by Paul Doherty
‘Sprites and goblins!’ Ranulf scoffed. ‘A legion of devils wander Whitefriars and Southwark, but they are all flesh and blood. The wickedness they perpetrate would shame any self-respecting demon. You don’t believe in that nonsense, do you?’
Corbett pursed his lips. Ranulf stared in disbelief. Chanson, delighted, stood rooted to the spot. He loved nothing better, as he’d often whispered to Ranulf, than sombre tales about witches, warlocks and sorcerers.
‘Surely, Sir Hugh, it’s arrant nonsense!’
‘Yes and no,’ Corbett replied slowly. ‘Ranulf, I am a true son of Holy Mother Church, as you should be.’
‘But you are also an Oxford clerk skilled in logic. You deal in evidence, in that which can be proved.’
‘But I can give you proof,’ Corbett teased back. ‘Ranulf, think of something.’
The Clerk of the Green Wax closed his eyes.
‘Well, of what are you thinking?’
‘Sweet Amasia.’ Ranulf grinned. ‘Her father owns a tavern on the road outside Leighton.’
‘And do you see her?’
‘Oh yes, Master.’
‘But I can’t.’
Ranulf opened his eyes. ‘Well, of course not, it’s just an idea in my head.’
‘So, it’s invisible to me.’ Corbett warmed to his theme. He enjoyed such debate. He recalled the hurlyburly days in the schools of Oxford, of argument and disputation, the clash of mind and wit. ‘The point I am making, Ranulf, is that there is evil in our own experience, both visible and invisible. Indeed, following the great Plato, I would argue that that which is visible only comes into being from that which is invisible!’
Ranulf glared at Chanson who giggled softly.
‘A tree’s visible,’ he countered.
‘But a tree came from that which is hardly visible and, if you push the argument through, I would say a tree is the work of the mind of God. Man is the same: he is conceived in a woman’s womb but born of a love, an idea, which existed before he did.’
‘Or lust?’ Ranulf added.
‘Or lust,’ Corbett conceded. ‘However, my hypothesis could apply to anything.’ He pointed to a coloured tapestry on the wall depicting St Antony preaching to the birds. ‘Before that picture existed, someone must have conceived it, had an idea. He, or she, worked out what colours would be used, how the scene would be depicted.’
‘What’s this got to do with demons?’ Chanson broke in.
‘Everything,’ Corbett declared. ‘My learned Clerk of the Green Wax challenged my belief in the invisible. In a word, I believe two worlds exist at the same time, the visible and the invisible. In both worlds, beings exist who possess intelligence and will. Whether that intelligence and will are inclined for good or evil is a matter for individual choice. More importantly . . .’
Corbett was about to continue when they heard footsteps on the stairs. Brother Perditus came in carrying a tray with a jug, three cups and a small breadboard. The white manchet loaf had been cut, and each piece smeared with butter and honey.
‘Father Prior asks for more time,’ he stuttered. ‘Nones have just finished. He has to summon the others.’ He placed the tray on the table and stepped back. ‘I have other duties. Father Prior does not believe that I should attend the meeting in the Abbot’s chamber.’
‘I thank you for the refreshments,’ Corbett replied kindly. ‘And never mind what Prior Cuthbert says. Please be there.’
The lay brother fled. Chanson went to serve them but Ranulf pulled at his sleeve and pointed to the groom’s dirty hands.
‘I know enough about physic,’ he said.
Chanson, scowling, stepped back. Ranulf filled three tankards and served them. Each took a piece of bread and ate hungrily.
‘There’s no meat,’ Chanson declared mournfully. ‘They’ve forgotten the meat.’
‘We’ll dine soon enough,’ Corbett declared.
Ranulf drained his tankard and smacked his lips, the ale was tangy sweet. He took the jug and refilled it.
‘One thing about monks,’ he muttered. ‘They make good ale. Master, you were saying?’
‘Ah yes, I believe two worlds exist and the beings I described can cross from one to the other.’
‘Rubbish!’ Ranulf declared, his mouth full of bread.
‘I believe it,’ Corbett declared. ‘Every time you pray you enter the invisible world. Every time you love and, more dangerously, hate or curse. When you call out into the dark, Ranulf, and if you call long and hard enough, someone always answers.’
‘Like murder?’ Chanson asked.
‘Like murder,’ Corbett agreed. ‘A man or a woman can decide on evil. The idea takes root first. Only afterwards comes their bloody work.’
‘You don’t need a demon to be an assassin,’ Ranulf countered.
‘No, but when you kill, you’re allying your will with the powers of darkness. Read the gospels, Ranulf, especially St John’s. Christ describes Satan as a “killer from the start”. Adam’s sin was disobeying God but the first real sin was that of Cain slaying his brother, hiding his corpse and refusing to answer God’s summons. We all have some of Cain in us,’ Corbett murmured.
‘Not you, Master, surely?’
Corbett closed his eyes. He recalled the bloody hand-to-hand fighting in Wales when the wild tribesmen broke into the royal camp: the painted faces, glaring eyes, the clash of sword, the sheer desperation to kill and survive.
‘Oh yes, I have.’ He opened his eyes. ‘But I pray God that I never be put into that position.’
Ranulf was about to continue when they heard fresh sounds outside: someone slowly climbing the stairs.
‘Our Perditus has returned,’ Ranulf observed.
But the man who entered was a stranger. He was small, thickset, and youngish-looking, with closely cropped black hair, a smiling rubicund face, snub nose and the bright eyes of a sparrow. He was dressed in a long, dark-green gown, soft brown leather boots, with a cloak of dark murrey fastened round the neck with a gold clasp. Beneath it was a white collar band, with a small and elegant crucifix on a gold chain round his neck, and rings sparkling on his plump fingers. He stood in the doorway and smiled round.
‘Am I interrupting something?’
‘It depends on who you are,’ Corbett declared.
He could tell from the man’s dress that he was a priest and vaguely recalled Edward telling him what had been planned at St Martin’s Abbey.
‘Archdeacon Adrian Wallasby.’
The man’s face broke into a gap-toothed smile. He stretched out his hand and walked towards Corbett.
‘Like you, I am a visitor to this holy place. I heard about your arrival and thought I should meet you.’
Corbett shook his hand and introductions were made.
‘I am Archdeacon of St Paul’s,’ Wallasby declared, ‘sent here by the Archbishop of Canterbury and the Dominican Order.’
‘For what purpose?’
‘Oh, to confront the devil and all his demons!’ Wallasby threw his head back and gave a deep belly laugh. ‘A wasted journey, mind you. I am well entertained in the guesthouse across the courtyard but my journey was fruitless. And you, Sir Hugh, you must be here because of Abbot Stephen’s mysterious death?’
‘Murder,’ Corbett replied. ‘I believe the abbot was murdered. Anyway, what has the devil and all his demons to do with the Abbey of St Martin’s? I know Abbot Stephen was an exorcist . . .?’
‘And a famous one,’ the Archdeacon countered. ‘That’s why I was here. Abbot Stephen wrote extensively on demonic possession. He performed exorcism both in Lincolnshire and in London, very celebrated cases. He was supposed to carry one out here: a man named Taverner has asked for the abbot’s help.’
‘And you came to witness this?’
‘No, Sir Hugh, I came to disprove it. I agree with the Dominican school of thought. What many people regard as possession is, I believe, some sickness of the mind, a malady of the humours, lunacy, madness and, in many cases, sim
ply suggestion or even downright trickery.’
Ranulf clapped his hands quietly.
‘Ah!’ The Archdeacon smiled at him. ‘I believe I have a kindred spirit here?’
‘And when was this exorcism to take place?’ Corbett asked.
‘Tomorrow.’
‘And have you met this Taverner?’
‘I have interrogated him.’
‘And?’
The Archdeacon shrugged, took a piece of bread from the platter and popped it into his mouth, chewing slowly.
‘He’s one of the strangest cases I’ve encountered. I half believed I’d chosen the wrong ground to fight Abbot Stephen.’
‘You mean to say the man is truly possessed?’
‘Perhaps?’
The Archdeacon paused as footsteps were heard on the stairs. Brother Perditus almost stumbled into the room.
‘Prior Cuthbert and the Concilium are ready,’ he gasped.
Sir Hugh picked up his boots.
‘Then we’d best join them and, as we are going to deal with the workings of the devil,’ he smiled at the Archdeacon, ‘perhaps you would be so kind as to join us?’
NAM FORTUNA SUA
TEMPORA LEGE REGIT
FORTUNE RULES OUR DESTINY
JUST AS SHE PLEASES
TIBULLUS
Chapter 2
Brother Gildas, architect and stonemason in the Abbey of St Martin’s-in-the-Marsh, always prided himself that he would be ready for death. He was an old man but still keen-eyed, a former soldier, a craftsman who had helped build Edward’s great castles in South Wales. Brother Gildas had often confronted death, in lonely, mist-filled valleys or forest clearings, where it could strike quickly with arrow, lance, club, axe or dagger. To prepare for death, Brother Gildas had entered the abbey twenty years ago and the brothers had been quick to use his skill. A close friend of Prior Cuthbert, Brother Gildas loved to sketch plans with quill and parchment, to choose stone and feel its texture, to cut and measure, to design and build in his mind before the first sod was cut and the corner stone laid.
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 t
he 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.’
Prior Cuthbert opened his mouth to protest. Corbett held his gaze. The other members of the Concilium stirred restlessly.
‘We have a requiem Mass starting soon,’ Brother Aelfric wailed. ‘For Abbot Stephen.’
‘If the Mass is delayed,’ Corbett declared, ‘then so be it.’
He got to his feet, turning his back on the Concilium, and walked to the great bay window and stared down into the courtyard.