‘You won’t tell me?’
‘Not now, not till it’s over. Tell me, my lady, did you ever meet Abbot Stephen, by day or night, here or elsewhere?’
‘Never! We kept our vow!’
‘Did he ever ask about his son?’
‘Not at first. But, about three or four years ago, through Salyiem, he began to question me closely. I realised that the loss of his son hurt as much as the death of Sir Reginald.’
‘I brought messages,’ the Watcher spoke up. ‘Abbot Stephen wanted the names of the foster parents, everything Lady Margaret knew about them.’
‘He went searching, didn’t he?’ Lady Margaret asked.
‘Of course,’ Corbett agreed. ‘Abbot Stephen was used by the King to lead embassies to many of the courts of Europe. He had a wide circle of friends, people who could help him.’
Lady Margaret closed her eyes.
‘I. . I think. .’
‘You suspect what happened,’ Corbett finished the sentence for her.
She glanced at him sharply, opened her mouth to reply but paused at a sound from outside.
‘How did you get to know, Corbett? When I heard of your arrival I thought it would take you years even to suspect the truth.’
‘Heloise Argenteuil. .’
‘That silly, little secret!’ she interrupted. ‘A fairy tale, a jest.’
‘It was obvious that Sir Stephen loved someone.’ Corbett remarked. ‘Once I knew Heloise Argenteuil was a fiction I began to wonder why. I suspected that your enmity was not as real as it appeared. And, as for you, Salyiem. .’
‘I didn’t betray my master.’
‘Not deliberately,’ Corbett agreed. ‘I always wondered why the Abbot should open his heart to you, but, of course, he was accustomed to do so. And then there was his Remembrance Book — why should Abbot Stephen pray for a woman who never existed? I finally realised that Heloise Argenteuil was what he called you, wasn’t it?’ Corbett placed his hand over Lady Margaret’s.
‘Will I be arrested?’ Lady Margaret asked.
Corbett shook his head. ‘It may be a sin to love unwisely but it’s not a crime.’
‘I was present at my husband’s death.’
‘But you did not will it. If the truth be known, I doubt Daubigny wanted him killed either. It just happened and the poisoned flower took root. Now, decades later, it comes to full flower.’
Corbett got to his feet, he felt slightly stiff, tense.
‘But you will arrest someone?’
‘Oh yes, my lady. I must ask you and your servant Salyiem to remain here at Harcourt. He is not to return to St Martin’s until tomorrow.’
Corbett bowed and, followed by Chanson and Ranulf, left the hall. Their horses were brought round. Corbett swiftly mounted, bracing himself against the cold breeze which seemed to have strengthened.
‘Heloise Argenteuil!’ Ranulf exclaimed. ‘So much from so little?’
Corbett gathered the reins. ‘So much for so little, Ranulf, but that’s the way of the human heart, isn’t it? We’ll travel swiftly back to St Martin’s. I will go direct to the Abbot’s chamber. Once there I will tell you whom to gather.’
‘Will it be dangerous?’ Chanson asked.
‘Oh yes.’ Corbett dug his spurs in. ‘We are dealing with a heart full of hate!’
Corbett sat in the Abbot’s lodgings. He’d arrived back and walked around St Martin’s, measuring out distances. He felt as if the abbey had closed in around him. Gargoyle faces contrasted with the holy demeanour of saints depicted in the stained glass windows. The statues in their carved niches staring stonily down at him. The hollow creak of his boots echoed along pavement and passageways. He opened his eyes and mind to impressions of the abbey: the dark, musty cellars and cavernous chambers; the different smells of the abbey, beeswax and ink, vellum and manuscripts; the coldness of the death house; the sweet warmth of the kitchens. Now he was ready for the final confrontation. There was a knock on the door and Prior Cuthbert came in. He still looked frozen, whilst mud heavily caked his robe and sandals.
‘Sir Hugh, I would like to speak to you alone.’
‘What is it?’
Prior Cuthbert shuffled his feet in embarrassment.
‘We opened the funeral barrow.’
‘And?’ Corbett asked.
‘We found a coffin, many centuries old. The wood was rotting but of good quality. Inside lay a skeleton, a person of rank.’
‘So, you found your saintly Sigbert?’
‘No, from the fabric and the ornaments we could tell the coffin must have contained the corpse of a woman.’
The Prior looked sheepishly at Corbett, who threw his head back and bellowed with laughter.
‘You are sure?’ he asked.
‘As sure as I am of standing here. The skeleton was whole and undecayed. It is miraculous! It even had tufts of blonde hair still on the skull. It bore a sword mark here.’ The Prior touched his left shoulder, just below his neck.
‘And who do you think it was?’ Corbett asked, drying his eyes on the back of his hand.
‘We consulted the manuscripts. It may have been Sigbert’s eldest daughter Bertholda, a Frankish princess. She, too, ruled the small kingdom which once existed here. The heathens may have martyred her because of her faith.’
Corbett leaned back in the chair and studied this shrewd Prior.
‘So, you have your relic?’
‘Yes, Sir Hugh, we have our relic. It’s being preserved in the death house.’
Corbett clapped his hands. ‘You mean until this matter is over. Ranulf!’ he shouted at his henchman who had been guarding the door. ‘Bring the rest up! Father Prior, we have business!’
One by one they entered the chamber: the members of the Concilium, Dunstan, Aelfric and Richard; Archdeacon Wallasby and finally Perditus. They sat on the stools Ranulf had prepared. Chanson guarded the door whilst Ranulf came and sat beside Corbett. Sir Hugh took out his commission, displaying the royal seal, and laid it on the desk. To show he was one of the King’s Justices, his sword was placed beside it.
‘I am the King’s Commissioner in these parts,’ Corbett began. ‘For all intents and purposes this is a court, busy on the matters of the Crown. First, I wish to comment on the death of Abbot Stephen and the hideous murders perpetrated in this abbey. So, Abbot Stephen’s death,’ Corbett pulled himself up and stared round. ‘To all intents and purposes you are all guilty.’ He made a cutting movement with his hand to quell their protests. ‘In many ways,’ he continued, ‘Abbot Stephen was an eccentric man. A priest searching for a reason for both his faith and his vocation. I shall not explain, not yet, why Sir Stephen Daubigny became a monk but he had his secrets, including the violent death of his old friend Sir Reginald Harcourt whose pathetic remains were found in that funeral barrow.’ Corbett paused. ‘Daubigny was responsible for his death.’
‘No!’ Aelfric protested. ‘It cannot be!’
‘Yes, it is true and I can prove it. He killed Harcourt, not maliciously but in a violent quarrel over a woman they both loved. Daubigny hid his sin behind pretence but atoned for it by a life of reparation. Daubigny, however, didn’t believe in God, His angels or the power of the Church. He constantly searched for proof. He became an avid scholar, a peritus, a theologian skilled in the study of demonology. By pursuing Satan,’ Corbett added, ‘Abbot Stephen thought he might find God. I suppose his life as an Abbot provided some peace until his ambitious Concilium started to make demands about the funeral barrow.’
‘So, he wasn’t protecting sacred remains?’ Prior Cuthbert interrupted. ‘But his own secret sin?’
‘Of course. Now,’ Corbett continued, trying to hide his gaze from the man he knew to be the assassin, ‘the Concilium waged their own private secret war against their Abbot.’
‘We did not!’ Brother Dunstan exclaimed.
‘You did!’ Corbett banged his fist on the table. ‘Not openly! The Rule of St Benedict is quite clear about the obedience of a community to its Abbot. You all went your different ways until Archdeacon Wallasby entered these hallowed precincts to wreak his own mischief. He wanted to humiliate Abbot Stephen, to prove that he wasn’t an exorcist. He was helped, was he not, by some of you? But as he plotted, treachery curled back like a viper and struck its handlers. Taverner, the cunning man, was much impressed by your Father Abbot; at first involved in Wallasby’s malicious scheming, Taverner later refused any part in the mummery and mischief you’d planned.’