Hugh Corbett 13 - Corpse Candle

by Paul Doherty

  The Archdeacon was now visibly nervous.

  ‘Would you like some wine?’ Corbett offered. ‘Perhaps a piece of bread and cheese? No? Well, when I went through Master Taverner’s possessions I came across a small ledger, a journal he kept. More importantly, I discovered a licence to beg, as well as permission to go beyond the seas, both granted by your court. The licences were issued early in the autumn on the eve of the feast of St Matthew the Apostle. Now, correct me if I am wrong, Archdeacon, but I believe you gave Master Taverner both money and licences. He left on a ship from the Thames carrying supplies up the Eastern coast. Taverner secured his passage, landed and made his way to St Martin’s-in-the-Marsh. He really was a master of disguise, a deceitful schemer. He had been furnished with other letters and embellished his story with references to being seen by priests in London. Abbot Stephen accepted him as a bona fide appellant, desperate for spiritual help and comfort. Taverner proved equal to the task, and convinced Abbot Stephen that he was possessed. Abbot Stephen rose to the bait. He may have had doubts initially but these slowly crumbled away so he wrote to you and your Dominican friends in London.’

  Corbett paused, went across and filled a goblet half full of wine and sipped the blood-red claret. Corbett smacked his lips.

  ‘You are sure, Archdeacon, you won’t join me? I could even warm you a posset cup?’

  Wallasby stared back owl-eyed.

  ‘I did wonder,’ Corbett re-took his seat, ‘why such a busy cleric as yourself should come hurrying north at Abbot Stephen’s behest? Couldn’t it have waited – after all you are so busy? Anyway, you arrived here, and proclaimed yourself impressed by Taverner’s performance but then the mummery you planned was overtaken by murder.’

  The priest rubbed the side of his face as if he was in pain.

  ‘I . . . I . . .’ he stammered.

  ‘Please don’t lie,’ Corbett urged. ‘Archdeacon, you should never trust a man like Taverner! He was supposed to get rid of those letters and licences, wasn’t he? But a trickster like him never destroys anything, not knowing whether it might come in useful.’

  ‘It’s true,’ the Archdeacon sighed. ‘Sir Hugh,’ he paused, ‘Abbot Stephen was a man whom, I believe, the Church did not need. I am orthodox – I believe in Satan and hellfire – but the world is changing. New knowledge, new sciences are coming out of the east. We no longer believe that every disaster is the work of Satan, that contagion, infection, yes even murder and theft, are part of one vast conspiracy by an unseen horde of demons. It’s good for priests to use hellfire to frighten the faithful but Abbot Stephen . . .?’ He shook his head. ‘What had he to do with the Schools of Oxford or Cambridge, the writings of Plato or Aristotle, the business of the law or Parliament?’ The Archdeacon regained confidence as he spoke. ‘Yes, I am a judge of the Church. I sit in my court and see men like Taverner fleece the superstitious. Now, Taverner I can take care of. But an abbot, a lord spiritual? I wanted to prove him wrong.’

  ‘No,’ Corbett interrupted. ‘You wanted to teach him a lesson. What would have happened?’ he insisted. ‘Would the exorcism have collapsed? Would Taverner have proclaimed who he really was and what he was doing? You would have made Abbot Stephen a laughing stock. A mockery from one end of the realm to the other. Do you think the King would have been pleased?’

  The Archdeacon made to protest.

  ‘You would have destroyed him! It proves you had little love for Abbot Stephen.’

  Wallasby sprang to his feet.

  ‘Sit down!’ Corbett ordered. ‘You came here to ask me permission to leave, which I’ve denied. Now, I am giving you the reason why. You hired Taverner to make a mockery of Abbot Stephen’s theories. You travelled north to join him in this mummery. I don’t believe, Archdeacon, that this was an academic exercise. It goes deeper than that. What was it? A malicious joke? Did Abbot Stephen block your preferment, hinder your progress?’ Corbett clapped his hands so noisily the Archdeacon jumped. ‘You can make your confession now, priest, or I can wring it from you in the presence of the King. I want the truth!’

  ‘Two years ago,’ the Archdeacon muttered, wiping the sweaty palms of his hands down his robe, ‘the King sent a solemn embassy to Paris.’

  ‘Ah yes, about the negotiations for the marriage of the Prince of Wales to Isabella, King Philip’s daughter?’

  ‘The same. The Bishop of London chose me to be part of the delegation but Abbot Stephen vetoed my place.’

  ‘Did he give a reason?’ Corbett demanded.

  ‘He was part of the same embassy. He claimed that the negotiations would be convoluted and prolonged, and that it was therefore inappropriate for men who had clashed in matters spiritual to be together on such an issue.’

  ‘You disliked him, didn’t you?’ Corbett murmured. ‘And Abbot Stephen knew that?’

  ‘I am giving you my reason, Corbett,’ Wallasby paused. ‘I didn’t like Abbot Stephen and he didn’t like me. I vowed to teach him a lesson.’

  ‘And what went wrong?’

  ‘What do you . . .’

  ‘I wonder what went wrong?’ Corbett repeated. ‘When you arrived at St Martin’s you must have had private words with Taverner, well away from prying eyes or any eavesdropper. Had Taverner changed his mind? Abbot Stephen was a good priest, who had welcomed Taverner kindly. Perhaps Taverner thought it more profitable to win the Abbot’s favour by continuing to act the possessed man, than to be party to your trickery. You must have been furious to see your subtle ploy drain away like water down a hole. Abbot Stephen had, unwittingly, turned the tables so that you, because of your own stupidity, would be forced to watch his greatest triumph.’

  ‘You have no proof of that!’

  Corbett got up, went across and opened the shutters. He pushed open the small latticed door window.

  ‘It’s snowing heavily,’ he murmured. ‘I doubt if you could travel to London anyway.’

  Corbett stared down at the courtyard and the pool of light thrown by a cresset torch in its bracket on the corner of the building. He heard a sound, closed the window and turned round. Archdeacon Wallasby was now helping himself to a goblet of wine.

  ‘Don’t talk to me of proof. I’m correct, aren’t I?’

  ‘Yes, you are,’ Wallasby replied. ‘I was furious. I questioned Taverner who acted the holy innocent. He said that he had only met me once in his life and that I had driven him away with curses. I reminded him about the silver I had given him. “What money?” he asked. I threatened to expose him.’

  ‘But, of course, you couldn’t do that,’ Corbett interrupted. ‘To expose Taverner would be to betray yourself as no better than him: a liar and a trickster. What else did Taverner threaten? To go and confess all to Father Abbot?’

  The Archdeacon slurped from the wine cup.

  ‘Once he did that, the tables would have been truly turned,’ Corbett continued. ‘Abbot Stephen could declare that he had seen through the trickery and mummery and secured a full confession from Taverner. Our cunning man must have been delighted. He had you in the palm of his hand. You had no choice but to accept. Were you angry?’

  Corbett walked across and pushed his face only a few inches from the priest.

  ‘I wonder if you were angry enough to commit murder?’

  Wallasby stepped back and drank quickly from the goblet.

  ‘You shouldn’t say that.’

  ‘Why not? You disliked Abbot Stephen and he’s dead. You must have been furious with Taverner and he’s dead.’

  ‘And sub-prior Hamo?’

  ‘Now, there’s a coincidence.’ Corbett declared. ‘You were in the kitchens this morning when the bread and ale were laid out on that tray. Shall I search your possessions, Archdeacon Wallasby? Will I find powders and potions?’

  ‘You can search where you like!’ the priest snarled.

  ‘You have no right to make such allegations!’

  ‘I can’t say how you broke into the Abbot’s chamber,’ Corbett went and sat on the edge
of the bed. ‘But you are a strong man, Archdeacon Wallasby. Do you carry a bow?’

  ‘Of course I do, as did my escort here.’

  ‘Can you bring it here?’

  Wallasby put the cup back on the table, mouth quivering.

  ‘You don’t have to, do you?’ Corbett demanded. ‘I would wager, Master Archdeacon, that the arrow which killed poor Taverner came from the quiver you hold, and you know that!’

  ITA VITAST HOMINUM QUASI QUOM

  LUDAS TESSERIS

  HUMAN LIFE IS A

  GAME OF DICE

  TERENCE

  Chapter 7

  The Lantern-in-the-Woods was a large, spacious tavern which stood off the muddy trackway under a canopy of surrounding trees. Built of black timbers and snow-white plaster, the sight of its red-tiled roof and the garish sign hung above the doorway, was a welcoming beacon for any traveller. The taproom was broad and well lit. The ale casks and wine tuns stood stacked to the right of the great hearth and, to the left, a narrow passageway led into the kitchen. Chanson slipped the reins into a groom’s hands and joined Ranulf as he stood on the threshold peering in.

  ‘What are we to do?’

  Ranulf threw his cloak over his shoulder and grasped the hilt of his sword.

  ‘This is the parish well, Chanson.’

  The groom gazed back in puzzlement.

  ‘It’s where everybody gathers,’ Ranulf explained. ‘Peasants, tinkers, traders, chapmen, merchants. They all come to listen to the gossip, exchange news, spit and clasp hands on bargains.’ Ranulf looked into the taproom. ‘As well as drink and eat as much as their bellies can take. Now, Chanson, look at me.’

  ‘Are you making fun of my eye?’

  ‘No, I am not. What have I taught you about walking into a tavern?’

  Chanson closed his eyes. ‘Always throw your cloak back over your shoulder.’ He did this hastily. ‘Grasp the hilt of your dagger. Swagger in. Stop and, when the landlord comes across, don’t look at him but rap out your orders.’

  ‘Very good!’ Ranulf smiled. ‘And why is that?’

  ‘Because you are a stranger and the people inside must get the measure of you.’

  ‘Very good! What else?’

  ‘Always sit with your back to the wall. Find out which door and windows you can escape through, if you have to leave in a hurry.’

  ‘Excellent!’ Ranulf grinned. ‘Lovely boy! You’re going to be a true clerk of the stables.’

  ‘And what about Sir Hugh’s rules?’ Chanson added mischievously.

  ‘Oh yes,’ Ranulf declared wryly. ‘Don’t engage in games of dice or hazard. Keep your hands off the wenches and be careful what you drink.’

  Ranulf stood aside as a pedlar, a tray around his neck, hurried into the welcoming taproom.

  ‘Well, old Master Long Face would say that, wouldn’t he?’

  ‘Why are we here?’ Chanson asked.

  ‘Oh, to listen to the tittle-tattle and gossip. Now, come on, my belly thinks my throat’s been slit.’

  Ranulf swaggered in. He stood, feet apart, staring round the taproom. The conversation died. A relic-seller wiped his nose on his sleeve and peered across.

  ‘Who are you?’ he bawled.

  Someone grasped the relic-seller by the shoulder and whispered quickly into his ear, and he slunk into the shadows.

  ‘You are from the abbey.’

  Talbot the taverner, his head bald as a gleaming egg, eyes almost hidden in folds of fat, his protruding belly covered by a blood-stained apron, bustled out from behind the counter.

  ‘How do you know that?’ Ranulf asked.

  The taverner tapped his fleshy nose.

  ‘Oh come, sirs.’

  He led them across as if they were princes, gesturing at a group of farmers who occupied the table near the window to move away. They hastily obeyed, taking their platters of food with them. A wet cloth appeared in the taverner’s hand and he cleaned the grease-covered table.

  ‘You’ll try the ale, sir? Home brewed with a dish of eels, salted and roasted? A nice vegetable sauce with chopped parsley and cream?’

  ‘That will do nicely.’ Ranulf eased himself down. ‘And bring a tankard for yourself.’

  The smile disappeared from the taverner’s oily face.

  ‘But, sir, I run a tavern. I . . .’

  ‘Sir, you run a tavern,’ Ranulf agreed, ‘and that’s why I want to talk to you. You don’t object to talking to a King’s man, do you?’ His voice rose slightly.

  ‘I’ll send Blanche across,’ Talbot muttered.

  He finished cleaning the table and hurried away. Ranulf took off his war belt and slammed it down on the table. The rest of the customers decided not to continue staring. A young, spotty-faced man picked up his pet weasel and clutched it in his lap, turning his back as if fearful that the King’s man would come over and arrest it.

  ‘You enjoy this, don’t you?’ Chanson muttered. ‘You like the power?’

  ‘No, I don’t,’ Ranulf stared round the tavern. ‘If we become unpopular here, Chanson, I am afraid it’s through that window, round to the stables and away we go.’

  ‘You expect trouble?’

  ‘Well, as we came in,’ Ranulf indicated with his thumb to the door at the rear, ‘a small, greasy-haired, rat-faced man disappeared through there like a rabbit down a hole. Now, he’s either fearful or gone to warn someone. Ah well, we’ll see.’ Ranulf peered out through the mullioned glass to stare up at the sky. ‘I am not a country man, Chanson. Give me a London tavern and a smelly street in Southwark any day. However, even I know it’s going to snow: the clouds are low and grey.’

  Chanson recalled their freezing journey along those lonely trackways and shivered.

  ‘We’ll be back in the abbey before dark, won’t we?’

  ‘We’ll be back when we’ve finished,’ Ranulf agreed. ‘Ah, who is this?’

  A tavern wench came trotting across; she had red, curly hair under a white mobcap, slanted eyes with high cheekbones, and her face was slightly flushed. Ranulf admired her fine lips and the green smock, slightly too tight, which emphasized her generous bosom and broad hips. He looked down at her small buckled boots peeping out from beneath the flounced petticoats. She paused and grinned at Ranulf, allowing him a full view of her. She slowly put the tankards down, brushing Ranulf’s hand, almost thrusting her breasts into his face.

  ‘King’s men are we?’ she grinned. ‘With fine leather boots and broad war belts?’ She raised an eyebrow archly. ‘We don’t get your sorts often in these parts.’

  ‘What sorts do you get?’ Ranulf demanded.

  The girl, hands on hips, shrugged. Ranulf noticed the beautiful gold cross on a silver chain round her neck, the fine rings on both hands and the silver chased bracelet clasping her left wrist.

  ‘You are Blanche, Talbot’s daughter?’

  Her smile faded. ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘Oh, just by the way you act. A potboy was going to bring the tankards across but you took them off him.’

  ‘Why sir,’ Blanche cooed, ‘you are sharper than I am.’

  And, turning on her heel, she flounced off.

  ‘The girls always like you, Ranulf.’

  ‘And I like them, Chanson.’ Ranulf leaned across and tapped the groom’s face with his gauntlets. ‘You are a good-looking lad. If you had your hair cut and washed more often, the girls would like you too.’

  Chanson coloured and hid his face in the tankard to hide his embarrassment.

  ‘Would you ever marry, Master Ranulf?’

  ‘Better to marry than to burn, as St Paul says. Sometimes I wonder. Do you think, Chanson,’ Ranulf took another sip from the tankard, ‘that I should enter the church, become a priest?’

  Chanson raised his tankard to hide his face. Ranulf often discussed this, and it was the only time Chanson ever felt like laughing out loud at his companion. Ranulf, however, didn’t think it was funny. He sat steely faced.

  ‘But you like the
ladies, Master Ranulf?’

  ‘So do many priests.’

  ‘And you have never been in love?’

  ‘You know the answer to that.’ Ranulf mockingly toasted him with his tankard.

  ‘Ah sirs, how can I help you?’

  The taverner came up, scooped up a stool and sat down between them.

  ‘You promised us some eels?’

  ‘They are coming.’

  ‘How old are you, Master Talbot?’

  ‘According to my accounts, I’ll be fifty-six summers on the eve of the Beheading of John the Baptist.’

  ‘And you have always lived here?’

  ‘Oh yes, and my father before me.’

  ‘So, you know about the Harcourts?’

  ‘Ah now, there’s a mystery.’ The landlord put his tankard down on the table. ‘Lady Margaret comes here once or twice a year. She’s always kindly and gracious, very much the high-born lady.’

  ‘And her husband?’

  ‘That’s a strange thing. Their marriage was arranged but the service was performed at the door to the abbey church. I was there as a young man. Oh, it was very splendid, with banners and pennants, lords and ladies in their velvets and silks. Lady Margaret rode a milk-white palfrey, Sir Reginald a great war horse. Sir Stephen Daubigny, who later became Abbot, looked a true warrior in his royal surcoat. There was feasting and revelry. Daubigny and Harcourt.’ The landlord held up his hand, two fingers locked together. ‘Sworn brothers they were, in peace and war, boon companions.’

  ‘And Lady Margaret? Did she like the man who later became the Abbot?’

  ‘I don’t know. I remember watching her, both on that day and afterwards. All three of them came here once to feast,’ Talbot pointed towards the doorway, ‘One bright summer’s day. Sir Reginald came in, one arm linked through Lady Margaret’s, the other through Sir Stephen’s. Some other guests were present. I laid out a special table and we served them with the best dishes. Roast venison . . .’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course,’ Ranulf interrupted. ‘But what of Lady Margaret and Sir Stephen?’

  ‘They didn’t seem to like each other. Sir Reginald arranged the seating, so that Sir Stephen was supposed to sit on Lady Margaret’s left, but she objected. I remember Daubigny just shrugged. He went and sat beside his friend. During the meal, Daubigny and Lady Margaret hardly looked at each other or exchanged a word.’