Of all the members of the Concilium, Brother Francis had served the longest at St Martin’s. He had entered the abbey as a mere stripling. The old abbot had been so impressed by his desire to learn he had sent him to the cathedral schools of Ely and Norwich, as well as the Benedictine house in Oxford. Francis stopped and gnawed at his lip. He must marshal his thoughts carefully, as a true scholar would. Above all, he had to be sure he was alone. Brother Francis went to one of the latticed windows and peered through. The fire arrows had been alarming but surely they had merely been some cruel jape? Brother Francis moved back to the lectern. Didn’t one of those chronicles which described the evil depredations of Geoffrey Mandeville mention how the wicked earl always signalled his coming by fire arrows? So, if it wasn’t his ghost or demon, who was loosing such fiery shafts on St Martin’s-in-the-Marsh?
‘I mustn’t be distracted! I mustn’t be distracted!’ Brother Francis murmured.
He also had to be prudent. Both doors to the library were locked and bolted, the latticed windows were also secure, their handles pulled down. Brother Francis checked the arrow slit apertures. In summer the shutters on the outside of these would be removed to allow in the light. Now, of course, they were clasped firmly shut. Brother Francis picked up his ash walking-cane and tapped at each to ensure this was the case. He returned to the piece of vellum laid out on his writing desk, excited by its blank, creamy smoothness. He sat down, picked up a quill and wrote down Abbot Stephen’s name and three words: ‘the Roman way?’ Brother Francis stared down at what he had written. The murders, he reflected, had begun with Abbot Stephen’s death. What was the tinder spark which had started this conflagration? What did he know about Abbot Stephen? A former knight, the boon companion of Sir Reginald Harcourt? The man who had assisted Lady Margaret to search for her husband only to return and spend the rest of his life as a member of St Martin’s community.
‘I know I have seen it,’ Brother Francis whispered.
He rose to his feet and went to a shelf. Somewhere here, many years ago, he’d found a Book of Hours — or maybe a psalter — which had contained a carefully written poem. Brother Francis had suddenly remembered this earlier in the day and begun his searches whilst the library was still busy. He had used the index but had been unable to trace the exact volume. The brothers had become curious as their librarian took one book down after another. Brother Francis glimpsed one slender volume, pulled it out and caressed the calf-skin cover with its decorative glass studs. He opened the crackling yellow pages only to grimace with disappointment. This was not the one! He found two more and carried them to his desk. He was about to continue his searches when one of the shutters rattled. The librarian absentmindedly cursed the wind and continued with his studies, as the rattling increased. Brother Francis got to his feet and hastened along the gallery to the arrow slit which stood between two latticed windows. Bang! bang! The clatter unnerved him. He grasped his stick, took up a lantern and peered closer. A cold draught of air hit him. Brother Francis put the lantern down on a table and peered through the arrow slit. The shutter had fallen loose. He was about to turn away in annoyance when the arrow, loosed by the bowman outside, sped through the slit and struck deep in his chest. Brother Francis staggered back, clasping the shaft, coughing blood. He slumped to his knees and collapsed onto the hard, wooden floor.
‘So, it wasn’t just a guesthouse Prior Cuthbert wanted?’
Ranulf stared across at Corbett sitting on the bed, his back against the bolsters.
‘Oh, no.’ Corbett shook his head.
Brother Dunstan had left Corbett and Ranulf to summarise what they had learnt.
‘I walked round the church,’ Corbett explained. ‘Every great religious house, be it Canterbury, Walsingham, Glastonbury or even the abbey of St Paul’s, has its relics. St Martin’s has none. People travel across Europe to pay respects to the lance which pierced the side of Christ, a phial of his precious blood or the cloth which wiped his face. Now, Ranulf, you know and I know that most of these relics are spurious, and many others are also growing more discerning.’ He smiled. ‘The best relic is a corpse. Look at the revenues Canterbury receives because they hold the remains of Thomas a Becket. Prior Cuthbert certainly wants to build his guesthouse but, more importantly, he wanted that tumulus opened and the corpse removed to the abbey church. With a bit of luck, and God’s own help, a few miracles would take place. The news would spread through the great trading centres of Lincolnshire, Norfolk, and Ely. Remember our journey to Suffolk?’
Ranulf grimly recalled their departure from their last investigation and the sight of that grisly corpse swinging from a stark black gibbet.
‘Those townspeople we visited were rich. When people have wealth, Ranulf, they like to traveclass="underline" that’s one of the reasons Brother Dunstan paid off those outlaws. I wager a tun of wine to a cask of malmesy that he did so at Prior Cuthbert’s insistence. You can’t have stories circulating about wolf’s-heads attacking travellers to St Martin’s.’
‘But would eagerness for a relic lead to murder?’
‘It could do, Ranulf. You are talking about a tremendous increase in wealth and importance for this abbey. Moreover, Prior Cuthbert is a stubborn man: he may have fiercely resented Abbot Stephen’s intransigence over Bloody Meadow, so that the dispute assumed monstrous proportions for him.’ Corbett spread his hands. ‘To be fair to Prior Cuthbert, I can understand his frustration.’ Corbett ran his thumb nail along his lower lip. ‘What is important is how Abbot Stephen was murdered. We know he had a dispute with his Concilium, led by Prior Cuthbert, and now members of that Concilium are being murdered.’
‘Taverner wasn’t a member,’ Chanson called out from where he sat on a stool near the brazier, mending a belt buckle.
‘No, he wasn’t,’ Corbett smiled in agreement. ‘And that, too, is a mystery. So, Ranulf, arm yourself with quill and ink, parchment and writing tray. Let’s see what sense we can make of this puzzle.’
Ranulf agreed. Once he had made himself comfortable, Corbett emphasised the points on his fingers.
‘Abbot Stephen, the noble scion of the Daubigny family and once a knight banneret, was loved by the King, and the boon companion of Sir Reginald Harcourt. In his early years, Daubigny showed no indication of becoming a priest or monk. He was fighting man par excellence. His good friend Reginald Harcourt married the Lady Margaret; it was an arranged betrothal but one that seemed happy enough. However, the relationship between Lady Margaret and Sir Stephen, as he was then called, was frosty to say the least. Apparently Sir Stephen was a constant visitor at the Harcourt Manor.’