Hugh Corbett 15 - The Waxman Murders (14 page)

‘I curse him by the authority of the Court of Rome, within or without, sleeping or waking, going or sitting, standing and riding, lying above the earth and under earth, speaking, crying and drinking; in wood, water, field and town. I curse him by Father, Son and Holy Spirit. I curse him by the angels, archangels and all the nine orders of heaven. I curse him by the patriarchs, prophets and apostles . . .’ On a lower step, totally ignoring the friar, a relic-seller pointed to his leather chest, claiming it contained the stone where Christ’s blood was spilt, a splinter from the Lord’s cradle, a certain crystal vessel bearing shards of the stone tablet on which God had inscribed the law for Moses, straps from Jesus’ winding sheets and fragments from Aaron’s robe. A gang of burly apprentice boys standing around him demanded that the miraculous chest be opened to show them such wonders. The relic-seller refused and a brawl ensued. Market bailiffs and beadles were busy at the stocks, locking in foists, roisterers and drunkards alongside breakers of the King’s peace or the market regulations. A deafening clamour of noise dinned the ear. Corbett looked up at the great mass of Canterbury Cathedral rearing above him, black against the darkening sky. He cursed quietly, and Ranulf, riding slightly behind him, leaned forward.

‘Master, what is it?’

‘I still have the King’s special task to do,’ Corbett murmured, his words almost lost beneath the noise of the market. ‘Perhaps tomorrow.’

Eventually they had to dismount and lead their horses. The ground underfoot was thick and mushy, dung and mud mixing with the refuse thrown from the stalls and taverns. A moonman pushed his way through, wheeling a barrow with a small bear chained to it. Corbett wondered idly where he was going, only to be distracted by a loud-mouthed apothecary who plucked his sleeve, claiming he had an electuary distilled from silver which would cure all ills. Corbett shrugged him off as he glimpsed a goldsmith’s sign. He told Ranulf to hold the horses and walked over. He wanted to divert himself for a while, and was resolved to buy something unique for Lady Maeve.

The merchant behind the stall quickly appraised Corbett from head to toe and immediately led him into the back room of his shop, where he took down an iron-bound coffer locked with three clasps. He opened this and showed Corbett an array of diamonds, pearls, emeralds and sapphires which he called by fancy names such as ‘Bon Homme’, ‘The Dimple’, ‘The Barley-corn’, ‘The Distaff’, ‘The Cloud’, ‘The Quail’, ‘The Chestnut’, ‘The Ruby King’. Corbett studied each one, promised the man he would return and left the shop.

Rejoining Ranulf, Corbett grasped the reins of his horse and they walked on. Ranulf realised that any attempt at conversation would be futile, whilst he himself was eager to drink in the various sights of the city, catch a pretty eye or win a smile from some lovely face. At last they were clear of the main trading area. The bells of the city began to clang out the tocsin, the sign for the market to close and all good citizens to return to their homes. They passed the churches of St Mary Magdalene and St Michael, then turned left, following the route they’d taken into the city, along the old boundary wall through Queningate and out into the countryside. Once mounted, Ranulf spurred alongside Corbett to question him about what happened at the Guildhall, but he received little satisfaction.

‘I know nothing.’ Corbett reined in and stared up at the sky, where the clouds were breaking up. He murmured a prayer. ‘At least there’ll be no more snow tonight.’ He sighed. ‘What I must do, Ranulf, is reflect and think.’ His horse skittered on the trackway. ‘And this is a lonely place. Come now, God knows who follows us.’

On their return to St Augustine’s, they found Chanson, much improved, sitting in the small refectory enjoying a dish of rabbit stew with onions and a pot of ale specially brewed at the abbey. Corbett and Ranulf took off their boots, changed, washed their hands and faces and came down to join him. The room was well lit by torches and candles on the table and heated by braziers in every corner. It was a pleasant refectory with paintings on the wall depicting Christ’s Last Supper and his meeting with the disciples at Emmaus. A soothing and relaxing place. Ranulf insisted on telling a story about a stingy abbot and his grasping guest master. A visitor once sheltered in their abbey for the night. He was given only hard bread and water, and a thin straw mattress to sleep on. In the morning he protested to the guest master, who simply shrugged off his complaints. As he left the abbey, the visitor met the abbot and immediately thanked him for his lavish hospitality.

‘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.’

‘Parson Warfeld?’

‘Sir Rauf often talked about it,’ the priest replied. ‘How he would love to have a son. Sir Hugh, in a word what Master Desroches and I are saying is that Sir Rauf Decontet was impotent, incapable of begetting a son. Therefore, the Lady Adelicia must have had a lover. I suspect you know who—’

‘Wendover!’ Ranulf intervened. ‘It’s Master Wendover, captain of the city guard.’

‘True, true,’ Desroches murmured.

‘Who is Wendover?’ Corbett asked. ‘What is his background?’

‘He is Sir Walter Castledene’s man, body and soul,’ Warfeld replied. ‘He served in his personal retinue, and when Sir Walter was elected mayor, Wendover was appointed captain of the city guard. He is a Canterbury man, a former soldier; he has seen service here and there. A blustery man but of good heart, with an eye for the ladies! More importantly, Sir Hugh, he was present when Adam Blackstock and
The Waxman
were brought to judgement. He witnessed the hanging.’

‘And he was also on guard at Maubisson,’ Corbett declared, ‘when Paulents and the others were killed.’ He filled his wine cup and sipped it gently. He was beginning to feel sleepy. He needed to withdraw, reflect and collect his thoughts. He recalled the lament of David over Jonathan and thought of poor Griskin, as well as something Les Hommes Joyeuses had said to him. ‘Is there anything else?’ he asked.

Desroches got to his feet; Parson Warfeld also.

‘We thought it only proper to tell you now,’ the physician explained. ‘I mean, before we met tomorrow morning.’

‘And Decontet’s house is still under guard?’ Corbett asked.

‘Oh yes,’ Parson Warfeld replied. ‘I pass it many a time. It is securely guarded at every entrance. Sir Walter Castledene has insisted on that.’

‘And Maubisson?’ Corbett asked.

Desroches shrugged. ‘I don’t know, Sir Hugh. Perhaps you had best ask Sir Walter yourself.’

When the two men had left, Corbett finished his wine whilst his comrades chattered amongst themselves. ‘I was attacked!’ he intervened brusquely, immediately the conversation died. ‘On leaving Vespers,’ he continued. ‘An assassin, a bowman as in the forest. Two crossbow bolts were loosed. I do not think he intended to kill but to warn me.’ He smiled thinly and was about to get up when Ranulf put a hand over his.