by Paul Doherty
‘You can’t prove anything!’ Wallasby regained his composure. ‘True, an arrow from my quiver was used but Perditus could have stolen it: he has already confessed to the crime.’
‘But he didn’t do it,’ Corbett replied. ‘You did. On the morning Taverner died, he took us down to the cellar to see the Abbot’s Roman mosaic. When we came back I met Perditus busy with some task. We walked a little further and then Taverner left us and was killed shortly afterwards. I have walked this abbey time and again, and this morning I measured the distances. No matter how athletic or nimble-footed Perditus might be, he could not possibly have gone to fetch a bow and arrows and return to lurk on that misty path. It was you, Archdeacon Wallasby. One well-aimed arrow and all the proof of your trickery, all the menaces Taverner could muster were silenced. Another death at St Martin’s, for which someone else could take the blame. No wonder you wanted to leave so urgently. Of course,’ Corbett concluded, ‘Perditus was glad Taverner was dead. In his own frenetic mind perhaps he believed he was responsible. You must have been relieved when Taverner’s forehead, as well as Hamo’s, was branded with the Mandeville mark.’
Perditus had now turned on his stool and was looking full at the Archdeacon, head slightly to one side. He glanced at Corbett, a puzzled look in his eye. The monks just sat shocked at the devastating revelations. The assassin was correct: these were broken men, monks who must bear some responsibility for the bloody events in this abbey.
‘Are you saying, Sir Hugh, that I did not kill Taverner? That this one was the culprit?’ Perditus tapped the Archdeacon’s hand. Wallasby removed it abruptly.
‘You can’t prove anything,’ Wallasby declared. ‘This man is the true assassin.’ His face turned ugly. ‘His hands should be bound like a common malefactor. He can be taken back to London and tried before the King’s Bench for murder, blasphemy and sacrilege. He’ll die at the Elms with the noose around his neck, face turning purple, feet kicking. A fitting end,’ he taunted, ‘for the son of our holy Abbot Stephen!’
‘Will I hang?’ Perditus asked, eyes rounded in consternation. ‘I am a cleric in holy orders.’
‘No, you are not!’ Wallasby jibed. ‘You are a—’
Corbett sensed the coming danger but it was too late. Perditus, taunted by Wallasby’s jibes, abruptly sprang to his feet. He picked up the stool and threw it at Corbett. The clerk moved sideways so that the stool crashed behind him. Wallasby was not so quick. Perditus drew a dagger from the sleeve of his gown and sliced the Archdeacon deeply across the neck, from underneath his right ear up under his chin. The Archdeacon sat slightly forward, hands to his wound, the blood pouring out between his fingers. Ranulf leapt to his feet but Perditus was already across the chamber. He knocked Brother Dunstan aside and, before the almoner could intervene, had seized the surprised Prior Cuthbert round the neck, pushing the dagger up under his chin.
‘Stand back!’
Ranulf looked at Corbett who shook his head. The clerk knew he had made a mistake. Perhaps he should have restrained Perditus from the beginning but then he would not have confessed. The assassin was now dragging Prior Cuthbert towards the door. He looked over his shoulder.
‘Open it!’ he shouted at Chanson.
Corbett gestured at his groom to obey. The door to the chamber swung open even as Archbishop Wallasby collapsed to the floor in an ever-widening pool of splashing blood. Aelfric hurried across and turned him over. The desperation on the Archdeacon’s face and the jerking of his body showed he was past help. Corbett watched in horror. At first he thought Perditus was going to release Prior Cuthbert. He drew his arm away but then swiftly slashed with his knife. Corbett closed his eyes. Prior Cuthbert stood, a look of horror on his face, hands clutching his throat. Perditus sent him crashing forward and was out of the door in an instant, pounding down the stairs.
Ranulf ignored the chaos and commotion. He thrust Chanson aside and followed in pursuit. Perditus had already cleared the steps and was out through the door. Ranulf, hastily drawing his sword, chased after him. As he slipped and slithered on the ice, Ranulf was almost unaware of the monks he pushed aside: he had eyes only for the hurtling figure ahead of him, grey robe hitched up, running like the wind, past buildings, across courtyards, twisting and turning. Ranulf followed. At first he thought the assassin was heading for one of the postern gates or even the stables. He shortened the gap between them. Perditus had reached the cellar steps and hastened down. Ranulf followed, surprised that the door wasn’t locked or bolted. He pushed it open and slipped into the darkness. The slap of sandals echoed back as Ranulf paused to regain his breath. He put down his sword, took out a tinder and lit one of the sconce torches. Once this was burning brightly, he grasped his sword and made his way gingerly down the passageway, hugging the wall, stretching the torch out in front of him. He passed the cavernous storerooms, wondering what Perditus intended. Behind him Corbett shouted his name.
‘Go back!’ Ranulf yelled.
Perditus was a skilled enemy, a trained soldier. Ranulf was fearful he’d taken a bow and arrow and was preparing an ambush. A pool of light glowed at the end of the corridor: Perditus was in the storeroom at the end where Abbot Stephen had found the mosaic. Ranulf watched the light carefully, expecting to see Perditus, armed with bow and arrow, appear in the doorway. Apart from a moving shadow, he could detect nothing. Closer and closer he crept. At the doorway he stopped and threw the torch in onto the floor. He slipped down the steps and paused in astonishment. Perditus, sword and dagger on the ground beside him, was kneeling, staring at the mosaic.
‘It’s beautiful, isn’t it?’ he whispered, tracing the outline with his finger. ‘Abbot Stephen loved it, you know. He wanted to take it up and put it in the sanctuary. Don’t you think it’s beautiful, Ranulf?’
‘Yes, yes, I do.’
‘It shouldn’t be kept here,’ Perditus continued. ‘These mumbling monks don’t know true beauty when they see it.’
‘You have killed Archdeacon Wallasby and Prior Cuthbert,’ Ranulf declared.
‘I am not bothered about them. They were marked for death anyway. It’s a pity I couldn’t have finished the whole tiresome business. I was never going to kill you though. Abbot Stephen would have liked you. I tried to warn Corbett. I just wanted you to go and leave these sinners to my justice.’ He caressed the mosaic again. ‘I have only two real regrets: I should have acted faster to ensure the deaths of all those damned monks. My second regret is that I never met my mother.’ He smiled at Ranulf. ‘But it’s best if she didn’t see me as a felon, hands and feet bound, eh? Tell me the truth, Ranulf-atte-Newgate: they’ll hang me in London, won’t they?’
‘If you were considered mad,’ Ranulf replied, ‘the King might have mercy and immure you for the rest of your life . . .’
‘Ah well.’
Ranulf knew all the street-fighting tricks: Perditus had gone slack, shoulders drooping. He stepped back. The assassin grabbed sword and dagger and sprang to his feet, slightly crouched. In the torchlight he looked composed, eyes serene, a dreamy, faraway expression on his face.
‘Put up your weapons!’ Ranulf ordered.
Perditus danced forward, sword and dagger flickering out. Ranulf parried. The cellar echoing with the clash of steel and the shuffle of feet. Ranulf watched carefully. Again Perditus’s arm came snaking out in a feint, then a lunge with his dagger. Ranulf blocked and parried. He concentrated on nothing but this figure dancing in the torchlight, backwards and forwards. Perditus was no bully-boy from the alleyways but an accomplished man-at-arms. Time and again he came in, feinting, parrying. Each time Ranulf blocked. Perditus stood back, chest heaving, sword and dagger down. He pulled up his sword in a salute then brought it down, the tip aimed directly at Ranulf’s face.
‘This is the way it should be, shouldn’t it, clerk? Warrior against warrior. Sword against sword.’
He came dancing across. Ranulf moved to parry the expected thrust but Perditus, as he lunged forward, suddenly brought sw
ord and dagger up, exposing his body. Ranulf couldn’t stop and thrust his sword deep into Perditus’s chest. He withdrew it quickly. Perditus let his weapons fall with a clatter and fell to his knees. He clutched at the wound, the blood bubbling out. He stared up at Ranulf.
‘I can taste death already. It’s better this way.’
He collapsed onto his face. His body shuddered for a while and lay still. Ranulf, crouching down, felt for the blood beat in his throat. He could detect nothing. The sound of running footsteps drew closer, and Corbett and Chanson appeared in the doorway.
‘He’s dead,’ Ranulf got to his feet. ‘He walked onto my sword. I think he intended that.’
‘It’s better than the scaffold,’ Chanson remarked. ‘Where did he get the sword and dagger from?’
‘He probably had weapons hidden in all the caverns along the passageway,’ Corbett remarked. He sat down on the steps and put his face in his hands.
‘Cuthbert and Wallasby?’ Ranulf asked.
‘Oh, they are both dead,’ Corbett took his hands away from his face. ‘I made a mistake, Ranulf, I should have had Perditus bound. Yet, if I had, he might not have confessed.’
‘In his eyes Wallasby and Cuthbert deserved to die,’ Ranulf remarked. ‘And God forgive me, Master, I believe that to a certain extent they brought their own deaths upon them. Do you really think Wallasby killed Taverner?’
‘Yes I do,’ Corbett got to his feet, ‘though it would have been very difficult to prove. If Perditus had killed four times, why shouldn’t he kill five? Our Archdeacon was intent on revenge. Cacullus non facit monachum: holy orders is no protection against murder. Wallasby would certainly have been disgraced and Prior Cuthbert a broken man. The Abbey of St Martin’s has been turned into a battleground, a place of killing . . .’
He paused as he heard voices from the far end of the passageway.
‘What will happen?’ Ranulf asked.
‘The abbey will have to be reconsecrated. The King and the Archbishop will demand a new Concilium be sent in to restore harmony and order.’
‘And Perditus?’
‘Bring his corpse. He can join the rest.’
The following morning Corbett stood beside Lady Margaret as she stared down at the waxen face of her son’s corpse. Brother Aelfric had prepared the body for burial. Lady Margaret stood upright, no tears in her eyes. She caressed the young man’s cheek and, leaning down, kissed him on the lips before pulling the coffin sheet up over his head.
‘I would like to be alone, Sir Hugh.’
Corbett bowed. ‘Madam, the clouds are breaking, there will be no more snow for a while. We must return to Norwich.’
‘And my crime?’ she asked. ‘My sin?’
‘I can speak for the King, Madam, and I say you have been punished enough. There must be an end to all this. All those who know the true story have taken an oath of silence.’ He gestured at the sheeted corpse. ‘What you do with him, where you have him buried, is a matter for you.’
‘I feel nothing,’ she whispered. ‘The ground outside, Corbett, is frozen, and so is my heart. I suppose that’s what happens,’ she glanced back at the corpse, ‘before the heart breaks. Such a high price!’ she whispered. ‘Such a high price, Sir Hugh! For one night of passion! A few golden hours and this!’
Corbett was about to reply. She held a hand up.
‘And yet,’ she continued, ‘we could have stopped it at any time. We hid our sin when we should have told the truth from the start.’ She stretched out her hand. Corbett kissed the icy fingers. He glanced once more at the corpse, crossed himself and, picking up his cloak, left the death house, striding through the silent abbey grounds.
Ranulf and Chanson were waiting for him in the stable yard. The horses had been saddled, and the sumpter pony had their baggage lashed firmly on its back. Corbett put on his cloak and swung himself into the saddle. He looked over his shoulder once more as if memorising the gables, turrets, cornices and towers of the abbey.
‘To Norwich, Master?’
‘By nightfall, Ranulf, if God is good and the weather is clear.’
A lay brother swung open the gate and they cantered through. The Watcher by the Gates was standing by the trackway, staff in one hand, a large bundle strapped to his back. Corbett reined in.
‘Where will you go to now?’
‘As far from here as possible, Sir Hugh, at least for a while.’ The Watcher brought up his shaggy cowl to hide his tangled hair. ‘A job well done, eh clerk? The malefactor exposed, justice carried out.’
‘I wouldn’t call it well done,’ Corbett retorted, leaning down from the saddle. ‘All my life, sir,’ Corbett held the Watcher’s gaze, ‘I’ve believed in logic and reason.’
‘But hate is stronger.’
‘No, sir, love is stronger: that was the root cause of all this. But it’s like a two-edged sword. Love frustrated can yield a terrible harvest.’ Corbett gathered his reins. ‘And the reaping time always comes!’
Author’s Note
CORPSE CANDLE absorbs many themes of English life in the Middle Ages. For centuries the eerie lights seen above marshes were a rich source of superstition and folklore. Smugglers, of course, saw them as a heaven-sent gift! Their lanterns would be dismissed as mere natural phenomena whilst, even up to the 19th century on Hackney Marshes outside London, smugglers were using lights to trap the unwary. At the beginning of the 14th century England underwent a tremendous economic revival before the profits drained away in the English kings’ arid wars against Scotland and France. Abbeys and monasteries played a prominent role in this, turning their arable land to pasture and raising sheep. Communities such as St Martin’s did grow and thrive and were often the scene of intense rivalries and, sometimes, even murder. The acquisition of land and the search for a great relic went hand-in-hand. Canterbury became one of the great tourist centres of Western Medieval Europe because it housed the remains of Thomas à Becket. Every abbey, cathedral and church often quietly prayed that similar good fortune would befall them. Of course, with wealth came robbery. Medieval outlaws were not well-dressed gentlemen in Sherwood green – they were predatory, highly dangerous and quite ruthless. It was common practice for manor lords, and other dignitaries, to enter uneasy informal alliances with them. Indeed, such arrangements also figure in the tales of Robin Hood where the merry outlaws levied a toll or tax on those who passed through Sherwood.
Despite popular mythology, the Middle Ages were quite tolerant towards demons, devils and sprites. The great witch trials of England can be found after the Renaissance in 16th century Essex and elsewhere. Nevertheless, the study of demonology was quite popular: a number of thrilling accounts of the work of medieval exorcists still exist. The character of Abbot Stephen is also drawn from real-life churchmen. Many knights often gave up their calling to enter the religious life, where they displayed equal vigour as they had in their military careers. Abbot Stephen’s love of classical times and the searching for the writings of the Great Ones of Antiquity became an international hobby throughout Western Europe. In the end, of course, this novel is about murder which, like charity, can be found in any community in any era where men and women gather together.