âDo you know, Sir Hugh,' she stepped closer, head to one side as if studying Corbett for the first time, âwhen my husband knew you were coming here, he was truly frightened. He called you a hawk that never missed its quarry, a lurcher skilled to follow any scent. I can see why. Are you close to the truth?'
âNo, my lady, not yet.'
âWhat is the cause of these hideous events at Mistleham?'
Corbett sat down on a stool and smiled at her. âLady Hawisa, this is all about love!'
She glanced at him in surprise.
âLove,' Corbett continued. âEven the most loving couple in wedlock disappoint each other. We constantly fail each other, and the reason is that we want to love so much and be loved so deeply. However, if such love is abused, it can turn rancid, evil and malignant; it seeks revenge. That is what I am hunting here, Lady Hawisa. Not events that happened twelve, thirteen, even twenty years ago, but an emotion, a feeling, some passion of the human heart that didn't burn then die, but transformed into something sinister and monstrous.'
âWill you ever discover what?'
âWith God's own help, my lady, and a little assistance from yourself.'
âIn which case, Sir Hugh,' she extended her hands, âmy hall is yours.'
âOne further thing.' Corbett stood up. âI wish to question Brother Gratian. When I have finished, may I look at the ledgers, the accounts for Mistleham? Not so much the expenditure, but the income from rents, profits, trading ventures â is that possible?'
âFor what purpose, Sir Hugh?'
âMy lady, I wish I could tell you the truth, but I cannot. I want to scrutinise them carefully. However, when I see my quarry, I will recognise it.'
Lady Hawisa nodded in agreement, and Corbett made his farewells.
They have committed terrible crimes in clear contempt of us.
Letter of Edward I, 6 June 1303
Chanson ushered a rather nervous Brother Gratian into the great hall and up to the chair before the dais. This time Corbett had not produced his warrants or letters of appointment, simply his sword lying next to the Book of the Gospels on which Gratian had taken his earlier oath. When the Dominican went to take his seat, Ranulf sprang to his feet.
âHow dare you!' he shouted. âHow dare you sit without permission before the King's commissioner?'
Brother Gratian grasped the table and leaned against it, pallid-faced, eyes darting to left and right, constantly licking his bloodless lips.
âSir Hugh, what is this? I am a priest, a Dominican.'
âI know enough of that,' Corbett replied slowly. âI also know you are a liar and a perjurer, responsible for an attack on the King's representative in these parts.'
âI ⦠I ⦠don't know,' the Dominican replied.
âYou'd best sit down,' Corbett declared. Leaning over, he pushed the Book of the Gospels in front of the Dominican, then, stretching
across, took Gratian's right hand and slammed it firmly down on top of the book. âNow, Brother Gratian, I'll be swift and to the point. I have been in to Mistleham. You might not know this â I am sure they've now fled â but I met your friends from the Temple, lodged at the Honeycomb disguised as beggars; the same men whom you used to meet at the distribution of the Mary loaves. You exchanged messages with them, including threats to pass on to Lord Scrope. They've confessed.'
âI don't know â¦'
âIf you continue to lie,' Corbett declared, âI shall arrest you and personally take you to Colchester to be interrogated by the King and his ministers, who have now moved there. You also failed to tell me that you were at Acre in 1291.'
âYou never asked. I did not think it was relevant.'
âWe shall decide,' Corbett declared, âwhat is relevant and what is not. Brother Gratian, your hand is on the Gospels, and so is mine. I am not lying to you. I know precisely what you have done and what you planned, but I want to hear it from your own mouth. Now you can decide either here or before the King in Colchester. I am sure that your superiors in London will not be pleased when the King returns to report what meddling mischief you've been involved in.'
âI cannot and I will not,' Brother Gratian spoke slowly, staring down at his hands, âspeak about the sins of which I shrived Lord Scrope, except to say,' he lifted his head, âI never absolved what he called his secret sins.' The Dominican shook his head. âWhat those were I truly don't know, but yes, I was at Acre thirteen years ago. I joined the Templar order as a novice, a squire. I was never truly happy with my vocation, but God works in
mysterious ways. I was sent to Acre.' He stared at Corbett. âA strange place, Sir Hugh! Its buildings were of an eerie-coloured yellow stone with iron grille-work and windows of coloured glass. That is how I remember it: a yellow haze. Those strange buildings, coated in dust like a phantasm from a nightmare. Acre became the last Christian stronghold, thronged by Templars, Hospitallers, brown-habited monks, Syrian merchants under their silk awnings, beautiful prostitutes with their black slaves thronging the rooms above the wine shops. Galleys clustered in the ports, bringing in more men and supplies. The Saracens swept in, eager to besiege, yet you'd think Acre was a place of rejoicing rather than one of doom. It reeked of every sin, Sir Hugh, like Sodom and Gomorrah, the Cities of the Plain. The nobles still feasted by moonlight on their rooftop terraces. The air smelt of perfume. Whores did business. Jesters and minstrels entertained in the streets. Then it all ended. Death and destruction swooped. The Saracens launched their assault.' Gratian fingered the cord around his waist. âOily black smoke curled in as the enemy catapults rained down fire to the rolling sound of their war drums. I'll never forget those drums echoing, an ominous dull beat, drowned now and again by the screech of catapults. The sky turned fiery red. Slowly but surely the walls were breached and weakened. The Saracens drew closer. Waves of white-robed dervishes launched surprise attacks.'
âBrother Gratian,' Corbett interrupted, âyou have seen the wall painting in St Alphege's â the one done by the Free Brethren?'
âOf course,' the Dominican retorted. âThat's not the fall of Babylon; it describes the fall of Acre. The attackers are the Saracens, the defenders depicted as Scrope's retainers. Lord Scrope recognised that immediately.'
âWhat did he say?'
âNothing, except to quietly curse and vow vengeance.'
âWas that the reason he attacked the Free Brethren?'
âOf course. He saw them as a real threat.'
âDoes the wall painting contain a cryptic message?'
âNo, I studied it closely, but saw nothing new there.' Brother Gratian's fingers went to his lips. âScrope's men fighting, Scrope himself fleeing, his cousin dead or dying in the infirmary. The reference to Judas could be an insult to Scrope, though I saw no betrayal, whilst the soaring cross is undoubtedly an allusion to the Sanguis Christi.'
âBut did Lord Scrope see anything extra?'
âI have told you, Lord Scrope had secret sins. If he did notice anything, he never told me.'
âBut how did the Free Brethren know about Acre?'
âSir Hugh, the story of the siege is well known, particularly in Mistleham.'
âBut why were the Free Brethren so eager to depict it? What concerns did it have for them?'
âPerhaps it was just a way of taunting Scrope.'
âWas there any connection between the Free Brethren and those who fought at Acre?'
âYou must remember,' the Dominican leaned forward, voice hoarse, âa company from Mistleham went to Acre with Lord Scrope; none of them, except Claypole, returned, and that includes Father Thomas' brother. Of course people were curious, angry and resentful. Perhaps the Free Brethren took the idea from them, but what that painting secretly contains and why they did it is beyond me.'
âLord Scrope',Ranulf broke in harshly, âalso attacked the Free Brethren because they were arming. Did you see any evidence for that?'
The Dominican coloured and glanced away.
âBrother, please?'
âLook,' he whispered, âI've served as a soldier. I can recognise a whetstone used for sharpening blades. I did see that on the tombstone outside the deserted church. I was alarmed. The Free Brethren acted as if they did not believe in violence or weapons, so I informed Lord Scrope. It only increased his suspicions.'
âAnd the crypt in the Church of the Damned?'
âLord Scrope searched it but found nothing.'
âAnd the thief Le Riche?' Corbett asked. âYou heard his confession?'
âOf sorts, Sir Hugh. I truly don't understand what happened; that was a matter for Scrope and Claypole. When I did visit Le Riche in the guildhall dungeon, he was witless.'
âWhat do you mean?'
âHe could hardly sit up; he was drunk, intoxicated from wine or an opiate.'
âWhat did he confess?'
âNothing, he just slurred his words, moaning about how he'd been betrayed but how things might still turn well.' The Dominican shrugged. âHow could I shrive such a man? He was not worthy of absolution. I left and the next morning he was hanged.'
âAnd the allegations against the Free Brethren?'
âOh,' the Dominican rubbed his bony face, âthere was some truth in them. They were lecherous and promiscuous, but, God forgive me, I did my share in fanning the flame of suspicion and
rumour against them. They were certainly heretics, Sir Hugh. They did not accept the teaching of our Church on important matters.'
âBut not worthy of sudden brutal death?'
âNo, that was the work of Scrope and Claypole. They sowed a crop of lies and allegations. They turned Mistleham against the Free Brethren, then Scrope harvested what was sown; he destroyed them early one winter morning.'
âAnd the warnings about the Mills of the Temple; they were your work?'
Gratian pulled a face. âOf course,' he whispered.
âA task given to you by your old friends and comrades at the Temple?'
âAcre,' Gratian replied. âLet me explain.'
Corbett nodded in agreement.
âThe Saracens took Acre, forcing the defenders from the walls on to the streets. Those who could, fled immediately to the port. The Templars, myself included, fell back to their donjon overlooking the sea. In our retreat we were joined by others, including the company from Mistleham under Lord Scrope. A bloody affray, Sir Hugh, ferocious hand-to-hand fighting, but at last we locked ourselves inside and the Saracens laid siege.' Gratian wiped the sheen of sweat from his forehead. âI will keep it brief. There was a secret tunnel from the donjon leading out to the port. The tunnel itself was safe but the port was being overrun by the Saracens. The Templar commander asked for volunteers to explore the tunnel, discover what was happening in the port, secure a boat and return for everyone else. Of course there was debate. We had injured, weakened men. During our retreat, Lord Scrope's cousin Gaston de Bearn was seriously wounded and lodged with
the rest in the small infirmary. Our situation was truly desperate. Scrope volunteered, as did Claypole. I'd seen what a ruthless fighter Scrope was. I reasoned it would be safer to stay with him than in the donjon. We were set to leave early one afternoon. Just as we did, the Saracens launched their final assault. We were left to our own devices. Lord Scrope led us down hollow-stoned galleries. He told us to wait outside the infirmary whilst he visited Gaston. He stayed some time. When he returned, he was griefstricken, carrying Gaston's ring. He announced that his cousin was dead, there was nothing more we could do.'
âDo you think he may have killed Gaston?' Ranulf asked.
âPerhaps,' Gratian murmured. âThe thought did occur to me: a mercy cut. Gaston was too badly injured to be carried away, and if he fell into the hands of the Saracens â¦' Gratian visibly shuddered. âAt the time we were all sweat-soaked and terrified, except for Scrope. He was formidable: cold, fierce with his sword, trusting only in himself. He said we should also save the Temple treasury. I objected, but Claypole was adamant that we follow Scrope's orders. I then reasoned that this had all been planned. Moreover, if Scrope wanted to do something, Claypole, his shadow, never disagreed. Yes,' the Dominican smiled thinly, âeven then I noticed the physical similarities between the two. Claypole and his lord: wherever Scrope went, Claypole always followed. God forgive me,' he whispered. âScrope intended to loot the treasury, find a way out and never return.' The Dominican drew a deep breath. âNow the treasury lay near the entrance to the secret tunnel guarded by one Temple serjeant. He objected, said he had his orders to allow no one in. It happened so swiftly.' Gratian licked his lips. âScrope killed him, a swift thrust to the throat. He
swept aside my objections, dismissing the serjeant as a fool, asking why should the Saracens secure such precious goods? He took the keys and plundered the treasury, anything that could be carried away. God be my witness,' Gratian held up a hand, âI never took anything. Scrope and Claypole, however, filled their sacks. We then hurried into the tunnel, a long, hollow passageway leading underground down to the port. By the time we reached it, parts of the harbour had been seized. Scrope killed two Saracen scouts and screamed at us to follow him along the beach. I will never forget that shoreline: corpses bobbed in the waves alongside rafts and bundles of possessions. We found a longboat that had come adrift from one of the ships. We clambered in, and Scrope insisted that we leave. He ignored my plea to return, saying the Templar donjon wouldn't survive the most recent attack. In a sense,' Gratian breathed in deeply, âhe was correct. We rowed out to sea and were picked up by a Venetian galley. The Templar stronghold fell in that last assault; everyone inside was put to the sword.'
He paused. âWe eventually returned to England and went our separate ways. I had no real vocation for the Templars, so I journeyed to Blackfriars and entered the Dominicans. Scrope continued to flourish,' he added bitterly, âlike the cedars of Lebanon. About eighteen months ago, he wrote me a friendly letter. He also asked my superiors if I could be released to be his confessor and spiritual director.' Gratian laughed sourly. âScrope was a powerful lord, rich and influential; of course, my superiors agreed.'
âAnd you?' Corbett asked.
âI was curious. I wanted to find out what had happened. When I arrived, Scrope often talked about our flight, of his regrets, how
he'd made mistakes. He also made reference to certain secrets but never discussed them. I wondered if he felt guilty because of the treasury and his flight from Acre.' The Dominican quickly crossed himself. âNo, I suspect it was something else, like the murder of his cousin. In the main he rendered himself pleasant to me. He acted the great manor lord, the faithful son of the Church. I was lulled into the part he wanted me to play. I soon became aware of his world: his adoring, faithful sister, the unstinting loyalty of Claypole, and the cold indifference that existed between Scrope and his wife. Father Thomas was cordial enough, but he too had a deep distrust of his manor lord. Only recently,' Gratian sighed, âdid I realise Scrope's true reason for inviting me.'