Nightshade

by P. C. Doherty

  Corbett recalled the jerking, ragged-haired beggar man who had greeted them as they passed through Mistleham.

  ‘He saw what happened?’

  ‘Yes. He’d gone there early in the morning before the attack was launched to beg for food.’

  ‘How did he escape?’ Ranulf asked. ‘Hounds were used.’

  Dame Marguerite turned to Master Benedict.

  ‘Jackanapes is fey and witless,’ the chaplain declared. ‘He comes down to St Frideswide to beg, that is how I found out what happened. He gabbles and babbles. Jackanapes does not like to sleep in any enclosed space but out beneath a bush or under a tree. He calls such places his windswept castles of the greenwood. He was there when the Free Brethren were massacred. He was nestling high in a tree.’

  ‘Which is why he escaped the dogs?’

  ‘I would say so,’ the chaplain replied. ‘He told me little except that the felon, John Le Riche, stayed in Mordern for a while, sheltered by the Free Brethren.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Corbett asked.

  ‘As God created Sundays,’ the chaplain replied, ‘that is what Jackanapes told me. And something else: Le Riche was hanged on a Friday in November just after dawn and left dangling there; within the hour, so we understand, his corpse had vanished and has never been seen since.’

  Corbett glanced at Dame Marguerite, who shrugged.

  ‘Did he truly die?’ Ranulf asked. ‘It has been known in London for a condemned man to bribe the hangman.’ He gestured with his fingers. ‘A leather collar around the neck and throat, the knot placed differently, painful, but the condemned doesn’t choke. You were there, sir, when Le Riche was hanged?’

  ‘Of course.’ Master Benedict closed his eyes. ‘He was wearing a long tattered gown, but yes, a high collar. However, he was listless and quiet. He was hoisted up the ladder and quickly turned off. He jerked for a while and then hung soundly, just swinging. The light was grey, morning was breaking. It was bitingly cold. Demons of ice battered our fingers and noses. We all turned and went our ways. I remember the execution cart crashing and slithering on the ice behind us.’

  ‘Why are you telling us this?’ Corbett asked.

  ‘The truth,’ Marguerite declared, her face no longer smiling. ‘I simply cannot sit and listen to my brother spin his web of conceit and lies.’ She blinked, her lips a thin bloodless line, staring at the screen behind Corbett as if fascinated by the exploits of Arthur and Guinevere. ‘He grows more ruthless by the month.’

  ‘Is there anything else?’ Corbett asked.

  She shook her head.

  ‘And these warnings?’ Corbett asked. ‘I did not raise the matter with Lord Scrope. Do you know of them? Warnings delivered to your brother?’

  ‘Warnings?’ Dame Marguerite’s face softened. ‘What warnings? ’ She paused as Lady Hawisa, accompanied by Father Thomas, opened the door and swept into the chamber. Ranulf, concerned at Hawisa’s agitation, went across and clasped her hand. Father Thomas sat down on a stool, face in his hands; he rubbed his cheeks and glanced up at Corbett.

  ‘Lord Scrope is organising a search of the demesne, but I doubt if he’ll find anything.’

  Lady Hawisa retook her seat, glancing prettily at Ranulf.

  ‘Sir Hugh.’ She shifted towards Corbett, her smile fading.

  Corbett walked across. ‘You know your husband has received warnings?’

  ‘I know,’ she murmured.

  Corbett sat on the small footstool near her chair. ‘You’ve seen these?’

  ‘Once or twice,’ she replied, rubbing her brow. ‘My husband …’

  Corbett glanced up. Lord Scrope, the door off its latch, had slipped quietly into the room, Brother Gratian like a shadow behind him.

  ‘Her husband,’ Lord Scrope slammed the door shut, ‘will answer any of your questions here in his own house. There is no need to ask others.’

  ‘And the hunting horn?’ Corbett ignored the manor lord’s hot temper.

  ‘Master Claypole will see to that.’ Scrope went across to the fire, turning his back to warm himself.

  ‘Master Claypole is so useful for so many things,’ Lady Hawisa murmured.

  ‘What do you mean by that?’ her husband declared. ‘I have known him years.’

  ‘Yes, you have,’ his wife replied sweetly. ‘He was with you at Acre, was he not? A squire?’

  Corbett caught the drift of her question.

  ‘What are you implying?’ Her husband walked across.

  Corbett rose to his feet.

  ‘Nothing!’ she said wearily. ‘Husband, you hold the Sanguis Christi, you are being threatened about that. You receive warnings about confessing your sins at the market cross.’

  ‘Tell me,’ Corbett intervened, ‘who actually went to Acre?’

  ‘Myself, cousin Gaston and other men from Mistleham. We’d heard how the Saracens intended to drive the Templars and all Christian forces from Outremer. We were full of idealism. Gaston and I were young knights. We wished to seek adventure rather than chase the Welsh up their valleys or hunt for Scottish rebels amongst the drenching heather. A party of us took the cross in St Alphege’s church and journeyed east to join the garrison at Acre. Soon afterwards the city was invested by the Saracens. You know the story. Acre fell, we escaped, others didn’t. We lost good men, Corbett, and a great deal of silver and wealth. When Acre was about to fall I hastened to the Templar treasury. I took what I could. I rescued it from the hands of the infidels and brought it back to England. God was rewarding me and others for our good work.’

  ‘And yet you now have warnings; the Templars and others threaten you.’

  ‘They have …’

  ‘May I see these warnings?’

  Scrope pulled a face, then clicked his fingers. Brother Gratian hurried off. Corbett stood staring at the floor. The rest of the company had fallen silent, each busy with their own thoughts. He glanced quickly at Ranulf. The Principal Clerk in the Chancery of the Green Wax was thoroughly enjoying himself, but that was Ranulf. He liked to see Corbett enter a room like a cat stealing into a parliament of mice. Corbett winked at him and went back to his thoughts, listening to the burning twigs snapping in the hearth. Old sins, he thought, dried and hard, now brought to burning: that was what was happening here.

  ‘Sir Hugh, Sir Hugh.’

  Corbett broke from his reverie. Brother Gratian had returned with a small chancery pouch. Corbett took it and shook out the contents. The scrolls were small and thin, the warnings very similar. The vellum was of high quality, the script neat, fully formed and easy to read. One set in red ink, the other in black, but apart from this, there was no indication of their source. Corbett studied the carefully formed writing sifting the contents into two, though the message was always the same. The first, ‘The Mills of the Temple of God grind exceedingly slow but they do grind exceedingly small’, and the second, ‘The Mills of the Temple may grind exceedingly slow and exceedingly small, but so do the Mills of God’s anger.’

  ‘And how were these delivered?’

  ‘Sir Hugh,’ Scrope replied, ‘traders and merchants are common visitors here. They bring supplies as well as letters or petitions from the markets, the town and the surrounding villages. A scroll pushed into the hand. They cannot remember who, how and when for every scrap of parchment they are given.’

  Corbett handed them back.

  ‘My lord, whatever you say, these warnings are not linked to what is happening here at Mistleham but to events many years ago.’ Corbett paused. ‘Are you sure there is nothing you wish to tell me?’

  ‘Sir Hugh,’ Scrope replied, sitting down in his chair and rubbing his knees, ‘if I have to confess, then I would do so to Brother Gratian, but for the rest, this is nothing but villainy. I sent out search parties to look for the source of that horn but I am sure nothing will be found.’ He gestured at the parchments. ‘The same for those. You’ve seen the warnings, but there again, Corbett, like you I have lived with danger all my life. Whatever comes, I sha
ll face.’ He glared at his wife. ‘And in future,’ he glanced back at Corbett, ‘if you have questions about my doings, then ask me.’ He rose to his feet, clapping his hands softly. ‘I am sorry the banquet ended like this, but I am only the victim, not the cause. Sir Hugh, you look as if you have something more to say.’

  Corbett walked forward. He stood before the manor lord and stared down at him. ‘I do, Sir Oliver. Your mastiffs Romulus and Remus were slain?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then I give you a fresh warning,’ Corbett whispered, ‘and I do so most solemnly. If I were you, Lord Scrope, I would reflect very carefully on my circumstances and make sure I was well guarded both day and night. True, warnings have been delivered but they’ve yet to be fulfilled. However, time presses on, the hour grows late and we must all retire.’ Corbett turned away, determined that Lord Scrope would not have the last word. ‘Tomorrow morning, before the Jesus Mass, Master Ranulf and I will go out to Mordern, seek out the corpses of the Free Brethren and give them honourable burial. Father Thomas, Master Benedict, I would be grateful for your presence, and you, Brother Gratian. The Office of the Dead must be recited, the law of Holy Mother Church observed.’ He raised a hand. ‘I bid you good night …’

  Master Henry Claypole stood in the embrasure of the great bow window of the guildhall in Mistleham overlooking the marketplace and stared down at the ice-covered cobbles. A fresh dusting of snow had fallen. Master Claypole likened that to God’s grace sprinkled out to cover the dirt and foulness of the deeds of men. The mayor of Mistleham had slept poorly. He’d organised the main search of the manor lands but found no indication of where the Sagittarius had been. Some of those who had accompanied them even claimed the horn had been blown from behind the walls. He’d returned to the manor to find Lord Oliver in a foul mood. Corbett was determined to go to Mordern, and Claypole and a company of town soldiers were to accompany him. Corbett was to be watched! The arrival of the King’s men had deeply disturbed Claypole. Corbett was dark and brooding like some falcon on a branch, coldly surveying both the present and the past, whilst the other one, Ranulf, with his bright red hair, neatly combed and pulled tight into a queue at the back of his neck, long white fingers constantly caressing the hilt of his dagger, green eyes darting, taking in everything, lips twisted in a half-cynical smile … Claypole had met such men before, who were fully aware of their power. Yet Ranulf was different. He was eager to exercise it whatever the consequences. He and Corbett were two justices come to probe hearts and minds. Claypole quietly cursed Lord Scrope. He was the root and cause of all this. He simply did not know when to call an end, to walk away, to say he had had enough and wanted no more.

  Claypole stared at the mist trailing about. It was still dark; even the busiest of traders had yet to stir, so all was quiet. He glared down at the empty marketplace. He recalled massing there so many years ago, ready to enter St Alphege’s to prostrate himself and take the cross. So long ago, so innocent, so free of sin, and now what? He always tried to forget Acre: the raging fires, the horrid roll of the enemy kettle-drums, their green banners flapping in the dry wind, the shrieking battle cries, the terrible news of how the walls had been breached and they must fall back. Scrope shouting at them where to go. Gaston lying wounded in the infirmary. Claypole’s dreams were disturbed by the chaos that had ensued. The final days as the sky above Acre became lighted by the fiery missiles of the Saracens, their white-robed dervishes, scimitars and daggers rising and falling like the blades of reapers. Scrope’s desperate gamble to flee the impending nightmare. Yet they had escaped! They’d returned to England to be hailed as Christ’s warriors, Crusaders, men of faith who’d shown themselves true to their vows. They’d also, Claypole reflected, returned very wealthy, the result of Lord Scrope’s plundering of the Templar treasury. For a while all had been quiet, peaceful, and very enjoyable. Master Claypole had settled down and married the daughter of a goldsmith, using his marriage to climb even further up the ladder of preferment. A happy marriage, he reflected, a simple-minded girl, merry in bed, who had produced a daughter, Beatrice, whom Claypole loved above all things. A happy, quiet time living on the fat of the land, until those Free Brethren had arrived.

  At first Claypole had been dismissive, yet even he had been taken by them, especially young Eve with her oval face, beautiful eyes, and long blond hair falling down to her shoulders. He recalled the guilty pleasure during the festivities at the cherry fair. A balmy Sunday evening; Vespers had been sung. Claypole had found himself alone with her, distant from the rest, deep in the cherry orchard. He’d drunk deeply of claret; he’d stroked and caressed her breasts, ripe and full, loosened from her bodice, whilst she had pressed her lips against his face and whispered all sorts of sweet things as they lay together like lovers. Afterwards Claypole had tried to pay her, but Eve had just laughed mockingly, saying his coins weren’t worth what she had given him. How sauce for the goose was good for the gosling. He didn’t know what she meant until he heard the whispers after the morning mass or at meetings here at the guildhall: how his Beatrice was much taken by young Seth. He’d watched his innocent daughter like a cat would a mousehole. He found to his horror how she would slip from the house early in the evening, saying she was going to meet this person or that, but he learnt the truth. Beatrice was meeting her lover in the orchard. Rumours milled about. Then Lord Scrope, that dark shadow across his life, had summoned him to the manor to show him the warnings, to whisper about the danger the Free Brethren posed …

  Claypole, agitated, rubbed his mouth. He dared not cross Scrope – if the manor lord died without heir, Claypole intended to press his suit. Scrope had never told him the truth but kept it dangling like a lure on a string. Had Alice de Tuddenham been validly married to him? If so, Claypole was his legitimate heir. Yet how could he prove that? The blood registers covering the time of his birth had gone missing from the parish chest. Was that Scrope’s work? Or Father Thomas, who claimed he’d never seen them? Or Dame Marguerite, who’d always resented his claims? Why didn’t Scrope tell the truth, or was that how he wanted it? To lure his so-called illegitimate son into nefarious schemes such as dealing with the likes of Le Riche? Despite the warmth, Claypole shivered. Now that was dangerous. Scrope’s greed might still trap them in a charge of treason.

  ‘Sir?’

  Claypole, startled, looked over his shoulder. The captain of the town guard stood waiting, dressed in half-armour. He said the men were assembled in the courtyard below, horses harnessed and ready.

  ‘Sir, we should leave now!’

  Claypole sighed, picked up his cloak and put it about his shoulders, snapping the clasp shut, easing the war belt around his waist. Only the dead waited for them at Mordern, yet he had to be careful! He glanced through the window. A horseman had ridden into the square and was now dismounting. Master Benedict had arrived. It was time to be gone. Claypole went down to the guildhall yard, nodded at the captain of the guard and stood on a stone plinth.

  ‘We are to go out to Mordern this morning. We have unfinished business,’ he declared. ‘You know the King’s men are here. The corpses of the felons we killed must be given honourable burial or burnt; either way they will disappear.’ His words were greeted with silence. He noted the sombre looks and whispers as he grasped the reins of his horse and mounted. This was a highly unpopular task. He’d warned Scrope about it from the start. They should have buried the corpses and forgotten about them. Now they had to return in cold blood to where hot blood had been spilt, lives extinguished like the wick of a lamp. He gathered the reins and dug in his spurs, urging the horse forward. The gates of the guildhall yard swung open. Claypole and the others cantered out, the clatter of their horse’s hooves reassuring him with a sense of power. They crossed the marketplace. Jackanapes, in his tawdry refinery, was, as usual, sitting near the horse trough close to the church. The beggar man jumped up as Claypole approached, running towards him, leaping about, hands extended.

  ‘Master Mayor, Master May
or,’ he cried. ‘I have news!’

  Claypole reined in and stared at this frantic figure, face all wan with cold, eyes dancing with madness, mouth gaping to show half-chewed food.

  ‘The Sagittarius has come again,’ Jackanapes shouted. ‘I know he is here. I wait for my reward.’ He’d hardly finished when the shrill blast of a hunting horn shattered the silence of the marketplace. Even those beggars sleeping in the dark nooks and crannies shook themselves awake and crawled deeper into the shadows. Again the blast of the horn. By now Claypole’s men were stirring, turning their horses, swords half drawn, seeking out the danger. A third blast. Claypole dismounted hurriedly, trying to keep the horse between himself and any possible assassin. He heard the twang like the strings of a harp being plucked, followed by the whistle of the darting shaft. A scream startled his horse. Claypole stared in horror at Jackanapes, who was now staggering back, an arrow shaft embedded deep in his chest. The madman tried to keep his balance, hands flapping, face jittering, mouth opening and shutting even as the blood spurted out. Another arrow sliced the air, followed by the gargle of a man choking on his own blood. The mayor moved his horse. Jackanapes had been the sole target. The poor fool had slumped to his knees, a shaft through the side of his throat completing the work of the other deep in his chest. Jackanapes stared dully at Claypole, lips parted, mouth dribbling blood, then he pitched forward on his face, twisting in his death throes on to his back.

  5

  They stayed there two nights … before advancing with arms towards Westminster.

  Palgrave, Kalendars of the Exchequer

  Claypole gave vent to his fury and fear, yelling at his men to scatter and search even as Corbett, Ranulf and others from the manor galloped into the square. Claypole stared at the leading riders. It was like a dream. For a moment, just a brief while, those two royal clerks on their great destriers, cloaks fluttering about them, cowls up, their horses moving slightly sideways in an aura of misty sweat and hot breath, seemed like the Angels of Death entering Mistleham. Claypole shook himself from such a doom-laden dream and gazed around. Already, despite the early hour, the commotion had aroused the many households in the warren of chambers, rooms, garrets and attics fronting the square. Shutters were flung back, candles and lanterns glowed at windows, doors creaked open, dogs were barking. Father Thomas, a stole about his neck, hastened out of the Galilee porch of his church and, slipping and slithering, hurried across. He stared piteously at Claypole and Corbett’s retinue before crouching beside the fallen man. Jackanapes was not yet dead; his legs trembled, his feet in the pathetic old boots still shifted on the cobbles.