by Paul Doherty
Abbot Stephen would shake his head. ‘It is not our task to do that. Whilst I am Abbot of St Martin’s, it shall not be done.’
Prior Cuthbert leaned against the Judas gate, stared up at the sky and prayed for patience. The words kept echoing through his mind.
‘As long as I am Abbot of St Martin’s.’
How long would Abbot Stephen remain? A former soldier, a tall, vigorous man, he could be their Abbot for the next twenty or thirty years. Prior Cuthbert’s dream would become a nightmare, years of frustration, failed expectations and dashed hopes. Prior Cuthbert could imagine in his mind’s eye the new guesthouse with its stately buildings, small cloister and rose garden. He had pored over the plans of Brother Gildas, their architect and stonemason. He had sought private interviews with Abbot Stephen but the response was always the same.
‘As long as I am Abbot of St Martin’s, Bloody Meadow will be used only for our cattle and sheep.’
Prior Cuthbert stamped his sandalled foot. It was well named Bloody Meadow! According to local lore, as well as the ancient chronicles, this was where Sigbert had met the heathen Northmen and fought them from dawn till dusk. His army had broken but Sigbert had stood and fought with his house carls until they had died, one by one. Sigbert had been captured and offered his life if he rejected Christ and accepted the heathen gods. Sigbert had rejected this and been cruelly clubbed to death. Prior Cuthbert stared across at the huge tumulus in the centre of the meadow. Was that truly Sigbert’s burial mound? He would love to find out. He walked across the frosty grass and stopped before the disputed tumulus. He ignored the call of a screech owl and the yelp of some animal caught in the bracken down near Falcon Brook. Prior Cuthbert felt slightly anxious. He did not believe in goblins and sprites, hideous woodmen or the ghosts of the dead. Yet, this was Sigbert’s last resting place. Did his ghost haunt this meadow? Or worse, those of his killers? Prior Cuthbert shook himself free from this sombre reverie. He once again measured out the tumulus: it was about three yards high, a rectangle sloping at the top. He’d already measured the sides, top and base: five yards long, three yards wide. What could it be? The Prior started as he heard an animal screech and felt the sweat break out between his shoulder blades. He gazed round. In the moonlight, the shadows round the oaks seemed deeper, darker, longer. He really should return to his community. But what about the future? He clasped his hands and closed his eyes. In many ways he admired Abbot Stephen but he would not hesitate to use any weapons he was given in his fight for the new guesthouse. The Prior had hinted at what he’d seen here in Bloody Meadow but Abbot Stephen had only stared coldly back.
Prior Cuthbert turned back. He was halfway across the meadow when he heard a sound and whirled round. Surely not? Then he heard it again – the haunting blast of a hunting horn! He paused, holding his breath. Again the sound echoed, braying through the night. Prior Cuthbert’s stomach lurched and his sweat ran cold. So the stories were true! Yet who could be blowing a hunting horn at the dead of night? The sound had seemed to echo across Falcon Brook from Lady Margaret’s place: perhaps a retainer who had drunk too much? It couldn’t be a ghost! Prior Cuthbert did not believe in spectral horsemen or the Mandeville demon. He glared back at the tumulus. Soon the sun would rise and the night would disappear. The abbey of St Martin’s would remain, as would this meadow, but the dreams Prior Cuthbert had nourished would fade into nothing. Perhaps it was a time for action? The Prior turned back, went through the Judas gate and down by the side of the church towards his lodgings. He paused in the courtyard and stared up at the great bay windows of the Abbot’s lodgings. The shutters were open and he glimpsed the glow of candlelight. He smiled grimly to himself. Abbot Stephen, too, was thinking. Perhaps in time he might bow to the sound arguments and ominous threats of his prior.
Abbot Stephen had also heard the hunting horn. He sighed, got up, walked to the bay window and stared out into the night.
‘Go away!’ he prayed. ‘Please stop that!’
The final blast of the hunting horn seemed to mock him. It invoked memories long hidden, buried beneath years of service as a monk: the hours of prayer, the fasting, the hair shirts, the private pilgrimages on bruised knees up the long nave of the abbey church. Oh yes, Abbot Stephen thought of the past with its nightmares, haunting dreams, soul-wrestling anguish and heartbreak. Wasn’t his reparation accepted? Hadn’t God forgiven him for his sins? Couldn’t he be allowed to continue his great work? Was there a God who listened? Was there a God at all? Abbot Stephen heard a footstep from the courtyard below and peered quickly through the mullioned glass. He couldn’t make out the shadowy form but he knew it must be Prior Cuthbert. Abbot Stephen stepped away and crossed to the small wood fire burning in the canopied hearth. The Abbot crouched down and stretched his hands towards the flames.
‘Perhaps I should resign?’ he whispered.
He stared at the small gargoyles on either side of the hearth, the wizened faces of monkeys each surmounted by a pair of horns.
I could resign, he reflected, but what then? He was not only Father Abbot but also Exorcist in the dioceses of Lincoln and Ely. He had work to do, both as a monk and a priest, so why should he give it up? Especially now, when Prior Cuthbert was so concerned about that meadow and his new guesthouse! His hands now warm, Abbot Stephen returned to his long polished desk and sat down. Before him was a triptych, the central scene showing Christ on the cross and the side panels, Mary and St John. It was the Abbot’s favourite picture. He looked at the great book before him which he had taken from the library. Beside it was a sheet of vellum where he made his own notes. This was his world; prayer and study, ink horn and quill, pumice stone and freshly prepared parchment. Abbot Stephen was a great letter writer. In the past two years he had been engaged in academic debate with his old adversary Archdeacon Adrian and the great Dominican Order at Blackfriars in London over the nature of demonic possession and the rite of exorcism. The debate had been sharp but scholarly. The Dominicans supported the Archdeacon of St Paul’s, Master Adrian Wallasby maintaining that exorcism was much exaggerated and those described as possessed, were more sick in mind than in the possession of the Lords of the Air, the demons of Hell. Abbot Stephen had been vigorously challenged so, in three days’ time, he planned to hold an exorcism in his own abbey church. The candidate had been chosen, a man who’d sought the Abbot’s help and was now kept in close quarters in a private chamber adjoining the infirmary. Five days ago Archdeacon Adrian had arrived at St Martin’s. He seemed to have relinquished his longstanding grudges against the Abbot, insisting that he only wished to interrogate the possessed man and witness the exorcism. Abbot Stephen had been concentrating on that until the past had intruded in a harsh and brutal way.
Abbot Stephen picked up the book, pulling closer the silver-gilt candelabra so he could read more quickly with the special magnifying glass he had bought in Norwich. He tried to let the words soothe his mind but suddenly he let the book fall back on the table as a wave of depression made him slump deeper in the chair. It was useless! He was hedged in, confined, trapped. Abbot Stephen, despite the warmth of the room, the logs crackling in the fire, the perfumed braziers, grew cold and trembled. He closed his eyes, and faces from the past appeared. If all this became known? If he was forced to confess in public? What would happen then? He couldn’t face Prior Cuthbert’s threats yet that burial mound could not be opened. Abbot Stephen closed the book with a snap. He got up and walked towards the door. He made sure it was locked, the bolts drawn. He went round the windows, making sure everything was closed. He took a wine jug and goblet and brought them over to the desk. He filled the cup to the brim and drank quickly. He picked up his ring of keys, rose and unlocked his private chest, throwing back the lid. Inside lay a helmet, greaves, gauntlets and a breastplate bearing his escutcheon. On top of all this lay a brocaded sword belt. He lifted this out and strapped it around him, for the first time in over thirty years. He gripped the pommel of the sword and the handle of the long stabbin
g dirk on the other side. He turned and saw his reflection in the window. Was that him or someone else?
Abbot Stephen unstrapped the war belt, threw it on the floor and slumped to his knees. He gazed expectantly at the mullioned glass window and once again studied his reflection. The glass also caught the light from the candles and oil lamps. A phrase from St Pauls’ Epistle to the Corinthians echoed in his imagination: ‘For now we see through a glass, darkly’. Abbot Stephen simply had to look into the mirror to know himself for what he was, what he had done and how he had tried to hide it. He closed his eyes but he couldn’t pray. He sighed and got to his feet: as he did, his attention was caught by the reflection of candlelight. Were those his corpse candles? Were they really reflections? Or was the legend true? Those strange lights, which appeared over the marshes and the fens, had they drawn so close as to flicker outside his chamber, beckoning, threatening?
Abbot Stephen returned to his desk and sat down. He picked up a quill. He wanted to write, distract himself but he felt alone, frightened. He must concentrate! He scrawled down the quotation from St Paul but mixed it with a reference to corpse candles. A line from the philosopher Seneca pricked his memory. How did it go? Ah yes, that was it: ‘Anyone can take away a man’s life, but no one his death’. Abbot Stephen threw the quill down. The night breeze gently rattled the windows. Abbot Stephen put his face in his hands. He stared bleakly into the dark as his soul sank deeper and deeper into a morass of despair.
NIL POSSE CREARI DE NILO
NOTHING CAN BE CREATED OUT OF NOTHING
LUCRETIUS
Chapter 1
Prior Cuthbert had turned one of the vesting rooms, which lay off the gallery leading to the sacristry, into a mourning chamber. The white plaster walls were covered in gold and black drapes. On either side of the bier stood three great brass candlesticks with dark-purple candles specially made by the abbey’s chandler. A huge cross was nailed to the wall. The drapes covering Abbot Stephen’s corpse were embroidered in silver thread depicting Christ harrowing Hell. Despite the late season, some flowers had been found and placed in silver vases at each corner of the bier. Scented braziers, sprinkled with dried thyme, kept the air sweet. Prior Cuthbert felt proud of what he had achieved since the Abbot’s death four days earlier. The corpse had been washed, cleaned and prepared for burial. Later that day, just after noon, he would celebrate the solemn requiem Mass in the abbey church. Prior Cuthbert had warned the brothers not to gossip. The abbey had expected some representative from the King. As soon as Abbot Stephen’s corpse had been discovered, an abbey messenger, taking two of the swiftest horses from the stables, had ridden to Norwich where the King and court were on royal progress through the Eastern shires.
Prior Cuthbert stood aside and allowed his visitors to approach the bier. He felt distinctly nervous. He’d expected the King to send an earl, or one of his principal barons. Instead the tall, dark, close-faced Sir Hugh Corbett, Keeper of the King’s Secret Seal, had arrived, together with his henchman, Ranulf-atte-Newgate, the red-haired, sharp-featured Clerk of the Green Wax, and Chanson, that strange-looking clerk of the stables with a mop of unruly hair and a cast in one eye. All three were dressed in travel-stained clothes, dark-brown cote-hardies, leggings of the same colour pushed into high-heeled Spanish leather riding boots. Spurs clinked, sword and dagger tapped against thigh. They were men of war, Prior Cuthbert reflected, yet they emanated as well an air of quiet authority and menace: Corbett in particular, handsome, clean-shaven, pleasant-featured but with deep-set, brooding eyes. A man who didn’t say much but seemed to listen and watch everything around him. He didn’t stand on ceremony. As soon as he was ushered into the Prior’s quarters, he showed his warrant bearing the King’s Seal, splaying out his fingers to display the Chancery ring emblazoned with the arms of England.
‘We expected someone else,’ Prior Cuthbert murmured.
Corbett unfastened his cloak and tossed it to Chanson. Ranulf did the same, stretching his arms and legs to ease the cramp after the long ride in the saddle.
‘Whom did you expect?’ Corbett asked, a half-smile on his face.
‘I . . . I . . .’ Prior Cuthbert’s words died on his lips. ‘Do you wish some wine? Some food?’
He gestured Corbett to a chair. Ranulf he ignored. He didn’t like the cynical look in the clerk’s keen, green eyes.
‘No, thank you.’ Corbett ignored the chair. ‘We have ridden hard, Prior Cuthbert, but the King was most insistent that I view Abbot Stephen’s corpse and pay my respects. I would be grateful if you would show it to me now.’
Prior Cuthbert had hastened to obey. He kept silent as Corbett, without any ceremony, pulled back the coverlet. Abbot Stephen was serene and composed in death, dressed in the full pontificals of an abbot, his body was placed in an open casket before being taken into the church. Prior Cuthbert watched the clerk closely: the raven-black hair was streaked with grey, pulled back and tied at the nape of the neck; his face was more olive-skinned than sallow; the hands now free of their heavy gauntlets were soft-looking, the fingers long and strong. An orderly, precise man, Prior Cuthbert concluded: the clerk’s cote-hardie and leggings were of pure wool, the shirt beneath crisp and white. The sword belt which Corbett had not taken off, as was customary in an abbey, was of thick brown leather: the sheaths for both dagger and sword were brocaded with red and blue stitching. Prior Cuthbert thought hard and fast as Corbett stood staring down at the dead Abbot’s face. Yes, he had heard about this clerk. More powerful than an earl, Corbett was King Edward’s spy master, his limner, his greyhound, his searcher for the truth. Abbot Stephen had once spoken of how Corbett had investigated a strange community, the Pastorales out on the Norfolk coast. Oh yes, a clerk who enjoyed the King’s favour without stint or hindrance! Prior Cuthbert felt the sweat break out on his brow. Even before Corbett spoke he knew which way this was going. Edward of England was not going to be satisfied with some coroner’s report. Abbot Stephen’s death was to be investigated. Corbett stood, staring down at the dead Abbot’s face as if memorising every detail. Then he went and knelt on the prie-dieu and crossed himself. Ranulf and Chanson knelt on the hard paving floor so Prior Cuthbert had no choice but to follow.
‘Requiem eternam,’ Corbett intoned. ‘Eternal rest grant unto Abbot Stephen, Oh Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon him. May he find a place of light and peace. May he rest in your favour and enjoy your smile for all eternity.’
Corbett crossed himself, got to his feet and replaced the purple cloth over the Abbot’s face.
‘I will not speak to you now, Prior Cuthbert. I want to see you and the Abbey Concilium, shall we say within a quarter of the hour? You have chambers prepared for us?’
‘Yes, yes, in our guesthouse.’
Corbett took his cloak from Chanson.
‘One for me and one for my companions?’
‘Yes, Sir Hugh.’
Prior Cuthbert felt uneasy, used to exercising authority, Corbett made him nervous, agitated. The clerk seemed to sense this.
‘Prior Cuthbert, I am here on the King’s business. I understand the grief of your community but Abbot Stephen was a close friend of the King. A priest, one of the leading clerics of the Lords Spiritual. His death, or rather his murder, has saddened and angered the King. The assassin undoubtedly was a member of your community. I and my companions, and I swear this in the presence of Abbot Stephen’s corpse, will not leave this abbey until both God and the King’s justice is done and seen to be done!’
‘Of course.’ Prior Cuthbert tried to assert himself. ‘We understand the King’s grief, indeed, anger. Abbot Stephen was much loved. Yet his assassin may not be a member of our community. Sinister figures prowl the fens outside: outlaws, wolfs-heads under their leader Scaribrick. It is not unknown for such reprobates to trespass on our property.’
‘In which case,’ Corbett replied drily, tightening his sword belt, ‘they have powers denied to you and me, Prior Cuthbert. Wasn’t Abbot Stephen’s chambe
r locked and bolted from the inside, its latticed windows firmly closed? There are no secret entrances, I suppose?’
Prior Cuthbert stepped back.
‘What are you implying, Sir Hugh?’
‘I am implying nothing,’ Corbett declared, ‘except that Abbot Stephen was found in his chamber with a dagger from his own coffer thrust deep into his chest. No one heard a sound, let alone a cry for help. The room was not disturbed. Nothing was stolen. How could some ragged-arsed outlaw perpetrate such a crime, waft in and out like God’s own air?’
‘You are implying,’ Prior Cuthbert declared, ‘that Abbot Stephen was murdered and his assassin must be a member of our community? If that is true then it is a matter for the church courts. This is church property. Until the election and installation of a new abbot, I am the law in this abbey.’
Corbett put on his cloak. He fiddled with the clasp as if ignoring what the Prior had said. He glanced over his shoulder at Ranulf who stood, thumbs tucked into his sword belt. The Prior could see the Clerk of the Green Wax was enjoying himself. Corbett’s henchman, Prior Cuthbert thought, his bully-boy, was clearly not impressed by church authority. His cat-like eyes were half-closed and he was biting his lip to hide the mockery bubbling inside. Chanson, their groom, stood open-mouthed like some peasant watching a mummer’s play. Prior Cuthbert knew that he was handling this matter badly yet Corbett wasn’t going to let him off the hook so lightly.
‘What do you think, Ranulf? Shall we collect our saddle-bags and horses, ride back to Norwich and tell the King that his writ does not run in certain parts of Lincolnshire?’
