‘Of course,’ Ranulf joked, ‘the abbot immediately disciplined the guest master for wasting his resources. And then there’s the other story,’ he continued, ‘about a priest who’d been visiting his mistress. He arrived home late at night. Beside his church stood a haunted house, and as the priest passed, he heard a voice shout: “Who are you?” The priest went over. “I’m the parson of this church,” he declared, “and who are you?” “I speak from hell,” the voice replied. “Are you sure you are a priest?” “Why?” the parson replied. “Well,” the voice declared, “so many priests are in hell, I didn’t think there were any more left on earth. .”’
Ranulf stopped as the guest master bustled in to inform Corbett that Les Hommes Joyeuses would like to see him the next morning to thank him for his kindness towards them. Corbett agreed, then decided to join the good brothers in the choir to sing Vespers. Ranulf claimed he was tired and said he’d make his own oraisons.
Corbett went over to the darkening church. For a while he squatted at the foot of a pillar watching the monks file in as the bells marked the hour. He then respectfully approached the abbot, who indicated the stall next to him and gestured for a lay brother to bring a psalter. Corbett revelled in the atmosphere. For a while he could lose himself in this beautiful church with its curving arches and ornate pillars, the high altar bathed in light, the lamps and lanterns glowing and the massed voices of the brothers as they chanted the evening prayer. He glanced round. It was also a ghostly place. Shadows shifted amongst the monks, their faces half hidden in the light, tonsured heads lowered, yet all was redeemed by that melodious chant echoing through the church, reaching every darkening corner.
Corbett sang lustily with the rest, and later, as he sat listening to the lector, he thought of Griskin. The reader had chosen a text from the Second Book of Samuel, declaring in a clear, carrying voice David’s lament over Saul and Jonathan: ‘Alas, the glory of Israel has been slain on the heights! How did the heroes fall and the battle armour fail!’ Corbett wondered how Griskin had been trapped, but put such thoughts away as they rose to sing the psalm: ‘Lord of hosts, how long will you ignore your people’s plea. .’
Once Vespers was over, Corbett remained in his stall. He politely refused the abbot’s invitation to join him in his parlour, smiling up as the other monks passed by, for he wanted to be alone. He turned in the stall and stared at the high altar. Its great candles still flamed vigorously. He looked down the church, where a night mist had curled in beneath the door, moving like a cloud up the nave. He glanced up at the top of the pillars; gargoyle faces smirked stonily back. The place was now empty. He suppressed a shiver, got up, genuflected towards the pyx cup hanging from its gold chain, and made his way out through the Galilee Porch.
The night was freezing cold. Corbett walked along the path into the deserted cloisters. Lanterns hung between the pillars. At one point he stopped and glanced around. He felt uneasy. The cloister garth was hidden under a deep frost. In the centre a lonely rose bush extended its stark arms upwards as if seeking solace from the bitter cold. Shadows danced in the moving light of the lanterns. Somewhere a bell clanged. A voice echoed, then all fell silent. Corbett walked briskly on. Once again he paused and turned round. He felt he was being watched, yet nothing but a deathly silence permeated these holy precincts.
He was halfway down one side of the cloisters when the crossbow bolt zipped through the air and smacked into the grey ragstone wall behind him. He immediately crouched down, protected by a rounded pillar, and glanced across the cloister garth. The other side was hidden by the dark; an army could lurk there and he would never see it. ‘Pax et bonum,’ he shouted, hoping more to attract attention than discover who his assailant was. A voice echoed chillingly back.
‘Pax et bonum, king’s man, royal emissary.’ Another crossbow bolt sliced through the air.
Corbett realised that the archer, whoever he was, did not intend to kill but to frighten. There was no attempt to take aim, to mark his quarry. He half rose and glanced around the pillar. He could detect nothing. He stared up at the carving grinning back at him, a monkey’s face shrouded in a cowl with glaring protuberant eyes, tongue sticking out between thick lips, a wicked grimace on an evil face. He edged his knife out of its scabbard. He was safe as long as he didn’t move. He heard a movement on the far side of the cloister and quickly shifted into the shadows so as to confuse his attacker. Abruptly a door at the far end of his side of the cloister opened, and a voice shouted.
‘Who’s there? Is everything all right?’
‘God save you, Brother,’ Corbett called out. ‘I’m Sir Hugh Corbett, king’s emissary. I’m a little lost.’ He heard a sound from across the garth and realised his assailant was slipping away. The lay brother came lumbering forward. Corbett waited until he was almost upon him before he moved. ‘Thank you, Brother.’ He grasped the lay brother’s hand and stared into his face. ‘I was a little bit overcome and confused. Which way is it to the guesthouse?’
The lay brother was full of questions, but Corbett walked as fast as he could towards the door and the pool of light shed by the lantern hanging from its hook. Once inside, he relaxed, his body sweat-drenched, his heart thudding. The lay brother stared at him curiously.
‘Sir Hugh, is all well?’
‘Yes, yes,’ Corbett gasped. ‘Just a phantom of the night, nothing much. I’d be grateful, Brother, if you would escort me to my companions.’
Back at the guesthouse, Corbett found Desroches sitting at a table with Ranulf and Chanson, sharing a cup of wine. The physician rose as he entered.
‘Sir Hugh, I have been waiting some time. I thought Vespers was long over?’
‘It is,’ Corbett declared, sitting down and willing himself to relax. ‘But Master Desroches, why have you come at such a late hour in such inclement weather?’
‘Parson Warfeld is also here. He has gone to see the prior on some business, but-’
‘I asked what you wanted,’ Corbett insisted. He felt tired and exasperated. He wished to retire and compose his thoughts. He wanted to write to Maeve, meditate, allow his mind to float.
‘Lady Adelicia,’ Desroches declared. ‘She is pregnant.’
‘What?’ Corbett exclaimed.
‘You know what that means,’ Desroches continued evenly. ‘She cannot face execution now. Once we had left the Guildhall chamber, she demanded to see me. She claims that her courses have stopped for the last two months. I believe, Sir Hugh, after a superficial examination, that she is indeed pregnant. I have consulted with Parson Warfeld.’ He paused as the priest bustled through the door, shaking the water from his robe.
‘Sir Hugh,’ Warfeld declared. ‘Has Master Desroches told you the news?’ The parson eased himself over the bench and sat down. Grasping the wine jug, he poured himself a generous goblet and slurped noisily from it. ‘Our good physician told me the news and thought you should know — whilst I had business with the prior over the supply of communion breads so I came with him. It’s impossible!’ he gasped.
‘What do you mean?’ Corbett asked.
‘Well,’ Desroches sighed, ‘one important fact: Rauf Decontet may have married Lady Adelicia, but outside the seal of confession, Parson Warfeld and I can assure you, Sir Hugh, that he could no more have begotten a child than a eunuch in the seraglio of the great Cham of Tartary.’