The King's Corrodian Read Free Page B

and a well-executed image of the Virgin and Child chalked on the window-shutters. Its trampled little garden held a bench, a stone shelter stacked with kindling with a closed coalhouse beside it, and a rose tree, bare and spiky in the winter air. As they entered through a gate of palings, young Brother George came round the end of the royal lodgings, together with two stalwart lay brothers, one of them hefting a crowbar, the other carrying two copper lanterns. They bowed their heads to the company, but their backs were very straight.
    ‘Dickon,’ said the Prior. ‘Here is Maister Cunningham and madam his wife. You’ll gie him every assist in your power, I trust.’
    ‘I will, Faither,’ said the older brother. He was a wiry grizzled man with a scar across one eye, his bushy beard striped like a badger’s head. ‘Sooner we get to the roots o this, the better all round, I’d say.’ He nodded to Gil, raising his hand in something like a salute, gave Alys a considering look, and waved his underling forward. ‘Brother Dod, shift they planks, will you?’
    Brother Dod crossed himself, licked his lips, and applied the crowbar. Two or three mighty heaves dislodged the planks.
    ‘You told us the door was barred, sir,’ Gil said. ‘Were the shutters barred and all?’
    ‘Dickon?’
    ‘Aye, Faither, they was barred,’ confirmed Brother Dickon, looking up from the lanterns. ‘He’d sealed hissel in well, which was no surprising considering the weather. It was the midst o that cold snap we had,’ he elaborated to Gil as he closed the little door on the second lantern. ‘Freezing hard it was.’
    ‘It’s open, er, brother,’ reported Brother Dod. Brother George eased himself to the back of the group; the Bishop craned forward, clutching his episcopal cross for protection, but before Gil could speak, a small bell began to toll somewhere in the priory, with rapid light strokes. The Prior looked at the sky.
    ‘Is it that hour already? Sirs, madam, I’ll leave you. I’ve a lecture to deliver. Brother Thomas’s words on the Lombard, honey to the soul, wasted on the— Well, I’ll get a word wi you later, Gilbert. Brother George, come wi me.’ He offered a general blessing and strode off, the young friar following him.
    As the paling gate clacked shut behind them, Gil replaced his hat and said politely to the Bishop, ‘I’d be glad of a moment to look about me afore we all crowd into the place, sir. Brother Dickon, I think you were among the first through the door? Can you show me how it all lay?’ He gestured to Socrates, ordering him to stay with Alys; the dog sat down beside her, but pointedly turned his head away.
    ‘Aye, well,’ said Brother Dickon, ‘there was little enough to see here in the outer chamber.’ He stepped over the threshold, lighting Gil into the little house. ‘All in order, as he’d left it when he retired, just the way you see it now.’ He held both lanterns high, then moved to open the shutters. The grey daylight made little difference. ‘There was a smell o smoke and burning, and Brother William our subprior found the inner door yonder was warm to the touch. We’d to smash the lock, as you see, maister, and then—’
    ‘A moment,’ said Gil. He stood still, looking about him. The outer chamber was adequately furnished, with a cushioned settle, two stools, a small table, a cold brazier. The walls were panelled with good Norway pine, the ceiling was of the same wood, and a small crucifix and several painted woodcuts of various martyrdoms hung next to the settle. Behind the door and on either side of the window were hangings cut down from a much larger tapestry. Gil moved to the window and sniffed at the woollen folds. They were musty, and rather damp, as could be expected when the house had not been heated for days, but the predominant scent was of smoke. He sniffed again, registering – was it woodsmoke? And incense? There was something else, something sweetish and unfamiliar,