Nightshade

by P. C. Doherty

  ‘I must be gone,’ Father Thomas declared, but then paused as the door was flung open and Lord Scrope, accompanied by Brother Gratian, came marching up the nave like anger incarnate.

  ‘The corpses are in the death house?’ Scrope made no attempt at courtesies.

  ‘You know they are.’ Father Thomas gestured at the door on the far side of the church.

  The manor lord stared round. ‘I promise you this, Father, by midsummer the renovation work will have begun. I’ll give you a church to be proud of.’

  ‘I am proud of it now.’

  The manor lord didn’t even both to answer, but continued on. Brother Gratian, his bony white face shrouded by a deep cowl, nodded courteously and followed him out.

  ‘I had best go with him,’ Father Thomas murmured.

  ‘No, Father, I don’t think you should.’ Corbett caught him by the sleeve.

  The priest glanced up in surprise.

  ‘Father, you served in the King’s forces in Wales?’

  ‘You know I did.’

  ‘And you met Lord Scrope there?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You were a priest in the royal chapel?’

  ‘I was.’ Father Thomas tried to keep the nervousness out of his voice.

  ‘And you decided to abandon Crown preferment to become a faithful pastor, a good shepherd?’

  ‘I strive to do my best. I was in the war in Wales. I saw people murdered, killed in more ways than any man could imagine. Afterwards I felt sick. What does it profit a man if he gains the whole world but suffers the loss of his own soul? I was party to that. I had to make reparation. I met Lord Scrope at the beginning of the campaign, years before he went to Acre. He promised me that if I wanted, he would use his influence, persuade the Crown to appoint me to a benefice here.’

  ‘But you did not like him?’

  ‘No, I didn’t.’

  ‘Do you have a longbow, Father? Please, the truth, here before Christ.’

  The priest turned abruptly and walked away. Corbett realised that he intended to return and did so a short while later, hurrying back with a longbow and a quiver full of arrows.

  ‘Of course, I keep it close. We live in violent times, Sir Hugh. A priest may have to protect himself, his church or his flock.’

  ‘And your aim is as good as ever?’ Corbett asked.

  ‘Lord, do you want to put me to the test?’

  Corbett smiled thinly. ‘I’m no fool, Father. If you are trained in the longbow, you will eventually hit your mark.’

  ‘Why are you asking this, Sir Hugh?’

  Corbett walked past the priest, paused, then turned.

  ‘The Sagittarius, the one who appeared almost ten years ago: you were that man, weren’t you, Father? You served with Lord Scrope in Wales. You saw him butcher Welsh prisoners, and when you arrived here, you saw him high on the hog, feasting himself, a man of blood acting the great lord. Isn’t there a psalm about God drawing back his bow and aiming at the wicked?’

  ‘What makes you think it was me?’

  ‘Oh,’ Corbett walked back, carefully measuring his footsteps, ‘a master bowman never misses, Father. Maybe once, but two, three times, no! The bowman of almost ten years ago was a man who wanted to frighten Lord Scrope. The only person who’d want to do that, at least according to the evidence, would be you. You called yourself the Sagittarius – God’s archer. It’s true, isn’t it, Father? You’ve heard my confession; now I’ll hear yours. What I have said to you is covered by the seal; what you say to me is also covered by the seal.’

  ‘I hate him!’ the priest whispered. ‘Sir Hugh, I felt guilty. I secured this benefice through his good offices, but I truly hate Lord Scrope. Yes, I was in Wales. A group of Welsh rebels, tired and hungry, came down from the hills carrying a cross, ready to surrender. Scrope was in charge of a vexillation of mounted archers and footmen. I was there. It was late in the evening, on a day like this, cold and bitter. They came into our camp barefoot and unarmed, one of them carrying that cross. Before anyone could do anything, Scrope had drawn his sword and moved amongst them, stabbing and hacking; others joined in. They’d seen their friends and comrades killed by the Welsh so they showed no mercy. By the time I’d reached that part of the camp they were dead, sixteen or seventeen souls, Corbett, young men, some of them mere boys, corpses awash with blood, Scrope leaning on his sword, the others holding axes, daggers, clubs, bloodied up to their elbows. I cursed him. I shrieked at him. You served in Wales, Corbett, you know what it was like. No mercy asked, none shown. A fight to the death.’ Father Thomas breathed in.

  ‘Afterwards, I left the royal service; I served in this village or that. Scrope is a strange man. Part of his soul is not yet fully rotten. He sinned but he wanted to purge himself. Anyway, he remembered me and I was invited back here.’ Father Thomas abruptly caught himself. ‘The people of Mistleham are good, decent and God-fearing. Oh there are individuals like Claypole and Robert de Scott, but you met those young men and women preparing the play for Candlemas. I enjoy serving them. Anyway, I was appointed just after Scrope returned from Acre. He came back more steeped in sin than ever. He brought treasures and waxed fat as the wealthy manor lord. He married Lady Hawisa, a true beauty. I’ll be honest.’ He smiled. ‘We priests are supposed to be celibate, chaste in thought, word and deed, but Lady Hawisa …’ He shrugged. ‘I sometimes dream of her, my fair, fair lady. I was angry with Scrope, I recalled those corpses. He seemed to be gaining everything; no ill could befall him, living proof that Satan does look after his own. So I decided to frighten him. I brought out my longbow and, for a while, taunted, baited and terrified him. I realised I was doing wrong so I stopped. Yes, I was the Sagittarius. I preached against my own sin. I was the one who used that name, but I tell you this, Corbett.’ He grasped Sir Hugh’s hand and squeezed it. ‘Not in my nightmares did I ever imagine another Sagittarius would emerge, the archer of death, the bowman from hell!’

  Corbett heard the door open and Ranulf calling his name. ‘I must go.’

  ‘God’s peace stay with you, Sir Hugh. I’ll see you tomorrow morning for the Jesus Mass at the manor. Dame Marguerite and I have business with Lord Scrope. He has invited us to the reclusorium, so we’ll meet again soon. Remember, I’ve heard your confession and you’ve heard mine. I have nothing more to add.’

  Corbett joined Ranulf out on the porch.

  ‘Master, I did as you asked. On each side of the square run needle-thin alleyways, really nothing more than holes between the houses.’

  ‘And the houses themselves?’

  ‘Well, as you know, some are four, five storeys high. Some are lived in, some are not. Others are single-room tenements used by travelling chapmen and tinkers. One thing I did learn, many of those tenements are actually owned by Lord Scrope; he draws rent from them.’

  Corbett nodded. ‘What I suspect, Ranulf, is that our Sagittarius may have a bow and quiver of arrows disguised or hidden away, or,’ he shrugged, ‘he may have stored his weapons in one of those garrets or rooms.’

  ‘Not to mention stairwells, Sir Hugh, and a host of windows. Some are mere arrow slits open to the wind, others are casements that can be unlocked. I stood at a few of these; they give a good view across the marketplace. For a skilled archer, it would not be difficult to bring down three or even more men.’

  ‘And all those killed were from Lord Scrope’s retinue,’ Corbett declared.

  ‘They were with us at Mordern this morning. The killer knew they’d adjourned to the taverns; he simply waited for the right time.’

  ‘Did you question anyone?’ Corbett asked.

  ‘Servants, maids, boys, but they could tell me nothing. Master, those houses are gloomy and shadow-filled; you could hide an army there. Oh, by the way,’ he added, ‘Chanson claims he’s freezing to death. If we don’t return soon, we’ll find nothing but a pillar of ice.’

  Corbett nodded. ‘We’ve finished here, Ranulf. Father Thomas will visit the manor early tomorrow mornin
g. I suppose he has to return here to sing the requiem masses for those slain. God’s Acre at St Alphege’s will soon become full.’

  They went out into the now silent marketplace. The day’s trading was completely finished. Stalls had been put away. Lantern horns gleamed from hooks on door posts, candles glowed in windows. A dog barked, beggars flittered like shadows in the poor light. Chanson had led their horses over to a tethering pole while he and some beggars grouped around a pitch cask in which some good citizen had kindled a fire to keep them warm during the night. Chanson muttered and groaned about how cold and hungry he was, but soon cheered as Corbett swung himself into the saddle, saying that they’d return to Mistleham Manor for some good food, ale and, perhaps, even another goblet of that mulled wine. They turned their horses to leave. Corbett was glad he’d been shriven; as they made their way across the icy cobbles into the dark lane leading back to the manor, he sensed he was now moving to the heart of this murderous mystery.

  8

  He along with others, was accustomed to enter houses of different people at twilight and plunder them.

  H.T. Riley, Memorials of London

  Once he’d returned to Mistleham Manor and made himself presentable, Corbett went into the Antioch Wing of the house where a servant led him to the abbess’ chambers. Despite the roaring fire, the warm hangings and shuttered windows, Dame Marguerite was still garbed in her thick black gown and cloak, her sweet face framed by a white wimple. She was sitting in a high-backed chair before the fire, her feet resting on a stool. Master Benedict, dressed in a cambric shirt and dark blue hose, feet pushed into slippers, a sleeveless gown over his shoulders, sat next to her, a book on his lap.

  ‘Ah, Sir Hugh.’ Dame Marguerite made to rise, but Corbett shook his head. ‘Master Benedict was reading from The Romance of the Rose. I so like the story. A work of art, don’t you think, Sir Hugh?’

  Corbett nodded in agreement.

  ‘Master Benedict, please?’ the abbess whispered.

  The chaplain rose, smiled at Corbett and pulled across another chair, positioning it between himself and Dame Marguerite. Corbett sat down. For a while the usual pleasantries and courtesies were exchanged. Dame Marguerite looked composed but Master Benedict was still pale and pinched from the horrors he’d witnessed.

  ‘I’ve given Master Benedict two goblets of claret,’ Dame Marguerite remarked, following Corbett’s gaze. ‘My brother is truly a man of blood, Sir Hugh. Perhaps Master Benedict should not have gone there. But look, I thank you for coming.’ She paused as Corbett sipped from the goblet of white wine Master Benedict served. The chaplain also offered a platter of comfits, which he refused.

  ‘Dame Marguerite, I have some questions for you. Perhaps it is best if I ask them before you tell me the purpose of this meeting.’

  ‘Of course.’ She smiled. ‘No, no, Master Benedict, please stay. You are my confessor, you know everything I say and do.’ She laughed prettily. ‘Even think! Sir Hugh, your questions?’

  ‘You call your brother a man of blood; was he that before he went to Acre?’

  ‘You can answer that yourself. My brother had a fearsome reputation as a warrior, in Wales and elsewhere, a man who relished the fury of battle. He took to fighting like a fish to swimming. He did not come back changed, just harder, angrier.’

  ‘And he brought back treasures?’

  ‘Yes, he brought back a hoard of precious items looted from the Temple, what he called the spoils of victory.’

  ‘And Master Claypole too?’

  ‘Yes, he profited. Strange you mention his name, Sir Hugh, because that’s the reason for my asking to meet you.’

  ‘But first you, Dame Marguerite. You’re so different from your brother.’

  ‘God knows why!’ The abbess laughed, leaning back in her chair. ‘When we were children I was a little frightened of Oliver. He could be violent, but we had a cousin, Gaston, he kept Oliver in check. The three of us would play. Our estates were much smaller than they are now, but where this manor house stands, the Island of Swans, the fields and meadows around, they’ve always been in my family. Our parents were distant, rather cold. Father was always busy on king’s business. Our mother died young so we were left to the care of good servants as well as to our own devices. Mistleham, Mordern Forest, the deserted village, the Chapel of the Damned, they became our places of dreams where we fought dragons, the infidel or the King’s enemies. Always the three of us,’ she commented, ‘but life changes, children cease to be innocent. Oliver and Gaston went off to the King’s wars, Wales, Gascony and the Scottish border. Then they came home. Father had died, profits from our estates had fallen off. I admit, and so would Lord Oliver, that he journeyed to Outremer not only to fight for the cross but also for his own purse. By the time he came home I too had changed.’ She drew a deep breath. ‘While he was away I decided to enter St Frideswide as a Benedictine nun. Life continued to change. Oliver became what he wanted to be and I am what God wants me to be.’

  Corbett glanced at the chaplain. He sat head down as if listening intently. Corbett felt just for a moment a profound sadness about the abbess, even though she was half smiling at the memories she’d evoked.

  ‘And Gaston?’

  The abbess just shrugged. ‘From what I gather, he was sorely wounded at Acre after the walls were stormed. He was taken to the infirmary where he died of his wounds. Oliver and Master Claypole did what they could.’

  ‘But isn’t it strange,’ Corbett insisted, ‘that only two from Mistleham returned? Lord Scrope and his squire Master Claypole.’

  ‘Sir Hugh, in some communities no one returned. Only a few went out, some died on the voyage, others of illness or wounds. My brother himself was wounded, as was Master Claypole.’

  ‘But he came back a rich man.’

  ‘Oh, definitely.’

  Corbett startled as Master Benedict sprang to his feet, hand to mouth, and rushed towards the door.

  ‘Poor boy.’ Dame Abbess stared at Corbett. ‘What he saw this morning has deeply upset him.’ She waited for a while, until Master Benedict returned, wiping his mouth on a napkin.

  ‘I am sorry,’ he apologised, ‘my stomach is queasy.’ He retook his seat. ‘This talk,’ he whispered. ‘Acre, the slaughter in the dragon courtyard, hideous killings in Mordern, threats and menaces.’ He shook his head. ‘I did not think it would be like this.’

  Dame Marguerite asked whether he wanted anything to eat or drink, but Master Benedict simply held up a hand.

  ‘Sir Hugh,’ the abbess lifted the ave beads wrapped around her fingers, ‘I’ve come to ask you for two favours. First, when you return to London, please mention Master Benedict to the King. He must enter the royal service, he deserves preferment. He is a very good priest, a most erudite clerk, but I’ll leave that to you. Second, however, a much more serious matter. I call my brother a man of blood, and so he is. He is now being threatened whether rightly or wrongly, but he is still threatened. Even the King is displeased with him. The Sagittarius has appeared. In my view, that murderous archer is pursuing vengeance for those deaths at Mordern. I am sure you would agree with me; there’s no other logical explanation. What I believe is that sooner or later my brother is going to meet his God. Scripture says that those who live by the sword die by the sword. I fear for my brother, I truly do.’

  ‘Madam,’ Corbett replied, ‘how does that concern me? I am here to serve your brother’s interests as best I can. You quote scripture: what a man sows, his soul reaps. Are you saying your brother is in mortal danger?’

  ‘My brother is always in danger,’ she replied. ‘He is the heart of the problem. Our family, Sir Hugh, have owned this land since the Conqueror. We are the last Scropes. I am a virgin dedicated to God, my brother is married but has no legitimate heir. If he dies suddenly without issue …’

  ‘Then surely the lands would go to his wife, Lady Hawisa?’

  ‘I am deeply concerned,’ the abbess cut in, ‘as is Master Benedict, with whom I�
��ve discussed this on many occasions. If my brother dies without heir, true, his estates would go to Lady Hawisa. I would receive my portion; some would also go to Master Claypole and others. However, you must have heard the rumours? You must have looked at Claypole and my brother and seen the likeness?’

  Corbett just stared back.

  She took a deep breath. ‘Some people claim,’ she continued, ‘that Master Henry Claypole is a by-blow, the illegitimate son of my brother. Many, many years ago, before he took to fighting and serving in the King’s forces, my brother became enamoured of a certain Alice de Tuddenham. She was the daughter of a local wool merchant. Alice became pregnant shortly before she married a local trader, and the rumour persists …’

  ‘That Claypole is your brother’s son rather than that of Alice and her husband?’

  ‘Precisely, Sir Hugh. Now, my brother Oliver and Master Henry Claypole have always been close. I am sure that in his will Lord Oliver has remembered Henry Claypole’s good and faithful service. However, I am deeply concerned that when my brother dies without a legitimate heir, even though his estates should go to his widow, Master Claypole may well argue in the King’s courts that he is not only my brother’s son but a legitimate one.’

  ‘How can that be?’ Corbett was now genuinely puzzled.

  ‘There are rumours,’ the abbess continued, ‘that Lord Scrope secretly married Alice de Tuddenham, which makes her second union invalid according to canon law. Both she and her husband have now gone to their reward, whatever that may be. Now, Sir Hugh, according to the law of the Church—’

  ‘Henry Claypole could prove that he is the legitimate heir of Lord Oliver,’ Corbett declared. ‘And, by right of that, claim his estates, yet to achieve that, he will need proof?’

  ‘I have visited Father Thomas,’ Dame Marguerite declared. ‘We have both searched for the blood books, the marriage registers, whatever documents the church might hold. However, for the period in which my brother may have married Alice de Tuddenham, the blood registers have mysteriously disappeared.’