Abbot Stephen picked up the book, pulling closer the silver-gilt candelabra so he could read more quickly with the special magnifying glass he had bought in Norwich. He tried to let the words soothe his mind but suddenly he let the book fall back on the table as a wave of depression made him slump deeper in the chair. It was useless! He was hedged in, confined, trapped. Abbot Stephen, despite the warmth of the room, the logs crackling in the fire, the perfumed braziers, grew cold and trembled. He closed his eyes, and faces from the past appeared. If all this became known? If he was forced to confess in public? What would happen then? He couldn’t face Prior Cuthbert’s threats yet that burial mound could not be opened. Abbot Stephen closed the book with a snap. He got up and walked towards the door. He made sure it was locked, the bolts drawn. He went round the windows, making sure everything was closed. He took a wine jug and goblet and brought them over to the desk. He filled the cup to the brim and drank quickly. He picked up his ring of keys, rose and unlocked his private chest, throwing back the lid. Inside lay a helmet, greaves, gauntlets and a breastplate bearing his escutcheon. On top of all this lay a brocaded sword belt. He lifted this out and strapped it around him, for the first time in over thirty years. He gripped the pommel of the sword and the handle of the long stabbing dirk on the other side. He turned and saw his reflection in the window. Was that him or someone else?
Abbot Stephen unstrapped the war belt, threw it on the floor and slumped to his knees. He gazed expectantly at the mullioned glass window and once again studied his reflection. The glass also caught the light from the candles and oil lamps. A phrase from St Pauls’ Epistle to the Corinthians echoed in his imagination: ‘For now we see through a glass, darkly’. Abbot Stephen simply had to look into the mirror to know himself for what he was, what he had done and how he had tried to hide it. He closed his eyes but he couldn’t pray. He sighed and got to his feet: as he did, his attention was caught by the reflection of candlelight. Were those his corpse candles? Were they really reflections? Or was the legend true? Those strange lights, which appeared over the marshes and the fens, had they drawn so close as to flicker outside his chamber, beckoning, threatening?
Abbot Stephen returned to his desk and sat down. He picked up a quill. He wanted to write, distract himself but he felt alone, frightened. He must concentrate! He scrawled down the quotation from St Paul but mixed it with a reference to corpse candles. A line from the philosopher Seneca pricked his memory. How did it go? Ah yes, that was it: ‘Anyone can take away a man’s life, but no one his death’. Abbot Stephen threw the quill down. The night breeze gently rattled the windows. Abbot Stephen put his face in his hands. He stared bleakly into the dark as his soul sank deeper and deeper into a morass of despair.
NIL POSSE CREARI DE NILO
NOTHING CAN BE CREATED OUT OF NOTHING
Chapter 1
Prior Cuthbert had turned one of the vesting rooms, which lay off the gallery leading to the sacristry, into a mourning chamber. The white plaster walls were covered in gold and black drapes. On either side of the bier stood three great brass candlesticks with dark-purple candles specially made by the abbey’s chandler. A huge cross was nailed to the wall. The drapes covering Abbot Stephen’s corpse were embroidered in silver thread depicting Christ harrowing Hell. Despite the late season, some flowers had been found and placed in silver vases at each corner of the bier. Scented braziers, sprinkled with dried thyme, kept the air sweet. Prior Cuthbert felt proud of what he had achieved since the Abbot’s death four days earlier. The corpse had been washed, cleaned and prepared for burial. Later that day, just after noon, he would celebrate the solemn requiem Mass in the abbey church. Prior Cuthbert had warned the brothers not to gossip. The abbey had expected some representative from the King. As soon as Abbot Stephen’s corpse had been discovered, an abbey messenger, taking two of the swiftest horses from the stables, had ridden to Norwich where the King and court were on royal progress through the Eastern shires.
Prior Cuthbert stood aside and allowed his visitors to approach the bier. He felt distinctly nervous. He’d expected the King to send an earl, or one of his principal barons. Instead the tall, dark, close-faced Sir Hugh Corbett, Keeper of the King’s Secret Seal, had arrived, together with his henchman, Ranulf-atte-Newgate, the red-haired, sharp-featured Clerk of the Green Wax, and Chanson, that strange-looking clerk of the stables with a mop of unruly hair and a cast in one eye. All three were dressed in travel-stained clothes, dark-brown cote-hardies, leggings of the same colour pushed into high-heeled Spanish leather riding boots. Spurs clinked, sword and dagger tapped against thigh. They were men of war, Prior Cuthbert reflected, yet they emanated as well an air of quiet authority and menace: Corbett in particular, handsome, clean-shaven, pleasant-featured but with deep-set, brooding eyes. A man who didn’t say much but seemed to listen and watch everything around him. He didn’t stand on ceremony. As soon as he was ushered into the Prior’s quarters, he showed his warrant bearing the King’s Seal, splaying out his fingers to display the Chancery ring emblazoned with the arms of England.
‘We expected someone else,’ Prior Cuthbert murmured.
Corbett unfastened his cloak and tossed it to Chanson. Ranulf did the same, stretching his arms and legs to ease the cramp after the long ride in the saddle.
‘Whom did you expect?’ Corbett asked, a half-smile on his face.
‘I. . I. .’ Prior Cuthbert’s words died on his lips. ‘Do you wish some wine? Some food?’
He gestured Corbett to a chair. Ranulf he ignored. He didn’t like the cynical look in the clerk’s keen, green eyes.
‘No, thank you.’ Corbett ignored the chair. ‘We have ridden hard, Prior Cuthbert, but the King was most insistent that I view Abbot Stephen’s corpse and pay my respects. I would be grateful if you would show it to me now.’
Prior Cuthbert had hastened to obey. He kept silent as Corbett, without any ceremony, pulled back the coverlet. Abbot Stephen was serene and composed in death, dressed in the full pontificals of an abbot, his body was placed in an open casket before being taken into the church. Prior Cuthbert watched the clerk closely: the raven-black hair was streaked with grey, pulled back and tied at the nape of the neck; his face was more olive-skinned than sallow; the hands now free of their heavy gauntlets were soft-looking, the fingers long and strong. An orderly, precise man, Prior Cuthbert concluded: the clerk’s cote-hardie and leggings were of pure wool, the shirt beneath crisp and white. The sword belt which Corbett had not taken off, as was customary in an abbey, was of thick brown leather: the sheaths for both dagger and sword were brocaded with red and blue stitching. Prior Cuthbert thought hard and fast as Corbett stood staring down at the dead Abbot’s face. Yes, he had heard about this clerk. More powerful than an earl, Corbett was King Edward’s spy master, his limner, his greyhound, his searcher for the truth. Abbot Stephen had once spoken of how Corbett had investigated a strange community, the Pastorales out on the Norfolk coast. Oh yes, a clerk who enjoyed the King’s favour without stint or hindrance! Prior Cuthbert felt the sweat break out on his brow. Even before Corbett spoke he knew which way this was going. Edward of England was not going to be satisfied with some coroner’s report. Abbot Stephen’s death was to be investigated. Corbett stood, staring down at the dead Abbot’s face as if memorising every detail. Then he went and knelt on the prie-dieu and crossed himself. Ranulf and Chanson knelt on the hard paving floor so Prior Cuthbert had no choice but to follow.