by Paul Doherty
Corbett replaced the gauze veil, bowed to Plumpton and walked out of the sacristy. Bassett and Ranulf were waiting outside for him.
'What is it?' Bassett asked.
Corbett just glanced at him and walked back across the sanctuary.
Ranulf, wiping his nose noisily on the sleeve of his jerkin, relished the future; mischief was afoot and soon he and his master would be involved. They would be summoned by that high and mighty king and told to go about their secret task. If that was the case, and so far his master had never failed the king, it would mean more money, wealth and status and Ranulf would share in the reflected glory. Ranulf basked in a glow of smug self-satisfaction; the rest of London had been cleared from the nave but he, Ranulf-atte-Newgate, a former felon, a man who had been condemned to swing by the neck at the Elms, could stay. Corbett had once secured a pardon for him and, due to his master's secretive ways and sharp, clever brain, Ranulf had grown wealthy. His master, though taciturn and quiet, was always generous and Ranulf had begun to salt away a sizeable amount of gold with a goldsmith just off the Poultry. Not that Ranulf really cared for the future. He took each day as it came, his two aims being to look after Corbett and to enjoy himself as much as possible.
Ranulf's relationship with the clerk was not an easy one: he often found his master morose and withdrawn. Sometimes Corbett would sit for hours in the corner of a tavern, sipping a cup of wine or flagon of beer, lost in his own thoughts and, if Ranulf tried to draw him, all he received were black looks. The only time Corbett seemed to come to life was in the record room amongst the piles of vellum, parchment, sealing wax, inkhorns and quills. He seemed to take as much enjoyment out of that as Ranulf did pursuing the wives and daughters of various London merchants. Of course, there was always music. In their lodgings in Bread Street, Corbett would often sit in the evening playing his flute quietly to himself, devising new tunes. There was one other reason for the clerk's quiet moods. The Welsh woman, Maeve, Corbett's betrothed, a sweet wench Ranulf thought, though he was frightened of her sharp ways and clear blue eyes. In fact, she was the only woman ever to frighten Ranulf and he half suspected Corbett himself was afeared of her. She had declared her love for his master but, so far, had refused to give a wedding date, saying affairs in Wales were still not settled following the collapse of the revolt in which her fat, wicked uncle had been deeply involved. Yes, the Welsh woman was making life arduous. Ranulf glared at his master's retreating back and, as loudly as possible, blew his nose once again on the sleeve of his jerkin. Bassett grinned, Corbett stopped mid-stride, turned and glared at his servant.
'This time,' he snapped, 'stay outside!' Ranulf smiled and nodded whilst his master, followed by Bassett, pulled back the arras of the altar-screen and rejoined the king. Edward now sat slumped in a rather unregal fashion at the foot of St Erconwald's tomb. Surrey, leaning against the wall, was busy picking his teeth, staring up at the light pouring through the rose window as if seeing it for the first time. Corbett knew his royal master was in the middle of a deep sulk. The king's long, lined face was morose, his eyes half closed as if pondering some private matter. He glanced up as Corbett entered.
'Well, clerk?'
Corbett spread his hands and shrugged. 'It is as I feared, Your Grace. Murder.'
'How do you know that?' Surrey suddenly straightened up. 'Are you a doctor, Master Clerk?'
Corbett sighed. He always feared the enmity of the great lords, men born into greatness who deeply resented anyone on whom greatness was thrust. Corbett was the king's loyal servant; he had studied hard in the colleges of Oxford, worked long hours in cold, cramped scriptoria and libraries; but his elevation had been solely due to royal favour and this was always resented by nobles like Surrey. Corbett had never yet met one nobleman who accepted him for what he was, a clever clerk, a trusted servant of the king.
Nevertheless, Corbett knew how to survive in bitter court politics.
He bowed towards Surrey. 'My Lord is correct,' he smiled ingratiatingly, although he hated himself for doing so. 'I am not a physician but I have some knowledge of poisons.'
'Then you are a rare man,' Surrey interrupted.
Corbett felt the flash of anger seep through him and he bit his lip. Was Surrey insinuating he had something to do with the priest's death? He glanced sideways at the king, who had now risen and was dusting down his robes.
'My Lord,' Corbett began again slowly, 'because of various circumstances, I know certain matters of physic, yet it is common knowledge that a man whose face is still rigid in death, with a swollen tongue and mouth as black as the hole of hell, must have been poisoned. What we must find out,' he turned and looked directly at the king, 'is who poisoned him, where and how.'
Corbett gazed into the king's eyes though he would have cheerfully loved to have turned and stared at Bassett for, when he had announced the priest had been poisoned, he had heard the knight banneret's sharp intake of breath and a muttered curse. Corbett wondered why Bassett should be so concerned. What had it to do with him? But that matter would have to wait. Corbett knew what would happen. The king would tell him to find out the reasons for de Montfort's death, and not to rest until he either found the truth or produced enough information to make it look as if the truth was known.
'Your Grace,' Corbett insisted, 'this matter must be resolved. De Montfort came from a family which everyone knows you hated. He was also a clergyman, close to his Lordship, the Archbishop of Canterbury. He intended to give a speech after this mass denouncing your intention to tax the Church.' Corbett stopped and licked his lips, but the king seemed composed, somehow drawing himself back from the black pit of anger. 'People will say,' Corbett continued, 'that de Montfort was killed by you.'
The king turned his back to Corbett, hands outstretched resting on the tomb, head bowed beneath the great rose window as if lost in some private prayer. When he turned he looked weary.
'It is true what you say, Clerk,' he said softly. 'They will place de Montfort's death, like others of his accursed family, at my door. How can I ever ask the clergy for taxes when as a body they will rise and demand justice for de Montfort's murder?' He squinted at Corbett in the poor light. 'But how?'
'Two ways,' Corbett replied suddenly, almost without thinking. 'Either he was poisoned before mass began or -' 'Or what?' the king snapped.
'Or,' Corbett said quietly, 'the chalice was poisoned.'
Corbett saw even the king's face go pale at the blasphemy he had uttered.
'You mean,' Surrey interjected, 'that the wine, the consecrated wine, Christ's blood, was poisoned by somebody? Then it must have been someone who celebrated mass.'
The earl came across the room and stared into Corbett's eyes.
'You realize what you are saying, Clerk? That a priest or canons of this church, in the middle of mass, the most sacred of ceremonies, poisoned the consecrated chalice and gave it to de Montfort to drink?'
'I do,' Corbett replied, gazing back steadily. He turned towards where the king stood. 'I urge Your Grace to order a guard placed round the high altar and that none of the chalices or patens or anything else be removed until we have examined them.'
The king nodded and muttered a quiet command to Bassett, who bustled from the room.
'This is clever,' the king said slowly. 'Whatever happens, we must be careful. Do we accept de Montfort's death and protest our innocence, for we are innocent, or investigate it? If the latter, each of those canons must be interrogated, which might cause a public scandal – and still we could find nothing. Indeed, we could be accused of trying to put the blame on innocent people.' The king chewed his lower lip and ran a beringed hand through his steel-grey hair. He took off his chaplet of silver and laid it unceremoniously on top of the tomb. 'What do you advise, Surrey?'
'Let sleeping dogs lie!' the earl answered quickly. 'Leave it alone, Your Grace!'
'Corbett?'
'I would agree with my Lord of Surrey,' Corbett replied. 'But there is one thing we have forgotten.' 'What is that?'
'The chalice,' Corbett replied. 'Do you remember, my Lord? You were to receive communion under both kinds. We must ask ourselves, was the chalice poisoned for de Montfort to drink? Or, Your Grace, was it poisoned for you?'
The king rubbed his face in his hands and looked up at the gargoyles above the stone dog's-tooth tracery. Corbett followed his gaze. There, angels jutted out of the walls, their cheeks puffed to blow the last trumpet; beside them, the faces of demons, eyes protuberant, tongues lashing out perpetually in stone. Beneath these gargoyles, in a glorious array of purples, golds, reds and blues, was a painting of heaven: a golden paradise where souls of the blessed in white robes armed with golden harps sang to a Christ eternally in judgement, while beneath their feet, in a hellish haze of red and brown, scaled demons with the heads of monsters and the bodies of lions put the souls of the damned through unspeakable tortures. Corbett watched the king take all this in. Surrey, bored by what was going on, leaned against a wall and stared down at the ground as if he had nothing to add to Corbett's conclusions. The king walked over to the clerk, so close Hugh could smell the mixture of perfume and sweat from the heavy, gold-encrusted robes.
'In this church, Hugh,' the king said softly, ignoring Surrey's presence as of no consequence, 'lies the body of another English king, Ethelred the Unready. The sword was never far from his house and all the heavens seemed to rage against him. Is that to be my fate?'
Corbett could have felt some sympathy but as he watched the light blue eyes of the king, he wondered again whether Edward, the most consummate of actors, was simply allaying his own fears.
'This murder must be resolved,' the king continued. 'Not because of de Montfort's death,' – he almost snapped the words out, 'I wish him good riddance and others of his ilk. But if someone intended to kill me, Corbett, I want him found.'
'If that is so, Your Grace,' Corbett replied quickly, eager to escape this baleful royal presence, 'it is best if I examine the altar and the chalice. You agree?'
The king nodded. 'Go. We shall wait for you here.'
4
Corbett re-entered the sanctuary. The candles had been extinguished and the church cleared. In the far corner, Winchelsea and his host, the Bishop of London, stood in close conversation with Bohun and Bigod. Other nobles and ecclesiastical dignitaries stood round, their faces full of false concern, as if they had taken the events of that morning as a personal shock. A few canons stood gaping at the high altar now ringed by royal men-at-arms, who would allow no one through. Most of the people had left, though the drama of the morning's events the singing, the chants and the dreadful death hung as heavy in the air as the fragrant clouds of incense.
Corbett stopped, noticing a figure at the foot of the sanctuary steps. It was a woman dressed in a kirtle of white and gold damask and a mantle of the same material, trimmed with ermine and fastened around her shoulders by great lace bows of gold and silk, each with its rich knob of gold tassel. Her fair hair hung down her back, held in place by a thin, silken net studded with gems. Her face was long and smooth, almost regal if it hadn't been for the bold eyes and the sly twist of her mouth. Corbett had never seen her before. At first he thought she may have been a lady of the court but he looked closer at the painted lips and nails and dismissed her as a high-class courtesan, maybe a mistress of one of the great ones still standing in the sanctuary, or even that of a canon of the church. Corbett wryly remembered the old proverb: the cowl doesn't make the monk; many priests were as ardent for the ways of flesh as they were when they preached publicly against the same sins in their pulpits. Corbett was about to turn away when the woman suddenly called out in a rather harsh voice.
'Is de Montfort dead?'
Corbett turned and, before he could think, replied, 'Yes, the fellow is dead.' By the time he had regained his composure, the woman had spun on her heel and walked boldly down the nave of the church, her broad rich hips swaying suggestively under the silken gown. Corbett would have liked to go after her and ask why she was so interested, but the king was waiting, so he turned and walked up the line of men-at-arms. As he approached, one of them put out a hand to stop him, but Bassett, hurrying behind, had a whispered conversation with the Captain of the Guard and Corbett was allowed through.
He strode up the main steps and stood at the altar. It was long, broader than Corbett had thought, and made of marble. Its frontal was covered with intricate carvings of angels and shepherds, a scene treated with almost childish gaiety; the shepherd was blowing so loud a blast upon his bagpipe he could not hear the heavenly song. Corbett looked at the carving, touching its smoothness, forgetting for the moment the task in hand as he admired its intricate, carefully carved tracery. He crouched down and looked at the faint wine stain and noticed that similar red blotches stained the carpet. Had wine been spilt? It seemed a little had. He shrugged and rose to scrutinize the altar itself, placing his hands on it, feeling beneath the linen, now covered in pools of pure wax, the precious cloths which, he suspected, were sendal, samite, sarcanet, damask silk and velvet. The top cloth itself pure white with embroidery around the edges in tawny brown, gold, green and deep blue. In the centre of the linen cloth was a red cross which marked the relic stone every altar bore but because this was the cathedral of St Paul's, it covered some of the rarest relics: a splinter of the true cross, grains from a stone on which Christ had stood before he ascended into heaven, a piece of the Virgin's veil and relics from St Paul's tomb in Rome.
On the altar stood beautiful jewel-work: huge candlesticks, a mass of writhing, intertwining, silver foliage, adorned with tiny gold figures of men and demons; small shallow cruets with stems of coloured crystal engraved with scenes from the Passion of Christ. There was a many-rayed monstrance, patens of pale, beautiful silver gilt, some still holding consecrated hosts. A gold-encrusted thurible had also been left there in the confusion and beside it a jewel-covered, boat-shaped incense-carrier. Corbett scrutinized all of these carefully. Many priests would consider him guilty of blasphemy, for the sacred bread and wine were still on the altar, but Corbett believed he knew enough of theology to realize blasphemy is what one intends, not what one does. He murmured a short prayer, struck his breast again, muttering 'Peccavi,' believing God would see into his heart and realize he meant no disrespect but was pursuing the truth; for surely, here, a terrible crime had been committed? But how?
Corbett went through the rite of the mass. After the Agnus Dei, all the celebrants would take a host from the silver patens on the altar: Then the chalice would be taken up, each celebrant taking a sip before passing it on to his fellow. Is this how de Montfort had been poisoned? Corbett walked towards the thurible and picked up the gold cap; inside the small charcoal pieces were now cold. Corbett sniffed but smelt nothing except burnt incense. The wild fantasy occurred to him that perhaps de Montfort had been killed by breathing some deadly fume, but he dismissed it. If de Montfort had smelt it, so had others in the church; yet they were hale and hearty while de Montfort lay dead in the sacristy, his body going rigid in death. Had the host been poisoned? Corbett rejected the idea. After all, no priest would know which host would be given to him and that did not fit into his suspicion of the king being the intended victim rather than de Montfort. It must have been the wine.
Corbett walked over to the solitary chalice, still half full with wine. He picked it up and smelt it, but could only detect the fragrant tang of grape. He put a finger in and was about to taste when a voice suddenly shouted out, 'That is blasphemy!'
He turned to find that Winchelsea, his face pale with fury, had come to the bottom of the altar steps and was glaring through the ranks of soldiers at Corbett.
'What are you doing, man?'
'My Lord Bishop,' Corbett replied, 'I do nothing except on the king's orders. De Montfort was poisoned at this altar. I mean no blasphemy but somewhere here lies the venom which killed him. If we can find that then we can expose the poisoner.' Corbett looked at the archbishop glaring at him.
'You
have no right. You are a layperson,' the Archbishop snapped. 'You should have my permission or at least that of his Lordship, the Bishop of London, before you even approach the altar.'
'My Lord Bishop,' Corbett said, tired of the farce of speaking over the shoulders of the men-at-arms, some of whom were grinning broadly at the altercation. 'My Lord Bishop, if you object to what I am doing, then see the king. Or, if you wish, excommunicate me. Yet I mean no disrespect. On this altar lies the source of de Montfort's death and I intend to find it.'
'The clerk is right,' another voice broke in and Corbett turned to see Plumpton at the far corner of the altar gazing up at him. 'My Lord Bishop,' Plumpton continued smoothly, 'the clerk means no disrespect. He is here on the king's orders. There is enough tension in this church. Now, perhaps if I assisted him?'
The archbishop nodded and Plumpton waddled up the steps past the soldiers and joined Corbett in the centre of the altar.
'Have you found the poison, Master Clerk?'
'I have found nothing,' Corbett said, turning his back on the still fuming prelate. 'This is the principal chalice?' He picked up the beautifully engraved cup.
'That is the only chalice,' Plumpton replied. 'It belonged to de Montfort. He was very proud of it. After all, it was given to him by the great Earl Simon himself.'
'And he drank from this?'
Plumpton nodded.
'Then this was the source of his death.'
Plumpton took the brimming cup and drained it before placing it back on the altar. 'I do not think so,' he said. 'I have drunk the consecrated wine because someone had to and, in a few minutes, you will find out if it was poisoned. I think, Master Clerk,' he smiled at Corbett, 'you already know that. The chalice is not poisoned. Remember we all drank from it at mass.'
Corbett chewed his lower lip and nodded. He could find nothing here. 'Sir priest,' he said, 'thank you for your help. I meant no disrespect.' Corbett gestured with his hand. 'I realize the priests here must clean and tidy the altar but I order you now, and this is from the king himself, none of this must be removed from the church until it has been examined again.'