you leave?’ Corbett asked curiously. He noticed the white foam gathering at either corner of Taverner’s mouth.
‘I go back into the darkness, into eternal night. You are Corbett, aren’t you? Keeper of the Secret Seal? Your wife is Maeve with the long, blonde hair, and that body, eh Corbett? Soft and white like skimmed milk.’
‘Watch your lewdness!’ Ranulf declared.
Corbett held a hand up.
‘And where do I live?’
‘In Leighton Manor, in Essex, my shire, with fat, little Eleanor and Baby Edward. Come from the King, have we?’
Corbett studied the man. He was surprised that Taverner, or whatever possessed him, knew as much as he did. But, there again, most of it was fairly common knowledge.
‘If you are a demon.’ Corbett smiled, ‘then you should know more. Have you met Abbot Stephen? His soul has left his body.’
Taverner didn’t blink or change expression.
‘He has gone to judgement,’ he declared. ‘His crossing was never challenged. He’s begun his journey.’
‘But why was he killed? How was he murdered?’
‘I am not here to help you, Corbett!’
‘Come, come,’ the clerk teased. ‘You claim to be the great Geoffrey Mandeville who roams the fens, yet know less than a scullion in the abbey kitchens?’
‘He was killed by a dagger, thrust into his chest,’ came the sharp reply. ‘Always the Roman was Abbot Stephen. A man who will have to pay for his sin against the Holy Ghost.’
‘What do you mean, his sin against the Holy Ghost?’ Corbett demanded. Taverner seemed to know a little more than he should about the Abbot’s death.
‘Oh, he was murdered all right, like Abel, slain by Cain, by his brother . . .’
‘By the monks of St Martin’s?’ Corbett demanded.
‘ Tu dixisti clerice ,’ Taverner lapsed into Latin. ‘You have said it, clerk.’
‘Which monk?’ Corbett barked.
‘All are guilty in some way. Abbot Stephen’s blood stains their hands.’
Corbett felt a chill of fear. He’d attended two exorcisms as a royal witness. One in Bermondsey Abbey and the other in St Peter ad Vincula in the Tower. Both had taken place years before, and had been terrifying experiences! Taverner’s hand snaked out, his fingers curled like the claw of some hunting bird.
‘Plucked he was, taken out of life, sent unprepared into the dark. I feel at home at St Martin’s, clerk. It is a house of demons.’ The white froth now laced his lips. ‘And you can tell Chanson outside the door to stop listening.’
Ranulf, light-footed, opened the door. Chanson almost fell into the room. He stumbled and looked, embarrassed, at Corbett.
‘You are supposed to be guarding not eavesdropping.’ Corbett glanced quickly at Taverner. ‘But go now to the library. Ask Brother Aelfric if he has any books or chronicles about Geoffrey Mandeville.’
‘He has one there,’ Taverner declared.
‘What did Abbot Stephen say to you?’
‘He was going to help me.’ Taverner’s voice turned ugly. ‘But he couldn’t even help himself!’
Corbett watched him in amazement. Taverner was two people: himself and the spirit who possessed him, alternating in both expression and voice, sometimes lapsing into French or Latin. Corbett glanced across at Ranulf: his henchman seemed fascinated by Taverner. At last the babble of conversation died. The possessed man sat on the edge of the bed, hands hanging by his side, head down.
‘Who are you now?’ Corbett asked.
Taverner dipped his fingers into a stoup of holy water on the table near the bed: he blessed himself quickly three or four times. He dug into his gown and pulled out a bible which he clutched to his chest.
‘I am the man that I was born,’ he replied weakly. The white froth had disappeared. ‘Matthew Taverner.’
‘And why did you come here?’ Corbett demanded.
‘I lived out in Essex, in a village near Chelmsford. Ever since I was a child I have been plagued by fanciful dreams and hideous nightmares. My father died when I was
‘I go back into the darkness, into eternal night. You are Corbett, aren’t you? Keeper of the Secret Seal? Your wife is Maeve with the long, blonde hair, and that body, eh Corbett? Soft and white like skimmed milk.’
‘Watch your lewdness!’ Ranulf declared.
Corbett held a hand up.
‘And where do I live?’
‘In Leighton Manor, in Essex, my shire, with fat, little Eleanor and Baby Edward. Come from the King, have we?’
Corbett studied the man. He was surprised that Taverner, or whatever possessed him, knew as much as he did. But, there again, most of it was fairly common knowledge.
‘If you are a demon.’ Corbett smiled, ‘then you should know more. Have you met Abbot Stephen? His soul has left his body.’
Taverner didn’t blink or change expression.
‘He has gone to judgement,’ he declared. ‘His crossing was never challenged. He’s begun his journey.’
‘But why was he killed? How was he murdered?’
‘I am not here to help you, Corbett!’
‘Come, come,’ the clerk teased. ‘You claim to be the great Geoffrey Mandeville who roams the fens, yet know less than a scullion in the abbey kitchens?’
‘He was killed by a dagger, thrust into his chest,’ came the sharp reply. ‘Always the Roman was Abbot Stephen. A man who will have to pay for his sin against the Holy Ghost.’
‘What do you mean, his sin against the Holy Ghost?’ Corbett demanded. Taverner seemed to know a little more than he should about the Abbot’s death.
‘Oh, he was murdered all right, like Abel, slain by Cain, by his brother . . .’
‘By the monks of St Martin’s?’ Corbett demanded.
‘ Tu dixisti clerice ,’ Taverner lapsed into Latin. ‘You have said it, clerk.’
‘Which monk?’ Corbett barked.
‘All are guilty in some way. Abbot Stephen’s blood stains their hands.’
Corbett felt a chill of fear. He’d attended two exorcisms as a royal witness. One in Bermondsey Abbey and the other in St Peter ad Vincula in the Tower. Both had taken place years before, and had been terrifying experiences! Taverner’s hand snaked out, his fingers curled like the claw of some hunting bird.
‘Plucked he was, taken out of life, sent unprepared into the dark. I feel at home at St Martin’s, clerk. It is a house of demons.’ The white froth now laced his lips. ‘And you can tell Chanson outside the door to stop listening.’
Ranulf, light-footed, opened the door. Chanson almost fell into the room. He stumbled and looked, embarrassed, at Corbett.
‘You are supposed to be guarding not eavesdropping.’ Corbett glanced quickly at Taverner. ‘But go now to the library. Ask Brother Aelfric if he has any books or chronicles about Geoffrey Mandeville.’
‘He has one there,’ Taverner declared.
‘What did Abbot Stephen say to you?’
‘He was going to help me.’ Taverner’s voice turned ugly. ‘But he couldn’t even help himself!’
Corbett watched him in amazement. Taverner was two people: himself and the spirit who possessed him, alternating in both expression and voice, sometimes lapsing into French or Latin. Corbett glanced across at Ranulf: his henchman seemed fascinated by Taverner. At last the babble of conversation died. The possessed man sat on the edge of the bed, hands hanging by his side, head down.
‘Who are you now?’ Corbett asked.
Taverner dipped his fingers into a stoup of holy water on the table near the bed: he blessed himself quickly three or four times. He dug into his gown and pulled out a bible which he clutched to his chest.
‘I am the man that I was born,’ he replied weakly. The white froth had disappeared. ‘Matthew Taverner.’
‘And why did you come here?’ Corbett demanded.
‘I lived out in Essex, in a village near Chelmsford. Ever since I was a child I have been plagued by fanciful dreams and hideous nightmares. My father died when I was
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