Quatro: Les Hommes Joyeuses and Griskin. Now Corbett wrote more slowly. Griskin had been a good spy, an able man who took careful precautions to protect himself. He’d disguised himself as a leper and travelled up into Suffolk, searching out those legends about the lost treasure. He had reported to the Gleeman that he had discovered scraps of information, and made a mysterious reference to St Simon of the Rocks, but what did he mean? Griskin had later been trapped, murdered and gibbeted, probably by Hubert the Monk, which in turn meant that he had discovered something about that elusive hunter of men. What was it? Yet this begged another question. How had Hubert discovered the truth about Griskin? Was it through his own sharp wits, or had Griskin been betrayed? Had he been seen in the company of Les Hommes Joyeuses and someone reported this to Hubert? If that was the case, there was a traitor amongst Les Hommes Joyeuses. Could it be the Gleeman?
Quinto: The Waxman and Hubert the Monk. Who was Hubert? Where was he? Were he and Servinus one and the same? How could he move so quickly? Delivering warnings in both Canterbury and Dover? Following them through the woods when Corbett had returned with Desroches and Ranulf from Maubisson to St Augustine’s? Who had attacked Corbett in the cloisters? Desroches had been in the refectory downstairs, but Parson Warfeld? And the others? Who had come to St Augustine’s yesterday with that poisoned wine?
Everything pointed to The Waxman, the Suffolk treasure, the Cloister Map and Hubert’s desire for vengeance as the hideous roots of this murderous affair. Yet was all this a false lure? Indeed, was Hubert even still alive? Was someone else using the past to conceal their own devious plot? Virtually everyone had some connection with The Waxman, including Warfeld. And what about Berengaria? And the Lady Adelicia, who could so innocently flutter her eyelids and deny any knowledge of her husband’s doings? And Castledene? What was the truth there?
Chapter 11
In domo frigus patior nivale.
Even in this house I am freezing cold.
Corbett sat reflecting. The chanting had now stopped and a bell boomed out announcing that the Jesus or Morrow Mass was about to begin. He hastily finished dressing, took his war belt and clasped it on, then threw a cloak over his shoulders, pulling up its hood to protect his head. He left and locked his chamber and went downstairs. The light was greying now. Here and there lay brothers were busy in the yard, opening stores; one was sawing wood, another drawing water. Corbett hurried into the tangled labyrinth of abbey buildings, down chilly, stone-hollow passageways, across frozen-carpeted gardens and eventually in by the Galilee Porch to the abbey church. The monks were now leaving their stalls. Corbett decided to attend Mass not at the high altar but in one of the chantry chapels along the transept, a comfortable place, its floor covered with turkey rugs, whilst chafing dishes in each corner spluttered warmth. He knelt on the prie-dieu and nodded at the old monk who came shuffling in to celebrate his Mass. Corbett leaned against the hard rest and watched the celebrant begin the mysteries, trying to school himself by concentrating on the crucifix above the altar. Once the Mass was finished and Corbett had made his thanks, he went into the Lady Chapel and lit three tapers for Maeve and his two children. He was about to leave through the main porch when he heard his name called. The guest master came hurrying down the church, the sleeves of his gown flapping like the wings of a bird, sandalled feet slapping against the paved floor.
‘Sir Hugh,’ he gasped, ‘Sir Hugh, thank goodness I have found you! I have something to show you, the rats!’ And before Corbett could ask him any questions, the guest master hurried from the church, leading him from the sacred precincts into a small cobbled yard. There he opened the door to an outhouse which reeked of rotting hay. On a broken stool stretched a piece of sacking bearing the bloated corpses of four rats, bellies distended, paws rigid, jaws open to display sharp protuberant teeth.
‘Found them this morning,’ the guest master declared, ‘dead as nails. I put down the bread and cheese as you asked, soaked in that wine.’ He sighed dramatically. ‘Sir Hugh, someone meant to do you a great mischief.’
‘Well they didn’t!’ Corbett took a silver piece from his purse and, grasping the old man’s hand, pushed it into his palm. ‘It’s our secret, Brother. You mustn’t tell anyone until we’ve gone. I also ask you to be most prudent in what food and drinks are served.’
‘Are you sure?’ The old monk’s eyes wrinkled in puzzlement. ‘Sir Hugh, you are in great danger, here in our abbey. It is a scandal! Father Abbot would be horrified.’
‘Father Abbot won’t be,’ Corbett smiled, ‘because Father Abbot won’t be told. Now, Brother, I have another favour to ask, a great favour. A magister once taught here, Master of the Scholars, Brother Fulbert? Is he still here? Can I talk to him?’
‘Brother Fulbert, of course, he’s an Ancient One. Come, I’ll take you to him. He is an early riser, always has been.’ And he led Corbett off again down a maze of stone galleries, past brothers busy about their daily tasks. The abbey was now preparing for Christmas; wheelbarrows full of greenery stood around, berries blood red against the green holly. Yule logs were being hewed, Christmas candles placed in window embrasures, and the air was full of the swirling odours and fragrances of the various rooms and chambers of the abbey. Cooking smells from the kitchens mingled with those of dry leather and parchment from the scriptorium. Incense swirled the smell of oil lamps, whilst the perfumed gusts from the bathhouse mixed with the tang of compost some lay brothers were piling around the rose bushes, their roots recently cleared of snow. Here and there groups of monks stood gossiping, overlooked by stone-faced statues.
At last they reached a two-storey house enclosed by its own garden. The guest master gestured Corbett in, the raised door latch jarring noisily in such a quiet place. He led Corbett up some wooden stairs, along a polished gallery, and knocked on a door.