Whatever treasure is found in the hands of these malefactors, you must deposit in a safe and secure place.
Letter of Edward I, 6 June 1303
Corbett had scarcely returned to Mistleham when there was a tap on his door. He answered it to find a servant hopping from foot to foot in the gallery outside.
âSir Hugh,' he declared, âLady Hawisa sends her regards and asks you to join her in the chapel.'
Corbett went back into his chamber, picked up his cloak and followed the servant along the gallery, down the steps and into the chapel, where Lady Hawisa sat on the mercy seat near the lady altar. The servant ushered Corbett over, then withdrew, closing the door quietly behind him.
âSir Hugh.' Lady Hawisa didn't even turn in her chair. âI'd be grateful if you would bolt that door.' He did so, then walked towards the sanctuary. Lady Hawisa rose to meet him. She was dressed in full black, and as he drew closer, she lifted up her veil and smiled serenely at him.
âYou must think I am in mourning, Sir Hugh, but I'm not. I am actually giving thanks for my deliverance.'
âFrom what, my lady?'
âFrom evil, from my loveless marriage, from the snare that bound me. I came here early today to give thanks and I walked into the sanctuary.' She took Corbett by the wrist and led him to the foot of the steps leading up to the altar. To the right hung the silver bejewelled pyx next to the glowing red sanctuary lamp and, directly above the altar, a crucifix on the end of a silver cord tied to the rafters above.
âThey say the wood of the cross is made from the cedar of Lebanon,' she explained. âImported especially from Outremer. However, look at the figure of Christ, Sir Hugh.'
Corbett did so: a beautiful bronze carving of the Saviour, arms extended, body twisted in agony, head drooping, the hair hiding his face.
âYou've seen this before, haven't you?'
Corbett nodded.
âStudy it, Sir Hugh. What is missing?'
Corbett stared at the figure, the feet nailed over each other, the small sign Pilate had pinned above the cross.
âNothing that I can see.'
âWhat does the Saviour have on his head on any crucifix you've seen?'
Corbett stood on tiptoe, peered then gasped. âThere's no crown of thorns; that's what is missing.'
âThat's how my husband ordered the figure to be carved,' she explained. âInstead of a crown of thorns, he put a ring on the Saviour's head.'
âDo you know why?'
âAs I've said, Sir Hugh, my husband hardly informed me about anything. When I used to kneel here, I would study that ring and
wonder. It was made of silver, with jewels along the rim. I suspect the ring belonged to his cousin Gaston, killed at Acre.'
âAnd now it's gone?' Corbett turned, sat down on the sanctuary steps and stared up at her.
âI noticed it was missing this morning. On the afternoon before he was murdered, my husband complained that something had disappeared from this chapel. That's what he was referring to.'
Corbett rose to his feet and left the sanctuary. He walked over and stared up at the wooden carving nailed to the wall depicting St George killing the dragon, which writhed under the hooves of his horse.
âBeautiful wood,' he murmured. âAn exquisite carving. Lady Hawisa, I thank you for bringing me here. I don't understand the significance of that ring disappearing. All I do know is that the events here at Mistleham thread back through the years to what happened at Acre. However, I have a question for you. On the morning your husband was found murdered, on the table next to him in the reclusorium was that beautifully carved cup brimming with claret. Deadly nightshade had been mixed with that, as well as with the jug of wine on the waiting table. We know from Physician Ormesby that your husband never drank that poisoned wine. Indeed, I suspect the wine was poisoned not before he was murdered but afterwards.'
Lady Hawisa gasped.
âA nasty trick,' Corbett explained. âA decoy, a device to distract our attention and perhaps point the blame at you. Think,' he continued. âIt was you who gave him the cup, pretending it was fashioned out of elm but actually made of ill-omened yew. You are also known for being responsible for the herb garden here at
the manor, which contains nightshade and other poisons. Now I ask you this, as a matter of confidence between the two of us. Have you ever confessed or told anyone of your secret, murderous desire to poison your husband?'
Lady Hawisa swallowed hard and glanced fearfully at him.
âMy lady,' Corbett continued, âI am not accusing you. I truly believe you had no hand in the murder of your husband, but that cup was poisoned! You have confessed your secret desires, your temptation to do just that.'
Lady Hawisa closed her eyes, breathing in deeply. âOn the afternoon before my husband was murdered,' she began, âI was out in the herb garden tending certain plants. I approached what I call the Hortus Mortis, the Garden of Death. I studied those noxious plants and the old temptation returned.'
âWhy?'
âI saw the clouds of smoke rising above Mordern. I realised you were burning the corpses of those unfortunates. On that afternoon, Sir Hugh, I truly wanted to kill my husband. Such temptations disturbed the humours of my soul. I fled the garden and came here. I sat in the mercy chair and confessed my thoughts aloud where someone else could have heard.'
âBut there was no one here?'
âNo, of course not.' Lady Hawisa shook her head. âIt's possible someone was hiding away, but I doubt it.'
âAnd is that the only time you have ever voiced such murderous thoughts?'
Lady Hawisa nodded.
âAre you sure?' Corbett insisted.
âSir Hugh, I am, but â¦' Her voice faltered.
Corbett walked over, took her mittened hand and gently kissed the fingertips.
âLady Hawisa, thank you.' He'd reached the chapel door when she called his name.
âMy lady?'
She walked slowly towards him, her lower lip trembling, tears welling in her eyes. âSir Hugh, I've just remembered. I have voiced such thoughts to my confessor, Father Thomas, but surely â¦'
Corbett stepped out of the shadows. âAnyone else, my lady?'
âYes.' She swallowed hard. âOnly once did I turn on my husband, years ago. We were alone. I had visited him in the reclusorium. I screamed how one day I hoped he would drink the poison I gave him.'
âAnd what was his reply?'
âAs always, the curling of the lip, the shrug of a shoulder as if I was some noisome bird pecking at the window, a matter of little importance.'
âAnd whom might your husband tell?'
âHe may have confided in Brother Gratian. However, if my husband trusted in anyone, it would be his creature Claypole.'
She startled at a sudden tapping on the chapel door. Corbett pulled back the bolt and opened it. Ranulf stood there with a servant beside him.
âSir Hugh, I apologise,' Ranulf glanced over Corbett's shoulder and bowed at Lady Hawisa, âbut Chanson has urgent business with us. He has something to report.'
The Clerk of the Stables could hardly contain his excitement. He kept pacing up and down Corbett's room. It took some time for
the royal clerk to pacify him. Chanson, full of glee, rubbed his hands and kept grinning triumphantly at Ranulf, who just glared back.
âMaster, the Mary loaves and Brother Gratian.'
âYes?'
âHe went down mid-morning, just after Nones, to distribute the loaves. The poor gather at the manor gates. Gratian was there acting the benevolent pastor distributing bread. I watched carefully. Sir Hugh, when the hungry receive food, they eat immediately, but I noticed three sturdy beggars ⦠oh, they were dressed in rags, their hair and beards all matted, but when they took their loaves, they simply grasped them and hurried away.'
Corbett held up a hand. âYou said sturdy?'
âThey were sturdy enough,' Chanson declared. âMaster, I've begged for food. These looked well fed, and what was truly suspicious, unlike the rest, they simply took the bread, didn't eat it but hurried back along the trackway to Mistleham. I followed. Even more surprising, master, these beggars can afford to lodge at the Honeycomb.'
Corbett beamed with pleasure, extended his arms and embraced Chanson warmly, winking over the clerk's shoulder at Ranulf.
âWell done, good and faithful servant!' Corbett stood back. âNow, Chanson, let's saddle our horses and visit these beggars who are not so hungry and can lodge in a tavern chamber.'
A short while later, Corbett and Ranulf, accompanied by Chanson, rode into Mistleham marketplace. Afternoon trading was not brisk, as many of the apprentices had adjourned to the nearest cookshop or tavern for a stoup of ale and a platter of food. The wandering troupe of actors was now busy erecting the scenery on the stage so as to encourage people to come and watch.
The troupe leader, still standing in his pulpit, was warning all who cared to listen about the dangers of hell, where sinners were served goblets of fiery liquid whilst toads and snakes cooked in sulphur were their daily food. Another member of the troupe had set up a small stool beside the carts, offering all sorts of cures for every ailment known. As Corbett and his companions passed, the mountebank was busy lecturing a poor old woman nursing the side of her face about how vinegar, oil and sulphur mixed together cured mouth sores whilst a candle of mutton fat, mingled with the seed of sea holly, was a marvellous cure for a rotten tooth. The candle, he trumpeted, should be held close to the decaying tooth with a bowl of cold water underneath, and the worms infecting the tooth would simply drop out into the bowl. Corbett smiled as he and Ranulf dismounted. He'd heard such a story before. He was also acutely aware of the other scenes of the marketplace: the stalls being visited, two madcaps, drunk beyond reasoning, dancing together, the bailiffs looking on, a dog and cat noisily baiting each other. A traveller from afar, burnt dark by the sun, was standing on a stone plinth near the church, eager to tell his stories about the wonders he'd seen. Corbett paused for a while, staring around, then glanced towards the Honeycomb.
âChanson,' he murmured, âwhen we reach the tavern, take our horses down the alleyway. Ranulf, you follow me inside.'
The tap room was busy, a spacious low-ceilinged chamber, its beams burnt black, the floor covered in a mushy mess of reeds. Most of the windows were shuttered. Lanterns, candles and oil wicks had been lit, though their glow did little to dissipate the gloom or reveal the shadowy figures sitting at tables. Corbett walked slowly across, grasping the hilt of his sword. He was aware
of heads turning, the whispers, exclamations about âthe King's men'. The master taverner came out from behind the counter, wiping his hands on a filthy rag.
âSirs, what would you like?'
Corbett shook his head. He took off his gauntlet, dipped into his purse and brought out a silver coin, twirling it before the taverner's greedy eyes.
âThree men,' Corbett whispered, âdressed like beggars. They lodge together?'
The taverner was about to lie; the silver coin was twirled again, Corbett's other hand falling to the hilt of his sword.
âUp the stairs, master,' he whispered, âin the stairwell, the door before you, there's no lock or bolt. You can just push it open.'
Corbett and Ranulf, swords and daggers drawn, went quickly up the greasy stairs. Corbett didn't pause to knock; he pushed open the door, Ranulf following in quickly behind him. The men squatting inside on the floor, playing dice, tried to scramble for their war belts and longbows piled in the corner. Ranulf moved faster, knocking one aside to stand between them and their weapons. For a while there was confusion as the men backed away, but there was no place to hide in the small, shabby chamber with its cobwebbed corners, flaking walls and small open window. Palliasses lay rolled in a heap against one wall. A jake's pot stood on a small shelf nearby. The room smelt stale, the dirty floor splattered with grease. At first glance the three men didn't seem out of place, dressed in coarse jupons, hose and scuffed boots, but their war belts were of gleaming leather, the hilts of their swords and daggers finely wrought, whilst the longbows were the work of a craftsman. Corbett advanced threateningly, and all three backed away. They
looked bedraggled and dishevelled, faces almost hidden by straggling hair and beards, yet they were certainly not beggars but professional warriors, quick of eye, not frightened, just watchful, ready to exploit any mistake by their unexpected guests. Corbett sheathed his sword and squatted down. He pointed a finger.
âWho are you? You're not beggars. You take food that you don't eat. You hide in a tavern garret and, I wager, only leave to meet Brother Gratian. Shall I tell you what you are, gentlemen? You're Templars.' He studied all three of them. The man in the centre was older, hair and beard streaked with grey, green eyes gleaming in a face burnt dark by the sun. âYes, Templars,' Corbett continued. âYou, sir,' he pointed to the man in the centre, âyou are a knight; your companions are your squires. You've been sent here from New Temple in London to recover the Sanguis Christi.' He paused; the men remained watchful and silent. âWe have met before,' Corbett smiled, âon the trackway leading out of Mistleham, only then you were hooded and visored. Your bows were strung, arrows notched at me, the King's man. Templars or not, you do know that is treason? To draw weapons against the King's own envoy? I could take you downstairs and hang you out of hand in the marketplace. You come here disguised as beggars to search for the Sanguis Christi, which you believe belongs rightly to your order. It was in the hands of Lord Scrope but has now disappeared. You thought I held it and tried to frighten me. You failed. Am I correct?'