Hugh Corbett 13 - Corpse Candle

by Paul Doherty

  ‘Who are you now?’ Corbett asked.

  Taverner dipped his fingers into a stoup of holy water on the table near the bed: he blessed himself quickly three or four times. He dug into his gown and pulled out a bible which he clutched to his chest.

  ‘I am the man that I was born,’ he replied weakly. The white froth had disappeared. ‘Matthew Taverner.’

  ‘And why did you come here?’ Corbett demanded.

  ‘I lived out in Essex, in a village near Chelmsford. Ever since I was a child I have been plagued by fanciful dreams and hideous nightmares. My father died when I was young. My mother dabbled in the black arts. She sacrificed to Achitopel and Asrael, Beelzebub and the other Lords of the Wasteland. One afternoon I was out near a brook, fishing by myself. The sun went behind a cloud and I looked up. A man stood on the far side of the bank beneath the outstretched branches of an oak tree. He was tall, dressed in black from head to toe and his face was white and haggard.’ Taverner blinked. ‘He had eyes as cruel as a hawk’s. “Who are you, Sir?” I asked. “Why, Matthew, I am your old friend Geoffrey Mandeville.” I ran away and told my mother. She just laughed and said we all had demons. Mandeville kept returning. I met him in taverns and on lonely roads. “I’m hunting you, Matthew,” he’d taunt, “like a hound does a deer”.’

  ‘And he caught you?’ Corbett asked.

  ‘I hid in London,’ Taverner replied. ‘I took up with whores but Mandeville sought me out.’

  He undid the collar of his robe and pulled it down. Corbett flinched at the great cruel ‘V’ etched on the man’s left shoulder. He got up and peered at it. The wound had now healed but it looked as if a branding mark had been used. Corbett returned to his chair.

  ‘And so you came to Abbot Stephen?’

  ‘At first I went for help to the Dominicans at Blackfriars. Oh yes, and Archdeacon Adrian.’

  ‘So, you know him?’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘And what did Abbot Stephen promise?’

  ‘That he would exorcise me. He treated me like a son. He was kind and gentle. He said that afterwards I might be able to stay here. I sometimes helped Brother Aelfric in the library.’

  ‘Do you know why Abbot Stephen died?’ Corbett asked.

  Taverner shook his head. ‘We never talked about anything except my possession and my earlier life. Sometimes he looked worried and distracted. I would often find him deep in conversation with his manservant, the lay brother Perditus.’

  Corbett heard a sound outside, probably Chanson returning. Somewhere a bell began to toll. Ranulf started to get up but then sat down again.

  ‘And Abbot Stephen discussed nothing about the abbey?’

  Taverner shook his head. ‘I feel sick.’ He murmured clutching his stomach. ‘I need . . .’

  He gestured feebly towards the tray containing the cup and platter of food on the table at the far side of the room. Ranulf sprang to his feet. He filled a cup and thrust it into the man’s hand. He then walked to the window behind the bed and pulled back the shutters. He seemed engrossed by something outside.

  ‘Did you ever talk to any of the other monks?’ Corbett demanded. ‘Prior Cuthbert?’

  Taverner’s head came up: he was once more possessed.

  ‘Narrow heart, narrow soul,’ came the harsh reply. ‘In love with their abbey more than God. Them and their guesthouse. They want to plunder Bloody Meadow, dig up old Sigbert’s rotting bones, build a mansion for the fat ones of the soil. Have more visitors. Increase their revenue.’

  ‘John Carrefour!’

  Corbett jumped at Ranulf’s harsh voice. Taverner whipped round.

  ‘John Carrefour!’ Ranulf repeated. He sauntered over to the bed and sat beside Taverner. ‘I’ll wager that on your right shoulder here,’ he punched Taverner’s shoulder, ‘is another brand mark in the shape of a diamond. An enpurpled birthmark.’

  Ranulf glanced across at his master and smiled in apology.

  ‘What is all this?’ Taverner’s voice rose to a screech.

  Ranulf, however, took out his dagger and pricked him under the chin.

  ‘Sir Hugh Corbett,’ he declared. ‘Keeper of the King’s Secret Seal, may I introduce the venerable and venomous John Carrefour, the mummer’s man, the cunning man, the faker and the counterfeit. Formerly a clerk in minor orders, taken up by the King’s Assizes, he’s spent some time abroad in exile. He was forced to serve in the King’s armies in both Flanders and Northern France.’

  Taverner gazed beseechingly at Corbett.

  ‘I don’t know what he’s saying.’

  Ranulf, however, had now loosed Taverner’s gown at the neck, roughly pulling down the grey robe, not caring whether he ripped it. He exposed Taverner’s shoulder and made the man turn to reveal the deep purple birthmark. Ranulf pricked the dagger a little deeper until a small trickle of blood appeared under Taverner’s chin.

  ‘I am ashamed of you, John,’ Ranulf continued conversationally. ‘Your memory is beginning to fade, isn’t it? I am Ranulf-atte-Newgate.’

  ‘I don’t know you,’ Taverner stammered.

  Corbett remained silent.

  ‘No, you wouldn’t. When I met you I was simply Ranulf. I hadn’t yet been imprisoned. You knew my mother, Isolda: remember her? Red-haired and green-eyed, generous to a fault she was. She entertained you free, Master Carrefour.’ Ranulf winked at Corbett. ‘I don’t know if that’s his true name. He was called John of the Crossroads or, in French, Carrefour. He was nicknamed that because no one knew which direction he would take. A man of many parts is our John. A mummer’s man: a member of an actors’ troupe. He can mimic and imitate whomever he wishes. He doesn’t remember me: the little, red-haired boy sitting in a corner, thumb in mouth, watching Carrefour entertain his mother and other ladies. I bear you no ill will, John.’ Ranulf lowered the dagger. ‘You made my mother laugh. Do you remember your favourite roles? The begging friar? The portly priest?’

  Taverner now looked woebegone and miserable.

  ‘I do admire your Mandeville,’ Ranulf continued. ‘But you made a mistake. You talked of fornicating friars, yet during the reign of Stephen there were no friars, as the Franciscan order had yet to be founded in this country. The rest was very good indeed: the Norman French, the Latin. He’s quite the scholar, our John!’

  Ranulf re-sheathed his dagger and walked back to his stool. Corbett quietly admitted that it was rare for Ranulf to astonish him. He felt slightly embarrassed, Taverner had certainly fooled him.

  ‘Is this true?’ he demanded.

  Taverner opened his mouth to reply but changed his mind. He sat in a crumpled heap on the edge of the bed, hands in his lap.

  ‘I don’t know what you are talking about,’ he mumbled.

  ‘Oh come!’ Ranulf teased. ‘He was once famous in the city, Master. He has since spent a considerable part of his life abroad, one step ahead of the sheriff’s men, particularly after his success as a relic-seller in Cheapside. He forged letters and licences, stained his skin and claimed to have a box of rocks from the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem. He fooled quite a few with his letters from the Patriarch and his marvellous tales about his pilgrimage. And, of course, there was the amazing jar of wine which he claimed to be Falernian, drawn from Pontius Pilate’s own cellar. The list of trickery is endless. Our friend has been everything: a pardoner, a summoner, a friar, a priest.’ Ranulf laughed and smacked his knee. ‘He provided more amusement in the taverns of Southwark than any troupe of jesters. What’s the matter, Taverner, are you becoming ill? I’ll call you Taverner, as it keeps things simple.’

  His hapless victim continued to sit, head down.

  ‘I don’t want to hear anything more about Mandeville,’ Ranulf added. ‘Shall I tell you the truth, Sir Hugh? Our good friend here has become tired and old. He’s sick of trudging the lanes, keeping a wary eye out for the sheriff’s men. He wants a comfortable place to reside: some little burrow where he can nestle down and spend the rest of his days. Now, he can’t knock
on a monastery door and declare himself to be a postulant or a novice, as enquiries would be made. I suspect our good friend came back here through the Eastern ports where he wouldn’t be noticed or recognised. He heard about Abbot Stephen at St Martin’s-in-the-Marsh and he prepared his charade, including the self-inflicted brand mark, and came seeking help.’

  ‘But he claimed to have met Archdeacon Adrian and the Dominicans at Blackfrairs?’

  ‘He may have done, over the years. However, I wager Master Taverner, as he now calls himself, would count on those busy men not recalling him. He arrived at St Martin’s-in-the-Marsh, where the other brothers ignored him but Abbot Stephen regarded him as a gift from heaven.’ Ranulf gestured round the chamber. ‘Our friend was shown every hospitality: good food and drink, a soft bed, a warm room. He had nothing to worry about. He could stay here for three or four years licking his wounds and leave whenever he wished.’

  ‘And Mandeville?’ Corbett asked.

  ‘If I remember correctly,’ Ranulf replied, ‘our friend was born in Essex. He’d know all about the legends. Of course, on his return he’d have refreshed his memory. St-Martin’s-in-the-Marsh does have chronicles and accounts. He probably volunteered to help Brother Aelfric and learnt a little bit more about exorcism and the black arts, not to mention his patron demon, Geoffrey Mandeville. Taverner is a good-enough scholar: he can read, write and, I suspect, is well versed in a number of tongues.’

  Corbett got to his feet; he went and stood over Taverner.

  ‘Look at me,’ he demanded. ‘I am the King’s Commissioner.’

  Taverner raised his head, his eyes filled with tears. He clasped his hands together as if in prayer.

  ‘Mercy, great lord!’ he wailed. ‘I was cold and lonely.’

  ‘Still acting!’ Ranulf laughed.

  Corbett gazed down at the man.

  ‘Matthew Taverner, John Carrefour, Geoffrey Mandeville, whoever you are, I think you are a scoundrel, a rogue born and bred. You probably regard getting caught as simply a hazard of your trade.’ Corbett bit back his smile. ‘You’ve proved the old proverb: “It takes one rogue to recognise another”. Ranulf-atte-Newgate is correct, isn’t he? Don’t lie!’ Corbett pressed his finger against Taverner’s lips. ‘If you lie, Taverner, I shall drag you out and hang you!’

  ‘You can’t do that,’ the fellow whined. ‘I have done no wrong.’

  ‘You’ve stolen. You’ve defrauded. Come, Master Taverner, no one wants to hang you. I don’t even want you to leave the abbey. I am more interested in Abbot Stephen’s murder.’

  The veteran cunning man sighed and stared down at his feet. He smiled slyly up at Ranulf.

  ‘I remember you now. God bless her, Ranulf, but I liked your mother. She died of a sickness, didn’t she? I always remember her red hair, thick and glorious, falling down beyond her waist, the tight dresses, the way she moved.’ He raised a hand.

  Ranulf’s face was like cold stone.

  ‘I mean no offence. In many ways she had more courtesy than any lady at court.’

  Ranulf’s face softened.

  ‘She did love you,’ Taverner continued. ‘Called you her pride and joy.’

  ‘Stop it!’ Ranulf snapped, making a cutting movement with his hand.

  Corbett could see Ranulf was not far from tears.

  ‘She did love you,’ Taverner replied defiantly. ‘And I had forgotten all about you till now. You always sat watching in the corner when I visited: you reminded me of a little cat. Now, look at you. A fighting man, a clerk! God be blessed! Fortune’s fickle wheel is a thing to wonder at! You carry the King’s commission, eh? Not like poor me.’ He pressed his lips together. ‘God forgive me, Sir Hugh, but I have tried every cunning trick I know. I am not going to fool you. One of the great miracles of my life is that I’ve never been hanged. An old witch once told me: “You’ll never climb the ladder. Never feel the noose round your neck though you’ll die violently enough”. Everything turned to ashes in my mouth. All my plots and schemes came to nothing. I had to flee abroad. I even travelled into the German states for a while. I came back and landed in Hunstanton, cold, miserable and sick. I travelled inland and I knew I had to do something. I was tired of it all. I wanted a warm bed, a hot meal, a refuge from the law, the sheriffs, bailiffs and tipstaffs. I travelled to Ely and begged outside the cathedral, and there I heard about Abbot Stephen and St Martin’s-in-the-Marsh. I acted the madcap, the fey, the poor soul possessed by a demon called Mandeville and I travelled here.’

  ‘Did Abbot Stephen believe you?’

  ‘Listen to Ranulf, Sir Hugh. In my time I was the best. I have been taken for a bishop and, on one occasion, even a Royal Justice!’

  Corbett hid his smile.

  ‘I felt guilty but what else could I do? Abbot Stephen was kind and gentle. Sometimes I’d catch him watching me carefully. You could see the smile behind his eyes. I even wondered if we were in a conspiracy together? He was so keen to prove a human soul could be possessed.’ He gestured round. ‘He gave me this chamber, warm clothes, good food. He said I could stay here if I wanted to when it was all finished. After a while I became aware of how determined he was to prove his theory. He was so generous, I did my best for him.’

  ‘And the night he was killed?’

  ‘I had nothing to do with that,’ Taverner retorted. ‘I was here, tucked up like a bird in its nest, snoring like a pig. Why should I want Abbot Stephen dead, or Prior Cuthbert and any of the others? They’ve left me alone till now but Cuthbert’s a hard man. He might ask me to move on. I would be grateful, sir, if you could do something for me.’

  ‘They are going to think it’s rather strange,’ Ranulf interrupted, ‘if Geoffrey Mandeville fails to reappear.’

  Taverner grinned through chapped lips.

  ‘I’ve considered that. I was beginning to wonder whether I should go and pray before Abbot Stephen’s tomb, give one of the best performances of my life.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’ Corbett laughed. ‘A miraculous cure?’

  ‘Why not? I’d then go to see Archdeacon Adrian. Perhaps he could help?’

  ‘Do you know of any reason why the Abbot was murdered?’

  ‘No, Sir Hugh. The abbey here is a God-fearing community.’

  Corbett recalled the hate-filled words hissed at him the previous evening. Taverner was a cunning man, who’d always lived by his wits, surely he’d sensed something was wrong?

  ‘You are certain of that?’ he demanded. ‘No bitter rivalry, no blood feuds?’

  ‘Not that I know of. Abbot Stephen walked quietly, talked quietly but carried a big stick. He was gentle but very, very firm. In this abbey his word was law.’

  ‘And his relationship with the Concilium? When you were pretending to be Mandeville, you said Abbot Stephen’s blood was on their hands!’

  ‘I was pretending.’

  ‘Were you?’ Corbett insisted. ‘Or do you think the resentment over Bloody Meadow might have boiled over into something worse?’

  Taverner pulled a face.

  ‘From what I understand, they were certainly in fear and awe of him.’

  ‘Except over Bloody Meadow?’

  ‘The Abbot referred to that. I asked him once why he didn’t agree to their demands. “It’s a sacred place,” he replied. “It contains a tomb of a royal martyr who should be left in peace”.’

  ‘Was there anything else?’ Corbett demanded.

  ‘The Abbot seemed to like that lay brother, Perditus. I often saw them in deep conversation with each other.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Oh, the Abbot was a busy man. I think he found it easy to talk to Perditus. No wonder the other monks called him “the Abbot’s shadow”.’

  ‘Could Perditus have murdered the Abbot?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘How are you so sure?’

  ‘The morning Abbot Stephen was found murdered, I came across here, very early before dawn, as I often did. The Abbot liked to talk to me. I waited outsi
de Perditus’s chamber. He woke up and let me stay in his room.’ Taverner tapped the side of his nose. ‘I know people, clerk, and I’d go on oath: Perditus worshipped his Abbot and, when I met him that morning, he was not upset or disturbed. Of course, all that changed when he failed to rouse Abbot Stephen.’

  ‘Did Perditus become agitated?’

  ‘At first, no. Abbot Stephen often worked late. He sometimes missed attending Divine Office, which he read in his own room.’

  ‘And you never left Perditus that morning?’

  ‘Never. Another monk came to see what was wrong: that’s when the alarm was raised. I was present when they forced the door. We all stood shocked, surprised. Perditus went to the Abbot’s chair, fell on his knees, put his face in his hands and began to sob. I have never seen a man cry like that before.’

  ‘You are keen eyed,’ Corbett murmured. ‘Did you see anything untoward in that chamber?’

  ‘Oh, I looked round immediately. I know every trick and sleight of hand. Yet, that door was locked and the windows secure. I noticed the Abbot’s war belt was lying on the floor. He must have taken it from his chest near the wall.’

  ‘Did Perditus ever talk to you?’

  ‘Sometimes. He liked me to read to him: his eyesight is not too good.’

  ‘And the other brothers?’

  Taverner rocked backwards and forwards on the bed.

  ‘Many of them are former soldiers or clerks in the royal service.’ He grinned impishly at Ranulf. ‘Perhaps that’s how you will end your career?’

  ‘The other brothers?’ Corbett insisted.

  ‘Perhaps I am wrong, Sir Hugh. Perhaps there were rancourous feelings? Sometimes I overheard them talking, and it is true they were becoming increasingly angry with the Abbot’s refusal to build a guesthouse in Bloody Meadow. He fended them off, claiming the place was a sacred site. Of course, Lady Margaret Harcourt disputed the ownership of Falcon Brook, not that I could see why.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Corbett asked.

  ‘Well, it’s only a rivulet. It’s not stocked with fat carp or salmon. For God’s sake, Sir Hugh, these are the fens! One thing this place is not short of is water!’