âWhich was?'
âHe wanted to keep an eye on me. He wanted to discover if I knew anything about what had really happened at Acre, if I'd seen or heard something untoward.'
âHad you?'
âNo.' Gratian spread his hands. âTrue, the killing of that serjeant was murder. I was implicated, and his death always weighed heavily on me. On one occasion I spoke to Scrope about it. I never did again; his fury knew no bounds.'
âAnd the Templars?'
âThey too had suspicions about what had happened at Acre, but no proof. What they really wanted was the return of their treasure, particularly the Sanguis Christi. When they learnt about my appointment as Scrope's confessor, messengers came to me. The Templars invoked old times; they hinted at what might have happened. They asked for my help. I remembered that serjeant, my own guilt, so as an act of reparation I agreed. It was the least
I could do. I sent Scrope those messages about the Mills of the Temple grinding exceedingly slow, but he still refused to concede. Eventually the Templars sent envoys to Mistleham; they disguised themselves as beggars, and lodged in a garret at the Honeycomb. Every so often I would meet them to distribute the Mary loaves. They would pass messages to me and I to them. Now, the plan was that when Lord Scrope gave me the Sanguis Christi, I would journey to London and the Templars would stage a mock ambush, an assault on the road, steal the Sanguis Christi and flee. I would act the innocent injured party. But then, of course, you arrived and Lord Scrope was murdered. The Templars were furious. My lord,' he blinked, âI did not know about that confrontation with you on the trackway till afterwards. I objected. I knew you would become suspicious.' Brother Gratian cleared his throat. âI was frightened, wary of the Templars, that's why I wish to be gone â¦'
âAnd be taken back to London by us,' Ranulf intervened, âprotected against the Templars?'
Brother Gratian nodded in agreement.
Corbett leaned back in his chair and stared at the Dominican. He'd made a mistake about this man. Brother Gratian looked like an inquisitor, a hard, ruthless man, keen to protect the Church and its teaching, but like everyone else, he carried his own bag of past sins and guilt. Nevertheless, had he spoken the truth or simply conceded what he was obliged to?
âDo you know anything,' Corbett asked, âabout Lord Scrope's death?'
The Dominican closed his eyes and shook his head.
âOr anything,' Ranulf interjected, âthat may be of assistance to us?'
âI have told you all I can.' The Dominican rose to his feet. âSir Hugh, I can say no more.'
Brother Gratian left, the door closing quietly behind him. Corbett sat for a while staring down at the hilt of his sword.
âMaster?' Ranulf queried. âHas he told us the truth?'
âNo,' Corbett declared, âbut I suspect he has told us all he can.'
âCould he be the Sagittarius?' Ranulf asked.
âIt's possible.' Corbett conceded. âIt has happened before.' He smiled. âA man confesses one sin to satisfy the confessor whilst hiding the rest. Gratian is certainly hard-souled, very wary of Lord Scrope. We have also learnt that our Dominican is a born intriguer, as well as a former soldier, experienced in arms, tough and resolute. He would make a worthy opponent.'
âAnd the wall painting?' Ranulf asked.
âI am not too sure.' Corbett shook his head. âIt might have been a way of taunting Lord Scrope. There is something else, something we've missed, something Lord Scrope recognised as the truth, but what?'
âThe deadly nightshade?' Ranulf asked. âIs that the plant in the painting? Is that why Father Thomas' mysterious visitor gave himself that name?'
âYou've spoken the truth, Ranulf.' Corbett rocked himself gently backwards and forwards. âI suspect Lord Scrope killed Gaston. He fed him a drink, an opiate to lessen the pain of his wounds, to make sure he was dead when the Saracens invaded. Scrope was a soldier; he knew the fight was lost, that is why he plundered the treasury and refused to go back. That could be his secret sin, something that rankled in his soul for years.'
âAnd Claypole?' Ranulf asked. âGratian describes him as Scrope's pet dog, his shadow, but he could have turned.'
âAgain correct. Claypole is as ruthless and cruel as his master. I wouldn't put any sin past him. He'd resort to any villainy, any violence to achieve what he wanted. It leads to a very interesting thesis. Did Claypole become tired of Scrope and turn against his master?'
âHe should be questioned, then arrested.' Ranulf got to his feet.
âWe certainly have enough to load him with chains, but we will not confront Master Claypole, not yet. Tell the mayor to return home. Let's see what happens. Ranulf, leave me for a while. I wish to think. Oh â¦'
Ranulf turned as he went towards the door.
âPlease,' Corbett smiled, âask Lady Hawisa if the manor accounts could be brought, particularly those records of receipt and income.'
A short while later Ranulf returned carrying bundles of documents. He stacked these on the table, lit more candles and placed them round. He asked Corbett if he wished to have something to eat or drink, but the clerk just shook his head, pulling across the first ledger. By the time he'd finished, the candles had burnt low and darkness was falling. He pushed the household books away, quietly whispering to himself, then rose to his feet, swinging his cloak around him, and told Chanson, still on guard at the door, to extinguish the candles and remove the accounts.
âWhat will you do, master?'
âOh, it's evening time.' Corbett smiled. âI'll wander the manor.'
For the next two hours Corbett did so, visiting the stables, the buttery, the kitchen, the outhouses, talking to servants, especially
those who'd served Lord Scrope for many years. The more he questioned, the more certain he became. By the time he retired that night, having said his prayers and placed his dagger beside him, his suspicions had begun to harden into certainty, but how was he to trap the assassin?
Early the following morning, round the hour of Nones, Physician Ormesby gathered his cloak more firmly about him and glared across the marketplace. He'd received an urgent message from Dame Marguerite to meet him in front of the rood screen in St Alphege's Church, something about the blood registers. He paused at the corner of an alleyway and pulled his beaver hat more firmly down on his head. He just wished the weather would break. He stared across to where the travelling troupe had set up their stage near the church. He would like to have words with the mountebank who was selling potions and philtres. He had met their type many a time before; their so-called cures could kill his patients! He peered up at the mist swirling around the gables and towers of the church. He wondered why Dame Marguerite really needed to see him at such an early hour, but she'd been most insistent; the note had said something about the blood registers, about Claypole's parentage. Ormesby swallowed hard. He wasn't sure, but rumour had it that his own mother had acted as midwife and delivered Claypole. Was it in connection with that? He jumped as a cat scuttled by with a still struggling rat in its jaws. He was almost across the marketplace, half listening to the sounds of stall-holders, when the ominous horn blast rang out like the knell of the Avenging Angel on Doomsday.
The effect in the marketplace, as Physician Ormesby later
described it, was as if the Lord of Hell had set up stall there. People ceased what they were doing and ran for the protection of alleyways and porches. Ormesby heard the third blast and realised it came from the church. Drawing his dagger, he hurried across, down the path and through the corpse door, which stood off its latch. He stepped inside. The air was sweet with incense still curling after the Jesus Mass. Father Thomas would not be there. The priest had a strict routine and would have adjourned to his house to break his fast and tend to parish matters. Physician Ormesby heard sobbing, an awful heart-chilling sound. The nave was gloomy; here and there a candle glowed through the juddering shadows. He immediately went to one of the pillars and stared around. He glimpsed the baptismal font, the image of Christopher on a pillar, the stool in the corner, then he glanced down at the rood screen before the high altar. The glow of candles was stronger there. He saw the body lying just near the entrance to the rood screen, hurried down, then stopped. Dame Marguerite lay sprawled in front of the entrance to the sanctuary, arms extended, face caught in the shock of death, eyes staring blindly. A trickle of blood snaked from the corner of her mouth to stain her white wimple. The arrow shaft had pierced her deep in the left side. A blow to the heart, Physician Ormesby thought; death would have been immediate. The blood was still bubbling around the shaft.
Again that chilling sound of sobbing from behind the rood screen. Ormesby looked up and saw another long shaft embedded in the wood of the screen just near the entrance. Lifting his dagger, he stepped round the corpse and walked into the sanctuary.
Master Benedict crouched there, fingers to his lips, eyes rounded in terror. Other people were now coming into the church. Ormesby
ignored these. He knelt down and grasped the chaplain's hand. The man was even more pale-faced than usual, lips quivering.
âWe were just standing there,' the chaplain gasped. He let Ormesby help him to his feet. âWe were just standing there talking, waiting for you to come, then I heard it, the corpse door being opened. I thought it might be Father Thomas. I walked a bit further down, I could see no one, then I heard the hunting horn, three long blasts. I just stood there, and so did Dame Marguerite. She was standing in the entrance to the rood screen. I walked further; the arrow came whirling through the air followed by a chilling scream. I looked over my shoulder. Dame Marguerite lay sprawled on the ground. I hurried back. I could see the shaft had struck deep, here.' He patted his own left side. âI turned around. I glimpsed a shadow; the Sagittarius was taking aim. I threw myself behind the rood screen. I heard the arrow strike, followed by footsteps.' He paused. âFootsteps,' he repeated, âthen I heard yours.'
âOh Lord have mercy on us all!'
Ormesby hastened back through the rood screen. Father Thomas was bending over Dame Marguerite's corpse, sketching the sign of the cross on her forehead. He glanced quickly at the physician.
âI was in the priest house,' he murmured. âI was doing the accounts. I heard the horn blowing and couldn't believe it. I ran here.' He got to his feet. âMaster Benedict,' he called, âyou are well?'
The chaplain came out from behind the rood screen. He went to Dame Marguerite's corpse and sank to his knees, face in his hands, sobbing like a child. Ormesby walked down the church, telling the curious to stay by the font, then glanced around, looking for the coffin door. He walked across into the dark transept and tugged at the latch. The door was open. He strode back up the
nave; the door to God's Acre through the sacristy was also unlocked.
âI will get the holy oils,' Father Thomas declared. âI will anoint her, do what I can.'
âWhat is happening here?'
Claypole, robe flapping about him, came striding up the nave, the heels of his boots clipping on the paving stones. He paused, stared down at Dame Marguerite and whispered something under his breath. Ormesby couldn't determine if it was a prayer or a curse.
âWe must send for Corbett,' Ormesby urged. âYou,' he pointed at Claypole, âdispatch one of your servants. Everybody must stay back, leave everything as it is until Corbett arrives.'
The clerk was breaking his fast in the buttery when Claypole's messenger arrived. Corbett wiped his hands and told Chanson to saddle their horses before hastening off to his own chamber to slip on boots, strap on his war belt and grab his coat and gloves. He met Ranulf in the gallery outside.
âYou do not seem surprised, Sir Hugh?'
âNo, I'm not.' Corbett clicked his tongue. âEverything is breaking down, Ranulf. Soon we'll have the truth, but first let's see what mischief brews.'
The marketplace was thronged and they had to fight their way through to St Alphege's. Corbett told Chanson to stay with their horses while he and Ranulf went through the corpse door. A small party was waiting for them before the rood screen. Corbett carefully inspected Dame Marguerite's corpse. The arrow had thrust deep; the blood on her face was now congealed, but her eyes still
stared sightlessly with terror. He asked Father Thomas to fetch a small altar cloth and gently covered the abbess' face. He inspected the arrow in the rood screen, then walked back down the church, Ranulf going before him to clear those townspeople thronging in to view the gruesome sight. Corbett inspected the coffin and corpse doors as well as that leading to the sacristy. Ormesby had described how he was almost across the market square when he heard the three horn blasts and hurried into the church to find Dame Marguerite dead and Master Benedict hiding behind the rood screen. The chaplain, now more composed, was still white-faced, his eyes red-rimmed. He haltingly explained how Dame Marguerite had insisted on leaving the safety and security of St Frideswide because she needed to speak to Ormesby most urgently.