Free Hugh Corbett 17 - The Mysterium by Paul Doherty

mean?’
    ‘Evesham was no sinner come to repentance. He was a malignant. He was born wicked, he died wicked!’
    ‘Do you really believe that?’
    ‘For the love of God, Sir Hugh, Evesham was caught in his own foul sin, so what does he do? Falls to his knees and assumes sackcloth, ashes, prayers, fasting, contrition and repentance.’ Cuthbert’s flushed face betrayed the hatred curdling within him. ‘He wasn’t worried about his soul or how he spent the last years of his life; he was more concerned about his neck.’ The lay brother paused, licking at the froth on his lips.
    Ranulf took a step forward, hand nursing the hilt of his sword.
    ‘Keep your dagger man, your bully-boy, well away from me, Sir Hugh. I mean you no ill, I am sorry.’ Cuthbert wiped his mouth on the back of his wrist. ‘I am sorry I have tried so hard to hide my anger.’ He struck his chest. ‘My fault, my fault, I have sinned, I have sinned.’ He glanced up, eyes brimming with tears. ‘Sin never leaves you,’ he added hoarsely. ‘Like some loathsome bramble it trails the soil of your soul and its roots dig deep. Please don’t think my anger is guilt. I do not want to be hauled off to some bleak prison, nor to Father Abbot, who kindly gave me shelter when I was nothing but some poor soul drifting on the winds of life.’ He glared at Corbett. ‘I heard how the King’s hawk had arrived. They know about you, clerk, even here at Syon. Our prior says that you are ruthless in the pursuit of justice, that your soul cannot be bought and sold. Now isn’t that praiseworthy in a world where souls come cheaper than apples from an orchard?’
    ‘You claim that Evesham the recluse was in fact a hypocrite?’
    ‘The word is yours, Sir Hugh.’
    ‘Yes it is, and I believe you.’ Corbett stretched across and touched Cuthbert’s cold, wrinkled, spotted hand. ‘I truly do.’ He smiled. ‘Evesham was caught, confronted and indicted. He turned, swift as a bird on the wing, throwing himself on the King’s mercy, proclaiming himself a sinner come to repentance. Such contrition was accepted.’
    ‘Because it was in the King’s interest?’ Cuthbert jibed.
    ‘True,’ Corbett agreed, ‘it certainly was in the King’s interest. Edward of England, the new Justinian, the great law-giver, the promulgator of statute law, the lord of parliament: to have one of his chief justices depicted in open court as corrupt? Indicted as a consorter with outlaws, a receiver of stolen goods, the lord of bribes, the master of chicanery? Oh yes, it was very much in the King’s interest for Evesham to confess, to seek pardon, to hide from scrutiny, to don sackcloth and ashes and sit in the dust.’
    ‘Until the storm blew itself out?’ Cuthbert observed.
    ‘You believe that?’
    ‘Of course. Evesham could kneel and mutter his paternoster, thread his Ave beads and stare at the crucifix. He could eat hard bread and drink the waters of bitterness, but I believe he was secretly preparing his defence. And before you ask, Sir Hugh, God knows what that was! What secrets did he hold about others, about the King?’ He leaned closer. ‘Did his grace, our noble lord, wish him dead?’
    ‘That’s treason,’ snapped Ranulf.
    ‘It could still be true,’ Cuthbert muttered over his shoulder. ‘Your master, dagger man, is here to seek the truth; what am I supposed to do, lie? I am simply asking what the truth is. You may keep the King’s Secret Seal but not his soul, Sir Hugh.’
    Corbett stared at this man, whose very soul bubbled with anger. He sensed what might have happened; he had seen it before. Men and women who’d hidden and masked their own hurt, nursing it like some festering wound over the years. Then, in one hour, one moment, one heartbeat, all the bile, the bitterness, anger and hurt erupted in a violent act. Had this happened here, or worse? Was Cuthbert pointing to a darker sin? Had Edward the King decided on Evesham’s death here in this lonely abbey?