Nightshade

14

The journey back to Mistleham was silent. Corbett refused to be drawn by Ranulf’s questions.

‘You never asked them, master, where they all were.’ Ranulf couldn’t curb his curiosity. ‘Father Thomas, Claypole and the rest.’

‘It doesn’t matter where they all were,’ Corbett replied enigmatically. ‘What matters, Ranulf, is what we are going to do now.’ He pulled at his reins and gently stroked his horse’s neck. ‘Physician Ormesby is keen-witted. Do you remember what he told us? How these mysteries can be solved by discovering what really happened at Acre thirteen years ago and on the Island of Swans the night Lord Scrope was killed. Well,’ he urged his horse on, ‘we’ve studied Acre and discovered all we can about what truly happened there; now it’s time to return to the Island of Swans. Once back at Mistleham, get Pennywort. Tell him I need the services of his boat, and you, Ranulf, fetch a long pole. I am going to ask Pennywort to row you round the lake. Someone crossed the lake that night. They didn’t use the boat, there’s no bridge and, to quote Brother Gratian, outside the Gospels, no one walkson water, but someone crossed and I intend to find how they did it!’

The brutal murder of Dame Marguerite had disturbed the manor. When Corbett and Ranulf returned, they found servants gathered in small groups whispering amongst each other. Lady Hawisa came down, face all shocked at the news. Corbett took her hands and kissed her fingers gently.

‘My lady, Dame Marguerite is gone to God. I must discover her killer and that of your husband, and the sooner the better. Think of time as sand running through an hour glass; only a few grains remain. I must act and do so swiftly.’

He told Ranulf to keep on his cloak, cowl and gloves and seek out Pennywort. The boatman arrived all agog, wondering what was expected of him. Corbett asked him to row them across to the Island of Swans, told him to secure the boat, and all three went up the steps. Corbett produced the key, broke the seals, unlocked the reclusorium and went inside. It was freezing cold and rather bleak, the air stale. Corbett told Pennywort and Ranulf to stay just within the doorway as he walked slowly around.

‘There are six windows here,’ he said. ‘Two look out towards the back of the reclusorium, the others provide a view on either side of the Island of Swans. Very well.’ He went down the steps and, much to Ranulf and Pennywort’s astonishment, began to walk around the reclusorium. It was now about noon, bitterly cold, the clouds beginning to break; rooks and crows floated above them, black-feathered wings displayed, their strident cries mocking Corbett as he slipped and slithered on the ice. He kept looking across at the lake, and when he reached the rear of the hermitage,he pointed across to a group of willows on the far side and the narrow path that snaked between the trees.

‘I wonder!’ he exclaimed, but he didn’t bother to explain to his companions. Instead he returned to the jetty and instructed Pennywort to row Ranulf into the centre of the lake and proceed slowly in the direction of those willows. Ranulf was to stand in the stern with the long pole he’d taken from the stables and test the depth of the water as they went. Pennywort immediately dismissed that as a waste of time.

‘Have you ever tested the depth?’ Corbett teased.

‘Yes, but not for the entire lake.’

‘Of course not.’ Corbett smiled.

‘What are we looking for?’ Ranulf asked.

‘The same as when I scrutinised the receipts and rents of this manor,’ Corbett replied. ‘We’ll know the truth when we see it. Now, sirs …’

Pennywort, muttering under his breath, clambered into the boat. Ranulf, carrying his pole, climbed in behind; cloaked and cowled, he looked like the Angel of Death standing in the stern. Pennywort rowed out, then turned in the direction Corbett had instructed. At Corbett’s shouted order, Ranulf let the pole down; eventually he had to sit, as most of it disappeared beneath the surface. Corbett walked with them along the bank. Sometimes vegetation and undergrowth sprouting on the edge hid the boat from view, so he called out and Ranulf shouted back that there had been no change. They rounded the island, approaching the rear of the reclusorium. Corbett glimpsed the tops of the willows on the far bank and tried to control his excitement. He was almost level with the trees when he heard Ranulf and Pennywort’sloud exclamation. He hurriedly pushed through the bushes to the edge of the lake. Pennywort was trying to keep the flatbottomed boat stationary as Ranulf jabbed his pole at something beneath the water.

‘What is it?’ Corbett called, even though he anticipated the answer.

‘About a foot or more beneath the boat,’ Ranulf exclaimed, ‘there’s a hard, ridged surface. It’s broad, master, about two feet across, like a ledge or shelf.’

‘The remains of a bridge, perhaps?’ Pennywort called out. ‘I never knew. Lord Scrope refused to allow any barge or boat to circle the lake.’

Corbett just stared across at the narrow path between the willows. He called Pennywort to bring his boat closer and row him across; Pennywort tried to, but though the lake grew shallower towards the edge, it was still too deep to wade through, Corbett decided he’d walk back to the jetty and meet them there. When he arrived, Pennywort was waiting, full of surprise at their find. After he’d taken Corbett back to the other side, he quickly moored his boat and followed the royal clerks round the edge of the lake to the clump of willows. Once amongst these, hacking at the trail of undergrowth with his sword, Corbett pointed back.

‘If someone entered the manor grounds stealthily at night,’ he explained, ‘they could lurk here unnoticed by the guards sheltering around their fire under the trees some distance away. Remember, there were no dogs. Both had been killed to prepare for that night of blood. Pennywort, would you have seen anything here?’

The boatman shrugged. ‘We’d never even think to look,’ he murmured.

‘Of course not. Here in this clump of trees the killer prepared. He had a staff.’ He pointed to the pole. ‘Cut a third off.’

Ranulf, with Pennywort’s help, did so. Corbett grasped the staff, then advanced to the edge of the lake.

‘Master …’ Ranulf warned.

Corbett walked on, using the pole to test the water. He felt it hit rock and carefully walked on to the broad ledge beneath. The water rose to about a foot, almost touching the rim of his boots. He edged forward carefully in a straight line. Icy water splashed his legs, but the ledge was quite broad and gritty, whilst the flow of the lake, fed by some underground stream, was not strong.

‘It’s very similar,’ he called back, ‘to a ford: shallow water over sure footing!’ He found the pole invaluable. Like a blind man with a stick, he would push it forward and then follow. He felt slightly nervous when he reached the centre, but the underwater ridge stretched before him, broad enough to take any slip to the left or right. Moreover, as he approached the far side, the ledge began to rise slightly. The water grew shallower, then he was across, boots crunching on the icy undergrowth along the island edge. He turned and smiled triumphantly, lifting his hands towards his companions, then began the journey back. On one occasion he nearly slipped as the staff wedged in a crack on the ledge, but he reached the far bank safely.

‘Nothing!’ he exclaimed. ‘Some cold water on my legs, but it wasn’t too dangerous.’

‘But at night?’ Ranulf asked.

Corbett held up the staff. ‘Shielded by the trees, the killer could have used a shuttered lantern. More importantly,’ he pointed to one of the willows,’ he may have brought a rope.’

‘Of course,’ Pennywort breathed, ‘A covered lantern to mark the place he left. He’d tie one end of the rope securely around a tree, the other end about his waist.’

‘Precisely!’ Corbett clapped Pennywort on the shoulder. ‘Then he used the staff to find his foothold and move carefully across, as I did. The dark would make no difference; as long as the pole hit hard rock, he was safe. If he slipped or even fell, the rope would secure him. He could haul himself back on to the ledge and carry on. Once on the other side, he’d secure the rope to use on his return. That is how our killer crossed to the Island of Swans.’

‘But the reclusorium?’ Pennywort stammered. ‘How did the killer force an entry? Everything was secure. I had to smash the shutters.’

‘Hush.’ Corbett opened his purse and pressed a silver piece into the man’s hand. ‘For now, silence, Pennywort! This is King’s business.’

The boatman beamed down at the piece of silver. ‘I never knew,’ he murmured, ‘about the ford.’

‘Very few did,’ Corbett replied. ‘I suspect that many years ago masonry and cement were poured in to support a bridge that was eventually destroyed or fell down, but its rocky foundations are as sure as those of a cathedral, a mass of hardened concrete known only to a few, forgotten over the years. Lord Scrope didn’t forget when he built his reclusorium. He insisted that the only way across the lake was by boat, a fact everybody accepted as the truth and that, strangely enough, proved to be his own undoing …’

Darkness had fallen when Corbett gathered his guests around the high table on the dais in Mistleham Manor. Lady Hawisa, despiteCorbett’s request, insisted on serving a light collation for all those invited. The dais gleamed in the light of a long row of candelabra, the fire in the great hearth had been built up, and braziers glowed from the corners of the hall. Corbett’s guests arrived together: Claypole, Master Benedict, Ormesby, Father Thomas and Brother Gratian, all graciously welcomed by Lady Hawisa. Corbett had prepared himself well. He’d spoken briefly to Ranulf and Chanson, then drawn up documents; the chancery bag resting against the leg of his chair contained all the letters and warrants he needed. Ranulf had also come prepared, his war belt lying on the floor beside a small arbalest, though Corbett predicted there would be little violence.

The meal began. Corbett allowed Father Thomas to say grace and the servants brought in the wine, bowls of hot broth and platters of cold meat and fresh bread. Lady Hawisa, still garbed in widow’s weeds, tried to make conversation, but the atmosphere was tense; those who’d come knew that Corbett had reached his conclusions. They sat like men under sentence waiting for a judge to declare his verdict. Corbett decided to be swift. The first goblet of wine had been drunk when he abruptly rose and walked around behind Claypole’s chair. The whisper of conversation died as Corbett put his hand on the mayor’s tense shoulder.

‘Master Henry Claypole, Mayor of Mistleham, I, Sir Hugh Corbett, Keeper of the King’s Secret Seal and Royal Commissioner in these parts, do appeal you of treason, robbery and murder. Treason in that the outlaw John Le Riche deliberately came here to sell you the King’s treasure looted from the crypt at Westminster. No …’ Corbett forced the mayor to remain seated. Ranulf stood up and walked down the other side of the table, theprimed arbalest pointing directly at Claypole. The rest of the guests gazed in astonishment.

‘I did not-’

‘You did!’ Corbett leaned down and whispered loudly, ‘Such mummery, Master Claypole! Le Riche was experienced, but he was tricked and betrayed by you and Lord Scrope. Where is the rest of the treasure you bought, eh? In your house? I’ll produce the necessary warrants and search it from garret to cellar. You are also accused of robbery, because you and Lord Scrope feloniously took the said treasure and hid it. Murder, because you are the Sagittarius. You are a skilled bowman, Master Claypole; both you and Lord Scrope were involved in that too. You rented tenements from your manor lord above the marketplace. You used these as a hiding place as well as your concealment to loose arrows at both the unsuspecting and those you and Lord Scrope wished to rid yourselves of. Murder also because you turned against your master; you wanted the Sanguis Christi as well as the other treasure, not to mention the blood registers. You, Lord Scrope’s son, legitimate or not, were privy to many secrets, including that secret ford across the lake.’ Corbett lifted his hand at the excited murmur around him. ‘Not now,’ he declared. ‘Perhaps in a day or so, when Master Claypole goes on trial for his life.’ He tightened his grip on Claypole’s shoulder until the mayor winced. ‘You used that ford the night you murdered Scrope.’

‘This is ridiculous!’ Claypole screeched. ‘I can prove-’

‘What?’ Corbett intervened. ‘That you were busy in the guildhall this morning when Dame Marguerite arrived?’

‘As I was in the marketplace when Jackanapes was killed.’

‘Your accomplice Lord Scrope was not,’ Corbett taunted.‘I mean when Jackanapes was killed. There were two Sagittarius, two bowmen; I shall prove that. As for this morning, I shall also demonstrate, Master Claypole, that you have St Alphege’s under constant scrutiny. After all, that is the place from where the blood registers were allegedly stolen. You also watched Dame Marguerite, who fiercely resented your claims. When she arrived unexpectedly at St Alphege’s earlier today, you decided to finish the game once and for all. I shall explain the details later. After all, Master Claypole, you are the mayor, you can move around. It is easy to leave a bow with a quiver of arrows in the shadows, slip through one door, notch an arrow, loose and flee again. Ah yes, I have much to say about you and so much to judge. Chanson,’ Corbett called down the hall, ‘arrest Master Claypole and take him to the cellars below. Ranulf will go with you. Lady Hawisa …’

The lady of the manor, shocked and surprised, could only nod in agreement.

‘This is unjust …’ Claypole tried to gabble his innocence, but the look in his eyes betrayed a deep fear.

‘Unjust? No it is not,’ Corbett soothed. ‘I do not want you to flee or try and rouse the townspeople. Moreover, I need to collect further evidence.’

Claypole tried to struggle, but Ranulf drew his dagger and pricked the side of the mayor’s neck. Claypole’s resistance collapsed; weeping and cursing, he was bundled from the hall. Corbett retook his seat and lifted the chancery bag on to the table. Ormesby and Father Thomas particularly were full of questions, but Corbett refused to answer them.

‘Claypole may not be the sole assassin,’ he murmured. ‘There is still work to be done.’ He pointed at the Dominican. ‘BrotherGratian, you knew Claypole long before you came here. Consequently I want you to stay here tonight and visit him. Reason with him, advise him to confess all and throw himself on the King’s mercy.’

‘I can only do what I can.’

‘Good.’ Corbett smiled at the Dominican. ‘Father Thomas,’ he turned to the parish priest, ‘you received my letter this afternoon and did what I asked?’

‘I did, Sir Hugh, I-’

‘Good,’ Corbett murmured, raising his hand for silence as Ranulf came back into the hall. ‘Please, Father, talk to Ranulf after this meeting.’ He stared down at the chancery bag, then opened it.

‘Master Benedict, I have a most important task for you. Dame Marguerite asked me to recommend you to the King; as a mark of respect to her memory, I have done so.’ Corbett drew a number of scrolls, tied and sealed, and pushed these across the table. ‘At first light tomorrow, I want you to leave here and ride swiftly to the King, who is now residing at Colchester. Seek out Lord Drokensford, give him these letters of recommendation – and they are powerful ones – then hand over these other letters, urgent requests that Lord Drokensford send me a list of items looted from the treasury at Westminster. Such a list will convict Claypole not only of robbery but, as I shall prove, of cold-blooded murder.’

‘Are you sure?’ Master Benedict smiled. ‘I mean, Dame Marguerite lies dead at St Frideswide.’

‘Yes, yes, you can return for the funeral,’ Corbett declared, ‘but this is urgent. Brother Gratian must stay here, as must Father Thomas. I need Ranulf and Chanson for other tasks. I am concerned, wary of Claypole’s associates. The letters will also ask LordDrokensford to send the Sheriff of Essex and his comitatus here along with the shire muster rolls which will demonstrate that Claypole and his accomplices-’

‘Accomplices?’ Physician Ormesby couldn’t contain himself. ‘Sir Hugh, what accomplices?’

‘Please bear with me,’ Corbett replied. ‘I need vital information to prove that Claypole and his accomplices were master bowmen.’

‘You said I should lodge here for the night?’ Master Benedict queried, ‘but I need to collect certain items from St Frideswide. Pay my respects to Dame Marguerite’s corpse.’

‘Of course.’ Corbett turned to Chanson. ‘You will accompany Master Benedict back to St Frideswide. He will leave at first light.’ He pushed across another document, unsealed and loose. ‘This is a warrant that will allow you safe passage anywhere in the kingdom. You are not to delay or be delayed. However, you, Chanson, must return here. I need you to search Claypole’s house and other tenements.’ Corbett was determined not to be kept or questioned any further. He abruptly rose and bowed towards Lady Hawisa. ‘My apologies for what is happening, but these matters are pressing. Master Claypole lies at the root of all the wickedness here. My lady, gentlemen, I bid you good night.’

The company broke up. Master Benedict, clutching his documents, beamed at Corbett and followed Chanson out of the hall. Ranulf had a few whispered words with Father Thomas, who murmured his reply. Ranulf smiled, turned and gestured at Corbett.

Master Benedict Le Sanglier, former chaplain to Dame Marguerite, late Abbess of St Frideswide, rode into the village of Mordern just as daylight strengthened. A thick mist still shrouded thederelict buildings, deepening Mordern’s ghostly aspect. The chaplain dismounted, stared round and hobbled his horse, the best the convent stables could provide. He patted the heavy panniers slung either side of the saddle, threw his cloak about his shoulders and walked into the cemetery, looking for the headstone displaying the carving of the Annunciation. When he reached it, he stared down and felt a stab of unease. The grave had been disturbed. A twig snapped somewhere behind him. He whirled around even as the arrow whipped the air above him. He watched in horror as the bowman emerged from the mist, head and face hidden by a cowl. The longbow he held was taut, the arrow notched ready for flight. Master Benedict’s throat went dry.

‘God save you, sir.’ His voice came in a rasp.

‘And God save you too, Master Benedict.’

The chaplain turned. Corbett walked towards him, accompanied by Chanson armed with a primed arbalest. Master Benedict blinked. Chanson had made his hasty farewells at St Frideswide and galloped away as if more concerned about events at Mistleham, yet now he was here.

‘Please,’ Corbett spread his hands, ‘your belt with its dagger, sir.’

Master Benedict unbuckled this and let it fall to the ground.

‘Ranulf, Chanson,’ Corbett called out, ‘take our guest to the church.’

Master Benedict glanced back at Ranulf, who’d now drawn closer, the longbow still primed with its sharp iron barb and grey goose feathers. Master Benedict tried to relax, his first panic being replaced by a watchful wariness, eager to exploit any mistake, but Corbett was careful. The chaplain was led into the church and forced to sit with his back to a pillar while Chanson deftlytied his wrists with twine then carefully searched him, pulling out the leather pouch beneath the quilted jerkin as well as the thin knife hidden in the top of his boot. Corbett undid the heavy pouch and shook out the precious items. Jewels, rings and the Sanguis Christi, a beautiful heavy gold cross embedded with five glowing rubies. Its beauty drew exclamations of surprise from Chanson and Ranulf, who’d also brought in the chaplain’s heavy panniers, which contained documents and a second hoard of precious items and keepsakes.

‘Enough to hang you!’ Corbett murmured.

‘Last night,’ the chaplain asked, ‘that was all mummery?’

‘Yes and no.’ Corbett squatted before him. Ranulf stood behind, bow at the ready, more arrows lying at his feet. ‘Yes, Master Claypole has a great deal to answer for regarding John Le Riche. He undoubtedly formed an alliance to buy treasure stolen from the King. He and Lord Scrope betrayed Le Riche, drugged him then hanged him. For the rest …’ Corbett shrugged. ‘Brother Gratian has to stay until I tell him to. Physician Ormesby will tend to Lady Hawisa. Father Thomas? Well, he has fulfilled his task. He searched his church both in and out. He found the stave of the small horn bow you used to kill your former accomplice Dame Marguerite.’

Master Benedict just laughed and turned away.

‘I will come to that by and by,’ Corbett continued. ‘Ranulf here talked about the fox, how it steals into the hen coop and causes bloody mayhem, which arouses the farmer, but sooner or later the fox has to leave and confront the danger. You’re my fox; I wanted you to do that. I gave you all the letters you needed, including one guaranteeing safe passage, be it on the highways orin a harbour. Desperate to go, you rose to the bait, you had to. Time was passing. The farmer and his dogs were closing in. You grasped the opportunity: carpe diem – seize the day. You had to retrieve your plunder from its hiding place at St Frideswide and, of course, you had to come here to collect the rest. You could not resist that, especially as everybody else was busy elsewhere. True?’

Master Benedict just stared back.

‘You had no intention,’ Corbett continued, ‘of going to Colchester. Oh no, you’d leave here and travel swiftly to one of the eastern ports and take ship to foreign parts. It would take weeks, if not months, to discover which harbour you used; even then you might have left under a false name. Rumours would abound. Poor Benedict Le Sanglier,’ Corbett made a face, ‘who disappeared, probably ambushed and killed on some lonely Essex trackway in the depth of winter. In truth you would be elsewhere, using the treasure you’d stolen to smooth the path before you. Naturally it was a risk. If you’d been alerted or alarmed unduly, you would have got rid of that secret satchel and continued the pretence of being the ever-so-diffident and rather weak chaplain.’ Corbett rose to his feet. ‘You’re certainly no gentle priest. You’re wicked, twice as fit for hell as the man you murdered on the Island of Swans.’

Corbett walked away as Chanson brought in dry bracken and kindling. He placed these near the prisoner and doused them with a little oil. The flames soon caught hold. Chanson then moved back to the door, sliding down with his back to the wall, the arbalest still primed on the floor beside him. Ranulf leaned against the crumbling pillar, staring at the killer. Ranulf shivered. He wasnot remembering Scrope’s murdered corpse but poor Jackanapes and those other innocents slain by this murderer. He wondered if Corbett’s musing on death and justice was having its effect on him. Were all the hapless victims of this assassin clustering here to seek vengeance, retribution?

Corbett picked up a wineskin and returned to the fire, which separated him from the prisoner. He offered Le Sanglier a drink, but the chaplain shook his head. Corbett didn’t like the cold arrogance in the prisoner’s eyes: a man who did not care, who still trusted in himself. What would be his last defence? Corbett glimpsed the cross on the chain around Le Sanglier’s neck. That was it! Was the prisoner, despite all his wicked deeds a genuine priest who would gabble the first line of Psalm 50, claim he was a cleric, plead benefit of clergy and so escape the rigour of the law? Would this killer, his hands drenched in blood, appear before some Church court only to receive mild punishment?

‘I am a priest.’ The chaplain seemed to read Corbett’s thoughts. Already, despite being in this bleak haunted nave, the freezing cold seeping everywhere, the bonds tight around his wrists and the weapons primed for his destruction, Master Benedict Le Sanglier was eager to assert himself. ‘Very well, Master Corbett,’ his deliberate insult was accompanied by a smile. ‘I made a mistake. For the time being you have trapped me. I was impetuous, eager to be gone. My task was finished, so-’

‘Your task,’ Corbett retorted, ‘was the death of Oliver Scrope.’ He stretched his hands out to the fire. ‘Now, Master Benedict, for the time being I am like a master in the schools. I am going to construct an argument based more on conjecture than evidence. Nonetheless, as I move towards my conclusion, theproof will emerge. So, to continue the similarity, you, Master Benedict, are like a master mason, the genius behind the house of murder you so carefully constructed. It began in Acre in 1291. We have all heard the accepted story, but I believe there is one important difference: Gaston de Bearn, Scrope’s cousin, did not die there. I truly believe this. Somehow he survived Scrope’s betrayal, his attempt to murder him and eventually escaped back to France.’

‘If he did,’ the chaplain sneered, ‘why didn’t he return to England?’

‘To confront Lord Scrope?’ Corbett shook his head. ‘A powerful manor lord, a hero, a Crusader much favoured by the King? To be accused by a foreigner, and with what proof? No,’ Corbett clicked his tongue, ‘that would be too dangerous, completely without profit.’ He paused. ‘Indeed, from the very little I know about Gaston de Bearn, I suspect he would not stoop to that. I think he was a noble soul, a man who inspired others, be it you and the Free Brethren, Dame Marguerite, who loved him, possibly even Lord Scrope, who was deeply haunted by what he’d done.’

Master Benedict’s face changed; just for a brief while the arrogance was replaced by honest recognition.

‘Gaston escaped,’ Corbett continued, ‘and some deep relationship developed between him, you and the Free Brethren. Eventually you and the Free Brethren came to England to wreak vengeance on Lord Scrope. Why? I suggest because of Gaston. First, the Free Brethren took great pains to remind Scrope of his evil deeds; hence the painting in St Alphege’s as well as their scrolled design of hell with Scrope at its heart. Oh yes,’ Corbettadded, ‘we have seen what was buried with Le Riche, the treasure and the drawings. Both drawings also contain strange symbols. I suggest they are Arabic. I found the same in the painting at St Alphege’s, those geometric designs much loved by Muslim artists. Whoever was responsible for those drawings and that painting had lived in Outremer and had some knowledge of Arabic design. Second, the Free Brethren were armed, they were planning to attack, kill or kidnap Lord Scrope. Third, you were party to that. You used Dame Marguerite’s wealth to buy them weapons. You also supplied them with information about the reclusorium on the Island of Swans and the secret ford across. No, no …’ Corbett raised a hand. ‘I will explain in a while. Fourth, the painting in St Alphege’s contains the design of herbs or plants, in truth nightshade, the potion Lord Scrope probably used in his attempt to poison Gaston in Acre infirmary so many years ago. You adopted that same name when you visited Father Thomas to threaten Scrope with death unless he publicly confessed his sins on the steps of the market cross in Mistleham. Fifth, in one of our conversations you made a hideous mistake.You talked of the survivors at Acre being slaughtered in the dragon courtyard. How did you know such a fact, the name of a Templar courtyard in a small donjon in Outremer? Does that also explain the dragon above the castle in the painting at the parish church?’

‘And Dame Marguerite was party to all this?’ Master Benedict scoffed. ‘Are you saying she was my accomplice? Scrope’s adoring sister?’