‘I have had enough of the dead,’ Corbett murmured, brushing past them. ‘Brother Aelfric, there’s little I can do here, at least for the moment.’
Corbett went out. Night was falling and the snow was coating the ground with a white dust. The abbey was busy with monks hurrying about finishing their tasks. Smoke billowed out from the kitchens as well as the fragrant odours of cooking meat and baking pies. Corbett pulled up his hood and walked back to the guesthouse. Once he was back in his own chamber he secured the door, drawing across the bolt. He lit the candles and oil lamps. An extra brazier had been wheeled in. Corbett took a pair of bellows and fired the coals until they glowed hot and red. The chamber had a small mantel hearth but Corbett decided not to light the wood. He went across and checked the wine cups, jug and the platter of dried fruit, bread and cheese. He could detect nothing wrong with them. He eased off his boots and lay down on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. He could make no sense of what was happening. Thoughts and images jumbled in his mind. He idly wondered how Ranulf and Chanson were doing.
‘A killer prowls here,’ Corbett whispered to himself, ‘who enjoys what he does. He’s turned this abbey on its head — no longer a place of sanctuary and prayer but of fear and sudden death.’
But was it that in the first place? The more he learnt about Abbot Stephen, the more curious Corbett became. On the one hand a devout, learned monk; on the other, Abbot Stephen was a man full of uncertainty, even regret and remorse. Corbett’s eyes grew heavy. He drifted into sleep but was rudely awoken by a loud rapping at the door. He rolled off the bed, and picked up his sword belt which he had thrown onto the floor.
‘Who is it?’ he called.
‘Archdeacon Adrian. Sir Hugh, I need to speak to you.’
Corbett withdrew the bolts and the Archdeacon stamped into the room. Without a by-your-leave, he took off his cloak, wet with melting snow, went across and warmed his hands over the brazier.
‘Corbett, it’s snowing.’
‘I can see that.’
‘I need to travel back to London. I want to be away from St Martin’s-in-the-Marsh.’
‘Why?’ Corbett demanded.
‘Business, my court in London awaits. I see no point in delay.’
‘Oh, I see every point.’
Corbett sat on the bed. The Archdeacon turned. Are you frightened, Corbett wondered? Angry, or playing a game? The Archdeacon’s lip curled.
‘I need not take orders from you, Corbett!’
‘Oh yes you must!’ Corbett waved at the panniers stacked in the corner. ‘I carry the King’s commission!’
‘I am an ecclesiastic, a clerk in Holy Orders!’
‘I wouldn’t care if you were the Angel Gabriel. For all I know, Archdeacon Adrian, you could be the assassin.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ The Archdeacon went across, picked up a chair, turned it round and slumped down on it. ‘I’m no more guilty than you, Corbett. Indeed,’ he spluttered, ‘how do we know you’re not the assassin?’
‘I wasn’t here when the Abbot died.’
Corbett pulled the war belt across his lap and played with the dagger, pushing it in and out of its scabbard.
‘But you were here, Master Wallasby!’
‘Abbot Stephen was my friend, a colleague. You know the reason for my visit.’
‘You’re lying!’ Corbett pointed the dagger at his univited guest. ‘You weren’t Abbot Stephen’s friend, you were his rival, his opponent. Perhaps you resented his fame, and that’s why you devised this stratagem?’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Master Taverner, Carrefour, or whatever he’s called, whose corpse lies stiffening in the Death House. You know he’s been branded?’
The Archdeacon swallowed hard and glanced at the door as if he regretted coming here.
‘If you hadn’t come, Master Wallasby, I would have sent for you. Now, let me see. You are an opponent of Abbot Stephen’s philosophy. You are a pragmatist, a lawyer. You don’t believe in elves and goblins, wood sprites or that the Powers of Hell can possess a man. You engaged Abbot Stephen in open debate. However, he proved to be a resourceful opponent with considerable evidence to justify what he did. Now, Archdeacon, you mentioned your court in London? In your role as a Judge of the Church you must have met the cunning man Carrefour, whom we now know as Taverner.’ Corbett paused. ‘You did know him, didn’t you? Master Wallasby, I don’t want to put you on oath. However, I am sure, if I searched the records of your court, I’d find reference to Taverner, that father of lies, being a constant visitor at your court.’
The Archdeacon was now visibly nervous.
‘Would you like some wine?’ Corbett offered. ‘Perhaps a piece of bread and cheese? No? Well, when I went through Master Taverner’s possessions I came across a small ledger, a journal he kept. More importantly, I discovered a licence to beg, as well as permission to go beyond the seas, both granted by your court. The licences were issued early in the autumn on the eve of the feast of St Matthew the Apostle. Now, correct me if I am wrong, Archdeacon, but I believe you gave Master Taverner both money and licences. He left on a ship from the Thames carrying supplies up the Eastern coast. Taverner secured his passage, landed and made his way to St Martin’s-in-the-Marsh. He really was a master of disguise, a deceitful schemer. He had been furnished with other letters and embellished his story with references to being seen by priests in London. Abbot Stephen accepted him as a bona fide appellant, desperate for spiritual help and comfort. Taverner proved equal to the task, and convinced Abbot Stephen that he was possessed. Abbot Stephen rose to the bait. He may have had doubts initially but these slowly crumbled away so he wrote to you and your Dominican friends in London.’
Corbett paused, went across and filled a goblet half full of wine and sipped the blood-red claret. Corbett smacked his lips.
‘You are sure, Archdeacon, you won’t join me? I could even warm you a posset cup?’
Wallasby stared back owl-eyed.
‘I did wonder,’ Corbett re-took his seat, ‘why such a busy cleric as yourself should come hurrying north at Abbot Stephen’s behest? Couldn’t it have waited — after all you are so busy? Anyway, you arrived here, and proclaimed yourself impressed by Taverner’s performance but then the mummery you planned was overtaken by murder.’
The priest rubbed the side of his face as if he was in pain.
‘I. . I. .’ he stammered.
‘Please don’t lie,’ Corbett urged. ‘Archdeacon, you should never trust a man like Taverner! He was supposed to get rid of those letters and licences, wasn’t he? But a trickster like him never destroys anything, not knowing whether it might come in useful.’
‘It’s true,’ the Archdeacon sighed. ‘Sir Hugh,’ he paused, ‘Abbot Stephen was a man whom, I believe, the Church did not need. I am orthodox — I believe in Satan and hellfire — but the world is changing. New knowledge, new sciences are coming out of the east. We no longer believe that every disaster is the work of Satan, that contagion, infection, yes even murder and theft, are part of one vast conspiracy by an unseen horde of demons. It’s good for priests to use hellfire to frighten the faithful but Abbot Stephen. .?’ He shook his head. ‘What had he to do with the Schools of Oxford or Cambridge, the writings of Plato or Aristotle, the business of the law or Parliament?’ The Archdeacon regained confidence as he spoke. ‘Yes, I am a judge of the Church. I sit in my court and see men like Taverner fleece the superstitious. Now, Taverner I can take care of. But an abbot, a lord spiritual? I wanted to prove him wrong.’
‘No,’ Corbett interrupted. ‘You wanted to teach him a lesson. What would have happened?’ he insisted. ‘Would the exorcism have collapsed? Would Taverner have proclaimed who he really was and what he was doing? You would have made Abbot Stephen a laughing stock. A mockery from one end of the realm to the other. Do you think the King would have been pleased?’