‘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?’
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!’