âArchery,' Ranulf whispered. âA target post.'
âIt's possible.'
âSir Hugh,' Ranulf gestured at the far end of the crypt, âthey came down here and used this central pillar as a target. If they could hit that in this murky place, they would strike anything in God's own daylight.'
âSo,' Corbett declared, âif they were practising their archery down here, and I think they were, why go out in the greenwood where the world and his wife might come upon them? One lie after another, eh, Ranulf? We will have to start again. Question Scrope and Claypole closely, show we are not the fools they think we are â¦' He paused abruptly. âDid you hear that, Ranulf?' He put a finger to his lips, then the sound came again: the long, chilling blast of a hunting horn.
âIt could be Master Claypole or Robert de Scott,' Ranulf said hurriedly, âcalling in their men.'
âI doubt it!' Corbett declared.
They hastened up the steps into the church and out of the nave. As they did so, another horn blast trailed away. Corbett stared round. The funeral pyre was almost prepared, the corpses lying between layers of kindling, bracken and dried wood. One of the comitatus was already pouring oil but the rest were scattering, looking for arms. Claypole came round the church towards them, his white face all sweat-soaked.
âSir Hugh, the Sagittarius is here.'
âWho called him the Sagittarius?' Corbett asked.
âSir Hugh, that's the name given to him.'
âBut that's not the name, is it?' Corbett glimpsed Father Thomas emerging from the trees with a pile of kindling in his hand. âThat's not the name that was told to Father Thomas when he was visited in his church.'
âSir Hugh, what does it matter?'
âYes, yes, I agree.' Corbett drew his sword and stepped out of the porch. âRanulf, for the love of God tell those men to use their wits. If the Sagittarius is here, the church is their best defence.'
Both clerks went out calling to the escort to fall back. Corbett tried to ignore the thought of that nightmare killer, bow drawn, arrow notched, slipping through the trees searching for a victim. For a while there was chaos and confusion. Corbett organised some of the men to watch the treeline, whilst the others fell back to the church.
âNothing!' Robert de Scott called out. âI can see nothing at all.'
Corbett chose ten men and led them out into the trees,
spreading out, moving forward towards what he considered to be reasonable bowshot, a perilous walk through the coldest purgatory: trees and gorse soaked with ice and snow, all shrouded by that heart-chilling silence. Eventually he summoned the men back, strode out of the trees and ordered that the pyre be lit. Sacks of oil drenched the wood and bracken, the corpses hidden between. Father Thomas blessed the pyre once more, sprinkling it with holy water using the asperges rod and stoup he'd brought. One Pater and three Aves were recited, then the torches were flung. Everyone withdrew as the flames roared and plumes of black smoke curled above the trees.
âThey'll see it in Mistleham,' Master Claypole declared.
âThen they'll know what is happening,' Corbett replied. âGod's judgement, and that of the King.'
We wish a hasty remedy for this outrage.
Letter of Edward I, 6 June 1303
Lady Hawisa was tending her extensive herb garden in its walled enclosure at the manor. Despite the snow and ice, the grey skies and sharp air, Hawisa loved to come here, to be by herself. She had already visited the kitchen, inspecting the trenches of beech-wood, the pewter jugs and drinking horns as well as the knives, fleshing blades and cutters of the cooks before moving to scrutinise the ovens and hearths. She wanted to ensure all was clean and safe, including the ratchet used for the huge cauldron and the bellows for encouraging the flame. Everything had to be neat and precise. Lady Hawisa prided herself on that: being busy like a nun marking the hours, moving from one task to another. She'd also visited the butteries and store chambers where the bitter fruit of last autumn's harvest was stored, stirred and mixed into potted jams, jellies and preserves. Finally she'd supervised the preparation of the evening meal, taking special responsibility for the blancmange of veal, mixed with cream, almonds, eggs and some of these herbs all dried and chopped. Lady Hawisa did not want to think, to give way, to reflect on the passions seething in her like black smoke trapped in a stack. She smiled at the thought
of Ranulf-atte-Newgate then blushed. Ranulf was so handsome, so courteous!
âAh well,' she whispered. âI wonder when the clerks will return from Mordern.'
A royal messenger carrying letters for the sheriff at Colchester had stopped at the manor with a chancery pouch for Sir Hugh, issuing strict instructions that it must be given to the clerk as soon as he returned. Lady Hawisa abruptly startled at the cries from a maid standing in one of the casement windows overlooking the herb garden. She followed the direction of the girl's gaze and saw the dark cloud of smoke rising above Mordern forest like some demon, shapeless but swift, as if eager to escape into the grey sky.
âThey are burning those corpses,' the maid cried.
Lady Hawisa nodded, indicating with her hand for the maid to withdraw. She stared at the drifting, ominous cloud and the curdle of hate, resentment and fury welled within her. She walked down the path and found herself standing by the Hortus Mortis â the Garden of Death â a special herb plot housing plants that in very small portions, could heal, but used unwisely could also kill in a few heartbeats. Her especial favourite was belladonna or deadly nightshade, a plant that fascinated her and plagued her nightmares. She crouched and stared at the herb: it was midwinter so there were no purple violet trumpets, no dark glossy berries, yet it still remained deadly. Lady Hawisa stretched out her hand as if to caress the plant and stared again at that filthy cloud spreading over the trees like some malevolent miasma. That smoke she thought, bore the flesh and blood of Adam, the beautiful leader of the Free Brethren, with his kissing mouth and laughing eyes, now dead like the rest, all sent into eternal night by her husband.
Lady Hawisa breathed in slowly. She recalled Father Thomas' description of the mysterious stranger who'd come to threaten her husband. He had called himself Nightshade. Well, if that was true, Lord Scrope was Mandrake incarnate, body and soul! Again she stretched out her hand and caressed the belladonna. Some of this would serve! She thought of the blancmange she'd mixed. Just a scattering of powder on his portion â¦
Lady Hawisa jumped to her feet, staring wildly around as she realised what she was thinking. She glimpsed the clump of coppice aspens trembling in the cold breeze on the far side of her garden. Were they trembling? Or was it something else? Legend had it how the aspen shivered, breeze or not, because it housed the secret guilt of being the wood used for the Saviour's cross. Yes, Lady Hawisa thought, she was like the aspen, furtively cherishing malevolent thoughts and desires. She'd come here to soothe her soul, but now she was tempted, she had to be free!
Forgetting her basket, Lady Hawisa fled the garden through the coffin-shaped door and down the passageway. Servants stopped and stared curiously at her. She paused and drew a deep breath. She must not betray herself. She walked slowly along the passageways and galleries to her own chamber. Once inside, she tried to control her seething rancour. She lay on her bed, staring across the chamber, and slept for a while, eventually wakened by sounds from the yard below as Sir Hugh and the others returned. Lady Hawisa still felt ill-humoured; she could not meet him, not now. She needed to shrive herself, to pray. She rose, made herself presentable and went out along the passageway to the manor chapel. The door was off the latch. She wondered if someone had entered, so she called out, but there was no one. She closed the
door and leaned against it, staring at the beautiful jewelled pyx hanging above the altar, shimmering in the red glow from the sanctuary lamp. Beside this was the crucifix, the lowered head of the dead Christ crowned with a ring once owned by Gaston de Bearn, her husband's cousin. Hawisa idly wondered what this kinsman of her husband, this crusading hero, had truly been like. On the wall of the chapel was a marble plaque to his memory, the valiant Christian warrior who had perished in Acre. She moved down to the place of pity by the lady chapel to the left of the altar. Here the visiting priest would sit in the mercy chair while she knelt on the quilted prie-dieu to confess her sins. She did so now; no one could hear her, she was alone with God. The chapel was dark, brimming with shadows that filled the corners and alcoves. Lady Hawisa stared up at the crucifix.
âLike my soul,' she whispered, âfull of shadows.' She crossed herself. âAbsolve me, Father,' she intoned as if Father Thomas was sitting there. âAbsolve me from my filthy sins. My last shriving was at Advent. I have sinned as follows: I have committed horrid murder many, many times here in my heart.' She struck her breast. âMy husband, Lord Scrope; in my dreams I kill him, time and time again, with rope, dagger and poisoned cup. He is a demon who forsakes my bed except for his lusts, refuses me comfort, hates and despises me as he does every living soul. He has murdered and butchered to hide the dark secrets locked fast in that grim iron soul of his. He dare not sleep with me lest he babbles in his dreams about old sins now ripe to full rottenness. Father, I truly hate him. I loathe his touch, his lifeless eyes like those of a crow. He killed the young ones, beautiful Adam, for what? I have given him a cup, Father, fashioned out of yew, but told him it's of beech;
a gift, in truth a curse. It will bring him ill fortune in that cell he's had built for himself, the dark hidden corner of a dark hidden life. I dream of feeding him poison, filling that yew cup with some noxious potion.' Hawisa felt the anger drain from her. She relaxed, bowed her head and, as she muttered the Confiteor, let the tears come. Eventually she composed herself and rose. She felt slightly guilty. A whole host of guests awaited her.
â
Mea culpa, mea culpa
,' she whispered. âI have neglected my duties.' She thought of the chancery pouch sealed with the royal warrant awaiting Corbett. She quickly dried her eyes and left the chapel, oblivious to the watcher hiding in one of the recesses of the sanctuary. A watcher who had observed and heard her secret confession â¦
Corbett lay on the bed, his boots, cloak and war belt piled on the floor beside him. Ranulf was sitting at the chancery desk laying out a writing tray. He glanced across and smiled. Master Long Face would now be grinding, like an apothecary with his mortar and pestle, all he'd heard, seen and observed. Ranulf was pleased to leave that haunted, lonely forest, away from that macabre village with its ruined church full of ghosts, the funeral pyre, as Sir Hugh said, blazing away the effects of sin but not its cause. They'd ridden swiftly back through the breath-catching cold to the warmth of the manor, a delicious dish of stewed venison, soft white bread and goblets of the finest claret whilst they sat in the buttery warming themselves in front of a roaring fire. Master Benedict, who'd returned to Mistleham Manor like a ghost with his darkringed eyes and pallid face, had slowly recovered. He'd asked Ranulf and Sir Hugh if they could wait on Dame Marguerite,
who'd stayed at the manor the previous evening and wished to have words with them. Corbett promised he would go to her later in the day, but first he wanted to rest and reflect. Ranulf wondered when his master would begin. He was about to sharpen a quill when there was a loud knock on the door. Corbett swung his legs off the bed and indicated with his head. Ranulf crossed, opened the door and smiled at Lady Hawisa.
âI am sorry.' She stepped out from the shadows. Ranulf noticed the distress in her eyes and face. âI apologise, but â¦' He stood back and courteously ushered her in. Corbett apologised for not being suitably dressed to greet her. Lady Hawisa brushed this aside, still smiling at Ranulf's obvious pleasure at seeing her. âSir Hugh, I must apologise.' She stared unblinkingly at him.
Corbett noticed her red-rimmed eyes. She held up the chancery pouch. âThis arrived while you were gone. I should have brought it earlier, I â¦'
Corbett thanked her. Lady Hawisa, hastily recollecting where she was, immediately backed towards the door. Ranulf followed her out into the gallery; when he returned, Corbett was sitting at the chancery desk, his cipher book open as he hastily translated the missive.
âIt's from Drokensford in the Royal Chancery.' Corbett smiled. âThe court is moving to Colchester, and two other items. A spy in New Temple claims the Templars have someone here in Mistleham to collect the Sanguis Christi.' Corbett pulled a face. âHe, or she, is under the strict instructions of the Master of the Temple not to wait for Lord Scrope to hand it over but to seize it whenever possible.'
âWho, why, when?'
âDrokensford does not know, but apparently the Temple will take what they regard as theirs and not twiddle their thumbs waiting for either Scrope or the King. They must also know we are here.' Corbett grinned. âPerhaps they have spies in our own chancery, or suspect our real purpose for visiting here.'
âLord Scrope himself could have told them about our arrival and what we intend.'
âPossibly,' Corbett conceded. âOut of sheer malice Scrope might want the Sanguis Christi returned to the Temple rather than to the King.'
âAnd the second item?'
âDrokensford doesn't know if this is relevant or not, but according to the records, our plunderer of the royal treasury, John Le Riche, hailed from Caernarvon and served amongst Edward's royal troop of Welsh archers.'
âSo he was a master bowman. He could be the Sagittarius.'
âCorrect,' Corbett breathed. âThat is, if he is still alive. Now, Ranulf, let's put pen to paper.'
Corbett rose and gestured at the chair he'd left. Ranulf sat down and busied himself. He watched as Corbett began to walk up and down. You love this, Ranulf reflected, you adore the Lady Maeve and your children but this is different. You want to resolve problems and mysteries, dig out the truth, apply logic as sharply as a farmer prunes a plant with a knife.
Ranulf opened one of the pots and stirred the red ink with the tip of his pen. He recalled the King's eyes at Westminster, that writ hidden away in a secret coffer, then Lady Hawisa's beautiful face. Would the King grant him Mistleham if they were successful? he wondered. If Lord Scrope died? Such a prize, only a knife-thrust
away: to be a great manor lord! For a brief moment Ranulf thought of himself as a boy in a ragged tunic, racing along the foul runnels of Cheapside. So much had changed. A brief moment of time and all was different; a sudden act of mercy by Corbett. But that was how the dice fell. Life could change so abruptly. An arrow or dagger brought death or, there again, riches and preferment.
âRanulf? Ranulf?'
He glanced up. Corbett was staring at him curiously with those sharp dark eyes.
âWhat are you thinking?'
âTime, master.' Ranulf laughed. âHow time can change someone's fortune so abruptly.'
âStrange, I was thinking the same. Ranulf, you must read the Venerable Bede's work
On the Nature of Time
.' Corbett recommenced his pacing. âA great scholar, Ranulf! Bede was a Saxon monk who lived in a monastery close to the Roman wall. Anyway, he wrote this work, in which he demonstrated how in God's eyes there can be no time.'
âSir Hugh?'
âEasily understood, Ranulf. Look at that tapestry.' Corbett pointed at the hanging on the wall that vividly portrayed the death of Priam during the fall of Troy. âYou look at that and you understand it at one glance. However, what if you could only understand it by taking each section at a time? Bede, as did the great Aquinas after him, talked of the “eternal now”. In God's eyes there is no past, present or future, just the eternal vision.'
âBut we â¦'
âWe fashion time, Ranulf, because we have to. We must make sense of one moment following another. We are compelled to
create order. Now it is midday, and the Angelus bell will soon ring to remind us of truths beyond time, otherwise we'll forget or ignore them. We have to move across the tapestry of life very carefully so we constantly define time, naming it, dissecting it, making it part of a week or a certain month or a certain year. We create sun dials, hour candles and other mechanisms to assist us.'
âAnd here at Mistleham?'