‘Powders, potions, some miraculous elixir. In reality, I was of little help.’
‘Did Sir Stephen Daubigny know of this?’
Brother Luke shook his head. ‘That’s why Harcourt came here. He said he would sooner trust a monk than some local physician.’
‘Did he return to you after his marriage to Lady Margaret?’
The old monk shrugged and played with the Ave beads.
‘You must have been here when Sir Stephen first entered St Martin’s?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘Were you his confessor then?’
Brother Luke shook his head. ‘For many years he avoided me. I admit I was surprised by both the change in him and his rapid promotion, yet he soon proved to be an ideal Benedictine.’ He paused. ‘More than that, Sir Hugh, I cannot tell you.’
The old man closed his eyes and started threading the beads through his fingers. He sat slumped as if tired by this conversation. Corbett and Ranulf thanked him, rose and moved the bench back.
‘I cannot break my vows.’
Corbett turned round. Brother Luke still sat with his eyes closed.
‘These bloody murders, Sir Hugh. Why should they start now?’
‘I don’t know, that’s what I am trying to find out.’
‘Search the past,’ the old priest murmured. ‘We sow our sins like seed. They take root and lie dormant but, in time, they sprout like black corn, their leaves full and fat with wickedness.’ He opened his eyes. ‘I wish you well, clerk. God be with you!’
Brother Luke sketched a blessing in the air as Corbett opened the door to leave.
Prior Cuthbert knelt on the cold flagstones of his own cell. He had locked and barred the door. The fire in the hearth was now dull ash, the braziers unlit. The Prior had removed his gown and undershirt. The hard paving stones bit into his bony knees. He found it difficult to keep his toes against the freezing floor. Above him a huge crucifix, showing Christ writhing in agony, stared down at him. Prior Cuthbert grasped the small whip, closed his eyes, gritted his teeth and began to flail his left and right shoulders. Even here, in the darkness of his cell, the demons seemed to be waiting. He whipped and whipped again as, in his mind, roaring griffins leapt from fires and a dark tunnel opened to spew forth blood-soaked demons, hair writhing like serpents. Prior Cuthbert opened his eyes. He forced himself to look at the crucifix. He had sinned most grievously.
‘Mea culpa! Mea culpa!’ He struck his breast. ‘Through my fault! Through my fault!’
He would have to make atonement, repent his ambition and greed. If only he could turn back time. He let the whip fall to the floor. He felt as if he was choked and cloaked by sin. All around him clustered its hideous consequences: the scrawny corpse of that cat hanging from the rood screen; the macabre deaths of his brothers; the fire arrows searing the night air; the whispering and the chatter. The Concilium had ceased to act. They were more like frightened rabbits cowering in their cells, terrified of shadows, loneliness and the long stretch of the night. Prior Cuthbert couldn’t stop trembling. He clambered to his feet, his knee brushing against the whip. He slipped on his sandals and put on his robe. A loud knocking on his chamber door made him start.
‘I am busy!’ he called out.
‘And so am I, Father Prior!’
Prior Cuthbert moaned in despair: that sharp-eyed clerk with his spate of questions!
‘I am busy.’ Even Prior Cuthbert realised how his voice was faltering.
‘Father, I need to speak to you urgently.’
Prior Cuthbert kicked the whip under a bench and, going across, unbarred and unlocked the door. Corbett and Ranulf stood on the threshold like avenging angels. One look at Sir Hugh’s face and Cuthbert knew that he would finally have to tell the truth.
‘I think it’s best if we came in.’
Prior Cuthbert stood aside. He closed the door behind them.
‘Satan’s Teeth!’ Ranulf clapped his hands together. ‘This chamber’s cold.’
Corbett had already walked across and stood staring down at where Prior Cuthbert had been kneeling.
‘Blood on the flagstones,’ he murmured.
Corbett crouched down, his gauntleted hands skimming the floor. He caught sight of the whip under the bench, pulled it out and held it up.
‘I am not a monk, Prior Cuthbert,’ he said quietly, ‘but I am a King’s clerk searching for the truth.’
The Prior sat down in a chair, head bowed, hands clasped as if in prayer.
‘Why should the Prior of St Martin’s whip himself so hard,’ Corbett demanded, ‘that the blood seeps through his robe?’
He stared round at the well-furnished chamber with its carved chairs and coffers, desk, benches, and shelves bearing books.
‘And why should he kneel almost naked,’ he pointed to the unstrapped sandal, ‘and punish himself in a freezing chamber?’
Prior Cuthbert closed his eyes and muttered.
‘Miserere mei Domine et exaudi vocem meam.’
‘Christ will have mercy on you and hear your voice,’ Corbett translated. ‘If you tell the truth.’ He got to his feet. ‘You were the Abbot’s loyal prior, weren’t you? You had dreams of building a great guesthouse and having Sigbert’s remains as a precious relic. What started off as a dream became a burning ambition. Under Abbot Stephen’s rule, St Martin’s had grown in fame and royal patronage. Yet Abbot Stephen was insistent: Bloody Meadow was not to be touched. So you and the rest of the Concilium plotted, turning a blind eye to each other’s activities. Did Aelfric take you into his confidence? Did he tell you the truth about Taverner and Archdeacon Wallasby?’
Prior Cuthbert sat, head bowed.
‘Perhaps he hinted at it? You turned a blind eye, didn’t you? As you did to Brother Dunstan’s infatuation with the tavern wench, Blanche. You are sharp-eyed, Cuthbert, and as Prior you are responsible for the discipline of this abbey, but of course you needed your treasurer’s allegiance. Like the priest in the parable of the Good Samaritan, you passed by on the other side and turned a blind eye.’
Corbett came and crouched before him. The Prior’s eyes were tightly shut.
‘Look at me!’ Corbett urged.
Ranulf stood fascinated. When they had first met Cuthbert, he had been very much the haughty prelate, the ruler of this abbey. Now he sat a broken man, on the verge of tears.
‘You saw something else, didn’t you?’ Corbett declared. ‘You weren’t really concerned with the plottings of Aelfric. You were hunting bigger quarry. You saw what you thought was a secret and hideous sin. You reproached your Father Abbot with it, hinting that if you had your way and were allowed to build a guesthouse, that sin would remain a secret between you. So, Father Prior, what did you see?’
Prior Cuthbert sat, shoulders shaking. When he opened his eyes tears coursed down his cheeks.
‘It was Gildas,’ he sobbed. ‘It was really his fault. The man couldn’t sleep and often returned to his workshop. I’d go down there at night and we’d sit and discuss the new guesthouse. One night, late in autumn, as I was coming back, I found the Judas gate off the latch so I went out into the open meadow. The sky was cloud free, the stars seemed to hang low, the meadow was moon-washed; an eerie place. By the burial mound, not hiding behind it but almost, stood two figures. At first I was going to call out but then one moved — his cowl and hood were pushed back and I recognised Father Abbot. The other was also dressed as a monk. I glimpsed cowl and robe but it was impossible to distinguish his features or see who it was. I hid in the shadows of the gate. I saw Father Abbot embrace the other person.’
‘How?’ Corbett asked.
Prior Cuthbert demonstrated with his hands.
‘He put one hand up behind the person’s head, and the other round his waist. They embraced and kissed.’
‘Full on the lips?’ Corbett asked.
‘I am not sure.’
‘Was the other person male or female?’
‘I cannot say.’
‘So, it could have been a woman disguised in the robe of a monk? Come, Father Prior,’ Corbett urged. ‘Up and down the the kingdom, scenes such as this take place in monasteries and abbeys. It is not unknown for a monk to bring his leman into the monastery disguised as one of the brothers. For all you can tell, that is what happened here.’