Corbett nodded as if satisfied and courteously dismissed the Dominican.
âProud priest!' Ormesby muttered.
âPride blind!' Corbett quibbled. âFather Thomas will be different.'
The parish priest was. He took the oath, made the usual reference to his clerical status then promised to answer all questions as honestly as his conscience would allow. He made no attempt to hide his deep dislike of Lord Scrope, his disapproval at the slaughter of the Free Brethren and his condemnation of the manor lord's harshness. Corbett murmured understandingly and kept his important questions to last, glancing at Ranulf as if he was more interested in his scribe's copying than anything else.
âFather,' Corbett smiled, âwhy did you really come to Mistleham?'
âI've told you, I wanted to be a poor priest and serve Christ and his people.'
âYou also come from these parts?'
âYes, that did influence Lord Scrope to support me for the benefice of St Alphege's. I am a local man, a former royal chaplain. I am also, after a fashion, scholarly and erudite, whilst my letters of recommendation were excellent.'
âYour brother Reginald, did he play a part in your coming here?'
âMy brother is dead.'
âKilled at Acre, I understand?' Corbett glimpsed the flicker, the change in the priest's light blue eyes: grief, anger, resentment? âFather Thomas, the truth.'
âI loved Reginald.' The priest fought back his grief. âAlways happy, Sir Hugh, a truly merry soul. I loved him deeply. He left for Acre before I could stop him. He died there.'
âAnd?'
âI always wanted to find out how and why.'
âDid you?'
âNo. The only survivors were Scrope and his creature Claypole. They could tell me little.'
âBut you were suspicious?'
âReginald was my beloved brother. I wanted to know about his final days but I learnt nothing.'
âDespite your best efforts?'
âI heard things.'
âWhat?'
âSmall scraps about the fall of the Templar donjon, the last fortification in Acre to be stormed by the Saracens, about the defenders breaking, scattering, every man fighting for himself. There were
also stories of panic and selfishness, but nothing substantial, Sir Hugh, nothing at all.'
âWhy do you think your mysterious visitor called himself Nightshade?' Corbett asked. âWhy do you think he took that name; why come to you?'
âI truly don't know, Sir Hugh. Nightshade has a malevolent aura about it. I suspect he wanted to frighten Lord Scrope.'
âAnd the painting the Free Brethren did in your church: Lord Scrope liked it?'
âI've told you that. He said it had its qualities. Scrope rarely praised anyone or anything under God's blue heaven.'
âHave you studied the painting?'
âOf course!'
âLook again,' Corbett murmured. âIs it really about the fall of Babylon or somewhere else?'
âSuch as?'
âI don't know,' Corbett smiled, âbut it's not an accurate reflection of the Book of Revelation.'
âI hear what you say, Sir Hugh.'
âAnd the blood registers that Master Claypole so desperately seeks?'
Father Thomas laughed out loud. âOh, I am sure,' he declared, âMaster Claypole would love to have those, but even if they were here, I doubt if they would prove anything. He is illegitimate, Scrope's bastard. I do not have them, despite what Claypole thinks.'
âThen where are they?'
âWhere do you think, Sir Hugh? I suspect Scrope, for his own secret, malign purposes, had them removed.'
âAnd the night Lord Scrope was murdered? Where were you?'
âPraying over the corpses of those killed in Mistleham. I did not like Lord Scrope but I did not murder him. I also know about your questions to the others, about the warnings to Scrope, the thief Le Riche, the slaughter of the Free Brethren. Sir Hugh, I have spoken to you already about such matters. I have nothing to add.'
Warrant for the arrest of John Le Riche ⦠of bad reputation with a history of felony in Bedfordshire.
Calendar of Patent Rolls
, 1291 â 1302
After Father Thomas left, Dame Marguerite and Master Benedict were ushered in. Corbett believed it was best to question them together, ignoring Ranulf's whisper to Chanson about how they were both âcheeks of the same arse', a remark that would certainly have shaken both the abbess and her chaplain had they heard it. They swore the oath and took their seats. Dame Marguerite quietly dispensed with their ecclesiastical status and privileges, thanking Corbett profusely for questioning them together as Master Benedict was not well. Corbett certainly agreed with that. The chaplain was clean-shaven and tidy, but his long, youthful face had a strange colour and his eyes were round and dark. He looked as if he'd slept badly and clutched his stomach as if he'd eaten something bad. He was also distracted and kept glancing away as if fearful of some malignant spectre hiding in the shadowy corners of the dais.
âSir Hugh,' Dame Marguerite's pretty face was slightly flushed, âwhat more can we tell you?'
âI wish to be away from here, royal clerk.' Master Benedict's
words came as a rasp. He glanced directly at Corbett. âThis is truly a place of murder.' He quoted from the Gospels. âHaceldama. The Field of Blood. I would be grateful if you would give me letters of commendation to Lord Drokensford and the King.'
âPlease, Sir Hugh,' Dame Marguerite pleaded.
âWhen this business is over, my lady.'
âWe know little,' Master Benedict interrupted. âThe night Lord Scrope was murdered, I was racked with a fever. Ask Dame Marguerite and the servants, I had a fever â¦' His voice trailed off. âSo many killings, Sir Hugh! Who will be next to be struck down?'
Corbett ignored the question and pointed at the lady abbess.
âDo you know anything about these murderous doings?'
âNo, sir. My brother was a law unto himself.'
âEven about Acre,' Corbett intervened, âafter so many years?'
âEven about that, Sir Hugh. He never talked about it, at least not with me. I am sure he did with Claypole, as he would about the Free Brethren, the Sagittarius or Le Riche. Sir Hugh, I know as much as you do. To be sure, they were all dreadful events, but remember, though I am lodged here now, I am abbess of a busy convent. The affairs of Mistleham Manor do not really concern me. I regret my brother's death but I am more vigilant about Master Claypole than anything else, and, of course, advancement for Master Benedict. I have been as honest and truthful as I can.' She paused. âI only wish Jackanapes had survived. He may have told you more. The thief Le Riche does not concern me. The leaders of the Free Brethren, Adam and Eve, together with others of their coven, often came to our convent, to beg, to pray in our chapel, but they did nothing wrong, they were harmless innocents.'
âAnd the Island of Swans? Dame Marguerite, as a child you
played on the manor estates. Was the lake only crossed by boat or bridge?'
âYes.' She smiled wistfully. âThe water is very deep, clogged with weeds, which makes it highly dangerous. My brother had the old bridge destroyed; it was where the jetties now stand. Some of his retainers were trained to row him across. The lake is dangerous, Sir Hugh. I cannot imagine how anyone could have crossed it without using one of those boats.'
âSo how do you think the killer did cross?' Ranulf asked.
âI have reflected about that carefully.' The abbess chewed on her lip. âI suspect he,' she smiled prettily, âor she, swam across during the day.'
âThey would have frozen to death,' Corbett declared.
âNot necessarily, Sir Hugh. Someone who took a change of clothing, a small skin of wine. I could swim it.' She smiled. âDespite the dangers, I sometimes did.'
âBut how would they gain access to the reclusorium?' Ranulf asked.
âPerhaps the assassin inveighed my brother into admitting him. But,' Dame Marguerite shrugged, âI know such an explanation poses as many problems as it solves.' She rose to her feet, Master Benedict with her. âI can tell you no more, truly, Sir Hugh.'
Corbett thanked the abbess and her chaplain. They both withdrew, Chanson closing the door behind them. Corbett straightened in his chair and turned to Ormesby.
âWell, Master Physician, what do you think?'
âI have served as a coroner, Sir Hugh, and my immediate conclusion, well, it's threefold. First,' he held up a stubby finger, âof course you have not been told the truth here; that's hardly
surprising: no one here is going to make a full confession. Everybody has something to hide. What binds them all together is a deep dislike, even hatred, for Lord Scrope.'
âAnd?'
âSecond, Corbett, this is like a disease, a malignancy. The root, in my view, is the past. You keep asking about Acre; that seems to be the radix, the root of it all. Something mysterious undoubtedly happened there. Men from Mistleham went to Acre; only Scrope and Claypole returned. Old soldiers like to talk about their wars and battles, their wounds, the glories, the triumphs. Scrope and Claypole did not â why? We know they escaped. We also know they plundered the Templar treasury, but they haven't really given the people of Mistleham, the likes of Father Thomas, a true and faithful account of how their colleagues died. Third, if Acre is the root, the flowering is what has happened here. We must, or you must, discover how a killer crossed that icy lake in the dead of night, without being seen or disturbed, and gained entry into a small but fortified house. The assassin then murdered Lord Scrope, who offered no resistance, plundered his treasures and escaped unscathed and unseen. I suggest, Sir Hugh,' Ormesby got to his feet, âyou begin there. If you can solve that, then I believe everything else will fall into place.'
âI would disagree.' Ranulf spoke up. âMaster Ormesby, what you say is perceptive and truthful; nevertheless, there are lies we can still pick at. Master Claypole, for example. I don't believe the story of Le Riche being captured and hanged out of hand; something's wrong there. The same is true of Brother Gratian. He is so glib. He is hiding behind his status and his privileges. If we could only discover a path in.'
âTrue, true,' the physician murmured, âbut gentlemen, unless you need me, I must be gone. I will visit Lady Hawisa.' He stretched his hand out and clasped Corbett's then Ranulf's. âPlease call on me again if I can be of further assistance but, as for the truth behind this? I cannot explain,' he shook his head, âperhaps not even ever.' And grumbling and muttering under his breath, the physician left the hall.
Corbett rose, went to a side table, filled two goblets of wine and brought one back for Ranulf.
âVery well, Ranulf. Chanson,' Corbett beckoned the Clerk of the Stables across, âfill yourself a goblet of wine. This is what we will do. Ranulf, clear the table here then wander the manor. Try and find the truth of what we've been told about where people were, anything untoward. Chanson, keep an eye on Brother Gratian. If you discover anything, come to my chamber.'
Corbett immediately visited the chapel and sat in a chair before the lady altar; then, getting to his feet, he carefully examined everything whilst wondering what Lord Scrope had meant about something being stolen from there. He gazed up at the crucifix hanging above the entrance to the small sanctuary, then at the altar and side tables, but could see nothing out of place. He returned to his own chamber, took off his boots and lounged in front of the fire. The wine he'd drunk had its effect. He half dozed, and darkness had fallen by the time Ranulf and Chanson returned.
âNothing,' Ranulf declared, slouching down on a stool next to Corbett. âNothing at all, master. Everything we heard is true. The servants sang the same hymn. Dame Marguerite, Brother Gratian, Master Benedict and Lady Hawisa were all in their chambers the
night Lord Scrope died, whilst of course, Father Thomas and Master Claypole were not even glimpsed here. So what now?'
âI found something.' Corbett turned to where Chanson was standing by the door. âBrother Gratian is going to distribute more Mary loaves tomorrow,' the Clerk of the Stables reported.
âBe there,' Corbett urged. âAs for you and me, Ranulf, we will sleep late, take our horses and let no one know where we are going.'
âWhere to?' Ranulf asked fearfully, half suspecting Corbett's answer.
âMordern,' Corbett replied. âIt holds a secret and I intend to discover it.'
âAnd the Island of Swans?' Ranulf asked. âI talked to Pennywort; he'd racked his memory and said a bridge once spanned the lake where the jetties now stand. Dame Marguerite was correct, Lord Scrope destroyed it. I asked if anyone could swim between the two jetties. Pennywort laughed. Apparently the lake is at its deepest at the crossing point.'
Corbett half listened and nodded. âFirst Mordern, Ranulf,' he murmured, âand when we have collected enough to sift the gold from the dross, we will return to the Island of Swans. Until then it can keep its mystery.'
The following morning Corbett and Ranulf attended the Jesus Mass at St Alphege's. Once Father Thomas had left the sanctuary, Corbett returned to scrutinise the wall painting.
âMaster?' Ranulf asked.
âLook,' Corbett replied, âthe defenders of that city, they wear russet and green livery.'
âThe colours of Lord Scrope?'
âPrecisely! Though only some of the figures do, and you have to study the painting closely to distinguish them. Now is this fortress Acre or Babylon? These dark figures fleeing, are they Scrope and Claypole? Who's the figure in the bed? Is this Gaston, Scrope's cousin? And the banquet scene with Judas celebrating, what does that mean?'
âAnd these.' Ranulf pointed to the plants or herbs the artist had drawn round the edges of the painting. âIs this deadly nightshade?'
âPerhaps, and this.' Corbett gestured at the cross and the gleaming wounds of Christ. âIs it a reference to the Sanguis Christi? Ah well.' He sighed. âI wish I knew more. Come.'
They left the church, paid the urchin holding their horses and swung themselves into the saddle. Others were also leaving the church, traders eager to have their stalls ready by the time the market bell rang. The cold morning air stank of horse manure and the wet straw strewn across the cobbles; these odours mingled with the savoury tang from the bakeries, cook-shops and taverns. Across the square three roisterers, now half sober, screamed at the beadles to free them from the night stocks. The officials did so, but only after pouring buckets of freezing horse piss over their heads. On the steps of the market cross a crier warned traders that only bread bearing a baker's seal could be bought, whilst everyone should be wary of jugs of watered wine, milk or oil, not to mention bread containing too much yeast, stale fish drenched with pig's blood to make it seem fresh, and cheese made to look richer by being soaked in cheap broth.
âThat reminds me of a funny story.' Ranulf leaned over. âA man once asked a butcher for a reduction in price, bearing in mind
that he'd been a customer for seven years. “Seven years!” the butcher exclaimed. “And you are still alive?”'
Corbett laughed and urged his horse across the square towards a stall set up in front of a cookshop. It offered platters of pastries filled with chopped ham, cheese and eel, all seasoned with pepper and other spices. He bought two pastries hot from the oven. He and Ranulf moved their horses into the mouth of an alleyway and ate as Corbett stared round the sprawling marketplace. He noticed the many windows and doorways as well as the ribbon-thin alleyways and runnels between the houses. He was certain that the Sagittarius must have used one of those windows above the forest of brazenly coloured signs: a bush for the vinter, gilded pills for the apothecary, a white arm with stripes of red for the surgeon-barber, a unicorn for the goldsmiths and a horse's head for the saddlemakers. He bit into the pastry carefully, his other hand grasping the reins. He was oblivious to the hum of noise, cages and pens being opened to release ducks, chickens, capons and screaming piglets, which were then tied to the stalls, waiting for customers to choose one.
Ranulf glanced at Corbett and sighed. His master was lost in one of his reveries. He looked back towards the church, where carts were lining up. A wandering players' troupe was busy preparing to stage a play. Their leader had already set up his makeshift pulpit panelled in green and gold and covered with a black pall. He now stood there exhorting the bemused traders and their customers. âBrothers and sisters,' he intoned in a bellowing voice. âYou who love this age and desire its joys, think of death, of judgement, which our play will describe.' One of the drunks recently released from the stocks came staggering across bellowing a tavern song to drown the man out:
One for the buyers of the wine
Twice they sup for those in jail.
Three times for the girls with their kirtles raised â¦
The troupe leader didn't object, but simply waited for the drunk to draw closer then smacked him over the head with a skillet, much to the merriment of the gathering crowd.