In the days following, Corbett decided against convoking his court of oyer and terminer so soon. He deemed it best just to observe and listen carefully for a while. Moreover, the manor was in mourning and Lady Hawisa still in shock, yet obliged to deal with all the funeral preparations. Lord Scrope's corpse was hastily prepared for burial. Father Thomas, Master Benedict and Brother Gratian solemnly promised to sing chantry masses every day up to the final interment for the repose of his soul. The Dominican in particular became very busy. He held one copy of the tripartite indenture that laid out Lord Scrope's will, the other two copies being held by Father Thomas in his parish chest and Scrope's attorney in Mistleham. Corbett was sure that the manor lord must have kept his own master copy. This might well have been in one of the caskets or coffers held secure in the bed chest, yet no such manuscript was found. Corbett, recalling Father Thomas' words about the blood registers, wondered if any manuscripts had been stolen from the reclusorium. According to rumour, Brother Gratian often mentioned the will, as if eager for the funeral preparations to be completed, loudly announcing that now Lord Scrope was dead, he must return to Blackfriars in London. Ranulf, very solicitous for Lady Hawisa, made his own careful inquiries about the will. Its clauses still had to be read, published and approved
by the Court of Chancery, though it seemed that the bulk of Scrope's estates would go to his wife, with the most generous bequests to Master Claypole, Father Thomas, Dame Marguerite, Brother Gratian and Physician Ormesby.
The old physician himself cheerfully proclaimed the good news when he visited Corbett to report on what he'd discovered when he'd dressed Scrope's body for burial.
âThe flesh was marked with old bruises and scars. Scrope was definitely a man of war, his skin bore ample witness to that. For the rest his right hand was stained with blood. He was definitely killed by one dagger thrust to his heart. I detected no signs of resistance, fresh cuts or blows. True,' the physician spread his hands, âdeadly nightshade was found in the wine. God knows why, as Scrope never drank a drop. And that, my royal clerk, is all I can tell you, except that the funeral is arranged for the day after tomorrow. A small service in the manor chapel followed by a procession down to St Alphege's for the solemn high requiem mass. Our good manor lord will be interred for a while in God's Acre whilst his tomb is built in the south transept of St Alphege's, a beautiful table monument with an exquisite canopy.' The physician smirked. âFew will make pilgrimage there! Lady Hawisa is much recovered.' Ormesby bowed sardonically in Ranulf's direction. âYour colleague and comrade has been a great source of help and comfort to her.'
Ranulf stared coldly back.
âAs far as the rest are concerned,' the physician continued blithely, âDame Marguerite, with her little shadow the chaplain, has taken up residence here. Lady Hawisa is distressed, so the good abbess has taken over the running of the manor. Master
Claypole looks thunderstruck, weighed down by all the cares of high office. Brother Gratian is impatient to leave but still insists on distributing the Mary loaves three times a week at the manor gates.' Ormesby noticed Corbett's surprise. âYes, our good Dominican's one Christ-like task. Anyway, Father Thomas is busy with funeral matters, the burials of those killed by the Sagittarius. I suppose it's true what he says.'
âWhich is?' Corbett asked.
âHell must surely be empty because all the demons have come to Mistleham. God be thanked,' the physician rose to his feet, âthe Sagittarius has not returned. Perhaps he's finished his bloody work now that Scrope is dead.' Ormesby made his farewells. Corbett thanked him and the physician left.
For a while the royal clerk just stared at the door.
âMaster?' Ranulf asked.
âFather Thomas' mysterious visitor, the one who threatened Scrope: he called himself Nightshade, the same poison found in Scrope's wine. The same sinister visitor ordered Scrope to creep to the market cross and confess his sins. He didn't, so he was killed. Now Brother Gratian wishes to leave.' Corbett stared at the table. The letters he'd received from the Chancery still lay there.
âWhat are you thinking, master?' Ranulf rose and placed another log on the fire. âBy the way, that's your job,' he teased, turning towards Chanson, who was perched on a stool in the corner, busy whittling at a piece of wood.
âI have another task for you, Chanson.' Corbett beckoned him forward. âIt's simply this.' The groom came over.
âMaster?'
âWork at last,' Ranulf whispered.
âAt least I'm not frightened of the countryside, Ranulf!'
âEnough of that.' Corbett pointed to the door. âI want you to mix with the servants, Chanson, but keep a very close eye on Brother Gratian. Every time he distributes the Mary loaves, go down with him, act as if you're just gawping around.'
âThat won't be difficult,' Ranulf interjected.
âNo, no, listen,' Corbett continued. âJust watch him distribute the loaves.'
âWhat am I looking for, master?'
âI don't know.' Corbett grinned. âBut you'll know when you see it. Come back and tell me.'
Corbett spent the rest of that day sifting through the evidence, but he could find nothing new. Now and again he'd leave his chamber and wander the manor. Chanson was gossiping with the other grooms, Ranulf was taking special care of Lady Hawisa during her mourning. Corbett smiled to himself. He knew what Ranulf was plotting. The Principal Clerk in the Chancery of the Green Wax was extremely ambitious; he had yet to decide which road to take: marriage to the likes of Lady Hawisa, or any other heiress who attracted his attention; or entry into the church, receiving clerical status and seeking preferment along that path. Other clerks did the same. Corbett's colleague John Drokensford had remained a bachelor and accepted clerical status; rumour at court whispered that the next bishopric which fell vacant would be his. Corbett eventually decided to visit the manor chapel and, in its silence, sat and reflected on the problems facing him. He eventually concluded there was very little he could do, not until the funeral was over. He returned and closeted himself in his own chamber, writing to Maeve and the children.
The following morning, when a royal messenger came thundering up to the manor flecked with muddy snow and cursing the state of the roads, Corbett received more chancery pouches. Most of these were business reports from his spies and agents in various ports, such as a letter from the Mayor of Boulogne complaining about the infringements of the French. The pouch also included a personal letter from the King expressing his anger at Scrope's death and his fury at the loss of the Sanguis Christi. Corbett simply tapped this against the table and put it to one side. Edward's anger would have to wait. Finally there was a letter from Drokensford saying how he'd searched the records but had discovered little of note about the fall of Acre or Scrope's involvement in it.
On the eve of the funeral Corbett summoned Ranulf and Chanson back to his chamber. The Clerk of the Stables had little to report except how Scrope was savagely disliked and people now hoped Lady Hawisa would be a more benevolent and kind seigneur. They also prayed that the Sagittarius, having wreaked his vengeance, would not re-emerge. People wanted to close the door on the past and get on with their lives. As for Brother Gratian, he had not distributed any Mary loaves but apparently intended to do so once the funeral was over. Corbett heard Chanson out, then turned to Ranulf, laying out his plans for the commission of oyer and terminer. He declared he would announce it at the end of the funeral banquet tomorrow, with Ormesby being sworn in as the third member of the commission.
Lord Scrope's funeral day proved to be bitterly cold. No snow fell, but an icy breeze stung the faces of mourners as they processed
solemnly down the trackway, across Mistleham market square and into St Alphege's. Scrope's coffin rested on an ox-drawn cart, covered with thick purple and gold drapes and surrounded by altar servers carrying funeral candles capped against the breeze. The harness of the oxen gleamed a golden brown. Black banners flapped alongside standards, and pennants emblazoned with Scrope's arms. On top of the coffin rested the dead knight's crested helmet, shield, war belt and sword. The air grew sweet with the incense smoke trailing from swinging thuribles as Father Thomas vigorously chanted the psalms for the dead. Scrope's body had lain in state in the manor chapel, so once they entered the welcoming warmth of the nave, the townspeople drew aside to allow the funeral cortège to pass. The requiem mass began immediately, celebrated by Father Thomas, assisted by Brother Gratian and Master Benedict as deacon and subdeacon respectively. Lady Hawisa led the mourners, escorted by Dame Marguerite and Ranulf, on whose strong arm she securely rested. They took up position just within the rood screen, whilst Corbett stood outside in the nave. Once everyone was settled, he moved back into the transept, his gaze drawn by that vivid wall painting done by the Free Brethren.
Father Thomas intoned the introit, leading the choir with the powerful words â
Dona ei requiem aeternam, Domine
⦠Eternal rest grant to him, oh Lord.' The rest of the mass followed its usual beautiful rhythm. The gradual hymn was sung, its sombre words echoing around the nave: â
Dies irae, dies illa
â oh day of wrath, oh day of mourning, see fulfilled Heaven's warning, Heaven and Earth in ashes burning.' Corbett joined in lustily, then listened to the epistle and gospel being read, followed by Father Thomas' brief
homily on the final resurrection. The priest's words cut through the incense-filled church where the carvings of saints, angels, demons and gargoyles gazed down in stony silence. The solemn part of the mass then ensued: the consecration, the distribution of the singing bread and the final benediction. Corbett only half participated, his attention fully taken up by that wall painting: the colours used, the strange symbols and plants: the scene of a man lying in bed, the banqueting chamber, the flight of Judas, and that cross dominating the Valley of Death displaying the five wounds of Christ. He felt a tingle of excitement â was this truly a drawing of the Fall of Babylon or something else?
âLet him be taken to a place of rest and not fall into the hands of the enemy, the evil one â¦' Father Thomas' strident voice caught Corbett's attention. The coffin was now being blessed with holy water, incensed and prayed over. The funeral party lined up; the coffin was raised and taken out through the corpse door into a bitterly cold God's Acre. Snow clouds were gathering. The cemetery looked bleak and stark. A scene from purgatory, Corbett decided as he watched the coffin being lowered into the ground. Father Thomas continued his litany of prayer. Corbett leaned on a headstone and gazed around the various memorials. He was still thinking about the wall painting when his attention was caught by a headstone of recent origin to one âIsolda Brinkuwier, spinster of this parish'. On either side of the woman's name was a carved stone medallion illustrating the Annunciation, when the Angel Gabriel asked the Virgin Mary to be the Mother of God.
âNazareth in Galilee,' Corbett whispered to himself. â
Where God kissed Mary
.' He thought of the refrain etched on the sacristy wall of that lonely church.
Rich, shall richer be, Where God kissed Mary in
Galilee
. âI wonder,' he murmured, â
si mortui viventibus loquntur
â if the dead do speak to the living.'
Father Thomas had finished. The funeral party began to disperse, first the curious amongst the townspeople then the party from the manor. Corbett glimpsed Chanson mingling with the servants. Ranulf was still being supportive of Lady Hawisa, who was dressed completely in black, a veil drawn over her face. She walked away from her husband's grave, both hands grasping the arm of Corbett's companion. The bells of St Alphege tolled, the signal that another soul had gone to God blessed and hallowed. Corbett wondered what judgement awaited Scrope, before deciding to make his own way back to Mistleham Manor. He left the cemetery by the wicket gate, going across the square, ignoring the dark looks and grumbles of the townspeople he passed. In their eyes the King's man was busy, but it seemed as if God was going to settle matters rather than the King at Westminster. Corbett ignored them. To show he was not cowed, he paused on a corner of the marketplace where a wandering story-teller had set up his stall. He'd hobbled his donkey and driven his standard, as he called it, into the dirt, the pennant fluttering from it indicating which way the cold breeze was blowing. Children and young people were gathering round. The story-teller, dressed garishly in motley rags, was reciting well-known stories about âMadam Lyabed' and âMadam Earlybird' as well as âMadam Gobblecherries', characters whom his audience would recognise as people perhaps living in their own town or even along their own street. Corbett stopped and stared at the story-teller's worn face; such a man might be one of his own agents wandering the streets and lanes of England. He did not recognise the face, so he moved on out of the town and up the deserted trackway.
He was only a short way along when he began to regret his decision. The line of trees on either side rose stark and black, the undergrowth still covered by an icy canopy, the sheer loneliness of the place becoming all the more oppressive after the noise and bustle of the town. To lighten his spirit Corbett began to sing a Goliard chant: âI am a wandering scholar lad full of toil and sadness. Often I'm driven by poverty to madness. Literature and knowledge I fain would be learning â¦' He paused and laughed softly at the doleful words. He was about to continue when three figures slipped like shadows on to the trackway, hooded and visored; they raised their longbows, arrows notched, pointing at Corbett. The clerk stopped, his hand going beneath his cloak for his sword. He tried to control his seething panic. This was his nightmare, to be trapped, killed on a lonely road. Would it be here that he'd receive his death wound? Would it be here where he would rise on the last day?