The hermit picked up his bowl.
‘I asked Abbot Stephen about that. He said the past was closed, blocked by a steel door. There was no handle, no lock, only death would open it.’
‘And Bloody Meadow?’ Corbett decided to change the conversation backwards and forwards as quickly as possible.
The Watcher leaned over to fill his bowl but it was only to gain more time.
‘What about Bloody Meadow?’ he declared. ‘It contains a burial mound, oaks on either side, the abbey wall at the top and Falcon Brook at the bottom.’
‘You said Abbot Stephen was going to change his mind?’
‘Well, yes he was. I told you he passed me one day and I. .’
‘Why should he tell you?’
‘I don’t know. Sometimes he did talk to me. He was worried about Bloody Meadow.’
‘Have you ever tried to dig into the tumulus, the funeral mound?’ Corbett asked.
The Watcher shook his head and slurped more broth into his mouth.
‘Oh no, that would have been blasphemous. Why?’ He became all agitated. ‘Has someone tried?’
‘Yes, they did.’
The Watcher put the bowl down and shot to his feet, almost doing a dance. ‘But that’s sacrilege!’ he spluttered. ‘It’s blasphemy!’
‘I suspect the person responsible is now dead, murdered.’
‘What? What’s that? One of the monks?’
‘No, Taverner.’
‘Ah!’ The Watcher sat down on the floor and grabbed his bowl. ‘Now, there’s a cunning man if there ever was one.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘Oh,’ the Watcher tapped the side of his nose, ‘I can tell a rogue when I see one.’
‘Did Abbot Stephen know Taverner was a villain?’
‘He may have done but he was very trusting.’
‘Was Abbot Stephen worried or agitated in the days before he died?’
‘Murdered, Sir Hugh. He was murdered. And, yes, you could see he was very worried but he kept his own counsel. Only that morning, when he talked to me about giving in to the Concilium, he mentioned something about the Romans. I asked him what he meant but I couldn’t understand him. He replied it was a quotation from a philosopher called Sen-’
‘Seneca.’
‘Ah, that’s right.’ The Watcher cleaned his bowl with his fingers and licked them hungrily. ‘I can’t remember the quotation.’
Corbett stared at the bubbling pot. This hermit was a strange one. For an outsider he knew a great deal about Abbot Stephen; the clerk could sense a deep respect, even affection for the dead abbot. Why was this? Because of his kindness? Or what had happened years previously?
‘Did Abbot Stephen ever talk about Lady Margaret?’
‘Never.’
‘Or the great love of his life, a young woman called Heloise Argenteuil?’
‘Ah, Heloise!’ The hermit bit his lower lip.
‘Did you ever meet her?’
‘No, no, but we knew about Sir Stephen’s passion. She entered a convent and died and that was the end of the matter.’
‘Do you think Heloise’s death turned Abbot Stephen’s mind? Led him to become a monk and a priest?’
‘Possibly. He never told me.’
Corbett stared at a point beyond the Watcher’s head. He recalled the Book of Remembrance he had seen in Abbot Stephen’s chamber, really a psalter for the dead: it also included lists of names the Abbot would remember at Mass. This Watcher was one of them — that’s right, the name Salyiem had been inscribed! Now Lady Margaret had mentioned the name, Corbett also recalled seeing an entry for Heloise Argenteuil.
‘Who was she?’
The Watcher shook his head.
‘Sir Hugh, I really don’t know. A young noblewoman at one of the manors Stephen visited. She was frail of health, and would have nothing to do with him. She entered a convent and died there whilst Sir Stephen was abroad, searching for Sir Reginald.’
‘And the hunting horn?’
‘Ah.’ The Watcher’s face broke into a smile. ‘Sir Stephen used to love doing that. Whenever he approached the hall, he’d always blow three long blasts and Reginald would reply. It was based on one of those legends about knights fighting in valleys and calling on each other for help. They loved that sort of thing,’ the Watcher added wistfully. ‘Pretending to be members of Arthur’s Round Table or the Paladins of Charlemagne.’
‘Paladins of Charlemagne?’ Corbett echoed his words. ‘For a reeve you are very well read.’
‘When I was a stripling Sir Stephen taught me. In my travels I learnt even more.’
‘So you don’t believe in ghosts and demon riders? Or that Sir Geoffrey Mandeville rides the marshes with his legion of the damned? That he’s the source of our mysterious hunting horn?’
‘Strange things happen here, master clerk.’
‘No, they don’t,’ Corbett replied drily. He leaned closer. ‘Master Salyiem, humble hermit, Watcher by the Gates, for a man who wants to leave the world you seem very much part of it. You visit the abbey. You talk to Abbot Stephen. You also visit Lady Margaret. Who do you think is blowing that horn at night? It’s not some ghost, some courier from the household of hell. Is it you? You do have a hunting horn?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ The Watcher drew away, a stubborn look on his face.
‘Or could it be Scaribrick the outlaw? I am the King’s officer,’ Corbett added quietly. ‘I am sure you know Master Scaribrick.’ Corbett rubbed his thigh. ‘I had the pleasure of meeting him and his merry men on my journey here.’
‘I thought you looked dishevelled, mud-flecked.’ The Watcher picked up his bowl and cradled it as if it was a toy.
‘Yet you never asked me why. Did you know Scaribrick was out on the marshes hunting me? Don’t Scaribrick and his merry coven patrol here at night? Do they pay a certain hermit money to stir the muddy waters and spread stories about ghosts and ghouls on the marshes? Is that where Scaribrick meets with his smugglers, those who bring in illicit goods by sea and river? Of course, you have to live with these people. Does Master Scaribrick slip you a few coins to look the other way? To embroider stories to frighten others?’
‘I have never done anything wrong. Yes, Sir Hugh, I am a hermit and I travel hither and thither. I try to live at peace with everyone, it’s the only way.’
‘Did you go searching for Sir Reginald?’ Corbett abruptly changed. ‘I mean, in your travels abroad, surely you questioned people? After all, an English knight travelling by himself would attract some attention?’
‘Oh yes! Oh yes!’ the Watcher gabbled. ‘In northern France and Germany I heard rumours, whispers, but they came to nothing.’
Corbett glanced down. Outside he could hear Chanson stamping his feet against the cold and the snorting of the horses eager for their warm stables. The clerk was convinced some great mystery lurked here. He was in a maze but, so far, he kept wandering around and around with no path out. The assassin could be this Watcher! He was strong and resourceful enough. He could have weapons hidden away. He could climb the wall into the abbey and wreak terrible damage. One moment he could be the rather wild-eyed hermit, the next a man bent on vengeance for whatever reason. Corbett wondered what Ranulf was doing? He half suspected but, in such matters, Ranulf was his own man with his own keen sense of justice. Ranulf-atte-Newgate never took kindly to being attacked.
‘Are you sleeping, master clerk?’
Corbett opened his eyes and raised his head.
‘No, master hermit, I am thinking.’ He stretched out his arms. ‘On the one hand we have the Harcourt estates and the mystery of Sir Reginald. On the other the Abbey of St Martin’s and, in between, these eerie, wild marshlands with their copses and woods. I suspect Mine Host at the ‘Lantern-in-the-Woods’ doesn’t pay full import duties on his wine or other commodities, whilst Scaribrick the outlaw probably resents my interference here.’ Corbett lowered his hands. ‘But Ranulf will deal with him. What I am trying to unearth are these mysteries of the marsh. The fire arrows. The hunting horn. Are these part of Scaribrick’s world? Or are they part of some other mystery?’ Corbett got to his feet. ‘Master hermit, I will have other questions for you.’ He stared down at him. ‘They call you the Watcher by the Gates and I suspect you have seen more than you have told me.’