would like to break our fast.’
The lay brother agreed. He almost leapt from the stool, eager to be out of the way of this hard-eyed clerk. Corbett went to the window and watched Perditus scurry across the courtyard. Ranulf and Chanson entered the room. They, too, had taken off their belts, cloaks and boots. Ranulf had splashed water on his hair, forcing it back from his brow, and this gave him a lean and hungry look. Corbett studied this Clerk of the Green Wax: Ranulf was changing. Tall and muscular, his interests in the ladies hadn’t waned but he now had a greater hunger, a burning ambition to rise high in the King’s service. Ranulf had hired an Oxford clerk, one of his own subordinates, to teach him Latin and Norman French as well as perfect his handwriting, both the cursive script and the elegant copperplate used on charters and official proclamations. Now he stoo
d on the balls of his feet, eager to press on with the task in hand.
‘A serene place, Sir Hugh, though not what it appears . . .?’
‘No abbey or monastery is,’ Corbett replied, leaning against the window sill and folding his arms. ‘Or any community! That even goes for my own family, Ranulf. Look at the tension which can surface at Leighton. The sea of troubles which,’ he grinned, ‘sends us both scurrying to our private chambers.’
Ranulf coloured slightly with embarrassment. Leighton Manor was ruled by Corbett’s wife, the Lady Maeve. A small, beautiful, blonde-haired, Welsh woman, Maeve had the face of an angel and a tongue like a sharpened razor. When she lost her temper, Ranulf particularly would always find something interesting to do at the other side of the manor. Everyone – Uncle Morgan who was their permanent guest, Corbett, Ranulf and even Chanson, who rarely reflected on anything – feared the dimunitive Lady Maeve more than they did the King.
‘I thought we were going back home,’ Chanson moaned.
The groom had two gifts. He could manage any horse and he loved Corbett’s children, Eleanor and Baby Edward. Although not the cleanest or best looking of men, Chanson was always a source of delightful curiosity to them as well as the other children on the manor.
‘Aye.’ Corbett sighed. ‘We were supposed to go home.’
He half closed his eyes. He had joined the King at Norwich after that business in Suffolk. Edward had promised him leave from his service but then the dusty, mud-spattered courier had arrived from St Martin’s. The King had begged him to take on this task and what could Corbett do?
‘It was murder, wasn’t it?’ Ranulf asked sitting down on a stool.
‘Murder and a cunning one,’ Corbett agreed. ‘But proving it and discovering the assassin will be difficult. We are going to have to poke with a long, sharp stick. In many ways Abbot Stephen was a strange man. Oh, he was holy enough and learned but self-contained and mysterious; a knight-banneret who decided to become a priest. A soldier who decided to hunt demons.’
‘Demons!’ Ranulf exclaimed.
Corbett smiled thinly. ‘Yes, Ranulf, our late Abbot was an officially appointed exorcist. Abbot Stephen would be called to assist with people who claimed to be possessed, and houses that were reputedly haunted.’