‘Griffyths?’ exclaimed Corbett.
The archer slipped out into the sanctuary. Corbett loosened his own sword, then startled at a clatter. He stepped out of the sacristy and immediately retreated. The church was dark, the sconce torches doused. He peered round the lintel of the door. Only one cresset still flamed.
‘Griffyths?’ he shouted. A click alarmed him, and he threw himself down even as a crossbow bolt whirled like some angry wasp above his head. He slammed shut the door to the sanctuary, pushing across the rusty bolts at top and bottom, then unlocked the door to the outside and hastened into the mist-strewn poor man’s lot, the burial ground for strangers lying to the north side of the church. Hot sweat cooling in the freezing air, he slammed the door shut and fumbled with the keys but couldn’t find the correct one. He slipped the bunch into the pocket of his cloak and drew both sword and dagger, edging out across the waste-land trying to control his panic. This was his nightmare, one that had haunted him ever since he had fought in Wales, whether it was here in this graveyard or in some lonely copse or filthy alleyway. He was facing death, hunted by an assassin hungry for slaughter.
Slipping and slithering on the icy ground. he made his way around wooden crosses, stumbling over mounds, ruts and holes. A sound forced him to stop and turn. A shape moved in the mist. Corbett crouched. He glimpsed a mongrel scavenging at the dead underneath their thin layer of dirt. The dog turned, a bone between its jaws. Corbett lunged with his sword, and the dog yelped and fled. Immediately a crossbow bolt hissed through the air to smash against a headstone. Corbett stared back at the church. He’d made a mistake: he’d have been safer inside. He took a deep breath and whispered a prayer. The mist was thinning, the light strengthening, but he was not safe. St Botulph’s, now seen as accursed, was desolate; very few would enter here. His attacker, armed with a crossbow, would simply hunt him down, drive him into a trap or wait for a mistake.
A low growl made him turn swiftly, and in doing so he struck one of the wooden crosses, which snapped and broke. Corbett however could only stare in horror at the huge mastiff, belly low to the ground, creeping towards him. He kept still, recognising the breed. Royal levies had used them in Wales and Scotland: a war dog with a spiked collar to protect its thick, muscular throat, the hound had been trained to hunt silently. The assassin had released it to track Corbett down, flush him out and, if he stood still or tried to defend himself, attack. The mastiff growled again, huge cruel jaws slightly open, sharp, tufted ears going back, black eyes intent on its prey. Corbett stepped to the right. The dog, muscular flanks quivering, halted, eyes intent on him. A twig snapped. The assassin was also creeping forward. Corbett crouched down and caught the pungent smell from the freshly dug burial mound over which the fallen cross lay. He recognised the odour of the unadulterated heavy lime used by the grave-diggers. He dropped his sword. The soil was hard, the lime lay loosely strewn. He collected a brimming handful in his gauntleted hand. The war hound half rose, and Corbett lunged, throwing the lime at that great ugly head just as the dog charged. The lime, a congealed mess, hit the hound as it sprang. Corbett moved swiftly to one side. The dog had misjudged its leap, and Corbett scored it with the tip of his dagger. The hound turned in a swirl of muscular black flesh but then broke its stride, confused by the ugly knife wound to its flank as well as the lime burning its eyes, nostrils and mouth. Its great head went back as the lime scorched deeper, and Corbett lurched forward and, grasping his sword, drove it deep into the dog’s exposed throat. The hound rolled in agony on to its side.
Corbett moved swiftly at a half-crouch back to the sacristy door. A bolt winged dangerously close, but he reached the door and hurled himself inside. He scrambled up and pushed one bolt home, then raced out of the sacristy through the sanctuary, down the steps and across to the corpse door, which he slammed shut. Hands trembling, he snatched out the bunch of keys, finding the correct one as a hideous yelping echoed from outside. Then he sank to the ground, pressing his sweat-soaked face against the icy-cold flagstones. He heard the sacristy door rattle, then silence. He waited. A short while later the door beside him shook violently. Corbett pulled himself up.
‘God damn you,’ he shouted. ‘Go down to hell, you and your killer dog.’ He stood up and waited again. Nothing. Swaying on his feet, he kicked aside his sword, dagger and keys and stumbled over to where Griffyths lay in a widening pool of blood. He pushed aside the archer’s fallen sword, turned the corpse over and groaned. Griffyths’ face was smeared with blood, which had gushed from both nose and mouth. The crossbow bolt was embedded so deeply in the archer’s chest it was almost hidden, except for the feathers on the end of the wicked-looking quarrel. Corbett knelt and made the sign of the cross on the man’s forehead and whispered the ‘De Profundis’. Hands clasped, he prayed that the Welshman’s faithful soul would journey unchallenged into the realm of light. Then he sat back on his heels, glancing round this hateful church. He recognised what had happened. The murderer, that hideous assassin, had been hunting him. The serjeant-at-arms at Westminster had been wrong. Some evil killer had gone there to spy Corbett out. He’d withdrawn to lurk in the shadows, then pursued him and Griffyths to this desolate church. The assassin must have left the war hound quiet outside, followed them in through the corpse door, doused the torches and waited. Griffyths simply walked to his death. If Corbett had not been so fortunate, he would have met his out in that ghostly cemetery.
Corbett stumbled to his feet and went down the church to the small cask of holy water beside the baptismal bowl. He took off the lid and filled the ladle inside, then took it back and dripped the water over Griffyths’ corpse.
‘It’s the best I can do for the moment,’ he murmured. ‘I can do no more.’ He tossed the ladle to the ground and went across to the Lady Chapel, pausing on the steps leading into it. He’d noticed how one of the flagstones was smooth, recently replaced, but apart from that, he’d observed nothing untoward in this ghost-filled church.
‘It should be burnt,’ he murmured. ‘If I had my way, I would burn this house of blood and build anew.’
12
Caitiff
: a cowardly, wicked being
‘Master? Master?’ Ranulf’s voice echoed, followed by a pounding on the corpse door. ‘Sir Hugh!’
Corbett hurried across and unlocked the door. Ranulf almost knocked him aside as he strode into the church followed by Chanson.
‘Master, what’s happened here? We’ve been to the north door. There’s a war dog lying outside, its throat slashed.’ He glanced across at Griffyths’ corpse and hurried over. ‘
Jesu miserere
,’ he murmured. ‘Sir Hugh, what happened here?’
Corbett swayed on his feet, and Ranulf caught him.
‘Come,’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘Chanson, tell Sir Ralph to stay outside. He is not to come in here, not yet.’ He lowered Corbett to the ground, leaning his master back against the church wall.
For a while Corbett fought the urge to be sick, to retch, to vomit out the tension he felt. At last he felt better.
‘Apart from the war dog you saw nothing else?’ he asked.
‘A crossbow bolt in the sacristy door.’
Corbett told him what had happened. Ranulf, crouching beside him, listened intently.
‘You shouldn’t have come . . .’ he said when Corbett had finished.
‘Don’t lecture me, don’t preach. Griffyths has gone to God, and I think this mystery is clearing. Look,’ Corbett clambered to his feet, ‘first Sir Ralph.’
They went out into the cemetery, where the constable had already set up camp beneath the yew trees. His men had collected dry bracken and were starting a fire. Sandewic rose as Corbett approached.
‘Sir Ralph, I am pleased you’re here.’ Corbett grasped Sandewic’s hand and led him away, Ranulf and Chanson following.
Corbett pithily described what had happened.
‘The war hound is dead,’ Ranulf commented. ‘The lime did terrible damage to its throat and eyes. Its owner put the beast out of its misery with a mercy cut.’
‘And who is its owner?’ Corbett paused as starlings burst out from a nearby tree.
‘Boniface perhaps? He’s returned and is lurking in hiding. I’ve heard of such assassins . . .’ Ranulf’s voice trailed away. He was concerned about Corbett, his lack of colour, the nervous twitch to his eyes and lips.
‘We could scout the entire ward,’ Sandewic grumbled, ‘but what good would that do? Sir Hugh, what do you want with me? You asked for a comitatus . . .?’
Corbett stared up at the church tower. He must be done with this. He wanted to warm himself before a fire, but the ghosts were gathering about him. Somewhere here, in this churchyard, lay the rotting corpse of Boniface Ippegrave, a good clerk, a man of integrity. His flesh must have long decayed but his soul, like some tongue of flame hungry for dry wood, surely demanded justice.
‘Sir Hugh?’
Corbett smiled, stretched across and pulled up Chanson’s cowl. The Clerk of the Stables looked surprised.
‘Pull it tighter,’ Corbett ordered. ‘Ranulf, do up your cloak and cover your head with the hood.’ He turned to the constable. ‘Divide your men. You must place a close guard around the church.’ He paused as the corpse door opened and two of Sandewic’s men brought out Griffyths’ body shrouded under the archer’s cloak.
‘Sir Ralph, before we begin, send poor Griffyths’ remains to the corpse house near the King’s Chapel at Westminster.’
‘And for the rest?’
‘Divide your comitatus. Guard the north door, sacristy door, front door and corpse door. Tell your guards that they must not allow Chanson out of St Botulph’s.’
‘But they don’t know him.’
Corbett pointed to Ranulf. ‘Our cloaks are Benedictine black, Chanson’s is Lincoln green. He must not leave. Do you understand? ’
Sandewic grinned, shrugged and sauntered off. He knew Corbett of old. The clerk could be capricious and eccentric yet ruthless in his pursuit of the truth.
‘Well, Chanson?’ Corbett tapped the surprised groom on the shoulder. ‘Go on, enter the church. Oh, Sir Ralph,’ he called. The constable turned. ‘Chanson will pretend to be in sanctuary. No one except Ranulf and myself may visit him, you understand?’
The constable raised a hand.
‘Go into the church, Chanson.’ Corbett gestured at the corpse door. ‘Sit on the sanctuary steps.’
‘Master, this is a place of blood.’
‘You can always sing,’ teased Ranulf. ‘Sir Hugh, what is this?’
‘I will show you how Boniface disappeared. Do you remember Adelicia’s night visitor, the prowler in the woods? He claimed to be Boniface. When asked how he disappeared from St Botulph’s, he replied that he simply walked through the door. Whoever he was, that stranger was telling the truth, as we shall prove.’
Corbett ushered the reluctant Chanson into the church and closed the door, then he and Ranulf went round checking on all the other doors. A small group of Sandewic’s archers had assembled near the still battered front porch, but Corbett, now recovering from the attack, laughingly reassured them that if Chanson did escape, it would not be through there.
Once Griffyths’ corpse had been honourably removed and Sandewic’s men were in place, Corbett and Ranulf went in and out of the various doors muffled and cowled in their heavy cloaks. Sandewic, taking up his command at the north door, watched fascinated. The grizzled constable was already relishing the story he would tell the King next time they were in their cups. On one occasion Corbett paused to inspect the corpse of the war hound, which Sandewic’s men had sprawled across an old tombstone. On another, Sandewic, at Corbett’s invitation, followed them as near as he could into the church and listened to Corbett and Ranulf trying to cheer the disconsolate Chanson. The clerks would then separate to wander in and out of the church or across the sprawling cemetery. At last Corbett approached Sandewic.
‘Master Constable, your prisoner has escaped!’
Sandewic, muttering curses, stormed through the corpse door and stared around in surprise.
‘It’s empty!’ he shouted. ‘Sir Hugh, where is your clerk? Where’s Chanson?’ He went back shouting the groom’s name, his voice echoing vainly through that sombre church.
‘Go on,’ Corbett urged, ‘bring your men in. Search this church from door to door, every crevice, nook and cranny. See if you can find Chanson.’
Sandewic, baffled, did as he was told. The bells of other churches were ringing out the hours before he came back shaking his head.
‘He’s disappeared,’ he exclaimed, ‘just like Boniface Ippegrave did. Sir Hugh, is he hiding here?’
‘I will tell you,’ Corbett took off his gauntlets, ‘but not here. Sir Ralph, tell your lieutenant to lock the church and take your men back for a blackjack of ale at the Tower. You, my friend,’ he touched the constable’s whiskered face, ‘will join me and my companions in the most cheerful tavern we can find.’
A short while later, closeted in a partitioned area to the left of the great roaring fire in the taproom of the Golden Thistle, Corbett finished the last morsels of his delicious venison. He cleaned his horn spoon, slipped it back into his belt pouch, grasped his blackjack of ale and sat back. The tavern was small, clean and sweet-smelling, a stark contrast to that icy, ghostly church and cemetery. He waited for his companions, equally ravenous, to finish their own food before toasting them with his tankard. Sandewic kept staring at Chanson, shaking his head in disbelief. He was brimming with questions about how the clerk had disappeared from St Botulph’s. Chanson had been waiting for them here, crouched on a stool next to the spit boy, advising him how to baste the pork with mingled spices that gave the taproom its mouth-watering aromas.
‘Sir Ralph, I’ll tell you in a while,’ began Corbett, ‘but first I want to go back twenty years.’ The rest, nursing their tankards, listened intently. Corbett closed his eyes, then opened them and smiled around. ‘Boniface Ippegrave was not the Mysterium; Walter Evesham was.’