Hugh Corbett 13 - Corpse Candle (25 page)

‘Why should I? He was a priest. I am a widow.’

‘But the marshes?’ Corbett insisted. ‘They contain a close community?’

‘There are outlaws in the forest.’ Lady Margaret smiled. ‘That doesn’t mean I have to meet them. Oh, by the way, Sir Hugh,’ she glanced across at Ranulf, ‘I understand your henchmen killed four such men, leaving their bodies like a farmer would rats at the side of a trackway. The news is all over the area. People are pleased, though they hide their smiles behind their fingers. Nevertheless, you should be careful. Oh yes,’ she paused, ‘the outlaw leader, Scaribrick, claims to be a small tenant farmer. My steward Pendler believes he organises and leads these wolf’s-heads. You have been to the Lantern-in-the-Woods?’

‘No, but my henchmen have.’

‘Well, according to common report,’ Lady Margaret seemed more relaxed now they had moved away from the bloody doings at the abbey, ‘Scaribrick was at the Lantern-in-the-Woods last night, breathing threats and curses. You killed four of his men, and made the rest look fools; they are bullyboys used to swaggering around, receiving admiring glances from that hot-eyed wench Blanche.’

Corbett hid his unease.

‘You seem very well informed, Madam.’

‘I am a seigneur in my own right, Sir Hugh. I look after my tenants and they tell me what’s going on.’

‘You don’t have tenants at the Abbey of St Martin’s?’

‘No, but I do have the Watcher by the Gates, our self-proclaimed hermit. He worked here once, you know. What was his name? Ah yes, Salyiem! He claims to be the descendant of a French lord. He was a minor official, a bailiff or reeve, I forget which. Sir Reginald liked him. Salyiem’s wife died of some contagion so he went on his travels. When he returned, I offered him a cottage and some work, but the sun had turned his wits. He built that bothy against the abbey wall, with Abbot Stephen’s permission. I don’t know what Salyiem really is. A man of God? A warlock? Or a madcap? He often comes to our kitchens when, as he says, he tires of the monks. He gives us all the news. For the last few days he has been chattering like a magpie.’

‘And does he tell you about the mysterious horn-blower?’

‘Ah yes.’

‘Have you searched for him?’ Corbett demanded.

Lady Margaret shrugged. ‘I don’t believe, Sir Hugh, in legends about wood-goblins and sprites. Or that the demon ghost of Sir Geoffrey Mandeville prowls the marshes.’

‘So, the horn-blower is flesh and blood?’

‘Of course! Apparently,’ she continued, ‘Mandeville used to have a standard-bearer, a herald, a trumpeter who always proclaimed his evil lord’s arrival in the area. As you know, Mandeville was killed and his soul gone to hell. However, Daubigny, when he was a young knight, rather liked the story. Whenever he approached Harcourt Manor, he’d stop and bray his hunting horn.’ Her lips compressed in annoyance. ‘He used to come at all hours. Sir Reginald thought it was a great joke. He’d go to the window and answer, blowing likewise on a hunting horn.’

‘But Sir Stephen’s dead and the horn can still be heard late at night.’

‘I know, I have sent out bailiffs but they cannot discover who it is. One of these days I’ll send them down to the Watcher by the Gates.’

‘Do you think it’s him?’

‘It must be. I know he has a hunting horn. He is always chattering about what he hears at night. He loves to agitate the maids with his gossip.’

Corbett silently promised himself a visit to this eccentric hermit.

‘The marshes are full of such incidents,’ Lady Margaret continued absentmindedly. ‘Ghastly stories about demon riders, the howling of beasts from hell. You know about the Corpse Candles?’

Corbett nodded.

‘Be wary of them! Scaribrick has been known to use lanterns and lights at night to trick unwary travellers from their paths.’

Corbett sat and watched a log snap and break in the hearth. His conversation with Lady Margaret had provided no light, nothing new, yet he was certain she could tell him more. He felt as if he had entered a dark chamber, with the lights doused, the windows firmly shuttered. He was just stumbling around, feeling his way, tripping and slipping.

Corbett reflected, staring into the fire: Lady Margaret had everything prepared, the story came tripping off her tongue like the lines of some mummery but for what reason? To hide her own grief? To conceal, perhaps, her deep hatred for Abbot Stephen? She showed little grief at his going and no interest in the details of that hideous death: how a man, who once loved her husband, had a dagger thrust deep into his chest.

‘Will you stay the day?’ Lady Margaret murmured.

‘No, my lady. However, I would like to return to the question of Sir Stephen Daubigny. Madam,’ Corbett chose his words carefully, ‘what of the relationship between Sir Stephen and your husband?’

‘What are you implying, clerk?’ Lady Margaret lifted her hand deprecatingly. ‘I shouldn’t really be angry. So many years have passed. But, yes, there were whispers, malicious gossip that the love between them was like that of David and Jonathan in the bible.’

‘And was it true?’

‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘Sir Stephen was a lady’s man, heart, body and soul. He loved nothing more than a teasing dalliance. It was all part of being a knight errant, a troubadour. Daubigny knew all about the courts of love, the songs and poems from Provence. Moreover, he did fall in love.’

‘Yes, I thought he did,’ Corbett interrupted. ‘I found a book in the abbey library, which had in the back a love poem in Abbot Stephen’s hand.’

‘A poem, Sir Hugh? Do you recall it?’

Corbett closed his eyes. ‘I only read it quickly. Something about: “In my youth I served my time, in kissing and love-making. Now I must retreat, I feel my heart is breaking” . . .’

Lady Margaret leaned forward: try as she might she could not stop her lower lip quivering, tears pricking her eyes.

‘So long ago,’ she whispered, ‘Reginald use to write love poetry to me.’ She paused, composing herself. ‘Couplets, quatrains, verses and odes.’

‘And Daubigny’s great love?’

‘I know little about her, Sir Hugh. Reginald told me a few of the details, just before he disappeared. She was a young woman from noble family – I think her name was Heloise Argenteuil. Stephen fell deeply in love with her but she did not respond, and would have nothing to do with him.’ Lady Margaret stared blankly at the wall above the hearth. ‘She forsook the world and entered a convent, I forget which one, but it was an enclosed community which turned Sir Stephen away. I suppose that was another reason for our enmity: whilst Sir Stephen was with me across the seas, Heloise died and was buried in the convent grounds. Perhaps that turned his mind, tipped his wits. He was never the same again.’

‘And all things Roman?’ Corbett demanded.

‘Ah yes.’ Lady Margaret touched the white wimple on her head, re-arranging its drapes and folds. ‘Now, that did fascinate Sir Stephen. During the war against de Montfort, Sir Stephen and my husband had to go into hiding. According to one story, they sheltered in a forest, somewhere in the south-west, and stumbled upon the ruins of a Roman house or villa. Stephen never forgot the beautiful mosaics and pictures. After the war, he spent time visiting the Halls of Oxford and Cambridge, the cathedral schools, begging librarians and archivists for the loan of manuscripts on anything Roman.’

‘Sir Stephen was a scholar?’

‘Yes, both he and Sir Reginald attended Merton Hall in Oxford. When he talked about the ancient times,’ she continued, ‘I’ll be honest, Sir Hugh, he became a different man, no longer the arrogant knight or the witty courtier. Apart from his love for Heloise and his regard for my husband, the only time he showed true feelings were for “all things Roman”, which was his favourite expression.’

‘And he continued that interest as a monk, the only link with his former life?’

‘Sir Hugh,’ Lady Margaret put the cup she had been cradling back on the table, ‘I welcome you but I find your visit upsetting. Perhaps, if there is nothing more?’

She got to her feet and extended a hand. Corbett grasped it and kissed her fingers. Despite the fire they felt ice cold.

‘I am sorry to have troubled you, Madam, but . . .’

‘I know, I know,’ she retorted, ‘if I recall anything, Sir Hugh, I will let you know.’

Ranulf and Chanson got to their feet. Lady Margaret grasped Corbett by the elbow.

‘There is one thing. The abbey has another visitor, Archdeacon Adrian Wallasby? I heard of his arrival. He had no love for Abbot Stephen.’

‘I know that.’ Corbett laughed. ‘They were rivals on the field of Academe.’

‘They were more than that.’

Corbett stopped, his hand on the latch of the door.

‘Madam?’

‘Hasn’t Archdeacon Adrian told you?’ she teased. ‘He comes from these parts. He and Daubigny went to the same cathedral school. More than just theological disputation separated them. There was some incident in their youth, hot words which led to blows. Abbot Stephen may have forgotten but I don’t think Wallasby did.’

She led Corbett out into the hallway. A steward brought their cloaks and war belts. Lady Margaret asked about what else was happening in the abbey and Corbett replied absentmindedly. They went out onto the steps. A groom brought their horses round. They whinnied and stamped in the ice-cold air, steam and breath rising like small clouds. Corbett stared up at the sky, which was grey and lowering, threatening more snow. A cold wind whipped their faces.

‘A safe journey, Sir Hugh.’

Lady Margaret extended her hand. Corbett kissed it again. He was about to go down the steps when a line of ragged men and women came out of the copse of trees which fringed the path down to the main gate. Corbett stared in amazement. There were thirty or forty people in all, leading short, shaggy ponies, their belongings piled high and lashed with ropes. They walked purposefully towards the manor. Pendler the steward came hurrying from the stables behind the house.

‘My lady, we have visitors.’

‘No, Pendler,’ she called merrily back, ‘we have guests!’

Corbett stared in astonishment as the motley collection of beggars drew nearer. They were followed by a cart, its wheels shaking and creaking, pulled by a thin-ribbed horse which looked as if it hadn’t eaten for days. The beggars were cloaked in a collection of rags, their heads and faces almost muffled. The leader came forward, hands raised, and greeted Lady Margaret. Corbett couldn’t decide whether they were travellers or Moon people, gypsies or an intinerant band of travelling mummers.

‘My lady, I did not know you were entertaining?’

Lady Margaret smiled and shook her head.

‘They look cold,’ she murmured. ‘They are travellers, Corbett. They have free passage across my demesne. They will be welcome here until the thaw comes. We give them food and drink, tend their horses, and provide them with fresh clothes.’

‘An act of great charity, my lady.’

‘Not really, Sir Hugh, more of compassion. I know what it is to travel on a hopeless quest and I have more than enough to share with them. Now I must tend to them.’

Corbett took the hint. He went down the steps, grasped the reins of his horse and pulled himself up into the saddle. His companions did likewise. Corbett lifted his hand in salutation, pulled up his cowl and turned his horse. Lady Margaret, however, was already tripping down the steps, eager to greet the travellers. Corbett was almost at the bend leading down to the gateway when he heard his name being called. Pendler the steward came hurrying up, slipping in the snow. He grasped Corbett’s stirrup and stared up, eyes watering.

‘A message from the Lady Margaret,’ he gasped. ‘A warning! In their approach to the manor, the travellers saw men in the forest. They are not of this estate. She tells you to be careful!’

Corbett leaned down and patted his hand.

‘Thank Lady Margaret, we will take care.’ He held the man’s hand. ‘Your mistress is kind and charitable. How long has this been going on?’

‘Oh, for a number of years. Longer than I can think. My mistress is a saint, Sir Hugh.’ He pulled his hand away. ‘And there are few of those.’

Corbett stared back towards the manor. Lady Margaret was now in the centre of the travellers. He gathered his reins, lost in thought, and led his companions towards the main gates.

Brother Richard the almoner came out from his Chamber of Accounts and stood in the small bricked courtyard. He stared up at the sky and quietly cursed the prospect of more snow. After the service of divine office, all lay quiet. Despite the chaos and bloody murder, the brothers were trying to adhere to their routine, working in the scriptorium of the cloister, the library or the infirmary. In a way Brother Richard was pleased at the harsh, cold weather. During the winter months visitors to the abbey were rare. He quietly echoed Prior Cuthbert’s belief that the sooner the royal clerks went the better. Perhaps the murders would end then? An idle thought.

Brother Richard sighed and closed the door of his chamber. He pulled up his cowl and reluctantly prepared to carry out the task Prior Cuthbert had assigned him. Since poor Gildas’s death, no one had entered the stonemason’s workshop. Yet a tally had to be made, and accounts drawn up. The almoner slipped through the snow, stopped and cursed. He had forgotten his writing wallet. He returned to his chamber, picked this up from a bench and placed his cowl over his head. He was about to leave when he saw the thick ash cane in the corner. Brother Richard grasped this. It would keep him steady in the snow as well as act as protection against any would-be attacker. Yet who had a quarrel with him? Brother Richard left and made his way carefully across to Gildas’s workshop. The almoner was confused. Why were these hideous murders taking place? Who had a grudge against poor Francis the librarian? Or hard-working Gildas? Even Hamo the sub-prior, an officious little man but kindly enough in his own way? And who would have a grudge against him? Richard had been a man-at-arms, an archer who had served in both Wales and Gascony. He really believed he had a call from God and he tried to live the life of a holy monk. True, he thought, as he swung the ash cane, he had his weaknesses. Women, the allure of soft flesh. Well, temptation came and went like a dream in the night. He did like his food, particularly those golden, tasty crusty pies, a delicacy of the abbey kitchens; he also had a weakness for the sweet white flesh of capon and the crackle of highly flavoured pork.