Hugh Corbett 13 - Corpse Candle by Paul Doherty

to cover the walls, filling every niche. Triptychs and crucifixes stood on tables. Fronds from Palm Sunday hung above the door. The chamber was spacious and clean. It was the only room in the abbey where Corbett had seen rushes, green and supple, strewn with herbs, scattered on the floor. A shelf high on one wall held some books, a bible and a tattered psalter. Taverner, sitting on the edge of the small four-poster bed, looked like some venerable monk. Dressed in a grey robe, with a balding pate, grey hair on either side of his head fell in tangled curls to his shoulders. He was bright-eyed and chirpy as a magpie with a round, florid face; Corbett noticed the generous bulging paunch above the cord round his waist. The room was warmed by a scented brazier and a small log fire burned in the hearth; it was a warm, comfortable place. Corbett had noticed the smoke coming out of the vent as he approached the far side of the infirmary. As usual, Chanson stood on guard outside. Ranulf looked subdued and sat on a bench just inside the door. Corbett stared curiously at this remarkable man who claimed to be possessed by a demon, the damned soul of Geoffrey Mandeville. So far Corbett had seen nothing remarkable about this middle-aged man, keen-eyed and sharp-witted, who’d welcomed them and offered some wine.
    Corbett picked a scrap of parchment off the desk and noticed the ink-filled ‘V’ drawn there. He stared down as he collected his thoughts. He had not told Ranulf what had occurred the previous night: about that mysterious visitor who had confronted him behind the grille, drawn the bolts and fled. Corbett had returned to the guesthouse in silence, his relationship with Ranulf still frosty. They had been woken early by a tolling bell, attended Mass in a side chapel and broken their fast in the abbey kitchens. Prior Cuthbert had met them briefly but he had been all a-fluster, claiming he had other business and knew nothing of the death of poor Gildas . . . Corbett had nodded and declared he needed to question Taverner. The Prior had shrugged in acceptance.
    Corbett still felt tired, heavy-eyed. He held up the piece of parchment. Taverner now had his head down.
    ‘Who drew Mandeville’s mark?’
    ‘How dare you!’
    Corbett gaped in astonishment. Taverner’s head came up, his face had completely changed, with hate-filled eyes, a snarling mouth, his voice totally different.
    ‘How dare you, you whoreson varlet! You base-born clerk! Question me, Mandeville, Custos of the Tower, Earl of Essex!’
    Ranulf leaned forward, ready to spring up.
    What Corbett found remarkable was the change in voice, which had become harsh and guttural. When they had first entered, Taverner’s voice was soft, barely above a whisper.
    ‘That’s my escutcheon, my livery,’ he continued, jerking his fingers towards the parchment. ‘Black chevrons on a red banner. “Scourge of Essex” they called me. “Plunderer of Ely”. I showed those mealy-mouthed monks, those fornicating friars and their soft-skinned nuns! I gave them fire and sword! “ Igne Gladioque . Fire and sword! Gero bellum contra Deum . I wage war against God and strive to breach the very gates of Paradise!”’ Taverner lapsed into old Norman French, ‘“ Le Roi Se Avisera . The King was advised. Sed Rex territus , but the King was terrified.”’
    ‘Who was King?’ Corbett asked.
    Taverner glanced slyly at him. ‘Why, Stephen, but he was challenged by Mathilda, Henry’s arrogant daughter. I lead a legion, do you know that, clerk? Men on horses who still ride the fens at night.’
    Corbett closed his eyes and tried to recall the rite of exorcism.
    ‘By what name are you called?’ he asked abruptly.
    ‘My name is Geoffrey Mandeville, damned in life and damned in death. I wander the dark places. I seek a place, a house to dwell.’
    ‘And you have chosen Taverner?’
    ‘The door was open,’ came the harsh reply. ‘The dwelling was prepared.’
    ‘And what do you do when