Hugh Corbett 13 - Corpse Candle

by Paul Doherty

  ‘And where’s Archdeacon Adrian?’ Ranulf demanded.

  ‘He refused my invitation to the refectory.’ Prior Cuthbert shook his head. ‘Perditus said he was in a terrible temper, declaring that he would keep to his own chamber and dine by himself.’

  ‘As we shall too,’ Corbett declared. ‘Prior Cuthbert, tell your monks to finish their meal. My companions and I will return to the guesthouse. We will eat whatever you send across.’

  Once they were back, Chanson lit candles and oil lamps and fired the brazier. Ranulf secured the doors and windows.

  ‘Why?’ Ranulf demanded. ‘Why slay a librarian? An archivist?’

  Corbett sat on the bed and took the books out of his jerkin.

  ‘For the same reason he attacked us, Ranulf.’ He smiled grimly. ‘To give the assassin his due, he warned me not to stay. If royal emissaries were driven out of an abbey, the King would not be pleased but, because we tarried, he struck. The same is true of poor Brother Francis. Think of a fox stalking chickens, Ranulf; that’s what our killer has become. I doubt if he knew Brother Francis was searching for something but he did learn that he was by himself.’

  Corbett paused at a knock on the door. Perditus came through bearing a tray of steaming food which he placed on the table.

  ‘What is Father Prior planning?’ Ranulf asked.

  The lay brother made sure the tray was carefully laid and shrugged.

  ‘I have told him he should send to the sheriff for armed retainers. But,’ he sighed, ‘that will take days. What we need are spearmen and archers to patrol the passageways. Guards on the trackways outside. I’ve told Father Prior that more braziers should be lit. There are high places in this abbey where sentinels could be positioned but . . . I am only a lay brother—’

  Corbett glanced up. ‘Have you taken solemn vows, Perditus?’

  ‘No, just simple ones. I could, if I wished, leave this place.’

  ‘And will you?’

  Perditus shook his head. ‘I love St Martin’s and the community here is good to me.’

  ‘And the killer?’ Corbett asked.

  ‘Oh, he is undoubtedly a member of this community.’

  ‘Or Archdeacon Adrian?’

  ‘True,’ Perditus agreed. ‘He does not like St Martin’s-in-the-Marsh. But, I must rejoin my brothers.’

  Corbett excused him and opened the first book. He quickly thumbed through the yellowing, crackling papers: it was nothing more than a copy of an Anglo-Saxon chronicle, carefully transcribed by some long-dead monk. The loose pages at either end contained nothing remarkable. The second book was more interesting: it contained extracts of the Latin poet Ovid’s great work On the Art of Loving. Corbett smiled at some of the verses. In his youth he had seen such poetry in the libraries of Oxford and, in his courting of Lady Maeve, had even used some of the famous verses. The pages at the end allowed scholars to write their own thoughts. Corbett recognised Abbot Stephen’s hand in some simple verses of regret. He cleared his throat and studied it more carefully.

  ‘What is it, Master?’

  ‘“In youth I served my time”,’

  Corbett began.

  ‘“In kissing and making love.

  Now that I must retreat,

  I feel my heart breaking.

  Ah God, it is your food today

  That feeds me, not kisses.”’

  ‘Who wrote that?’ Ranulf demanded.

  ‘Abbot Stephen did as a young monk.’

  ‘You can recognise his hand so well?’

  Corbett smiled, turned the book and tapped the foot of the page. Ranulf peered at the drawing.

  ‘It’s the wheel!’ Ranulf exclaimed. ‘Look, the hubs, spokes, and rim! It’s like the mosaic down in the cellar. Why should Abbot Stephen have written that?’

  ‘A monk besotted by love, Ranulf. As Brother Dunstan is now, Abbot Stephen in his time was no better. I wonder—?’ Corbett weighed the book in his hands.

  ‘Do you want some food?’ Chanson called out.

  ‘Of course he does!’ Ranulf snapped.

  Chanson placed a strip of pork on a trauncher, cut up the bread and served it. Corbett balanced it on his lap.

  ‘Before I left the King,’ Corbett paused as if distracted, ‘ah, yes, His Grace informed me that there were many theories as to why Stephen Daubigny entered a religious order. One of the most popular was that he fell in love with a young woman who became a nun and died rather young. Now the King said he had little proof of this except for an incident one day when he visited Abbot Stephen here in St Martin’s. Now you know our noble King likes nothing better than teasing a churchman, especially when he’s in his cups. The Queen was present with her beautiful ladies-in-waiting,’ Corbett winked at Ranulf, ‘who are always smiling at you. “Stephen”, the King declared. “Are you not distracted by beauty such as this?” The abbot replied that he was but he had his calling and they had theirs. His Grace laughed. “Have you ever loved, Stephen?”. The abbot grew sad. “Once, my lord, I did but the rose withered in a cold hard frost.” “Dead?” the King asked. “Oh yes,” Abbot Stephen replied. “And gone to God”.’

  Ranulf listened with interest. He wished he had met Abbot Stephen, who seemed to have been a man after his own heart. Deep down Ranulf nursed great ambition. He wanted to be like Abbot Stephen: a warrior, a poet, a lover of fine things and beautiful women.

  ‘Ranulf, what’s the matter?’

  ‘Sorry, Master, just distracted.’

  ‘Aye.’ Corbett put the books down and picked up a piece of pork with his fingers. ‘Do you know, Ranulf, I suspect Abbot Stephen was distracted all his life. At first I thought it was by demons or all things Roman. Now, I’m beginning to believe it may have been by love.’

  SEMPER IN ABSENTES

  FELICIOR AESTUS AMANTES

  PASSION IS ALWAYS STRONGER

  FOR ABSENT LOVERS

  PROPERTIUS

  Chapter 9

  Corbett led Ranulf and Chanson out of the line of trees which fringed the trackway to Harcourt Manor. Snow had fallen heavily during the night, blanketing everything in its white stillness. It lay heavy on ledges and cornices, swept up deep against the wall of this great timber and stone mansion. Harcourt Manor was well situated on the brow of a gently sloping hill, surrounded by its own demesne. Corbett had passed barns and granges, seen labourers out in the fields doing what they could in such inclement weather. A line of hunters had greeted them, the corpses of rabbits and other game slung from a pole. Corbett now studied Harcourt Manor: the old house had probably been destroyed and replaced with this three-storeyed building of grey ragstone, red-tiled roof and large windows, some of them filled with coloured glass. The stonemasons had added gargoyles and statues, and it was a place of obvious wealth and power. The manor was approached by sweeping stone steps which led up to double oaken doors. One of these was now pulled apart, as grooms and ostlers hurried round to take their horses. Corbett glimpsed a lady with a white wimple on her head, dressed in a dark-blue dress with a silver belt round her waist.

  ‘My name is Pendler.’

  A small, red-faced man bustled up, cowl pulled tightly over his head to protect his ears from the cold. He looked Corbett over from head to toe. He could tell this visitor was important.

  ‘I know who they are.’ The woman’s voice cut clean through the air. ‘The King’s emissaries are always welcome. Sir Hugh . . .’

  Lady Margaret came and stood at the top of the steps. Corbett smiled, his breath hanging heavy in the air. He went up and kissed Lady Margaret’s proffered hand. It was soft and warm. She wore mittens against the cold but on one finger he glimpsed a sparkling amethyst ring.

  ‘Very much the courtier.’ Lady Margaret grasped his hand and led him forward. ‘And your companions, they are welcome too.’

  At first glance Corbett considered Lady Margaret beautiful, despite the greying hair peeping from beneath the wimple, the furrows and lines in her creamy-skinned face. Her lips were full and red
, her nose slightly pointed, her eyes large, grey and lustrous, amused but watchful.

  ‘You knew I was coming, Lady Margaret?’

  ‘Sir Hugh, everybody in the shire knows you are here with your henchmen Ranulf-atte-Newgate and Chanson the groom. You are at St Martin’s-in-the-Marsh? We have heard of the terrible murders there.’ Her eyes were no longer amused. She picked up the hem of her skirt. ‘You’d best come in.’

  She stepped over the lintel and led Corbett into a dark oak-panelled hallway, warm and fragrant-smelling, its light was mirrored in the polished oak walls, the balustrade and newel post on the wide sweeping staircase. Servants hurried up to take Corbett’s cloak and war belt, after which Lady Margaret led her visitors into a small parlour. There was a window seat at one end, with the the shutters pulled back. The chamber was dominated by a huge carved hearth where a fire roared gustily. Lady Margaret gestured at a chair in front of this whilst she took the other. A servant led Chanson and Ranulf over to the window seat. A small table was set between Corbett and Lady Margaret. Plates of sweetmeats and sugared almonds were served whilst a scullion brought deep bowled cups of posset. Corbett took a cup and drank. The wine was hot, laced with nutmeg and other herbs: a welcome relief from the chill of his journey from St Martin’s. Lady Margaret sipped at hers, sitting back in the chair with her face slightly turned away. You have a great deal to hide, Corbett thought, you are welcoming but secretive. He stared round the chamber: its walls were half-panelled and above hung paintings, a crucifix and richly coloured cloths. Behind him a large Turkey carpet covered most of the floor. On each side of the fireplace were cupboards and, above these, rows of shelves bearing ornaments, statues, a gold crucifix and a triptych. He glanced back at the fire; its warmth made him relax and he stretched out his legs. Corbett was amused by the gargoyles on either side of the fireplace, which had women’s faces framed in chainmail and war-like helmets.

  ‘A fanciful notion of Sir Reginald’s father,’ Lady Margaret observed, following Corbett’s gaze. ‘The manor house is full of them. He had more than a fair sense of humour.’

  She put the goblet on the table and laid the white napkin across her lap, smoothing it out, folding it and unfolding it.

  ‘Well, Sir Hugh, I am sure you aren’t here just out of courtesy.’ She turned to face him fully. ‘There is other business?’

  ‘Your friend Stephen Daubigny is dead.’

  ‘I had no friend called Stephen Daubigny,’ she replied quietly.

  Lady Margaret stared across at Ranulf and Chanson in the window seat, both pretending to be distracted by something in the garden outside.

  ‘I do regret Abbot Stephen’s death.’

  ‘Murder, Madam! Sir Stephen Daubigny was murdered.’

  ‘Are you sure of that?’ Lady Margaret refolded her napkin.

  ‘He was found in his chamber with his own dagger thrust through his chest.’

  ‘I am sorry, Sir Hugh – no man should die like that.’ Lady Margaret looked away. ‘Abbot Stephen was a good man but, to me . . .’ She shrugged one shoulder.

  ‘Did you like him?’

  ‘Abbot Stephen was my rival. He laid claim to Falcon Brook, and that tiresome Prior Cuthbert has also hinted that a codicil existed whereby St Martin’s could claim more of our land. I informed him that my lawyers would fight such claims tooth and nail in the Court of Chancery.’

  ‘Did you ever meet Abbot Stephen?’

  ‘On occasions, from afar. But no, Sir Hugh, I did not like him and he did not like me.’

  ‘Because he was an abbot who claimed some of your lands? Or because he was Sir Stephen Daubigny?’

  ‘Both.’

  Corbett sipped from his wine and deliberately moved his chair to the side to get a better view. Lady Margaret reminded him of some of the noble widows at Edward’s court: graceful, comely, charming but with a tart tongue and a will of steel.

  ‘You manage these estates yourself?’

  ‘I have stewards, bailiffs.’ She smiled impishly. ‘And, above all, lawyers.’

  ‘And you never married again?’

  Lady Margaret blinked. ‘Oh, Sir Hugh,’ she murmured, ‘don’t play games with me.’ She leaned over and patted his hand. ‘I met you at court once. We were not introduced so don’t be embarrassed that you can’t recall my name or face. It was three years ago, on the Feast of the Epiphany, at a Crown-Wearing ceremony. You know how Edward loves such occasions?’

  Corbett laughed softly.

  ‘He was there charging about as he always did. Golden-haired Edward,’ she added wistfully, ‘with a young man’s mind and an old man’s body. Lord, how he’s changed, eh, with his iron-grey hair? I remember him in his youth: he reminded me of a golden leopard.’ She smiled. ‘A magnificent animal, coiled and ready to spring. Anyway, His Grace did as he always did: he hugged and kissed me. I looked over his shoulder and saw a tall, dark-faced, sad-eyed man dressed like a priest near the door. “Who’s that?” I asked the King. “Oh, that’s Corbett my hawk.” Edward replied. “He’d prefer to fly than bow and peck at court”.’

  Corbett smiled.

  ‘You don’t like the court, Sir Hugh?’

  ‘Sometimes I find it difficult, Madam.’ Corbett ignored Ranulf’s sharp bark of laughter. ‘Everything is shadows with very little substance.’

  ‘You are married?’ Lady Margaret asked.

  Corbett’s smile answered the question.

  ‘As for my remarriage,’ she continued, ‘I am sure the King told you. Oh, he wanted me to marry this or that person, but I begged him, for the sake of Reginald, to excuse me and he agreed.’ She chewed the corner of her lip. ‘I also quoted canon law, and you know how our King loves the law. There is no evidence, I pointed out, that Sir Reginald is dead so I may not be a widow.’

  ‘Do you think he is dead, Madam? Do you consider him so?’

  ‘Yes and no. In the harsh light of reason I know he must be, otherwise he would have returned. But, in my heart, never!’

  The words came out almost as a shout.

  ‘Madam,’ Corbett chose his words carefully, ‘I am here to question you on that, as well as to learn all you know about Sir Stephen Daubigny.’

  Lady Margaret put her hands on the arms of the chair and rocked herself backwards and forwards.

  ‘It is painful,’ Corbett added, ‘but hideous murders are occurring at St Martin’s. Abbot Stephen’s was the first. Now members of the Abbey Concilium are being slain, each hideously branded.’ He paused. ‘They have died by poison, and by arrow, whilst Brother Gildas, the mason, had his brain crushed with a rock.’

  Lady Margaret gasped and closed her eyes. She tried to stop it but she began to tremble. She took a deep breath, opened her eyes and picked up the posset cup, cradling it in her hands.

  ‘Please, Madam, tell me of Sir Stephen?’

  ‘He and Reginald were like brothers. Remember the Book of Proverbs: “Brothers united are as a fortress”? Well, that’s how it was. Stephen came from a noble but poor family. His parents died young and Reginald’s father took him in, as an act of kindness. So,’ she sighed, ‘they were raised as brothers. When civil war broke out between Edward and his barons, led by De Montfort, Reginald and Stephen flocked to the royal banner. Edward called them his young lions. They were his men in peace and war, enduring all the hardships and privations of campaign. As you know, on one occasion, Stephen saved the King’s life. The war ended and, to the victors, came the spoils. Reginald’s estates were extended: he gained meadows and pastures, granges and barns. I own properties in Cornwall, Somerset, South Yorkshire and Kent. Stephen also prospered. He was given rebels’ estates in Lincolnshire and Norfolk. They both became knight bannerets, members of the King’s Council. They shared Edward’s chamber, and were of that select band of knights who were allowed to carry arms in his presence. They loved each other and Edward loved them both: anything they wanted, they could have. My family come from Lincolnshire. The King arranged our marriage. I was only seventeen bu
t when I met Sir Reginald I fell in love. He was kind and gentle, albeit a born warrior. Oh, he could bore you to death with details about the hunt or the virtues of this war horse compared to another, yet he was a good man.’

  ‘And Sir Stephen?’

  ‘Ah yes! The briar in the garden patch, the thorn on the rose.’ Lady Margaret took a deep breath. ‘I disliked him from the start: hot-eyed, impetuous, slightly mocking. Sir Hugh, I don’t think he believed in anything except the King, Sir Reginald and his own sword arm.’

  ‘Anything?’ Corbett queried.

  ‘Oh, he’d go to Mass and chat through it, if he didn’t fall asleep. Daubigny had little time for priests or religion. He wasn’t blasphemous or offensive, just cynical and mocking. Nobody was more surprised than I when he entered St Martin’s.’

  ‘And you continued to dislike him?’

  ‘Sir Hugh, sometimes I hated him.’ Lady Margaret turned, her face now harsh, eyes narrowed, lips set in a determined line. ‘Reginald talked about him continuously and they couldn’t bear to be apart for any length of time. Not a Christmas, Easter, Midsummer or Michaelmas passed without Sir Stephen in attendance. Sometimes I felt as if I was married to two not one man.’

  ‘Was he mocking towards you?’

  ‘He wasn’t lecherous, just hot-eyed and slightly insolent. I think he resented Reginald’s marriage. The years passed. Sir Stephen was still employed on various tasks by the King. When he went away, I fell to my knees and thanked Le Bon Seigneur but he always came back.’ Lady Margaret spat the words out.

  ‘And Sir Reginald?’

  ‘We were happy.’

  ‘How many years were you married?’

  ‘Five.’

  ‘And what of Sir Reginald’s disappearance?’

  ‘In my heart I have always blamed Daubigny. You have heard, Sir Hugh, about the legend of Arthur and his knights. Well, Reginald loved such tales. He collected the stories, and never turned away a troubadour or a minstrel. Stephen fed him these fancies like a man would his dog. I grew alarmed. Sir Reginald nourished a great dream to go on crusade, and then, with the Turks so successful in Outremer, Sir Reginald considered travelling east to join the Teutonic knights in their war against the heathen along the Eastern March. I was aghast. I begged him not to go. It was the only matter over which we quarrelled, sometimes bitterly.’ Lady Margaret sipped the posset cup. ‘One midsummer Stephen arrived here. He and Reginald were like two mischievous schoolboys. They put their heads together and began to plan their crusade. First they would hold a tournament, a tourney here at Harcourt Manor in one of our great meadows. Knights from all over the shire were invited. The feasting and celebrations lasted for days. Reginald was a redoubtable jouster, a master of the tournament. He became full of excitement, talking more and more about his crusade. The wine drank in Sir Stephen’s company did not help matters. On the last day of the tournament Reginald told me he would definitely be leaving. We quarrelled late that evening. He slept in a different chamber. The next morning he was gone.’