Hugh Corbett 13 - Corpse Candle

by Paul Doherty

  ‘And then Sir Reginald disappeared?’

  ‘Yes, one day in autumn. Why, it must be some thirty years ago! A potboy, who has now gone, said he saw Sir Reginald ride by with his pack pony. He recognised him by the livery and escutcheon. According to common report, he went to one of the Eastern ports, took ship and that’s the last anyone ever heard or saw of him again. And, before you ask, sir clerk, I don’t know why, though everyone has a theory.’

  ‘And what’s yours?’

  ‘Sir Reginald was a true fighting man, a knight errant. Perhaps he wanted to go on a pilgrimage?’

  ‘But why didn’t he tell his wife? People say she was as perplexed as anyone.’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Ranulf turned slightly. Rat Face had reappeared and Ranulf didn’t like his companions: men in boots and brown leggings armed with swords and daggers through the rings on their belts, faces almost hidden by cavernous cowls, the front part of their jerkins stretching up to their lower lip. Two carried bows with a quiver of arrows slung on their backs. Talbot followed Ranulf’s gaze. He became distinctly nervous whilst the rest of the customers didn’t look too happy either. The new arrivals went across and sat in a far corner where the shadows gave them some protection, so they could observe the rest of the taproom as closely as they wanted. Ranulf stared out of the window across the garden: the shrubs, herb plots and flowerbeds were still in the grip of a frost which had not thawed during the day. He glimpsed the first snowflakes fall. He knew what had happened. Taverner Talbot may act nervously but the new arrivals were as much a part of this tavern as the tables and chairs. Outlaws, wolf’s-heads, men like Ranulf himself in his early days, who lived in the twilight. They prowled taverns such as this, hunting for easy prey or rich pickings. The taverner always welcomed them, either because he shared their loot or, more importantly, because they provided a constant supply of fresh meat poached from the King’s forest – wild boar and venison. Ranulf wondered if they’d attack two officers of the Crown? He gently kicked Chanson under the table. The groom was staring across at the strangers. Chanson got the message and looked away.

  ‘I’ll get you those eels,’ Talbot blustered.

  ‘And some more ale!’ Ranulf insisted. ‘And do come back!’

  ‘Do you think those strangers will make trouble for us, Ranulf?’ Chanson whispered. ‘Would they harm us?’

  ‘Yes, they would.’ Ranulf’s hand went beneath the table and he tapped his purse. ‘I wager a shilling to a shilling, they have already inspected our horses and harness.’

  Chanson gulped nervously. Of course the horses were some of the finest from the royal stables, whilst the saddles and harness would fetch high prices in any market.

  ‘Then there’s our weapons,’ Ranulf continued, ‘and our clothes, not to mention the purses we carry. And perhaps,’ he sighed, ‘just as importantly, there’s their reputations.’

  ‘What has that got to do with it?’

  ‘They are wolf’s-heads,’ Ranulf declared, keeping his voice at a whisper. ‘They regard these parts as the King does his crown. They decide who comes and goes. Most of these merchants and tinkers probably pay them to travel unscathed.’

  Chanson thought of that cold journey back to the abbey, the silent trees, the deserted, frozen trackway.

  ‘Shouldn’t we go?’

  Ranulf pulled his war belt nearer. ‘I’ve never run from a fight in my life, Chanson. Do you know why? It’s the best way not to get an arrow in your back.’

  Talbot, aided by his now surly-faced daughter, served the eels and ale. Chanson took out his horn spoon and small dagger and began to cut, scooping the food into his mouth. Ranulf ate more slowly, now and again glancing across at the men watching him.

  ‘It’s good food,’ Chanson murmured between mouthfuls. ‘Hot and spicy.’

  Talbot waited until they had finished and re-took his seat.

  ‘And what do you know about Lady Margaret?’ Ranulf demanded. ‘After her husband’s disappearance?’

  ‘She was distraught, according to common report. It became well known that she wanted to follow her husband. Sir Stephen Daubigny agreed to help. They both stopped here on their way to the coast. A few months later, Sir Stephen returned, travel-stained, face all haggard. As for Lady Margaret,’ Talbot lowered his eyes, ‘she was gone over a year and when she came back she was a shadow of her former self: thin, pale-faced. She passed by the tavern with an escort, clothed like the figure of death, in black from head to toe. From that day to this, she has lived as a recluse. I go up to the manor to take supplies and to buy from her. As I said, she comes here very rarely. Our conversations over the years wouldn’t fill half a page of a psalter.’

  ‘And Sir Stephen?’

  The taverner shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘He went straight back to St Martin’s, gave up his arms and took the vows of a monk. The rest you know and, before you ask, clerk, he was a good Father Abbot. Honest and fair in his dealings. Blanche and I were always welcome in the abbey.’

  ‘And the others at St Martin’s?’ Ranulf insisted.

  ‘Oh, they are monks, priests, slightly pompous. We deal with two of them: Cuthbert the Prior, a man of great ambition, and Dunstan the treasurer. We go to them, sometimes they come to us. Now and again we have wine which they would like or,’ he gave a lop-sided smile, ‘meat, fresh from the forest. Well, sirs,’ Talbot drained his tankard and pushed back his stool, ‘more than that I cannot say.’

  ‘Oh, Master Talbot,’ Ranulf beckoned him closer. ‘I’m going to leave now.’

  He was sure the taverner was almost going to thank him but Talbot held his tongue. ‘And when we do,’ Ranulf warned, ‘I don’t want our new arrivals to follow us out.’

  The taverner leaned over. ‘I can only warn you and give some advice.’

  ‘Where will they come?’ Ranulf replied.

  ‘Out on the trackway,’ the taverner replied. ‘You are well mounted. They will try to force you down. You know what will happen then?’

  Ranulf nodded.

  ‘And you can’t prevent them from leaving?’

  Talbot shook his head. ‘They’re Scaribrick’s men. If I interfered, by tomorrow morning this tavern would be gutted.’

  ‘How many?’ Ranulf murmured.

  ‘There are five,’ Talbot whispered, grasping his empty tankard. ‘Thank God for the cold and that they didn’t know you were coming, otherwise it would have been a good score.’

  He hurried away. Ranulf rose and strapped his sword belt on. They left by the rear entrance and walked round to the stables. Chanson checked the horses, their girths and saddles – nothing had been tampered with. They both swung themselves up.

  ‘Get up close!’ Ranulf urged. ‘Come on, Chanson, you’ve got two gifts. One is with horses and the other is with knives.’

  ‘But we are leaving first. They’ll never catch up.’

  ‘I wager they’ve already gone,’ Ranulf declared. ‘Do you remember how that trackway snakes and curves – they’ll be waiting there.’

  They left the tavern. Chanson looked longingly over his shoulder at its warmth and light. The day was dying. Mist curled out from the trees. The trackway stretched before them like some haunted path.

  ‘Couldn’t we gallop?’ Chanson whispered.

  ‘And risk an accident? Haven’t you heard of tricks such as a rope tied across the path? Say your prayers, Chanson.’

  Ranulf loosed the sword in its scabbard and, for the first time that day, Ranulf-atte-Newgate truly prayed.

  ‘Oh Lord, look after Ranulf-atte-Newgate, as Ranulf-atte-Newgate would look after you, if he was God and you were Ranulf-atte-Newgate.’

  He urged his horse slightly forward of Chanson’s. The groom was now truly frightened. The trees on either side of the trackway stood like ghostly sentinels wrapped in a mist which shifted to show the darkness beyond. Now and again faint rustling echoed from the undergrowth or the lonely call of a bird shattered the silence. Chanso
n drew a throwing dagger from his belt and pushed it into the leather strap round his right wrist. They turned a bend. Ranulf almost sighed with relief. Five shadows stood across the path, arrows notched to their bows. He’d expected some sudden rush but the attackers were waiting.

  ‘Don’t rein in!’ Ranulf whispered. ‘Keep the same pace.’

  Chanson obeyed. They continued, the silence broken by the clopping of the horses’ hooves. The line of men across the path wavered. Ranulf smiled grimly, the oldest trick in the book. Their attackers had expected them to stop within bowshot, even to dismount. Ranulf urged his horse on.

  ‘Stop where you are!’ a voice rang out.

  ‘Continue!’ Ranulf whispered.

  Chanson obeyed, only reining in when an arrow whipped over his head.

  ‘What is it you want?’

  Ranulf stood up in the stirrups and looked from left to right. Good, he couldn’t see anyone in the trees on either side.

  ‘Your horses, your weapons, your money and then you can go back to the abbey in your shifts!’

  Ranulf’s hand fell to the hilt of his sword, head down as if he was considering the request.

  ‘Now, Chanson!’

  Ranulf dug his spurs in. The horse leapt forward and Ranulf’s sword came slithering out of its scabbard. Chanson grasped his throwing dagger. Their attackers had relaxed, and lowered their bows. By the time they realised their mistake it was too late. The two horsemen hit them. Chanson threw his dagger. One of the attackers took it full in the mouth. Ranulf, with a scything cut, hit another on the shoulder and turned just in time to deliver a second blow to the attacker on his right. Chanson was eager to continue the gallop but Ranulf turned his horse and went charging back. Only one bowman remained, the other had fled into the forest. Ranulf used his horse and the man went down under its pounding hooves. Ranulf turned, patting his horse, whispering reassuringly to it. Four bodies lay on the trackway. He dismounted and drew his dagger. Two were already dead. He cut the throats of the wounded men, ignoring Chanson’s horrified gasps.

  ‘Well, what am I supposed to do?’ Ranulf crouched down and wiped the blood off his dagger on the jerkin of one of the attackers. ‘Their wounds are grievous, it’s freezing cold and, if we took them back to the abbey, what’s the use of tending them? They attacked the King’s men, that’s treason! They died quickly.’

  He ordered Chanson to collect the weapons but, when he inspected these, he kept only a dagger, throwing the rest into the darkness.

  ‘Let Master Talbot bury them,’ he murmured. ‘Now, let’s see what these men have?’

  Ranulf opened their wallets and emptied the contents into his hand. He put the coins in his purse but gave a cry of surprise and held up what he had found against the poor light.

  ‘What is it?’ Chanson demanded.

  ‘It’s a seal,’ Ranulf declared, peering at it. ‘The seal of St Martin’s-in-the-Marsh. Now, why should an outlaw, a wolf’s-head, have a seal like this? It’s not valuable. So, it’s either a keepsake or . . .’

  ‘Or what?’ Chanson demanded.

  ‘Something like a licence or a warrant. You show it to someone, they recognise it and allow you to pass. Or it could be a sign?’

  ‘Are you saying the outlaws do business with the abbey?’

  ‘Possibly,’ Ranulf declared. ‘Perhaps for a payment they left the brothers alone? Allowed them to come and go unhindered.’

  Ranulf got to his feet. He stared down at the stiffening corpses. Deep in the trees an owl hooted. Chanson tried not to shiver: the owl was a harbinger of death.

  ‘It’s time we returned,’ he said.

  They remounted leaving their bloody handiwork behind them. Ranulf felt exhausted after the attack. He had no compunction about the men he had slain. They would have taken his life as quickly, and without thought, like someone snuffing a candle. Moreover, such outlaws did not kill swiftly: they often tortured their victims. Ranulf pulled his cloak tighter around him as the snowflakes began to fall. He reflected on what he had seen at the Lantern-in-the-Woods: Talbot’s daughter Blanche, her gold cross on its silver chain, the costly-looking bracelet, the rings. Who in these parts could afford such expensive items? Blanche certainly smelt sweetly. Ranulf recalled the story about a scented woman, disguised in the robe and cowl of a monk, being glimpsed in the abbey grounds at night.

  ‘Come on, Chanson!’ he urged.

  Ranulf dug in his spurs, urging his horse into a gallop. Chanson was only too eager to follow. Darkness had fallen and the snow was already beginning to lie.

  ‘I wonder if it will continue all night?’ Chanson shouted.

  ‘I wonder what old Master Long Face is doing?’ Ranulf retorted.

  At last the abbey came into sight. Dark massed buildings, with sconce torches flickering on either side of the entrance. A lantern gleamed in the window of the small chamber above the gatehouse. Ranulf reined in. A small postern door opened and a brother hurried out carrying a lantern.

  ‘Who are you?’ he called.

  ‘Ranulf-atte-Newgate and Chanson.’

  ‘Very well! Very well!’

  The monk disappeared inside. The bar was removed and the door swung open. Ranulf was about to dig his spurs in when the first fire arrow shot out of the darkness and fell, leaving a trail of fiery light, into the abbey grounds.

  Corbett sat on a stool before the brazier warming his fingers. Archdeacon Adrian had left his room abruptly. Corbett, once again, had ordered him not to leave the abbey until his investigations were completed. Corbett heard the cries from the courtyard below, and hastily put on boots and cloak and hurried down as a second fire arrow smacked into the cobbles, its flame spluttering out in the icy slush.

  ‘What is it?’ Corbett demanded of a lay brother who came hurtling round the corner.

  ‘Oh, thanks be to God, Sir Hugh!’ He peered through the darkness. ‘It is you?’

  ‘Is the abbey under attack?’ Corbett demanded.

  ‘We don’t know.’

  Corbett stared up at the sky. Two more fire arrows were falling in a blazing arc.

  ‘Tell Prior Cuthbert to take comfort,’ Corbett declared. ‘They can do little harm. By the time they fall they are spent.’

  Corbett watched another score through the night sky: the mysterious archer must be just beyond the walls, moving quickly to give the impression that more than one bowman was loosing these fiery shafts. The lay brother scurried off. There was little Corbett could do and it was now freezing cold, so he went back into the guesthouse. He had hardly reached his chamber when he heard voices downstairs. Ranulf and Chanson came clattering up, spurs jingling noisily.

  ‘It’s cold,’ Ranulf groaned. ‘I didn’t know how cold it was until after the attack.’

  He and Chanson ripped off their gauntlets and held their fingers out to the flames.

  ‘Don’t warm them too long,’ Corbett warned. ‘You’ll have chilblains. What’s this about an attack?’

  Corbett poured goblets of wine. As they drank, Ranulf quickly told him what had happened at the Lantern-in-the-Woods.

  ‘You did well,’ Corbett declared. ‘The outlaws deserved their deaths. Let me see the seal!’

  Ranulf handed it over. Corbett scrutinised it carefully in the light of a candle.

  ‘And what happened here, Master?’

  Corbett told him what he had seen, his meetings with Brother Dunstan and the Archdeacon. Ranulf whistled under his breath.

  ‘Nothing is what it appears to be, eh, Master?’

  ‘It never is,’ Corbett replied, still examining the seal.

  ‘What is so interesting about it?’

  ‘As you said,’ Corbett tossed the seal back to him, ‘why should an outlaw be carrying that? It was not taken from a letter or a charter. The seal is not broken. It was specially made and given to someone to use as a sign. You have your suspicions?’

  Ranulf quickly told him about Blanche the tavern wench, the costly necklace, bracelet and rings. Cor
bett heard him out. He sat half listening to the bells tolling for vespers.

  ‘Do you ever read the divine office, Ranulf? The verse about Satan like a raging lion, hunting, seeking whom he may devour. Our assassin’s like that. He’s observed the foibles and weaknesses of others. I half suspect that Brother Dunstan could be his next victim.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because he’s immoral,’ Corbett declared. ‘Chanson, go and fetch him. Tell him to come alone. I wish to have words.’

  ‘Do you really think he could be the next victim?’ Ranulf asked as the groom clattered down the stairs.

  ‘Ranulf, I believe the assassin intends to kill every member of that Concilium. I don’t know why, but I suspect that one of the roots of these present troubles is that damnable guesthouse and Bloody Meadow: the Concilium hid their feelings well but, I suspect, Prior Cuthbert and the rest championed that cause as fiercely as any lawyer before King’s Bench.’

  ‘You talked of one root?’

  ‘Ah!’ Corbett got up and stretched. ‘I’m getting hungry.’ He patted his stomach. ‘Not just for food but the truth. There is another deeper root, I don’t yet know what. Abbot Stephen may be the key.’

  Chanson returned, with Brother Dunstan following dolefully behind.

  ‘Close the door,’ Corbett ordered. He gestured to a stool. ‘Sit down.’

  ‘Why do you wish to question me?’ Brother Dunstan’s hands were trembling so much he hid them up his sleeves.

  Corbett took a stool and sat opposite.

  ‘You know why I do. When I met you down at Falcon Brook, Brother, you were like a man lost in your sins. What caused it? Guilt? Remorse?’

  ‘We all sin,’ Brother Dunstan tried to assert himself.

  ‘Yes, we do but some more secretly than others. I don’t want to torture you, Brother, so I’ll come swiftly to the point. You are treasurer of this great abbey. You and the brothers send carts to buy provender and sell your produce in the markets. You travel hither and thither. How many times have you been attacked by outlaws?’