‘What is this?’ Prior Cuthbert exclaimed.
He stared round at his companions but the expressions on Aelfric’s and Wallasby’s faces showed him Corbett was telling the truth.
‘Oh, Father Prior, don’t be so sanctimonious,’ Corbett declared, ‘you must have heard whispers about what was plotted?’
‘Yes, yes, he did,’ Aelfric interrupted. ‘Oh come, come, Brother,’ the infirmarian jibed. ‘You knew Wallasby and I met. Surely you suspected Taverner wasn’t what he claimed to be?’
‘You did worse than that, didn’t you, Father Prior?’ Corbett tapped his fingers on the pommel of his sword. ‘You went hunting by yourself. One night you saw your Father Abbot embrace and kiss a shadowy figure, dressed like a monk, out in Bloody Meadow. You accused him of unnatural vice, hinted that exposure might bring disgrace, threatened that if you did not have your way regarding the building of the guesthouse. .’
Corbett paused at the protests and exclamations which broke out. Prior Cuthbert sat, head down, like a convicted prisoner ready to be led off to Newgate and the executioner’s cart. Aelfric sneered whilst Richard and Dunstan looked horrified.
‘How could you!’ the Almoner shouted. ‘How could you!’
‘It’s a lie,’ the treasurer declared leaning forward, red-faced. ‘Sir Hugh, that’s a lie!’
‘No, Prior Cuthbert had half the truth. He saw Father Abbot kiss and embrace a member of his community but he didn’t know the reason why. I’ll come to that in a while. Anyway, Father Abbot felt trapped. He knew a gulf had opened up between himself and his brothers. The issue of Bloody Meadow was a dagger pointed at his heart, an invitation to all the demons from his past to return. He could never give way, so the tension between him and you only intensified. If he did surrender, his secret sin would be exposed. A man of shaky faith, Abbot Stephen retreated into himself, believing his past had returned to haunt him. On the day that Abbot Stephen died, something in his soul snapped, shattered.’ Corbett paused. ‘On that same evening Abbot Stephen came up to this chamber. He locked and barred the windows and doors and he began to brood. He could see no way out of his predicament. The night wore on. He drank some wine and glanced through the window.’ Corbett half turned and pointed. ‘He saw the reflection of the candles in the glass. In the Abbot’s fevered, distraught imagination he believed he was seeing his own Corpse Candles beckoning him to death: that’s why he wrote down the quotation from St Paul, about seeing things through a glass, darkly and about the Corpse Candles, those mysterious lights seen on the marshes beyond the abbey, beckoning him to death. The Scriptures provided little comfort for him. Instead Abbot Stephen reflected on the ancient Romans, their culture, the civilisation he so deeply loved. He recalled Seneca, the famous Roman philosopher, who wrote: “Anyone can take away a man’s life, but no one his death”. Abbot Stephen brooded on those words, sinking deeper and deeper into a morass of despair and depression, what the theologians called the sin against the Holy Ghost.’
Corbett stared at the Prior. The awful realisation had dawned on Cuthbert. He sat like a man facing death, mouth opening and closing as if he wished to speak but couldn’t find the words to express himself.
‘Oh Domine Jesu, Miserere Nobis!’ the Prior whispered. ‘Sir Hugh, are you saying Abbot Stephen committed suicide?’
The chamber fell deathly silent. Corbett stared at each of them.
‘Abbot Stephen,’ Corbett chose his words carefully, ‘was a man driven to the brink and finally tipped over. He could see no way out except the Roman way, the fate of Seneca.’ Corbett pointed at the coffer. ‘He took out his dagger, sat in his chair, positioned it carefully and thrust it deep into his chest. It would have taken only a matter of seconds, a terrible searing pain, before he lost consciousness, which is why no clamour was heard, no cry, no disturbance. Abbot Stephen’s soul slipped silently into endless night.’
Prior Cuthbert sat with his face in his hands, shoulders shaking.
‘You can weep,’ Brother Aelfric shouted, ‘but his blood is on your hands!’
‘His blood is on all your hands!’
Everyone turned to Perditus. He had moved his stool as if he wished to study each of their faces.
‘You are all murdering bastards! This is not a monastery, it’s the place of the Red Slayer!’ He lapsed into German, ‘Der Rode Schlachter. You call yourselves the sons of Benedict? No, you are the sons of Cain!’
They all stared at this lay brother who sat erect, his face contorted with hatred and rage.
‘How dare you!’ Brother Aelfric shouted.
‘Oh be quiet!’ Perditus showed his teeth, like the snarl of an attacking dog. ‘You with your drooling eyes and ever-wet nose! You are worse than animal shit!’
Corbett watched intently. Perditus wasn’t angry with him. All the while Corbett had been speaking, Perditus had sat with a slight smile on his face, head imperceptibly nodding in agreement at his words. Now the truth was out and he couldn’t contain himself. Corbett glanced at Ranulf, to see that his henchman had quietly withdrawn his dagger and had it balanced in his lap.
Corbett banged the pommel of his sword on the desk. Perditus paused in his diatribe, not so much because of Corbett but more because he could no longer vent his rage but sat like a man who had run a long, demanding race, gasping and gulping for air.
‘Abbot Stephen’s death,’ Corbett remarked quietly, ‘was a hideous sin and the consequence of a heinous threat. It marked the beginning of the real horrors. Isn’t that right, Perditus? How much did Abbot Stephen tell you?’
The lay brother’s face was ashen except for the red spots of anger high in his cheeks. He shook his head.
‘You can speak both English and German,’ Corbett continued matter of factly. ‘I noticed that when I took you back to your chamber after the alleged attack upon you. One of the manuscripts you were reading was in German. I don’t know the tongue but I recognised the cursive script. Where did you get it from, the library?’
Perditus smiled coldly.
‘You were raised to speak German and English fluently. You no more come from Bristol than I do. If I made careful search there, I am sure no one would recall you.’
‘What is this?’ Wallasby demanded, stamping with his boot.
‘You!’ Perditus turned on him. ‘Will. . shut. . up! Because. . you!’ Perditus jabbed his finger at the frightened Archdeacon, ‘were also on my list. You should thank God, Wallasby, that this clerk kept you from leaving St Martin’s. You were special to me, and if you had left, I would have followed.’
Ranulf was about to interrupt but Corbett gestured him to stay silent.
‘Scaribrick and his wolf’s-heads may not have captured you,’ Perditus taunted, ‘but I would have done.’
The Archdeacon gulped and looked at Corbett for protection. The clerk stared back.
‘I planned to take you on your horse. I was going to put a rope around your neck, half hang you from a branch and use you as an archer’s butt, to improve my aim and my skill.’
‘Were you an archer?’ Corbett interrupted. ‘A bowman?’
‘I was more than that,’ Perditus, now distracted, turned back.
‘Yes, I am sure you were,’ Corbett agreed. ‘Let me see, a professional mercenary, hired by the nobility and powerful merchants of Germany? You and Abbot Stephen discussed Vegetius treatise, The Art of War, so you must have been a professional soldier once?’
‘I was a Ritter, a knight,’ Perditus declared. ‘My real name is Franz Chaudenvelt. I led my own company,’ he added proudly. He sat, head back as if reminiscing with friends in a tavern, eyes bright with pride. ‘I commanded mounted men, hobelars and bowmen.’ Perditus faced him squarely.