âSomething missing from the chapel, here in the manor?'
âYes, Sir Hugh. I still don't know what he was talking about.'
âSir Hugh,' Ranulf intervened, âI believe her ladyship has told us all she can.'
Lady Hawisa beamed at Ranulf, who just coughed and glanced away. Corbett studied the woman. Sometimes in court or during an interrogation he would scrutinise something that could not be put into a logical framework. If Lord Scrope was a mystery, so was Lady Hawisa. Was it because she had spent her long years of marriage living like a nun, hiding behind a veil against her coldhearted husband, or was she concealing something else? Nevertheless he sensed that he'd questioned her enough, at least for today. He rose, thanked her, and Lady Hawisa took her leave.
She nodded at Ormesby, smiled dazzlingly at Ranulf and swept out of the hall. Corbett sat down, drumming his fingers on the tabletop.
âYou are hard, master.'
âRanulf, this is hard business. We are dealing with treason, murder and theft. Let us not forget why we are here. Lord Scrope, whatever he was as a man, was a manor lord holding his lands directly from the King. He also held certain goods which rightly belong in the royal treasury at Westminster. More importantly, a murderer prowls Mistleham; he has killed time and time again and might do so again. Our task is to resolve these mysteries. We'll question Master Claypole next.'
The mayor swaggered up to the dais resplendent in his furlined civic robes, a chain of office round his neck, its gilt medallion shimmering in the light. He stood at the lectern, his mean face screwed up with annoyance. He placed one hand on the Book of the Gospels, lifted the other and gabbled the oath. Afterwards he took the chair directly opposite Corbett, one hand clutching the edge of the table, the other his beaver hat. He glared at Corbett as he wiped his mouth on the back of his hand.
âSay it,' Corbett rasped. âCome on, say your piece, Master Mayor! How you object to these proceedings. How you are a mayor of a town with its own liberties. How you object to being summoned here.' He shrugged. âAll nonsense! You either answer here or before King's Bench in Westminster Hall. I assure you, Chief Justices Staunton and Hengham will have little patience with your petty claims.'
Claypole cleared his throat and waved a hand as if wafting away a foul smell.
âSir Hugh, your questions. I am here.'
âYour service in Outremer?'
âIn 1290,' Claypole gabbled as if reciting a poem, âwe learnt how hard pressed the Christian kingdom in Outremer had become. Lord Scrope convoked a meeting of every able-bodied man in the nave of St Alphege's Church.'
âYes, yes,' Corbett intervened. âYou went as his squire along with others; they never returned, you did.'
âYou are skilled with the longbow?' Ranulf asked.
âOf course!' Claypole retorted, face all flushed. âAs are many in Mistleham.'
âWhy did Scrope appoint you as his squire?' Ormesby asked.
Corbett hid his smile. The rumours about Claypole's possible parentage would certainly intrigue this inquisitive physician.
âWhy shouldn't I be his squire?'
âIs it true,' Ormesby persisted, âand remember, sir, you are on oath. What you say can be used elsewhere either for or against you.' He paused. âAre the rumours true that you are a by-blow, the illegitimate son of Lord Scrope?'
Claypole's face suffused with rage, red spots of anger blotched high in his cheeks, eyes glittering, and for a moment Corbett thought he was going to rise and strike Ormesby.
âMaster Claypole,' Corbett soothed, âwe only repeat rumours. Are they true?'
âNo, they are not true.' The mayor leaned against the table, glaring at Corbett. âThey are not true because I am the legitimate son of Lord Scrope and Mistress Alice de Tuddenham, and I shall prove that.'
âHow?' Corbett asked. âFather Thomas says the blood registers covering the year of your birth are missing. Do you have them?'
âDo you think I would be sitting here if I did? No! I asked Lord Scrope about that. He believed Father Thomas stole or destroyed them.'
âWhy should he do that?'
âBecause Father Thomas hates me as he hated Lord Scrope. Do you think it's a coincidence, Corbettâ'
âWatch your tongue!' Ranulf snapped.
âOh, I am watching my tongue,' Claypole assured him. âBut do you think it's a coincidence that Father Thomas came here to serve in a parish church the lord of which was a man he hated? No, no, no! He came here for other reasons.'
âWhich are?'
âAsk Father Thomas,' Claypole retorted. âHe is from these parts, as was his brother Reginald, who joined us on our expedition to Acre.'
Corbett sighed and leaned back in the chair. âAnd what happened to Reginald?'
âKilled with the rest.'
âSo you think,' Corbett asked, âthat Father Thomas came here to discover what happened to his brother?'
âI don't know. You must ask him.'
âBut why should Lord Scrope,' Ormesby asked, âpatronise a man who hated him?'
Claypole showed his yellowing teeth in a smile. âQuite simple, physician. Lord Scrope did not hate Father Thomas. He is a good pastor, a priest who looks after the poor; such priests are rare. Moreover, Father Thomas is a local man. Lord Scrope felt sorry for Reginald's loss. My master did have his good qualities, a sense of justice. He was happy to see Father Thomas appointed to St Alphege's.'
âAnd did Lord Scrope inform you that you were his legitimate son?'
âHe never did, but I heard the rumours. I used to question him, challenge him; he said I would have to wait. I decided to institute my own searches, but by then it was too late. The blood registers in the parish chest had disappeared. I remonstrated with Lord Scrope, who said there was nothing he could do for the time being. Father Thomas claimed those documents were not there when he took up his appointment after our return from Acre; that is all I can say on the matter.'
âSo,' Corbett declared, âyour legitimacy is a matter still to be proved? Lord Scrope never confirmed it?'
âWhat does it matter?' Claypole jibed. âAs yet I have no proof. One day I shall find it. In the meantime I will issue a challenge in the Court of Chancery against Lady Hawisa's claims. Sir Hugh, it was only after I went to Acre, when my master and I were fighting shoulder to shoulder, when we expected death at any moment, that Scrope confirmed the rumours and said I was his son. It was my legitimacy he refused to confirm. I think he loved my mother. She married again and died in childbirth; that's all he would tell me.'
âSo you served with him in Acre. What happened there?' Corbett asked.
âAcre became besieged by the Saracens and their allies. It was a huge port, sprawling, ill prepared for a siege. The Saracens began to fillet us like a butcher would a piece of meat, taking one section of the city at a time. We retreated into the Temple stronghold overlooking the sea. The Saracens made an all-out assault, the story is well known. Lord Scrope and I decided to
fight our way out. The battlements were stormed and taken. Lord Scrope and I retreated down the corridors. We first visited the infirmary where Gaston his cousin had been taken with terrible wounds. Lord Scrope went in. Gaston was dead in his bed; ill attended, with no medicines and very little to drink, he had died of his wounds. Lord Scrope decided he would seek compensation for all his troubles. The Templar treasury was near the infirmary. We found the door open; one of the Templar serjeants was already helping himself. We simply went in and did likewise, taking whatever treasures we could seize, including the Sanguis Christi. The fury increased. Shouts and screams rang out. We knew the Templar stronghold had fallen and so we fled. Lord Scrope was a skilled fighter, a true warrior. People here will tell you his faults. I saw his courage that day. We reached the shore, found a boat and rowed out to the waiting ships, and took passage home.'
Corbett nodded understandingly. âSo you returned to Mistleham?'
âYes. Lord Scrope was welcomed as a victorious warrior of Christ.' Claypole couldn't keep the sarcasm out of his voice. âHe was favoured by king, court and Church, granted extensive estates, given Lady Hawisa in marriage. Her family not only owned land but reaped the rich profits of the wine trade with Gascony. Lord Scrope used his wife's money, as well as the treasures he brought from Outremer, to enrich his demesne, renovate this manor hall and build the reclusorium on the Island of Swans. True, his experiences in Acre did change him, but he never cared a whit about what people thought.'
âAnd the warnings?' Corbett asked.
âOh, they began about a year ago,' Claypole replied heartily.
âLord Scrope was not concerned about them. The Templars tried to negotiate the return of the Sanguis Christi, but Lord Oliver would not do business with them, hence the warning about the Mills of the Temple. As regards the warnings about the Mills of God, they began around Easter last year. Again Lord Scrope ignored them. He was used to such menace; it did not concern him.'
âAnd Master Le Riche?'
âLe Riche appeared in Mistleham trying to sell that dagger. He approached a goldsmith.'
âWhich goldsmith?'
âI forget now, but he directed Le Riche to the guildhall and me. As soon as I recognised the dagger, I recalled the warnings the King had issued about the theft at Westminster.'
âBut surely,' Ranulf asked, âan outlaw like Le Riche would be very wary of approaching the guildhall?'
âHe was desperate,' Claypole replied. âHe came in. I met him and arrested him for what he was, an outlaw. I sent a message to Lord Scrope, who was visiting Mistleham at the time; the rest you know. Le Riche was put on trial and hanged. We held the dagger and were prepared to give it back to the King. As regards Le Riche's corpse â God knows what happened to that.'
âAnd the Free Brethren of the Holy Spirit?'
âSir Hugh, they came into Mistleham. Lord Scrope was most generous in permitting them to shelter at the deserted village at Mordern. They were allowed to barter their labour for food and drink. Time passed. Allegations were levelled against them of theft, poaching, lechery and heresy. After careful investigation, Lord Scrope decided they were a group of outlaws. He summoned his men and instructed me to do the same in the town. The rest
has been told. Lord Scrope was correct; they were outlaws. We found weapons. They were planning villainy, perhaps an attack on this manor house, though God knows the reason why, apart from plunder and whatever other wickedness they could perpetrate.'
âAnd the Sagittarius?' Corbett asked.
Claypole just shrugged. âA killer, Sir Hugh. I know nothing of him.'
âAnd the night Lord Scrope died?'
âQuestion my neighbours, my wife. I was home in bed. Why, what are you accusing me of?' He leaned forward. âCreeping from my bed, entering this manor, crossing the snowy wastes, swimming the icy lake, passing guards unnoticed, securing entry into the reclusorium? I don't think so. Why should I kill Lord Scrope? When I returned from Acre it was he who provided me with the wealth, the means to set up my own shop as a goldsmith and enter the guild. I owed everything to him. I am his legitimate son. Sir Hugh,' Claypole half rose, âif you have no further questions for me, I should be gone. Like you I am a busy man.'
Corbett waited for the door to close behind Claypole, then straightened up in his chair. âNow there,' he remarked, âgoes a liar! A man who has perjured himself. I doubt if he has told us the truth about anything.'
âWhat proof do you have of that?' Ormesby asked.
âToo glib,' Corbett replied. âWords tripping off his tongue as if he was reciting lines from a mummer's play. He knew what we'd ask. He'd prepared himself well. A man who has a great deal to hide, is Master Claypole.'
Brother Gratian then entered the chamber and took the oath. He immediately declared how he was Lord Scrope's confessor so
he could tell Corbett nothing. He then sharply reminded the royal clerk how the seal of confession was strictly covered by canon law; even attempting to infringe it could incur the most damning excommunication. Corbett hid his own anger at this arrogant priest. He entertained the deepest suspicions about the Dominican, who seemed to care for no one yet distributed Mary loaves to the local poor three times a week.
I'll let you float in your own smugness, Corbett quietly decided, and trap you in my own good time. So he nodded understandingly and airily asked where the Dominican was the night Lord Scrope was murdered.
âIn my chamber, Sir Hugh,' Gratian replied smugly. âAsk the servants; they brought me food and drink. I recited my office and went to sleep. I may do many things,' Gratian's bony white face creased into an arrogant smile, âbut walking across icy water unseen by anyone, then passing through stone and wood is not one of them.'