by Paul Doherty
Corbett crouched and stared at Lady Hilda’s rigidly twisted face. It now had a bluish-tinged pallor, eyes popping whilst a dirty-white froth bubbled between the dry, bloodless lips. He spread out Brother Adrian’s robe, then turned Lady Hilda’s corpse over, ignoring the last gasps of air from the dead woman’s belly. He pulled on the gloves and very gently eased back the thick cuff around Lady Hilda’s wrist, drawing out fragments of a hard white substance that he suspected were the remains of ewe’s cheese. He placed these on the black robe so they could be seen more clearly. He then inserted his fingers into her mouth and drew out the remains of what she had just eaten: soggy, chewed pieces caught between her yellowing teeth or in the upper regions of her gums.
Next he dug into the pocket of Brother Adrian’s robe, searching around and drawing out a piece of neatly folded white linen that in any other circumstances would not warrant a second glance. Still squatting, he edged to another part of the black robe spread out across the tiled floor. As he undid the linen cloth and gently shook the white crumbs it contained onto the blackness, those gathering around gave a loud collective sigh. Corbett glanced up at Brother Adrian, who just stood, eyes blinking, mouth opening and shutting.
‘What is this?’ he gasped.
‘Poison, I suspect, Brother Adrian.’ Corbett gestured at the monk’s robe. ‘Would you like to eat the crumbs I have just shaken out? Those tiny remains of cheese distilled from ewe’s milk? Usually such cheese is very nutritious and tasty. However, as you well know, these crumbs are the remains of a cheese deeply soaked in a most noxious potion: henbane, nightshade, belladonna or even the deadliest wolf’s bane. You are acquainted with such poisons, aren’t you, Brother?’ Corbett rose to his feet. ‘By your own admission you know all about Palladius’s treatises on herbs. You have also served as an infirmarian in your order.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘Get him another robe. Chain and manacle him. Prior Richard, if the witch-queen’s corpse could be removed, but not that robe.’ He glanced down. ‘That is evidence.’
For a while, the silence and solemnity of the courtroom was shattered. Lay brothers were called to remove Lady Hilda’s corpse and to clean up what she had choked out onto the floor. Corbett took off his gloves before going across to a side table where the kitchener had laid out jugs of ale, freshly made bread and strips of pheasant cooked in a tangy sauce. He filled a platter and returned to the judgement table, where he ate, his gaze never leaving Brother Adrian. The monk sat, wrists chained, between two of Ap Ythel’s archers. He looked calm enough, eyes half closed, mouth slightly open. Corbett suspected he was trying to prepare himself for the damning indictment about to be laid against him.
Once the court resumed, Brother Adrian immediately sprang to his feet, knocking away the restraining hands of his guards. ‘I am a cleric!’ he shouted. ‘A Benedictine monk. St Thomas a Becket lodged with our good brothers in Canterbury. He paid with his life for the sacred inviolability of the clergy. We, I, cannot be tried by a secular court. I demand—’
‘Shut up!’ Corbett bellowed. ‘Shut up or I will have you gagged and chained to the floor.’ He abruptly recalled the pathetic remains he had pulled from that morass outside Alnwick, and the horror visited on poor Cacoignes. ‘Brother Adrian,’ he declared, ‘as I shall prove, by your own actions you have put yourself outside the Church. You are excommunicated, a child of hell. You will be cursed in this life and the next by bell, book and candle.’
Corbett rose and came round the table as the guards forced the prisoner back onto his chair. He wondered if the man’s ankles should also be manacled, but to a certain extent he didn’t care. He was determined to see this man die for his heinous sins and hideous crimes. ‘You,’ he stared at the monk, who glared back, ‘were in the dungeons below. You are most adept, very skilled at sleight of hand. I watched your tricks at Alnwick when you were entertaining the castle children in your usual hypocritical guise of the caring pastor. You did the same here. You moved amongst the prisoners in the dungeons acting the role of the solicitous priest. In truth, you wanted to give Lady Hilda a piece of food soaked in poison. She could not face the prospect of torture, of bloodied, prolonged interrogation, which would undoubtedly have happened before she was cruelly executed.’
‘Why should I do that, king’s man?’ Brother Adrian scoffed.
‘Because Lady Hilda wanted to leave this life on her own terms. You also needed to remove the danger that, broken and wounded, she might confess that the Benedictine monk Brother Adrian was in fact Paracelsus, leader of the Black Chesters coven and perhaps many other demonic cohorts. I suggest she was the only person who knew that.’ Corbett paused as his words created a stir in the chamber.
‘You can prove all this, king’s man?’
‘Well, to a certain extent I already have. You have poisoned others. I wondered if you would extend the courtesy of a swift death to your collaborator, Lady Hilda. You left the dungeons and came up here. I would not permit you or anyone else to leave. I hoped, and I was correct, that you would still carry traces of the poison on you. After all, you have done this many times before and never been caught. You act the holy monk but you are a killer and a blasphemer.’ Corbett leaned closer. ‘You assassins are all the same. You are a follower of Satan and have all his arrogance. You laugh behind your mask and in doing so make a mistake: the poison was found upon you.’
‘All that proves is that I was carrying it.’ Brother Adrian shrugged. ‘I glimpsed that white linen parcel on a ledge in the dungeons.’ He broke off at Ranulf’s mocking laugh. ‘If it is poison,’ he added.
‘Ap Ythel,’ Corbett gestured at the robe, ‘take this carefully away. Brush those crumbs and gather them up; trap a rat from the cellars and feed it whatever you have collected.’
‘You will find enough of the vermin swarming there,’ Prior Richard offered.
Corbett waited until the Welshman had left the chamber, then he picked up a stool and came and sat close by the prisoner. ‘Adrian Ogilvie,’ he began. ‘A and O. From an early age you were interested in the occult, the study of the black arts. Heaven knows what strange fancies formed your soul. What your parents did to you. What insult others may have offered you. What horrors you witnessed in this war-torn land. I have met your kind before; your heart is dead and your mind closed to all pity or compassion. You rejoice in your secret knowledge and delight in your hidden power. As a child, were you cruel to anyone and anything that crossed your path? How long have you revelled in the pain of others? I suppose we all reach a crossroads in life. We decide to take a certain path and follow it wherever it goes.’
‘You know nothing of me, clerk.’
‘True, but I know of your decisions and the paths you followed. You were born in these parts. As a young man you proved yourself intelligent, resourceful and very curious. You are a soul deeply interested in power, with an uncontrollable desire to exercise it over others. Hence your decision to become a priest, but one with a difference: a priest who wished to harness and ride the devil’s own warhorse; to go down paths strictly forbidden to you.’
‘You, a king’s man, you dare to talk of power and control . . .’
‘Aye, for the Crown and for the common good, to make life a little better for those around me.’
Corbett paused. He had rehearsed his arguments time and time again. He felt more confident now his opponent had slipped so easily into the trap. He recalled his own days as a young scholar. How he would go and sit for hours in the great hall at Westminster where the Court of King’s Bench tried capital offences, studying the skills needed to question and to interrogate. At the same time, he had learnt something he had not been searching for – how certain prisoners exhibited an overwhelming arrogance, a belief in their own superiority; that they were not just different from their fellow man but infinitely better in so many ways. This pride carried them through life, but it was also an obstacle and often brought them down. Brother Adrian was of that ilk. Already he had made a heinous mistake, and Corbett hope
d he could goad him into making more.
‘Sir Hugh,’ Ranulf called quietly.
‘Good, good.’ Corbett tapped his foot on the floor. ‘I will cut to the chase. There is a very famous picture; you must have seen it: a wolf dressed in the robes of an abbot preaching to a gaggle of geese garbed in monkish attire.’ He paused at Prior Richard’s harsh laughter. ‘Of course, you understand what the artist really intends: beneath the mitre, behind the sanctimonious expression, lurks a killer who will soon show his true nature. You are that wolf, Brother Adrian, the devil’s wolf. Oh, you flattered your superiors. You became adept in theological studies, particularly in the realm of exorcism, possession, demonology and the practice of the black arts. You emerged as a peritus, an adviser to the Church authorities on such matters. You would be called here and there to determine if someone was genuinely possessed. However, the cowl certainly doesn’t make the monk where you are concerned. Nevertheless, until today, you were much revered by your superiors and your brothers.’
‘True, true,’ Prior Richard broke in.
‘Brother Adrian, you were allowed to travel where you wanted, to do what you deemed needed to be done. You were Lord Henry’s chaplain at Alnwick, a welcome visitor here, counsellor and confidant to the lords of the manor, including Sir Edmund Darel. All a pretence.’ Corbett leaned forward, finger pointed. ‘A brilliant ploy. For a while, you certainly convinced me, with your eloquent fulminations against the very powers you support. Your assurances that you were with me body and soul in our fight against Darel, the Black Chesters and the evil that swirls about them.
‘You are certainly golden-tongued, Brother Adrian, but that only hides the dross within. You have God-given talents, even though you have used them for the enemy. You had the freedom and authority to go where you wanted, acting the solicitous priest, the caring chaplain. You would collect information here and there, and I suspect the only person who knew the truth was Lady Hilda. But thanks to you, she cannot say nay or yea to that. The two of you were evil souls masquerading as religious leaders. You grew stronger and more powerful. Holy Mother Church patronised your studies. You were given access to the Church’s secret repositories, able to study rare manuscripts describing in great detail the practice of the black arts.’
‘That is true.’ Brother John the librarian spoke up. ‘Adrian, you used our library. You were given permission to open the arca and take out two manuscripts on the power to raise demons and control spirits. I remember you studying them.’
‘I am a scholar.’ Brother Adrian didn’t even bother to glance at Brother John. ‘What I do is what I do. I can prove I am a scholar. I am waiting for this clerk to prove his heinous allegations against me.’
‘Occasionally,’ Corbett continued, ‘you would manifest your true self, your inner soul, the demon within. You would lead your disciples on Satan’s wild hunt, attacking some farmstead, hamlet or cottage. You would kill, plunder, burn and seize victims for your blood-soaked sacrifices to the Lords of the Night.’
‘I would be recognised,’ Brother Adrian mocked, as if Corbett was telling some fanciful tale rather than laying serious allegations. ‘After all, clerk, I am well known.’
‘Yes, of course. You are known as the dedicated pastor busy caring for his flock when in truth you are a butcher sizing up your victims for the slaughterhouse. You wear hypocrisy and practise it without a moment’s doubt or hesitation. You are a Janus, two-faced, the solicitous priest gathering up all kinds of gossip, chatter and news but in the dark a devilish hunter of humankind. You went in disguise like the rest. When you did manifest yourself, you hid behind cloak, mantle, hood and a golden wig that fell to your shoulders. Indeed, when we search your coffers we shall undoubtedly find that and other items that certainly should not be owned by a Benedictine monk.’
‘Golden wig!’ Brother Adrian scoffed.
‘Golden wig,’ Corbett echoed. ‘Remember that evening in the great hall of Alnwick. You hastily removed what I thought at the time was a piece of silver-gold thread on your black gown. Certainly a mistake by you.’
‘Which evening?’ Brother Adrian scoffed.
‘Yes, I remember it,’ Lord Henry declared. ‘When we discussed Corbett’s meeting with Darel. I remember the shiny strand and how you hastily removed it.’
Corbett rose and stretched before sitting back down on the stool. He used the interruption to study the prisoner, who’d glanced quickly at the archer standing to his right, as if memorising something.
‘Let us analyse,’ Corbett continued, ‘my intervention in northern affairs.’ He pointed at the judgement table. ‘Lord Henry, when you learnt that a royal envoy, the king’s most senior clerk was journeying north to Alnwick, you decided to send your constable and his sister Lady Kathryn to Westminster. You did this as a courtesy as well as to provide a trustworthy officer who could both guide and advise us, yes?’
‘I would agree.’ Lord Henry’s rough face broke into a grin, and he snapped his fingers. ‘Sir Hugh, Sir Hugh,’ he exclaimed, ‘I can see which way this is wending. I didn’t order Brother Adrian to join the Thurstons.’ He spread his hands. ‘I do not have the authority to do that. He asked to join them himself. He claimed he wished to visit his brothers at Westminster as well as meet you. He argued that he could help you on your journey, administer to your spiritual needs as well as assist Constable Thurston. I agreed.’
‘And so!’ Brother Adrian exclaimed. ‘No crime in that!’
‘You were curious, weren’t you,’ Corbett demanded, ‘about who I was, why I was journeying to Alnwick. Above all, there was the question of the Scottish hostages. Let us not beat about the bush. You knew that Seton and his three companions were Red Comyn’s men both body and soul, warriors steeped in the blood feud. One or all of them, with the exception of Roskell, certainly murdered a fifth Scottish prisoner, the squire Dunedin, because he was Bruce’s man. Seton intended to cross the Scottish march, seek out Bruce and kill him in revenge for the assassination of his own lord and master Red Comyn.’
‘And why should I have an interest in such matters?’
‘Don’t mock me, monk.’ Corbett shifted on the stool. ‘You have more than a hand in these matters. You feverishly plot to keep conflict in the north raging, war without respite all along the Scottish march. England against Scotland, Darel against Percy and so on. Steeped in sin, you are committed to creating anarchy with the aim of the total destruction of both Crown and Church. I have met your like before. You would love to see the world burn for the sake of it. If Bruce was killed, if the Scots lost another leader, perhaps it would weaken their will for war and some form of peace could be imposed. You and yours certainly did not want that.’
‘But how was I supposed to know all this?’
‘Quite simple. Roskell was the weakest of Seton’s companions. Deeply religious, during his imprisonment in the Tower he began to reflect most fearfully on the Four Last Things: death, judgement, heaven and hell. He knew why he and his companions were being dispatched back to Scotland. They were to murder, assassinate a prince many regard as God’s anointed, the rightful king of Scotland.’
‘But he was Red Comyn’s retainer. As you say, he could invoke the blood feud.’
‘For Roskell, that did not matter; it ceased to be significant. He drew very close to Dunedin, a man also absorbed in apocalyptic theology and the dissolution of all things. During that deep friendship, I suspect but cannot prove, Dunedin began to wean Roskell from his allegiance to Comyn, extolling the virtues of Bruce.’
‘As you say,’ the prisoner broke in, ‘you have no proof of this.’
‘Oh, that will come soon enough. Whatever influence Dunedin had, Roskell must have been deeply saddened by his new friend’s sudden death. Perhaps he realised it was murder, the work of Seton and the other two, now bound for further bloodshed once they had crossed the Scottish march. Time passed. Roskell, a deeply religious man, became agitated and guilt-ridden about what had happened and what was intended for
the future.
‘Now where could such a man go for spiritual comfort and relief? What better person than an amicable Benedictine monk who could hear his confession, shrive him and give advice on what to do. And so Roskell approached you, and at some point on our journey north you heard his confession, during which he divulged everything. How you must have congratulated yourself on your decision to travel south to join us. Now Roskell had taken an oath on the Gospels that he would only share his true mission with God and his conscience. He truly believed, poor man, that he had kept his oath by only declaring it in the sacrament of confession. You admitted to me that you shrived him . . .’ Corbett paused at the growing swell of protesting voices.
‘Surely, Father Prior,’ Brother Julian called out, ‘the seal of confession is sacrosanct? Very rarely, if ever, in the history of our church has it been broken. Sir Hugh is accusing Brother Adrian of doing this?’
‘He certainly is,’ Prior Richard replied. ‘But if Brother Adrian is a warlock, a demon-worshipper, a skilled practitioner of the black arts, then his priesthood, his vows must mean nothing to him. They were just a means to secure what he really wants. Scripture teaches us that you cannot serve two masters. You must hate the one and love the other; you cannot serve both God and the devil. Sir Hugh is arguing that Brother Adrian made his choice and clung to it with all his might.’
‘Adrian Ogilvie violated his priesthood. He broke the seal of confession,’ Corbett declared. ‘He used what he’d learnt for his own wicked purposes. No one else apart from His Grace the king, my lord Gaveston and those four Scotsmen knew their mission. I only heard of it when we reached Alnwick, by which time Roskell had been murdered.’
‘One or all of those Scottish hostages could have told someone else.’
‘Who, Brother Adrian? When? Why? Who else was in that camp on the evening we were attacked? Who mixed a potion in the common pot of oatmeal and, after the enemy was beaten off, returned to poison Roskell?’