Corbett put down his horn spoon.
‘Is anything wrong, Sir Hugh?’
‘Is he by himself?’
‘Of course.’
‘He shouldn’t be.’ Corbett recalled that dark figure in the passageway, those death-bearing arrows thudding into the darkness.
‘He’ll be safe,’ Brother Dunstan declared.
Corbett half rose to his feet.
‘Chanson! Find Perditus! Go to the library!’
‘It’s not necessary,’ Brother Dunstan stuttered.
Corbett sat down. All conversation at the high table died.
‘He should not be alone,’ Corbett urged. He snapped his fingers at Chanson who was staring lovingly at his soup. ‘Don’t worry, Chanson, Ranulf won’t eat it.’
The groom scurried off into the kitchens for Perditus. Corbett continued eating, half listening to Prior Cuthbert’s protestations. A short while passed and Perditus came hurrying back.
‘Prior Cuthbert, you’d best come!’
‘What is it?’ Corbett glanced at the lay brother.
‘We can see lights in the library but the doors and windows are locked. Brother Francis does not reply.’
‘Oh, sweet Lord!’ Prior Cuthbert whispered. He threw his napkin down. ‘Francis would never leave candles glowing in the library.’
The meal ended in confusion. Corbett followed Chanson and Perditus, with Ranulf hastening behind. They reached the library door. Ranulf told them to stand aside and banged with the pommel of his sword. Brother Richard, who had been peering through a window, hurried over, white-faced.
‘I am not sure,’ he said, ‘as the glass is rather thick but I think Francis is lying on the floor. I glimpsed his leg and sandalled foot from behind the table.’
Corbett ordered Perditus to find a heavy log.
‘No, use that bench!’ Prior Cuthbert pointed to one just inside the porchway.
The door was of thick, solid oak. Corbett told them to hammer on the other side of the lock, loosening the leather hinges. At last the door gave way with a crash and they stumbled in. Corbett ordered them to stay back. The library was a rich, splendid chamber, a place of study. Now all this was shattered. Brother Francis lay in a widening pool of his own blood, slightly turned to one side, a long arrow shaft buried deep in his chest. Corbett felt his neck; there was no blood pulse whilst his skin was a clammy cold.
‘Stay back!’ Corbett shouted.
He went across to the writing table, picked up the pieces of vellum and read Abbot Stephen’s name and the phrase ‘the Roman way’. He studied the two books lying there, small, thin volumes. He closed them and hastily put them inside his jerkin.
‘You can come forward,’ he called.
The monks clustered round Brother Francis’s body amidst exclamations of grief echoing Prior Cuthbert’s low moan of despair. Brother Dunstan the treasurer was the first to recover his wits. He sent Perditus for the holy oils and quickly administered the sacrament of Extreme Unction, whispering the hallowed words into the dead man’s ear. Other members of the community arrived but Prior Cuthbert ordered them to stay outside.
‘Take the body to the death house!’ Corbett declared. ‘This time, Brother Aelfric, put a guard on the door. Let’s see if the killer tries to claim this corpse.’
‘How was it done?’ Ranulf demanded. ‘Sir Hugh, I’ve checked the door — it was locked and bolted and the windows were all closed.’
Corbett glanced back to where the corpse had been found. He went and checked but Ranulf was right, the windows were closed and the outside shutter of the nearest arrow slit looked secure.
‘Prior Cuthbert, excuse me.’
He gestured at Ranulf and Chanson to follow him outside. Corbett found the shutter covering the arrow slit: it was clasped securely against the ragstone wall. Chanson went back to fetch a lantern. Corbett inspected the shutter carefully. He loosened its clasps, and as he did so, it rattled and he heard exclamations from inside the library.
‘I see how it was done,’ Ranulf declared, peering through. ‘The librarian was studying inside. The assassin distracted him by rattling the shutter. Brother Francis would come to check. He’d be standing in the light, providing even a novice bowman with a good target. The shaft was loosed. Brother Francis collapsed. The shutter was re-clasped and the assassin came to hunt us down in the cellars.’
‘But surely Brother Francis had been warned not to be alone?’
‘Yes, he was, Chanson, that’s what intrigues me.’ Corbett patted the books beneath his doublet. ‘He was definitely excited, immersed in his studies. So much so that he neglected food and drink and didn’t join the rest of the community in the refectory. Now, why should a monk, in the depths of winter, study so late? Was he looking for something? Some evidence regarding these murders?’
‘Sir Hugh, what can be done?’ Prior Cuthbert came through the darkness towards them.
‘I’ve told you already,’ Corbett urged. ‘Members of the Concilium must not, where possible, be by themselves for long periods of time.’
‘But we have our own chambers, and our duties to perform!’
‘Then be prudent,’ Corbett urged. ‘Warn them about being ambushed. Oh, and by the way, I’d have all bows and arrows in the cellars collected up, put in one place and secured.’
‘And where’s Archdeacon Adrian?’ Ranulf demanded.
‘He refused my invitation to the refectory.’ Prior Cuthbert shook his head. ‘Perditus said he was in a terrible temper, declaring that he would keep to his own chamber and dine by himself.’
‘As we shall too,’ Corbett declared. ‘Prior Cuthbert, tell your monks to finish their meal. My companions and I will return to the guesthouse. We will eat whatever you send across.’
Once they were back, Chanson lit candles and oil lamps and fired the brazier. Ranulf secured the doors and windows.
‘Why?’ Ranulf demanded. ‘Why slay a librarian? An archivist?’
Corbett sat on the bed and took the books out of his jerkin.
‘For the same reason he attacked us, Ranulf.’ He smiled grimly. ‘To give the assassin his due, he warned me not to stay. If royal emissaries were driven out of an abbey, the King would not be pleased but, because we tarried, he struck. The same is true of poor Brother Francis. Think of a fox stalking chickens, Ranulf; that’s what our killer has become. I doubt if he knew Brother Francis was searching for something but he did learn that he was by himself.’
Corbett paused at a knock on the door. Perditus came through bearing a tray of steaming food which he placed on the table.
‘What is Father Prior planning?’ Ranulf asked.
The lay brother made sure the tray was carefully laid and shrugged.
‘I have told him he should send to the sheriff for armed retainers. But,’ he sighed, ‘that will take days. What we need are spearmen and archers to patrol the passageways. Guards on the trackways outside. I’ve told Father Prior that more braziers should be lit. There are high places in this abbey where sentinels could be positioned but. . I am only a lay brother-’
Corbett glanced up. ‘Have you taken solemn vows, Perditus?’
‘No, just simple ones. I could, if I wished, leave this place.’
‘And will you?’
Perditus shook his head. ‘I love St Martin’s and the community here is good to me.’
‘And the killer?’ Corbett asked.
‘Oh, he is undoubtedly a member of this community.’
‘Or Archdeacon Adrian?’
‘True,’ Perditus agreed. ‘He does not like St Martin’s-in-the-Marsh. But, I must rejoin my brothers.’
Corbett excused him and opened the first book. He quickly thumbed through the yellowing, crackling papers: it was nothing more than a copy of an Anglo-Saxon chronicle, carefully transcribed by some long-dead monk. The loose pages at either end contained nothing remarkable. The second book was more interesting: it contained extracts of the Latin poet Ovid’s great work On the Art of Loving. Corbett smiled at some of the verses. In his youth he had seen such poetry in the libraries of Oxford and, in his courting of Lady Maeve, had even used some of the famous verses. The pages at the end allowed scholars to write their own thoughts. Corbett recognised Abbot Stephen’s hand in some simple verses of regret. He cleared his throat and studied it more carefully.