Nightshade

9

‘About this morning?’ Corbett stretched a hand out to the flames and glanced across at Ranulf, who was listening intently.

‘You know what happened, Sir Hugh.’ Father Thomas spoke wearily. ‘I finished the Jesus Mass. I intended to go back into town to celebrate the funeral rites for those who’d been murdered. However, Dame Marguerite and I had agreed with Lord Scrope to visit him here after mass.’

‘And when was this arranged?’

‘Oh, about two days ago. As you know, Lord Scrope intended to refurbish and renew the convent buildings as well as St Alphege’s. Of course the events of the last few days had rather dimmed the prospect.’

‘Father, tell the full truth,’ Dame Marguerite intervened. ‘I am sorry, there was something else. Sir Hugh, we were not only going to ask about our churches and buildings. My brother was a very wealthy man and, only God knows, he had reparation to make. We were also going to make a plea that he’d be a little gentler with everybody.’

‘Including me,’ Ormesby spoke up cynically. The physicianleaned forward, playing with the rings on the fingers of his left hand. ‘Sir Hugh, I’ve heard of your reputation in Oxford. I know you work in the Secret Chancery. You’ll find the truth here. I must be honest. Very few liked Lord Scrope. You’ll probably discover that I certainly did not.’

‘Who told you about the murder?’

‘The news spread like God’s breeze,’ the physician replied. ‘Scrope is dead. The word went out, servants tell servants, people hurried into town. I was in the marketplace and came immediately.’

‘Lady Hawisa, have you tended to her?’ Ranulf asked. ‘I mean in the past?’

‘Oh yes, but as to what happened and why, Hawisa should tell you that.’ Ormesby nodded. ‘Just like the priest here, I have my confessional, covered by its own seal.’

‘This morning,’ Corbett insisted, pointing at Pennywort, ‘Father Thomas and Dame Marguerite came down to the jetty.’

‘I saw them come,’ the boatman replied, ‘and hastened to meet them. I remember telling you, Father, to wrap your cloak firmly about you because the water was icy cold and the oars would splash.’

The priest nodded, half smiling.

‘I rowed them across,’ Pennywort declared. ‘I brought my oars in. I tied the rope to one of the posts and helped Father Thomas out, and then we both assisted Dame Marguerite. They went up the steps. I decided to wait just in case Lord Scrope had a task for me. Some of my companions came drifting down …’

‘We knocked on the door, but there was no reply.’ Dame Marguerite took up the story. ‘We knocked and hammered to no avail. Outside, Sir Hugh, you’ll find an axe. I picked this up and handed it to Pennywort. I told him to break the shutters.’

‘So I did,’ the boatman replied. ‘I hacked the shutters; the bar across is metal but the shutters themselves are wood.’

‘I’ve noticed that,’ Ranulf said drily.

‘I lifted the bar and scrambled in. Lord save us, sir, Lord save us.’ Pennywort shook his head. ‘I’ve seen sights in my life, Lord Corbett, oh yes, sir, I have fought in the King’s wars, I have seen-’

‘Tell us what you did see.’ Corbett handed over the silver coin. Pennywort grasped this, a look of supreme pleasure on his face. Corbett sensed the boatman would use the money and what he’d seen to regale all of Mistleham before the week was out.

‘It was dark, Sir Hugh. The fire had burnt low. Most of the candles had guttered out. I called out to Lord Scrope but there was no answer, then I saw him sitting in the chair. At first I thought he was glaring at me as he did in life. I went across. Lord, sir, the blood, dark like some witch’s potion splattering his mouth and nose! Hands gripping the sides of the chair, those eyes glaring. He must have been visited by some demon.’ Pennywort recollected where he was and, fingers to his mouth, stared at the floor, shaking his head and whispering to himself.

‘Pennywort,’ Corbett said gently, ‘you saw Lord Scrope and then what?’

‘I hastened to the door.’

‘Tell me precisely what you saw,’ Corbett intervened.

‘Sir, the bolts at the top and bottom were pulled firm across. The key was turned. I had to pull back both bolts and unlock the door to allow Dame Marguerite and Father Thomas in.’

‘And the other shutters?’ Ranulf asked.

‘All clasped shut,’ Pennywort replied.

‘That’s true.’ Dame Marguerite spoke up. ‘Sir Hugh, I was shocked when I saw my brother. I couldn’t believe it. Father Thomas went and whispered the words of absolution in his ear. I ordered Pennywort to stand guard outside. I searched round; perhaps the assassin might still be there, or, if the windows were all shuttered, the door locked … I mean …’ Her voice faltered.

‘We checked all the shutters.’ Father Thomas spoke. ‘Sir Hugh, I have been to the reclusorium before; there are no secret entrances or tunnels. The lake is wide and deep, every entrance was locked and bolted, except for the shutter Pennywort broke.’

Corbett thanked them. He asked Father Thomas to bless the corpse then help Pennywort and Physician Ormesby remove it to the manor.

‘There is a death house there, isn’t there?’

Ormesby nodded. ‘A small room in the cellars. I’d best dress the corpse there. I’ll tell you faithfully what I observe, Sir Hugh.’

Corbett rose and crossed to inspect the corpse. He studied it most closely, asking Ormesby and Ranulf to lift it up so as to scrutinise the seat of the chair.

‘In my perception,’ he murmured, ‘Lord Scrope was in bed but moved to sit here when the assassin struck. He drove that dagger into Scrope’s heart; Scrope’s right hand went up to grasp the blade and was splashed with blood; he leaned forward, hence more blood on the floor, then fell back.’

Physician Ormesby agreed.

‘Very good, very good,’ Corbett murmured. ‘Sirs, Dame Marguerite, please excuse me.’ He beckoned Ranulf to join him, and once again they searched that chamber, the shutters, the floor, the walls, the ceiling, the door, but Corbett could find nothingamiss. He sat on the bed and watched Ormesby, assisted by Pennywort and Father Thomas, lift the corpse up and carry it out to the waiting boat. Dame Marguerite came over, eyes brimming with tears.

‘Sir Hugh, his soul?’

‘Gone to God now, Dame Marguerite. I suggest that you also return to the manor. You must have pressing business at your convent, but Lady Hawisa will need some comfort.’

The abbess nodded in agreement and went outside.

Corbett followed her and stood at the top of the steps watching them place the corpse in one boat whilst Ormesby, the priest and Dame Marguerite clambered into the other now brought across.

‘Tell Lady Hawisa,’ Corbett called, ‘I am going to seal the reclusorium. No one is to be allowed in.’ He returned inside. He and Ranulf did their best with the broken shutter and stretched a rug across the gap. Ranulf fetched the chancery bag and Corbett sealed the edge of the rug fixed against the wall. He then scrutinised the chamber once more and left, locking the door and placing the key in his belt. He impressed his seal along the rim of the door then went around the outside of the reclusorium and did the same on every shutter.

‘I doubt,’ he declared, stamping his feet against the cold and blowing on his fingers, ‘whether anyone will come across here. I’ll give strict instructions to Pennywort that no one except you or I is to visit this place. Ranulf, I feel ice in my veins. I must thaw my blood and reflect on what we’ve seen.’

When they reached the jetty, Pennywort, full of the highest estimation for this generous royal clerk, was already waiting for them. He brimmed with news. The manor was in completedisarray. Brother Gratian and Dame Marguerite were already issuing instructions about doors being locked and sealed against any possible thefts; Master Claypole was also busy on this. Corbett nodded as Pennywort leaned over the oars and pulled away, still chattering about the effect of Lord Scrope’s death and wondering what would happen. Once on the other side he gave the boatman strict instructions and immediately adjourned to an eerily silent manor house, its servants slipping like shadows along the galleries and passageways. He found his chamber already prepared by Chanson, who’d built up the fire, lit candles and ordered some dried meats, bread, cheese and butter from the buttery along with tankards of ale. Corbett thanked him. He and Ranulf sat in front of the fire, hands out to thaw their frozen figures.

‘I’m so cold,’ Corbett murmured. ‘I’ll be glad when winter’s past and spring comes.’

‘Last night’s mayhem?’

‘Well, Ranulf, certain facts are established. First, Lord Scrope went across to the Island of Swan by himself. No one was waiting for him, Pennywort confirmed that. The boatman left. Lord Scrope locked and bolted himself inside his reclusorium: a small fortified house on an island surrounded by an icy lake. Second, that lake can only be crossed by boat; according to the evidence, there was no sign of that happening once Lord Scrope locked himself in. Third, however, during that night someone did cross the lake, entered that locked and secured hermitage and stabbed Lord Scrope to the heart. Fourth, Lord Scrope was a warrior, he was a killer, yet the evidence indicates that he offered not the slightest resistance. He was sitting in that chair when the assassin plunged the blade into his heart. Fifth, the dagger belongs to the King. Now there’s a riddle! LordScrope must have had that precious item locked in his treasure chest. He must have opened it and actually given his murderer the weapon that was later used against him. Strange, Ranulf.’ Corbett stretched his feet towards the flames. ‘Those chests and coffers were not prised or broken open. Scrope must have opened them for his would-be murderer then put the key-chain back round his own neck. Why? Someone he truly trusted? A person who could kill him in the twinkling of an eye? As the psalmist says, death was sprung like a trap! How could a devious, suspicious man like Scrope be so easily trapped? Ah well …’

Corbett grasped his tankard. ‘Sixth, at no time did Lord Scrope show any anxiety or try to raise the alarm outside, nothing at all. Seventh, once Scrope was dead, the assassin plundered the treasury and escaped unscathed and unnoticed, going through locked shutters, brick walls or a fortified door, not to mention crossing a freezing lake without any assistance, no boat, raft or any other wherry. Guards were sitting close by, yet they saw nothing untoward. Eighth, according to Pennywort, no one crossed that lake until Dame Marguerite and Father Thomas approached him early this morning. They only gained access by breaking in. Now, it is possible that all three are accomplices in a conspiracy to murder, but I consider that’s nigh impossible; not a shred of evidence exists to indicate it. Moreover, Lord Scrope appears to have been slain in the early hours, long before his guests arrived. Ninth, that cup of poison? What does that mean? If someone went across to murder Lord Scrope, why take poison with them? However,’ Corbett put his tankard down and, taking a pair of iron tongs, moved one of the crackling logs so that it burst, giving off more flames and heat, ‘we do know the murderer.’

‘Master?’

‘The Sagittarius, it must be,’ Corbett declared. ‘That’s why the mastiffs were killed, as well as Robert de Scott. They weren’t just acts of revenge; the assassin was preparing for last night’s bloody work. Imagine, Ranulf, the freezing cold darkness; the guards would stay close to the fire. Now and again they’d glance towards the reclusorium or the lake. Dogs are different: they wander, they pick up scent, and they notice things we humans don’t. They had to go, and so they did. The same with Robert de Scott, a man close to his master’s dark doings. The Sagittarius learnt that Robert was roistering in that tavern. He took up position and killed him. Robert de Scott was Lord Scrope’s man body and soul. He wasn’t there last night; the usual vigilance of bodyguard and dog was removed. The important thing about assassination, Ranulf, is that to murder the likes of Lord Scrope, you must first remove the guards. The Sagittarius did that. However,’ Corbett placed the iron tongs down, ‘who the Sagittarius is and how he actually killed Scrope – I don’t know.’

‘How will you resolve this, master?’ Chanson brought across a platter of bread, cheese and dried meat and served out portions on to the pewter plates Ranulf held. The Clerk of the Stables was fascinated by what had happened. He wondered how Sir Hugh would deal with it. He loved to observe Corbett question people; it was better than watching lurchers chase a hare!

‘How shall we resolve it, Chanson?’ Corbett cut himself a piece of meat and tore off some bread. ‘We’ll leave it for the time being; let evil have its day. I want to move and move quickly. The King will be displeased that Scrope is murdered; he’ll be even more furious that his dagger was used and the Sanguis Christi andother items stolen. We have so many questions to ask so many people. Accordingly, tomorrow morning we’ll establish a court of oyer and terminer: myself and Ranulf, with Physician Ormesby sworn in as the third justice. We will hold it in the manor hall and summon them all on oath. That will be best. For the time being I have to reflect.’

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 approvedby 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.

‘The 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, ‘deadly 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. ‘Few will make pilgrimage there! Lady Hawisa is much recovered.’ Ormesby bowed sardonically in Ranulf’s direction. ‘Your colleague and comrade has been a great source of help and comfort to her.’

Ranulf stared coldly back.

‘As far as the rest are concerned,’ the physician continued blithely, ‘Dame 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. MasterClaypole 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. ‘Yes, 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.’

‘Which is?’ Corbett asked.

‘Hell must surely be empty because all the demons have come to Mistleham. God be thanked,’ the physician rose to his feet, ‘the 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.

‘Master?’ Ranulf asked.

‘Father 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.

‘What are you thinking, master?’ Ranulf rose and placed another log on the fire. ‘By 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.

‘I have another task for you, Chanson.’ Corbett beckoned him forward. ‘It’s simply this.’ The groom came over.

‘Master?’

‘Work at last,’ Ranulf whispered.

‘At least I’m not frightened of the countryside, Ranulf!’

‘Enough of that.’ Corbett pointed to the door. ‘I 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.’

‘That won’t be difficult,’ Ranulf interjected.

‘No, no, listen,’ Corbett continued. ‘Just watch him distribute the loaves.’

‘What am I looking for, master?’

‘I don’t know.’ Corbett grinned. ‘But 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 processedsolemnly 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 cortege 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 ‘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: ‘Dies irae, dies illa – 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’ briefhomily 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 – was this truly a drawing of the Fall of Babylon or something else?

‘Let him be taken to a place of rest and not fall into the hands of the enemy, the evil one …’ 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 ‘Isolda 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.

‘Nazareth in Galilee,’ Corbett whispered to himself. ‘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 inGalilee. ‘I wonder,’ he murmured, ‘si mortui viventibus loquntur – 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 ‘Madam Lyabed’ and ‘Madam Earlybird’ as well as ‘Madam 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: ‘I 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 …’ 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?

‘Friends,’ he called out, ‘what business do you have with me? I’m the King’s man.’

‘We know that, Sir Hugh, we simply want something from you.’

‘Then ask, friends. Why not pull back your hoods, lower your visors, speak like Christian folk. Why do you threaten the King’s man on the King’s highway? That is treason, punished immediately by death.’

‘We mean you no harm, Sir Hugh. We ask you this: the Sanguis Christi, do you have it on you?’

‘Do you think I would wander these lanes with a precious relic belonging to the King in my pouch?’ Corbett spread his hands. ‘Search me! I have no such item, and before you ask, nor do I have it at Mistleham Manor. You’ve heard the news. Lord Scropeis dead, his treasure coffer raided; the Sanguis Christi is missing. I do have a letter from the King expressing his anger at what has happened.’

The archer on Corbett’s right lowered his bow, as did the one in the centre, but the one on his left still kept aim.

‘Friends,’ Corbett walked forward, ‘you’ve asked me a question, so I’ll ask you one. What is the Sanguis Christi to you, why do you demand it of me?’

He received no reply. The archer to his left still had his bow drawn, arrow notched, the barbed point directed at Corbett’s chest. The man in the centre spoke swiftly, some patois Corbett had never heard before. The bow was lowered. The man in the centre was about to walk forward when Corbett heard shouts and yells behind him, and a crossbow bolt came whirring over his head, smacking into a tree. He whirled round. Ranulf and Chanson were hastening towards him, the Clerk of the Green Wax already fitting another bolt into the arbalest. When Corbett glanced back, all three assailants had disappeared. He took off his gloves and wiped the sweat from his face, then stared down at the trackway, trying to control his breathing. His stomach was pitching and he felt as if he wanted to vomit, but by the time Ranulf and Chanson reached him, he’d regained some composure.

‘Master.’ Ranulf grasped him by the shoulder and spun him round, then drew him close, his green eyes like those of a cat, cold and hard. ‘Do not do that again!’ he whispered. ‘For the love of God, master, have I not told you, you are a King’s man! Walking along a lonely country trackway! We are surrounded by enemies on every side and you wander as witless as a pigeon!’

‘Ranulf is right,’ Chanson piped up. ‘Especially out here inthe country, master, where all sorts of beasts and dreadful creatures lurk.’

‘Shut up!’ Ranulf snarled.

Corbett was glad of Chanson’s interruption. He winked at the Clerk of the Stables, took away Ranulf’s hand and clasped it between his own.

‘Ranulf, I apologise. I become lost, brooding in my own thoughts. I wandered away. Even before those outlaws stepped out from the thicket, I realised I had done a stupid and dangerous thing.’

‘But they weren’t just outlaws, were they?’ Ranulf asked.

‘No, they weren’t,’ Corbett agreed. ‘They wanted the Sanguis Christi. God knows who they were. It has opened the possibility that there might be more than one Sagittarius!’ He grinned. ‘Now my two stalwart companions have come to the rescue, what danger can afflict us?’

Corbett kept up the brave front, but as soon as he was back in Mistleham Manor, he excused himself, went up to his chamber and sat on the edge of the bed. Then he moved to a stool in front of the fire, pulling off his gauntlets and his boots, warming his hands and feet, closing his eyes and quietly reciting a prayer of thanks. Ranulf came up with a platter of food and drink. Corbett sipped at the bowl of hot pottage from the kitchens, where they were preparing the funeral feast.

‘Master, I leave you to your thoughts.’

‘To look after the Lady Hawisa?’ Corbett spoke over his shoulder.

‘Master, that’s my business; your safety is ours and the King’s. I beg you not to do that again.’

Corbett gave him assurances and Ranulf left. Corbett sat staringinto the flames, wondering who those three strangers were. He tried to recall every word and gesture. They were not assassins; they truly meant him no harm. They simply wanted something. He wondered what would have happened if Ranulf and Chanson had not emerged. He recalled the wall painting in the church, the carving on that headstone in the cemetery. Slowly, surely, he was gathering the pieces of the mosaic. He must gather some more. He recalled Master Plynton, a wandering artist who visited Leighton manor. Plynton had executed a small mosaic for the village church just near the baptismal font, the head of St Christopher and that of the infant Christ. Corbett had watched fascinated as the skilled craftsman had assembled the coloured stones. Jumbled together they made no sense, but as Plynton put them in place, a beautiful picture began to emerge. This puzzle was similar, though the conclusion would be horrid and dreadful. The face of an assassin, a murderer, who, if Corbett could prove he or she was guilty, must hang.

Corbett heard sounds from downstairs. He sighed, put on his boots, took off his war belt and walked to the door. He would go down, observe the pleasantries, but before the day was out, he must tell Lady Hawisa and all the rest what was planned for the morrow.