The meal began. Corbett allowed Father Thomas to say grace and the servants brought in the wine, bowls of hot broth and platters of cold meat and fresh bread. Lady Hawisa, still garbed in widow’s weeds, tried to make conversation, but the atmosphere was tense; those who’d come knew that Corbett had reached his conclusions. They sat like men under sentence waiting for a judge to declare his verdict. Corbett decided to be swift. The first goblet of wine had been drunk when he abruptly rose and walked around behind Claypole’s chair. The whisper of conversation died as Corbett put his hand on the mayor’s tense shoulder.
‘Master Henry Claypole, Mayor of Mistleham, I, Sir Hugh Corbett, Keeper of the King’s Secret Seal and Royal Commissioner in these parts, do appeal you of treason, robbery and murder. Treason in that the outlaw John Le Riche deliberately came here to sell you the King’s treasure looted from the crypt at Westminster. No …’ Corbett forced the mayor to remain seated. Ranulf stood up and walked down the other side of the table, the primed arbalest pointing directly at Claypole. The rest of the guests gazed in astonishment.
‘I did not—’
‘You did!’ Corbett leaned down and whispered loudly, ‘Such mummery, Master Claypole! Le Riche was experienced, but he was tricked and betrayed by you and Lord Scrope. Where is the rest of the treasure you bought, eh? In your house? I’ll produce the necessary warrants and search it from garret to cellar. You are also accused of robbery, because you and Lord Scrope feloniously took the said treasure and hid it. Murder, because you are the Sagittarius. You are a skilled bowman, Master Claypole; both you and Lord Scrope were involved in that too. You rented tenements from your manor lord above the marketplace. You used these as a hiding place as well as your concealment to loose arrows at both the unsuspecting and those you and Lord Scrope wished to rid yourselves of. Murder also because you turned against your master; you wanted the Sanguis Christi as well as the other treasure, not to mention the blood registers. You, Lord Scrope’s son, legitimate or not, were privy to many secrets, including that secret ford across the lake.’ Corbett lifted his hand at the excited murmur around him. ‘Not now,’ he declared. ‘Perhaps in a day or so, when Master Claypole goes on trial for his life.’ He tightened his grip on Claypole’s shoulder until the mayor winced. ‘You used that ford the night you murdered Scrope.’
‘This is ridiculous!’ Claypole screeched. ‘I can prove—’
‘What?’ Corbett intervened. ‘That you were busy in the guildhall this morning when Dame Marguerite arrived?’
‘As I was in the marketplace when Jackanapes was killed.’
‘Your accomplice Lord Scrope was not,’ Corbett taunted. ‘I mean when Jackanapes was killed. There were two Sagittarius, two bowmen; I shall prove that. As for this morning, I shall also demonstrate, Master Claypole, that you have St Alphege’s under constant scrutiny. After all, that is the place from where the blood registers were allegedly stolen. You also watched Dame Marguerite, who fiercely resented your claims. When she arrived unexpectedly at St Alphege’s earlier today, you decided to finish the game once and for all. I shall explain the details later. After all, Master Claypole, you are the mayor, you can move around. It is easy to leave a bow with a quiver of arrows in the shadows, slip through one door, notch an arrow, loose and flee again. Ah yes, I have much to say about you and so much to judge. Chanson,’ Corbett called down the hall, ‘arrest Master Claypole and take him to the cellars below. Ranulf will go with you. Lady Hawisa …’
The lady of the manor, shocked and surprised, could only nod in agreement.
‘This is unjust …’ Claypole tried to gabble his innocence, but the look in his eyes betrayed a deep fear.
‘Unjust? No it is not,’ Corbett soothed. ‘I do not want you to flee or try and rouse the townspeople. Moreover, I need to collect further evidence.’
Claypole tried to struggle, but Ranulf drew his dagger and pricked the side of the mayor’s neck. Claypole’s resistance collapsed; weeping and cursing, he was bundled from the hall. Corbett retook his seat and lifted the chancery bag on to the table. Ormesby and Father Thomas particularly were full of questions, but Corbett refused to answer them.
‘Claypole may not be the sole assassin,’ he murmured. ‘There is still work to be done.’ He pointed at the Dominican. ‘Brother Gratian, you knew Claypole long before you came here. Consequently I want you to stay here tonight and visit him. Reason with him, advise him to confess all and throw himself on the King’s mercy.’
‘I can only do what I can.’
‘Good.’ Corbett smiled at the Dominican. ‘Father Thomas,’ he turned to the parish priest, ‘you received my letter this afternoon and did what I asked?’
‘I did, Sir Hugh, I—’
‘Good,’ Corbett murmured, raising his hand for silence as Ranulf came back into the hall. ‘Please, Father, talk to Ranulf after this meeting.’ He stared down at the chancery bag, then opened it.
‘Master Benedict, I have a most important task for you. Dame Marguerite asked me to recommend you to the King; as a mark of respect to her memory, I have done so.’ Corbett drew a number of scrolls, tied and sealed, and pushed these across the table. ‘At first light tomorrow, I want you to leave here and ride swiftly to the King, who is now residing at Colchester. Seek out Lord Drokensford, give him these letters of recommendation – and they are powerful ones – then hand over these other letters, urgent requests that Lord Drokensford send me a list of items looted from the treasury at Westminster. Such a list will convict Claypole not only of robbery but, as I shall prove, of cold-blooded murder.’
‘Are you sure?’ Master Benedict smiled. ‘I mean, Dame Marguerite lies dead at St Frideswide.’
‘Yes, yes, you can return for the funeral,’ Corbett declared, ‘but this is urgent. Brother Gratian must stay here, as must Father Thomas. I need Ranulf and Chanson for other tasks. I am concerned, wary of Claypole’s associates. The letters will also ask Lord Drokensford to send the Sheriff of Essex and his comitatus here along with the shire muster rolls which will demonstrate that Claypole and his accomplices—’
‘Accomplices?’ Physician Ormesby couldn’t contain himself. ‘Sir Hugh, what accomplices?’
‘Please bear with me,’ Corbett replied. ‘I need vital information to prove that Claypole and his accomplices were master bowmen.’
‘You said I should lodge here for the night?’ Master Benedict queried, ‘but I need to collect certain items from St Frideswide. Pay my respects to Dame Marguerite’s corpse.’
‘Of course.’ Corbett turned to Chanson. ‘You will accompany Master Benedict back to St Frideswide. He will leave at first light.’ He pushed across another document, unsealed and loose. ‘This is a warrant that will allow you safe passage anywhere in the kingdom. You are not to delay or be delayed. However, you, Chanson, must return here. I need you to search Claypole’s house and other tenements.’ Corbett was determined not to be kept or questioned any further. He abruptly rose and bowed towards Lady Hawisa. ‘My apologies for what is happening, but these matters are pressing. Master Claypole lies at the root of all the wickedness here. My lady, gentlemen, I bid you good night.’
The company broke up. Master Benedict, clutching his documents, beamed at Corbett and followed Chanson out of the hall. Ranulf had a few whispered words with Father Thomas, who murmured his reply. Ranulf smiled, turned and gestured at Corbett.
Master Benedict Le Sanglier, former chaplain to Dame Marguerite, late Abbess of St Frideswide, rode into the village of Mordern just as daylight strengthened. A thick mist still shrouded the derelict buildings, deepening Mordern’s ghostly aspect. The chaplain dismounted, stared round and hobbled his horse, the best the convent stables could provide. He patted the heavy panniers slung either side of the saddle, threw his cloak about his shoulders and walked into the cemetery, looking for the headstone displaying the carving of the Annunciation. When he reached it, he stared down and felt a stab of unease. The grave had been disturbed. A twig snapped somewhere behind
him. He whirled around even as the arrow whipped the air above him. He watched in horror as the bowman emerged from the mist, head and face hidden by a cowl. The longbow he held was taut, the arrow notched ready for flight. Master Benedict’s throat went dry.
‘God save you, sir.’ His voice came in a rasp.
‘And God save you too, Master Benedict.’
The chaplain turned. Corbett walked towards him, accompanied by Chanson armed with a primed arbalest. Master Benedict blinked. Chanson had made his hasty farewells at St Frideswide and galloped away as if more concerned about events at Mistleham, yet now he was here.
‘Please,’ Corbett spread his hands, ‘your belt with its dagger, sir.’
Master Benedict unbuckled this and let it fall to the ground.
‘Ranulf, Chanson,’ Corbett called out, ‘take our guest to the church.’
Master Benedict glanced back at Ranulf, who’d now drawn closer, the longbow still primed with its sharp iron barb and grey goose feathers. Master Benedict tried to relax, his first panic being replaced by a watchful wariness, eager to exploit any mistake, but Corbett was careful. The chaplain was led into the church and forced to sit with his back to a pillar while Chanson deftly tied his wrists with twine then carefully searched him, pulling out the leather pouch beneath the quilted jerkin as well as the thin knife hidden in the top of his boot. Corbett undid the heavy pouch and shook out the precious items. Jewels, rings and the Sanguis Christi, a beautiful heavy gold cross embedded with five glowing rubies. Its beauty drew exclamations of surprise from Chanson and Ranulf, who’d also brought in the chaplain’s heavy panniers, which contained documents and a second hoard of precious items and keepsakes.
‘Enough to hang you!’ Corbett murmured.
‘Last night,’ the chaplain asked, ‘that was all mummery?’
‘Yes and no.’ Corbett squatted before him. Ranulf stood behind, bow at the ready, more arrows lying at his feet. ‘Yes, Master Claypole has a great deal to answer for regarding John Le Riche. He undoubtedly formed an alliance to buy treasure stolen from the King. He and Lord Scrope betrayed Le Riche, drugged him then hanged him. For the rest …’ Corbett shrugged. ‘Brother Gratian has to stay until I tell him to. Physician Ormesby will tend to Lady Hawisa. Father Thomas? Well, he has fulfilled his task. He searched his church both in and out. He found the stave of the small horn bow you used to kill your former accomplice Dame Marguerite.’
Master Benedict just laughed and turned away.
‘I will come to that by and by,’ Corbett continued. ‘Ranulf here talked about the fox, how it steals into the hen coop and causes bloody mayhem, which arouses the farmer, but sooner or later the fox has to leave and confront the danger. You’re my fox; I wanted you to do that. I gave you all the letters you needed, including one guaranteeing safe passage, be it on the highways or in a harbour. Desperate to go, you rose to the bait, you had to. Time was passing. The farmer and his dogs were closing in. You grasped the opportunity: carpe diem — seize the day. You had to retrieve your plunder from its hiding place at St Frideswide and, of course, you had to come here to collect the rest. You could not resist that, especially as everybody else was busy elsewhere. True?’
Master Benedict just stared back.
‘You had no intention,’ Corbett continued, ‘of going to Colchester. Oh no, you’d leave here and travel swiftly to one of the eastern ports and take ship to foreign parts. It would take weeks, if not months, to discover which harbour you used; even then you might have left under a false name. Rumours would abound. Poor Benedict Le Sanglier,’ Corbett made a face, ‘who disappeared, probably ambushed and killed on some lonely Essex trackway in the depth of winter. In truth you would be elsewhere, using the treasure you’d stolen to smooth the path before you. Naturally it was a risk. If you’d been alerted or alarmed unduly, you would have got rid of that secret satchel and continued the pretence of being the ever-so-diffident and rather weak chaplain.’ Corbett rose to his feet. ‘You’re certainly no gentle priest. You’re wicked, twice as fit for hell as the man you murdered on the Island of Swans.’
Corbett walked away as Chanson brought in dry bracken and kindling. He placed these near the prisoner and doused them with a little oil. The flames soon caught hold. Chanson then moved back to the door, sliding down with his back to the wall, the arbalest still primed on the floor beside him. Ranulf leaned against the crumbling pillar, staring at the killer. Ranulf shivered. He was not remembering Scrope’s murdered corpse but poor Jackanapes and those other innocents slain by this murderer. He wondered if Corbett’s musing on death and justice was having its effect on him. Were all the hapless victims of this assassin clustering here to seek vengeance, retribution?
Corbett picked up a wineskin and returned to the fire, which separated him from the prisoner. He offered Le Sanglier a drink, but the chaplain shook his head. Corbett didn’t like the cold arrogance in the prisoner’s eyes: a man who did not care, who still trusted in himself. What would be his last defence? Corbett glimpsed the cross on the chain around Le Sanglier’s neck. That was it! Was the prisoner, despite all his wicked deeds a genuine priest who would gabble the first line of Psalm 50, claim he was a cleric, plead benefit of clergy and so escape the rigour of the law? Would this killer, his hands drenched in blood, appear before some Church court only to receive mild punishment?
‘I am a priest.’ The chaplain seemed to read Corbett’s thoughts. Already, despite being in this bleak haunted nave, the freezing cold seeping everywhere, the bonds tight around his wrists and the weapons primed for his destruction, Master Benedict Le Sanglier was eager to assert himself. ‘Very well, Master Corbett,’ his deliberate insult was accompanied by a smile. ‘I made a mistake. For the time being you have trapped me. I was impetuous, eager to be gone. My task was finished, so—’
‘Your task,’ Corbett retorted, ‘was the death of Oliver Scrope.’ He stretched his hands out to the fire. ‘Now, Master Benedict, for the time being I am like a master in the schools. I am going to construct an argument based more on conjecture than evidence. Nonetheless, as I move towards my conclusion, the proof will emerge. So, to continue the similarity, you, Master Benedict, are like a master mason, the genius behind the house of murder you so carefully constructed. It began in Acre in 1291. We have all heard the accepted story, but I believe there is one important difference: Gaston de Bearn, Scrope’s cousin, did not die there. I truly believe this. Somehow he survived Scrope’s betrayal, his attempt to murder him and eventually escaped back to France.’
‘If he did,’ the chaplain sneered, ‘why didn’t he return to England?’
‘To confront Lord Scrope?’ Corbett shook his head. ‘A powerful manor lord, a hero, a Crusader much favoured by the King? To be accused by a foreigner, and with what proof? No,’ Corbett clicked his tongue, ‘that would be too dangerous, completely without profit.’ He paused. ‘Indeed, from the very little I know about Gaston de Bearn, I suspect he would not stoop to that. I think he was a noble soul, a man who inspired others, be it you and the Free Brethren, Dame Marguerite, who loved him, possibly even Lord Scrope, who was deeply haunted by what he’d done.’
Master Benedict’s face changed; just for a brief while the arrogance was replaced by honest recognition.
‘Gaston escaped,’ Corbett continued, ‘and some deep relationship developed between him, you and the Free Brethren. Eventually you and the Free Brethren came to England to wreak vengeance on Lord Scrope. Why? I suggest because of Gaston. First, the Free Brethren took great pains to remind Scrope of his evil deeds; hence the painting in St Alphege’s as well as their scrolled design of hell with Scrope at its heart. Oh yes,’ Corbett added, ‘we have seen what was buried with Le Riche, the treasure and the drawings. Both drawings also contain strange symbols. I suggest they are Arabic. I found the same in the painting at St Alphege’s, those geometric designs much loved by Muslim artists. Whoever was responsible for those drawings and that painting had lived in Outremer and had some knowledge o
f Arabic design. Second, the Free Brethren were armed, they were planning to attack, kill or kidnap Lord Scrope. Third, you were party to that. You used Dame Marguerite’s wealth to buy them weapons. You also supplied them with information about the reclusorium on the Island of Swans and the secret ford across. No, no …’ Corbett raised a hand. ‘I will explain in a while. Fourth, the painting in St Alphege’s contains the design of herbs or plants, in truth nightshade, the potion Lord Scrope probably used in his attempt to poison Gaston in Acre infirmary so many years ago. You adopted that same name when you visited Father Thomas to threaten Scrope with death unless he publicly confessed his sins on the steps of the market cross in Mistleham. Fifth, in one of our conversations you made a hideous mistake.You talked of the survivors at Acre being slaughtered in the dragon courtyard. How did you know such a fact, the name of a Templar courtyard in a small donjon in Outremer? Does that also explain the dragon above the castle in the painting at the parish church?’
‘And Dame Marguerite was party to all this?’ Master Benedict scoffed. ‘Are you saying she was my accomplice? Scrope’s adoring sister?’
15
Ad audiendum et terminandum — to hear and finish the business.
Letter of Edward I, 19 November 1303
‘Listen,’ Corbett made himself more comfortable, ‘and listen well. You and the Free Brethren of the Holy Spirit were close to Gaston de Bearn, how and why I still don’t know. You are undoubtedly a French priest whilst they were a wandering band of souls who lived for the day until Gaston told you and their leaders a hideous story. How he’d been a Crusader abandoned at Acre by his close friend and kinsman, and worse, nearly murdered by him. I suggest he told you the truth close to his death, in the vespers of his life. You and the Free Brethren swore vengeance. You, a priest, educated, with some patronage, secured letters of accreditation for yourself and them to travel to England. You came first to spy, to learn, to plan. Like all the malignant killers I’ve known, you can shape your face, your actions, your very soul better than any actor. You arrived at St Frideswide, the gentle priest looking for employment. Dame Marguerite of course entertained you. She read your letters, but you’d also brought something else: proof, be it letters or items, of what truly happened at Acre.’
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