Hugh Corbett 17 - The Mysterium

by Paul Doherty

  ‘The best of Bordeaux,’ he murmured, ‘a gift from Minehost.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ the guard slurred.

  ‘Very well.’ The Teller of Tales drew closer and shoved the dagger deep, a swift killing thrust up into the heart. The guard was so drunk he could only choke and gargle as he swayed backwards and forwards. The Teller of Tales pushed him back into the shadows, watching the soul light die in those startled red-rimmed eyes. He held the dagger fast until the final blood-spluttered sigh, then withdrew it, catching the corpse, lowering it to the floor and pushing it deeper into the dark-filled recess. Then he picked up the wine flask, rapped on the door and went in.

  The chamber was large. Tapers lay strewn on the polished wooden floor, coloured cloths hung pinned to the whitewashed walls. The big window wasn’t shuttered; the thick piece of oil-strengthened linen across the opening had also been removed. Waldene and Hubert, deep in their cups, lounged at a table just near the window. The large four-poster bed that dominated the room had its drapes pulled back to reveal the two courtesans Robinbreast and Catchseed, naked as they were born, clasped in a drunken embrace. Waldene turned as the Teller of Tales walked across offering the flask.

  ‘Who are you?’ His voice was thick.

  ‘A friend.’ The Teller put down the sack and held up the flask. ‘The richest claret from the best vineyard in St Sardos, smooth as velvet. I explained this to your guard and he let me through. More importantly, I have a plan so that all three of us can share in dead Evesham’s buried treasure.’

  Hubert grinned, sketched a mock blessing in the air and gestured at the Teller to draw up a stool. Waldene emptied his tankard on the floor, bawling at one of the whores to bring the goblet they were sharing. The Teller of Tales made himself comfortable. He poured claret into each of the tankards, and drained the rest into the cup Catchseed slammed down on the table in front of him. Then he raised the goblet.

  ‘The Blackness salutes the Night,’ he murmured.

  The two rifflers glanced at each other, gulped one deep draught after another and sat back smacking their lips.

  ‘Good,’ purred Hubert the Monk. ‘Soft and velvety. It’s a long time since I’ve drunk such an earthly richness.’

  ‘Bats twittering in a cave,’ murmured the Teller of Tales.

  Waldene, inebriated, belched and banged the table. ‘What do you mean? Why the mask? What’s this about Evesham’s treasure?’

  ‘Oh, I found it.’ The Teller nodded. ‘We must go through the Gate of Dreams where Satan waits amongst the swarming dead like some huge red wolf. Oh yes, the Angel of Death is preparing to empty the vials of God’s wrath.’

  ‘Who are you? Take off your mask!’ Hubert the Monk blinked, shook his head and drank even deeper of the poisoned claret.

  ‘I am the evoker of the spirits. I sing songs of mourning, and all around me cluster the warring wraiths of the vengeful dead.’

  ‘I don’t . . .’ Waldene tried to rise but found he couldn’t.

  ‘Who . . . what?’ stammered Hubert the Monk.

  ‘You’re dying,’ declared the Teller of Tales. ‘You cannot move, can you? You’ve lost the feeling in your legs. I killed your guard and mixed the deadliest hemlock with the claret, which I’ve not drunk. Can you,’ he leaned forward, grinning at his victims, ‘can you move? No! Death will swiftly grip your feet, coldness in your legs. There is nothing you can do but slip into the everlasting sleep of the gathering night.’ He paused as both the Monk and Waldene tried to reassert themselves.

  ‘Certain death,’ the Teller of Tales explained, ‘a creeping coldness that paralyses your limbs. Dark-clouded you’ve become as you approach the eternal gloom.’ He glanced at the two whores, who were oblivious to the vicious drama being played out around that shabby table.

  ‘Why?’ gasped Hubert.

  ‘Why? I represent the blood-drinking ghosts. I am Boniface Ippegrave, the Vengeance of the Lord.’

  Waldene tried to lurch to his feet, but knocked over a stool and collapsed. The two whores shrieked. The Teller of Tales sprang to his feet and brought a small arbalest from the sack, a wicked little crossbow, its bolt already primed, the twine pulled back. He pointed this at the whores.

  ‘Tace et vide,’ he hissed. ‘Stay silent and watch.’

  The two petrified women clung to each other as the Teller of Tales stepped back to watch the gang-leaders die, paralysed by the deadly hemlock. Then he drew his dagger and moved from one enervated victim to the other. Ignoring their coughing and groans, he etched, with the tip of his dagger, the letter ‘M’ on each of their foreheads. Once satisfied, he sheathed his blade, picked up the arbalest and pointed it at the two whores.

  ‘I will not kill you. You do not deserve to die, not yet. When they come, say that Boniface Ippegrave has returned!’

  5

  Waelstow: the place of slaughter

  Three hours later, long after the bells had tolled, Miles Fleschner, Clerk of St Botulph’s in Cripplegate, nervously approached the corpse door of his parish church. Although a former coroner, he was a timid man, fearful of the horrors perpetrated in this supposedly hallowed place. St Botulph’s accurately reflected the words of Scripture: ‘The Abomination of the Desolation had been set up in the holy place.’ The building had been desecrated by sacrilege and blasphemy, and now the Blessed Sacrament had been removed, the sanctuary lamp extinguished, the sacred vessels sealed away. No prayers could be said, no candles lit before the Virgin, no chants raised, no Mass offered until the Bishop of London purged, sanctified and reconsecrated the building as ‘a Holy Place, the House of God and the Gate of Heaven’. Miles recalled memories of twenty years ago when Boniface Ippegrave had sheltered here in sanctuary before disappearing. That had been in the parish clerk’s green and salad days, when he was an ambitious coroner still in the fresh spring of manhood. Now the memories drifted back like ghosts through Fleschner’s tired mind. He recalled Evesham, bullying and arrogant, but no, he couldn’t remember that, not here! Miles Fleschner sometimes wished he had nothing to do with this church. Was St Botulph’s cursed? One parson had lost his wits and fled to an abbey. Would Parson John, all tremulous and fearful, follow suit? The parson had asked Fleschner to join him in the sacristy three hours after the sext bell. There was still work to be done: pyxes, Little Marys, chalices, monstrances and cruets to be sealed in the heavy satin-lined parish fosser; candle wax, clothes, vestments, incense, charcoal and other items to be inventoried. St Botulph’s was under interdict – sealed until reconsecrated. No longer was it the home of the Seraphim, the Lords of Light, but the prowling place of demons and earthbound souls, all those poor unfortunates barbarously slain then laid out like chunks of bloodied meat along the nave.

  Miles Fleschner paused under the outstretched branches of a yew tree and stared fearfully up through its ancient branches. The day was dying; soon it would be the hour of the bat, the screech-owl. He startled as he heard a sound from the church and cautiously approached the battered but rehung corpse door. Parson John had said he would leave it ajar, off the latch. Fleschner stepped around the remains of the fierce battle, pushed open the door and went into the clammy, cold darkness. Only the poor light trickling through the lancet windows pierced the gloom. The nave was a place of shifting shadows. He heard a sound and turned. A figure darted out of the door leading from the sacristy into the sanctuary.

  ‘Who . . .?’ Fleschner chilled with terror.

  The figure disappeared back into the sacristy. Like a dream-walker Fleschner moved slowly forward. The sound of a door slamming shut made him start, and a sweaty fear gripped him. He wanted to turn and run. He fumbled at the dagger beneath his cloak and drew the blade. He was so nervous he could scarely put one foot in front of the other. He listened and peered around; the light was swiftly fading, the shadows lengthening from the corners where they lurked.

  ‘Who is there?’ he called out. He looked back down the church, where a slant of light lit up the great carved bowl of the b
aptismal font. ‘Who is there?’ he repeated. A groan like that of some petrified, disembodied soul echoed down the nave. Fleschner, legs shaking, sweat bathing his face, slowly climbed the sanctuary steps and glanced around, throat dry. This was his church, yet the carved, contorted face of demons, gargoyles and babewyns seemed to glare fiercely down at him. He pushed open the door to the sacristy, a dark room containing chests, stools, aumbries and the great vesting table. The air reeked strangely of wax and some other foul odour, as if a mound of refuse had been disturbed. Again the groan. He whirled around. Parson John was staring up at him in terror. Fleschner crouched down.

  ‘Father!’ He glanced in horror at the red cut on the priest’s forehead.

  ‘Release me, my feet,’ gasped Parson John, pushing himself forward.

  Fleschner immediately cut the bonds about the priest’s ankles, then sawed at the cords around his wrists.

  ‘I came in here, I wanted to pray for my father, I heard of his death.’ Parson John kicked his ankles free of the tangled ropes. ‘I was here in the sacristy when I was pushed . . .’

  ‘Father?’

  ‘I was pushed.’ Parson John pointed to the bruises on his head and face. ‘I was bound and gagged. All I saw and heard was a shadowy figure breathing noisily.’

  ‘How did he get in?’

  Parson John grasped Fleschner’s shoulder. ‘Miles, for the love of God, that doesn’t matter. He carried a sack, which he took into the church. Then he came back. He drew his dagger and started to carve something on my forehead, then he must have heard you. He went out, came back then fled into the cemetery. I managed to break free of the gang. I must see . . .’ The priest, all confused, lurched to his feet and, followed by the still trembling parish clerk, went into the sanctuary and down the nave.

  Fleschner swallowed hard, his mouth dry. He had, as he later told his wife, a presentiment of evil. Some great malignancy was lurking in the gathering murk. Both men walked slowly, fearfully, their footsteps echoing ominously. Fleschner wished he’d brought a lamp or candle. When they reached the far end of the church, Parson John went towards the still battered main door, while Fleschner rested against the great bowl of the baptismal font. A strange smell pricked his nostrils. Had the font been polluted? He glanced down, then gagged in horror as he saw the two severed heads, eyes half closed, nestling at the bottom of the huge bowl.

  Corbett sat in the murder chamber at the Angel’s Salutation; that was what he called the room. He leaned back on the stool, eyes half closed. Across the floor, beneath the window, sprawled the corpses of Waldene and Hubert the Monk. The Friar of the Sack, the same who’d shriven the felons executed at St Botulph’s, was busy reciting the words of absolution. What did happen, Corbett wondered, to souls after death? Did the life essence of these two criminals still hover here in this chilly, dusty chamber? Did they plead for mercy? Did they wait for others to come and lead them? To what? The Friar of the Sack rose to his feet and crossed himself.

  ‘It’s done, Sir Hugh, their souls have gone to God and I must sate my appetite.’

  Corbett smiled and handed over a silver piece. The friar bit the coin, grinned, sketched a blessing and went to join the rest gathered in the taproom downstairs, where the delicious details of these heinous slaying were being greedily picked at and sifted. An old beggar woman had offered to sing the song of mourning and was now doing so, the lugubrious noise echoing up the stairs. In between verses her companion, a cunning man, loudly declared that the beating heart of a mole would be sure protection against malignant chattering ghosts and offered, for a certain price, to get one for Minehost. The two whores, Robinbreast and Catchseed, were slurping their tankards of ale, smiling gratefully through their tears for the coins and free drinks offered by those who wanted to relish the gory details. Both whores wailed how the spirits of the two dead men hung close, ghosts in wolfskins. They could, they were sure, remember the details of the slaughterer, ‘dark in all things’, who’d slid silent as a viper into that dreadful chamber.

  Corbett had questioned both the prostitutes and the others, but had learnt little except how the killer had declared himself to be Boniface Ippegrave, that he was of ragged appearance, his face ‘the colour of boxwood, with a look of dark-robed night about him’. In truth the two whores were more frightened of the King’s man, the royal clerk. Dressed in black, Corbett, had swept into the tavern, his heavy cloak folded over one arm, spurs jingling on his riding boots. His battle belt with its scabbarded sword and dagger made him ominous enough, but he also carried the royal warrant and wore the King’s seal ring on his right hand. The whores had been deeply unsettled by the clerk’s steady gaze, his black hair swept back, face all watchful, as Catchseed whispered, ‘A king’s hawk come to brood.’

  Corbett sighed and rose to his feet, once again he examined the corpses of the two gang-leaders and that of their guard. A local physician, eyes all rheumy, nose dripping, had pronounced that Waldene and Hubert had been poisoned by a powerful infusion of hemlock. Corbett picked up the empty flask and sniffed the top; it still smelled of rich claret. The wine could have been bought at any vintner’s. He turned and glanced at the corpse of the ugly ruffian sprawled on the bed. The great open wound in the guard’s left side was now a thickening soggy mess. The physician had declared all three deaths unlawful, collected his coin and stomped off. Corbett tapped the hilt of his sword and turned as the door opened and Ranulf came in. He glanced at the cadavers and whistled under his breath.

  ‘So it’s true: Waldene, the Monk and one of their guards all gone to Heaven’s bench. The King will be pleased. Who will mourn their passing?’

  ‘Those who hired them,’ Corbett replied, ‘that tribe of serpents in the city who use such dagger men to ladle out the evil stored in their own baleful hearts.’

  ‘Master, you’re angry.’

  ‘No, Ranulf, my apologies, I’m confused, puzzled. Why all this? Why now? It was so easily done,’ he mused. ‘Waldene and Hubert left Newgate; their release was well known, as it was that both malefactors would come across here to cry wassail and toast their freedom. They hired a chamber, two ladies of the town, a jug of ale and a platter of cold meat and bread. According to the whores downstairs, this cowled, cloaked stranger entered. He caused no disturbance, silently knifing their guard. Waldene and Hubert, deep in their cups, thought he’d been allowed in.’ Corbett tapped the flask. ‘He brought this Bordeaux with a strong infusion of powerful hemlock. He mentioned something about Evesham’s treasure. He poured the claret, watched the poison swiftly paralyse his victims, carved his murderous mark on their forehead, announced that he was Boniface Ippegrave, threatened the whores and left.’ He paused. ‘Boniface Ippegrave,’ he repeated.

  ‘Did you know Ippegrave, master?’

  ‘Not really. I remember him as short, good-looking, neat and precise, with sharp eyes. Yes, that’s it.’ Corbett chewed the corner of his lip. ‘Now I remember. Yes . . .’ He wagged a finger as his memory was pricked.

  ‘Master?’

  ‘Dark reddish hair, rather singular, though that was twenty years ago.’

  ‘Do you think he has returned?’

  ‘Perhaps, why not? After all, he was a royal clerk.’ Corbett grinned, then stepped closer and touched Ranulf gently on the cheek with a gauntleted finger. ‘Resourceful, ambitious. Anyway, the Comfort of Bathsheba?’

  ‘Ignacio Engleat went there and then on to a tavern, the Halls of Purgatory. He drank deep and fell asleep. Someone, nobody knows who, helped him out,’ Ranulf shrugged, ‘hauled him off to his death. The tavern was very busy. The servants were only too pleased to see a drunk go.’ He paused at a tap on the door; it opened and Minehost, face all concerned, bustled in.

  ‘Sir Hugh, my lord,’ he gestured, ‘downstairs there’s a creature, Lapwing he calls himself. He wishes words with you, as does Parson John of St Botulph’s. He is here with Miles Fleschner, his parish clerk.’

  Corbett raised his eyes heavenwards and gestured at Ranul
f to follow. At the door he paused, crossed himself and pointed to the bloody mayhem on the far side of the chamber.

  ‘Minehost, the coroner and the ward catchpole will deal with those. Now, sir?’

  The men were waiting for him in the taproom below. Lapwing, neatly dressed in a bottle-green cote-hardie, leggings and soft brown boots, was playing with the clasp of his dark blue cloak. A man of sharp but calm wit, Corbett thought. He had shaved his face and his hair was cropped close above his ears. Corbett went to speak to him, but Lapwing winked and pointed to a table in a shadowy recess where Parson John and Fleschner were greedily gulping wine.

  ‘I heard about the tumult,’ Lapwing whispered, ‘and hurried here. Parson John arrived close behind me; he is almost out of his wits.’

  Corbett nodded, and approached the parson’s table, settling himself on a stool.

  ‘Parson John?’ Corbett touched the priest’s arm. ‘My condolences on your father’s death.’

  ‘Blood here, blood everywhere,’ murmured the parson, pushing his face forward. He looked ill and unshaven, and Corbett glimpsed the bloody line on his forehead. Fleschner was even more agitated, sitting back in the shadows, grasping his goblet as a child would a cup. Corbett let them drink and stared around. Minehost had wisely moved the two whores and their small spellbound audience into the scullery. The day’s trading had not yet ceased and the taproom was deserted except for a blind jongleur humming a lullaby to his pet ferret.

  ‘Parson John, why are you here? Tell me what has happened.’

  The priest did so, words gushing out as he described the horrors perpetrated in his church. Corbett listened intently, comforted that Ranulf stood behind him. Here in this darkened tavern where savage murder had struck, another tale of terror was unfolding. He concealed his own spurts of fear, which pricked both his mind and his heart with their sheer coldness. As he listened to Parson John, he recognised that in the labyrinth of mysteries stretching before him prowled an assassin, a midnight soul. The hunt was on, dreadful and dark. The creeping flame of sudden slaughter would flicker around him. The twisted roots of long-buried sin would draw fresh sap and thrust up. The parson eventually finished and sat staring, mouth gaping in shock.