by Paul Doherty
Brother Richard agreed. ‘Like any house we are most vigilant. I agree, Sir Hugh, our assassin has struck again.’
‘But how?’ Ranulf demanded.
‘Perhaps a fire arrow through the window.’
Corbett watched the flames as they began to die and coughed as a swirl of smoke gusted towards them.
‘Yes, a fire arrow or a lighted torch thrown through a window would have started such a blaze, particularly if it landed near the oil.’
Prior Cuthbert came hastening up. In the glow from the fire he still looked pallid-faced and red-eyed. The almoner told him what had happened as Prior Cuthbert stood, eyes half closed.
‘I am sorry,’ he apologised. ‘I was in a deep sleep.’
He walked away to organise the brothers. Some were just sitting on the frozen ground staring helplessly at this fire which had consumed an entire building. The walls and roof had now collapsed, and only the red brick base remained, but flames still leapt up, licking hungrily at blackened timbers. The breeze brought grey and black ash towards them and, occasionally, the sweet smell of the spices stored inside. Prior Cuthbert set up a system of watches and the community began to drift away. Corbett could tell the monks also believed the fire was deliberate: an act of terror by the assassin lurking within their community. Corbett watched the fire as if fascinated.
How could it have happened, he wondered? Who was responsible?
Perditus had been with him for some time before the tocsin began, but what about the rest? Richard and Dunstan had been present. Aelfric had joined them later but the Prior had claimed he had slept through all the commotion.
‘Why?’ Ranulf asked, standing behind Corbett.
Chanson had already left to make sure his precious horses were safe.
‘All men are terrified of fire.’ Corbett whispered. ‘Sudden and fierce, it wreaks havoc and instils terror: that’s what our assassin wanted to do. He’s aping the wicked Lord Mandeville who liked nothing better than to see a monastery burn beneath God’s own sky. He was probably frustrated that the attacks on Perditus and Dunstan had failed so he lashed out. He doesn’t want these monks to forget his presence. Corpses, sacrilege in church, fire arrows and now the destruction of one of their main storehouses.’
‘Sir Hugh?’ Aelfric hurried through the darkness. ‘Sir Hugh, you’d best come!’
‘I know why, Aelfric. The corpses in the death house – Hamo and Brother Francis. Both have been branded, haven’t they?’
Aelfric pushed his hands up the sleeves of his gown and stifled a sob.
‘The tocsin rang and the guard left his post, as did we all,’ he explained. ‘When I returned the sheets were ripped back.’ Aelfric pulled out his hand and tapped his forehead. ‘Both bear the brand marks. The killer has claimed his own.’
Aelfric gazed bleakly at the dying fire, then round at the snow-capped buildings as if he was seeing this abbey for the first time.
‘This is my home, Sir Hugh, yet it’s becoming a place of hideous terrors. We are being punished for our sins.’
He walked off into the darkness. Corbett told Ranulf to bring some food from the abbey kitchens and returned to the guesthouse. He met Wallasby on the stairs.
‘You’ve heard of the fire, Archdeacon?’
‘Yes, Sir Hugh, I have, but I will not leave my chamber except for food.’
And, brushing by the clerk, he clattered down the stairs. Corbett went into his own chamber, checked all was well and sat at his writing desk. Ranulf brought across food. Chanson joined them for a meal of pike with galentyne sauce, buttered vegetables, dates and spiced wine. Corbett chewed his food absentmindedly. Once finished, he crossed to his desk and wrote down all that had happened. Ranulf asked questions but he ignored him. Corbett went and lay down on his bed, plucking the coverlet over him. He tried to think of Maeve: how much he loved her, the poetry he would recite to her. He recalled that enigmatic name, Heloise Argenteuil. Corbett sat up so quickly he startled Ranulf.
‘Heloise Argenteuil!’ Corbett shouted. ‘Oh Ranulf, I am dim! Who hasn’t heard of Heloise and Abelard!’
‘Master?’
Corbett threw back the coverlet.
‘Tonight I work. Tomorrow, Ranulf . . .’
Corbett was almost dancing from foot to foot, rubbing his hands.
‘Tomorrow, for the first time since we came here, the truth will emerge!’
When he started to unlock a mystery, Corbett hovered like a hawk so that Ranulf was always unsure who was the marked quarry. This time was no different. Corbett began to hum a hymn under his breath. No longer tired, he busied himself about his desk, taking out sheets of vellum, scrubbing them with the pumice stone, sharpening quills, stirring ink pots, talking and singing under his breath as if the rest of the world had disappeared. He looked over his shoulder.
‘Go back to your chamber, Ranulf,’ Corbett murmured. ‘I cannot yet tell you what I do not know for sure myself. However, we will be up early. Make sure you bring your boots and gauntlets. We are going to start digging in Bloody Meadow.’
‘What for?’
‘The truth. Now leave me.’
Corbett worked late into the night. Now and again Ranulf would check on Chanson, who, fully dressed, lay snoring on his bed oblivious to the cares of the world. Every time he went into his master’s chamber, the clerk was still bowed over his desk. Corbett was doing what he loved best. Like an Oxford scholar, he’d form a hypothesis, develop that as far as he could and, for each supposition, look for proof. If the hypothesis didn’t work he would simply start again. At last Ranulf himself grew tired, and threw himself on his cot bed. It seemed only a matter of minutes before Corbett, washed and changed, was shaking him by the shoulder urging him to get up. Ranulf hastened to obey. Chanson was already jumping from foot to foot eager to break his fast in the refectory.
‘Don’t you ever wash or change?’ Ranulf asked crossly when they met in the corridor. ‘Your horses are cleaner than you.’
‘Sir Hugh needs me,’ Chanson retorted. ‘Ablutions will have to wait.’
‘Ablutions? Who taught you that word?’
‘Lady Maeve. She told me to attend to my ablutions more often.’
‘A wise woman,’ Ranulf muttered as they clattered down the stairs.
Corbett was already striding across to the refectory where the monks were filing in after Prime. Corbett didn’t go to the High Table but sat down at the table just within the doorway specially reserved for guests. They broke their fast on oatmeal, fresh loaves and butter, with a small pot of honey and stoups of watered ale. Once he had finished, Corbett cleaned his hornspoon with a napkin and put it back in his wallet. Perditus, still looking bruised and rather tired, came in. Corbett grasped him by the arm.
‘I would be grateful if you could ask Father Prior to meet me outside, he and all members of the Concilium.’
Corbett told Ranulf and Chanson to follow him. They went out of the refectory and down the steps. The morning was turning grey and hard. The smell of burning still hung heavy on the breeze but the snow was turning into an icy slush, treacherous underfoot.
Corbett stood clapping his gauntleted hands. Despite his lack of sleep he looked fresh: eyes glittering in the cold, hair tied back. Prior Cuthbert and the rest came bustling up.
‘I’ve held a meeting,’ Prior Cuthbert explained. ‘After checking the fire damage, we had to discuss all that has happened. Sir Hugh, we can discover no solution.’
‘I can,’ the clerk declared merrily. He pointed to a carved, gargoyle face on the lintel of the refectory doorway. ‘The truth may be as ugly as that but just as real. Right, Cuthbert.’ He clapped the Prior on the shoulder as if the monk was a close friend. ‘By the powers invested in me and— Well, we don’t want to go through that again, do we? I want every able-bodied man with hoe, mattock and spade out in Bloody Meadow.’
Prior Cuthbert’s face was a joy to see. He just gaped.
‘Well, isn’t it the fulfilment of your dre
ams,’ Corbett teased.
‘But it’s a burial place!’
‘That’s not what you said to Abbot Stephen. Now look, Father Prior,’ Corbett laid a hand on each shoulder, ‘the solution to all these bloody mysteries lies in that burial mound. You can either help me or I shall have to send for the sheriff and his posse. The sooner that grave is opened, the sooner these matters can be brought to an end and I will be gone.’
‘Open it!’ Brother Aelfric snapped. ‘Let’s put an end to this, Father Prior!’
Prior Cuthbert agreed.
‘Have the tocsin rung,’ he said. ‘I want all the brothers to assemble in the Chapter House. The spiritual hours of this abbey will be set aside. Sir Hugh, you have your way.’
Corbett thanked him and went back to the refectory where he ordered another bowl of oatmeal and a stoup of ale. He ate and drank lustily, tapping his feet, humming between mouthfuls.
‘Sir Hugh,’ Ranulf leaned across the table, ‘won’t you share your wisdom with us?’
‘It’s not wisdom, Ranulf, it’s just intuition. So, please, bear with me. I’ll explain as this murderous tale unfolds.’
He finished the oatmeal and went back out towards the Judas gate. Father Prior had acted quickly. Labourers and tenant farmers were all assembling in the meadow, their breath rising like steam as they stamped their feet on the icy ground. Bloody Meadow had lost its macabre loneliness and the crows, roused from their nests in the oak trees, cawed raucously, whirling aloft as if they sensed what was about to happen. The sky was full of iron-grey clouds, though these were not threatening or lowering. The only discomfort was the biting breeze and the cold which seemed to creep through boots and gloves to freeze toes and fingers.
‘We’ll soon be warm,’ Corbett murmured. ‘And I don’t think it will snow.’
‘The ground will be hard.’ Prior Cuthbert came up.
‘Only the top layer will be,’ Corbett explained. ‘I am a farmer’s son so I can tell that winter has yet to set in. Thank God it’s not February or March. Now, let’s proceed.’
Corbett went and picked up a spade from a barrow. Using this he climbed to the top of the funeral barrow and called the others around. He felt slightly ridiculous with the breeze whipping his hair and cloak. The ground underfoot was slippery, and he quietly prayed he wouldn’t fall. He glanced around the meadow, and the view so startled him he had to steady himself with the spade.
‘I didn’t think,’ he murmured. ‘Oh, Corbett, sometimes you can be a great fool!’
‘Master, what’s the matter?’
Ranulf stared anxiously up, grasping a hoe as if it was a spear. Corbett ignored him. Digging the spade into the ground he slowly turned, making sure he didn’t lose his foothold. The top of the funeral barrow was flat, about a yard across. Corbett kept turning as Ranulf, cursing under his breath, used the hoe to climb the mound and join him.
‘Oh, you stupid man!’ Corbett whispered. ‘Why did I never think of . . .?’
‘What is it, Sir Hugh? Have you lost your wits?’
‘No, I have just regained them. Ranulf, look around this field. What does it remind you of?’
The Clerk of the Green Wax turned so quickly he nearly slipped. Corbett steadied him. At the foot of the mound, Prior Cuthbert and his community were becoming restless. Corbett ignored them.
‘Think, Ranulf. This meadow is almost like a circle, with the burial mound in the centre. Look at the furrows leading off. You can only see them from up here.’
‘The wheel!’ Ranulf exclaimed. ‘Abbot Stephen’s wheel! The mosaic, the drawings he etched. The burial mound is the hub. These furrows, probably pathways to it, are the spokes, the edge of the field is the rim.’
‘Precisely,’ Corbett whispered. ‘And now we are going to find out why it is so important.’
‘Sir Hugh,’ Prior Cuthbert called. ‘We are beginning to freeze!’
Corbett, grasping the handle of the spade, stared down at them.
‘I want you to dig!’ he shouted. ‘Take away the top soil and begin to burrow in: from the side rather than the top.’
‘But it will collapse!’ someone shouted.
‘No, begin that way,’ Corbett declared. ‘I am looking for something. It will not be deep within the barrow.’
The monks acquiesced. Prior Cuthbert and members of the Concilium stood aside, wrapped in their cloaks. Brother Dunstan had a portable brazier brought out as well as jugs of mulled wine and trays of pewter cups. The labourers began their task, cursing and muttering, carefully removing the surface of frozen grass. They dug eagerly, now and again breaking off to warm their hands over the brazier, or scooping up handfuls of snow to cool their fingers as they grasped the hot mulled wine. Corbett and Ranulf chose their spot and began to dig whilst Chanson spent more time warming his fingers.
‘Not work for royal clerks,’ Ranulf muttered.
‘It takes me back to being a boy,’ Corbett grinned. ‘And it’s something to do.’
They must have worked for about an hour. Corbett and Ranulf were at the far side of the meadow near the Judas Gate when the alarm was raised. They hastened round: a group of labourers were now leaning on their mattocks and hoes, peering into the hole they had dug. Ranulf grasped a hoe and, pushing the wooden handle in, prodded gently.
‘It’s not mud,’ one of the labourers declared. He plucked a piece of rotting cloth from the soil and handed it to Corbett.
The clerk carefully rubbed it through his fingers.
‘I can’t tell what fabric it is but, although stained with mud, it was probably once quite costly.’
‘Wool?’ Ranulf queried. ‘It hasn’t rotted away very well.’
The labourers now dug more carefully. The rest ceased their labours to stand and watch. The hole widened and, under Corbett’s instructions, they gently pulled the bundle they had found out into the open. At last it was free. The top of the skull and the skeletal feet peeping out from beneath the rotting coverlet were quite clear. Everyone drew back. Corbett laid the macabre bundle gently on the ground and undid the makeshift winding-sheet. The skeleton beneath was white; it hadn’t yet turned a corrupting yellow, whilst the bones were still hard and firm.
‘The coverlet was his cloak,’ Corbett declared.
Ranulf could clearly see rotting chainmail which had once covered the chest, and the tabard above bearing a livery. The hose on the legs had rotted away.
‘The boots must have been removed,’ Corbett declared.
The hauberk was cut and mangled on one side. Corbett lifted this up to expose a smashed rib beneath. He carefully checked for signs of other wounds. Corbett got to his feet and looked down at the pathetic remains. The skull hung sideways, the jaw slightly open.
‘That’s not the body of King Sigbert!’ Brother Aelfric declared. ‘The skeleton is too well preserved.’ He stared down at the tattered, rotting remains of the livery. ‘Those are the Harcourt arms. Who is it?’ He glanced at Corbett.
‘Sir Reginald,’ Corbett replied. He crouched down and tapped the mud-caked coverlet. ‘This was probably his cloak, the boots have been removed and, apart from the chainmail and this surcoat, the rest has rotted away. I can detect no other wound except these smashed ribs.’
Once again he pushed back the chainmail.
‘It was probably a sword wound. A powerful thrust which penetrated his ribs and went up into his heart. He must have died instantly. Whoever killed him, quickly removed all insignia: the clasp of the cloak, rings – perhaps the boots had recognisable studs or buttons which might have identified the corpse?’
‘Then why not remove the surcoat?’ Ranulf asked.
‘Because it was stained with blood and caught in the mesh of the chainmail. As I said, whoever killed Sir Reginald had to act swiftly.’
Corbett got to his feet, peered into the makeshift grave and used the hoe to make sure there was nothing else.
‘But the stories?’ Prior Cuthbert protested. ‘Sir Reginald was seen leaving his hous
e. Lady Margaret and Sir Stephen spent months searching for him!’
‘All a lie,’ Corbett replied, ‘though I am not too sure who was responsible. What really happened was that one summer’s evening, many years ago, Sir Reginald came down to Bloody Meadow to meet his assassin. He was killed and his corpse swiftly buried in the tumulus. His murderer moved quickly and expertly. He probably removed the top soil, dug out this make-shift grave, stripped the corpse as quickly as he could and slipped it in.’
‘Who?’ Prior Cuthbert asked.
‘I have yet to discover that. But look, Prior Cuthbert.’ Corbett wiped the mud from his gauntlets. ‘The remains of Sir Reginald Harcourt deserve decent burial.’
‘Oh, yes, yes.’
‘Other pressing matters await me,’ Corbett explained. ‘Have the remains put in your death house.’
‘And the mound?’
Prior Cuthbert’s face was white with cold, his eyes watered and his nose had turned a bright red.
‘You’ve been very helpful. The mound has now been disturbed. You and your brothers might as well finish the task and search for Sigbert’s corpse.’
Corbett strode away, with Ranulf and Chanson following. Once they were through the Judas Gate, Corbett ordered Chanson to prepare the horses.
‘Did you expect that?’ Ranulf asked.
‘Yes, I did and soon I’ll explain why.’
‘And the murderer?’
Ranulf peered at his master.
‘Sir Reginald was murdered by more than one person. It would have taken two or three people, to dig a hole like that and cover it quickly.’
Corbett didn’t wait for further questions but strode on. Chanson had their horses saddled by the main gate. A lay brother swung this open. They went through but, instead of going onto the main trackway, Corbett rode quickly round the walls. He was relieved to find the Watcher squatting outside his bothy.
‘He must have drunk deep and late,’ Corbett explained. ‘Otherwise he might have heard all the excitement and fled.’
The Watcher by the Gates got to his feet as Corbett approached.
‘Good morrow, Sir Hugh.’ He stared at the mud stains on the clerk’s cloak. ‘You’ve been travelling far?’