Hugh Corbett 13 - Corpse Candle (11 page)

Corbett had no choice but to obey. He heard footsteps. He tried the latch again, and this time the door gave way to reveal the empty darkness beyond.

NAM CONCORDIA PARVAE RES CRESCUNT,
DISCORDIA MAXIMAE DILABUNTUR
 
HARMONY MAKES SMALL THINGS GROW,
WHILE DISCORD DESTROYS EVEN WHAT IS
GREAT

 
SENECA

Corbett gazed in astonishment round Taverner’s chamber. He had never seen so many crosses and statues: these seemed to cover the walls, filling every niche. Triptychs and crucifixes stood on tables. Fronds from Palm Sunday hung above the door. The chamber was spacious and clean. It was the only room in the abbey where Corbett had seen rushes, green and supple, strewn with herbs, scattered on the floor. A shelf high on one wall held some books, a bible and a tattered psalter. Taverner, sitting on the edge of the small four-poster bed, looked like some venerable monk. Dressed in a grey robe, with a balding pate, grey hair on either side of his head fell in tangled curls to his shoulders. He was bright-eyed and chirpy as a magpie with a round, florid face; Corbett noticed the generous bulging paunch above the cord round his waist. The room was warmed by a scented brazier and a small log fire burned in the hearth; it was a warm, comfortable place. Corbett had noticed the smoke coming out of the vent as he approached the far side of the infirmary. As usual, Chanson stood on guard outside. Ranulf looked subdued and sat on a bench just inside the door. Corbett stared curiously at this remarkable man who claimed to be possessed by a demon, the damned soul of Geoffrey Mandeville. So far Corbett had seen nothing remarkable about this middle-aged man, keen-eyed and sharp-witted, who’d welcomed them and offered some wine.

Corbett picked a scrap of parchment off the desk and noticed the ink-filled ‘V’ drawn there. He stared down as he collected his thoughts. He had not told Ranulf what had occurred the previous night: about that mysterious visitor who had confronted him behind the grille, drawn the bolts and fled. Corbett had returned to the guesthouse in silence, his relationship with Ranulf still frosty. They had been woken early by a tolling bell, attended Mass in a side chapel and broken their fast in the abbey kitchens. Prior Cuthbert had met them briefly but he had been all a-fluster, claiming he had other business and knew nothing of the death of poor Gildas . . . Corbett had nodded and declared he needed to question Taverner. The Prior had shrugged in acceptance.

Corbett still felt tired, heavy-eyed. He held up the piece of parchment. Taverner now had his head down.

‘Who drew Mandeville’s mark?’

‘How dare you!’

Corbett gaped in astonishment. Taverner’s head came up, his face had completely changed, with hate-filled eyes, a snarling mouth, his voice totally different.

‘How dare you, you whoreson varlet! You base-born clerk! Question me, Mandeville, Custos of the Tower, Earl of Essex!’

Ranulf leaned forward, ready to spring up.

What Corbett found remarkable was the change in voice, which had become harsh and guttural. When they had first entered, Taverner’s voice was soft, barely above a whisper.

‘That’s my escutcheon, my livery,’ he continued, jerking his fingers towards the parchment. ‘Black chevrons on a red banner. “Scourge of Essex” they called me. “Plunderer of Ely”. I showed those mealy-mouthed monks, those fornicating friars and their soft-skinned nuns! I gave them fire and sword! “
Igne Gladioque
. Fire and sword!
Gero bellum contra Deum
. I wage war against God and strive to breach the very gates of Paradise!”’ Taverner lapsed into old Norman French, ‘“
Le Roi Se Avisera
. The King was advised.
Sed Rex territus
, but the King was terrified.”’

‘Who was King?’ Corbett asked.

Taverner glanced slyly at him. ‘Why, Stephen, but he was challenged by Mathilda, Henry’s arrogant daughter. I lead a legion, do you know that, clerk? Men on horses who still ride the fens at night.’

Corbett closed his eyes and tried to recall the rite of exorcism.

‘By what name are you called?’ he asked abruptly.

‘My name is Geoffrey Mandeville, damned in life and damned in death. I wander the dark places. I seek a place, a house to dwell.’

‘And you have chosen Taverner?’

‘The door was open,’ came the harsh reply. ‘The dwelling was prepared.’

‘And what do you do when you leave?’ Corbett asked curiously. He noticed the white foam gathering at either corner of Taverner’s mouth.

‘I go back into the darkness, into eternal night. You are Corbett, aren’t you? Keeper of the Secret Seal? Your wife is Maeve with the long, blonde hair, and that body, eh Corbett? Soft and white like skimmed milk.’

‘Watch your lewdness!’ Ranulf declared.

Corbett held a hand up.

‘And where do I live?’

‘In Leighton Manor, in Essex, my shire, with fat, little Eleanor and Baby Edward. Come from the King, have we?’

Corbett studied the man. He was surprised that Taverner, or whatever possessed him, knew as much as he did. But, there again, most of it was fairly common knowledge.

‘If you are a demon.’ Corbett smiled, ‘then you should know more. Have you met Abbot Stephen? His soul has left his body.’

Taverner didn’t blink or change expression.

‘He has gone to judgement,’ he declared. ‘His crossing was never challenged. He’s begun his journey.’

‘But why was he killed? How was he murdered?’

‘I am not here to help you, Corbett!’

‘Come, come,’ the clerk teased. ‘You claim to be the great Geoffrey Mandeville who roams the fens, yet know less than a scullion in the abbey kitchens?’

‘He was killed by a dagger, thrust into his chest,’ came the sharp reply. ‘Always the Roman was Abbot Stephen. A man who will have to pay for his sin against the Holy Ghost.’

‘What do you mean, his sin against the Holy Ghost?’ Corbett demanded. Taverner seemed to know a little more than he should about the Abbot’s death.

‘Oh, he was murdered all right, like Abel, slain by Cain, by his brother . . .’

‘By the monks of St Martin’s?’ Corbett demanded.

‘
Tu dixisti clerice
,’ Taverner lapsed into Latin. ‘You have said it, clerk.’

‘Which monk?’ Corbett barked.

‘All are guilty in some way. Abbot Stephen’s blood stains their hands.’

Corbett felt a chill of fear. He’d attended two exorcisms as a royal witness. One in Bermondsey Abbey and the other in St Peter ad Vincula in the Tower. Both had taken place years before, and had been terrifying experiences! Taverner’s hand snaked out, his fingers curled like the claw of some hunting bird.

‘Plucked he was, taken out of life, sent unprepared into the dark. I feel at home at St Martin’s, clerk. It is a house of demons.’ The white froth now laced his lips. ‘And you can tell Chanson outside the door to stop listening.’

Ranulf, light-footed, opened the door. Chanson almost fell into the room. He stumbled and looked, embarrassed, at Corbett.

‘You are supposed to be guarding not eavesdropping.’ Corbett glanced quickly at Taverner. ‘But go now to the library. Ask Brother Aelfric if he has any books or chronicles about Geoffrey Mandeville.’

‘He has one there,’ Taverner declared.

‘What did Abbot Stephen say to you?’

‘He was going to help me.’ Taverner’s voice turned ugly. ‘But he couldn’t even help himself!’

Corbett watched him in amazement. Taverner was two people: himself and the spirit who possessed him, alternating in both expression and voice, sometimes lapsing into French or Latin. Corbett glanced across at Ranulf: his henchman seemed fascinated by Taverner. At last the babble of conversation died. The possessed man sat on the edge of the bed, hands hanging by his side, head down.

‘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?’