‘Heloise Argenteuil!’ Corbett shouted. ‘Oh Ranulf, I am dim! Who hasn’t heard of Heloise and Abelard!’
‘Master?’
Corbett threw back the coverlet.
‘Tonight I work. Tomorrow, Ranulf. .’
Corbett was almost dancing from foot to foot, rubbing his hands.
‘Tomorrow, for the first time since we came here, the truth will emerge!’
When he started to unlock a mystery, Corbett hovered like a hawk so that Ranulf was always unsure who was the marked quarry. This time was no different. Corbett began to hum a hymn under his breath. No longer tired, he busied himself about his desk, taking out sheets of vellum, scrubbing them with the pumice stone, sharpening quills, stirring ink pots, talking and singing under his breath as if the rest of the world had disappeared. He looked over his shoulder.
‘Go back to your chamber, Ranulf,’ Corbett murmured. ‘I cannot yet tell you what I do not know for sure myself. However, we will be up early. Make sure you bring your boots and gauntlets. We are going to start digging in Bloody Meadow.’
‘What for?’
‘The truth. Now leave me.’
Corbett worked late into the night. Now and again Ranulf would check on Chanson, who, fully dressed, lay snoring on his bed oblivious to the cares of the world. Every time he went into his master’s chamber, the clerk was still bowed over his desk. Corbett was doing what he loved best. Like an Oxford scholar, he’d form a hypothesis, develop that as far as he could and, for each supposition, look for proof. If the hypothesis didn’t work he would simply start again. At last Ranulf himself grew tired, and threw himself on his cot bed. It seemed only a matter of minutes before Corbett, washed and changed, was shaking him by the shoulder urging him to get up. Ranulf hastened to obey. Chanson was already jumping from foot to foot eager to break his fast in the refectory.
‘Don’t you ever wash or change?’ Ranulf asked crossly when they met in the corridor. ‘Your horses are cleaner than you.’
‘Sir Hugh needs me,’ Chanson retorted. ‘Ablutions will have to wait.’
‘Ablutions? Who taught you that word?’
‘Lady Maeve. She told me to attend to my ablutions more often.’
‘A wise woman,’ Ranulf muttered as they clattered down the stairs.
Corbett was already striding across to the refectory where the monks were filing in after Prime. Corbett didn’t go to the High Table but sat down at the table just within the doorway specially reserved for guests. They broke their fast on oatmeal, fresh loaves and butter, with a small pot of honey and stoups of watered ale. Once he had finished, Corbett cleaned his hornspoon with a napkin and put it back in his wallet. Perditus, still looking bruised and rather tired, came in. Corbett grasped him by the arm.
‘I would be grateful if you could ask Father Prior to meet me outside, he and all members of the Concilium.’
Corbett told Ranulf and Chanson to follow him. They went out of the refectory and down the steps. The morning was turning grey and hard. The smell of burning still hung heavy on the breeze but the snow was turning into an icy slush, treacherous underfoot.
Corbett stood clapping his gauntleted hands. Despite his lack of sleep he looked fresh: eyes glittering in the cold, hair tied back. Prior Cuthbert and the rest came bustling up.
‘I’ve held a meeting,’ Prior Cuthbert explained. ‘After checking the fire damage, we had to discuss all that has happened. Sir Hugh, we can discover no solution.’
‘I can,’ the clerk declared merrily. He pointed to a carved, gargoyle face on the lintel of the refectory doorway. ‘The truth may be as ugly as that but just as real. Right, Cuthbert.’ He clapped the Prior on the shoulder as if the monk was a close friend. ‘By the powers invested in me and- Well, we don’t want to go through that again, do we? I want every able-bodied man with hoe, mattock and spade out in Bloody Meadow.’
Prior Cuthbert’s face was a joy to see. He just gaped.
‘Well, isn’t it the fulfilment of your dreams,’ Corbett teased.
‘But it’s a burial place!’
‘That’s not what you said to Abbot Stephen. Now look, Father Prior,’ Corbett laid a hand on each shoulder, ‘the solution to all these bloody mysteries lies in that burial mound. You can either help me or I shall have to send for the sheriff and his posse. The sooner that grave is opened, the sooner these matters can be brought to an end and I will be gone.’
‘Open it!’ Brother Aelfric snapped. ‘Let’s put an end to this, Father Prior!’
Prior Cuthbert agreed.
‘Have the tocsin rung,’ he said. ‘I want all the brothers to assemble in the Chapter House. The spiritual hours of this abbey will be set aside. Sir Hugh, you have your way.’
Corbett thanked him and went back to the refectory where he ordered another bowl of oatmeal and a stoup of ale. He ate and drank lustily, tapping his feet, humming between mouthfuls.
‘Sir Hugh,’ Ranulf leaned across the table, ‘won’t you share your wisdom with us?’
‘It’s not wisdom, Ranulf, it’s just intuition. So, please, bear with me. I’ll explain as this murderous tale unfolds.’
He finished the oatmeal and went back out towards the Judas gate. Father Prior had acted quickly. Labourers and tenant farmers were all assembling in the meadow, their breath rising like steam as they stamped their feet on the icy ground. Bloody Meadow had lost its macabre loneliness and the crows, roused from their nests in the oak trees, cawed raucously, whirling aloft as if they sensed what was about to happen. The sky was full of iron-grey clouds, though these were not threatening or lowering. The only discomfort was the biting breeze and the cold which seemed to creep through boots and gloves to freeze toes and fingers.
‘We’ll soon be warm,’ Corbett murmured. ‘And I don’t think it will snow.’
‘The ground will be hard.’ Prior Cuthbert came up.
‘Only the top layer will be,’ Corbett explained. ‘I am a farmer’s son so I can tell that winter has yet to set in. Thank God it’s not February or March. Now, let’s proceed.’
Corbett went and picked up a spade from a barrow. Using this he climbed to the top of the funeral barrow and called the others around. He felt slightly ridiculous with the breeze whipping his hair and cloak. The ground underfoot was slippery, and he quietly prayed he wouldn’t fall. He glanced around the meadow, and the view so startled him he had to steady himself with the spade.
‘I didn’t think,’ he murmured. ‘Oh, Corbett, sometimes you can be a great fool!’
‘Master, what’s the matter?’
Ranulf stared anxiously up, grasping a hoe as if it was a spear. Corbett ignored him. Digging the spade into the ground he slowly turned, making sure he didn’t lose his foothold. The top of the funeral barrow was flat, about a yard across. Corbett kept turning as Ranulf, cursing under his breath, used the hoe to climb the mound and join him.
‘Oh, you stupid man!’ Corbett whispered. ‘Why did I never think of. .?’
‘What is it, Sir Hugh? Have you lost your wits?’
‘No, I have just regained them. Ranulf, look around this field. What does it remind you of?’
The Clerk of the Green Wax turned so quickly he nearly slipped. Corbett steadied him. At the foot of the mound, Prior Cuthbert and his community were becoming restless. Corbett ignored them.
‘Think, Ranulf. This meadow is almost like a circle, with the burial mound in the centre. Look at the furrows leading off. You can only see them from up here.’
‘The wheel!’ Ranulf exclaimed. ‘Abbot Stephen’s wheel! The mosaic, the drawings he etched. The burial mound is the hub. These furrows, probably pathways to it, are the spokes, the edge of the field is the rim.’
‘Precisely,’ Corbett whispered. ‘And now we are going to find out why it is so important.’
‘Sir Hugh,’ Prior Cuthbert called. ‘We are beginning to freeze!’