by Paul Doherty
Ranulf had hobbled his horse deep in the trees opposite the tavern entrance. He now stood watching the main door, cloak about him, cowl pulled over against the icy splashes from the branches above. He’d watched travellers, tinkers and chapmen enter and leave. So far Ranulf had recognised no one. He calculated the time. Scaribrick and his men would probably have come straight here and were probably within. Blanche came out to empty a pot of dirty water and, eventually, Taverner Talbot emerged with a broken stool which he placed by the entrance. Ranulf called his name, stepped out of the trees, pulled back his cowl and gestured. The taverner looked fearfully back at the inn.
‘You’d best come,’ Ranulf called out softly. ‘Master Talbot, I mean you no mischief, at least not for now.’
The taverner closed the tavern door and hastened across. Ranulf gripped him by the shoulder and dragged him into the trees; his drawn dagger pricked Talbot’s fleshy neck, forcing his head back.
‘What’s the matter?’ the man wailed. ‘I’ve done no wrong. I heard about the attack on you but I can say nothing to such men. They will have their way.’
‘Aye, Master Talbot, and I will have mine. Scaribrick is in there, isn’t he?’ Ranulf pressed the tip of his dagger more firmly. ‘He’s there, isn’t he?’
Talbot blinked and nodded, swallowing hard, fearful of this hard-eyed clerk and the long, Welsh, stabbing dagger, its cruel tip like a razor under his chin.
‘I want to speak to him. Out here now!’
‘He won’t come out.’ The taverner shook his head. ‘And, if he does, sir, he’ll bring two or three of his companions with him.’
Ranulf withdrew the dagger. The taverner would have backed away but the clerk grasped him by the shoulder, this time the tip of the dagger rested against his protruding belly.
‘Very well,’ Ranulf ordered. ‘Tell Scaribrick that someone wants to meet him.’
‘I can’t,’ the taverner gasped. ‘It’s all very well for you, sir. You’ll leave this area but I live here and do my trade here.’
‘In which case—’
Ranulf re-sheathed his dagger, pushed by the taverner and, walking across the trackway, entered the tavern. Talbot came hurrying behind him, bleating and protesting. As soon as Ranulf entered he threw back his cloak, his hand on the hilt of his sword. He stared around the taproom at the tinkers and chapmen, traders and farmers, but then he found his quarry: a group of men in the far corner. They sat huddled round the table, hoods back, war belts on the floor beside them. They were sharing a jug of ale and a large platter of bread and meat. Ranulf walked slowly across, his gaze held by a cold-faced, thickset man who sat in the corner. Ranulf had only glimpsed him during the ambush but he recognised the face. Scaribrick muttered something to his companions and they turned, hands going for sword and dagger. Ranulf walked closer. Scaribrick’s fleshy face was well fed. A bully-boy, Ranulf thought, used to filling his belly and not so quick on his feet.
‘Don’t touch your weapons!’ Ranulf ordered. He opened the wallet on his belt and drew out a document bearing the King’s seal. ‘I am Ranulf-atte-Newgate, senior clerk in the Chancery of the Green Wax. You,’ he pointed to the outlaw leader, ‘are Scaribrick. You must consider yourself under arrest. Your list of crimes reads like a litany but, at the top, stands treason!’
‘Treason?’ Scaribrick half rose. ‘Who are you? A madcap?’
Ranulf was pleased that the other outlaws kept their hands well away from their war belts.
‘Where are the rest of your weasels?’ Ranulf jibed. ‘Nice and warm in some cave in the forest? They are all under arrest too and they can hang.’
Ranulf watched Scaribrick’s eyes, but the outlaw’s gaze had shifted. He looked at the outlaws and saw that Rat-Face wasn’t there. Ranulf heard a sound and, whipping out his dagger, turned round. Rat-Face stood behind him, knife in hand, ready to spring. Ranulf struck first. Moving slightly to one side, he thrust his dagger straight into the man’s belly, pulling it out and kicking him away. Stools shifted behind him. Ranulf whirled back, drew his sword and stood, feet apart. The outlaws were clumsy, tired and much the worse for drink. The first almost stumbled on to Ranulf’s sword. The clerk thrust deep and stepped away, up the tavern until he felt the barrels against his back. The outlaws, ignoring the cries of their wounded companions, now scrabbling on the floor, fanned out with Scaribrick in the centre. The rest of the customers hurriedly moved away, almost clinging to the walls on either side.
‘Two down,’ Ranulf jibed. ‘Like skittles, eh?’
The outlaws were frightened. They were used to secret attack, the sudden ambush, but a fighting man, sword and dagger ready, his back protected, was a different prospect. The screams of the wounded outlaws only unnerved them further. One of the outlaws on the far right stepped away and, ignoring Scaribrick’s curses, headed straight for the window. He jumped on a table, pulled back the shutters and was through.
‘I’m not here for all of you!’ Ranulf smiled. ‘Just your leader!’
That was enough. The outlaws broke and fled in many directions. Scaribrick tried to follow but Ranulf blocked his path.
‘I killed four of your companions,’ Ranulf taunted, ‘and we beat you off this morning.’ His voice rose. ‘By the time I’m finished, you’ll be a laughing stock—’ He broke off.
Scaribrick, snarling with rage, his sword and dagger out, came rushing forward. Ranulf stepped swiftly to the left. He parried Scaribrick’s weapon, forced his arm up and thrust his sword deep into the outlaw’s belly.
QUASI NIX TABESCIT DIES
THE DAY MELTS AWAY LIKE SNOW
PLAUTUS
Chapter 11
Corbett sat in the Abbot’s chamber, where Perditus had lit a fire and pulled the shutters close. The room was cold as if it had lost its very soul. The clerk gnawed his lip in frustration. His visit to the library had been fruitless. His mind was puzzled, his wits slightly dulled by the journey to Harcourt and that ferocious ambush on the lonely forest trackway. Corbett stared up at a gargoyle carved in the corner of the room: the face of a jester, staring, popping-eyed, mouth gaping to display a swollen tongue.
‘If only the stones could talk,’ Corbett murmured.
What had happened in this chamber? he wondered. This is where it had all begun. Corbett still nursed deep suspicions that the solution to all these mysteries lay in the very fabric of the abbey: its manuscripts, Bloody Meadow, that haunting, lonely burial mound. Corbett shuffled together the Abbot’s papers. He’d ordered them to be kept here and was searching through them again. He sifted them with his fingers and picked up a piece of paper, a draft of a letter to a merchant in Ipswich. At the end was the usual scribbled sketch of a wheel with its hub, spokes and rim. Corbett pulled across the piece of vellum on which he’d copied the Abbot’s quotations. The first came from the letter of St Paul, or rather the Abbot’s own interpretation of it: ‘For now I see through a glass, darkly: the corpse candle beckons.’ The other was a quotation from Seneca: ‘Anyone can take away a man’s life but no one his death’. Undoubtedly the Abbot had scrawled these words shortly before his death but what did they mean? What was their significance? Why had Abbot Stephen been so fascinated by the symbol of a wheel? Corbett pulled across the psalter and looked down the list of names at the back. He recognised Salyiem, the Watcher by the Gates’ real name, and Reginald Harcourt. Others were probably knights the Abbot had served with in his days as a soldier. Finally, that enigmatic name which pricked Corbett’s memory and teased his wits, Heloise Argenteuil! Corbett took his quill and wrote down the other interesting scraps: the Abbot’s fascination with Rome and ‘the Roman way’. What did that mean? Why had he considered changing his mind about Bloody Meadow? What about Brother Dunstan’s enigmatic remarks about his abbot’s compassion and his attitude towards sin.
A knock on the door roused him from his studies.
‘Come in!’ Corbett shouted.
Ranulf slipped like a cat into the room. Just from the way he stood,
war belt in one hand, cloak in the other, Corbett knew his henchman had been bloodily busy.
‘You went searching for Scaribrick, didn’t you?’ Corbett accused. ‘You didn’t have my permission. When I returned to Norwich I would have issued warrants for his arrest.’
Ranulf dropped his cloak and sword belt to the floor.
‘Aye and he would have hidden like a rabbit in the forest. He’d have waited until the sheriff’s men became tired of the hunt and returned to his villainy. You know the law, Sir Hugh! Scaribrick feloniously and traitorously, with malice in his heart, assaulted and tried to murder three royal emissaries, clerks bearing the royal commission. The King would have had him hanged, drawn and quartered.’
‘Did the King order this?’ Corbett asked wryly.
‘No, Master, Lady Maeve did.’
Corbett glanced up in surprise.
‘I swore an oath, Sir Hugh, as I do every time we leave, that I will bring you back safely Master, they deserved to die. One day we will have to leave this benighted place, and travel down lonely, snow-frosted lanes. I don’t want Scaribrick and the others waiting amongst the trees with bows bent and arrows aimed.’
Corbett glanced down at a scrap of parchment in front of him. According to the law, particularly the statute of Winchester, Ranulf had acted legally and correctly. Malefactors had assaulted them on the King’s highway. As they were royal clerks, the law stringently instructed ‘all loyal servants of the Crown to hunt such malefactors down and mete out summary execution’. Corbett just wished that justice could have been carried out by the King’s Justices of Assize.
‘You met him fairly?’ he asked.
Ranulf grinned. ‘I even asked him to surrender. He refused and compounded his offence by drawing a sword and attacking me.’
‘How many?’ Corbett murmured.
‘Scaribrick and two others, the rest fled. They have learnt a lesson which will last for many a day. I met them in the Lantern-in-the-Woods tavern.’ Ranulf shrugged. ‘You can imagine the rest.’
Corbett could: Ranulf dancing like a cat, nimble as a monkey, sword and dagger snaking out.
‘Ah well!’ Corbett pushed away the manuscript.
‘I also found something else when I went through Scaribrick’s wallet. The coins I will give to the poor but I also discovered this.’
Ranulf came across and threw a greasy scrap of parchment onto the desk. Corbett picked it up and smoothed it straight. One name was scrawled on it: Archdeacon Adrian Wallasby.
‘What is this?’ Corbett handed it back. ‘Why would an Archdeacon from St Paul’s in London be dealing with a marsh outlaw?’
‘He is going to flee,’ Ranulf declared. ‘Brother Dunstan explained how it could be done.’
‘Yes, I believe you are correct,’ Corbett agreed. ‘Our Archdeacon intends to leave sooner than we think. He’s persuaded a member of the Concilium to write out his name and, through Brother Dunstan, passed it to Scaribrick for safe passage along the roads. Yet,’ Corbett mused, ‘would Brother Dunstan really have much to do with him?’
‘I have been thinking about that.’ Ranulf pulled up a stool. ‘Whenever I kill, Master, by sword or dagger, be it on a trackway, in a tavern, or some filthy London alley, memories come back. The way I used to fight when I was a boy, or the time when I was taken and was for the hangman’s cart, ready for that hideous jogging down to The Elms at Smithfield. Do you remember?’ Ranulf’s eyes grew softer. ‘You came into Newgate Yard and pulled me out.’
‘I remember.’
‘Well, it was the same after I met Scaribrick. Truly, Master, I didn’t want to kill him, not really.’
Corbett held his gaze.
‘Well, perhaps I did,’ Ranulf laughed abruptly. ‘I couldn’t forget how close we were to death this morning. Anyway, Scaribrick’s dead. As I rode back, I was thinking about what Taverner had said about my mother and about his disguise as a possessed man.’ Ranulf ran his finger round his lips. ‘It appeared as if he was frothing at the mouth. Now,’ Ranulf scratched his chin, ‘in my lawless youth I saw similar tricks in London. You have to be very careful what you chew, lest you choke or rot your guts.’
‘You mean, someone here supplied him with a powder?’
‘He wouldn’t have arrived with it,’ Ranulf declared. ‘Abbot Stephen was sharp and keen-witted: he would have had Taverner searched from head to toe.’
‘He didn’t find those licences bearing Wallasby’s name?’
‘Ah no,’ Ranulf gestured with his hand, ‘but they could be explained away. Abbot Stephen was really looking for the usual tricks; paints and dyes, powders, to change the colour of the face.’
‘Or to make a man froth at the mouth?’ Corbett added.
‘Taverner wasn’t skilled in physic,’ Ranulf continued, ‘so he must have obtained the powder from someone in St Martin’s which, logically, brings us to the infirmarian Aelfric.’
Corbett sat back in the chair.
‘Ranulf, if you’re correct, some of these monks were plotting against Abbot Stephen. Wallasby was at the root of it. He disliked Abbot Stephen and concocted a plot. But, to be successful, he’d need help here in St Martin’s.’
‘Prior Cuthbert?’
‘Perhaps. Certainly Aelfric. If Wallasby and Aelfric would go to such lengths as this, one must speculate as to whether murder was also in their minds? Ranulf, fetch them. Bring them now!’
Whilst his henchman went searching, Corbett paced up and down the room until Ranulf ushered a sombre-faced Wallasby and an agitated Aelfric into the Abbot’s chamber.
‘I’ll come swiftly to the point.’ Corbett sat down and rubbed his hands together. ‘Abbot Stephen, in many ways, was a compassionate father to his community. On one matter he would not be moved: that of the burial mound in Bloody Meadow! He was an exorcist.’ He pointed at Wallasby. ‘You not only opposed his views, you didn’t like him as a man. You didn’t tell us you were born in these parts, Archdeacon, and that your enmity with the Abbot ran so deep?’
Wallasby cleared his throat and shuffled his feet.
‘Where’s the crime in that, Sir Hugh? There’s many a man I don’t like, be they clerk or priest.’
Corbett smiled thinly.
‘You were trying to disgrace him, I know, under the guise of scholarship and academic friendship. You, Aelfric – infirmarian and a member of the Abbot’s Concilium at St Martin’s – you were Wallasby’s spy. You corresponded secretly and told him when Taverner had arrived and about Abbot Stephen’s reaction. You also supplied our cunning man with the necessary powders and potions to assist in his mummery. Is that why Abbot Stephen died? Because he turned the tables on you? Does this account for the arrow in Taverner’s heart? Because your well-laid plots and schemes went awry?’ Corbett banged his fist on the table. ‘The truth, Brother!’
Aelfric looked as if he was going to faint: without a by your leave he went and sat on a chair against the wall and put his face in his hands.
‘Peccavi! Peccavi!’ he intoned, striking his breast. ‘I have sinned and sinned again!’
‘Oh, don’t be so weak!’ Wallasby snarled.
‘Be quiet!’ Aelfric hissed. ‘It was your plan! Sir Hugh, you are correct. Abbot Stephen would not be moved on the matter of the guesthouse. Above all, he would not allow us to search for a holy relic. Like others on the Concilium, I dreamt of St Martin’s being a second Glastonbury, a shrine to rival Walsingham or even Canterbury. It wasn’t just the guesthouse . . . it was the shrine, the pilgrims . . .’
‘Of course,’ Corbett interrupted. ‘And, where there’s a shrine, miracles occur. And where miracles flourish there has to be a physician to attest to their worthiness, not to mention a hospital well furnished with beds and the best medicines. You were all dreaming of greatness, weren’t you?’
‘Archdeacon Wallasby was born in these parts,’ the infirmarian continued, staring at the floor. ‘Seven months ago he came here, supposedly visiting his family, and the plot was laid. I corr
esponded with him. The rest you’ve surmised. Taverner arrived at St Martin’s and I supplied him with the necessary potions and powders. I also wrote to Wallasby, using our own code, informing him that Abbot Stephen was much impressed. I didn’t mean any harm.’ The infirmarian wiped tears from his eyes. ‘I know I have sinned. Trickery was perpetrated. It would have broken Abbot Stephen’s heart and he didn’t deserve that. I was almost relieved when Taverner turned the tables. He said he would act the part through and not disgrace our Abbot’s name.’ The infirmarian spread his hands. ‘What could I do? The hunter had become the hunted. Taverner said if I told the truth, I’d be disgraced. How could I continue as infirmarian without the trust of Father Abbot? But I had nothing to do with Taverner’s murder, I swear. I have confessed my sin. I was going to let matters take their course until the . . .’
‘Until these murders began,’ Ranulf interrupted.
‘Yes,’ the infirmarian muttered. ‘Wallasby here wanted to get away. He needed a secure passage along the lanes so I went to Brother Dunstan, and Scaribrick was advised to let him pass.’
‘Sir,’ Corbett pointed at Wallasby, ‘I have told you once and I will tell you for the last time: you will remain here until my investigations are finished!’
‘I am a clerk in Holy Orders!’ Wallasby bellowed.
Ranulf made to rise.
‘Lay a hand on me,’ Wallasby threatened, ‘and I’ll have you excommunicated from St Paul’s Cross!’ He walked to the door and paused, his hand on the latch. ‘I am no assassin, Corbett,’ he jibed over his shoulder.
‘Yes, you are, Archdeacon. You are a man of deep malice. You intended to kill the Abbot’s spirit, turn him into a laughing stock. Tell me,’ Corbett got to his feet, ‘why was it you hated Abbot Stephen so much?’
He knew Wallasby couldn’t resist the opportunity. The Archdeacon leaned against the door, face contorted with anger and hate.
‘I met Daubigny at the cathedral schools,’ he replied. ‘Even as a boy he was cynical and mocking, quick of wit, nimble of foot.’ Wallasby walked forward. ‘He didn’t believe in anything, Corbett: in God or his Church. He often mocked the priests and yet,’ he paused, ‘everywhere he went he won friends. He and Harcourt were like peas in a pod. A man like Daubigny should have been brought to book, but instead he became a knight banneret, friend, counsellor and confidant of the King, a soldier and self-proclaimed scholar. And, when he wanted to . . .’ Wallasby snapped his fingers, ‘he abruptly converted, became a man of God, a monk. But not your lowly lay brother – oh, not Daubigny! – he not only rose to become Abbot of a great monastery but a scholar, a theologian, an exorcist. In truth, he was a hypocrite!’