‘Why should Lady Margaret dislike him?’
‘A good question, Ranulf, though I have seen such a reaction before. Perhaps she resented the closeness of the two friends. But it certainly means that Lady Margaret and I must meet.’ Corbett paused, watching Ranulf’s quill skim over the manuscript. ‘In addition, we have Sir Reginald’s mysterious disappearance, followed by Lady Margaret’s search and the help given by Sir Stephen. But we can’t comment on that until we have seen Lady Harcourt herself.’
‘Shouldn’t we have visited her before?’
Corbett shook his head. ‘No, no. She’ll just give the accepted story and I am convinced there’s more to it than that. So, let’s stay with Abbot Stephen. To all intents and purposes, he became the model monk and rose swiftly in the Benedictine Order. Probably due to royal influence he was appointed Abbot. How would you describe him, Ranulf?’
The clerk pulled a face. ‘Reserved, aloof? Certainly a man of sanctity. A fair and just abbot.’
‘Yet a strange one,’ Corbett mused. ‘To some extent he appeared very strict, particularly about Sigbert’s burial mound in Bloody Meadow. He didn’t like Lady Margaret yet his treatment of Dunstan was very compassionate. For some strange reason he became interested in demonology, studying to be an exorcist. He won widespread repute which explains the visit of Taverner and Archdeacon Adrian. Abbot Stephen dealt with ghouls and devils but he also had a great love of the classics, to quote one phrase: ‘all things Roman’. He treated that mosaic in the abbey cellars as if it was sacred. He referred mysteriously to a wheel of life and hinted at his own secret sins. An enigmatic character! He not only showed compassion to Dunstan but also to Perditus and Taverner. I do wonder if he saw through our cunning man? He also had to manage a Concilium which had become increasingly impatient over his views on Bloody Meadow and the new guesthouse. And then he was murdered. But how did the assassin get in and out of that chamber? Why didn’t Abbot Stephen raise the alarm? How did the murderer know there was a war belt in that chest? Or did Abbot Stephen take it out himself? That’s another mystery.’
‘And the other murders?’ Ranulf asked.
‘Taverner was a cunning man, hired by Archdeacon Adrian to disgrace Abbot Stephen. However, Abbot Stephen’s charm impressed Taverner who may have turned the tables on our visitor from London. He was killed by an arrow, certainly taken from a quiver belonging to Archdeacon Adrian, but that doesn’t mean our self-important ecclesiastic is a murderer. Hamo’s death? Well, that is truly perplexing. The assassin was lashing out indiscriminately. He didn’t really care who drank from the poisoned tankard. Finally, there are other strange occurrences. The cat hung up from the rood screen; the fire arrows; the brand marks left on the victims. These bring us to Sir Geoffrey Mandeville.’ Corbett pointed to the chronicles taken from the library. ‘Our assassin certainly knows all about him. The brand mark is taken from Mandeville’s livery, as are the cat and the fire arrows. The rest is now clear: the mysterious woman glimpsed walking through the abbey grounds at night was certainly Blanche from the Lantern-in-the-Woods.’
‘Couldn’t Brother Dunstan have told us more?’ Corbett disagreed.
‘And the assassin?’ Ranulf asked.
‘Is there one or are there two?’ Corbett wondered.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, Abbot Stephen’s head wasn’t branded, was it? And Taverner wasn’t a member of the Concilium?’
‘You have forgotten about Gildas?’
‘No, no, I haven’t. Gildas was certainly murdered in his workshop, his forehead branded and the corpse taken out to the burial mound. Somehow or other we are back to Bloody Meadow, and the rivalry between Abbot Stephen and the Concilium. But all we do is keep going round and round like a dog chasing its tail.’
‘Why don’t we open the burial mound?’ Chanson demanded.
‘Perhaps we will,’ Corbett declared. ‘But we have to show we have good reason. I just wish-’ He tapped his fingers on his knee. ‘Pieces of the puzzle are missing, Ranulf. I wish I could find them.’ He sighed. ‘So now we come to the assassin.’ He pulled a face. ‘It could be anybody. Taverner killed by an arrow. Hamo by poison. Gildas by a stone. You have seen this abbey, Ranulf — think of it as a maze of alleyways in London. I know,’ Corbett swung his feet off the bed, ‘let’s go and look at that mosaic again.’
Chanson and Ranulf grumbled but Corbett insisted.
‘It’s dark,’ Ranulf declared. ‘It will be pitch black down there.’
‘We can carry torches. Come on!’
They put on boots and cloaks and Corbett strapped on his war belt. They went down the stairs into the courtyard. The snow was now falling heavily, carpeting the yard. From around the abbey rose different sounds: a horse whinnying in its stables; the shouts of the brothers in the kitchen as they prepared the evening meal. Corbett led Ranulf along the same route that Taverner had shown him. The snow was transforming the abbey, carpeting ledges and cornices. It made St Martin’s look even more menacing and grim. A sheet of freezing whiteness muffled their footsteps.
‘I’ll be glad to be gone from this place,’ Ranulf murmured. ‘Master, is this really necessary?’
Corbett ignored him. They reached the refectory, its windows full of light as the brothers prepared for their evening meal. They went down the steps. Ranulf found an empty brazier full of sconce torches and lit two. Corbett went first. At night the passageway seemed like a tunnel from the underworld, and Corbett recalled the stories his mother had told him about a strange mythical kingdom which lay beneath the earth. It was freezing cold. Every so often Ranulf stopped to light the sconces. At last they reached the end chamber. Corbett had more torches lit and, removing the covering sheet, crouched down to look at the mosaic.
‘Why is it so important?’ Ranulf insisted.
‘Because it’s the only thing,’ Corbett lowered the torch, ‘out of the ordinary about Abbot Stephen. He came here often to look at it. He frequently sketched this image — I wonder why? There is something very familiar about this mosaic but I can’t place it. Can you, Ranulf?’
His servant, on his knees, stared at the hub, the spokes, the rim, the strange decorative figures in each corner.
‘What’s that?’
Chanson had returned to the steps and was peering back down the passageway. Ranulf sprang to his feet. The cellar was cold but he could sense danger, as in some alleyway in London, where though pitch black and seemingly empty, Ranulf would be aware of the footpad lurking in a doorway or down some needle-thin passage. He also trusted Chanson’s sharp ears.
‘I did hear something,’ Chanson warned. ‘The slither of a boot?’
Corbett, now alarmed, joined him. He went up the steps and glanced down the passageway, a place of flickering light and dancing shadows.
‘This is foolish,’ Ranulf whispered.
Corbett agreed and quietly cursed himself. He had broken the first rule. Nobody knew they were here, and there was no other escape except back along this eerie tunnel beneath the earth.
‘It could be a brother?’ Chanson’s voice did not sound convincing.
‘If it was a monk,’ Ranulf replied, ‘he would have seen our light and he would have declared himself.’ He pulled Corbett back down the steps. ‘If it’s one man,’ he hissed, ‘then he must be carrying a bow and arrow. Against the light we’d be ideal targets. A good archer, a master bowman, could hit all of us.’
‘We might be wrong.’ Corbett drew his sword. ‘It’s my mistake, Ranulf, I’ll find out.’
His henchman pulled him back.
‘No, I prefer to face an archer than Lady Maeve’s rage.’ He grinned over his shoulder. ‘Anyway, I am more nimble on my feet than you.’
Ranulf drew his sword and went up the steps. To his right lay the open caverns and storerooms. He narrowed his eyes against the gloom. He tensed, ready to spring. He heard a sound. Ranulf didn’t wait. He darted back, almost throwing himself down the steps, as the long bow, somewhere down the passageway, twanged. The arrow hummed through the air, smacking the wall above their heads.