‘My lady, I did not know you were entertaining?’
Lady Margaret smiled and shook her head.
‘They look cold,’ she murmured. ‘They are travellers, Corbett. They have free passage across my demesne. They will be welcome here until the thaw comes. We give them food and drink, tend their horses, and provide them with fresh clothes.’
‘An act of great charity, my lady.’
‘Not really, Sir Hugh, more of compassion. I know what it is to travel on a hopeless quest and I have more than enough to share with them. Now I must tend to them.’
Corbett took the hint. He went down the steps, grasped the reins of his horse and pulled himself up into the saddle. His companions did likewise. Corbett lifted his hand in salutation, pulled up his cowl and turned his horse. Lady Margaret, however, was already tripping down the steps, eager to greet the travellers. Corbett was almost at the bend leading down to the gateway when he heard his name being called. Pendler the steward came hurrying up, slipping in the snow. He grasped Corbett’s stirrup and stared up, eyes watering.
‘A message from the Lady Margaret,’ he gasped. ‘A warning! In their approach to the manor, the travellers saw men in the forest. They are not of this estate. She tells you to be careful!’
Corbett leaned down and patted his hand.
‘Thank Lady Margaret, we will take care.’ He held the man’s hand. ‘Your mistress is kind and charitable. How long has this been going on?’
‘Oh, for a number of years. Longer than I can think. My mistress is a saint, Sir Hugh.’ He pulled his hand away. ‘And there are few of those.’
Corbett stared back towards the manor. Lady Margaret was now in the centre of the travellers. He gathered his reins, lost in thought, and led his companions towards the main gates.
Brother Richard the almoner came out from his Chamber of Accounts and stood in the small bricked courtyard. He stared up at the sky and quietly cursed the prospect of more snow. After the service of divine office, all lay quiet. Despite the chaos and bloody murder, the brothers were trying to adhere to their routine, working in the scriptorium of the cloister, the library or the infirmary. In a way Brother Richard was pleased at the harsh, cold weather. During the winter months visitors to the abbey were rare. He quietly echoed Prior Cuthbert’s belief that the sooner the royal clerks went the better. Perhaps the murders would end then? An idle thought.
Brother Richard sighed and closed the door of his chamber. He pulled up his cowl and reluctantly prepared to carry out the task Prior Cuthbert had assigned him. Since poor Gildas’s death, no one had entered the stonemason’s workshop. Yet a tally had to be made, and accounts drawn up. The almoner slipped through the snow, stopped and cursed. He had forgotten his writing wallet. He returned to his chamber, picked this up from a bench and placed his cowl over his head. He was about to leave when he saw the thick ash cane in the corner. Brother Richard grasped this. It would keep him steady in the snow as well as act as protection against any would-be attacker. Yet who had a quarrel with him? Brother Richard left and made his way carefully across to Gildas’s workshop. The almoner was confused. Why were these hideous murders taking place? Who had a grudge against poor Francis the librarian? Or hard-working Gildas? Even Hamo the sub-prior, an officious little man but kindly enough in his own way? And who would have a grudge against him? Richard had been a man-at-arms, an archer who had served in both Wales and Gascony. He really believed he had a call from God and he tried to live the life of a holy monk. True, he thought, as he swung the ash cane, he had his weaknesses. Women, the allure of soft flesh. Well, temptation came and went like a dream in the night. He did like his food, particularly those golden, tasty crusty pies, a delicacy of the abbey kitchens; he also had a weakness for the sweet white flesh of capon and the crackle of highly flavoured pork.
By the time he’d reached the workshop, Brother Richard’s mouth was watering. He took a bundle of keys, opened the door and went in. He looked round and felt a lump in his throat. This had been Gildas’s kingdom. A cheery, hard-working monk, Gildas had loved to talk about stone and building. Now he was gone, his head brutally smashed in. Brother Richard went slowly round the chamber, touching mallets, hammers, chisels, caressing the piece of stone Gildas had been working on. He went into the office at the far end of the workshop. Gildas’s manuscripts lay open on the table, all covered in intricate drawings, and calculations. There was even a tankard on the table, half full of stale ale. Brother Richard sighed and sat down. He put his writing bag on the floor and began to pull the manuscripts towards him. He tried to make sense of them but he felt uneasy. He went back into the workshop. He felt a draught of cold air and realised he had left the door unlocked.
‘No, no, I’ll leave it,’ he whispered. If anything happened he might wish to get out quickly. He didn’t want to die trapped like Brother Francis. The almoner walked round. He still felt uncomfortable as if he was intruding. He glimpsed a shiny brass vase high on the shelf. He smiled. In summer Gildas always took this out and filled it with flowers. The almoner went across and took it down, holding it up, turning it to catch the light. As he did so, he glimpsed a shadow in the reflection. He turned quickly and gaped in terror. Murder had slunk in like a poacher; the awesome figure before him was dressed in the grey robe of a Benedictine but his face was covered by a red leather mask. Black gauntleted hands held a dagger in one and a club in the other. The assassin lurched forward, knife snaking out. Brother Richard, grasping the brass vase, struck out wildly and parried the blow. The assailant stepped back. Brother Richard realised he was wearing soft leather boots. The almoner tried to control his panic, recalling his days as a soldier. He couldn’t really see the man’s eyes but the vase he grasped had saved his life. If he hadn’t turned in that second of time. . Again the assailant came at him but Brother Richard composed himself. He used the vase as a war club: steel and brass clanged together shattering the silence. The red-masked attacker tried once more — a parry, a feint. Brother Richard, torn between fear and courage, lashed back. The attacker drew off. He came dancing forward. Brother Richard gave a loud shout, stepped away and stumbled. He expected his assailant to take full advantage. He twisted round, only to see his red-masked attacker flee towards the door.
PRIMA EST HAEC ULTIO, QUOD SE
IUDICE NEMO NOCENS ABSOLVITUR
THE GREATEST PUNISHMENT FOR THE GUILTY
IS THAT THEY ARE NEVER ACQUITTED IN
THEIR OWN EYES
Chapter 10
‘Guard us as thou wouldst the apple of thine eye. Under the shadow of thy wings keep us safe.’
Corbett mouthed the verse from the psalms as they made their way along the trackway. It was now almost noon. The ground underfoot was slushy and wet, and the horses kept slipping. On either side stretched snow-filled fields, white empty expanses, their eerie silence, which so unnerved Ranulf, broken only by the sharp cawing of circling crows and rooks. Chanson rode slightly behind Corbett, with Ranulf a little distance ahead. Corbett tried to hide his unease. They were in open countryside, with hedges on either side broken now and again by wide gaps, cut through for drovers and shepherds. The warning about Scaribrick and his outlaws had slightly unnerved Corbett. He’d thought of returning and asking Lady Margaret for an escort but that would be unfair. Manor tenants and officials were not soldiers. They would be reluctant to take up arms against men with whom they were compelled to live. He could tell by the way Ranulf sat rigid in his saddle that his henchman was also highly wary. Ahead of them rose a dark mass of trees on either side of the path. Corbett made sure his sword slipped easily in and out of its scabbard. Without warning Ranulf broke into a trot, only to rein in and jump down; he raised his horse’s left hind leg to check on the hoof.