Hugh Corbett 13 - Corpse Candle

by Paul Doherty

  Again nods of agreement.

  ‘I then put the jug on the table. The bread and cheese were passed round.’

  ‘And Brother Hamo’s ale was poisoned?’ Corbett asked. ‘But no one knew which tankard Hamo would take?’

  ‘Of course not,’ the almoner replied. ‘They are all the same. No one gave it a second thought.’

  ‘And when was this tray brought up?’ Corbett demanded. ‘Before the Concilium met or during it?’

  ‘Just after we’d begun,’ Prior Cuthbert replied. ‘We were busy taking our seats when Brother Oswald brought it in.’

  Corbett nodded at Chanson who scurried away. They sat in silence. Corbett deliberately wanted that. The pool is being stirred, he reflected, yet its calm surface still hides a lot. One of these men was an assassin but which? Prior Cuthbert, now looking so worried? Aelfric, preening himself as if pleased at the way things were going? Francis the librarian, who kept glancing over his shoulder at Corbett? Richard the almoner, hands clasped together as if reciting his beads? Brother Dunstan, with that faraway look in his eyes as if he couldn’t believe what was happening? Archdeacon Adrian sat with his head down, moving backwards and forwards in his chair. Beside him Perditus, his eyes screwed up, stared across at the corpse as if fascinated by it. There was a knock on the door: a grey-haired, ashen-faced lay brother was ushered in. He immediately fell to his knees, hands clasped.

  ‘Father Prior! Father Prior!’ he wailed. ‘I brought the ale and tankards up.’

  ‘Speak to me,’ Corbett said gently.

  The man turned, still on his knees.

  ‘You are Oswald the scullion?’

  The man blinked through rheumy eyes and nodded, clearly terrified out of his wits.

  ‘You have nothing to worry about,’ Corbett reassured him. ‘Who told you there was a meeting of the Concilium?’

  ‘Hamo. He came down to the kitchen. I laid out the usual platter of bread and cheese, tankards and a jug of ale. I covered the jug with a napkin and left them there. I sent up one of the kitchen boys, a lad from the village. He came back and reported that the meeting had begun, so I brought up the tray.’

  ‘And no one stopped you?’

  A shake of the head.

  ‘Father Prior and the others were just getting ready. The meeting hadn’t really begun. I placed the tray on the table and left immediately.’

  ‘Prior Cuthbert,’ Corbett demanded, ‘did anyone go across to the table whilst the meeting was taking place?’

  ‘Not till I did,’ Brother Dunstan answered.

  ‘In which case,’ Corbett turned to Oswald, ‘when the tray was in the kitchen, who came in?’

  The lay brother waved his arms in exasperation.

  ‘Sir, how can I say?’

  ‘Try and think,’ Corbett urged. ‘Look around this chamber. Study each face carefully.’

  Oswald moved restlessly on his knees.

  ‘There were some strangers,’ he declared. ‘Well, visitors. Talbot the taverner from the Lantern-in-the-Woods, with that saucy-eyed daughter of his. What’s her name?’

  ‘Blanche,’ Prior Cuthbert provided the name. ‘They often come here to buy provisions. Talbot is a good customer.’

  ‘He is,’ Oswald said abruptly. ‘But she’s bold-eyed and sniggers too much.’

  ‘Did they go near the table?’ Corbett asked.

  ‘I can’t tell you. Anyway, why would they do something like that?’ Oswald’s eyes were now shifting about the chamber. ‘We had brothers coming in and out, a stack of wood was brought for the ovens but none of the Concilium entered.’ Oswald licked his lips. ‘Though he did!’ He shifted and pointed to Archdeacon Adrian.

  ‘God’s teeth!’ Wallasby bellowed. ‘I was hungry, I wanted some ale, something to eat. I was preparing to leave.’

  ‘But now you’re not,’ Corbett smiled.

  ‘Yes, he came in,’ Oswald clambered to his feet, fingers shaking, ‘demanding this and demanding that. He had words with Taverner Talbot, asked if he could stay at the inn for the night on his journey back to London.’

  Archdeacon Adrian simply waved his hand. Corbett could tell he was furious.

  ‘I will not deign to answer this. I am a priest, Sir Hugh, a high-ranking official of the Church. I was only here at Abbot Stephen’s insistence and that of the Dominican Order.’

  ‘Were you?’ Corbett asked. ‘Were you really?’ He turned. ‘Brother Oswald, you may go.’

  Ranulf let him out and closed the door. He leaned against it, arms crossed, head back, staring at these assembled notables under heavy-lidded eyes. Ranulf watched Corbett like a cat: sometimes old Master Long Face infuriated him with his brooding ways and taciturn speech. Ranulf had never met a man so self-contained. Corbett was closer than any brother but, over the years, Ranulf had learnt little about this enigmatic clerk. The only passion he showed was when he was with his beautiful wife Maeve. Ranulf smiled to himself. Lady Maeve, with those piercing blue eyes, always frightened Ranulf. It was as if she could stare directly into his soul, and read his thoughts, his secret desires. Oh yes, Corbett’s only passions were Lady Maeve, his children and the law. Always the law! Corbett had once told him that he had seen the work of wolf’s-heads in Wales, an entire hamlet destroyed: women gutted from crotch to neck; men hanging from trees; children butchered. He had never forgotten the sight and learnt a bitter lesson.

  ‘If the law is removed,’ Corbett declared, ‘that’s what we become, Ranulf: animals in the dark tearing at each other.’

  Corbett loved the King but this was tinged with a deep cynicism and wariness, and that was the difference between them. In Ranulf’s eyes whatever the King wanted was the law. Ranulf recalled Taverner and the cunning man’s description of his early days. Ranulf-atte-Newgate was determined on one thing: he would never go back to that. Corbett was his friend and companion but he was also his master and mentor. Ranulf studied Corbett like a hunting dog did its quarry. He glanced at Corbett who sat, elbows on the table, hands clasped over the lower part of his face: a favourite trick, to sit in silence and make the guilty nervous.

  ‘Murderers always talk,’ Corbett had once remarked. ‘They begin by being secretive but, after a while, the power they have grasped goes to their heads. When they talk, they make mistakes.’

  Ranulf also liked to see the powerful ones, the great and the so-called good, squirm before his master’s gaze.

  ‘Sir Hugh, are you praying?’

  ‘Yes, Brother Aelfric, I am.’

  A bell began to toll.

  ‘It is time for divine office,’ Brother Dunstan declared, his hand against the table as if ready to rise.

  ‘Sit down,’ Corbett ordered. ‘I have read the rule of St Benedict. In times of danger and crisis, the office of the day can be suspended. This is the divine office we must address: the matins of murder, the prime of malice, the vespers of death, the nones of justice, the compline of law. I don’t think God wants to hear your prayers. He wants to see justice done. Prior Cuthbert, I suggest you hold a chapter meeting and tell your community that, until these matters are resolved, everyone should walk warily with an eye to his own safety.’

  ‘We are all in the hands of God,’ Prior Cuthbert declared.

  ‘Some of us are,’ Corbett retorted. ‘But others?’ He stirred in the chair.

  ‘What of others?’ Prior Cuthbert demanded.

  ‘There’s an assassin in this abbey,’ Corbett replied. ‘It will take time for the Hand of God to grasp him and mark him like he did Cain.’

  ‘And Brother Hamo?’ Prior Cuthbert demanded.

  ‘Shall I tell you something?’ Corbett pushed his chair back. He got to his feet and, hands down, leaned against the table. ‘Your brother was poisoned. I am no physician so I cannot tell you the substance. Aelfric, in your infirmary you must have many jars, phials, boxes of powder. In the fields outside grow plants which, if ground and drained, would slay a man within a few heartbeats. What chills me about Hamo’s death is that it
wasn’t planned.’

  ‘What?’ Aelfric demanded.

  ‘The assassin is playing a game with us,’ Corbett continued. ‘Abbot Stephen’s puzzling death; Gildas branded, his corpse left sprawling on the burial mound; the cat, its throat slit, fastened to the rood screen; Taverner killed by an arrow. I think the assassin could have killed all of you this morning. Somehow or other he put that poison in the tankard. He really didn’t care who drank from it, as long as one of you did.’

  Brother Dunstan gave a low groan. He buried his face in his hands.

  ‘Like a gambler playing Hazard.’ Corbett gestured with his hand. ‘He rolls the dice and it falls as it will. Our assassin does likewise: poison was put in a tankard when the tray was in the kitchen. It was brought up here,’ Corbett shrugged, ‘and the die was cast.’

  ‘So, any of us could have taken that tankard?’ Prior Cuthbert demanded, his eyes wild with horror.

  ‘Oh yes. The assassin is sending you a warning. He can strike when, and wherever, he wishes. If he wanted he could have killed two, three or all of you.’ Corbett re-took his seat. ‘He’ll play that game until he’s satisfied.’

  ‘What can we do?’ Brother Richard wailed.

  ‘Say your prayers, be careful where you walk, what you eat and drink.’ Corbett tapped the table. ‘And tell me the truth. So, Prior Cuthbert, you are going to tell me the truth, aren’t you? What did the Concilium discuss this morning? What else do I need to know about the abbey of St Martin’s-in-the-Marsh?’

  POTEST NOCENTI CONTINGERE, UT

  LATEAT, LATENDI FIDES NON POTEST

  THE GUILTY CAN HIDE, BUT

  NEVER WITH PEACE OF MIND

  SENECA

  Chapter 6

  The Griffin was snarling, fierce and repellent, its carved lips opened to display a flickering tongue and jagged teeth. Protuberant eyes glared out, its ears were up and pointed back, like a dog ready to attack. Carved in stone the Griffin lurched out of the corner of the wall, eternally springing on some unseen enemy. Corbett studied it carefully. As a boy he’d always been frightened of such images and, when his mother took him to the parish church, he’d avert his eyes. He had this childish fear that, at night, when the sun sank and the clouds gathered to hide the moon, these gargoyles, snarling griffins, tail-lashing dragons, ogres with the heads of baboons, monkeys with the faces of men, all came to life and crawled down the walls to dance on the tombstones in the graveyard. Corbett smiled to himself. In some ways he still believed this. When darkness fell, whatever that darkness was, loathsome creatures came slithering out.

  ‘In the soul,’ Corbett whispered. ‘That’s where you experience the horrid nights of Hell.’

  Standing in front of the abbey church, Corbett gazed up at the tympanum above the doorway. Christ stood in eternal judgement, his left hand slightly raised, his right holding the sword of justice. Seraphs clustered about his haloed head. On the Saviour’s right were the virtuous, hands extended to receive his mercy. On his left stood the sinners, a line of condemned felons, with halters round their necks, being driven into the eternal fire by demons in the shape of centaurs, all armed with swords, spears, daggers and lances, to prod and prick their victims. Corbett would have loved to have climbed up and studied the carving more closely. The stonemasons had a dark sense of humour and often used such carvings to portray their enemies as well as their friends. On either side of the arched doorway beneath the tympanum, two great faces, carved in stone, peered out. On the right was a saintly monk, his eyes raised heavenwards. The one on the left was certainly drunk, with skewered eyeballs and gagging mouth. Corbett walked round the side of the abbey church and in through the Galilee porch. Benches stood on either side where, during inclement weather, the monks could sit to meditate, reflect or doze according to their inclination. Inside, the abbey church was deserted. Gusts of incense, like the prayers of angels, wafted about on the cold afternoon breeze. Beeswax candles, fixed in their iron sockets, provided light as well as the soft fragrance of summer.

  Corbett walked round the church. Occasionally he paused to study the wall paintings, whose vivid colours depicted different themes from the bible. Christ amongst the dead, standing on the shores of Hell gazing sorrowfully across the Sea of Damnation at the army of the lost. Christ feeding the five thousand with little loaves and a basket of fishes. His passion and death depicted in all its horrors: the beaten, crowned head, the blood gushing from the holes in his hands and feet. The Resurrection and all the glories and horrors of the Second Coming. Some of the paintings were ancient and beginning to fade. Others were freshly done. Corbett realised that the more recent had one common theme, the exorcism of demons: Christ healing the Gadarene, a host of black imps bursting out of the poor man’s mouth, their leader shouting: ‘My name is Legion for we are many!’

  Studying the wall paintings, Corbett became acutely aware of the war between the visible and the invisible. He realised most of this must have been done at the behest of Abbot Stephen. The artist had painted dramatically, giving free rein to his vivid imagination. The demons took many forms: sometimes dark figures with eyes burning like coal and the jagged teeth of a hunting dog; monkeys and baboons; even a rabbit with a gargoyle face. In others the theme starkly changed. Corbett recalled the scriptural verse: ‘How Satan could appear as an angel of light.’ In such paintings the fallen Seraph was portrayed as a beautiful young man with eyes of sapphire, hair of glowing gold and face lit by the sun. He was dressed in silken gowns with gold tassels edged with silver. The only clues to his real identity were the horned hands constantly close to the hilt of a dagger or sword. Beneath this, Christ’s words from the gospel of St John, ‘Satan was an assassin from the first’. In all these paintings Lucifer, Satan or Beelzebub appeared as a young courtier, even a handsome knight intent on war. Corbett stood fascinated. Abbot Stephen’s interest in demonology certainly made itself felt. One painting dominated the wall just before the Lady Chapel. It was entitled ‘The First Sin’ and showed Cain beating out the brains of his brother Abel with the bone of an animal. To their right was the altar of sacrifice, and above this the all-seeing eye of God. Corbett studied this painting closely. Beneath the altar were wheels with hub and spokes, very similar to that of the Roman mosaic, as well as the drawings Corbett had seen in the Abbot’s chamber. Corbett continued into the Lady Chapel and lit two candles. He placed both on the spiked candelabra, knelt on the cushions and recited three Aves for Maeve and his family. He then took one of the candles and returned to the painting. Corbett guessed it must be only a few months to a year since it was finished. The more he studied it, the deeper his interest grew.

  The painting was very subtle. Many of its features were hidden by the dark shadows of the transept but Corbett, using the candle, was able to study every detail. He smiled quietly to himself. At first glance it appeared that Cain and Abel were in a desert, sacrificing on a rocky outcrop: in the far distance lay Paradise. The artist, probably at the Abbot’s behest, had depicted this as a place of lush greenness, with trees, plants and elegant buildings. Corbett, however, recognised the abbey of St Martin’s-in-the-Marsh surrounded by its pastures and meadowlands, copses and streams. He could even make out Bloody Meadow with its tumulus surmounted by a cross. Corbett, grasping the candle, sat down at the foot of the pillar and tried to see the painting as a whole. Cain and Abel had been painted as two young men and in the background stood a woman. Was that Eve their mother? She was definitely in mourning, clothed in black from head to toe, hands raised supplicatingly to her face. Next to her stood two young men, dressed in full armour as if guarding her. Were these more sons Corbett thought. Or angels or demons?

  Corbett rose, took the candle, placed it on its iron spigot and continued his journey. He paused for a while at Abbot Stephen’s tomb and murmured a quick prayer. The other side of the church was also decorated with paintings. These were mostly many years old though one was freshly done. It showed the temptations of Christ by Satan, when he was taken up a
high mountain and shown all the glory and pomp of the world. Corbett wasn’t sure whether the figure was meant to signify Christ or Man in general. Beneath the mountain the artist had painted cities and castles with soaring towers and powerful walls. Sumpter ponies, laden with wealth, entered their gateways. Away to the right stood a place of peace. Once again Corbett recognised the abbey of St Martin’s-in-the-Marsh. Is that why Abbot Stephen had become a monk, Corbett wondered? Fleeing from the glories of the world? Corbett went and sat on a bench and stretched out his legs. Ranulf and Chanson had been despatched to the tavern, the ‘Lantern-in-the-Woods’. Such a place was always a source of gossip. Perhaps they could learn something there about the abbey and its community. Corbett felt his mind all a-jumble from his meeting with the Concilium. At first Prior Cuthbert had been reluctant to talk but, urged on by Aelfric and the rest, had confessed to certain irregularities in the life of the community. Who had broken into the tumulus? Was it Abbot Stephen? Prior Cuthbert? Or even Taverner? And what of this codicil? Lady Margaret Harcourt was not going to be pleased by that! Corbett was more bemused by Gildas’s story about the woman he had glimpsed at night walking through the abbey grounds. She had been disguised as a monk, hence the robe and cowl, but who was she? Some wench from the nearby villages? Or Lady Margaret Harcourt? Corbett had decided that, whilst his companions were gone, he would traverse this so-called House of God. He’d try to grasp its soul as well as to acquaint himself with all its galleries and passages, postern gates and doorways. Especially now when the abbey was fairly deserted. Prior Cuthbert had called a meeting of the Chapter, a gathering of the entire community, to warn and advise them. Corbett felt his eyes grow heavy. Ranulf always asked him whether he thought such mysteries, such investigations, were just puzzles like the conundrums posed in the Schools of Oxford?

  ‘You mean like a mathematician?’ Corbett had replied. ‘Or a master of logic trying to resolve some problem?’