Read Online Hugh Corbett 17 - The Mysterium by Paul Doherty - Free Book Online
Authors: Paul Doherty
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despite the fiery braziers wheeled in under the lofty rood screen. Ranulf stared around at the pinched white faces peering out of cowls. From the tops of pillars, carved woodmen, gargoyles, babewyns, angels, saints and demons smiled and glowered. Between the pillars flashes of colour shimmered from the wall frescoes, most of them scenes from the Gospels or the life of St Benedict at Subiaco and Monte Cassino.
‘Don’t hold the sins of our fathers against us.’ The powerful chant of scores of male voices thundered like surf into the great open space created by pillars and arches, a resounding plea for God’s help.
Ranulf blinked and found the place in the psalter as the choir swept to its glorious doxology: ‘Glory be to the Father and to the Son . . .’
Corbett lowered the stall and sat down as the reader approached the lectern and, in a clear voice, proclaimed the reading from the Book of Daniel. A phrase caught his attention – ‘Do not treat us because of the treasons we have committed against you’ – and he reflected on the tangle of treasons facing him. After the meeting the night before, the King had taken him aside, finger jabbing, insisting that Corbett resolve matters and remember three important issues. First, Staunton and Blandeford had been friends of Boniface. Second, both had been approached to investigate any wrongdoing by Evesham. Third, now that the Chief Justice was dead, the case against Waldene and Hubert the Monk had collapsed, as the Crown’s principal witness could never be called.
‘But the riot at Newgate?’ Corbett was sure the King was trying to ignore this.
Edward grimaced. ‘According to what I’ve learnt, Waldene and Hubert were held fast in their respective pits. Like Pilate they have washed their hands of any wrongdoing. I’ve given orders for their immediate release.’
Then the King was gone, shouting for his escort. Blandeford and Staunton also made their farewells before following the royal household down to the quayside and the waiting barge. Corbett had immediately sought out Chanson, the Clerk of the Stables, who was responsible for their horses and pack ponies. Corbett had ensured the groom had good lodgings in the abbey guesthouse before adjourning to his own sparse chamber. He had slept well, waking long before dawn. He’d washed at the lavarium and dressed in a fresh shirt, hose and leather jerkin, a welcome relief from the heavy sweaty jerkin and chainmail of the previous day.
‘Master?’
Corbett glanced up. The monks were filing out. He rose, going through the rood screen into the nave, where Chanson squatted at the base of a pillar, his bobbed hair cut, as Ranulf laughingly described, as if a pudding bowl had been overturned on his head. The groom, threading his Ave beads, glanced up, the cast in his left eye giving him a constantly humorous look. Corbett clasped his shoulder, assuring him all was well and thanking him for his work the previous day. In truth Chanson loved and lived for horses and nothing else. Weapons were more dangerous to him than any opponent, whilst his singing voice, so Ranulf asserted, would make the good brothers think that the choirs of hell were mocking their plainchant.
‘We’ll wait for the dawn Mass,’ Corbett told him. ‘Stay only if you want to.’
Chanson said he would, and Corbett left him bantering with Ranulf as he turned to the grandeur of the nave, admiring its soaring pillars, darkened transepts, and the intricacies of the carved screens outside the various chantry chapels. Humming the tune of a hymn, Corbett carefully examined the paintings. One made him smile. Apollinaria, the patron saint of tooth drawers, holding the pincers and tongs of her martyrdom. Now in heaven, she was depicted dispatching help to poor unfortunates as they sat on a row of stools, each with a tooth drawer inflicting more pain than relief. An artist who suffered toothache, Corbett reflected. He walked back up into the Lady Chapel, his
‘Don’t hold the sins of our fathers against us.’ The powerful chant of scores of male voices thundered like surf into the great open space created by pillars and arches, a resounding plea for God’s help.
Ranulf blinked and found the place in the psalter as the choir swept to its glorious doxology: ‘Glory be to the Father and to the Son . . .’
Corbett lowered the stall and sat down as the reader approached the lectern and, in a clear voice, proclaimed the reading from the Book of Daniel. A phrase caught his attention – ‘Do not treat us because of the treasons we have committed against you’ – and he reflected on the tangle of treasons facing him. After the meeting the night before, the King had taken him aside, finger jabbing, insisting that Corbett resolve matters and remember three important issues. First, Staunton and Blandeford had been friends of Boniface. Second, both had been approached to investigate any wrongdoing by Evesham. Third, now that the Chief Justice was dead, the case against Waldene and Hubert the Monk had collapsed, as the Crown’s principal witness could never be called.
‘But the riot at Newgate?’ Corbett was sure the King was trying to ignore this.
Edward grimaced. ‘According to what I’ve learnt, Waldene and Hubert were held fast in their respective pits. Like Pilate they have washed their hands of any wrongdoing. I’ve given orders for their immediate release.’
Then the King was gone, shouting for his escort. Blandeford and Staunton also made their farewells before following the royal household down to the quayside and the waiting barge. Corbett had immediately sought out Chanson, the Clerk of the Stables, who was responsible for their horses and pack ponies. Corbett had ensured the groom had good lodgings in the abbey guesthouse before adjourning to his own sparse chamber. He had slept well, waking long before dawn. He’d washed at the lavarium and dressed in a fresh shirt, hose and leather jerkin, a welcome relief from the heavy sweaty jerkin and chainmail of the previous day.
‘Master?’
Corbett glanced up. The monks were filing out. He rose, going through the rood screen into the nave, where Chanson squatted at the base of a pillar, his bobbed hair cut, as Ranulf laughingly described, as if a pudding bowl had been overturned on his head. The groom, threading his Ave beads, glanced up, the cast in his left eye giving him a constantly humorous look. Corbett clasped his shoulder, assuring him all was well and thanking him for his work the previous day. In truth Chanson loved and lived for horses and nothing else. Weapons were more dangerous to him than any opponent, whilst his singing voice, so Ranulf asserted, would make the good brothers think that the choirs of hell were mocking their plainchant.
‘We’ll wait for the dawn Mass,’ Corbett told him. ‘Stay only if you want to.’
Chanson said he would, and Corbett left him bantering with Ranulf as he turned to the grandeur of the nave, admiring its soaring pillars, darkened transepts, and the intricacies of the carved screens outside the various chantry chapels. Humming the tune of a hymn, Corbett carefully examined the paintings. One made him smile. Apollinaria, the patron saint of tooth drawers, holding the pincers and tongs of her martyrdom. Now in heaven, she was depicted dispatching help to poor unfortunates as they sat on a row of stools, each with a tooth drawer inflicting more pain than relief. An artist who suffered toothache, Corbett reflected. He walked back up into the Lady Chapel, his
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