The old physician himself cheerfully proclaimed the good news when he visited Corbett to report on what he’d discovered when he’d dressed Scrope’s body for burial.
‘The flesh was marked with old bruises and scars. Scrope was definitely a man of war, his skin bore ample witness to that. For the rest his right hand was stained with blood. He was definitely killed by one dagger thrust to his heart. I detected no signs of resistance, fresh cuts or blows. True,’ the physician spread his hands, ‘deadly nightshade was found in the wine. God knows why, as Scrope never drank a drop. And that, my royal clerk, is all I can tell you, except that the funeral is arranged for the day after tomorrow. A small service in the manor chapel followed by a procession down to St Alphege’s for the solemn high requiem mass. Our good manor lord will be interred for a while in God’s Acre whilst his tomb is built in the south transept of St Alphege’s, a beautiful table monument with an exquisite canopy.’ The physician smirked. ‘Few will make pilgrimage there! Lady Hawisa is much recovered.’ Ormesby bowed sardonically in Ranulf’s direction. ‘Your colleague and comrade has been a great source of help and comfort to her.’
Ranulf stared coldly back.
‘As far as the rest are concerned,’ the physician continued blithely, ‘Dame Marguerite, with her little shadow the chaplain, has taken up residence here. Lady Hawisa is distressed, so the good abbess has taken over the running of the manor. Master Claypole looks thunderstruck, weighed down by all the cares of high office. Brother Gratian is impatient to leave but still insists on distributing the Mary loaves three times a week at the manor gates.’ Ormesby noticed Corbett’s surprise. ‘Yes, our good Dominican’s one Christ-like task. Anyway, Father Thomas is busy with funeral matters, the burials of those killed by the Sagittarius. I suppose it’s true what he says.’
‘Which is?’ Corbett asked.
‘Hell must surely be empty because all the demons have come to Mistleham. God be thanked,’ the physician rose to his feet, ‘the Sagittarius has not returned. Perhaps he’s finished his bloody work now that Scrope is dead.’ Ormesby made his farewells. Corbett thanked him and the physician left.
For a while the royal clerk just stared at the door.
‘Master?’ Ranulf asked.
‘Father Thomas’ mysterious visitor, the one who threatened Scrope: he called himself Nightshade, the same poison found in Scrope’s wine. The same sinister visitor ordered Scrope to creep to the market cross and confess his sins. He didn’t, so he was killed. Now Brother Gratian wishes to leave.’ Corbett stared at the table. The letters he’d received from the Chancery still lay there.
‘What are you thinking, master?’ Ranulf rose and placed another log on the fire. ‘By the way, that’s your job,’ he teased, turning towards Chanson, who was perched on a stool in the corner, busy whittling at a piece of wood.
‘I have another task for you, Chanson.’ Corbett beckoned him forward. ‘It’s simply this.’ The groom came over.
‘Master?’
‘Work at last,’ Ranulf whispered.
‘At least I’m not frightened of the countryside, Ranulf!’
‘Enough of that.’ Corbett pointed to the door. ‘I want you to mix with the servants, Chanson, but keep a very close eye on Brother Gratian. Every time he distributes the Mary loaves, go down with him, act as if you’re just gawping around.’
‘That won’t be difficult,’ Ranulf interjected.
‘No, no, listen,’ Corbett continued. ‘Just watch him distribute the loaves.’
‘What am I looking for, master?’
‘I don’t know.’ Corbett grinned. ‘But you’ll know when you see it. Come back and tell me.’
Corbett spent the rest of that day sifting through the evidence, but he could find nothing new. Now and again he’d leave his chamber and wander the manor. Chanson was gossiping with the other grooms, Ranulf was taking special care of Lady Hawisa during her mourning. Corbett smiled to himself. He knew what Ranulf was plotting. The Principal Clerk in the Chancery of the Green Wax was extremely ambitious; he had yet to decide which road to take: marriage to the likes of Lady Hawisa, or any other heiress who attracted his attention; or entry into the church, receiving clerical status and seeking preferment along that path. Other clerks did the same. Corbett’s colleague John Drokensford had remained a bachelor and accepted clerical status; rumour at court whispered that the next bishopric which fell vacant would be his. Corbett eventually decided to visit the manor chapel and, in its silence, sat and reflected on the problems facing him. He eventually concluded there was very little he could do, not until the funeral was over. He returned and closeted himself in his own chamber, writing to Maeve and the children.
The following morning, when a royal messenger came thundering up to the manor flecked with muddy snow and cursing the state of the roads, Corbett received more chancery pouches. Most of these were business reports from his spies and agents in various ports, such as a letter from the Mayor of Boulogne complaining about the infringements of the French. The pouch also included a personal letter from the King expressing his anger at Scrope’s death and his fury at the loss of the Sanguis Christi. Corbett simply tapped this against the table and put it to one side. Edward’s anger would have to wait. Finally there was a letter from Drokensford saying how he’d searched the records but had discovered little of note about the fall of Acre or Scrope’s involvement in it.
On the eve of the funeral Corbett summoned Ranulf and Chanson back to his chamber. The Clerk of the Stables had little to report except how Scrope was savagely disliked and people now hoped Lady Hawisa would be a more benevolent and kind seigneur. They also prayed that the Sagittarius, having wreaked his vengeance, would not re-emerge. People wanted to close the door on the past and get on with their lives. As for Brother Gratian, he had not distributed any Mary loaves but apparently intended to do so once the funeral was over. Corbett heard Chanson out, then turned to Ranulf, laying out his plans for the commission of oyer and terminer. He declared he would announce it at the end of the funeral banquet tomorrow, with Ormesby being sworn in as the third member of the commission.
Lord Scrope’s funeral day proved to be bitterly cold. No snow fell, but an icy breeze stung the faces of mourners as they processed solemnly down the trackway, across Mistleham market square and into St Alphege’s. Scrope’s coffin rested on an ox-drawn cart, covered with thick purple and gold drapes and surrounded by altar servers carrying funeral candles capped against the breeze. The harness of the oxen gleamed a golden brown. Black banners flapped alongside standards, and pennants emblazoned with Scrope’s arms. On top of the coffin rested the dead knight’s crested helmet, shield, war belt and sword. The air grew sweet with the incense smoke trailing from swinging thuribles as Father Thomas vigorously chanted the psalms for the dead. Scrope’s body had lain in state in the manor chapel, so once they entered the welcoming warmth of the nave, the townspeople drew aside to allow the funeral cortège to pass. The requiem mass began immediately, celebrated by Father Thomas, assisted by Brother Gratian and Master Benedict as deacon and subdeacon respectively. Lady Hawisa led the mourners, escorted by Dame Marguerite and Ranulf, on whose strong arm she securely rested. They took up position just within the rood screen, whilst Corbett stood outside in the nave. Once everyone was settled, he moved back into the transept, his gaze drawn by that vivid wall painting done by the Free Brethren.
Father Thomas intoned the introit, leading the choir with the powerful words ‘Dona ei requiem aeternam, Domine … Eternal rest grant to him, oh Lord.’ The rest of the mass followed its usual beautiful rhythm. The gradual hymn was sung, its sombre words echoing around the nave: ‘Dies irae, dies illa – oh day of wrath, oh day of mourning, see fulfilled Heaven’s warning, Heaven and Earth in ashes burning.’ Corbett joined in lustily, then listened to the epistle and gospel being read, followed by Father Thomas’ brief homily on the final resurrection. The priest’s words cut through the incense-filled church where the carvings of saints, a
ngels, demons and gargoyles gazed down in stony silence. The solemn part of the mass then ensued: the consecration, the distribution of the singing bread and the final benediction. Corbett only half participated, his attention fully taken up by that wall painting: the colours used, the strange symbols and plants: the scene of a man lying in bed, the banqueting chamber, the flight of Judas, and that cross dominating the Valley of Death displaying the five wounds of Christ. He felt a tingle of excitement – was this truly a drawing of the Fall of Babylon or something else?
‘Let him be taken to a place of rest and not fall into the hands of the enemy, the evil one …’ Father Thomas’ strident voice caught Corbett’s attention. The coffin was now being blessed with holy water, incensed and prayed over. The funeral party lined up; the coffin was raised and taken out through the corpse door into a bitterly cold God’s Acre. Snow clouds were gathering. The cemetery looked bleak and stark. A scene from purgatory, Corbett decided as he watched the coffin being lowered into the ground. Father Thomas continued his litany of prayer. Corbett leaned on a headstone and gazed around the various memorials. He was still thinking about the wall painting when his attention was caught by a headstone of recent origin to one ‘Isolda Brinkuwier, spinster of this parish’. On either side of the woman’s name was a carved stone medallion illustrating the Annunciation, when the Angel Gabriel asked the Virgin Mary to be the Mother of God.
‘Nazareth in Galilee,’ Corbett whispered to himself. ‘Where God kissed Mary.’ He thought of the refrain etched on the sacristy wall of that lonely church. Rich, shall richer be, Where God kissed Mary in Galilee. ‘I wonder,’ he murmured, ‘si mortui viventibus loquntur — if the dead do speak to the living.’
Father Thomas had finished. The funeral party began to disperse, first the curious amongst the townspeople then the party from the manor. Corbett glimpsed Chanson mingling with the servants. Ranulf was still being supportive of Lady Hawisa, who was dressed completely in black, a veil drawn over her face. She walked away from her husband’s grave, both hands grasping the arm of Corbett’s companion. The bells of St Alphege tolled, the signal that another soul had gone to God blessed and hallowed. Corbett wondered what judgement awaited Scrope, before deciding to make his own way back to Mistleham Manor. He left the cemetery by the wicket gate, going across the square, ignoring the dark looks and grumbles of the townspeople he passed. In their eyes the King’s man was busy, but it seemed as if God was going to settle matters rather than the King at Westminster. Corbett ignored them. To show he was not cowed, he paused on a corner of the marketplace where a wandering story-teller had set up his stall. He’d hobbled his donkey and driven his standard, as he called it, into the dirt, the pennant fluttering from it indicating which way the cold breeze was blowing. Children and young people were gathering round. The story-teller, dressed garishly in motley rags, was reciting well-known stories about ‘Madam Lyabed’ and ‘Madam Earlybird’ as well as ‘Madam Gobblecherries’, characters whom his audience would recognise as people perhaps living in their own town or even along their own street. Corbett stopped and stared at the story-teller’s worn face; such a man might be one of his own agents wandering the streets and lanes of England. He did not recognise the face, so he moved on out of the town and up the deserted trackway.
He was only a short way along when he began to regret his decision. The line of trees on either side rose stark and black, the undergrowth still covered by an icy canopy, the sheer loneliness of the place becoming all the more oppressive after the noise and bustle of the town. To lighten his spirit Corbett began to sing a Goliard chant: ‘I am a wandering scholar lad full of toil and sadness. Often I’m driven by poverty to madness. Literature and knowledge I fain would be learning …’ He paused and laughed softly at the doleful words. He was about to continue when three figures slipped like shadows on to the trackway, hooded and visored; they raised their longbows, arrows notched, pointing at Corbett. The clerk stopped, his hand going beneath his cloak for his sword. He tried to control his seething panic. This was his nightmare, to be trapped, killed on a lonely road. Would it be here that he’d receive his death wound? Would it be here where he would rise on the last day?
‘Friends,’ he called out, ‘what business do you have with me? I’m the King’s man.’
‘We know that, Sir Hugh, we simply want something from you.’
‘Then ask, friends. Why not pull back your hoods, lower your visors, speak like Christian folk. Why do you threaten the King’s man on the King’s highway? That is treason, punished immediately by death.’
‘We mean you no harm, Sir Hugh. We ask you this: the Sanguis Christi, do you have it on you?’
‘Do you think I would wander these lanes with a precious relic belonging to the King in my pouch?’ Corbett spread his hands. ‘Search me! I have no such item, and before you ask, nor do I have it at Mistleham Manor. You’ve heard the news. Lord Scrope is dead, his treasure coffer raided; the Sanguis Christi is missing. I do have a letter from the King expressing his anger at what has happened.’
The archer on Corbett’s right lowered his bow, as did the one in the centre, but the one on his left still kept aim.
‘Friends,’ Corbett walked forward, ‘you’ve asked me a question, so I’ll ask you one. What is the Sanguis Christi to you, why do you demand it of me?’
He received no reply. The archer to his left still had his bow drawn, arrow notched, the barbed point directed at Corbett’s chest. The man in the centre spoke swiftly, some patois Corbett had never heard before. The bow was lowered. The man in the centre was about to walk forward when Corbett heard shouts and yells behind him, and a crossbow bolt came whirring over his head, smacking into a tree. He whirled round. Ranulf and Chanson were hastening towards him, the Clerk of the Green Wax already fitting another bolt into the arbalest. When Corbett glanced back, all three assailants had disappeared. He took off his gloves and wiped the sweat from his face, then stared down at the trackway, trying to control his breathing. His stomach was pitching and he felt as if he wanted to vomit, but by the time Ranulf and Chanson reached him, he’d regained some composure.
‘Master.’ Ranulf grasped him by the shoulder and spun him round, then drew him close, his green eyes like those of a cat, cold and hard. ‘Do not do that again!’ he whispered. ‘For the love of God, master, have I not told you, you are a King’s man! Walking along a lonely country trackway! We are surrounded by enemies on every side and you wander as witless as a pigeon!’
‘Ranulf is right,’ Chanson piped up. ‘Especially out here in the country, master, where all sorts of beasts and dreadful creatures lurk.’
‘Shut up!’ Ranulf snarled.
Corbett was glad of Chanson’s interruption. He winked at the Clerk of the Stables, took away Ranulf’s hand and clasped it between his own.
‘Ranulf, I apologise. I become lost, brooding in my own thoughts. I wandered away. Even before those outlaws stepped out from the thicket, I realised I had done a stupid and dangerous thing.’
‘But they weren’t just outlaws, were they?’ Ranulf asked.
‘No, they weren’t,’ Corbett agreed. ‘They wanted the Sanguis Christi. God knows who they were. It has opened the possibility that there might be more than one Sagittarius!’ He grinned. ‘Now my two stalwart companions have come to the rescue, what danger can afflict us?’
Corbett kept up the brave front, but as soon as he was back in Mistleham Manor, he excused himself, went up to his chamber and sat on the edge of the bed. Then he moved to a stool in front of the fire, pulling off his gauntlets and his boots, warming his hands and feet, closing his eyes and quietly reciting a prayer of thanks. Ranulf came up with a platter of food and drink. Corbett sipped at the bowl of hot pottage from the kitchens, where they were preparing the funeral feast.
‘Master, I leave you to your thoughts.’
‘To look after the Lady Hawisa?’ Corbett spoke over his shoulder.
‘Master, that’s my business; your safety is ou
rs and the King’s. I beg you not to do that again.’
Corbett gave him assurances and Ranulf left. Corbett sat staring into the flames, wondering who those three strangers were. He tried to recall every word and gesture. They were not assassins; they truly meant him no harm. They simply wanted something. He wondered what would have happened if Ranulf and Chanson had not emerged. He recalled the wall painting in the church, the carving on that headstone in the cemetery. Slowly, surely, he was gathering the pieces of the mosaic. He must gather some more. He recalled Master Plynton, a wandering artist who visited Leighton manor. Plynton had executed a small mosaic for the village church just near the baptismal font, the head of St Christopher and that of the infant Christ. Corbett had watched fascinated as the skilled craftsman had assembled the coloured stones. Jumbled together they made no sense, but as Plynton put them in place, a beautiful picture began to emerge. This puzzle was similar, though the conclusion would be horrid and dreadful. The face of an assassin, a murderer, who, if Corbett could prove he or she was guilty, must hang.
Corbett heard sounds from downstairs. He sighed, put on his boots, took off his war belt and walked to the door. He would go down, observe the pleasantries, but before the day was out, he must tell Lady Hawisa and all the rest what was planned for the morrow.
10
Nor would they, without the advice of their ecclesiastical superiors, submit themselves to secular Judges.
Annals of London, 1304
Corbett had his way. The commission of oyer and terminer met just after the Angelus bell the following morning. Corbett took over the great hall, its high table and the dais being transformed into King’s Bench. He displayed the royal warrant, the King’s seal giving him the power ‘to act on all matters affecting the Crown’. Across the warrant he laid his sword. Nearby stood a crucifix flanked by two candles. Three high-backed chairs were placed behind the table. On the wall above these Corbett displayed the King’s standard, emblazoned with the royal arms, golden lions against a scarlet and blue background. Before the table stood a row of stools. Near the dais was a lectern bearing a Book of the Gospels bound in reddish leather with a gold-embossed cross on its front; those summoned would take the oath on that. The fire had been kindled, candles lit, cresset torches flickered. Physician Ormesby had agreed to be included and was taken up to the chapel to render the oath.
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