‘Open it!’ he shouted at Chanson.
Corbett gestured at his groom to obey. The door to the chamber swung open even as Archbishop Wallasby collapsed to the floor in an ever-widening pool of splashing blood. Aelfric hurried across and turned him over. The desperation on the Archdeacon’s face and the jerking of his body showed he was past help. Corbett watched in horror. At first he thought Perditus was going to release Prior Cuthbert. He drew his arm away but then swiftly slashed with his knife. Corbett closed his eyes. Prior Cuthbert stood, a look of horror on his face, hands clutching his throat. Perditus sent him crashing forward and was out of the door in an instant, pounding down the stairs.
Ranulf ignored the chaos and commotion. He thrust Chanson aside and followed in pursuit. Perditus had already cleared the steps and was out through the door. Ranulf, hastily drawing his sword, chased after him. As he slipped and slithered on the ice, Ranulf was almost unaware of the monks he pushed aside: he had eyes only for the hurtling figure ahead of him, grey robe hitched up, running like the wind, past buildings, across courtyards, twisting and turning. Ranulf followed. At first he thought the assassin was heading for one of the postern gates or even the stables. He shortened the gap between them. Perditus had reached the cellar steps and hastened down. Ranulf followed, surprised that the door wasn’t locked or bolted. He pushed it open and slipped into the darkness. The slap of sandals echoed back as Ranulf paused to regain his breath. He put down his sword, took out a tinder and lit one of the sconce torches. Once this was burning brightly, he grasped his sword and made his way gingerly down the passageway, hugging the wall, stretching the torch out in front of him. He passed the cavernous storerooms, wondering what Perditus intended. Behind him Corbett shouted his name.
‘Go back!’ Ranulf yelled.
Perditus was a skilled enemy, a trained soldier. Ranulf was fearful he’d taken a bow and arrow and was preparing an ambush. A pool of light glowed at the end of the corridor: Perditus was in the storeroom at the end where Abbot Stephen had found the mosaic. Ranulf watched the light carefully, expecting to see Perditus, armed with bow and arrow, appear in the doorway. Apart from a moving shadow, he could detect nothing. Closer and closer he crept. At the doorway he stopped and threw the torch in onto the floor. He slipped down the steps and paused in astonishment. Perditus, sword and dagger on the ground beside him, was kneeling, staring at the mosaic.
‘It’s beautiful, isn’t it?’ he whispered, tracing the outline with his finger. ‘Abbot Stephen loved it, you know. He wanted to take it up and put it in the sanctuary. Don’t you think it’s beautiful, Ranulf?’
‘Yes, yes, I do.’
‘It shouldn’t be kept here,’ Perditus continued. ‘These mumbling monks don’t know true beauty when they see it.’
‘You have killed Archdeacon Wallasby and Prior Cuthbert,’ Ranulf declared.
‘I am not bothered about them. They were marked for death anyway. It’s a pity I couldn’t have finished the whole tiresome business. I was never going to kill you though. Abbot Stephen would have liked you. I tried to warn Corbett. I just wanted you to go and leave these sinners to my justice.’ He caressed the mosaic again. ‘I have only two real regrets: I should have acted faster to ensure the deaths of all those damned monks. My second regret is that I never met my mother.’ He smiled at Ranulf. ‘But it’s best if she didn’t see me as a felon, hands and feet bound, eh? Tell me the truth, Ranulf-atte-Newgate: they’ll hang me in London, won’t they?’
‘If you were considered mad,’ Ranulf replied, ‘the King might have mercy and immure you for the rest of your life. .’
‘Ah well.’
Ranulf knew all the street-fighting tricks: Perditus had gone slack, shoulders drooping. He stepped back. The assassin grabbed sword and dagger and sprang to his feet, slightly crouched. In the torchlight he looked composed, eyes serene, a dreamy, faraway expression on his face.
‘Put up your weapons!’ Ranulf ordered.
Perditus danced forward, sword and dagger flickering out. Ranulf parried. The cellar echoing with the clash of steel and the shuffle of feet. Ranulf watched carefully. Again Perditus’s arm came snaking out in a feint, then a lunge with his dagger. Ranulf blocked and parried. He concentrated on nothing but this figure dancing in the torchlight, backwards and forwards. Perditus was no bully-boy from the alleyways but an accomplished man-at-arms. Time and again he came in, feinting, parrying. Each time Ranulf blocked. Perditus stood back, chest heaving, sword and dagger down. He pulled up his sword in a salute then brought it down, the tip aimed directly at Ranulf’s face.
‘This is the way it should be, shouldn’t it, clerk? Warrior against warrior. Sword against sword.’
He came dancing across. Ranulf moved to parry the expected thrust but Perditus, as he lunged forward, suddenly brought sword and dagger up, exposing his body. Ranulf couldn’t stop and thrust his sword deep into Perditus’s chest. He withdrew it quickly. Perditus let his weapons fall with a clatter and fell to his knees. He clutched at the wound, the blood bubbling out. He stared up at Ranulf.
‘I can taste death already. It’s better this way.’
He collapsed onto his face. His body shuddered for a while and lay still. Ranulf, crouching down, felt for the blood beat in his throat. He could detect nothing. The sound of running footsteps drew closer, and Corbett and Chanson appeared in the doorway.
‘He’s dead,’ Ranulf got to his feet. ‘He walked onto my sword. I think he intended that.’
‘It’s better than the scaffold,’ Chanson remarked. ‘Where did he get the sword and dagger from?’
‘He probably had weapons hidden in all the caverns along the passageway,’ Corbett remarked. He sat down on the steps and put his face in his hands.
‘Cuthbert and Wallasby?’ Ranulf asked.
‘Oh, they are both dead,’ Corbett took his hands away from his face. ‘I made a mistake, Ranulf, I should have had Perditus bound. Yet, if I had, he might not have confessed.’
‘In his eyes Wallasby and Cuthbert deserved to die,’ Ranulf remarked. ‘And God forgive me, Master, I believe that to a certain extent they brought their own deaths upon them. Do you really think Wallasby killed Taverner?’
‘Yes I do,’ Corbett got to his feet, ‘though it would have been very difficult to prove. If Perditus had killed four times, why shouldn’t he kill five? Our Archdeacon was intent on revenge. Cacullus non facit monachum: holy orders is no protection against murder. Wallasby would certainly have been disgraced and Prior Cuthbert a broken man. The Abbey of St Martin’s has been turned into a battleground, a place of killing. .’
He paused as he heard voices from the far end of the passageway.
‘What will happen?’ Ranulf asked.
‘The abbey will have to be reconsecrated. The King and the Archbishop will demand a new Concilium be sent in to restore harmony and order.’
‘And Perditus?’
‘Bring his corpse. He can join the rest.’
The following morning Corbett stood beside Lady Margaret as she stared down at the waxen face of her son’s corpse. Brother Aelfric had prepared the body for burial. Lady Margaret stood upright, no tears in her eyes. She caressed the young man’s cheek and, leaning down, kissed him on the lips before pulling the coffin sheet up over his head.
‘I would like to be alone, Sir Hugh.’
Corbett bowed. ‘Madam, the clouds are breaking, there will be no more snow for a while. We must return to Norwich.’
‘And my crime?’ she asked. ‘My sin?’
‘I can speak for the King, Madam, and I say you have been punished enough. There must be an end to all this. All those who know the true story have taken an oath of silence.’ He gestured at the sheeted corpse. ‘What you do with him, where you have him buried, is a matter for you.’