Nightshade

12

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.

‘Sir Hugh,’ he declared, ‘Lady 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.

‘Sir Hugh.’ Lady Hawisa didn’t even turn in her chair. ‘I’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.

‘You must think I am in mourning, Sir Hugh, but I’m not. I am actually giving thanks for my deliverance.’

‘From what, my lady?’

‘From 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.

‘They say the wood of the cross is made from the cedar of Lebanon,’ she explained. ‘Imported 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.

‘You’ve seen this before, haven’t you?’

Corbett nodded.

‘Study 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.

‘Nothing that I can see.’

‘What does the Saviour have on his head on any crucifix you’ve seen?’

Corbett stood on tiptoe, peered then gasped. ‘There’s no crown of thorns; that’s what is missing.’

‘That’s how my husband ordered the figure to be carved,’ she explained. ‘Instead of a crown of thorns, he put a ring on the Saviour’s head.’

‘Do you know why?’

‘As I’ve said, Sir Hugh, my husband hardly informed me about anything. When I used to kneel here, I would study that ring andwonder. It was made of silver, with jewels along the rim. I suspect the ring belonged to his cousin Gaston, killed at Acre.’

‘And now it’s gone?’ Corbett turned, sat down on the sanctuary steps and stared up at her.

‘I 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.

‘Beautiful wood,’ he murmured. ‘An 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.

‘A nasty trick,’ Corbett explained. ‘A decoy, a device to distract our attention and perhaps point the blame at you. Think,’ he continued. ‘It 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 atthe 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.

‘My lady,’ Corbett continued, ‘I 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. ‘On the afternoon before my husband was murdered,’ she began, ‘I 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.’

‘Why?’

‘I 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.’

‘But there was no one here?’

‘No, of course not.’ Lady Hawisa shook her head. ‘It’s possible someone was hiding away, but I doubt it.’

‘And is that the only time you have ever voiced such murderous thoughts?’

Lady Hawisa nodded.

‘Are you sure?’ Corbett insisted.

‘Sir Hugh, I am, but …’ Her voice faltered.

Corbett walked over, took her mittened hand and gently kissed the fingertips.

‘Lady Hawisa, thank you.’ He’d reached the chapel door when she called his name.

‘My lady?’

She walked slowly towards him, her lower lip trembling, tears welling in her eyes. ‘Sir Hugh, I’ve just remembered. I have voiced such thoughts to my confessor, Father Thomas, but surely …’

Corbett stepped out of the shadows. ‘Anyone else, my lady?’

‘Yes.’ She swallowed hard. ‘Only 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.’

‘And what was his reply?’

‘As 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.’

‘And whom might your husband tell?’

‘He 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.

‘Sir Hugh, I apologise,’ Ranulf glanced over Corbett’s shoulder and bowed at Lady Hawisa, ‘but 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 forthe royal clerk to pacify him. Chanson, full of glee, rubbed his hands and kept grinning triumphantly at Ranulf, who just glared back.

‘Master, the Mary loaves and Brother Gratian.’

‘Yes?’

‘He 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. ‘You said sturdy?’

‘They were sturdy enough,’ Chanson declared. ‘Master, 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.

‘Well done, good and faithful servant!’ Corbett stood back. ‘Now, 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.

‘Chanson,’ he murmured, ‘when 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 awareof heads turning, the whispers, exclamations about ‘the King’s men’. The master taverner came out from behind the counter, wiping his hands on a filthy rag.

‘Sirs, 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.

‘Three men,’ Corbett whispered, ‘dressed 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.

‘Up the stairs, master,’ he whispered, ‘in 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. Theylooked 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.

‘Who 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. ‘Yes, Templars,’ Corbett continued. ‘You, sir,’ he pointed to the man in the centre, ‘you 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. ‘We have met before,’ Corbett smiled, ‘on 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?’

The Templar on his left gazed longingly over his shoulder at the weapons.

‘Please,’ Corbett murmured, ‘don’t do anything foolish. The tavern master and those below, though they dislike me, know I’m a King’s man. If I shout, “Harrow, harrow” and raise the hue andcry, what will happen then? What are you going to do, sirs, fight your way out? Kill the King’s envoy? Look, I have no quarrel with you. You can go on your way as long as you are out of Mistleham by this evening, but first I want information. You are Templars?’

The man in the centre glanced quickly at his companions and his face creased into a half-smile.

‘Yes, Sir Hugh, we are Templars. I am Jean La Marche, formerly of Dijon, now working for the New Temple in London; these are my two squires, Raoul and Everard. We are here on the orders of our master to recover what is rightful Temple property: the Sanguis Christi and other treasures looted from our treasury at Acre by Lord Scrope. He is now dead; whoever killed him probably has the Sanguis Christi.’

‘Ah,’ Corbett smiled, ‘so you’ve changed your position from when we met last. You thought I had it. Of course, Brother Gratian has now told you different. Lord Scrope is dead and the Sanguis Christi is missing. He communicated with you by inserting a small scroll in one of the loaves he distributed, or even slipping it directly into your hand. You must be well advised about what occurs in Mistleham.’

The Templar stared bleakly back.

‘What happened in Acre?’ Corbett asked. ‘Do you know?’

The Templar shook his head.

‘Are you sure?’ Corbett insisted.

‘None of us were there,’ La Marche replied. ‘All we know is that our brothers held out to the end; our stronghold was the last to fall. They surrendered, but when the Saracens began to ill treat the women and boys, the Templars attacked them with their bare hands. The Saracens retaliated by slaying all our brothers.Acre is a matter of history, Sir Hugh. One day we shall return, but in the meantime, we look for what is ours.’

‘And why Gratian?’

‘Ask him yourself.’

Corbett shook his head. ‘That is why I am visiting you here. You can answer my questions now and I will let you go, or I’ll arrest you. I will either take you to Mistleham or send you under armed guard to Westminster for questioning by the King’s justices, so I ask you again, why Gratian?’

‘He is a Dominican now,’ La Marche declared, ‘but in 1291, the year Acre fell, he was one of us.’

‘A Templar?’ Corbett exclaimed.

‘A novice,’ La Marche replied, ‘a squire; he hadn’t yet taken his full vows. After Acre fell, Gratian returned to England, where he decided to change his vocation and enter the Dominican order.’

‘Ah, I see.’ Corbett nodded. ‘Of course, that is logical. Scrope wanted his own confessor, someone who was with him at Acre, so he asks the minister general of Dominicans for Brother Gratian, who perhaps knows all about his past. Now, sirs,’ Corbett rose to his feet and stared down, ‘there will be no more Mary loaves for you. I want you out of Mistleham before darkness, and you are never to return.’

‘And the Sanguis Christi?’ La Marche demanded. ‘Where is it?’

‘I don’t know,’ Corbett replied, ‘but when I find it, I will return it to its rightful owner, the King. If your master then wishes to do business with my lord, that is a matter for him. Gentlemen, I bid you adieu.’

Corbett slowly backed out of the chamber, Ranulf following. They went down the stairs to the tap room. The taverner camebustling over to solicit custom, but Ranulf raised his hand and followed Corbett out into the marketplace.

‘They may know more, master.’

‘I don’t think so.’ Corbett peered up at the sky. ‘They are just envoys, sent into Mistleham to collect something. Brother Gratian was to deliver it to them at the appropriate time.’

‘But I thought Lord Scrope said that Brother Gratian would take it back to London himself?’

‘Oh, I am sure he would,’ Corbett smiled, ‘and on the way he would have been robbed by those gentlemen upstairs. He would return to London acting none the wiser and the King would have to accept what he said. Now, Ranulf, tell Chanson to bring our horses. It is time we returned to Mistleham. I am beginning to wonder. But first I want to question both Master Claypole and Brother Gratian.’

‘You are not concerned about the Templars?’

Corbett shook his head. ‘They are soldiers, cooped up in that little garret, obliged to wear filthy rags and eat rancid food. They have been sent here by the Temple to collect something. They have failed; that is why they accosted me on the trackway. They were desperate. They came here in the hope that Gratian would hand over the Sanguis Christi. They must have been curious to hear that Lord Scrope was murdered and the Sanguis Christi had disappeared. Hence their attack. I’m sure their master in London will not be pleased when they report back to him though they’ll be only too happy to leave such fetid lodgings.’

‘They did accost you, the King’s man.’

‘As I said, they were desperate. What can we do, Ranulf, arrest them? They’ll also claim benefit of clergy. No, as long as they aregone by dusk, they do not concern me. Scrope is dead; there’ll be no more warnings sent to him by Brother Gratian. Our Dominican friend has a great deal to account for.’

They mounted their horses and were halfway across the square when Corbett heard his name being called. Pennywort came hurrying across, gesticulating with his hand.

‘Sir Hugh, Sir Hugh!’

Corbett reined in.

Pennywort grasped the reins, fighting for breath.

‘A message from Dame Marguerite, delivered at Mistleham by a servant whom Lady Hawisa sent back. Dame Marguerite says the Sagittarius has visited St Frideswide’s. She begs you to come, at least to comfort her. Lady Hawisa has sent me to direct you. Sir Hugh?’

Corbett closed his eyes and sighed. ‘Very well.’

Pennywort raced before them like a greyhound. They crossed the market square through the huddle of houses leaning over them and out on to the pathway that wound through ice-bound fields to the convent of St Frideswide. Every so often Pennywort would hurry back to explain where they were going. After a short ride they turned into a narrow trackway bordered on either side by thick clumps of trees. Pennywort told them that they were now on the convent estates, fields that Lord Scrope had granted to St Frideswide during his sister’s abbacy. They rounded a bend and sighted the high grey-stone curtain wall, above which rose the red-slate roofs of St Frideswide. A lay sister let them through a postern gate into the convent grounds. Corbett was surprised at how grand the convent was, with its granges, outhouses, stables, guest halls, lodgings, refectory, infirmary, butteries and kitchens,and, at the heart of it all, an impressive church with a high bell tower. They passed this going into the stable yard, where smells of every sort wafted across from the wash tubs, kitchens, gardens and spicery. Nuns and lay sisters garbed in black or grey pattered about on their business. A bell tinkled clearly while the music of a flute carried hauntingly across the convent grounds.

They stabled their horses and entered the guest hall, to be met by a very important-looking nun who greeted them loudly, announcing that she was Dame Edith, the prioress. She spoke so clearly, Corbett suspected she was half deaf. He glared a warning at Ranulf and Chanson not to laugh as they followed the prioress across the peaceful cloisters into the convent church, where, Dame Edith trumpeted, the lady abbess awaited them.

The inside of the church was full of the most fragrant incense, which curled around the statues, the beamed roof and the gilded cornices. A serene house of prayer, the floor of the long nave was a gleaming path of black and white lozenge-shaped tiles. Gorgeous tapestries hung between the pillars, which swept up to a brilliantly painted rood screen and the polished choir stalls beyond. Candles glowed around statues and from side chapels. Dame Edith took them along one of the shadowy transepts. Corbett paused before a wall plaque above a brilliantly hued tapestry. The plaque was carved out of Purbeck marble; the lettering under the crowned stag proclaimed the achievements of Gaston de Bearn and asked all those who passed to pray for this ‘Miles Christi, fidelis usque ad mortem – Soldier of Christ, faithful until death’. The memorial was similar to the ones in the manor chapel and St Alphege’s, but larger and more exquisitely rendered.

‘Beautiful,’ Dame Edith remarked. ‘We always pray for Gaston’s soul, and see here, Sir Hugh.’ She led them further along to where flagstones had been raised and a deep pit dug. ‘Lady Abbess plans to erect a memorial to her family. Even more so now that …’ The prioress abruptly remembered herself and led them along the transept before turning right into a small chantry chapel with an altar beneath a statue of St Frideswide. The chapel floor was covered in pure wool rugs, well warmed by braziers and lighted by a beautiful stained-glass window. Dame Marguerite and Master Benedict sat on a bench, ave beads wrapped round their fingers, heads close, whispering to each other. On the floor beside them lay an arrow and a scrap of parchment. The pair drew apart as Corbett entered. The abbess looked frightened, slightly red-faced. Master Benedict acted distinctly uneasy.

Dame Marguerite made to rise, but Corbett gestured at her to remain seated. He pulled across a small stool and sat before her. ‘I have been confessing my sins to Master Benedict.’ Dame Marguerite smiled through her tears. ‘I am, Sir Hugh, in periculo mortis, in danger of death, just like our beloved patroness.’ She pointed at the painted window that described St Frideswide’s flight from her royal would-be husband: the saint sheltering in a convent at Oxford, and God protecting her by striking the pursuing king blind.

‘My lady.’ Corbett gestured at the arrow and picked up the scrap of parchment, a coarse yellow, the inscription on it clearly written. ‘The Mills of the Temple of God,’ he murmured, ‘may grind exceedingly slow.’ He glanced up. ‘The same message sent to Lord Scrope.’

Master Benedict hurriedly cleared his throat. ‘We were herein the church,’ he stammered, ‘when Dame Edith brought in both shaft and parchment.’

‘Pinned to the kitchen gate it was,’ Dame Edith sniffed, mouth all prim. ‘One of the gardeners bringing in the produce saw it there, an arrow from hell!’

‘Does the Sagittarius wish my death?’ Dame Marguerite moaned. ‘Oh, Sir Hugh, I’m so frightened.’

Corbett glanced at Master Benedict, who just shook his head, then at Dame Edith. The prioress stared boldly back.

‘Dame Marguerite,’ Corbett asked, ‘do you have any suspicions about the perpetrator?’

‘Yes,’ she stammered. ‘Claypole! He knows I hate him. I detest his arrogant claims. Now my brother is dead, he dreams of being lord of Mistleham. I have reflected,’ she whispered. ‘Claypole profits much. Sir Hugh, he owns tenements over the market square, he is skilled in archery. Moreover, like my brother, his reputed father, he is a man of blood.’

‘Sir Hugh,’ Master Benedict raised his hand, ‘are you close to trapping this killer?’

Corbett stared at this soft-faced cleric crouching like a frightened rabbit. ‘The solution,’ he replied slowly, ‘is not here or in Mordern, but in Mistleham.’

‘What shall we do?’ the chaplain bleated.

‘Arrest Claypole!’ Dame Marguerite snapped.

‘But Lord Scrope’s death has not advanced his claim,’ Corbett replied. ‘The blood registers are missing.’

‘Are they, Sir Hugh?’ Dame Marguerite nodded.‘Or has Claypole had them all the time, biding his moment. But to repeat Master Benedict’s question, what shall we do?’

‘Be careful.’ Corbett picked up the arrow. ‘I shall keep this and the parchment, my lady.’ He bowed to the abbess, thanked Master Benedict and allowed Dame Edith to escort them back to the stables, where Chanson and Pennywort were waiting. Once clear of the convent buildings, Ranulf urged his horse alongside that of Corbett.

‘Master,’ he asked, ‘do you suspect anyone?’

‘Yes, Ranulf, I do, but only thinly, a few pieces collected together. This is going to be difficult. Not a matter of logic or evidence; more cunning. You see, Ranulf, the Sagittarius, the killer, the murderer, the Nightshade – whatever hellish name he likes to call himself – prowls Mistleham. He has two lives: openly respectable, but secretly he is an assassin. However, I suggest that he cannot continue this for ever. Sooner or later he must disappear.’

‘In other words, the fox has invaded the hen coop?’ Ranulf asked. ‘And he is going to find it rather difficult to leave.’

‘Correct,’ Corbett declared. ‘So, Ranulf, we must concentrate on that.’

Once back in his chamber at Mistleham, Corbett sent Ranulf and Chanson together with Pennywort to collect Brother Gratian and Master Claypole for further questioning. He then sought an urgent meeting with Lady Hawisa and explained that, once again, he must use the hall as a place to interrogate certain witnesses. She heard him out and nodded.

‘Do you know, Sir Hugh,’ she stepped closer, head to one side as if studying Corbett for the first time, ‘when 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?’

‘No, my lady, not yet.’

‘What is the cause of these hideous events at Mistleham?’

Corbett sat down on a stool and smiled at her. ‘Lady Hawisa, this is all about love!’

She glanced at him in surprise.

‘Love,’ Corbett continued. ‘Even 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.’

‘Will you ever discover what?’

‘With God’s own help, my lady, and a little assistance from yourself.’

‘In which case, Sir Hugh,’ she extended her hands, ‘my hall is yours.’

‘One further thing.’ Corbett stood up. ‘I 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 – is that possible?’

‘For what purpose, Sir Hugh?’

‘My 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.