‘Prior Cuthbert says you are most welcome to join us in church. He would like you to be his guest in the refectory. Otherwise you may eat in here or downstairs.’
‘You are still mourning, aren’t you?’ Corbett asked. ‘Come in, man.’ He gestured to a stool.
Corbett couldn’t make up his mind about this abbey. Everything was clean, serene, orderly and harmonious. The brothers went about their duties. Prior Cuthbert had protested but he seemed upright and capable enough. Brother Perditus was the ideal host and guide. Yet Corbett felt the hairs on the nape of his neck curl in danger. Once, while soldiering in Wales, he had stumbled into a sun-filled glade. Butterflies danced in the breeze, the air was sweet with the fragrance of wild flowers. Wood pigeons cooed, birds sang. Corbett had sensed that, beyond the glade, hideous dangers lurked. One of his companions had scoffed and abruptly changed his mind as cruel barbed arrows whipped above their heads. So it is now, Corbett thought. The lake may be serene on the surface but he wondered how deep it was and what treacheries lurked beneath.
Perditus sat, head bowed, hands dutifully up the sleeves of his gown, patiently waiting to answer anything Corbett asked.
‘You are a lay brother?’
‘Yes, sir. I have been for four years.’
‘And you were the Abbot’s personal servant?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And you liked him?’
‘I loved him.’
Perditus’s head came up. Corbett was surprised at the fierce expression in his eyes.
‘He was truly a father to me, kind and learned. You are here to trap his murderer, aren’t you?’
Corbett took a stool and sat opposite.
‘He was murdered,’ Perditus continued. ‘I have heard the whispers amongst the brothers. It was not the work of some outlaw or wolf’s-head, wild men from the fens. They had no quarrel with Father Abbot.’
‘So, who do you think murdered him?’
Perditus’s face broke into a sneer.
‘One of our Christ-like community.’
‘And why?’
‘Because he was a hard taskmaster. He made them obey the rule of St Benedict. He wanted the abbey to remain an abbey, not some glorified guesthouse for the powerful lords of the soil!’
‘Tell me.’ Corbett undid his leather wrist guard and threw it on the chest at the bottom of the bed. ‘How did you serve Father Abbot?’
‘I would bring him meals to the refectory, clean his chamber, collect books from the libraries, run errands.’
‘And the night he died?’
‘I was sleeping in a small chamber nearby.’
‘And you heard nothing untoward?’
‘No, sir, I did not. The bell rang for matins. Father Abbot did not come down so I thought he was sleeping late or working, he had so much to do. Later in the morning, when he didn’t appear and wouldn’t answer my calls, I became alarmed. I summoned Prior Cuthbert.’
Corbett held a hand up. ‘Enough for now. I wish you to join the Concilium when it meets in the Abbot’s quarters.’
‘But they will object. I am only a lay brother!’
‘And I am only a King’s clerk.’ Corbett smiled. ‘Brother Perditus, I would be grateful if you would bring my companions and myself a jug of ale, some bread and dried meat. We would like to break our fast.’
The lay brother agreed. He almost leapt from the stool, eager to be out of the way of this hard-eyed clerk. Corbett went to the window and watched Perditus scurry across the courtyard. Ranulf and Chanson entered the room. They, too, had taken off their belts, cloaks and boots. Ranulf had splashed water on his hair, forcing it back from his brow, and this gave him a lean and hungry look. Corbett studied this Clerk of the Green Wax: Ranulf was changing. Tall and muscular, his interests in the ladies hadn’t waned but he now had a greater hunger, a burning ambition to rise high in the King’s service. Ranulf had hired an Oxford clerk, one of his own subordinates, to teach him Latin and Norman French as well as perfect his handwriting, both the cursive script and the elegant copperplate used on charters and official proclamations. Now he stood on the balls of his feet, eager to press on with the task in hand.
‘A serene place, Sir Hugh, though not what it appears. .?’
‘No abbey or monastery is,’ Corbett replied, leaning against the window sill and folding his arms. ‘Or any community! That even goes for my own family, Ranulf. Look at the tension which can surface at Leighton. The sea of troubles which,’ he grinned, ‘sends us both scurrying to our private chambers.’
Ranulf coloured slightly with embarrassment. Leighton Manor was ruled by Corbett’s wife, the Lady Maeve. A small, beautiful, blonde-haired, Welsh woman, Maeve had the face of an angel and a tongue like a sharpened razor. When she lost her temper, Ranulf particularly would always find something interesting to do at the other side of the manor. Everyone — Uncle Morgan who was their permanent guest, Corbett, Ranulf and even Chanson, who rarely reflected on anything — feared the dimunitive Lady Maeve more than they did the King.
‘I thought we were going back home,’ Chanson moaned.
The groom had two gifts. He could manage any horse and he loved Corbett’s children, Eleanor and Baby Edward. Although not the cleanest or best looking of men, Chanson was always a source of delightful curiosity to them as well as the other children on the manor.
‘Aye.’ Corbett sighed. ‘We were supposed to go home.’
He half closed his eyes. He had joined the King at Norwich after that business in Suffolk. Edward had promised him leave from his service but then the dusty, mud-spattered courier had arrived from St Martin’s. The King had begged him to take on this task and what could Corbett do?
‘It was murder, wasn’t it?’ Ranulf asked sitting down on a stool.
‘Murder and a cunning one,’ Corbett agreed. ‘But proving it and discovering the assassin will be difficult. We are going to have to poke with a long, sharp stick. In many ways Abbot Stephen was a strange man. Oh, he was holy enough and learned but self-contained and mysterious; a knight-banneret who decided to become a priest. A soldier who decided to hunt demons.’
‘Demons!’ Ranulf exclaimed.
Corbett smiled thinly. ‘Yes, Ranulf, our late Abbot was an officially appointed exorcist. Abbot Stephen would be called to assist with people who claimed to be possessed, and houses that were reputedly haunted.’
‘Sprites and goblins!’ Ranulf scoffed. ‘A legion of devils wander Whitefriars and Southwark, but they are all flesh and blood. The wickedness they perpetrate would shame any self-respecting demon. You don’t believe in that nonsense, do you?’
Corbett pursed his lips. Ranulf stared in disbelief. Chanson, delighted, stood rooted to the spot. He loved nothing better, as he’d often whispered to Ranulf, than sombre tales about witches, warlocks and sorcerers.
‘Surely, Sir Hugh, it’s arrant nonsense!’
‘Yes and no,’ Corbett replied slowly. ‘Ranulf, I am a true son of Holy Mother Church, as you should be.’
‘But you are also an Oxford clerk skilled in logic. You deal in evidence, in that which can be proved.’
‘But I can give you proof,’ Corbett teased back. ‘Ranulf, think of something.’
The Clerk of the Green Wax closed his eyes.
‘Well, of what are you thinking?’
‘Sweet Amasia.’ Ranulf grinned. ‘Her father owns a tavern on the road outside Leighton.’
‘And do you see her?’
‘Oh yes, Master.’
‘But I can’t.’
Ranulf opened his eyes. ‘Well, of course not, it’s just an idea in my head.’