‘You think Master Claypole has stolen them?’
‘He’s an ambitious, avaricious man, Sir Hugh. He has fingers in many pies in Mistleham. It is possible that he stole them, keeping them against the evil day. At the same time, perhaps, the absence of those blood books is just a mishap. My brother and Alice de Tuddenham may have married in another church, another parish, though I doubt it.’
‘Have you questioned your brother on this?’
‘On a number of occasions over the years, but he has always shrugged it off. He claims he is not responsible for the sins of his youth.’
‘And Lady Hawisa?’
‘I have never spoken to her directly about the matter. I feel a kinship for her, a virtuous woman. She’s probably heard the rumours but nothing definite.’
Corbett stared into the fire. He had heard of similar cases coming before the chancery courts where an illegitimate child argued that he was in fact born within wedlock and, according to the law of both church and state, should receive a man’s inheritance.
‘Is your brother frightened of Master Claypole? Is that why he has favoured him, supported him in his appointment to mayor?’
‘Over the years their relationship has changed,’ Dame Marguerite conceded. She paused and stared round the comfortable chamber as if searching for a memory. The fire crackled and sparked. Outside, the wind had picked up, flapping at the shutters. Corbett could hear the creak and groan of the timbers of the manor, so full of riches yet also a place of dark memories, grudges and grievances. He was right to be cautious, to be wary. An intricate game was being played out here; more blood would be spilt.
‘Yes,’ Dame Marguerite nodded, ‘I would say their relationship has changed. Claypole was always the servant; sometimes now he regards himself as an equal, as if he has …’
‘A claim against your brother?’
‘Exactly, Sir Hugh.’
‘Is Lord Oliver frightened of Master Claypole?’ Corbett repeated.
‘My brother is a warrior. Publicly he is frightened of no one, but of course you haven’t visited the reclusorium?’
Corbett shook his head.
‘I’ve heard about the first Sagittarius,’ he declared, ‘the bowman who appeared, what, some ten years ago, and loosed shafts at your brother, though none ever found its mark.’
Dame Marguerite smiled. ‘Yes, that frightened Lord Oliver, frightened him deeply, but there are other terrors lurking in his hard heart, like wolves in the darkness of the trees. He had been back scarcely two years when the reclusorium was built. He’d always liked the Island of Swans. When we were children he and I would go across there, turn it into what we called our own little kingdom. Now it is his refuge, so yes, my brother is frightened, perhaps of Henry Claypole or of others, shadows from the past.’
Corbett glanced at Master Benedict, who sat like a scholar in a schoolroom, all patient and attentive.
‘And what do you think of this, sir?’
‘I understand my lady abbess’ concerns. I too share them. Nonetheless, as I’ve said to you, Sir Hugh, Mistleham is not my manor or the place I want to be. I believe that should I be appointed to some benefice in London, perhaps gain preferment in the royal service, then if, as she says, that evil day comes, the lady abbess would have—’
‘Friends at court?’ Corbett asked.
‘Precisely!’ Master Benedict pulled a face. ‘Sir Hugh, when you return to London, when this business is finished, perhaps you can raise the matter of Claypole’s secret desires and ambitions before the King.’
‘I have heard of similar cases.’ Corbett closed his eyes. ‘I cannot quote chapter and verse, but even the King himself cannot set aside the law. If Master Claypole can prove he is Lord Scrope’s legitimate heir, there is little anyone can do.’ He opened his eyes and smiled. ‘But of course, you want more, don’t you?’
‘Yes, Sir Hugh, I want my brother to live.’ Lady Abbess swallowed hard. ‘He must live. I pray for his safety. What I would like to do, through you, is to challenge Master Claypole about these rumours whilst my brother is still alive, to establish whether or not he is Lord Scrope’s legitimate heir.’
‘Of course,’ Corbett whispered. ‘I now understand why you wished to see me, Lady Abbess. If Henry Claypole is summoned to the King’s council, put on solemn oath and asked to produce whatever proof he has whilst Lord Oliver is alive and has no heir, your brother can rebut or support such claims. Of course, once your brother is dead, the one person who knows the truth is silenced for ever. But surely you have raised this issue with your brother, the dangers you and Lady Hawisa face?’
‘I have, but my brother just scoffs at me, and says that time will take care of everything. Sir Hugh, I do not put my trust in time but in God and you. The sooner this business is done, the better.’
Corbett finished his wine and made his farewells. He rose, bowed to both Dame Marguerite and Master Benedict and went out closing the door behind. He’d reached the top of the stairs when a shadow slipped out of a window embrasure, so swift, so unexpected, Corbett stepped back, hand going round for his dagger.
‘Pax et bonum, Sir Hugh.’
Corbett relaxed. ‘Brother Gratian, I beg you, in the dark, at a time like this, in a place like this, you should be more prudent about stepping out of the shadows.’
‘I wanted to see you, Sir Hugh. I have a favour to ask. You’ll be finished here, surely? Can I accompany you back to London?’
‘You’ll be carrying the Sanguis Christi?’
‘Of course!’
‘Why the haste, Brother? What about your care for the spiritual life of your patron?’
‘Sir Hugh, such a matter, between him and me, is covered by the seal of confession.’
‘I will answer your question, Brother, when you answer mine.’
‘Which is?’
‘Were the Free Brethren such a threat to Holy Mother Church and the King’s peace?’
‘I’ve told the truth, Sir Hugh.’
Corbett shook his head.
‘No you haven’t, Brother! I don’t think anyone has told the truth. I bid you good night …’
Corbett watched as Father Thomas finished the Jesus Mass with the final Gospel, the first twenty-two verses from St John beginning: ‘In principio erat Verbum — in the Beginning was the Word.’ At the phrase ‘the Word was made flesh’, Corbett, together with the rest of the small congregation in the manor chapel, genuflected and kissed his thumb as a mark of respect. He rose and stared round. Ranulf, Chanson, Lady Hawisa, Dame Marguerite and Master Benedict were present, with servants and retainers from the manor. Brother Gratian was undoubtedly celebrating his own dawn mass in his chamber whilst Master Benedict, according to Dame Marguerite’s hushed conversation before mass, had spent most of the night in the manor infirmary. Corbett rubbed his own eyes. He’d slept well but fitfully, his rest plagued by nightmares.
After the mass, Corbett had a few words with Lady Hawisa, then joined Ranulf and Chanson in the buttery for bread, cheese, butter and light ale. He hadn’t decided what to do that day. He discussed with Ranulf the possibility of convoking a formal court of oyer and terminer, acting as Justices of the King and summoning people on oath. He considered the possibility of the priests, Master Benedict, Brother Gratian and Father Thomas, pleading benefit of clergy, that they answered to the church courts rather than those of the King. Nevertheless, he thought such a way forward was possible. One thing he had decided on: to interrogate Lord Scrope again and try to establish logical answers to his questions. He and Ranulf were about to leave the buttery when he heard a distant clanging. A groom sprang to his feet.
‘What’s the matter, man?’ Ranulf asked.
‘It’s Lord Scrope,’ the fellow replied. ‘That’s the alarm from the reclusorium!’
Corbett and Ranulf joined the rest as they streamed from the buttery across the yard, through the Jerusalem Gate and down the icy, slippery hill towards the Island of Swans. Corbett paused halfway and too
k in the scene in the grey morning light. On the jetty Father Thomas was busy clambering from a boat; on the other side of the lake Dame Marguerite was busy beating the gong hung outside the reclusorium, the door to which was flung open. Corbett hurried down, now and again slipping on the ice, Ranulf following behind. Once they’d reached the jetty, Ranulf turned, telling the servants to stand back. Corbett grasped Father Thomas, who was still labouring to catch his breath.
‘What is it?’ he asked.
The priest looked haggard, wet-eyed from the cold. ‘Sir Hugh, it’s Lord Scrope, he’s been murdered. You’d best come.’
Corbett clambered into the boat; Ranulf followed with Father Thomas. The boat itself was small and bobbed dangerously. The oarsman told them to sit down. He too was pale-faced, startled at what he’d seen. He pulled on the oars and the wherry cut its way through the cold water to the far side.
‘Be careful,’ the oarsman said as he pulled the oars in and slid his boat alongside the landing place. Corbett and Ranulf clambered out and walked up the steps to where Dame Marguerite was standing just inside the doorway. The lady abbess was whey-faced, eyes enlarged, and could hardly speak as she led Corbett into the reclusorium. The clerk immediately stared around. The windows were shuttered behind their drapes of velvet and leather. The room smelt of wine and fragrant beeswax; two or three candles still spluttered against the darkness. Corbett was aware of richness and luxury, costly items, rugs on the floor, heavy tapestries hanging against the walls, beautifully carved stools, tables and chairs, a large bed in the far recess, light glinting off silver and gold ornaments. He also noticed the window immediately to his right. Its drapes had been torn away, the wooden shutters smashed.
‘It’s where we forced an entry,’ Dame Marguerite whispered.
Corbett held his hand up. The reclusorium reeked of wealth, but something else lurked in the gloom, an evil Corbett had pursued all his adult life: sudden, brutal murder. He had to go forward to see, to inspect the horror waiting deeper in the darkness. He crossed over to the dark shape outlined in the poor light, slumped in the great high-backed chair. Lord Scrope sat there, dead hands grasping its sides, his head slightly back. The look of mortal horror made his ugly face more gruesome in death, eyes popping, mouth slightly opened, nose and lips crusted with blood. In his chest, thrust deep to the hilt, was the assassin’s dagger, the King’s property, the faded red ribbon still attached to the handle.
‘By Satan’s feet!’ Ranulf murmured.
Corbett studied the dead man’s corpse closely. Scrope’s tawny bed-robe was drenched with congealed blood. Ranulf brought across a candelabra, the weak flames deepening the hideousness of that corpse, gruesome in death, the face like a gargoyle mask. Some blood stained Scrope’s fingers; a little more was on the floor.
‘The bed chest!’ Ranulf whispered.
Corbett walked over. The curtains to the four-poster bed had been pulled back, the counterpanes and sheets also; the bolsters were slightly pressed. Scrope had apparently adjourned to bed before murder came visiting. The trunk at the foot of the bed had been ransacked. The metal-rimmed caskets and coffers inside were empty, their lids thrown back. Corbett returned to the corpse. He leaned over, trying to avoid that popping, glassy dead glance. He felt beneath the rim of the bed-robe and gently lifted the silver key-chain up over the head, then went back to the chests and coffers. Sounds from outside echoed through. He glanced over his shoulder. More people had crossed to the Island of Swans, including Lady Hawisa. Dame Marguerite recollected herself and went out to help. Servants were also milling about; apparently both ferries had been used to bring them across. Corbett quickly tried the keys in the chests; they all fitted. He handed them to Ranulf and went outside. The island now thronged with the gawping and the curious, with more gathering on the far bank. Lady Hawisa stood at the foot of the steps, leaning on the arm of a maid. Scrope’s widow was half listening to a silver-haired man with a wan face, bushy eyebrows over deep-set eyes, his shaven cheeks sharply furrowed.
‘Lady Hawisa?’ Corbett came down.
‘Ah, you must be Lord Corbett.’ The silver-haired man blinked and smiled, though his face and eyes remained keen. He stared over Corbett’s shoulder into the darkness of the reclusorium.
‘I am who you say I am, and you, sir?’
‘Physician Ormesby late of Balliol Hall, Oxford, now spending my autumnal days on the outskirts of Mistleham. In brief, sir, I am or was,’ Ormesby added, ‘physician to Lord Scrope. My main care now is for Lady Hawisa.’
Corbett glanced around. Dame Marguerite was ordering servants here and there. Father Thomas was walking backwards and forwards, ave beads strung from one hand. Brother Gratian stood on the jetty, fingers to his lips, like a man who’d lost his wits. Across the water Corbett glimpsed the arrival of Master Claypole and members of the town’s council, resplendent in their ermine-lined robes and glittering chains of office. He groaned and plucked at Ormesby’s sleeve.
‘Physician, I want you to stay here. Father Thomas and you, madam,’ he gestured at the abbess, ‘must also stay, together with the servant who rowed you across.’ Corbett then grasped Lady Hawisa’s hand, listless and ice cold. Eyelids fluttering, she opened her mouth to speak but then shook her head. ‘Lady Hawisa,’ he urged, ‘you must leave.’ He gently squeezed her hand. ‘No, no, your husband, God assoil him, is dead, cruelly murdered. You must not see him like that. You,’ Corbett turned to the maidservant, ‘look after your mistress. My lady, you must leave.’
Lady Hawisa nodded in agreement. Corbett strode up the steps beckoning to Ranulf, who quickly joined him outside. Corbett drew his sword and banged on the bronze gong dangling from its chain beside the door post. Eventually he obtained silence.
‘Good people,’ he shouted, ‘I am Sir Hugh Corbett, King’s man. I have authority here under the royal seal. Lord Scrope, God pardon him, is dead, cruelly murdered. I must ask you to leave the Island of Swans immediately, except for those I ask to stay.’
People looked askance at him. There were shouts, a few catcalls and mocking cries. Ranulf drew his sword. The clamour died and people drifted towards the jetty. Corbett called across Physician Ormesby, Dame Marguerite, Father Thomas and the servant who’d rowed them across, a small beetle-browed character who rejoiced in the name of Pennywort. Corbett respectfully asked all these to stay outside whilst he and Ranulf returned to inspect the corpse, the chests, the windows and the only door. All the windows except one were firmly shuttered, their bars down, the pegs on each shutter at top and bottom firmly in place, their velvet and leather drapes undisturbed.
‘There is no other entrance,’ Corbett breathed. ‘The main door is secured by bolts at top and bottom, its lock definitely the work of some guildsman.’
He inspected the broken window. The shutters were smashed, the lintel scuffed and scraped. He and Ranulf went outside, apologising for the delay to those waiting. They walked round the reclusorium. Corbett admired what Scrope had done. A ring of vegetation ran along the rim of the island, with clumps of trees, including beautiful bending willows, but the area immediately around the house itself had been provided with a clear view, no other obstacle except for a narrow channel dug from under the reclusorium to carry waste down to the lake. The icy ground was now pitted with the footprints of those who’d come across. Corbett glanced down at the lake. It must be, at every point, at least six yards across and undoubtedly deep. He could see no other landing place or sign of any bridge, raft, ferry or boat. He and Ranulf returned inside. He covered Scrope’s face with a cloth, instructed Ranulf to build up the meagre fire and then invited his guests, Dame Marguerite, Father Thomas, Pennywort and Physician Ormesby, to the stools he placed in front of the fire. The physician excused himself and went across to scrutinise the corpse. He removed the face cloth, exclaimed in horror, then busied himself near the table on which Corbett had glimpsed the exquisitely carved wooden goblet brimming with red wine. The physician picked this up, sniffed at it, then muttered a p
rayer.
‘What is it?’ Corbett went across.
‘Smell but don’t drink, Sir Hugh.’
Corbett did so. Beneath the rich odour he caught a bitter tang.
‘Belladona,’ Ormesby murmured. ‘Deadly nightshade. But look, Sir Hugh, the cup seems untouched, the wine not drunk. I’ve observed Scrope’s face, and it betrays no symptoms of poisoning.’ Again that cold, knowing smile. ‘Sir Hugh, I know poisons. If nightshade had killed him, its effects would be obvious; he would have died in frenzied convulsions.’
Corbett nodded and handed the goblet back. ‘Was Scrope first poisoned before being stabbed?’
‘I doubt it.’ The physician stepped closer. ‘We only smell it now because it has fermented, being mixed with the wine for hours. That’s why the victim drinks it and physicians like myself later detect it. Belladona is a cruel assassin; Lord Scrope would have convulsed like an imp in hell. Of course I need to inspect his corpse more closely. There are other symptoms.’ Ormesby patted his own stomach. ‘Discoloration of the belly, stains on the flesh.’
He paused and went back to sniff at the silver-chased wine flagon.
‘The same,’ he declared. ‘The flagon, I suspect, was poisoned, the wine later poured into the goblet. Oh, by the way, the goblet is fashioned out of yew, an ill-omened wood.’ He lifted the cup. ‘I know the texture of woods. My father was a verderer in these parts.’
‘Very well,’ Corbett replied. ‘Give the goblet to Ranulf to keep.’
The physician obeyed and joined the rest at the fire, handing the goblet to Ranulf and whispering at him to be careful. The clerk placed the cup on the floor.
‘What happened?’ Corbett asked.
Father Thomas glanced at Dame Marguerite, then fearfully over his shoulder as if he expected the corpse to stir.
‘I was repelled by him in life,’ the priest murmured, ‘and so in death, Sir Hugh. Must we stay here with his corpse?’
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