Nightshade

15

‘Listen,’ Corbett made himself more comfortable, ‘and listen well. You and the Free Brethren of the Holy Spirit were close to Gaston de Bearn, how and why I still don’t know. You are undoubtedly a French priest whilst they were a wandering band of souls who lived for the day until Gaston told you and their leaders a hideous story. How he’d been a Crusader abandoned at Acre by his close friend and kinsman, and worse, nearly murdered by him. I suggest he told you the truth close to his death, in the vespers of his life. You and the Free Brethren swore vengeance. You, a priest, educated, with some patronage, secured letters of accreditation for yourself and them to travel to England. You came first to spy, to learn, to plan. Like all the malignant killers I’ve known, you can shape your face, your actions, your very soul better than any actor. You arrived at St Frideswide, the gentle priest looking for employment. Dame Marguerite of course entertained you. She read your letters, but you’d also brought something else: proof, be it letters or items, of what truly happened at Acre.’

‘And Dame Marguerite simply accepted that?’

‘At first there’d be protests, doubts, but I am sure that in that pannier you have a letter from Gaston, a ring perhaps, some keepsake? More importantly, you loved Gaston, you’d lived with him, he was significant in your life as he had been in Dame Marguerite’s. You described him closely, both body and soul. It would not take long to convince Dame Marguerite.’

‘She was an abbess …’

‘No, Master Benedict, first and foremost she was Gaston’s ardent lover. She obliquely referred to dreams of the past. He was the great passion of her youth. She and Gaston would have kept this hidden from Scrope, but a flame burns as strong secretly as it does clearly in the light of day. I talked to old servants at the manor; they did not deny that. I suggest the pair of them plighted their troth, swore eternal vows before Gaston left with Scrope for Outremer. Dame Marguerite waited for news. Eventually it came: her brother was coming home, but her beloved Gaston, the heart of her life, was dead.’ Master Benedict was now attentive, eyes watchful.

‘Dame Marguerite could give herself to no one else so she took the solemn vows of a Benedictine nun, assumed the veil and entered St Frideswide. Scrope, entertaining the only guilt he ever suffered, patronised and favoured his sister and she eventually became abbess. Dame Marguerite, however, never forgot Gaston. She wore the ring Gaston gave her as his pledge. I thought the design on it was a deer; in fact it was a stag, the same emblazoned on Gaston’s coat of arms as well as on the memorials to him in St Alphege’s, the manor chapel and St Frideswide. Indeed, these were Marguerite’s tribute to the great love of her life. I doubt if Scrope had anything to do with that. He preferred to forget Gaston, but he had to play the part and indulge his adoringsister. Dame Marguerite had chantry masses sung for Gaston; her community often prayed for his soul. Then you arrived with news that cracked all the foundations of her world.’ Corbett paused. He threw more kindling into the flames and stared around. Ranulf still leaned against the pillar, staring malevolently at Master Benedict. Chanson sat open-mouthed by the door, marvelling at the story his master was telling.

‘I can only imagine the darkness that engulfed Dame Marguerite’s soul,’ Corbett declared. ‘The lies, the tragedy, the loss of her beloved, the evil deeds of her brother, the waste of her own life, the living of a lie!’

‘The serpent truly entered Eden!’ Ranulf called out.

‘Yes, that’s what it was. You were the serpent, Master Benedict. Publicly you were the pious chaplain; privately you wound yourself around Dame Marguerite’s soul. Did you seduce her? Did she try and take from you what she had lost? I think that you kindled her murderous fury against her evil brother whilst smilingly inviting her to participate in his destruction.’

Master Benedict gazed back, cold-eyed.

‘All was ready,’ Corbett continued. ‘Messages were sent to the Free Brethren and they duly landed at Dover and journeyed into Essex. Dame Marguerite, at your insistence still playing the faithful sister, the pious abbess, persuaded her brother that the Free Brethren were no danger, so they were allowed to shelter here in Mordern. Secretly, however, you plotted: weapons were bought and practised upon; a plan of the reclusorium was produced, the secret ford described.’

‘Secret ford?’ Master Benedict jibed.

‘Yes the secret ford across the lake to the Island of Swans knownto Scrope, Gaston and Dame Marguerite when they played there as children. I mentioned it last night. Dame Marguerite told you about it, she must have done; that is how you, the killer, crossed. After all, you often visited the manor, Master Benedict. You would become accustomed to crossing over, especially during those spring and summer days, well hidden by that clump of willows behind the reclusorium. You’d also steal out to meet the Free Brethren, and, of course, they were entertained at St Frideswide, where you all could plot to your hearts’ content. Except for Jackanapes, fey-witted he might have been, but he could still have noticed something amiss.’

‘Yet it was Dame Marguerite who told you that he came here …’

‘Of course she did, providing valuable information to sustain both your roles as innocents in this matter. You were offering us Jackanapes as a valuable witness, but not for long. He would die before I ever questioned him.’

‘Are you alleging I was the Sagittarius?’ Master Benedict declared. ‘Remember that evening in Mistleham: Dame Marguerite and I were with you when the Sagittarius blew his horn.’

‘Yes, that was strange,’ Corbett conceded. ‘As it is that you mention it now. That evening the horn was blown, but no attack was launched. Why? I suspect that earlier that day, before you attended the banquet, you secretly visited Jackanapes the fool, and bribed him with good silver to blow that horn late at night. You then met him afterwards to pay and collect the horn. After all, a horn is easy to carry and easy to hide; many people have them. On that particular evening you just wished to confuse; you did the same when we journeyed here to clear the dead. It wasso easy to slip away into the ruins or the trees and blow three swift blasts, again for the same effect: to confuse, to make me wonder if the Sagittarius really was someone distinct from all those I had met in Mistleham.’

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

‘Nonsense! You were there because you knew that was where he lived, and for all I know, you invited him to meet you there for payment. Jackanapes was certainly marked down for death. First because of the horn, and second because he’d been out to Mordern and St Frideswide and may have, in his own antic way, seen or heard something untoward. Now, around the market square in Mistleham stand houses with row upon row of tenements. Most of them are owned by Lord Scrope; some of the rents have been granted to Claypole, even more to St Frideswide’s. Garrets and attics, shabby little rooms, stairwells and chambers no bigger than a box, shadowy, narrow places; easy to conceal a bow and a quiver of arrows, easy for someone like yourself, with keys from Dame Marguerite, to slip like a thief up the stairs, seize the concealed bow, then through some arrow slit, hole or window take aim and unleash death. Lady Hawisa’s men, led by Pennywort, will make a sweep of such hiding holes. I wager they’ll find bows and arrows hidden away. That’s what you did when you killed Jackanapes: hastened up a flight of stairs to let murder take wing. Two shafts for Jackanapes – you had to be sure he was dead, his gabbling mouth silenced for ever – then you re-emerged as the pious chaplain.’

‘So I am a master bowman as well as a priest?’

‘Too true,’ Corbett agreed, ‘and a very good one! The Sagittarius is a matter to be discussed, but let us return to late last summer.All was secure. You were so assured you made your first mistake. In your confidence you decided to taunt Scrope with that painting. He must have been furious at being given such a brutal, stark reminder of his evil deeds, being portrayed as a Judas. Little wonder he promised to renovate St Alphege’s, a small price to pay for removing that painting. You totally underestimated Scrope, an evil, vengeful man. He bided his time, but you, the master mason of murder, made your second mistake. Brother Gratian visited you here. He’d served as a soldier and he noticed how one of the funeral crosses had been used as a whetstone to sharpen blades. Finally John Le Riche, the robber, with his ill-gotten gains, arrived from Westminster. Like any outlaw he sought refuge in Mordern Forest, and the Free Brethren took him under their wing. In many ways your associates were not children of this world; they cared little for wealth. They may also have been curious about Le Riche’s secret relationship with Master Claypole and indeed Lord Scrope. Anyway, Le Riche left most of his booty here in trust before he journeyed into Mistleham to do business with Claypole and Scrope. Of course that precious pair duped him. They arrested Le Riche, drugged him, tried him and hanged him out of hand. Again the Free Brethren showed compassion as well as overconfidence. They cut down Le Riche’s corpse and buried him and his treasure here under a certain headstone, scrawling the memorial on the sacristy wall of this church. How does it go? “Rich, shall richer be, Where God kissed Mary in Galilee.”’

‘I certainly agree with your judgement on Scrope,’ Master Benedict murmured.

‘You still underestimated him,’ Corbett declared sharply. ‘The painting, the weapons, and, I suspect, he discovered that not onlyhad Le Riche sheltered in Mordern, but most of his booty still lay hidden here. Enough was enough. The Free Brethren were a real danger. Scrope was very frightened. How had they discovered his sin? His Judas-like conduct? Had someone survived the fall of Acre, someone who knew everything? Or was it Gratian or even Claypole? Whatever, they had to be silenced. Scrope became busy sowing rumours, allegations against the Free Brethren, and then he struck. He acted the manor lord defending his own, the faithful son of the Church attacking heretics. The Free Brethren were swiftly massacred. Scrope did not find the treasure, nor had he the wit to understand the scrawl on the sacristy wall. He killed them all, then left their corpses to rot. Why? Well, first he discovered that the Free Brethren were not the angelic beings they’d pretended to be. He must have been delighted to find those weapons and the drawings of Mistleham Manor to justify his actions, but he was also suspicious: he wanted to see if the Free Brethren had any secret sympathisers amongst the community in Mistleham. Anyone who might come out here to bury the corpses.’ Corbett paused. Master Benedict’s face had grown paler. He was staring dully into the flames as the memories returned.

‘You,’ Corbett continued, ‘like everyone else, were deeply shocked at Scrope’s ferocious and ruthless attack. You certainly had not planned for that. You never thought a manor lord would attack in the first light of dawn, putting everyone to the sword. You were not there to advise your comrades that Scrope had decided on all their deaths. He had no choice: that painting, not to mention Le Riche. Our robber not only hid his plunder here, he may also have told the Free Brethren all sorts of tales about asecret pact to sell stolen royal goods to a mayor and a powerful lord. Little wonder the Free Brethren were so brutally silenced. Nevertheless, you and your accomplice, Dame Marguerite, became genuinely ill with shock, guilty at bringing your colleagues to such a grisly end. Dame Marguerite had learnt of the Templar threats to her brother; now, through you, she began to issue threats on both your accounts about the Mills of God.’

Corbett picked up the wineskin and threw it across. The chaplain clumsily removed the stopper, gulped greedily and handed it back.

‘Dame Marguerite also told you about the Sagittarius, who’d appeared years ago threatening her brother. You and she decided the Sagittarius must return. First to deal out terror and justice to the good citizens of Mistleham who’d supported Lord Scrope’s attack on the Free Brethren, and second to plan for Scrope’s own death. You chose your victims for execution, innocents in Mistleham. You used Dame Marguerite as your constant disguise, as you did when Wilfred and Eadburga were slaughtered. You were not guarding the door at St Alphege’s; you slipped away to commit horrid murder. Time, however, was passing. To a certain extent you and Dame Marguerite had lost control over events. The massacre, the hanging of Le Riche, and now the King’s men were coming to Mistleham. You plotted furiously. First you, Master Benedict, visited Father Thomas, calling yourself Nightshade. You issued a veiled warning, an ultimatum to Lord Scrope. Of course he recognised the truth behind your message: his evil day had caught up with him. You knew he would not repent. Already you were devising his death. A constant visitor to the manor, residing there with Dame Marguerite, you could hide away bows andarrows. One night you went hunting Scrope’s mastiffs; they also had been involved in the attack on Mordern. More importantly, they were guard dogs. Did you first mix an opiate with their meat?’

Master Benedict just smiled.

‘Then you grasped the bow and arrows Dame Marguerite had smuggled in for you and slipped out into the darkness like the hunter you are. Two arrows for each hound, one to wound and slow your quarry, the second delivering the killing blow.’

‘And then we arrived,’ Ranulf interrupted, ‘but our presence did not deter you.’

‘In a way, Master Benedict,’ Corbett declared, ‘you were pleased at our arrival. The corpses of your comrades were rotting; we ended all that. Nevertheless, you used the occasion to remind Scrope’s men that the Sagittarius was not far. However, the burning of your dead truly disturbed you. You became ill with fury; I witnessed that. You carried out immediate retribution. You discovered that Scrope’s henchman Robert de Scott was wallowing in the Honeycomb. Once again you disappeared into that warren of garrets and chambers above Mistleham marketplace to unleash death before turning on Scrope himself.’

Master Benedict bowed his head and smiled softly. Corbett suspected he was simply hiding his confusion.

‘Dame Marguerite then came into her own. By now she truly hated her brother, as she did his shadow Claypole. She was determined to harm the mayor. She’d always hated his pretensions; I suspect even before your revelations to her. Whilst her brother was away in Acre, Dame Marguerite was the one who removed the blood registers from St Alphege’s – so that if her brother died childless, Master Claypole could make no claim. True?’

‘It’s possible.’ The chaplain kept his head down. ‘Dame Marguerite truly hated Claypole, and if she’d lived, she would have dealt with him.’

‘But first her brother,’ Corbett declared. ‘On the day we burnt the dead at Mordern, you returned to the manor to take Gaston’s ring, which, God forgive his hypocrisy, Scrope had placed on the head of the crucified Saviour. You did this before slipping out into Mistleham to wreak bloody havoc in the marketplace. You strode into that chapel only to be surprised by Lady Hawisa. She came in after you full of rage at her husband and, in the silence of that place, confessed how she had often plotted to kill him with nightshade. She left and so did you, taking the ring to Dame Marguerite as well as the information Lady Hawisa had unwittingly provided.’

Corbett paused and listened to the faint sounds from outside. He thought of the list of murderous deeds this man was responsible for and wondered how Master Benedict could be brought to full justice. First, though, the indictment had to be presented.

‘Lord Scrope was now truly frightened,’ Corbett continued. ‘Dame Marguerite was still acting the role of the loving, loyal sister. Secretly, and I admit this is conjecture, she went to see him. She would act all concerned and anxious, bemoaning how no one could be trusted, how the very walls had ears.’ Corbett shrugged. ‘It would not be too difficult with Scrope haunted and hunted by the past as well as the present. Dame Marguerite would argue that no one could be trusted, not even his wife, who, she told him, also desired to end his life. She offered to bring proof, revelations about the mysterious threats, either herself or through her faithful chaplain. One of you would cross the secret ford and visit him that night in the reclusorium; thatwas the best place for such a confession to be made, where no one could see or hear.’

‘And Lord Scrope would agree to that?’

‘Why not? What did he fear from his faithful sister or her creature, the whey-faced chaplain? God knows what Dame Marguerite offered, what she said, but Scrope certainly accepted.’

‘But that ford at night?’

‘Nonsense, Master Benedict, you know Mistleham Manor well. You’ve been there for over a year, Dame Marguerite had shown you the place. You may have even practised crossing it. I did once, quite safely. You could do it easily armed with a staff, a rope and a shuttered lantern horn.’

Master Benedict glanced up in surprise. Corbett noted the fear in his eyes, the realisation of how hard the case pressed against him.

‘What had you to fear, cold water? The guards were sheltering well away under some trees. Robert de Scott had been dispatched to hell, the guard dogs slain. Dame Marguerite was ready to swear that you were ill all night. No, no – you safely crossed to the rear of the reclusorium and, as agreed, tapped on a shutter. Lord Scrope, lying on his bed, gets up, pulls aside the drapes, opens the shutters and lets you in. What can he, a warrior, fear from a pious, unarmed chaplain carrying a small pannier bag? Scrope sits down in his chair and you, all nervous, stand over him. You fumble with the bag but swiftly grasp the dagger and plunge it into Scrope’s heart. In the blink of an eye Scrope was killed because he had been faced with the totally unexpected and had no time to resist, to struggle. You plunged that dagger deep. Scrope tried to grasp the hilt and bloodied his hands. You just stood and watched the life light fade in your enemy’s eyes. You then took the keys fromround his neck and ransacked his treasury. You later returned the keys, pulled out your dagger and thrust in the one taken from the crypt at Westminster.’

‘And the poison?’

‘Oh, you may have disturbed the herb plant at the manor, or the nightshade may have been given to you by Dame Marguerite from her stock of powders in the convent infirmary. Anyway, you poured the phial of poison into the jug, then filled that yew cup. A mysterious, mischievous twist that would suggest Lady Hawisa’s guilt. You later departed as you came, through the window, pulling over the drapes, closing the shutter and going back across the ford.’

‘I could have been noticed.’

‘I doubt it. A dark shadow on a black, freezing night? You were no longer the timid chaplain, but a soldier skilled and ruthless.’

‘But those shutters remained unbarred.’

‘Dame Marguerite took care of that. She’d arranged to see her brother the following morning in the reclusorium with Father Thomas, a gesture that would reassure her brother about his midnight visitor. She’d promised to go over to discuss certain concerns, but also to secretly consult with him on what to do next. Scrope would see that as logical reassurance that you were what you pretended to be, his loyal, loving sister’s emissary. Father Thomas was a cat’s paw: the abbess and the parish priest paying a visit to their manor lord. Of course this is mere conjecture, because Dame Marguerite’s real intention was to conceal the mystery of her brother’s brutal murder. On that morning she crossed by boat. The door was locked, so she directed Pennywort to break the nearest shutter, which he did. He climbs in and seesthe horror. He hastily unlocks the door and Dame Marguerite sweeps in. Father Thomas immediately acts the priest, tending to the corpse. Dame Marguerite, pretending to be all flustered, hastens around the reclusorium. She quickly pulls aside the drapes of that window, lowers the bar, and lifts the pegs against the shutters. Remember, the reclusorium was cloaked in darkness; most of the candles had guttered out. Father Thomas is busy. Pennywort is standing outside by the door. Dame Marguerite can do what she likes and the mystery is complete. The alarm is then noisily raised. People hasten across, trampling any sign, if any remained, of Scrope’s secret assassin.’

‘And your vengeance has been carried out,’ Ranulf declared.

Master Benedict threw the Clerk of the Green Wax a venomous glance. Proof, Corbett quietly concluded, that if Ranulf was not here, this murderous soul would try and seize any opportunity.

‘You are not yet finished,’ Corbett remarked. ‘Dame Marguerite was infatuated with you – yes? Did she have plans, nurse plots? Oh no, not to elope, but to settle down at St Frideswide with her lover chaplain who’d secure preferment in the royal service. Some madcap scheme that certainly did not match your plans? She might prove to be a burden in the future. Why did you need to stay? Yet you couldn’t flee and leave her to bear witness. You continued to be faux et semblant – false and dissembling. You encouraged her to act all frightened, as if she too was being threatened by the Sagittarius. That was all your work, the arrow, the message. Again you were trying to divert attention.’

‘And in St Alphege’s?’ Master Benedict broke in, all impetuous, like a master wondering if his scholar had really learnt his lesson.

Corbett bit back his anger. ‘If Dame Marguerite was trulyfrightened,’ he murmured, ‘she would never have left St Frideswide. Yet you could not kill her there; that would be highly suspicious.’

‘So?’

‘Master Claypole,’ Corbett replied. ‘Dame Marguerite was venomously hot against him. You persuaded the lady abbess to send that letter to Physician Ormesby. Why? I truly don’t know, except to use him against Claypole.’

‘But why meet in St Alphege’s.’ The question was more of a taunt.

‘Oh.’ Corbett smiled. ‘I suspect you and Dame Marguerite were going to entrap Claypole. Your assertion that the parish church held the solution to all the mysteries was a lie. The Sagittarius would launch an attack against both her and you, only to fail. Physician Ormesby would arrive shortly afterwards to find the abbess and her chaplain all distraught and ready to swear that the secret bowman was no less a person than Master Claypole.’

‘And Dame Marguerite was confident about this?’

‘Of course! Dame Marguerite wasn’t frightened of any Sagittarius; she knew who he really was. In fact she should have been most wary. You accompanied her. You took a short horn bow, along with two arrows pushed through your belt, all hidden beneath your cloak. Dame Marguerite never suspected what you really intended. She thought you adored her. Both of you arrived early in the church – the Jesus Mass was finished, Father Thomas had withdrawn, those parishioners who’d attended had left. If there had been any obstacle, you’d have simply changed your plans accordingly. Dame Marguerite would have to leave the church.Perhaps you could encourage her to move amongst the stalls, or, of course, there was always the journey back to St Frideswide. However, the church was empty, the main door locked. You acted very swiftly. You melt into the shadows, notch one arrow, emerge and loose. In a few heartbeats Dame Marguerite is dead. Another shaft is loosed at the rood screen. You unstring the bow and hide the stave in that dark, cavernous church; only then do you blow the horn and hide behind the rood screen as if terrified out of your wits.’

‘So swift?’ Le Sanglier jibed.

‘Ranulf,’ Corbett spoke over his shoulder, ‘when I start counting, pick up your bow and two arrows from the quiver, and loose as quickly as you can down the church.’ He watched Ranulf stand, bow at the ready. ‘One, two, three, four …’ He had only reached five when the second arrow whistled through the air. ‘You see,’ Corbett rose to his feet, ‘no more than a few heartbeats. Once again the Sagittarius had attacked Lord Scrope’s family. After that you were eager to be gone. I was very wary of that. I had no reason in law to detain you, hence the mummery last night.’ He stared at the prisoner. ‘I had to trap you.’

‘So you have.’ Master Benedict lifted his bound hands. ‘Now take me to London and put me before King’s Bench. I will plead benefit of clergy and demand to be returned to my ordinary, the bishop who ordained me. He will try me, and then what, Master Corbett? A few months in some lonely monastery fasting on bread and water?’

‘Perhaps not.’ Ranulf drew his sword and, ignoring Corbett’s hiss of disapproval, squatted down in front of the prisoner. ‘Scrope I understand, but those innocents, the others, why them?’

‘Why not?’ Master Benedict taunted. ‘Their kin attacked mine.’

‘I tell you this.’ Ranulf moved his sword so its tip rested on the ground, his fingers curled around the crosspiece, ‘I swear-’

‘Ranulf!’ Corbett intervened.

‘I swear,’ Ranulf shouted, ‘if you confirm the truth, we shall offer you a way out. I swear!’ He turned, eyes pleading, to Corbett. ‘I rarely ask, let alone beg.’

‘It must be just and fair,’ the chaplain murmured. ‘By the way, how did you know it was a short horn bow?’

He gestured with his hand at the longbow lying on the ground.

‘Father Thomas, at my request, searched his church,’ Ranulf whispered. ‘He found the bow hidden deep behind the lady altar.’

Master Benedict simply pulled a face.

‘I have your word,’ he glanced at Corbett, ‘as a guarantee. Untie my bonds.’

Before Corbett could object, Ranulf drew his dagger and slit the rope binding the chaplain’s wrists. The prisoner did not move; he simply curled the severed rope off, threw it away, rubbed his wrists and squinted up at Corbett.

‘It is as you say, or nearly so, a few small changes here or there. Jackanapes was not as stupid as he pretended. He was greatly mischievous. I patronised him and he was easy to use. I told him to blow the horn then leave it hidden in a secret place and be in the market square at dawn the next morning. I had approached him secretly but he may have known it was me. He could chatter like a squirrel on a branch; he had to die. As for the rest,’ Le Sanglier shrugged, ‘more or less true. I knew about the ford. I practised crossing many times. Those willows at the rear of thereclusorium cannot be seen. Lord Scrope, of course, was lax; he rightly thought if he was attacked it would be at night. He never realised people would plan during the day. As for Dame Marguerite, I was tiring of her.’ He smiled. ‘What really enticed her into St Alphege’s was my plot to loose my arrows. Of course they were supposed to miss, then we’d blame Claypole. Physician Ormesby was to arrive after the attack, be a witness to our terror. I would swear that the mysterious bowman I’d glimpsed was Master Claypole. Our good mayor is constantly in the guildhall or the marketplace outside St Alphege’s. It wouldn’t be hard and,’ he spread his hands, ‘who’d dare contradict a lady abbess and her chaplain?’

‘So her death was swift?’ Corbett walked back to stand over him.

‘Like that!’ Master Benedict snapped his fingers.

Corbett crouched down. ‘But what was the bond between you and Gaston?’

‘Ah, you were correct.’ The chaplain pointed to the wineskin. Corbett handed it over, and the prisoner drank greedily. ‘I’ll be brief.’ He smiled, smacking his lips. ‘I accept your word, what else can I do? I could demand to be put on trial and plead benefit of clergy,’ he pointed at Ranulf, ‘but I don’t think he’ll allow me to live.’

‘Very perceptive!’ Ranulf whispered.

‘Gaston?’ Corbett intervened.

‘You’re right,’ the chaplain replied. ‘Scrope escaped from Acre. When he entered the infirmary, only the sick and the dying were there. A table inside was littered with all kinds of medicines and herbs, including potions and poisons. Some of the Templarspreferred to be drugged against their impending death. Scrope took a cup of wine and mixed the poison; Gaston did not know it. Scrope encouraged him to drink, saying that the wine would dull the pain and that God be his witness, he’d come back for him. Gaston was certain that only Scrope had come into the infirmary. Afterwards Scrope fled; of course he never returned. However, he was hardly out of the infirmary when Gaston was violently sick, spewing up both wine and poison. He then fell into a dead swoon. When he awoke, Acre had fallen. The Saracens showed chivalry to those wounded who looked as if they might survive. The others had been taken out and executed with the rest in the dragon courtyard. I saw that.’

‘You?’

‘Myself and all the other children. Everyone who could had retreated to the Templar stronghold: soldiers, merchants, traders, men, women and children. When the donjon was stormed, all adults, male and female, were summarily executed. The children, myself included, were made to watch one prisoner after another being forced to their knees, heads sliced off, until we stood ankle deep in blood, weeping and wailing. We were only saved because our looks would fetch a high price in the slave markets.’

‘But Gaston did not die?’

‘No, he didn’t. The Saracen officer who found him was honourable. He was also intrigued. He found the wine goblet, smelt the poison and questioned Gaston. He was very surprised at how one Christian could try and murder a fellow Christian who’d fought alongside him. You know soldiers the world over, they all like a good story. Gaston was seen by Arab physicians, hiswounds soon healed and he joined us children shackled in the dragon courtyard. The officer did what he could to ensure Gaston was given good food, and I suppose that’s when we met our hero.’ The chaplain paused. ‘I cannot describe the true horror of that courtyard. Gaston became our protector, our friend. He did what he could for us, shared his food, tended the dying, consoled and comforted everyone else.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Weeks turned into months. Gaston regained his strength. He was powerful; even then I noticed he had the long arms of a born swordsman. He exercised when he could, then seized his opportunity. One afternoon the officer in charge visited him bringing some food; three Mamelukes also appeared. I know they shouldn’t drink, that is their religion, but these three had certainly drunk deep of wine. They began abusing some of the young girls. Gaston sprang to his feet. He called them cowards, cursing and taunting them, saying that they would not dare to confront a warrior such as himself. The Mamelukes rose to the bait. Gaston offered to meet all three together in combat, declaring that all he needed was a sword and a dagger. He said that if he killed them it would be a sign from Allah that he and the children should be allowed to go free.’ The chaplain took another drink from the wineskin. ‘By now the challenge was known all over the donjon. The courtyard became flooded with men. The officer was reluctant but I think he knew what was going to happen. He wanted to allow Gaston the opportunity, so he agreed. Gaston’s chains were taken off. He was given both sword and dagger.’ Master Benedict shook his head. ‘I tell you, as God lives, Gaston was a warrior, a skilled swordsman. He killed those Mamelukes swiftly, like a cat with vermin. Fast as a dancer! God was certainly with him that day.’ He stretched his hands outtowards the fire. ‘The entire garrison applauded him. The officer kept his word. The following morning we were taken down to the port, Gaston, myself and the other children.’

‘How many?’ Corbett asked.

‘About twenty in all. We were shipped to Cyprus and from Limasol taken to Marseilles. Gaston then took us north to Angers, where he was known to the local bishop. He had the highest opinion of Gaston and allowed him to settle in a derelict chateau, a beautiful place on the edge of a forest near rich fields and wellstocked streams.’

‘You settled there?’

‘Oh yes. Gaston called us his Company of the Holy Spirit. I think it was more of a jest than anything else. He was the finest, the best man I have ever met. He became our God, our Saviour, our mother and father, elder brother and elder sister, priest and confessor. He treated us with gentleness, loved and guided us. He believed he’d been saved just to do that.’

‘And yet you were skilled in arms?’

‘Some of us were. I was the eldest. Gaston explained how in this vale of tears we had to defend ourselves; he taught me how to use the sword, the dagger, and above all the longbow, which he’d grown skilled in when in England. He described the bow’s history, its use by the Welsh, though he never talked about his own past.’

‘And you really are a priest?’ Corbett asked.

‘Of course! Gaston said I was highly intelligent so I should be educated. I was patronised by the local bishop, sent to a nearby cathedral school then on to Bordeaux and Paris. Gaston had some wealth; the rest he earned or was given. Local nobles, abbeys andmonasteries heard about what he’d achieved and were lavish in their generosity.’

‘But he never mentioned England?’

‘Never. That door remained closed and sealed.’

‘And the rest of your group?’

‘Some died, but the others grew strong under Gaston’s influence. He did not abandon his faith, only its rules and strictures. The Free Brethren were really his creation. They were tolerated, even favoured by the local clergy, given letters of protection from the papal curia at Avignon. They were harmless, one of many such groups wandering the roads of France.’

‘But you?’

‘Gaston was proud of me, though I often felt I was a stranger to the vocation I was following. Living proof, perhaps,’ he grinned, ‘that cacullus non facit monachum – the cowl doesn’t necessarily make the monk.’

‘Then Gaston told you the full truth?’

‘Yes, he fell ill two summers ago, a malignancy inside him. He called us back to what he called his sanctuary and said he must explain why he’d been in Acre and what had happened. He told us everything.’ The chaplain wiped his mouth on the cuff of his jerkin. ‘He did not ask for vengeance; that was my idea. Gaston died. I made enquiries. My fury deepened when I discovered how Lord Scrope had grown fat like a hog in its sty, and so our plan was formed. We would punish Lord Scrope and escape by sea. The rest,’ he shrugged, ‘is in the main, as you say.’

‘Did you intend to kill Lord Scrope?’

‘No, not at first. That was the paradox: because of him, Gaston had remained in Acre and saved us. We hotly debated thequestion. It was the attempt to murder Gaston that was the real sin. We hoped to make Scrope confess, publicly humiliate him, make him acknowledge the evil he’d done, but as you say, we underestimated him. I never,’ he whispered, ‘thought he would do it, even after we defied him; that too was a hot-headed mistake. You were correct. I became genuinely ill with guilt and anger.’ He smiled at Corbett. ‘I thank you for giving their corpses some honour. I came out here secretly to collect any bones. I took them to sacred ground at St Frideswide for burial.’ He sighed deeply. ‘But yes, once the Free Brethren were massacred, I had no choice but to deal out terror.’

‘Even to innocents like the ostler’s daughter and the marketplace fool?’ Ranulf asked.

‘Of course.’ Master Benedict climbed to his feet. ‘Now, I’ve kept my word; you keep yours. Master Ranulf, you want my death.’

‘No, I don’t,’ Ranulf replied. ‘God does! I will give you a chance, better than you gave your victims. I’ve heard your story, Master Chaplain, but I still believe you enjoyed the killing. I truly believe that.’

Corbett stepped back, wondering what Ranulf intended.

‘As I’ve said,’ the chaplain gestured at Ranulf, ‘you want my life.’ He spread his hands. ‘What use pleading benefit of clergy, exile in a monastery? I know your type, Ranulf-atte-Newgate, you’ll be waiting for me, if you ever let me live that long.’

‘You talked about the hideous things you witnessed,’ Ranulf replied softly. ‘So have I, Master Benedict. I’ve seen men and women stabbed in taverns, my friends hanged for stealing a loaf when they were hungry, and as I listened to you, I thought of agame we used to play. It was called “Hawks Swoop”. We’d put a club and a hammer on the ground between us. The first to grasp a weapon could smack the other. We’ll play “Hawks Swoop” now. Chanson,’ Ranulf called across, ‘bring the arbalest.’

The groom of the stables did so. Ranulf laid the crossbow between his feet, a wicked-looking barb beside it. He then picked up the longbow and one of the arrows from the quiver. He let the chaplain inspect these, then placed them at his opponent’s feet. Corbett stared in horror at what Ranulf intended.

‘No one will interfere,’ Ranulf warned. ‘Priest, you are a master bowman, swift and deadly. If you strike me before I strike you, then you are free to go. Sir Hugh?’

‘Ranulf, this is-’

‘Sir Hugh?’

Corbett caught the look in Ranulf’s eyes and nodded, though his fingers crept to the hilt of his own dagger. Master Benedict was most skilled. He could notch an arrow faster than Ranulf would ever prime that arbalest.

Master Benedict studied Ranulf carefully and nodded. He stood, body slack, arms down, twisting his wrists to ease any cramp.

‘When I have recited the Gloria.’ Ranulf smiled. ‘Fitting for a murderous priest about to meet his God.’

‘Say it and have done with it.’

‘Gloria Patri,’ Ranulf intoned harshly, ‘et Filii et Spiritus Sancti …’

The chaplain swiftly reached down, seizing both bow and arrow, bringing them up and stepping back. Ranulf, however, ignored the arbalest; instead he pulled the dagger from his belt and sent it hurtling at the chaplain, striking him full and deep in the chest. Master Benedict staggered back, bow and arrow falling from hishands. Ranulf drew his sword, snaking it out to catch his opponent in the belly, then, stepping closer, thrust it deeper. Master Benedict flailed his hands, head falling back, choking on his own blood.

‘I said,’ Ranulf pressed firmly on his sword, ‘I’d strike you before you struck me, and so I have!’ He pulled out the sword.

Master Benedict’s eyes fluttered; he gave a deep sigh, and collapsed to his knees then on to his side.

‘Trickery,’ Corbett murmured.

‘Justice!’ Ranulf snarled. He squatted before the dead man and plucked out the dagger. ‘He was an assassin, a murderer, Sir Hugh. Did you want him to dance away from the hideous crimes he’d committed? Did you want such a man to slink through the shadows of your nightmares? Perhaps return one day to Leighton Manor, stealing in one night to seek vengeance on you and yours? A wounded animal is a dangerous animal. Master Benedict Le Sanglier deserved his fate. I did what was legal and right.’

‘Right maybe,’ Corbett queried, ‘but legal?’

Ranulf stood up, dug beneath his jerkin and drew out a small parchment scroll. He handed this to Corbett.

‘Legal,’ he declared, ‘just, and right!’

As Corbett undid the scroll, his eyes caught the words ‘what the bearer of this letter has done he has done for the good of the King and the safety of the realm’.

‘Why, Ranulf,’ Corbett glanced up, ‘you are growing most astute.’

‘For the children of this world,’ his companion quoted back,‘are more astute in their dealings with their own kind than the children of the light.’

‘Do you consider yourself to be a child of the light, Ranulf?’

‘No, Sir Hugh.’ Ranulf touched his master gently on the side of his face. ‘I simply work for them.’