Hugh Corbett 13 - Corpse Candle Read Free Page B

dark-purple candles specially made by the abbey’s chandler. A huge cross was nailed to the wall. The drapes covering Abbot Stephen’s corpse were embroidered in silver thread depicting Christ harrowing Hell. Despite the late season, some flowers had been found and placed in silver vases at each corner of the bier. Scented braziers, sprinkled with dried thyme, kept the air sweet. Prior Cuthbert felt proud of what he had achieved since the Abbot’s death four days earlier. The corpse had been washed, cleaned and prepared for burial. Later that day, just after noon, he would celebrate the solemn requiem Mass in the abbey church. Prior Cuthbert had warned the brothers not to gossip. The abbey had expected some representative from the King. As soon as Abbot Stephen’s corpse had been discovered, an abbey messenger, taking two of the swiftest horses from the stables, had ridden to Norwich where the King and court were on royal progress through the Eastern shires.
    Prior Cuthbert stood aside and allowed his visitors to approach the bier. He felt distinctly nervous. He’d expected the King to send an earl, or one of his principal barons. Instead the tall, dark, close-faced Sir Hugh Corbett, Keeper of the King’s Secret Seal, had arrived, together with his henchman, Ranulf-atte-Newgate, the red-haired, sharp-featured Clerk of the Green Wax, and Chanson, that strange-looking clerk of the stables with a mop of unruly hair and a cast in one eye. All three were dressed in travel-stained clothes, dark-brown cote-hardies, leggings of the same colour pushed into high-heeled Spanish leather riding boots. Spurs clinked, sword and dagger tapped against thigh. They were men of war, Prior Cuthbert reflected, yet they emanated as well an air of quiet authority and menace: Corbett in particular, handsome, clean-shaven, pleasant-featured but with deep-set, brooding eyes. A man who didn’t say much but seemed to listen and watch everything around him. He didn’t stand on ceremony. As soon as he was ushered into the Prior’s quarters, he showed his warrant bearing the King’s Seal, splaying out his fingers to display the Chancery ring emblazoned with the arms of England.
    ‘We expected someone else,’ Prior Cuthbert murmured.
    Corbett unfastened his cloak and tossed it to Chanson. Ranulf did the same, stretching his arms and legs to ease the cramp after the long ride in the saddle.
    ‘Whom did you expect?’ Corbett asked, a half-smile on his face.
    ‘I . . . I . . .’ Prior Cuthbert’s words died on his lips. ‘Do you wish some wine? Some food?’
    He gestured Corbett to a chair. Ranulf he ignored. He didn’t like the cynical look in the clerk’s keen, green eyes.
    ‘No, thank you.’ Corbett ignored the chair. ‘We have ridden hard, Prior Cuthbert, but the King was most insistent that I view Abbot Stephen’s corpse and pay my respects. I would be grateful if you would show it to me now.’
    Prior Cuthbert had hastened to obey. He kept silent as Corbett, without any ceremony, pulled back the coverlet. Abbot Stephen was serene and composed in death, dressed in the full pontificals of an abbot, his body was placed in an open casket before being taken into the church. Prior Cuthbert watched the clerk closely: the raven-black hair was streaked with grey, pulled back and tied at the nape of the neck; his face was more olive-skinned than sallow; the hands now free of their heavy gauntlets were soft-looking, the fingers long and strong. An orderly, precise man, Prior Cuthbert concluded: the clerk’s cote-hardie and leggings were of pure wool, the shirt beneath crisp and white. The sword belt which Corbett had not taken off, as was customary in an abbey, was of thick brown leather: the sheaths for both dagger and sword were brocaded with red and blue stitching. Prior Cuthbert thought hard and fast as Corbett stood staring down at the dead Abbot’s face. Yes, he had heard about this clerk. More powerful than an earl, Corbett was King