‘Requiem eternam,’ Corbett intoned. ‘Eternal rest grant unto Abbot Stephen, Oh Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon him. May he find a place of light and peace. May he rest in your favour and enjoy your smile for all eternity.’
Corbett crossed himself, got to his feet and replaced the purple cloth over the Abbot’s face.
‘I will not speak to you now, Prior Cuthbert. I want to see you and the Abbey Concilium, shall we say within a quarter of the hour? You have chambers prepared for us?’
‘Yes, yes, in our guesthouse.’
Corbett took his cloak from Chanson.
‘One for me and one for my companions?’
‘Yes, Sir Hugh.’
Prior Cuthbert felt uneasy, used to exercising authority, Corbett made him nervous, agitated. The clerk seemed to sense this.
‘Prior Cuthbert, I am here on the King’s business. I understand the grief of your community but Abbot Stephen was a close friend of the King. A priest, one of the leading clerics of the Lords Spiritual. His death, or rather his murder, has saddened and angered the King. The assassin undoubtedly was a member of your community. I and my companions, and I swear this in the presence of Abbot Stephen’s corpse, will not leave this abbey until both God and the King’s justice is done and seen to be done!’
‘Of course.’ Prior Cuthbert tried to assert himself. ‘We understand the King’s grief, indeed, anger. Abbot Stephen was much loved. Yet his assassin may not be a member of our community. Sinister figures prowl the fens outside: outlaws, wolfs-heads under their leader Scaribrick. It is not unknown for such reprobates to trespass on our property.’
‘In which case,’ Corbett replied drily, tightening his sword belt, ‘they have powers denied to you and me, Prior Cuthbert. Wasn’t Abbot Stephen’s chamber locked and bolted from the inside, its latticed windows firmly closed? There are no secret entrances, I suppose?’
Prior Cuthbert stepped back.
‘What are you implying, Sir Hugh?’
‘I am implying nothing,’ Corbett declared, ‘except that Abbot Stephen was found in his chamber with a dagger from his own coffer thrust deep into his chest. No one heard a sound, let alone a cry for help. The room was not disturbed. Nothing was stolen. How could some ragged-arsed outlaw perpetrate such a crime, waft in and out like God’s own air?’
‘You are implying,’ Prior Cuthbert declared, ‘that Abbot Stephen was murdered and his assassin must be a member of our community? If that is true then it is a matter for the church courts. This is church property. Until the election and installation of a new abbot, I am the law in this abbey.’
Corbett put on his cloak. He fiddled with the clasp as if ignoring what the Prior had said. He glanced over his shoulder at Ranulf who stood, thumbs tucked into his sword belt. The Prior could see the Clerk of the Green Wax was enjoying himself. Corbett’s henchman, Prior Cuthbert thought, his bully-boy, was clearly not impressed by church authority. His cat-like eyes were half-closed and he was biting his lip to hide the mockery bubbling inside. Chanson, their groom, stood open-mouthed like some peasant watching a mummer’s play. Prior Cuthbert knew that he was handling this matter badly yet Corbett wasn’t going to let him off the hook so lightly.
‘What do you think, Ranulf? Shall we collect our saddle-bags and horses, ride back to Norwich and tell the King that his writ does not run in certain parts of Lincolnshire?’
‘I have a better idea,’ Ranulf retorted. ‘Why not call up the local sheriff’s posse and have them escort Prior Cuthbert to Norwich so he can explain to the King personally? And, whilst he is gone, we can get on with this business.’ He grinned at the Prior. ‘As well as God’s.’
Prior Cuthbert spread his hands.
‘You have me wrong, sirs. However, I am Prior of this abbey. I have certain powers and jurisdiction. We are in the archdiocese of Canterbury, the local bishop will expect me to act in accordance with the Constitutions of Clarendon.’
Corbett walked over and placed a hand on the Prior’s shoulder.
‘Prior Cuthbert.’ Corbett’s face was now unsmiling. ‘I respect what you say: you are a churchman and must protect the rights of Holy Mother Church. However,’ Corbett tightened his grip, ‘one of the lords spiritual — a leading abbot of this country, a personal friend of the King, a theologian of some renown, an envoy who has led embassies abroad — has been found murdered in his own chamber. Holy Mother Church is going to demand an explanation. The King wants justice. If you frustrate me, people will begin to wonder whether Prior Cuthbert is the man to lead an abbey. Indeed, some will whisper that he may have things to hide.’
The Prior shook off Corbett’s hand.
‘You are threatening me.’
‘I am not threatening you,’ Corbett retorted, eyes blazing with anger. ‘I have a task to do, Prior Cuthbert, and I shall do it! I am merely giving you a choice. You can either co-operate or be summoned by the King to explain why you will not. So, before we leave this room, what is it to be?’
Prior Cuthbert swallowed hard.
‘You want to meet the Concilium?’
‘Yes, I do, in the Abbot’s own chamber.’
Corbett stopped and cocked his head to one side as if listening to the faint strains of chanting coming from the abbey church.
‘I agree!’
Prior Cuthbert walked to the door.
‘I will send Brother Perditus, a lay brother who was the Abbot’s manservant. He will take you to your quarters and show you the Abbot’s chamber. I will make sure it is unlocked. Since the Abbot’s death I have kept it secure, and the doors sealed.’
‘Good!’ Corbett murmured.
He extended his hand for the Prior to clasp. Cuthbert did so reluctantly and quietly left.
Corbett made sure the door was closed behind him. He stood for a while, listening to the sound of the sandals slapping on the hard paved floor before he turned and looked at his companions.
‘He still shows a lack of respect,’ Ranulf declared.
He picked at the hem of his cloak, scraping some mud off before remembering where he was and letting it fall.
‘He’s a churchman,’ Corbett replied coming away from the door. ‘He’s protecting his rights, his jurisdiction. I expected him to do that. I’ve met his like before. It’s a little dance we have to perform, like knights testing each other on the tournament ground before the real battle begins.’
‘Did you ever meet Abbot Stephen?’ Ranulf asked.
‘On a few occasions.’ Corbett stared down at the figure lying beneath the purple cloth. ‘He was a good man, a scholar, very erudite, skilled in a number of languages. He led embassies to Flanders and the German States. He did good work for the King.’
‘You said he was a good friend of the King’s?’
‘Perhaps I should have said “had been”. Many years ago, Ranulf, long before you saw the light of day, our Abbot was a knight banneret, a member of the King’s own personal bodyguard. He fought with Edward at Evesham against de Montfort. When the King was struck down during the battle, Sir Stephen Daubigny, as he was then known, saved the King’s life. They became boon companions, drinking from the same loving cup. There was another, Sir Reginald Harcourt. He and Daubigny were the firmest of friends, close allies. In fact, people thought they were brothers. They went everywhere together.’