Claypole, agitated, rubbed his mouth. He dared not cross Scrope â if the manor lord died without heir, Claypole intended to press his suit. Scrope had never told him the truth but kept it dangling like a lure on a string. Had Alice de Tuddenham been validly married to him? If so, Claypole was his legitimate heir. Yet how could he prove that? The blood registers covering the time of his birth had gone missing from the parish chest. Was that Scrope's work? Or Father Thomas, who claimed he'd never seen them? Or Dame Marguerite, who'd always resented his claims? Why didn't Scrope tell the truth, or was that how he wanted it? To lure his
so-called illegitimate son into nefarious schemes such as dealing with the likes of Le Riche? Despite the warmth, Claypole shivered. Now that was dangerous. Scrope's greed might still trap them in a charge of treason.
âSir?'
Claypole, startled, looked over his shoulder. The captain of the town guard stood waiting, dressed in half-armour. He said the men were assembled in the courtyard below, horses harnessed and ready.
âSir, we should leave now!'
Claypole sighed, picked up his cloak and put it about his shoulders, snapping the clasp shut, easing the war belt around his waist. Only the dead waited for them at Mordern, yet he had to be careful! He glanced through the window. A horseman had ridden into the square and was now dismounting. Master Benedict had arrived. It was time to be gone. Claypole went down to the guildhall yard, nodded at the captain of the guard and stood on a stone plinth.
âWe are to go out to Mordern this morning. We have unfinished business,' he declared. âYou know the King's men are here. The corpses of the felons we killed must be given honourable burial or burnt; either way they will disappear.' His words were greeted with silence. He noted the sombre looks and whispers as he grasped the reins of his horse and mounted. This was a highly unpopular task. He'd warned Scrope about it from the start. They should have buried the corpses and forgotten about them. Now they had to return in cold blood to where hot blood had been spilt, lives extinguished like the wick of a lamp. He gathered the reins and dug in his spurs, urging the horse forward.
The gates of the guildhall yard swung open. Claypole and the others cantered out, the clatter of their horse's hooves reassuring him with a sense of power. They crossed the marketplace. Jackanapes, in his tawdry refinery, was, as usual, sitting near the horse trough close to the church. The beggar man jumped up as Claypole approached, running towards him, leaping about, hands extended.
âMaster Mayor, Master Mayor,' he cried. âI have news!'
Claypole reined in and stared at this frantic figure, face all wan with cold, eyes dancing with madness, mouth gaping to show half-chewed food.
âThe Sagittarius has come again,' Jackanapes shouted. âI know he is here. I wait for my reward.' He'd hardly finished when the shrill blast of a hunting horn shattered the silence of the marketplace. Even those beggars sleeping in the dark nooks and crannies shook themselves awake and crawled deeper into the shadows. Again the blast of the horn. By now Claypole's men were stirring, turning their horses, swords half drawn, seeking out the danger. A third blast. Claypole dismounted hurriedly, trying to keep the horse between himself and any possible assassin. He heard the twang like the strings of a harp being plucked, followed by the whistle of the darting shaft. A scream startled his horse. Claypole stared in horror at Jackanapes, who was now staggering back, an arrow shaft embedded deep in his chest. The madman tried to keep his balance, hands flapping, face jittering, mouth opening and shutting even as the blood spurted out. Another arrow sliced the air, followed by the gargle of a man choking on his own blood. The mayor moved his horse. Jackanapes had been the sole target. The poor fool had slumped to his knees, a shaft
through the side of his throat completing the work of the other deep in his chest. Jackanapes stared dully at Claypole, lips parted, mouth dribbling blood, then he pitched forward on his face, twisting in his death throes on to his back.
They stayed there two nights ⦠before advancing with arms towards Westminster.
Palgrave,
Kalendars of the Exchequer
Claypole gave vent to his fury and fear, yelling at his men to scatter and search even as Corbett, Ranulf and others from the manor galloped into the square. Claypole stared at the leading riders. It was like a dream. For a moment, just a brief while, those two royal clerks on their great destriers, cloaks fluttering about them, cowls up, their horses moving slightly sideways in an aura of misty sweat and hot breath, seemed like the Angels of Death entering Mistleham. Claypole shook himself from such a doom-laden dream and gazed around. Already, despite the early hour, the commotion had aroused the many households in the warren of chambers, rooms, garrets and attics fronting the square. Shutters were flung back, candles and lanterns glowed at windows, doors creaked open, dogs were barking. Father Thomas, a stole about his neck, hastened out of the Galilee porch of his church and, slipping and slithering, hurried across. He stared piteously at Claypole and Corbett's retinue before crouching beside the fallen man. Jackanapes was not yet dead; his legs trembled, his feet in the pathetic old boots still shifted on the cobbles.
â
Jesu miserere
,' Father Thomas whispered. He stretched himself out on the slush and whispered the Absolvo Te, the final absolution, into the dying man's ear, then opened the small pyx and forced the host between Jackanapes' lips before swiftly anointing the dying man's brow, eyes, lips, hands and feet.
Corbett, astride his horse, cloak gathered about, crossed himself and whispered the Requiem. Ranulf followed suit even as he turned in the saddle to gaze swiftly around the square. Claypole's men were now returning. A search was futile, Ranulf realised that. Slayings like these were not new to the sons of Cain. In London the same happened every so often. A killer on the loose, some skilled archer, a veteran, his soul rotten with old grievances and ageing grudges, hating life and eager for death, would deal out summary judgement. Sometimes from a church tower or steeple, the dark mouth of a stinking alleyway or the window of a deserted tavern. Corbett caught Ranulf's attention and raised a hand as a sign that he should stay.
âHe is gone.' Father Thomas clambered to his feet, eyes brimming with tears. âWhy should anyone kill poor Jackanapes?'
âTwo shafts.' Corbett leaned over the corpse. âThat's not happened before, has it?' He gazed around. No one answered. âOne to the chest and one to the throat. The killer wanted to make sure Jackanapes was killed.'
âSo swift.' Master Benedict forced himself through the throng. âMaster Claypole,' the chaplain turned to the mayor, âI was waiting for you here. I swear the marketplace was deserted. I saw no one. You came down, you rode towards Jackanapes, then that horn.' He paused, gave the reins of his palfrey to a bystander and walked over to grasp the bridle of Corbett's mount. âThat's how it was,
Sir Hugh.' The chaplain stared fearfully up at him. âThat horn, followed by the whistling shafts, isn't that true, Master Mayor?'
Claypole took a deep breath. Old memories were pressing deep upon him, images from a foul nightmare. He was truly fearful, yet he must hide it. âLord Scrope did not come?' he asked.
âApparently not,' Ranulf snapped.
âThen we must go â¦'
Master Claypole paused as Brother Gratian arrived, perched precariously on a palfrey that came trotting across the cobbles, the Dominican's white and black robe flapping about. He clumsily pushed his mount through the bystanders, reined in and glanced down at the corpse.
âGod have mercy,' he intoned. âGod have mercy on us all.'
âIf we deserve it,' Father Thomas added. âLook â¦' He briskly summoned forward some of his parishioners, inviting them by name, issuing instructions for Jackanapes to be taken to the corpse house on the far side of God's Acre. He then wiped his hands on his gown, muttering that he would join them, and hurried away.
Corbett decided not to wait, but turned his horse's head and made his way across the market square, up the side streets and ice-covered runnels towards the trackway that led across frozen fields to the dark forest circling the deserted village. Master Claypole pushed his horse alongside but Corbett ignored him. The clerk could make little sense of what was happening; he would just listen, observe, recollect, sift and analyse. Silence was best. Corbett tried to recall Maeve resplendent in her fur-trimmed nightgown, her rich hair tumbling down framing that beautiful face, those eyes full of mischief. He took a deep breath and glanced back. Father Thomas had joined them, urging his hack alongside
Master Benedict. The rest, apart from Ranulf and Chanson, were retainers or town levies, a dark host of men, a black cloud moving across the snow-covered fields. Ahead of them a line of trees marked the edge of the forest. Steel-grey clouds pressed down as if they wished to cover the land criss-crossed here and there by hedgerows or long high mounds marking the end of one field and the beginning of another. A flock of birds mobbed an owl caught out in the daylight. Corbett glimpsed a fox, belly low, loping across a field.
The silence grew oppressive, despite the muttered conversations of the men. Father Thomas chanted the Dirige psalm for the dead. Chanson quietly teased Ranulf. The Principal Clerk of the Chancery of the Green Wax truly feared the desolate, forbidding countryside. Chanson was whispering stories about Drac, a hideous monster that lurked in the forest and came out seeking its prey especially on a sombre day like this. Corbett smiled grimly to himself. This was similar to marching in Scotland or along those Welsh valleys; the longer the oppressive silence lasted, the worse it became. He took a deep breath and, much to the surprise of everyone, wistfully sang a favourite marching song about a beautiful girl in a tower. The words were familiar, the tune simple to catch. Within a short while, other voices were raised in song, the melody echoing across the bleakness, bringing some warmth, dulling fears about the future and the memory of Jackanapes in his death throes. Once the singing ended, Corbett reined his horse in and turned to Claypole, who was staring curiously at him.
âThere's nothing like a song, Master Claypole. Now, this village, you know the way?'
Claypole pointed to the trackway snaking between the trees.
âThere is only one path in, Sir Hugh.'
âAnd Mordern,' Corbett asked, âwhy is it deserted?'
Claypole pulled down the rim of his cloak, eager to impress this clerk.
âAbout ninety years ago it was totally destroyed in the civil war between the King's grandfather and the barons. A massacre took place around the old church; the place became cursed. Some people claim Lord Scrope's ancestors sowed the earth with salt so the survivors had to move away.'
âAnd you?' Corbett asked.
âOh, I think the village lay too deep in the forest. Its inhabitants lacked the means to fell the trees and plough the land. So they simply used the war as an excuse to move away.'
âLord Scrope allowed the Free Brethren to shelter there?'
âWhy not?' Claypole declared. âOthers have. There is very little we can do about it: wandering tinkers, traders, even the occasional outlaw, moon people. Lord Scrope allows them to shelter and snare the occasional rabbit for the pot. As long as they don't start poaching or hunting venison, he leaves them be. In the summer it's different, the children go out there to play. When I was a lad I used to follow Lord Scrope there with his sister Marguerite and their cousin Gaston.'
âThis cousin,' Corbett asked, âwhat happened?'
âWounded at Acre,' Claypole replied, âtaken into the infirmary. Sir Hugh, if you read the accounts of Acre, or if you know anything about the fall of that fortress, it was every man for himself. Gaston died. There was little we could do.'
âHow do you know he died?' Corbett asked.
âI followed Lord Scrope when we decided to leave. He was determined to take his cousin with us, but when he entered the infirmary, Gaston was dead.'
âAnd the Templar treasure?'
âWhy not, Sir Hugh? We'd fought hard, the infidels had breached the walls. Why should they have what we could take? So we seized what we could and fled.'
âAnd Jackanapes?' Corbett asked. âWhat did he say before he died?'
âOh, babbling as usual. How the Sagittarius had returned, something about claiming a reward. Nothing but nonsense.'
Corbett reflected on what he had seen and heard in the marketplace.
âI wonder,' he murmured, âI truly do!'
The conversation died as they entered the line of trees. A different world of tangled, snow-covered gorse that stretched like a chain linking the stark black tree trunks, their bare branches laced against the sky. A secret, furtive place of swift movement in the undergrowth, the ghostly wafting of bird wing, the sudden call of an animal or the crack of rotting bracken. Corbett's hands slid beneath his cloak. He understood Ranulf's fears about such a place. In the cities and towns, the Chancery of Hell dictated its villainy from narrow runnels or darkened nooks. Here it would be different. A shaft loosed from a knot of trees, a knife or axe sent whirling through the air or a cunning rope or caltrop to bring down a horse. A landscape of white menace harbouring God knew what evil that had crawled across the threshold of hell. Here the Sagittarius could hide cloaked by nature. To still his fears, Corbett thought of Maeve and smiled as he recalled
the lines of a romance she'd read to him over the Christmas holy days.
A woman in whose face more beauty shown.
Then all other beauties fashioned into one.
âThis village, Mordern?' Ranulf, riding behind Corbett, spoke up.
âHaunted and devastated,' Claypole replied. âAs I told Sir Hugh â¦'
His words trailed away as they broke from the forest into a broad glade with clumps of snow-covered trees and straggling gorse under its icy pall. Corbett reined in and stared across at the derelict buildings, their roofs long gone, the wattle and daub walls no more than flaking shells. Here and there an occasional stone dwelling. On the far side of the glade rose the tumbledown, weed-encrusted wall of the cemetery; beyond this the memorials of the long-forgotten dead circled the ruined church. Corbett studied this, an ancient chapel probably built before the Normans came, with its simple barn-like nave, jutting porches and squat square tower. Once an impressive edifice, but the tiled roof had disappeared, the windows were black empty holes whilst no doors or gates protected its entrances.
âSome people call it the Chapel of the Damned,' Claypole whispered.
Corbett glanced at him
âI don't know why,' the mayor stammered.
Corbett just nodded, aware of the growing unease amongst the comitatus behind him.
âLook, master, the corpses.' Ranulf stretched out a blackgauntleted hand.
Corbett strained his eyes, secretly wishing his sight was better. The murmuring behind him rose as others glimpsed the horrid fruit of Scrope's bloody work. Corbett wondered how many of these with him had been present at that hideous assault.
âSir Hugh?' Ranulf was pointing again.
Corbett narrowed his eyes, searched and stifled a gasp. The snow hid the bloody mayhem, but now he glimpsed the eerily shaped mounds sprawled around the church. Frost-hardened and snow-covered heaps, each a corpse, the only sign being the glint of colour or a booted leg sprawled out frozen in its death throes. Corbett followed Ranulf's direction and stared at the clump of oaks to the left of the church tower, branches burdened down as if with snow. In truth they were hanging corpses, heads skewered, necks twisted, hands tied behind them, feet dangling. Father Thomas and Master Benedict had already intoned the De Profundis. A young man amongst the escort was quietly sobbing; others were cursing.
âYou were here, Master Claypole?'
âYou know I was.'
âThen you know what has to be done.' Corbett urged his horse forward and reined in before one of the corpses hanging from a branch. Thankfully the decaying face was covered by a mask of icy snow. Corruption and the scavengers had plucked all dignity from it. He dismounted, leaving Chanson to hobble his horse, and went across into the church porch. A woman's corpse, garbed in a long red gown, sprawled nearby. Corbett glimpsed the headstone Brother Gratian had mentioned. Its surface had obviously
been used to sharpen blades. He crouched beside the corpse. It lay face down, the once blond hair all matted with thick dirt, part of the outstretched arm gnawed clean to the bone. Despite the freezing chill, Corbett caught the stench of corruption. He swallowed hard, crossed himself and stood up.
âCut down all the corpses,' he shouted. âYou, sir,' he beckoned to Robert de Scott, leader of Scrope's retinue, âorganise your men, collect dry kindle, build a funeral pyre. You've helped clear a battlefield before?'
The grim-faced captain nodded. âAye,' he slurred, then took a mouthful of wine from the skin looped over his saddle horn. He almost choked as Ranulf swiftly urged his horse forward and pressed the tip of his drawn dagger against the captain's throat.