On that day 13 January 1304, the Judges began their deliberations.
Annals of London
, 1304
Father Thomas hurried away even as people began to emerge from their hiding places. Doors were flung open, shutters removed. A boy came racing across the cobbles, ignoring the shrieks of his mother. Lord Scrope's retinue broke up. The manor lord became busy talking to Master Claypole, who'd emerged from his house looking rather ridiculous, a dagger in one hand, a large pan in the other to serve as a shield. A bell sounded. The market returned to business, but Corbett sensed the mood had grown ugly. There were dark looks, mutterings and mumbles. The people of Mistleham now believed that the Sagittarius and his dreadful acts were connected to those hideous events out at Modern. Corbett told Chanson to guard the horses, plucked Ranulf by the sleeve and gestured towards the Portal of Heaven. âThe Bowman must have stood directly opposite.' He turned and pointed to the line of houses across the square, facing the tavern.
âSearch the alleyways, alcoves and runnels, Ranulf. Go literally from house to house and room to room, see what you can find.'
âHe must have carried his bow,' Ranulf murmured.
âOr had it hidden away, ready for use. There again,' Corbett chewed the corner of his lip, âa bow can be unstrung, it can look like a stave, whilst the quiver of arrows remains hidden under a cloak. See what you can find.'
Ranulf nodded and walked across. Corbett went over to where Scrope and Catchpole were deep in conversation. He paused. He hadn't noticed it before, but now the more he stared at these two men with their harsh, pugnacious faces, the more he could see the blood tie between them. What was more important was that both the manor lord and the mayor were in heated conversation. Corbett wondered what it was about, whilst he was eager to question both about that strange half-finished remark by Father Thomas about the Sagittarius returning as he had in the past.
âSir Hugh,' Scrope turned, a bland smile on his ugly face, âthis is damnable.'
âSo is the cause, Lord Oliver! The Sagittarius, who gave him that name?'
Scrope glanced at Claypole; the mayor just pursed his lips, shrugged and glanced away.
âI asked a question.' Corbett paused as a crowd of townsmen headed towards them, carrying clubs, faces full of resentment. Corbett drew his sword in a slashing curl of light. Scrope also drew his, whilst his men-at-arms began to drift back, uncertain about what was happening.
âI am the King's man.' Corbett advanced to confront the angry mob. âYou will see justice done. This is not your business! Go about your trade.'
âThis is Scrope's doing!' a voice shouted. âThose young ones out at Mordern, it should never have happened.'
âIn the King's name,' Corbett repeated loudly, âgo about your business.' His hand went behind his back, he pulled his dagger from its sheath and walked closer to the hostile traders. âDon't be foolish,' he said softly to their leader, a burly faced, popping-eyed man, apparently a butcher from the bloody apron wrapped around him. âGo back to your business, sir; take your friends with you. This will end and justice will be done, I assure you.'
The butcher glanced at his companions. Corbett lowered his sword.
âAs you say,' the man muttered, âthis must end.' He gestured with his hands; the tradesmen broke up, drifting back, muttering and cursing over their shoulders.
âSir Hugh,' Scrope declared, âthese murders must be brought to an end.'
âAnd so they will be, Lord Oliver, though I suspect it will end in a hanging.'
âWhat do you mean?' Claypole queried, eyes narrowed, lower lip jutting out, ready to take up the argument.
âThat's how it always ends,' Corbett added cheerfully, sheathing his sword. âA hanging! Someone, some day, somehow will have to die violently for all this. However, I do not predict the future, I just use logic and evidence. I asked you a question, sirs. This bowman, the Latin name, the Sagittarius, who gave it to him?'
He stared up at the sky, trying to hide his nervousness. If he wanted to, that deadly bowman could return, and what better target than the King's own man? He felt a stab of fear. He was hunting a true killer, a soul dedicated to inflicting as much
destruction as he could. He was right, there was no other way, this business would end in heinous violence.
âLord Scrope, I asked a question. Indeed, I have so many questions to ask you.'
âFather Thomas,' Scrope replied testily. âHe first used the word Sagittarius.'
âWhen?'
Both men looked at each other.
âWhen? Lord Oliver, Master Claypole, I want an answer. I am losing patience. The King's own subjects have been killed, whilst you show little respect for the corpses of men who served you.'
âI'll see to my own dead, Corbett.'
â
Pax et bonum
â¦' Corbett whispered. âI wish you well, but watch your tongue, Scrope. You can speak to me here man to man or I'll summon you to Westminster. One question: why the Sagittarius? Father Thomas also hinted that such an assassin has been here before.'
âHe's a prattling priest.'
âA good priest, Scrope. So do you and Master Claypole wish to appear on oath before the King's justices?'
âTell him,' Claypole grated, turning his face against the biting breeze. âFor God's sake, Lord Oliver, tell him! What does it matter now?'
âSir Hugh!'
Corbett turned.
Master Benedict, neat and precise in his long woollen robe, cowl pulled full across his head, came striding across.
âSir Hugh, Dame Marguerite would like to speak to you.'
âMaster Benedict, give your mistress my kindest regards. Tell her I shall do so when I return to Mistleham Manor.'
âSir Hugh.' Master Benedict took a deep breath and bowed. âIf you can, sir, remember me at court.' The chaplin wrung his hands. âHere in Essex, this violence, the bloodshed ⦠Sir Hugh, that is one of the reasons I entered the priesthood. I detest what is happening here. I do not wish to carry a sword, pluck a bow â¦'
Master Benedict was still shocked by what he had witnessed.
âGo back.' Corbett gently patted him on the shoulder. âDo not worry.' He smiled. âI shall do what I can.'
The chaplain, thanking him profusely, walked away. Corbett turned back.
âNow, Lord Scrope, Master Claypole, the Sagittarius?'
âI returned here in 1292.' Scrope measured his words. âI settled down. All was peace and harmony, but in the autumn of the following year, for a few weeks I was stalked, hunted, Sir Hugh, by a bowman. Oh, he must have loosed six or seven shafts at me. He always missed.'
âAt no one else?'
Scrope smiled thinly. âNo, Sir Hugh, just me. Father Thomas called him the Sagittarius; he warned his parishioners from the pulpit that whoever was responsible was committing a great sin.'
âBut the Sagittarius never did any harm, he never struck you?'
âNo, Sir Hugh, then it stopped as mysteriously as it began.'
âAnd you never found out who or why?'
âOf course not. If I had found the culprit, I'd have hanged him! Sir Hugh, you said you had many questions, so ask me, though I do not have many answers. I have told you what I can. I know nothing else. I cannot help you. I have agreed to return the Sanguis Christi and the dagger. What I have done here I did for my own protection and for the good of the Crown. I kept the peace.'
âAnd this Sagittarius,' Corbett persisted, âdo you think he is the same person as the last?'
Scrope just pulled a face. Corbett stepped closer.
âWhatever you say, Lord Oliver, or you, Master Claypole, I tell you this, not as a King's clerk, but as one soul speaking to another. This violence will continue blazing like a fire; only the truth can douse its flames.'
Corbett spun on his heel and walked over to St Alphege's Church. A group of young men and women sheltering inside the porch informed him how the three corpses had been taken to the death house. Father Thomas was busy tending them there with the Guild of Magdalene, a group of pious townswomen dedicated to such tasks as collecting the dead, dressing them and preparing them for burial. Corbett nodded. He asked about the painting done by the Free Brethren. One of the young men led him in along the transept and pointed to the fresco.
âVividly done,' he said. âLook, sir, the colours.'
âAnd the story?'
Corbett's guide screwed his face up in concentration. âFather Thomas did tell us. He preached about it and used the painting to explain. Ah, that's it! The Fall of Baâ'
âThe Fall of Babylon.' Corbett, staring at the fresco, finished the word. âOf course, thank you very much.'
He examined the painting closely. The theme had been cleverly depicted, the colours specially chosen to stand out in the poor light, particularly the reds and greens. He studied it curiously, moving from scene to scene. The great dragon in the sky; the towers and walls of the city; the attackers in their white cloaks; a man in bed; a banquet scene; the flight of Judas and other traitors down the
Valley of Death; the strange symbols and plant-like shapes decorating the fringes of the painting. He broke from his study as voices further down the church near the front door began to sing a hymn.
âOh pure Virgin! Come ye with tapers of wax. Come forth here and worship this child both God and man, offered in his Temple by his mother dear.'
Corbett smiled and glanced down the nave. Despite the hideous killings out in the marketplace, the young men and women in the porch were still intent on preparing for the Feast of Candlemas. He walked back and watched the troupe rehearse their play: Simeon and Anna the prophetess waiting for Mary and Joseph to bring the baby Jesus into the Temple. They finished with a rendering of the Benedictus. Corbett asked if he could participate; they cheerfully agreed and gathered around the baptismal font to rehearse. Corbett sang the first verse so he could set the pitch and tone; the others replied with the second stanza, the choristers staring shyly at this King's man who seemed so interested in what they were doing. Eventually the cadence and tone were agreed and Corbett led them in song, opening with the beautiful line of the hymn: âBlessed be the Holy Child, Mary's own son â¦'
The choir joined in lustily. Corbett soon forgot the dangers, chanting the verses with the rest. He was so pleased with the result, he asked if they would sing it a second time, handing over a piece of silver for them to share afterwards. The choir quickly agreed. Once again Corbett became lost in the rise and fall of the beautiful plainchant. After they had finished, the choir made their apologies but said they must go, adding that Father Thomas would not be returning to give them a blessing. They left, closing the door behind them. Corbett crouched at the foot of a pillar and stared down the
nave. Darkness was creeping in. Candle glow from the chantry chapels and the lady altar provided meagre light. He glanced towards the transept and glimpsed those wild figures on the battlements of the wall painting. A cold night mist was seeping under the door. Corbett shivered. He was approaching his nightmare, one that always haunted him on expeditions such as this, that he'd be caught vulnerable by an arrow or knife speeding through the darkness. He shook himself and got to his feet. The Christmas season was now over; perhaps if Father Thomas did return, he would hear Corbett's confession and shrive him. Corbett returned to the painting, studying it carefully, marvelling at its ingenuity and imagination. He felt a pang of pity for the young people who had done this, now nothing but black ash in that dark, damned forest at Mordern.
He heard the corpse door open and whirled round. Father Thomas came striding across.
âSir Hugh, one of the young men you were singing with,' the priest stepped out of the shadows, âhe came and said you were here. What can I do to help?'
âI admire the painting.' Corbett gestured at the wall. âYou must be very proud of it?'
âI am.' Father Thomas smiled.
Corbett stepped closer. The light was poor and he wanted to watch this priest's eyes. âIt's a pity,' he said, âthey were killed.'
âAye.' The priest sighed. âAnd if Lord Scrope has his way, the painting will disappear. He has agreed to refurbish both St Alphege's and a great deal of St Frideswide's Convent, perhaps contrition for his sins.'
âWe all have reparation to make.'
âIs that true, King's clerk?'
âIt is true, priest. You asked if you could do anything for me. I would like you to shrive me, hear my confession.'
Father Thomas looked surprised, but agreed. He led Corbett up the church and gestured to him to kneel on the prie-dieu before the mercy seat. Then he went to the sacristy and returned with a purple stole around his neck. He sat down on the chair, turning his face away from Corbett.