âYes, Sir Hugh, I want my brother to live.' Lady Abbess swallowed hard. âHe must live. I pray for his safety. What I would like to do, through you, is to challenge Master Claypole about these rumours whilst my brother is still alive, to establish whether or not he is Lord Scrope's legitimate heir.'
âOf course,' Corbett whispered. âI now understand why you wished to see me, Lady Abbess. If Henry Claypole is summoned to the King's council, put on solemn oath and asked to produce whatever proof he has whilst Lord Oliver is alive and has no heir, your brother can rebut or support such claims. Of course, once your brother is dead, the one person who knows the truth is silenced for ever. But surely you have raised this issue with your brother, the dangers you and Lady Hawisa face?'
âI have, but my brother just scoffs at me, and says that time will take care of everything. Sir Hugh, I do not put my trust in time but in God and you. The sooner this business is done, the better.'
Corbett finished his wine and made his farewells. He rose, bowed to both Dame Marguerite and Master Benedict and went out closing the door behind. He'd reached the top of the stairs when a shadow slipped out of a window embrasure, so swift, so unexpected, Corbett stepped back, hand going round for his dagger.
â
Pax et bonum
, Sir Hugh.'
Corbett relaxed. âBrother Gratian, I beg you, in the dark, at a time like this, in a place like this, you should be more prudent about stepping out of the shadows.'
âI wanted to see you, Sir Hugh. I have a favour to ask. You'll be finished here, surely? Can I accompany you back to London?'
âYou'll be carrying the Sanguis Christi?'
âOf course!'
âWhy the haste, Brother? What about your care for the spiritual life of your patron?'
âSir Hugh, such a matter, between him and me, is covered by the seal of confession.'
âI will answer your question, Brother, when you answer mine.'
âWhich is?'
âWere the Free Brethren such a threat to Holy Mother Church and the King's peace?'
âI've told the truth, Sir Hugh.'
Corbett shook his head.
âNo you haven't, Brother! I don't think anyone has told the truth. I bid you good night â¦'
Corbett watched as Father Thomas finished the Jesus Mass with the final Gospel, the first twenty-two verses from St John beginning: â
In principio erat Verbum
â in the Beginning was the Word.' At the phrase âthe Word was made flesh', Corbett, together with the rest of the small congregation in the manor chapel, genuflected and kissed his thumb as a mark of respect. He rose and stared round. Ranulf, Chanson, Lady Hawisa, Dame Marguerite and Master Benedict were present, with servants and retainers
from the manor. Brother Gratian was undoubtedly celebrating his own dawn mass in his chamber whilst Master Benedict, according to Dame Marguerite's hushed conversation before mass, had spent most of the night in the manor infirmary. Corbett rubbed his own eyes. He'd slept well but fitfully, his rest plagued by nightmares.
After the mass, Corbett had a few words with Lady Hawisa, then joined Ranulf and Chanson in the buttery for bread, cheese, butter and light ale. He hadn't decided what to do that day. He discussed with Ranulf the possibility of convoking a formal court of oyer and terminer, acting as Justices of the King and summoning people on oath. He considered the possibility of the priests, Master Benedict, Brother Gratian and Father Thomas, pleading benefit of clergy, that they answered to the church courts rather than those of the King. Nevertheless, he thought such a way forward was possible. One thing he had decided on: to interrogate Lord Scrope again and try to establish logical answers to his questions. He and Ranulf were about to leave the buttery when he heard a distant clanging. A groom sprang to his feet.
âWhat's the matter, man?' Ranulf asked.
âIt's Lord Scrope,' the fellow replied. âThat's the alarm from the reclusorium!'
Corbett and Ranulf joined the rest as they streamed from the buttery across the yard, through the Jerusalem Gate and down the icy, slippery hill towards the Island of Swans. Corbett paused halfway and took in the scene in the grey morning light. On the jetty Father Thomas was busy clambering from a boat; on the other side of the lake Dame Marguerite was busy beating the gong hung outside the reclusorium, the door to which was flung open. Corbett hurried down, now and again slipping on the ice, Ranulf
following behind. Once they'd reached the jetty, Ranulf turned, telling the servants to stand back. Corbett grasped Father Thomas, who was still labouring to catch his breath.
âWhat is it?' he asked.
The priest looked haggard, wet-eyed from the cold. âSir Hugh, it's Lord Scrope, he's been murdered. You'd best come.'
Corbett clambered into the boat; Ranulf followed with Father Thomas. The boat itself was small and bobbed dangerously. The oarsman told them to sit down. He too was pale-faced, startled at what he'd seen. He pulled on the oars and the wherry cut its way through the cold water to the far side.
âBe careful,' the oarsman said as he pulled the oars in and slid his boat alongside the landing place. Corbett and Ranulf clambered out and walked up the steps to where Dame Marguerite was standing just inside the doorway. The lady abbess was whey-faced, eyes enlarged, and could hardly speak as she led Corbett into the reclusorium. The clerk immediately stared around. The windows were shuttered behind their drapes of velvet and leather. The room smelt of wine and fragrant beeswax; two or three candles still spluttered against the darkness. Corbett was aware of richness and luxury, costly items, rugs on the floor, heavy tapestries hanging against the walls, beautifully carved stools, tables and chairs, a large bed in the far recess, light glinting off silver and gold ornaments. He also noticed the window immediately to his right. Its drapes had been torn away, the wooden shutters smashed.
âIt's where we forced an entry,' Dame Marguerite whispered.
Corbett held his hand up. The reclusorium reeked of wealth, but something else lurked in the gloom, an evil Corbett had
pursued all his adult life: sudden, brutal murder. He had to go forward to see, to inspect the horror waiting deeper in the darkness. He crossed over to the dark shape outlined in the poor light, slumped in the great high-backed chair. Lord Scrope sat there, dead hands grasping its sides, his head slightly back. The look of mortal horror made his ugly face more gruesome in death, eyes popping, mouth slightly opened, nose and lips crusted with blood. In his chest, thrust deep to the hilt, was the assassin's dagger, the King's property, the faded red ribbon still attached to the handle.
âBy Satan's feet!' Ranulf murmured.
Corbett studied the dead man's corpse closely. Scrope's tawny bed-robe was drenched with congealed blood. Ranulf brought across a candelabra, the weak flames deepening the hideousness of that corpse, gruesome in death, the face like a gargoyle mask. Some blood stained Scrope's fingers; a little more was on the floor.
âThe bed chest!' Ranulf whispered.
Corbett walked over. The curtains to the four-poster bed had been pulled back, the counterpanes and sheets also; the bolsters were slightly pressed. Scrope had apparently adjourned to bed before murder came visiting. The trunk at the foot of the bed had been ransacked. The metal-rimmed caskets and coffers inside were empty, their lids thrown back. Corbett returned to the corpse. He leaned over, trying to avoid that popping, glassy dead glance. He felt beneath the rim of the bed-robe and gently lifted the silver key-chain up over the head, then went back to the chests and coffers. Sounds from outside echoed through. He glanced over his shoulder. More people had crossed to the Island of Swans, including Lady Hawisa. Dame Marguerite recollected herself and
went out to help. Servants were also milling about; apparently both ferries had been used to bring them across. Corbett quickly tried the keys in the chests; they all fitted. He handed them to Ranulf and went outside. The island now thronged with the gawping and the curious, with more gathering on the far bank. Lady Hawisa stood at the foot of the steps, leaning on the arm of a maid. Scrope's widow was half listening to a silver-haired man with a wan face, bushy eyebrows over deep-set eyes, his shaven cheeks sharply furrowed.
âLady Hawisa?' Corbett came down.
âAh, you must be Lord Corbett.' The silver-haired man blinked and smiled, though his face and eyes remained keen. He stared over Corbett's shoulder into the darkness of the reclusorium.
âI am who you say I am, and you, sir?'
âPhysician Ormesby late of Balliol Hall, Oxford, now spending my autumnal days on the outskirts of Mistleham. In brief, sir, I am or was,' Ormesby added, âphysician to Lord Scrope. My main care now is for Lady Hawisa.'
Corbett glanced around. Dame Marguerite was ordering servants here and there. Father Thomas was walking backwards and forwards, ave beads strung from one hand. Brother Gratian stood on the jetty, fingers to his lips, like a man who'd lost his wits. Across the water Corbett glimpsed the arrival of Master Claypole and members of the town's council, resplendent in their ermine-lined robes and glittering chains of office. He groaned and plucked at Ormesby's sleeve.
âPhysician, I want you to stay here. Father Thomas and you, madam,' he gestured at the abbess, âmust also stay, together with the servant who rowed you across.' Corbett then grasped Lady
Hawisa's hand, listless and ice cold. Eyelids fluttering, she opened her mouth to speak but then shook her head. âLady Hawisa,' he urged, âyou must leave.' He gently squeezed her hand. âNo, no, your husband, God assoil him, is dead, cruelly murdered. You must not see him like that. You,' Corbett turned to the maidservant, âlook after your mistress. My lady, you must leave.'
Lady Hawisa nodded in agreement. Corbett strode up the steps beckoning to Ranulf, who quickly joined him outside. Corbett drew his sword and banged on the bronze gong dangling from its chain beside the door post. Eventually he obtained silence.
âGood people,' he shouted, âI am Sir Hugh Corbett, King's man. I have authority here under the royal seal. Lord Scrope, God pardon him, is dead, cruelly murdered. I must ask you to leave the Island of Swans immediately, except for those I ask to stay.'
People looked askance at him. There were shouts, a few catcalls and mocking cries. Ranulf drew his sword. The clamour died and people drifted towards the jetty. Corbett called across Physician Ormesby, Dame Marguerite, Father Thomas and the servant who'd rowed them across, a small beetle-browed character who rejoiced in the name of Pennywort. Corbett respectfully asked all these to stay outside whilst he and Ranulf returned to inspect the corpse, the chests, the windows and the only door. All the windows except one were firmly shuttered, their bars down, the pegs on each shutter at top and bottom firmly in place, their velvet and leather drapes undisturbed.
âThere is no other entrance,' Corbett breathed. âThe main door is secured by bolts at top and bottom, its lock definitely the work of some guildsman.'
He inspected the broken window. The shutters were smashed,
the lintel scuffed and scraped. He and Ranulf went outside, apologising for the delay to those waiting. They walked round the reclusorium. Corbett admired what Scrope had done. A ring of vegetation ran along the rim of the island, with clumps of trees, including beautiful bending willows, but the area immediately around the house itself had been provided with a clear view, no other obstacle except for a narrow channel dug from under the reclusorium to carry waste down to the lake. The icy ground was now pitted with the footprints of those who'd come across. Corbett glanced down at the lake. It must be, at every point, at least six yards across and undoubtedly deep. He could see no other landing place or sign of any bridge, raft, ferry or boat. He and Ranulf returned inside. He covered Scrope's face with a cloth, instructed Ranulf to build up the meagre fire and then invited his guests, Dame Marguerite, Father Thomas, Pennywort and Physician Ormesby, to the stools he placed in front of the fire. The physician excused himself and went across to scrutinise the corpse. He removed the face cloth, exclaimed in horror, then busied himself near the table on which Corbett had glimpsed the exquisitely carved wooden goblet brimming with red wine. The physician picked this up, sniffed at it, then muttered a prayer.
âWhat is it?' Corbett went across.
âSmell but don't drink, Sir Hugh.'
Corbett did so. Beneath the rich odour he caught a bitter tang.
âBelladona,' Ormesby murmured. âDeadly nightshade. But look, Sir Hugh, the cup seems untouched, the wine not drunk. I've observed Scrope's face, and it betrays no symptoms of poisoning.' Again that cold, knowing smile. âSir Hugh, I know poisons. If
nightshade had killed him, its effects would be obvious; he would have died in frenzied convulsions.'
Corbett nodded and handed the goblet back. âWas Scrope first poisoned before being stabbed?'
âI doubt it.' The physician stepped closer. âWe only smell it now because it has fermented, being mixed with the wine for hours. That's why the victim drinks it and physicians like myself later detect it. Belladona is a cruel assassin; Lord Scrope would have convulsed like an imp in hell. Of course I need to inspect his corpse more closely. There are other symptoms.' Ormesby patted his own stomach. âDiscoloration of the belly, stains on the flesh.'