Nightshade

by P. C. Doherty

  ‘But those shutters remained unbarred.’

  ‘Dame Marguerite took care of that. She’d arranged to see her brother the following morning in the reclusorium with Father Thomas, a gesture that would reassure her brother about his midnight visitor. She’d promised to go over to discuss certain concerns, but also to secretly consult with him on what to do next. Scrope would see that as logical reassurance that you were what you pretended to be, his loyal, loving sister’s emissary. Father Thomas was a cat’s paw: the abbess and the parish priest paying a visit to their manor lord. Of course this is mere conjecture, because Dame Marguerite’s real intention was to conceal the mystery of her brother’s brutal murder. On that morning she crossed by boat. The door was locked, so she directed Pennywort to break the nearest shutter, which he did. He climbs in and sees the horror. He hastily unlocks the door and Dame Marguerite sweeps in. Father Thomas immediately acts the priest, tending to the corpse. Dame Marguerite, pretending to be all flustered, hastens around the reclusorium. She quickly pulls aside the drapes of that window, lowers the bar, and lifts the pegs against the shutters. Remember, the reclusorium was cloaked in darkness; most of the candles had guttered out. Father Thomas is busy. Pennywort is standing outside by the door. Dame Marguerite can do what she likes and the mystery is complete. The alarm is then noisily raised. People hasten across, trampling any sign, if any remained, of Scrope’s secret assassin.’

  ‘And your vengeance has been carried out,’ Ranulf declared.

  Master Benedict threw the Clerk of the Green Wax a venomous glance. Proof, Corbett quietly concluded, that if Ranulf was not here, this murderous soul would try and seize any opportunity.

  ‘You are not yet finished,’ Corbett remarked. ‘Dame Marguerite was infatuated with you – yes? Did she have plans, nurse plots? Oh no, not to elope, but to settle down at St Frideswide with her lover chaplain who’d secure preferment in the royal service. Some madcap scheme that certainly did not match your plans? She might prove to be a burden in the future. Why did you need to stay? Yet you couldn’t flee and leave her to bear witness. You continued to be faux et semblant — false and dissembling. You encouraged her to act all frightened, as if she too was being threatened by the Sagittarius. That was all your work, the arrow, the message. Again you were trying to divert attention.’

  ‘And in St Alphege’s?’ Master Benedict broke in, all impetuous, like a master wondering if his scholar had really learnt his lesson.

  Corbett bit back his anger. ‘If Dame Marguerite was truly frightened,’ he murmured, ‘she would never have left St Frideswide. Yet you could not kill her there; that would be highly suspicious.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Master Claypole,’ Corbett replied. ‘Dame Marguerite was venomously hot against him. You persuaded the lady abbess to send that letter to Physician Ormesby. Why? I truly don’t know, except to use him against Claypole.’

  ‘But why meet in St Alphege’s.’ The question was more of a taunt.

  ‘Oh.’ Corbett smiled. ‘I suspect you and Dame Marguerite were going to entrap Claypole. Your assertion that the parish church held the solution to all the mysteries was a lie. The Sagittarius would launch an attack against both her and you, only to fail. Physician Ormesby would arrive shortly afterwards to find the abbess and her chaplain all distraught and ready to swear that the secret bowman was no less a person than Master Claypole.’

  ‘And Dame Marguerite was confident about this?’

  ‘Of course! Dame Marguerite wasn’t frightened of any Sagittarius; she knew who he really was. In fact she should have been most wary. You accompanied her. You took a short horn bow, along with two arrows pushed through your belt, all hidden beneath your cloak. Dame Marguerite never suspected what you really intended. She thought you adored her. Both of you arrived early in the church – the Jesus Mass was finished, Father Thomas had withdrawn, those parishioners who’d attended had left. If there had been any obstacle, you’d have simply changed your plans accordingly. Dame Marguerite would have to leave the church. Perhaps you could encourage her to move amongst the stalls, or, of course, there was always the journey back to St Frideswide. However, the church was empty, the main door locked. You acted very swiftly. You melt into the shadows, notch one arrow, emerge and loose. In a few heartbeats Dame Marguerite is dead. Another shaft is loosed at the rood screen. You unstring the bow and hide the stave in that dark, cavernous church; only then do you blow the horn and hide behind the rood screen as if terrified out of your wits.’

  ‘So swift?’ Le Sanglier jibed.

  ‘Ranulf,’ Corbett spoke over his shoulder, ‘when I start counting, pick up your bow and two arrows from the quiver, and loose as quickly as you can down the church.’ He watched Ranulf stand, bow at the ready. ‘One, two, three, four …’ He had only reached five when the second arrow whistled through the air. ‘You see,’ Corbett rose to his feet, ‘no more than a few heartbeats. Once again the Sagittarius had attacked Lord Scrope’s family. After that you were eager to be gone. I was very wary of that. I had no reason in law to detain you, hence the mummery last night.’ He stared at the prisoner. ‘I had to trap you.’

  ‘So you have.’ Master Benedict lifted his bound hands. ‘Now take me to London and put me before King’s Bench. I will plead benefit of clergy and demand to be returned to my ordinary, the bishop who ordained me. He will try me, and then what, Master Corbett? A few months in some lonely monastery fasting on bread and water?’

  ‘Perhaps not.’ Ranulf drew his sword and, ignoring Corbett’s hiss of disapproval, squatted down in front of the prisoner. ‘Scrope I understand, but those innocents, the others, why them?’

  ‘Why not?’ Master Benedict taunted. ‘Their kin attacked mine.’

  ‘I tell you this.’ Ranulf moved his sword so its tip rested on the ground, his fingers curled around the crosspiece, ‘I swear—’

  ‘Ranulf!’ Corbett intervened.

  ‘I swear,’ Ranulf shouted, ‘if you confirm the truth, we shall offer you a way out. I swear!’ He turned, eyes pleading, to Corbett. ‘I rarely ask, let alone beg.’

  ‘It must be just and fair,’ the chaplain murmured. ‘By the way, how did you know it was a short horn bow?’

  He gestured with his hand at the longbow lying on the ground.

  ‘Father Thomas, at my request, searched his church,’ Ranulf whispered. ‘He found the bow hidden deep behind the lady altar.’

  Master Benedict simply pulled a face.

  ‘I have your word,’ he glanced at Corbett, ‘as a guarantee. Untie my bonds.’

  Before Corbett could object, Ranulf drew his dagger and slit the rope binding the chaplain’s wrists. The prisoner did not move; he simply curled the severed rope off, threw it away, rubbed his wrists and squinted up at Corbett.

  ‘It is as you say, or nearly so, a few small changes here or there. Jackanapes was not as stupid as he pretended. He was greatly mischievous. I patronised him and he was easy to use. I told him to blow the horn then leave it hidden in a secret place and be in the market square at dawn the next morning. I had approached him secretly but he may have known it was me. He could chatter like a squirrel on a branch; he had to die. As for the rest,’ Le Sanglier shrugged, ‘more or less true. I knew about the ford. I practised crossing many times. Those willows at the rear of the reclusorium cannot be seen. Lord Scrope, of course, was lax; he rightly thought if he was attacked it would be at night. He never realised people would plan during the day. As for Dame Marguerite, I was tiring of her.’ He smiled. ‘What really enticed her into St Alphege’s was my plot to loose my arrows. Of course they were supposed to miss, then we’d blame Claypole. Physician Ormesby was to arrive after the attack, be a witness to our terror. I would swear that the mysterious bowman I’d glimpsed was Master Claypole. Our good mayor is constantly in the guildhall or the marketplace outside St Alphege’s. It wouldn’t be hard and,’ he spread his hands, ‘who’d dare contradict a lady abbess and her chaplain?’

  ‘So her d
eath was swift?’ Corbett walked back to stand over him.

  ‘Like that!’ Master Benedict snapped his fingers.

  Corbett crouched down. ‘But what was the bond between you and Gaston?’

  ‘Ah, you were correct.’ The chaplain pointed to the wineskin. Corbett handed it over, and the prisoner drank greedily. ‘I’ll be brief.’ He smiled, smacking his lips. ‘I accept your word, what else can I do? I could demand to be put on trial and plead benefit of clergy,’ he pointed at Ranulf, ‘but I don’t think he’ll allow me to live.’

  ‘Very perceptive!’ Ranulf whispered.

  ‘Gaston?’ Corbett intervened.

  ‘You’re right,’ the chaplain replied. ‘Scrope escaped from Acre. When he entered the infirmary, only the sick and the dying were there. A table inside was littered with all kinds of medicines and herbs, including potions and poisons. Some of the Templars preferred to be drugged against their impending death. Scrope took a cup of wine and mixed the poison; Gaston did not know it. Scrope encouraged him to drink, saying that the wine would dull the pain and that God be his witness, he’d come back for him. Gaston was certain that only Scrope had come into the infirmary. Afterwards Scrope fled; of course he never returned. However, he was hardly out of the infirmary when Gaston was violently sick, spewing up both wine and poison. He then fell into a dead swoon. When he awoke, Acre had fallen. The Saracens showed chivalry to those wounded who looked as if they might survive. The others had been taken out and executed with the rest in the dragon courtyard. I saw that.’

  ‘You?’

  ‘Myself and all the other children. Everyone who could had retreated to the Templar stronghold: soldiers, merchants, traders, men, women and children. When the donjon was stormed, all adults, male and female, were summarily executed. The children, myself included, were made to watch one prisoner after another being forced to their knees, heads sliced off, until we stood ankle deep in blood, weeping and wailing. We were only saved because our looks would fetch a high price in the slave markets.’

  ‘But Gaston did not die?’

  ‘No, he didn’t. The Saracen officer who found him was honourable. He was also intrigued. He found the wine goblet, smelt the poison and questioned Gaston. He was very surprised at how one Christian could try and murder a fellow Christian who’d fought alongside him. You know soldiers the world over, they all like a good story. Gaston was seen by Arab physicians, his wounds soon healed and he joined us children shackled in the dragon courtyard. The officer did what he could to ensure Gaston was given good food, and I suppose that’s when we met our hero.’ The chaplain paused. ‘I cannot describe the true horror of that courtyard. Gaston became our protector, our friend. He did what he could for us, shared his food, tended the dying, consoled and comforted everyone else.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Weeks turned into months. Gaston regained his strength. He was powerful; even then I noticed he had the long arms of a born swordsman. He exercised when he could, then seized his opportunity. One afternoon the officer in charge visited him bringing some food; three Mamelukes also appeared. I know they shouldn’t drink, that is their religion, but these three had certainly drunk deep of wine. They began abusing some of the young girls. Gaston sprang to his feet. He called them cowards, cursing and taunting them, saying that they would not dare to confront a warrior such as himself. The Mamelukes rose to the bait. Gaston offered to meet all three together in combat, declaring that all he needed was a sword and a dagger. He said that if he killed them it would be a sign from Allah that he and the children should be allowed to go free.’ The chaplain took another drink from the wineskin. ‘By now the challenge was known all over the donjon. The courtyard became flooded with men. The officer was reluctant but I think he knew what was going to happen. He wanted to allow Gaston the opportunity, so he agreed. Gaston’s chains were taken off. He was given both sword and dagger.’ Master Benedict shook his head. ‘I tell you, as God lives, Gaston was a warrior, a skilled swordsman. He killed those Mamelukes swiftly, like a cat with vermin. Fast as a dancer! God was certainly with him that day.’ He stretched his hands out towards the fire. ‘The entire garrison applauded him. The officer kept his word. The following morning we were taken down to the port, Gaston, myself and the other children.’

  ‘How many?’ Corbett asked.

  ‘About twenty in all. We were shipped to Cyprus and from Limasol taken to Marseilles. Gaston then took us north to Angers, where he was known to the local bishop. He had the highest opinion of Gaston and allowed him to settle in a derelict chateau, a beautiful place on the edge of a forest near rich fields and wellstocked streams.’

  ‘You settled there?’

  ‘Oh yes. Gaston called us his Company of the Holy Spirit. I think it was more of a jest than anything else. He was the finest, the best man I have ever met. He became our God, our Saviour, our mother and father, elder brother and elder sister, priest and confessor. He treated us with gentleness, loved and guided us. He believed he’d been saved just to do that.’

  ‘And yet you were skilled in arms?’

  ‘Some of us were. I was the eldest. Gaston explained how in this vale of tears we had to defend ourselves; he taught me how to use the sword, the dagger, and above all the longbow, which he’d grown skilled in when in England. He described the bow’s history, its use by the Welsh, though he never talked about his own past.’

  ‘And you really are a priest?’ Corbett asked.

  ‘Of course! Gaston said I was highly intelligent so I should be educated. I was patronised by the local bishop, sent to a nearby cathedral school then on to Bordeaux and Paris. Gaston had some wealth; the rest he earned or was given. Local nobles, abbeys and monasteries heard about what he’d achieved and were lavish in their generosity.’

  ‘But he never mentioned England?’

  ‘Never. That door remained closed and sealed.’

  ‘And the rest of your group?’

  ‘Some died, but the others grew strong under Gaston’s influence. He did not abandon his faith, only its rules and strictures. The Free Brethren were really his creation. They were tolerated, even favoured by the local clergy, given letters of protection from the papal curia at Avignon. They were harmless, one of many such groups wandering the roads of France.’

  ‘But you?’

  ‘Gaston was proud of me, though I often felt I was a stranger to the vocation I was following. Living proof, perhaps,’ he grinned, ‘that cacullus non facit monachum — the cowl doesn’t necessarily make the monk.’

  ‘Then Gaston told you the full truth?’

  ‘Yes, he fell ill two summers ago, a malignancy inside him. He called us back to what he called his sanctuary and said he must explain why he’d been in Acre and what had happened. He told us everything.’ The chaplain wiped his mouth on the cuff of his jerkin. ‘He did not ask for vengeance; that was my idea. Gaston died. I made enquiries. My fury deepened when I discovered how Lord Scrope had grown fat like a hog in its sty, and so our plan was formed. We would punish Lord Scrope and escape by sea. The rest,’ he shrugged, ‘is in the main, as you say.’

  ‘Did you intend to kill Lord Scrope?’

  ‘No, not at first. That was the paradox: because of him, Gaston had remained in Acre and saved us. We hotly debated the question. It was the attempt to murder Gaston that was the real sin. We hoped to make Scrope confess, publicly humiliate him, make him acknowledge the evil he’d done, but as you say, we underestimated him. I never,’ he whispered, ‘thought he would do it, even after we defied him; that too was a hot-headed mistake. You were correct. I became genuinely ill with guilt and anger.’ He smiled at Corbett. ‘I thank you for giving their corpses some honour. I came out here secretly to collect any bones. I took them to sacred ground at St Frideswide for burial.’ He sighed deeply. ‘But yes, once the Free Brethren were massacred, I had no choice but to deal out terror.’

  ‘Even to innocents like the ostler’s daughter and the marketplace fool?’ Ranulf asked.

  ‘Of course.’ M
aster Benedict climbed to his feet. ‘Now, I’ve kept my word; you keep yours. Master Ranulf, you want my death.’

  ‘No, I don’t,’ Ranulf replied. ‘God does! I will give you a chance, better than you gave your victims. I’ve heard your story, Master Chaplain, but I still believe you enjoyed the killing. I truly believe that.’

  Corbett stepped back, wondering what Ranulf intended.

  ‘As I’ve said,’ the chaplain gestured at Ranulf, ‘you want my life.’ He spread his hands. ‘What use pleading benefit of clergy, exile in a monastery? I know your type, Ranulf-atte-Newgate, you’ll be waiting for me, if you ever let me live that long.’

  ‘You talked about the hideous things you witnessed,’ Ranulf replied softly. ‘So have I, Master Benedict. I’ve seen men and women stabbed in taverns, my friends hanged for stealing a loaf when they were hungry, and as I listened to you, I thought of a game we used to play. It was called “Hawks Swoop”. We’d put a club and a hammer on the ground between us. The first to grasp a weapon could smack the other. We’ll play “Hawks Swoop” now. Chanson,’ Ranulf called across, ‘bring the arbalest.’

  The groom of the stables did so. Ranulf laid the crossbow between his feet, a wicked-looking barb beside it. He then picked up the longbow and one of the arrows from the quiver. He let the chaplain inspect these, then placed them at his opponent’s feet. Corbett stared in horror at what Ranulf intended.

  ‘No one will interfere,’ Ranulf warned. ‘Priest, you are a master bowman, swift and deadly. If you strike me before I strike you, then you are free to go. Sir Hugh?’

  ‘Ranulf, this is—’

  ‘Sir Hugh?’

  Corbett caught the look in Ranulf’s eyes and nodded, though his fingers crept to the hilt of his own dagger. Master Benedict was most skilled. He could notch an arrow faster than Ranulf would ever prime that arbalest.

  Master Benedict studied Ranulf carefully and nodded. He stood, body slack, arms down, twisting his wrists to ease any cramp.