by Paul Doherty
‘And who was the prime mover behind the plans for a guesthouse?’
‘Oh, certainly Prior Cuthbert. As the weeks passed I often wondered whether he wanted to be Father Abbot. He certainly had support from some of the others. Gildas, the one who was killed, his fingers positively itched to cut the ground and lay the first stone.’
‘And did Abbot Stephen ever talk to you? Discuss the past? Come on!’ Corbett urged. ‘You’ll be well rewarded, Master Taverner.’
The cunning man picked up the wine goblet and drank swiftly.
‘On occasions, Abbot Stephen talked as if I wasn’t there. He once said that everyone had demons, either in the present or from the past and, unless reparation was made, these demons would harass him: his face grew sad and tears pricked his eyes.’
‘Did Abbot Stephen elaborate?’
‘I teased him. I asked if a holy abbot could also be guilty of sin? “Some sins remain.” The Abbot replied. “And I am always fearful of the sin against the Holy Ghost”.’
‘Did he tell you what that was?’
Taverner shook his head. ‘He just said his life was a wheel: that what happened at the hub, or the centre, stretched out its spokes to affect the rim and all within it. Strange thing to say, wasn’t it, Sir Hugh?’
‘Do you think he had any secrets?’
Taverner looked at Corbett slyly from under his eyebrows.
‘He liked all things Roman.’
‘Meaning what?’
‘He showed me his secret.’
‘Secret?’
‘Yes, yes, come with me!’
Corbett got to his feet and went to the door. He’d been sure someone was outside but, when he opened it, the small entrance hallway was empty and the door to the abbey grounds was half open, through which a cold draught seeped. Ranulf joined him.
‘Our cunning man is searching for his sandals.’
Corbett gripped Ranulf by the arm.
‘That was very good, Ranulf. A memory worthy of a royal clerk! If it hadn’t been for you, Taverner would have fooled me as he did the Abbot and Archdeacon Adrian.’
Ranulf coloured with embarrassment.
‘I am sorry about last night, Master.’
Corbett linked his arm through Ranulf’s and they went out of the doorway into the grounds. The heavy mist was now clearing, and a weak sun making its presence felt: a sharp breeze had sprung up, sending the leaves whirling. Corbett stood and revelled in the silence. He was aware of the grey abbey buildings. Now and again a figure moved through the mist. He faintly heard the neigh of a horse and, on the morning breeze, the melodious chant from the church. He caught the words: ‘The Lord will rescue me from the huntsmen’s nets’. Corbett released Ranulf’s arm. But who is the huntsman here, he wondered? How could he find his way through the thick, treacherous mysteries which shrouded these heinous murders? A sound echoed behind him. Taverner came out, clasping a cloak.
‘Come with me! Come with me!’
They went down the side of the infirmary and almost bumped into Chanson who, helped by Perditus, was carrying some books.
‘Brother Aelfric sent these,’ Chanson gasped.
‘We don’t need them now,’ Corbett declared. ‘Master Taverner has other things to show us. Chanson, Brother Perditus, I would be grateful if you would take the books to my chamber in the guesthouse.’
He walked by them. Taverner was trotting ahead, beckoning them to follow as if they were playing some childish game. They crossed the empty cloisters, going past the main door of the abbey church and towards the refectory: a long, oblong building of grey ragstone with a red tiled roof. Taverner led them down the outside steps and pushed open the door. They stepped into a hollow, cavernous chamber. Taverner took a tinder and lit a sconce torch. Corbett realised they were in the cellars of the abbey. There was a long, dark gallery with open store chambers on one side which contained tuns of wine, sacks of grain, boxes of fruits and vegetables, some now shrivelled as winter approached. The air was flavoured with different fragrances and smells. Taverner hurried on, pausing now and again to light a sconce torch. Corbett felt as if he was in the underworld. He was aware of the passageway stretching before him, the hard cobbled ground and the yawning chambers to his left. At last they reached the end and went down some steps. Taverner pushed open a door and they stepped into a chamber. Corbett was aware of barrels and pallets of wood, shelves with pots on. One corner was completely empty except for a canvas cloth stretched over the ground. Taverner lit another sconce torch and pulled away the sheeting. At first Corbett couldn’t understand what it was until he grasped the torch and knelt down.
He exclaimed, marvelling at the different colours, the reds, greens, golds and blues. He studied it more carefully.
‘Abbot Stephen said it was very old,’ Taverner explained.
Corbett stroked its shiny smoothness.
‘It’s a mosaic,’ he explained. ‘I’ve seen similar both in this country and abroad. Beautiful isn’t it, Ranulf?’
‘The work of the monks?’ his manservant asked.
‘No, no, this is Roman.’ Corbett glanced up at the ceiling. ‘Of course it makes sense. This land must have always been cleared. I suspect the abbey was founded on an ancient Roman settlement, perhaps a farmhouse, or a temple, or both?’
‘How did Abbot Stephen find this?’
‘Years ago when he was Sub-prior,’ Taverner explained, ‘work was carried out on the foundations. The floor to this chamber was raised. When the paving stones were lifted, Abbot Stephen discovered this and kept it free. He always liked to come here. He’d sit and kneel before it as if it was a shrine.’
Corbett, his eyes now accustomed to the dark and the flickering torchlight, could admire the beauty of the mosaic. It was a square, probably part of a floor, of which only this section had been preserved, and depicted a huge wheel: its hub was of gold with red spokes and blue rim. Between the spokes were different colours, and in each corner were small figures dressed in tunics, carrying grapes and what resembled jugs of wine.
‘Why did Abbot Stephen love it so much?’
‘I don’t know. He said it was beautiful. He used to place his hand on the centre of the wheel as if it was something sacred. Ask the brothers, particularly Cuthbert. Abbot Stephen would often disappear down here and just kneel. Sometimes he’d bring a cushion. Sometimes . . .’
‘Sometimes what?’ Ranulf demanded harshly.
‘One day, two weeks before his death,’ Taverner explained, ‘I went to see Father Abbot. He was not in his chamber so I came here. I reached the door to the steps. I could hear him praying, weeping, and the lash of a whip.’
‘What?’ Corbett exclaimed.
‘Abbot Stephen was leaning over the mosaic. He’d pulled his robe down to his waist. In one hand he held his ave beads, in the other a whip which he was using to lash his shoulders. “Father Abbot!” I exclaimed. He turned and stared at me, tears rolling down his cheeks. “I’m doing penance, Master Taverner,” he declared. “And you must never tell anyone what you have seen today. This is my secret”.’
Corbett stared down at the mosaic: the more he studied it the more intrigued he became. He recalled the pieces of parchment he had seen in the Abbot’s lodgings. He had dismissed these but now he remembered the doodles and etchings, which were always the same, a wheel with its rim, spokes and hub. What did that mean to the Abbot? And why had he to inflict such terrible penance on himself? Sins he had to atone for? And why here? Many monks would dismiss this mosaic as a pagan symbol. True, the abbot had liked all things Roman but he seemed to have revered this as he would a shrine or reliquary. This mosaic obviously symbolised something for Abbot Stephen. He’d confessed as much to Taverner whilst his obssession with the wheel explained his constant sketches. Wheels? Hidden sins? The dead Abbot did indeed have secrets but they were buried deep and hidden well. Corbett got to his feet and ordered Taverner to cover the mosaic.
‘I’ve told you all I could, Master.’ Tav
erner’s voice rose to a wail.
‘Don’t worry,’ Corbett reassured him, tapping him on the shoulder. ‘You are not going to be turned out in your shift on the highway. We have other people to visit.’ He walked to the steps and then turned. ‘Tell me, Master Taverner, last night, as I was walking back to the guesthouse, I tried to open a door but it held fast. I heard a voice hissing at me through the grille. It was muffled, disguised. It told me that the Abbey of St Martin’s was a house of demons, a place of Cain?’
‘You didn’t tell me of this!’ Ranulf exclaimed.
‘Hush!’ Corbett gazed round. ‘Was that you, Master Taverner?’
‘Oh no!’
‘Then which monk do you think wanders the corridors and passageways? I know it wasn’t Brother Perditus. He was in his shift when I left him. So, which monk is known for his wanderings?’
‘They all are, Sir Hugh, especially members of the Concilium, Prior Cuthbert in particular. The night Abbot Stephen was killed some of the brothers claimed he visited Bloody Meadow, staring at that burial mound.’
Corbett sighed. ‘Very well.’
Ranulf and Taverner doused the lights. They went back along the corridor and out into the abbey grounds. Perditus, carrying a basket to the kitchens, shouted a greeting. Corbett raised his hand in reply.
‘Where to now, Master?’
‘The guesthouse, Ranulf. Perhaps we should have something to eat? Master Taverner, I thank you. Stay where you are and tell no one what has happened.’
The cunning man needed no second urging. He bobbed in gratitude, profuse in his thanks and assurances before he hastened off into the mist. Taverner was pleased to be free of Corbett. He had told that harsh-faced clerk a great deal so perhaps he would be safe for a while. He paused and looked up at the tower of the abbey church looming above the mist. This was a good place to live. Perhaps even to die? He reached the path leading down past the infirmary. He heard a sound and stopped. A cowled figure had stepped out from behind a bush. He was holding something in his hands. Taverner, eyes popping, mouth gaping, realised it was a longbow. He could see the string pulled right back, the cruel barbed arrow – aimed directly at him. He could glimpse no face.
‘What do you want? What is it?’
He was about to sink to his knees but the arrow was already loosed. At such close range it thudded into Taverner’s body, thrusting deep into his chest. Taverner staggered forward, the blood already bubbling in his throat. He sank to his knees and, with a gasp, fell on his side.
JUSTITIA EST CONSTANS ET PERPETUA
VOLUNTAS IUS SUUM CUIQUE TRIBUENS
JUSTICE IS THE CONSTANT AND PERPETUAL
WISH TO GIVE EACH PERSON HIS DUE
JUSTINIAN
Chapter 5
The Concilium of St Martin’s-in-the-Marsh was meeting in the Star Chamber, a large room at the centre of the abbey building. It had its name because of the gold stars on the lime-painted walls whilst similar emblems were carved on the stone floor. A spacious, circular chamber with windows looking out over every aspect of the abbey: a place of solemn conferrings and council. However, on that morning, the feast of St Clement the Martyr, confusion and chaos reigned. Taverner’s corpse had been found slumped on an abbey path. The arrow which had killed him had passed almost clean through his body. Of course that interfering royal clerk had taken over and the corpse had been taken to the death house.
Prior Cuthbert declared he’d convoked this meeting of the Concilium to discuss the deteriorating situation. For the first time since it had happened, Prior Cuthbert deeply regretted Abbot Stephen’s death and wished he could exercise the authority of his late, if not lamented, superior. The principal officers of the abbey clustered round the oak table staring up at him. They were led by Aelfric the infirmarian, Cuthbert’s bitter rival. Now Abbot Stephen had departed this life, such intense rivalries were beginning to surface. Aelfric, with his red nose and watery eyes, sat, tight-lipped, next to his henchman, Brother Richard the almoner.
‘Father Prior,’ Brother Richard led the attack, ‘things are not going well. We have royal emissaries prowling our abbey whilst the number of corpses increases daily.’
‘Listen! Listen!’ Prior Cuthbert held up his hand. ‘Abbot Stephen died, we don’t know how or why. He was stabbed. Gildas’s murder is also a mystery. Now Taverner has been killed too but whose fault is that? Moreover, we cannot oppose the royal clerk. If we did, the King himself may come here, or worse, we might be summoned to appear before him in Norwich, or even in London. Do you want that?’
‘We want these hideous deaths stopped!’ Brother Richard snapped. ‘And the clerks to go about their business. To be frank, Father Prior, matters are going from bad to worse.’
‘And there’s the question of the guesthouse,’ Aelfric spoke up. ‘Now Abbot Stephen is dead, why can’t the building work begin? The tumulus or burial mound can be levelled. We could even open it up and see what’s inside.’
‘That would be inappropriate!’ Prior Cuthbert retorted. ‘An unseemly haste and a lack of reverence for Abbot Stephen’s memory: the rest of the community would not like it.’
‘That’s true,’ Brother Francis the librarian spoke up. ‘We really should wait for the new abbot.’ He smiled dreamily at Cuthbert. ‘Whoever that may be?’
The monks sat in silence. Prior Cuthbert smoothed the top of the table with his fingers. Matters were not going to plan. Abbot Stephen had said that Bloody Meadow would never be built upon as long as he was leader of this community. Now, even dead, he still remained Father Abbot. Did his ghost haunt these buildings? It was possible, with his unseemly interest in demonic possessions. On one matter Prior Cuthbert was quietly relieved: Taverner, Abbot Stephen’s protégé, was dead. The man had been a nuisance and would have posed problems. What could they have done with him?
‘Father Prior?’ Aelfric asked softly. ‘What do you counsel? What is your advice?’
Prior Cuthbert glared malevolently back.
‘Perhaps we should be more honest,’ Aelfric declared, pushing back the sleeves of his robe.
‘Honest? What do you mean by that?’
‘About Abbot Stephen’s death! We all know about your plans for Bloody Meadow.’
Prior Cuthbert jabbed a finger at him. ‘And you were party to those plans!’
‘Are you implying that Abbot Stephen’s death was caused by one of us?’ Brother Richard demanded. ‘We might be holy men but we cannot go through locked doors or walls!’
‘I have looked at that door,’ Aelfric retorted. ‘Perhaps the hinges were loosened?’
His sallow cheeks blushed as the other monks guffawed with laughter.
‘And why did Gildas die?’ the infirmarian almost screeched. ‘Brother Aelfric, spit out what you are saying!’
‘Gildas was your confidant, Prior! His fingers positively itched to build that guesthouse. He lived, dreamed and drank what he called his vision. You supported him in that. How often did we sit here as you hectored Father Abbot?’
‘I didn’t hector him.’ Prior Cuthbert tried to control his anger; he could see Aelfric was losing his temper. He was just pleased Corbett wasn’t present.
‘And there’s the other matter!’
Cuthbert’s heart sank. Aelfric leaned on the table.
‘What other matter, Brother?’
‘You know full well! We all do: Sir Eustace’s codicil.’
Prior Cuthbert’s throat went dry. Aelfric was now pointing at him, a skeletal finger wagging the air. Cuthbert wanted to stretch forward, grasp and snap it.
‘We all know about Sir Eustace’s codicil,’ Cuthbert explained. ‘We all agreed to keep it from Abbot Stephen, though of course we would have told him eventually.’
‘I found it, you know,’ Brother Francis the librarian spoke up, ‘in a book of charters high in the library.’
‘We haven’t had it tested,’ Prior Cuthbert declared. ‘We all recognise,’ he continued, ‘that Sir Eustace Harcourt founded this
abbey. If the document that Brother Francis discovered is genuine, then we own not only Falcon Brook but the meadows lying on the other side of it, which are still part of Lady Margaret’s estate. However, the charter is old; it bears no seal so it cannot be verified.’
‘There may be a copy at Westminster?’
‘Why didn’t you show it to Abbot Stephen?’ Aelfric demanded.
‘Because we all decided on that. Of course,’ Prior Cutbert added slowly, ‘I can only speak for myself.’ He looked for help from Hamo and Dunstan the treasurer but they sat silent. ‘I mean,’ Cuthbert continued, ‘one of us could have told Abbot Stephen?’
‘Did you tell Lady Margaret Harcourt?’ Aelfric retorted.
Prior Cuthbert squirmed in his chair.
‘You did, didn’t you?’ Hamo, sitting on his left, leaned forward, hands joined as if in prayer.
‘I didn’t tell her. I simply hinted that if we built the guesthouse, she could either concede gracefully to our demands or there might be another way.’
‘You did that!’ Hamo hissed. ‘Lady Margaret’s dislike for Abbot Stephen was well known. Could she be behind these murders? Did the mention of some secret codicil tip her into killing?’
‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous!’ Prior Cuthbert snapped. ‘No woman is allowed in this abbey.’
‘Father Prior, I know the rule of St Benedict as well as you do. Just because a woman is not allowed in our abbey, doesn’t mean they are not welcome.’
Prior Cuthbert stared in disbelief. The Star Chamber had fallen silent. Hamo was hinting at something.
‘We have pilgrims,’ the almoner declared. ‘Travellers, their wives, the womenfolk of merchants . . .? And we also have mysterious visitors at night.’ Hamo was now enjoying himself.
‘Impossible!’ Prior Cuthbert snapped.
‘Is it really?’ Hamo stared up at the ceiling. ‘We all know about Brother Gildas: a man who found it difficult to sleep at night. Perhaps he wasn’t the only one?’
‘Oh, come to the point!’
‘Our abbey is a large, sprawling place,’ Hamo continued. ‘We have a gatehouse but there are small postern doors, not to mention the Judas Gate. Gildas could never stay still. Remember, he was always first in the abbey church to sing the divine office. Anyway, at night he often used to go for a walk. Now, the rule is that a monk, if he meets another monk at night, simply whispers “Pax Vobiscum” and offers a blessing. Gildas claimed that, on two occasions, he passed a robed, cowled figure who did not respond to his blessing, whilst he also caught a faint trace of perfume.’