Hugh Corbett 13 - Corpse Candle

by Paul Doherty

  ‘You were baptised,’ Corbett began, ‘Salyiem. I understand from the Lady Margaret that you were born in this area and spent your youth on the Harcourt estates.’

  The Watcher smacked his lips.

  ‘If Lady Margaret says that, then she’s right.’

  ‘Were you there when Sir Stephen and Sir Reginald were friends?’

  ‘Of course, they were comrades-in-arms.’

  ‘And Lady Margaret’s marriage was a happy one?’

  The Watcher lowered his face and licked the broth from the battered spoon.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Were you there the day Sir Reginald disappeared?’

  ‘Of course.’ The Watcher lifted his head, his moustache and beard stained with the broth.

  ‘Of course! Of course! Of course!’ Corbett mimicked. ‘What were your duties at the manor house?’

  ‘I was what you call a reeve, more concerned with the household than the estates.’

  ‘And you remember the day Sir Reginald left?’

  ‘Yes, early in the morning, I helped him saddle his horse. Don’t look surprised,’ he continued, ‘that was my task.’

  ‘And it was definitely Sir Reginald?’

  ‘Who else could it be?’

  ‘And how was his manner? Was he shaved and changed?’

  ‘He loaded the sumpter pony himself, then he left with hardly a word. I did ask him where he was going. “A great adventure, Salyiem,” he replied and he was gone. I believe it was a Friday, the feast of St Iraeneus. The rest of the household were asleep because of the tournament. Sir Stephen was agitated, when Sir Reginald didn’t return after a few days, and that’s when the search began.’

  ‘Were you involved in it?’

  ‘Of course I was. I liked Sir Reginald. He was always very kind to me. He’d promised to make me his squire.’

  Quick and easy, Corbett thought. He recalled the first time he had met the Watcher by the Gates: he had been tense and excited. Corbett almost had to pinch himself. Was this the same man? The Watcher spoke fluently, without pausing to recall or test his memory.

  ‘I even offered,’ he chattered on, ‘to accompany Sir Stephen and Lady Margaret but they refused.’

  ‘They took no servants?’

  ‘None whatsoever. A few months later Sir Stephen returned.’ The Watcher put down his bowl and gesticulated with his hands. ‘All changed he was, thinner, harsh-faced, no longer teasing or laughing. He came back to the hall. I couldn’t believe it when he announced that he was entering the Abbey of St Martin’s. A few months later Lady Margaret returned. She, too, had changed. She put on widow’s weeds, and hung black cloths round the hall. I realised life had altered forever: the summer and autumn had gone, a harsh winter had arrived. It wasn’t the same after that. Harcourt Manor became the haunt of ghosts. No more jousting or revelry, troubadours or minstrels, jesters or mummers men.’

  ‘So you went wandering?’

  ‘Aye, I went wandering. Across to France, down into Italy. I even visited Rome and took ship to Outremer. I came back a sick man and spent some time at St Bartholomew’s Hospital in Smithfield. Then I travelled north. When I arrived here Stephen Daubigny was Prior.’ He heard the horses whinny outside and glanced towards the door.

  ‘Chanson will look after them. Continue with your story.’

  ‘He greeted me like a long-lost brother. He allowed me to build this bothy.’ The Watcher pointed to the chest. ‘He even gave me a letter of permission and so I settled down. I have bread and meat, and the skies to watch. I love this place.’

  ‘Everybody likes you, don’t they?’ Corbett remarked. ‘Abbot Stephen was kind; Lady Margaret the same, though she’s compassionate to everyone, isn’t she?’

  ‘Always has been.’

  ‘Even before Sir Reginald disappeared?’

  The Watcher opened his mouth, a guarded look in his eyes.

  ‘Well, no,’ he stumbled over his reply, ‘only since her return.’

  ‘And she and Sir Stephen never met again?’

  ‘Never once.’

  ‘But that’s strange? They had so much in common yet they never met?’ Corbett insisted. ‘Never exchanged letters?’

  The hermit picked up his bowl.

  ‘I asked Abbot Stephen about that. He said the past was closed, blocked by a steel door. There was no handle, no lock, only death would open it.’

  ‘And Bloody Meadow?’ Corbett decided to change the conversation backwards and forwards as quickly as possible.

  The Watcher leaned over to fill his bowl but it was only to gain more time.

  ‘What about Bloody Meadow?’ he declared. ‘It contains a burial mound, oaks on either side, the abbey wall at the top and Falcon Brook at the bottom.’

  ‘You said Abbot Stephen was going to change his mind?’

  ‘Well, yes he was. I told you he passed me one day and I . . .’

  ‘Why should he tell you?’

  ‘I don’t know. Sometimes he did talk to me. He was worried about Bloody Meadow.’

  ‘Have you ever tried to dig into the tumulus, the funeral mound?’ Corbett asked.

  The Watcher shook his head and slurped more broth into his mouth.

  ‘Oh no, that would have been blasphemous. Why?’ He became all agitated. ‘Has someone tried?’

  ‘Yes, they did.’

  The Watcher put the bowl down and shot to his feet, almost doing a dance. ‘But that’s sacrilege!’ he spluttered. ‘It’s blasphemy!’

  ‘I suspect the person responsible is now dead, murdered.’

  ‘What? What’s that? One of the monks?’

  ‘No, Taverner.’

  ‘Ah!’ The Watcher sat down on the floor and grabbed his bowl. ‘Now, there’s a cunning man if there ever was one.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘Oh,’ the Watcher tapped the side of his nose, ‘I can tell a rogue when I see one.’

  ‘Did Abbot Stephen know Taverner was a villain?’

  ‘He may have done but he was very trusting.’

  ‘Was Abbot Stephen worried or agitated in the days before he died?’

  ‘Murdered, Sir Hugh. He was murdered. And, yes, you could see he was very worried but he kept his own counsel. Only that morning, when he talked to me about giving in to the Concilium, he mentioned something about the Romans. I asked him what he meant but I couldn’t understand him. He replied it was a quotation from a philosopher called Sen—’

  ‘Seneca.’

  ‘Ah, that’s right.’ The Watcher cleaned his bowl with his fingers and licked them hungrily. ‘I can’t remember the quotation.’

  Corbett stared at the bubbling pot. This hermit was a strange one. For an outsider he knew a great deal about Abbot Stephen; the clerk could sense a deep respect, even affection for the dead abbot. Why was this? Because of his kindness? Or what had happened years previously?

  ‘Did Abbot Stephen ever talk about Lady Margaret?’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘Or the great love of his life, a young woman called Heloise Argenteuil?’

  ‘Ah, Heloise!’ The hermit bit his lower lip.

  ‘Did you ever meet her?’

  ‘No, no, but we knew about Sir Stephen’s passion. She entered a convent and died and that was the end of the matter.’

  ‘Do you think Heloise’s death turned Abbot Stephen’s mind? Led him to become a monk and a priest?’

  ‘Possibly. He never told me.’

  Corbett stared at a point beyond the Watcher’s head. He recalled the Book of Remembrance he had seen in Abbot Stephen’s chamber, really a psalter for the dead: it also included lists of names the Abbot would remember at Mass. This Watcher was one of them – that’s right, the name Salyiem had been inscribed! Now Lady Margaret had mentioned the name, Corbett also recalled seeing an entry for Heloise Argenteuil.

  ‘Who was she?’

  The Watcher shook his head.

  ‘Sir Hugh, I really don’t know. A young noblewoman at
one of the manors Stephen visited. She was frail of health, and would have nothing to do with him. She entered a convent and died there whilst Sir Stephen was abroad, searching for Sir Reginald.’

  ‘And the hunting horn?’

  ‘Ah.’ The Watcher’s face broke into a smile. ‘Sir Stephen used to love doing that. Whenever he approached the hall, he’d always blow three long blasts and Reginald would reply. It was based on one of those legends about knights fighting in valleys and calling on each other for help. They loved that sort of thing,’ the Watcher added wistfully. ‘Pretending to be members of Arthur’s Round Table or the Paladins of Charlemagne.’

  ‘Paladins of Charlemagne?’ Corbett echoed his words. ‘For a reeve you are very well read.’

  ‘When I was a stripling Sir Stephen taught me. In my travels I learnt even more.’

  ‘So you don’t believe in ghosts and demon riders? Or that Sir Geoffrey Mandeville rides the marshes with his legion of the damned? That he’s the source of our mysterious hunting horn?’

  ‘Strange things happen here, master clerk.’

  ‘No, they don’t,’ Corbett replied drily. He leaned closer. ‘Master Salyiem, humble hermit, Watcher by the Gates, for a man who wants to leave the world you seem very much part of it. You visit the abbey. You talk to Abbot Stephen. You also visit Lady Margaret. Who do you think is blowing that horn at night? It’s not some ghost, some courier from the household of hell. Is it you? You do have a hunting horn?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ The Watcher drew away, a stubborn look on his face.

  ‘Or could it be Scaribrick the outlaw? I am the King’s officer,’ Corbett added quietly. ‘I am sure you know Master Scaribrick.’ Corbett rubbed his thigh. ‘I had the pleasure of meeting him and his merry men on my journey here.’

  ‘I thought you looked dishevelled, mud-flecked.’ The Watcher picked up his bowl and cradled it as if it was a toy.

  ‘Yet you never asked me why. Did you know Scaribrick was out on the marshes hunting me? Don’t Scaribrick and his merry coven patrol here at night? Do they pay a certain hermit money to stir the muddy waters and spread stories about ghosts and ghouls on the marshes? Is that where Scaribrick meets with his smugglers, those who bring in illicit goods by sea and river? Of course, you have to live with these people. Does Master Scaribrick slip you a few coins to look the other way? To embroider stories to frighten others?’

  ‘I have never done anything wrong. Yes, Sir Hugh, I am a hermit and I travel hither and thither. I try to live at peace with everyone, it’s the only way.’

  ‘Did you go searching for Sir Reginald?’ Corbett abruptly changed. ‘I mean, in your travels abroad, surely you questioned people? After all, an English knight travelling by himself would attract some attention?’

  ‘Oh yes! Oh yes!’ the Watcher gabbled. ‘In northern France and Germany I heard rumours, whispers, but they came to nothing.’

  Corbett glanced down. Outside he could hear Chanson stamping his feet against the cold and the snorting of the horses eager for their warm stables. The clerk was convinced some great mystery lurked here. He was in a maze but, so far, he kept wandering around and around with no path out. The assassin could be this Watcher! He was strong and resourceful enough. He could have weapons hidden away. He could climb the wall into the abbey and wreak terrible damage. One moment he could be the rather wild-eyed hermit, the next a man bent on vengeance for whatever reason. Corbett wondered what Ranulf was doing? He half suspected but, in such matters, Ranulf was his own man with his own keen sense of justice. Ranulf-atte-Newgate never took kindly to being attacked.

  ‘Are you sleeping, master clerk?’

  Corbett opened his eyes and raised his head.

  ‘No, master hermit, I am thinking.’ He stretched out his arms. ‘On the one hand we have the Harcourt estates and the mystery of Sir Reginald. On the other the Abbey of St Martin’s and, in between, these eerie, wild marshlands with their copses and woods. I suspect Mine Host at the ‘Lantern-in-the-Woods’ doesn’t pay full import duties on his wine or other commodities, whilst Scaribrick the outlaw probably resents my interference here.’ Corbett lowered his hands. ‘But Ranulf will deal with him. What I am trying to unearth are these mysteries of the marsh. The fire arrows. The hunting horn. Are these part of Scaribrick’s world? Or are they part of some other mystery?’ Corbett got to his feet. ‘Master hermit, I will have other questions for you.’ He stared down at him. ‘They call you the Watcher by the Gates and I suspect you have seen more than you have told me.’

  The Watcher held his gaze.

  ‘You will not be travelling far.’

  Corbett opened his purse and threw a silver coin into the man’s bowl and, lifting the leather awning, went out to join Chanson.

  They mounted their horses. Corbett gathered the reins and they followed the wall back along to the main gate. He called out and the gate was opened and they entered the cobbled yard. They had hardly dismounted, Chanson offering to see to the horses, when Brother Richard came hurrying out of a doorway.

  ‘Sir Hugh, you are back! Thank God!’

  And in brief, gasping sentences Brother Richard described what had happened earlier in the morning. Corbett took him by the elbow and led him out of the cold. He asked the monk to go through it once again, told him to be careful, then dismissed him. Corbett walked across to the stables and helped Chanson unsaddle the horses and dry them down. Brother Richard, he reflected, was most fortunate. He had been attacked but had escaped death. So, the killer must be in the abbey, and was definitely not an outsider like Scaribrick who, at the time, must have been planning his ambush. Nor was it Lady Margaret, who had been entertaining him at Harcourt Manor. Brother Richard had described the attack vividly.

  ‘A soldier!’ Corbett exclaimed.

  ‘What’s that, Master?’ Chanson asked.

  ‘Brother Richard the almoner was attacked this morning and was able to defend himself, probably because he was a former soldier. But, listening to his account carefully, I would say the same holds time for the attacker.’

  ‘But there are a number of monks here,’ Chanson wiped his nose on the cuff of his jerkin, ‘according to Ranulf, who once served in the royal levies.’

  ‘Oh, I know that,’ Corbett retorted. ‘And there’s something else. Lady Margaret talked of a young woman called Heloise Argenteuil with whom our Abbot, in a former life, was supposed to be infatuated. The Watcher repeated the same story.’

  ‘And?’

  Corbett shook his head. ‘I’ve heard that name before. I know of no Argenteuil, certainly not at court, but the name strikes a chord. Chanson,’ he patted his horse’s neck, ‘see to the horses. I am going down to the library.’

  Corbett left the stables.

  ‘Sir Hugh?’

  Prior Cuthbert came bustling up, red-eyed and grey-faced with exhaustion.

  ‘You’ve heard of the attack on Brother Richard?’

  ‘Aye.’ Corbett glanced at the gaggle of monks who stood in the doorway behind the Prior. ‘Tell your brothers to be careful. I wish to ask you a question.’

  He led the Prior out of earshot.

  ‘Does the name Heloise Argenteuil mean anything to you?’

  ‘Ah yes, Abbot Stephen once mentioned her. As a young knight, he supposedly fell deeply in love with her.’

  ‘And you know nothing else?’

  ‘Oh no.’

  Now he was out of the shadows the Prior looked even more stricken. Corbett noticed his face was unshaven, and he had dark circles beneath his eyes.

  ‘Father Prior, I believe you have more to tell me.’

  ‘I assure you, Sir Hugh, I have nothing to say.’ The Prior flailed his hands.

  Corbett realised that Prior Cuthbert was not prepared to talk.

  ‘Is the library locked?’

  The Prior tapped the ring of keys on his belt.

  ‘I’ll take you there.’

  He seemed only too willing to be away from Corbett’s watchful gaz
e, walking in front, gesturing with his hands for the clerk to follow. Corbett did so and was about to walk up beside him when he noticed the dark blotches high on the back of the Prior’s robe. The cowl hid the Prior’s neck but Corbett was sure that the stains were caused by blood. Had the Prior been whipping himself? What secret sins would compel this proud priest to inflict such a terrible punishment? They reached the library and Prior Cuthbert unlocked the door. He hastened around to light the candles and oil lamps under their steel caps.

  ‘I’ll send a lay brother,’ he declared. ‘When you are finished he’ll lock the door behind you.’ He rubbed his hands. ‘I have yet to appoint a replacement librarian.’

  Prior Cuthbert hurried out, slamming the door behind him. Corbett walked round. The sombre blood-stain still marked the floor where the librarian had been killed – a grim reminder of what horrors haunted this abbey. Corbett sat down at the writing desk. What had the hermit said? He had mentioned the Roman philosopher Seneca and the woman, Heloise Argenteuil. Where had Corbett heard her name before? He stared up at the light pouring through one of the coloured stained-glass windows and idly wondered how long it would be before Ranulf-atte-Newgate returned.

  Ranulf-atte-Newgate was furious. The senior Clerk in the Chancery of the Green Wax had made a careful study of the law. He and Corbett were royal messengers, and carried the King’s writ: they were his Commissioners in these parts. They had not travelled through bleak freezing marshes to become the playthings of outlaws.

  ‘An attack upon a royal clerk,’ Corbett often remarked, ‘is an attack upon the King himself, a malicious insult to the Crown, which must be answered.’

  Corbett, however, could be lax in his interpretation, accepting insults and obstacles that Ranulf never would. Scaribrick had organised that ambush so why should he be allowed to squat in the Lantern-in-the-Woods and boast about his boldness? Ranulf approached the tavern by a circuitous route. He kept away from the well-worn paths but found it difficult to thread his way through the snow-capped trees, the gorse and briar hidden by an icy-white softness. The journey had not improved his temper. On one occasion he had become lost and had been forced to break cover but, at last, he found the route, led by the smoke which he knew came from the tavern hearth.