‘I met Daubigny at the cathedral schools,’ he replied. ‘Even as a boy he was cynical and mocking, quick of wit, nimble of foot.’ Wallasby walked forward. ‘He didn’t believe in anything, Corbett: in God or his Church. He often mocked the priests and yet,’ he paused, ‘everywhere he went he won friends. He and Harcourt were like peas in a pod. A man like Daubigny should have been brought to book, but instead he became a knight banneret, friend, counsellor and confidant of the King, a soldier and self-proclaimed scholar. And, when he wanted to. .’ Wallasby snapped his fingers, ‘he abruptly converted, became a man of God, a monk. But not your lowly lay brother — oh, not Daubigny! — he not only rose to become Abbot of a great monastery but a scholar, a theologian, an exorcist. In truth, he was a hypocrite!’
‘Can’t a man change?’ Corbett asked. ‘Doesn’t Christ preach conversion, repentance?’
‘Cacullus non facit monachum: the cowl doesn’t make the monk,’ Wallasby retorted. ‘The rat does not change its coat. Yes, I admit I plotted against Daubigny, and I would have proved the truth about him, if Taverner hadn’t turned.’
‘Tell me,’ Corbett went back and sat in his chair, ‘have you ever heard of Heloise Argenteuil?’
‘The name means something,’ Wallasby replied, ‘but I cannot say more.’
The Archdeacon bowed mockingly at Ranulf.
‘And I must congratulate you. The news of your meeting with Scaribrick is all over the abbey. Sir, you have done more to impose the King’s writ than a dozen sheriff’s posses. At least, when I do depart this place, I’ll be safe.’
And, spinning on his heel, Wallasby left the room, slamming the door behind him.
‘No, you stay,’ Corbett gestured as Aelfric started to rise. ‘I have the further question. What if Abbot Stephen had agreed that the guesthouse could be built?’
‘We would have all rejoiced.’
‘Then let me take another path. If he continued to refuse,’ Corbett measured his words carefully, ‘could it have led to murder?’
Aelfric shook his head. ‘Not murder, Sir Hugh, but perhaps something just as heinous: hate, resentment, curses. You see, we met with Abbot Stephen as a group and, when we did, followed the Rule of St Benedict: our discussions had to be amicable, in the true spirit of Christ.’
‘But individually?’ Corbett interrupted.
‘God forgive us,’ Brother Aelfric breathed. ‘We all went our separate paths. You’ve discovered mine.’
‘And the rest?’
Aelfric shook his head. ‘As a group we were bound by holy obedience but I cannot speak for what happened in the souls of my brothers. Now, Sir Hugh, I must go.’
Once the infirmarian was gone, Corbett sighed and stood looking out of the window.
‘No one is fully truthful,’ he murmured. ‘You do realise that, Ranulf? Wallasby, Aelfric, Cuthbert — they are still not telling us what we really want to know!’
‘Can’t we use force?’
‘Against a monk, or an archdeacon? Secretly the King would agree. Publicly, we’d spend weeks cooling our heels in the Tower. I think we’ve exhausted everything.’
‘Are we to leave?’
‘No. The library won’t yield any secrets, Archdeacon Wallasby hides behind his hate and his holy orders, whilst the monks use their vows as a knight would a shield. Lady Margaret Harcourt is polite and courteous whilst the Watcher by the Gates spins his own tale.’
‘So, we come back to Abbot Stephen?’ Ranulf asked.
‘His manuscripts yield nothing,’ Corbett replied. ‘He did not say or do anything to provide a key to all these mysteries. All that remains is the burial mound in Bloody Meadow. Snow or not, come frost or hail, tomorrow, Ranulf, I intend to open and search that burial mound.’
‘For what?’
‘To be perfectly honest, I don’t know. If it yields nothing, we’ll stay two more days.’
Corbett stared at the crucifix and recalled Aelfric’s words: ‘I have sinned! I have sinned!’ The clerk picked up his cloak.
‘Where’s Chanson?’
‘Where he always is, down at the stables admiring the horses.’
‘As long as he doesn’t sing.’
Corbett smiled as they left the chamber. He had strictly ordered Chanson that, if he attended the Divine Office of the abbey, he was not to sing. Corbett had also warned Ranulf not to bribe or encourage him. Chanson was an excellent groom and a deft hand with the knife, but his singing! Corbett had never heard such an atrocious sound! The only person who appeared to admire it was his daughter Eleanor. She often begged Chanson for a song and, whilst Baby Edward screamed his head off, his daughter would laugh until the tears streamed down her cheeks.
They clattered down the stairs and out into the abbey grounds.
‘Where to, Sir Hugh?’
‘Why, Ranulf, to be shriven.’
‘Confession? Absolution?’ Ranulf teased. ‘Should the Lady Maeve know of this?’
Corbett threw his cloak over his shoulders and fastened the clasp. He stamped his feet on the icy ground and stared up at the overcast sky.
‘Abbot Stephen spoke openly with no one or appeared not to. He had no real confidant but, like any man, he had to be shriven. I am looking for Brother Luke.’
Corbett went up into the cloisters and stopped by a desk. A young monk, his face and hands almost blue with the cold, was poring over a manuscript. Corbett made his enquiries and the young monk’s face lit up with a smile.
‘My fingers are freezing, even the ink is sluggish. I’ll take you to Brother Luke.’
They crossed the abbey grounds to a long, one-storeyed, grey-ragstone building with a red tiled roof and a shaded colonnaded walk on one side. Their guide explained that this was where the ‘ancient ones’ lived: too old or infirm for other duties except prayer, reflection and, as the young monk laughingly put it, ‘chomping on their gums’. He paused at a door and knocked.
‘Go away!’ a voice bellowed. ‘I don’t want to be disturbed!’
The monk sighed, pressed down the latch and opened the door. The chamber inside was sweltering: it contained at least four braziers as well as a large chafing dish filled with charcoal on a table beside the high-backed chair where the occupant sat. The chamber also boasted a table, a stool, a small trunk and cupboard, a cot bed in the far corner and a lectern with a psalter on it facing a stark crucifix. Brother Luke certainly looked ancient with his scraggy neck, almost skeletal face stained with dark liverish spots, and a head as bald as an egg, but his eyes were bright with life. He pushed away the footstool and leaned forward.
‘You are the clerk,’ his voice was surprisingly strong. ‘A royal clerk and his bully-boys come to see poor old Brother Luke. I wondered if you would. You, Brother!’ he thundered at Corbett’s guide, ‘stop grinning like a monkey and go back to your studies!’
The young monk fled.
‘Prior Waldo once had a monkey,’ the Ancient One remarked. ‘God knows why the Abbot at the time allowed him to bring it in, for it climbed everywhere whilst its habits were none too clean!’ Brother Luke gave Corbett a red-gummed smile. ‘But that can be said for many of the sons of God. Come on! Come on!’ He gestured at a bench along the far wall. ‘Bring that over and sit down. I have some wine.’
Corbett shook his head. He and Ranulf sat down like schoolboys before a master.
‘I thought you’d come! I thought you’d come!’ A bony finger wagged in Corbett’s face.
‘Why, Brother?’
‘Because of the deaths — the murders! I always said this was an unhallowed place.’
‘St Martin’s?’
‘No, clerk, the marshes!’
‘Poor Abbot Stephen. You were his confessor?’ Corbett asked.
‘Aye, I listened to his sins and shrived him. And, before you ask, clerk, you know I can’t tell you anything of that. I have not many days left: for a priest to reveal what’s heard in confession is a sin to answer for in hellfire.’
‘But what sort of man was he?’ Ranulf demanded.
‘Why, of mankind.’ Brother Luke threw his head back and cackled with laughter. ‘He was like you or I, Red Hair.’ He peered at Ranulf. ‘A fighting man born and bred, eh? I wager the ladies like you.’ He patted his stomach. ‘They used to like me too. Sprightly, they called me, a nimble dancer. Aye, I’ve danced on moon-washed greens and listened to the tambour beat and the jingle of the bells.’