Hugh Corbett 13 - Corpse Candle

by Paul Doherty

  ‘Can’t a man change?’ Corbett asked. ‘Doesn’t Christ preach conversion, repentance?’

  ‘Cacullus non facit monachum: the cowl doesn’t make the monk,’ Wallasby retorted. ‘The rat does not change its coat. Yes, I admit I plotted against Daubigny, and I would have proved the truth about him, if Taverner hadn’t turned.’

  ‘Tell me,’ Corbett went back and sat in his chair, ‘have you ever heard of Heloise Argenteuil?’

  ‘The name means something,’ Wallasby replied, ‘but I cannot say more.’

  The Archdeacon bowed mockingly at Ranulf.

  ‘And I must congratulate you. The news of your meeting with Scaribrick is all over the abbey. Sir, you have done more to impose the King’s writ than a dozen sheriff’s posses. At least, when I do depart this place, I’ll be safe.’

  And, spinning on his heel, Wallasby left the room, slamming the door behind him.

  ‘No, you stay,’ Corbett gestured as Aelfric started to rise. ‘I have the further question. What if Abbot Stephen had agreed that the guesthouse could be built?’

  ‘We would have all rejoiced.’

  ‘Then let me take another path. If he continued to refuse,’ Corbett measured his words carefully, ‘could it have led to murder?’

  Aelfric shook his head. ‘Not murder, Sir Hugh, but perhaps something just as heinous: hate, resentment, curses. You see, we met with Abbot Stephen as a group and, when we did, followed the Rule of St Benedict: our discussions had to be amicable, in the true spirit of Christ.’

  ‘But individually?’ Corbett interrupted.

  ‘God forgive us,’ Brother Aelfric breathed. ‘We all went our separate paths. You’ve discovered mine.’

  ‘And the rest?’

  Aelfric shook his head. ‘As a group we were bound by holy obedience but I cannot speak for what happened in the souls of my brothers. Now, Sir Hugh, I must go.’

  Once the infirmarian was gone, Corbett sighed and stood looking out of the window.

  ‘No one is fully truthful,’ he murmured. ‘You do realise that, Ranulf? Wallasby, Aelfric, Cuthbert – they are still not telling us what we really want to know!’

  ‘Can’t we use force?’

  ‘Against a monk, or an archdeacon? Secretly the King would agree. Publicly, we’d spend weeks cooling our heels in the Tower. I think we’ve exhausted everything.’

  ‘Are we to leave?’

  ‘No. The library won’t yield any secrets, Archdeacon Wallasby hides behind his hate and his holy orders, whilst the monks use their vows as a knight would a shield. Lady Margaret Harcourt is polite and courteous whilst the Watcher by the Gates spins his own tale.’

  ‘So, we come back to Abbot Stephen?’ Ranulf asked.

  ‘His manuscripts yield nothing,’ Corbett replied. ‘He did not say or do anything to provide a key to all these mysteries. All that remains is the burial mound in Bloody Meadow. Snow or not, come frost or hail, tomorrow, Ranulf, I intend to open and search that burial mound.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘To be perfectly honest, I don’t know. If it yields nothing, we’ll stay two more days.’

  Corbett stared at the crucifix and recalled Aelfric’s words: ‘I have sinned! I have sinned!’ The clerk picked up his cloak.

  ‘Where’s Chanson?’

  ‘Where he always is, down at the stables admiring the horses.’

  ‘As long as he doesn’t sing.’

  Corbett smiled as they left the chamber. He had strictly ordered Chanson that, if he attended the Divine Office of the abbey, he was not to sing. Corbett had also warned Ranulf not to bribe or encourage him. Chanson was an excellent groom and a deft hand with the knife, but his singing! Corbett had never heard such an atrocious sound! The only person who appeared to admire it was his daughter Eleanor. She often begged Chanson for a song and, whilst Baby Edward screamed his head off, his daughter would laugh until the tears streamed down her cheeks.

  They clattered down the stairs and out into the abbey grounds.

  ‘Where to, Sir Hugh?’

  ‘Why, Ranulf, to be shriven.’

  ‘Confession? Absolution?’ Ranulf teased. ‘Should the Lady Maeve know of this?’

  Corbett threw his cloak over his shoulders and fastened the clasp. He stamped his feet on the icy ground and stared up at the overcast sky.

  ‘Abbot Stephen spoke openly with no one or appeared not to. He had no real confidant but, like any man, he had to be shriven. I am looking for Brother Luke.’

  Corbett went up into the cloisters and stopped by a desk. A young monk, his face and hands almost blue with the cold, was poring over a manuscript. Corbett made his enquiries and the young monk’s face lit up with a smile.

  ‘My fingers are freezing, even the ink is sluggish. I’ll take you to Brother Luke.’

  They crossed the abbey grounds to a long, one-storeyed, grey-ragstone building with a red tiled roof and a shaded colonnaded walk on one side. Their guide explained that this was where the ‘ancient ones’ lived: too old or infirm for other duties except prayer, reflection and, as the young monk laughingly put it, ‘chomping on their gums’. He paused at a door and knocked.

  ‘Go away!’ a voice bellowed. ‘I don’t want to be disturbed!’

  The monk sighed, pressed down the latch and opened the door. The chamber inside was sweltering: it contained at least four braziers as well as a large chafing dish filled with charcoal on a table beside the high-backed chair where the occupant sat. The chamber also boasted a table, a stool, a small trunk and cupboard, a cot bed in the far corner and a lectern with a psalter on it facing a stark crucifix. Brother Luke certainly looked ancient with his scraggy neck, almost skeletal face stained with dark liverish spots, and a head as bald as an egg, but his eyes were bright with life. He pushed away the footstool and leaned forward.

  ‘You are the clerk,’ his voice was surprisingly strong. ‘A royal clerk and his bully-boys come to see poor old Brother Luke. I wondered if you would. You, Brother!’ he thundered at Corbett’s guide, ‘stop grinning like a monkey and go back to your studies!’

  The young monk fled.

  ‘Prior Waldo once had a monkey,’ the Ancient One remarked. ‘God knows why the Abbot at the time allowed him to bring it in, for it climbed everywhere whilst its habits were none too clean!’ Brother Luke gave Corbett a red-gummed smile. ‘But that can be said for many of the sons of God. Come on! Come on!’ He gestured at a bench along the far wall. ‘Bring that over and sit down. I have some wine.’

  Corbett shook his head. He and Ranulf sat down like schoolboys before a master.

  ‘I thought you’d come! I thought you’d come!’ A bony finger wagged in Corbett’s face.

  ‘Why, Brother?’

  ‘Because of the deaths – the murders! I always said this was an unhallowed place.’

  ‘St Martin’s?’

  ‘No, clerk, the marshes!’

  ‘Poor Abbot Stephen. You were his confessor?’ Corbett asked.

  ‘Aye, I listened to his sins and shrived him. And, before you ask, clerk, you know I can’t tell you anything of that. I have not many days left: for a priest to reveal what’s heard in confession is a sin to answer for in hellfire.’

  ‘But what sort of man was he?’ Ranulf demanded.

  ‘Why, of mankind.’ Brother Luke threw his head back and cackled with laughter. ‘He was like you or I, Red Hair.’ He peered at Ranulf. ‘A fighting man born and bred, eh? I wager the ladies like you.’ He patted his stomach. ‘They used to like me too. Sprightly, they called me, a nimble dancer. Aye, I’ve danced on moon-washed greens and listened to the tambour beat and the jingle of the bells.’

  Corbett glanced at Ranulf and winked.

  ‘But, to answer your question,’ Brother Luke pushed out his chin, ‘Abbot Stephen was a good man but very troubled by something in the past. In many ways he was a sinner, perhaps even a great sinner: that’s why I felt comfortable with him for so am I.’

  ‘Did he ever talk of Heloi
se Argenteuil?’

  Brother Luke stared impassively back.

  ‘Did he ever talk about Reginald Harcourt?’

  Again the hard-eyed stare.

  ‘Did he ever talk about a wheel?’ Corbett insisted.

  ‘Yes, but in confession.’ The vein-streaked, brown-spotted hand clasped Corbett’s. The old monk’s eyes grew gentle. ‘The Good Lord and his Holy Mother know you have a dreadful task here, yet I can only speak on those matters not heard in the confessional pew.’

  ‘Why was he an exorcist?’ Ranulf asked.

  ‘Now, Sharp Eyes, I can answer that! I asked the same. Stephen had doubts, grave doubts, about everything! Sometimes he thought there was nothing after death but extinction: no heaven, no hell, no purgatory, no God, no demons. So, he took the view that, if he could prove the existence of demons, then it might mean something.’

  Corbett nodded. He had heard this before, not only about Abbot Stephen but about others who struggled with their faith. As one priest had confided in Corbett, ‘If there’s a hell, there must be a heaven.’

  ‘He was trying to prove to himself,’ Brother Luke continued. ‘As the Creed puts it, “I believe in things visible and invisible”. He wanted to shift the mist which blinded his soul. I suppose he was searching for the truth.’

  ‘And Bloody Meadow?’ Corbett asked.

  Again the old priest’s head went down.

  ‘I can tell you something of that. Abbot Stephen swore that, as long as he lived, that burial mound would not be opened. On that point he was obdurate. I don’t . . .’ His voice trailed off. ‘I have spoken enough.’ He sighed.

  ‘What of the days before he died?’ Corbett demanded.

  The old priest licked his lips. ‘Yes, he came to me agitated, troubled. A great darkness clouded his mind, heart and soul. I can tell you this, clerk, and I’ve told no one else – if you had not come to me, I suppose I would have asked to see you.’

  Corbett held his breath. He could see the old monk was torn by the fear of betraying a confidence.

  ‘So, in his last days Abbot Stephen did not come for confession?’

  ‘No, clerk.’

  The old priest turned away, his lower jaw trembling. Corbett grasped his hand and squeezed it gently.

  ‘You must help me. Blood has been shed. The souls of your brothers sent brutally, unshriven, before God’s tribunal might not cry for vengeance but they do call out for justice. God’s justice must be done and the King’s law upheld.’

  ‘Very well.’ The old priest grasped his Ave beads and threaded them through his fingers. ‘Abbot Stephen knelt before me. He did not confess his sin but he claimed how one of his brothers, a man close to him, had accused him of a hideous offence, not against the Rule but against God.’

  ‘A hideous offence!’ Ranulf exclaimed. ‘What wrong could a holy abbot do in such a hallowed place!’

  ‘Was he talking about the past?’ Corbett added.

  ‘No, no, of a recent event.’

  ‘And what was this sin?’

  ‘I will not tell you.’

  ‘But I can ask?’

  The old priest nodded.

  ‘Was it murder?’

  A shake of the head.

  ‘Was it fornication? Lying with a woman?’

  Again the shake of the head.

  ‘Theft? Blasphemy?’

  Brother Luke’s gaze held Corbett’s.

  ‘What sin?’ Corbett exclaimed.

  ‘Have you read the Book of Samuel? The story of David?’ Luke demanded.

  Corbett closed his eyes. David of Israel had been accused of many crimes.

  ‘And Jonathan,’ Brother Luke added quietly.

  Corbett opened his eyes.

  ‘Abbot Stephen was accused of unnatural practices with a fellow monk!’

  ‘Tu dixisti. You have said it, clerk.’

  The Ancient One must have seen the consternation in Corbett’s face.

  ‘And this was recent?’ Ranulf asked.

  ‘Very much so.’ Brother Luke shook his head. ‘I would say about a month before his death.’

  ‘Did he say why? How?’

  ‘Abbot Stephen simply said that he had been accused of this.’

  ‘Did he deny it?’ Ranulf asked.

  ‘No. I told you, he just knelt here and sobbed like a child. He said the accusation had been made in a whispered conversation in his own chamber. I tried to reason with him, to soothe his soul but he got up abruptly and left. I sent a messenger after him but he never returned. My Abbot never came back.’ The old man’s eyes filled with tears. ‘Now he has gone. God forbid that he despaired, that he committed the sin against the Holy Ghost before that dreadful act was committed. May the angels take him to a place of peace and light. He was so different.’ Luke’s old face had a faraway look. ‘Do you know, clerk, when I was younger, I was the infirmarian here. Stephen Daubigny was a regular visitor, not so much to the Church, but to our library. He did love the world of books.’

  ‘But why come here?’ Corbett asked.

  ‘He came with his friend, Sir Reginald.’

  ‘And why would he visit St Martin’s?’

  ‘Do you know, clerk,’ the old man mused, ‘I never understood Sir Reginald, but if I had to choose between Harcourt and Daubigny becoming a monk, I would have chosen Sir Reginald.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He was very shy of women, embarrassed. I can tell you this because it is not a matter for the confessional.’ Brother Luke poked Ranulf in the shoulder. ‘You are a vigorous man, aren’t you?’

  ‘Thanks be to God!’ Ranulf teased back.

  ‘And you love the pleasures of the bed?’

  Ranulf couldn’t stop himself blushing. Corbett laughed softly.

  ‘Well, come on!’ the old monk teased. ‘Are you sprightly or not? Once, I was a clerk, and served in the royal levies. I could resist anything but the temptations of the flesh and a deep bowl of claret. Sir Reginald was different: he came here for my help.’

  ‘He was impotent?’ Corbett asked.

  ‘He had problems. Sometimes such failings are a matter of the body: an injury, perhaps a growth. I have treated enough monks in my life to recognise the cause and recommend a possible cure. Other times the cause is not so clear.’

  ‘And Sir Reginald?’

  ‘Both, Sir Hugh.’ The old monk tapped his head. ‘Though more phantasms of the mind.’

  ‘But he married?’

  ‘I know, I know,’ Brother Luke sighed. ‘Sir Hugh, we have monks in this abbey who have problems – how can I put it – in relation to the ladies. Being repelled by women, they seek sanctuary and safety behind the walls of a monastery. Other men believe such problems can be resolved in holy wedlock. Sir Reginald was one of the latter. But,’ he held up a bony finger, ‘I could be wrong. Many men face such difficulties, and they are often of a temporary nature. The only people who can really know the truth in this case are Sir Reginald and Lady Margaret. You have met that redoubtable woman?’

  Corbett nodded.

  ‘I doubt if she would say anything on a matter so intimate.’

  ‘And who was the monk that accused the Abbot of unnatural practices?’ Ranulf interrupted.

  ‘Not a hint, not a whisper, Red Hair. Do you play hazard?’ Brother Luke asked abruptly, not waiting for an answer. ‘If I was laying a wager, I would say such a heinous accusation was closely tied up with that damnable funeral barrow and, God forbid, the ambitions of some of my brothers.’

  ‘What did Harcourt ask for when he came to you?’

  ‘Powders, potions, some miraculous elixir. In reality, I was of little help.’

  ‘Did Sir Stephen Daubigny know of this?’

  Brother Luke shook his head. ‘That’s why Harcourt came here. He said he would sooner trust a monk than some local physician.’

  ‘Did he return to you after his marriage to Lady Margaret?’

  The old monk shrugged and played with the Ave beads.

  ‘Yo
u must have been here when Sir Stephen first entered St Martin’s?’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘Were you his confessor then?’

  Brother Luke shook his head. ‘For many years he avoided me. I admit I was surprised by both the change in him and his rapid promotion, yet he soon proved to be an ideal Benedictine.’ He paused. ‘More than that, Sir Hugh, I cannot tell you.’

  The old man closed his eyes and started threading the beads through his fingers. He sat slumped as if tired by this conversation. Corbett and Ranulf thanked him, rose and moved the bench back.

  ‘I cannot break my vows.’

  Corbett turned round. Brother Luke still sat with his eyes closed.

  ‘These bloody murders, Sir Hugh. Why should they start now?’

  ‘I don’t know, that’s what I am trying to find out.’

  ‘Search the past,’ the old priest murmured. ‘We sow our sins like seed. They take root and lie dormant but, in time, they sprout like black corn, their leaves full and fat with wickedness.’ He opened his eyes. ‘I wish you well, clerk. God be with you!’

  Brother Luke sketched a blessing in the air as Corbett opened the door to leave.

  Prior Cuthbert knelt on the cold flagstones of his own cell. He had locked and barred the door. The fire in the hearth was now dull ash, the braziers unlit. The Prior had removed his gown and undershirt. The hard paving stones bit into his bony knees. He found it difficult to keep his toes against the freezing floor. Above him a huge crucifix, showing Christ writhing in agony, stared down at him. Prior Cuthbert grasped the small whip, closed his eyes, gritted his teeth and began to flail his left and right shoulders. Even here, in the darkness of his cell, the demons seemed to be waiting. He whipped and whipped again as, in his mind, roaring griffins leapt from fires and a dark tunnel opened to spew forth blood-soaked demons, hair writhing like serpents. Prior Cuthbert opened his eyes. He forced himself to look at the crucifix. He had sinned most grievously.