by Paul Doherty
The lay brother lifted his head, tears in his eyes.
‘Did Abbot Stephen ever tell you about your mother?’
‘No.’ The reply was a half whisper. ‘No, he never did, he never would. He simply said she had died and that her name was Heloise. But, since his death and the events of this morning . . .’
‘You mean, what we found in the burial mound?’ Corbett asked.
‘And when you left for Harcourt Manor,’ Perditus replied, ‘I began to suspect.’
‘Lady Margaret!’ Wallasby exclaimed.
‘Lady Margaret,’ Corbett agreed.
‘I didn’t know.’ Perditus seemed lost in his own thoughts. ‘I didn’t even suspect. Abbot Stephen hardly mentioned Lady Margaret, and when he did, he described her only as a vexatious neighbour, an old woman he deeply disliked and resented. That was all pretence, wasn’t it, Corbett? I should go to her.’ He half rose. ‘I should see her, shouldn’t I?’
In the doorway Chanson quietly withdrew his dagger.
‘Sit down!’ Corbett ordered. ‘Perditus, sit down! Let me finish this matter. Let me explain how you wreaked justice and exacted vengeance?
Perditus, eyes narrowed, sat down.
‘There is a likeness, you know,’ Corbett said gently. ‘When I met Lady Margaret I thought I had seen those features before. You are very like her: the same glance; the way you move your eyes; your iron will; your inflexibility of purpose.’
Corbett deliberately flattered, hoping to soothe this man, whose soul was given up to hate and vengeance.
‘Go into the abbey church,’ Corbett declared, ‘and look carefully at the wall paintings: they describe, in their own secret code, the life of Daubigny and of Daubigny’s son. They show how this place became his refuge, his exile, though the painting of Cain slaying Abel was a constant reminder of the evil he had done.’
‘I wish Father had told me,’ Perditus was speaking to himself.
‘Perhaps he would have done,’ Corbett reassured. ‘In time.’
‘How did this all come about?’ Prior Cuthbert demanded.
‘I will tell you,’ Corbett retorted. ‘And, when I am finished,’ he pointed to the bible resting on the lectern at the far corner of the room, ‘you shall all take a solemn oath never to reveal or discuss what you hear today. Sir Stephen Daubigny and Margaret Harcourt have paid for their sins. Hate and rage have had their way. Enough blood has been spilt.’ He glanced at Perditus. ‘There will be truth and then there will be silence!’
FRANGIT FORTIA CORDA DOLOR
REJECTION CAN SMASH EVEN THE
STRONG AT HEART
TIBULLUS
Chapter 14
‘Did Abbot Stephen tell you what he planned?’
‘No,’ Perditus seemed not to be concentrating. ‘No, not really. On one occasion he claimed the best solution was the Roman way. I didn’t truly understand what he meant. Afterwards I realised he had taken his own life: that was the only logical explanation.’
‘How did you discover you were Abbot Stephen’s son?
‘I was born and raised in Germany,’ Perditus declared. ‘For many years I believed the man and woman who raised me were my natural parents. They treated me kindly enough but there was always a distance between me and them. I didn’t want to be a merchant but a soldier. My foster father died when I was still young, and his wife later fell ill. On her deathbed she told me some of the truth: that my parents were English born, and my real mother was of noble birth.’ He shrugged. ‘But that was all. Abbot Stephen later confessed that, as he grew older, the thought of me haunted him. He often led embassies to the courts of Northern Europe and, as you know, he built up a wide circle of friends, who could advise and help him. Four years ago the Archbishop of Mainz asked to see me. He had Abbot Stephen waiting in the chamber. The Archbishop left us alone, and Abbot Stephen went down on his knees.’ Perditus’s voice grew thick with emotion. ‘He knelt like a penitent, hands joined before him. He confessed that he was my natural father, that he and my mother had travelled from England and given me away as a foster child.’
‘Did you believe him?’
‘At first I was dumbfounded yet I knew he spoke the truth. On one matter he was resolved. He would tell me very little about my true mother. He simply gave her name as Heloise and claimed she died shortly after my birth.’
‘Did you follow Abbot Stephen back to England?’
The chamber was now hushed. Archdeacon Wallasby and the monks sat like scholars in a schoolroom listening to one of their colleagues make a full confession of every offence he’d committed.
‘No, not at first. I cursed him. I nearly lashed out with my boot as he just knelt there, tears streaming down his cheeks. He said he loved me, that he’d paid for his sins, that he’d do anything in atonement. He was so calm, so full of remorse: it wasn’t easy for him. That same evening we dined alone in one of the city taverns. Despite my anger,’ Perditus half smiled, ‘I was much taken by Abbot Stephen. I considered him a genuinely holy man, a scholar. When I heard about his exploits as a warrior my heart glowed with pride. Abbot Stephen told me he would accept whatever I did; he said I could even travel to London and denounce him from St Paul’s Cross. He left for England. I waited a year before I followed, not for revenge or for justice – I just wanted to be with him. He welcomed me with open arms. I became a lay brother, and I took the name Perditus.’
‘Ah yes,’ Corbett interrupted. ‘I thought so. Perditus is Latin for “that which is lost”.’
‘Abbot Stephen laughed when I made my choice. I tell you this, clerk, despite the shaven heads around us, those years with my true father were the happiest of my life. Publicly I acted as his manservant, but in private we were truly father and son. He told me all about the marshes, the legends of Mandeville and how, as an impetuous young man he used to go out and blow his hunting horn.’
‘And so you did likewise?’
‘Yes.’ Perditus half laughed as if enjoying himself. ‘I never told Abbot Stephen but I think he suspected. I was so happy. I would have remained happy.’ Perditus’s face turned ugly. ‘Perhaps one day I would have been told the truth about my mother if it hadn’t been for that damnable Bloody Meadow and the greed of these monks! On spring and summer evenings, Abbot Stephen and I would often go out there to walk and talk. We thought we were safe. One night we heard the Judas Gate clatter and I knew we were being spied on.’
‘You hastened back,’ Corbett demanded. ‘You may be monkish in your studies and your singing but you are still an athletic young man.’
‘I climbed the wall, reached the Abbot’s lodgings and was there when our prying Prior came slithering along. The threats began soon afterwards. When Abbot Stephen took his own life, I hid my sorrow and turned to vengeance.’
‘To murder!’
‘No, clerk, I meted out justice. If I had my way I’d have burnt this abbey to the ground, not left one stone upon another. Gildas was first: a monk more at home in his workshop than his choir stall. I brained him, hid his body and, after dark, dragged it out and placed it on the burial mound as a warning to the rest. I went out onto the marshes. My father had hunted demons, but I called upon these same demons to help me.’
‘Why did you kill Taverner?’ Ranulf interrupted.
‘You heard him confess his subterfuge, didn’t you?’ Corbett said.
‘But I thought Perditus was helping Chanson in the library?’ Ranulf declared.
‘No, no, he was eavesdropping.’ Corbett winked at his henchman. ‘After Taverner confessed his trickery, Perditus, frightened of being caught, hastened back. He met Chanson coming from the library.’ Corbett glanced at his groom. ‘He offered to help you, didn’t he?’
‘Yes.’ The groom, in a reverie of astonishment at Corbett’s blatant lie, nodded quickly.
‘That’s the truth,’ Perditus remarked. ‘Why should that trickster escape? He planned to make a mockery of my father. Abbot Stephen had been so excited about his case. I took the fat Arc
hdeacon’s bow and arrows from his quiver. This abbey is like a rabbit warren. Taverner came slipping through the morning mist and took an arrow straight through his heart.’
‘And then you branded him?’ Corbett demanded.
‘I wanted to put the fear of God into those mean-minded monks. I fashioned a branding iron. Gildas was the first and, when I was ready, I placed the same brand, the devil’s mark, on Taverner and Hamo. I was so excited about the sub-Prior’s death. I went into the kitchen with some powder from the infirmarian’s chest. I chose a tankard and slipped it in. It was like playing Hazard. I didn’t mind which one of these cowards drank the poison. All I knew was that one of them would die.’ Perditus shook his fist in Cuthbert’s direction. ‘I just hoped it wasn’t you. I wanted to save you to the last. I wanted you to experience the same fears and terrors my father did.’
‘And the librarian, Brother Francis?’ Corbett reminded him.
‘Ah, he was different. In a way I felt sorry for him. He was a member of the Concilium and had always been kind to me but he was dangerous. The day he died I went down into the library. I wondered if, perhaps, amongst the books Abbot Stephen borrowed, I might find further clues to my past. Brother Francis took me aside. He told me that he had been reflecting upon Abbot Stephen’s death. He wondered if it was suicide and claimed that Abbot Stephen must have had some great secret which perhaps could explain both his death and the bloody murders which followed. He questioned me closely. “Come on, Brother.” he urged. “You were not only Abbot Stephen’s manservant but also his friend.” I could see he was suspicious. I told him that I knew nothing, that I couldn’t help him. He still claimed the truth lay somewhere in that library.’
‘It was,’ Corbett interrupted. ‘I discovered a love poem that your father wrote as a farewell when he first entered the abbey.’
‘Did you?’ Perditus was now like a little boy. ‘Can I see it?’
‘Brother Francis?’ Corbett demanded.
‘Oh yes. He was kindly and studious but very much a busybody. I decided he should die quickly. He thought he was safe in the library but, during the day, I had loosened the shutter covering one of the arrow slit windows. That night, while the other monks were stuffing their faces, I took my bow and arrows and went towards the library. I rattled the shutter, removed it and strung my arrow. For a bowman, it was an easy target as Brother Francis had the light behind him. The rest you know.’ He grinned. ‘My eyesight’s better than I pretend.’
‘Didn’t you care?’ Brother Dunstan snarled.
‘Of course I cared, about my father. I would have taken you as well, you fat, lecherous monk! My father suspected your visits to the Lantern-in-the-Woods were not just on abbey business. Every day you should slump on your fat knees and thank God you are safe.’
Corbett glanced warningly at Ranulf. Perditus was enjoying himself. He hated these monks so much, he loved the taunting and the jibes describing how clever he was and the vengeance he had planned. But what would happen when it was all finished?
‘And the cat?’ Ranulf called out.
‘Oh, that was to emphasise the parallels with the Mandeville story,’ Perditus had now forgotten Dunstan. ‘I was sorry for the poor creature, but I had to test the powders I had taken from Aelfric. The cat died very quickly, and then I cut its throat, put it into a sack, with a hook tied to one of its legs by a piece of twine. The abbey church is full of shadows. I bided my time, slipped through the sacristry door and hung the cat up in the twinkling of an eye.’ He clapped his hands suddenly, making the monks jump. ‘You were all frightened, weren’t you?’
‘And the fire arrows?’
‘Again they came from the Mandeville story. I had to keep these monks on their toes. It was easy: a dish of burning charcoal and arrows dipped in tarred pitch. I slipped through the postern gate, knowing I would not be seen in the dead of night. I didn’t want anyone to forget. I didn’t want anyone to relax and think it was finished.’
‘That’s why you trapped us in the cellar, wasn’t it?’ Ranulf asked.
‘Yes,’ Perditus glanced sadly back. ‘I did warn you.’
‘Yes, you did,’ Corbett agreed. ‘You jammed the door to the Abbot’s lodgings that night. By the time I’d freed the wood and, as a new arrival at St Martin’s, found my way, you had left by a window. You were waiting for me behind that grille?’
‘I could tell, even then, you’d find the truth,’ Perditus sighed. ‘I didn’t really want to kill you but you moved fast, like a greyhound searching out its quarry, backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards.’
‘You could have killed us in the cellar?’
‘True and the King’s anger would have blazed out against the Abbey of St Martin’s,’ Perditus smiled at Prior Cuthbert. ‘It will never be the same now. Corbett is going to report to the King. Oh, our prince will keep it secret, to protect my father’s name and that of Lady Margaret!’ He smirked. ‘However, I don’t think he’ll forget you, Prior Cuthbert! Your ambition to succeed as Abbot will never be realised.’
‘At least I’ll be alive!’
‘Stop it!’ Corbett interrupted. ‘You were frightened that we would discover the truth, Perditus.’
‘It was only a matter of time.’
‘But the fire?’ Richard the almoner spoke up. ‘I understand that when the fire broke out in the store room, Perditus was here, suffering from injuries.’
‘That was another defence.’ Corbett leaned forward. ‘Perditus had been a soldier and was used to knocks and bruises, so it wasn’t difficult to inflict them on himself. He’s also skilled in starting slow fires. I’ve seen the King’s men do the same: they take a long piece of heavy cloth and twist it into a rope. They smear it with tar and pitch, place one end in the building about to be destroyed, in a bucket of oil or something dry and combustible.’ Corbett paused. ‘You did inflict those cuts and bruises on yourself?’
‘A small price,’ Perditus retorted. ‘It gave me more time.’
‘Cuts and minor bruises,’ Corbett observed. ‘You then lit your oil-soaked rope and came hastening to me. I saw where you had practised,’ Corbett continued, ‘amongst the oak trees which ring Bloody Meadow.’
‘I had to make sure it would work,’ Perditus observed. ‘Do you know what I really planned? The death of every monk in this room.’ He pointed at the almoner. ‘You would not have escaped if it hadn’t been for that damnable vase! Oh, how I would have danced to view your corpse and this entire place in flames.’
‘You are mad,’ Cuthbert declared. ‘Wicked, steeped in sin.’
‘We truly are brothers in arms,’ Perditus jibed. ‘Given enough time I would have taken all your lives.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘Snuffed them out like candle wicks!’
‘You really do believe you are lord of life and death?’ Corbett remarked. He noticed how Wallasby was sitting quiet and composed, a look of smug satisfaction on his face.
‘What do you mean?’ Perditus stamped his foot: that gesture alone warned Corbett. He was no longer dealing with a sane man. Perditus really saw himself as the Vengeance of God.
‘Do you consider yourself the reincarnation of Mandeville’s ghost?’ Corbett tried to keep the taunt out of his voice. ‘That you have become the lord of life and death in the Abbey of St Martin’s?’
Perditus looked puzzled.
‘You brand your victims,’ Corbett explained, ‘like a farmer would his cattle, marking his possessions – even dead they had to bear your imprint.’
‘Of course!’
‘Let us return to Taverner’s death,’ Corbett mused. ‘Why should you kill a man whom your father cherished and protected? A man who was going to help him in his study of demonology and provide the proof Abbot Stephen needed that an exorcism, a true exorcism, could take place?’
‘Taverner was a trickster. As you said, I eavesdropped on your conversation and overheard what he said. Taverner was a liar.’
‘But that’s not quite true, is it?’ Corbett
declared. ‘This morning, after my return from Harcourt Manor, I visited Taverner’s chamber. I went inside, closed the door and stood where I had when I questioned the cunning man. Ranulf stayed outside. The doors and walls of this abbey are very thick. Ranulf could hear nothing, not even a murmur. If you had overheard Taverner, you would’ve rejoiced at what he said: the Cunning Man was not going to betray Abbot Stephen, he was going to help him.’
‘What are you saying?’ Prior Cuthbert demanded.
Corbett turned to Wallasby.
‘You really did hate Abbot Stephen, didn’t you?’
The Archdeacon swallowed hard, his smug smile had disappeared.
‘You were going to destroy him,’ Corbett continued, ‘and Taverner was your weapon. Perditus tried to eavesdrop on Taverner’s confession but couldn’t hear anything, whereas you, of course, knew the truth. Your treacherous plot had collapsed and Abbot Stephen was dead. You knew that, as a royal clerk, I would be reporting my findings to the King who would not be best pleased to learn that the Archdeacon of St Paul’s was involved in such trickery. But the only proof I had was Taverner.’
The Archdeacon scraped back his stool. Perditus, as if he was an accomplice, stretched out his hand, forcing him to stay still.
‘You’d sown the tempest,’ Corbett declared, ‘and now you had to reap the whirlwind. Instead of Abbot Stephen facing disgrace and humiliation, it was the turn of Adrian Wallasby, Archdeacon of St Paul’s.’
‘I didn’t . . .’
‘Oh, yes, you did,’ Corbett interrupted. ‘Taverner was a very dangerous man to you. He had been looking forward to a life of leisure at the Abbey of St Martin’s until his protector, Abbot Stephen, died. He could blackmail you. In fact, I suspect he already had. Amongst his possessions I found some silver and gold coins. The Abbot’s personal accounts showed no disbursements to Taverner, so that gold and silver came from you. You seized your chance when Abbot Stephen and Gildas had been murdered. It was clear that an assassin was loose amongst the monks so you thought one more death wouldn’t matter?’