Nightshade

4

Brother Gratian picked up two pieces of parchment and handed them to Corbett. The first was a skilfully and very neatly drawn map of Mistleham Manor, particularly its walls, gardens and grounds, the Island of Swans and the reclusorium. The parchment was of good quality, the ink a deep black. The second was a coarser parchment but easy to read, short and terse, an indenture in which Robert Picard, master of the cog Mortmain, promised to take, sometime before the eve of the Nativity, the Free Brethren of the Holy Spirit to a port of their choosing in Hainault, Zealand or Flanders, the choice being made once they boarded his ship. The price fixed was half a mark per person, the date on the indenture December 1303. Corbett smiled to himself. Picard was a well-known rogue, notorious for smuggling, closely watched by the sheriffs of East Anglia: a character the clerks of the Exchequer would love to interrogate. He was, however, as wily as a snake. He must have heard about the massacre and would disappear for months.

‘See, Corbett?’ Lord Scrope could hardly contain his glee. ‘I was justified in my attack. This coven was causing mayhem on mylands, concealing weapons, pretending to be what they were not. They had a map of my manor and an indenture to take sudden flight. Tell that to his grace the King.’

Corbett ignored the implied insult.

‘Did you discover anything else?’

‘No.’

‘Why did you leave the corpses? Why not bury them?’

‘A warning to everyone else, especially the people of Mistleham.’ Scrope leaned forward. ‘Don’t forget, Sir Hugh, as Master Claypole remarked, the Free Brethren did have their admirers and supporters amongst the townspeople. I wanted this matter to be brought to an abrupt end.’

‘Are you sure they all died; no one fled?’

‘No one,’ Scrope declared. ‘I took the two mastiffs, Romulus and Remus. They searched but they could detect no trail, no sign of any fugitive. Moreover, I inspected all the corpses, as did Brother Gratian and Father Thomas; they knew their faces, they could account for each and every one of the Free Brethren.’

‘Too true,’ the parish priest murmured sadly, ‘all dead. May God rest them. My lord,’ he turned to Corbett, ‘vengeance has been carried out; they must be given honourable requiem, the corpses disposed of somehow. Yet now,’ he added wistfully, ‘the ground has grown very hard.’

‘I will come to that,’ Corbett intervened. ‘So,’ he turned back to Scrope, ‘the Free Brethren are all dead?’

‘Yes.’

‘When you searched the church, you discovered the weapons and those two documents?’

‘Yes.’

‘Anything else?’

‘No.’

‘And yet,’ Corbett continued remorselessly, ‘it’s not finished. This Bowman, this Sagittarius, has emerged to exact vengeance. He has already killed five-’

‘Seven!’ Scrope retorted. ‘Most of the killings take place on lonely paths, someone coming out of a door, but the last two, Eadburga and Wilfred, were slain in God’s own daylight in our marketplace.’

‘So this Sagittarius must be a master bowman,’ Corbett declared, ‘someone very skilled, moving fast.’

‘I would say so.’

‘And the victims are chosen at random?’

‘So it seems,’ Lady Hawisa interjected, ‘but all were young people, Sir Hugh, full of life and love.’ She smiled at Ranulf.

‘Revenge, then,’ Corbett declared, ‘for the killings at Mordern? So there must have been a fifteenth member?’

‘We know of no such person.’ Scrope scratched his head. ‘I have questioned Brother Gratian and Father Thomas on this. Master Claypole also has done his searches. There was no fifteenth member.’

‘Or someone deeply devoted to the Free Brethren?’

‘But who?’ Lady Hawisa asked. ‘Sir Hugh, you’ve heard my husband. The Free Brethren had friends amongst the young of the town, but a skilled bowman, someone prepared to kill and kill again?’

‘True,’ Dame Marguerite intervened. ‘Wilfred and Eadburga were killed just outside St Alphege’s, where I was sheltering. Master Benedict was guarding the side door. I’d come to meetLady Hawisa; we were talking. Sir Hugh, it was so sudden, that horrid horn sounding.’

‘Horn?’ Ranulf asked.

‘Always, before the Sagittarius strikes,’ Scrope murmured. ‘Three blasts of a hunting horn.’

‘Then death comes showering down,’ Benedict whispered.

‘And now he has struck at you.’ Corbett gestured at Lord Scrope. ‘Your two mastiffs were killed last night. How could that be done?’

Scrope just shrugged. Corbett decided not to pursue the matter any further. He would have to reflect. Both he and Scrope knew that in Wales, enemy bowmen had crept into the King’s camp and loosed their deadly shafts at anyone they chose. He could imagine that something similar had happened last night at the manor. The Sagittarius scaling the curtain wall, probably dressed in a white cloak, moving swiftly. The dogs, dozing by the fire, would be aroused, dark shapes against the snow and glowing flames, an easy enough target for a skilled archer.

‘So, to answer my earlier question.’ Ranulf half smiled. ‘The mastiffs were slain because they were at Mordern?’

‘Or as a warning,’ Brother Gratian declared.

‘But there is more, isn’t there, my lord?’ Father Thomas leaned forward, hands fluttering.

‘Two nights ago,’ Lord Scrope had lost some of his arrogance, ‘the same day Wilfred and Eadburga’s corpses were laid out in the church, Father Thomas received a visitor. He didn’t call himself the Sagittarius but Nightshade. God knows why he took such a repellent title; however, he threatened that unless I make full confession of all my sins at the market cross, more vengeance would follow.’

‘What sins, Lord Scrope?’ Ranulf asked sardonically.

The manor lord didn’t even glance at him, let alone reply.

‘My lord,’ Corbett was eager to break the tension, wary of Scrope’s violent temper, ‘the Free Brethren came here to the manor?’

Scrope nodded.

‘And Father Thomas, they visited your church?’

‘Of course,’ the priest murmured.

‘And they must have gone to St Frideswide to beg, to seek help?’

‘Yes, they did.’ Dame Marguerite smiled. ‘Sir Hugh, I found them harmless enough. The young men, well, they were lean, fit as greyhounds. They certainly caused a flutter amongst the novices, yet in my dealings with them I found them fairly innocent, a little stupid, naive, living as if they were flowers under the summer sun. But we were all young once, we all had our dreams. I felt for them. They teased me about my vows of chastity and the rule of St Benedict. Still,’ she smiled, ‘I found them honest. I gave them work on our land, gardening, clearing away rubbish, pruning a herb, cutting a hedge, clearing outhouses and latrines. They always worked hard, I always paid them.’

‘And you, Master Benedict?’

The chaplain blushed and shuffled his feet. ‘I was taken by some of the young ladies. They were fair and gracious. They would tease me about my celibacy and asked why I didn’t imitate the poverty of Christ. I admit, Sir Hugh, I could find no answer to that. They were not of my calling but they meant well. I am sorry they are dead.’

‘You are sure of that?’ Corbett asked. ‘That they were all killed?’

‘Yes,’ Dame Marguerite intervened. ‘When I heard about the attack, I couldn’t believe all had been slain. I asked Brother Benedict here to go to Mordern. He knew all of the members by face if not by name. He came back to report that all were dead. I disagree with my brother: perhaps they did deserve execution, perhaps they were a threat to the King’s peace, but now they are dead, they must be buried.’

‘And so they will be.’ Corbett straightened up. ‘I carry the King’s warrant in this matter. Tomorrow morning, Lord Scrope, I, and some of your retainers, will go out to Mordern. We will collect the corpses. If the ground is too hard, which I suspect it is, they will be burnt. Father Thomas, Master Benedict, you are most welcome to come. I would like the corpses blessed, given the rites, some prayers. God’s work and that of the King shall be done.’ Both priests agreed. Lord Scrope pulled a face and looked away. ‘One final matter.’ Corbett lifted his hand. ‘Lord Scrope, you returned from Acre about twelve years ago, yet the events we have just described occurred only in the last twelve months.’ He paused. ‘So, let me get the sequence of events clear in my own mind. The Free Brethren arrived last year at the beginning of Lent, early March 1303?’ Everyone nodded in agreement. ‘They moved into the forest of Mordern and settled in the deserted village there. At first they were accepted. You, my lord, disliked some of their teachings but they seemed innocent enough.’ Again a murmur of agreement. ‘They worked in the parish church,’ Corbett continued, ‘rendering a vivid painting. Then, during November last, Lord Scrope, your suspicions were aroused that the Free Brethren were not what they pretended to be: the sharpening of weapons, the practiceof archery in the forest, the journey to Orwell. You decided to strike, and by the end of Advent, the Free Brethren were all dead. In the New Year the Sagittarius appeared, inflicting vengeance wherever he could. Now all this occurred in the last year. So what has changed? You, Master Benedict, have been in England for how long?’

The chaplain blew his cheeks out. ‘Oh, about fifteen months. As I told you, Sir Hugh, I did good service in Bordeaux and I was given letters of accreditation to the Lady Abbess here.’

‘Yes, yes, and you, Brother Gratian?’

‘I have been Lord Scrope’s confessor for about a year. He wrote to our house at Blackfriars and asked them to choose a man. They selected me, and I was happy to come.’

Corbett was about to continue when the lowing of a hunting horn brayed through the night. Not even the thickness of the manor walls or the shutters across the windows could dull the threatening sound. Corbett thought he had been mistaken, but then the note came again, braying long and mournful.

‘Where is he?’ Lord Scrope whispered. ‘He must be here.’

It was as if some evil wraith had swirled into the solar. A deathly silence, followed by clamour as people sprang to their feet. Corbett was more interested in the horn-blowing and wondered how close the Sagittarius was to the manor. Scrope, however, was hurrying towards the solar door, the sound of servants running echoing along the gallery outside. Everyone followed the manor lord out, but Corbett gestured at Ranulf to stay.

‘Are we under attack?’ Ranulf whispered. He had changed for the banquet, dressed similarly to Corbett, though he’d also brought his war belt. He went to pick this up from the floor but caughtCorbett’s quick shake of the head and stopped even as the third horn blast echoed from the darkness outside.

‘What do you think, master?’

‘Murder!’ Corbett whispered. ‘The demon that slumbers like bread in an oven. A person can appear witless as a pigeon yet be as swift as the wynkin. Appearances do not matter here. Murder nestles like a fledging bird in its nest, growing in strength then, one day, taking sudden flight. This is what is happening, Ranulf. Ancient sins bursting to ripeness, spitting out their poison.’ He paused as Dame Marguerite, followed by her chaplain, slipped back into the solar, closing the door behind them. Corbett could hear Lady Hawisa calling for more lights and lanterns as her husband organised others into searching the demesne. ‘Madam.’ Corbett made to rise, but Dame Marguerite gestured otherwise as she sat in Scrope’s chair, indicating that Master Benedict sit next to her.

‘Sir Hugh, I do not know what is happening,’ she declared breathlessly, ‘but I am sure there is no real danger to us now. I must tell you this.’ She shook one hand free from her voluminous sleeve and leaned closer. Corbett caught the fragrance of her light perfume. ‘My brother is truly a man of blood,’ she whispered hoarsely. ‘The Free Brethren may have been heretics, thieves, lechers, whatever he may accuse them of, but to cut them down so ruthlessly, to assume the role of God’s avenging angel …’ She shook her head. ‘I will be swift as a hawk in its swoop, Sir Hugh: one man did survive the massacre at Mordern. In truth, an idiot, a jack of the woods, a madcap; he saw what happened.’

‘Who?’ Ranulf interrupted.

‘Jackanapes, an orphan, weak in wits but blunt in tongue,’Dame Marguerite whispered, glancing fearfully at the door. ‘He dresses like a buffoon and lives off the charity of the manor and the likes of St Frideswide. You must meet him.’

Corbett recalled the jerking, ragged-haired beggar man who had greeted them as they passed through Mistleham.

‘He saw what happened?’

‘Yes. He’d gone there early in the morning before the attack was launched to beg for food.’

‘How did he escape?’ Ranulf asked. ‘Hounds were used.’

Dame Marguerite turned to Master Benedict.

‘Jackanapes is fey and witless,’ the chaplain declared. ‘He comes down to St Frideswide to beg, that is how I found out what happened. He gabbles and babbles. Jackanapes does not like to sleep in any enclosed space but out beneath a bush or under a tree. He calls such places his windswept castles of the greenwood. He was there when the Free Brethren were massacred. He was nestling high in a tree.’

‘Which is why he escaped the dogs?’

‘I would say so,’ the chaplain replied. ‘He told me little except that the felon, John Le Riche, stayed in Mordern for a while, sheltered by the Free Brethren.’

‘Are you sure?’ Corbett asked.

‘As God created Sundays,’ the chaplain replied, ‘that is what Jackanapes told me. And something else: Le Riche was hanged on a Friday in November just after dawn and left dangling there; within the hour, so we understand, his corpse had vanished and has never been seen since.’

Corbett glanced at Dame Marguerite, who shrugged.

‘Did he truly die?’ Ranulf asked. ‘It has been known in Londonfor a condemned man to bribe the hangman.’ He gestured with his fingers. ‘A leather collar around the neck and throat, the knot placed differently, painful, but the condemned doesn’t choke. You were there, sir, when Le Riche was hanged?’

‘Of course.’ Master Benedict closed his eyes. ‘He was wearing a long tattered gown, but yes, a high collar. However, he was listless and quiet. He was hoisted up the ladder and quickly turned off. He jerked for a while and then hung soundly, just swinging. The light was grey, morning was breaking. It was bitingly cold. Demons of ice battered our fingers and noses. We all turned and went our ways. I remember the execution cart crashing and slithering on the ice behind us.’

‘Why are you telling us this?’ Corbett asked.

‘The truth,’ Marguerite declared, her face no longer smiling. ‘I simply cannot sit and listen to my brother spin his web of conceit and lies.’ She blinked, her lips a thin bloodless line, staring at the screen behind Corbett as if fascinated by the exploits of Arthur and Guinevere. ‘He grows more ruthless by the month.’

‘Is there anything else?’ Corbett asked.

She shook her head.

‘And these warnings?’ Corbett asked. ‘I did not raise the matter with Lord Scrope. Do you know of them? Warnings delivered to your brother?’

‘Warnings?’ Dame Marguerite’s face softened. ‘What warnings? ’ She paused as Lady Hawisa, accompanied by Father Thomas, opened the door and swept into the chamber. Ranulf, concerned at Hawisa’s agitation, went across and clasped her hand. Father Thomas sat down on a stool, face in his hands; he rubbed his cheeks and glanced up at Corbett.

‘Lord Scrope is organising a search of the demesne, but I doubt if he’ll find anything.’

Lady Hawisa retook her seat, glancing prettily at Ranulf.

‘Sir Hugh.’ She shifted towards Corbett, her smile fading.

Corbett walked across. ‘You know your husband has received warnings?’

‘I know,’ she murmured.

Corbett sat on the small footstool near her chair. ‘You’ve seen these?’

‘Once or twice,’ she replied, rubbing her brow. ‘My husband …’

Corbett glanced up. Lord Scrope, the door off its latch, had slipped quietly into the room, Brother Gratian like a shadow behind him.

‘Her husband,’ Lord Scrope slammed the door shut, ‘will answer any of your questions here in his own house. There is no need to ask others.’

‘And the hunting horn?’ Corbett ignored the manor lord’s hot temper.

‘Master Claypole will see to that.’ Scrope went across to the fire, turning his back to warm himself.

‘Master Claypole is so useful for so many things,’ Lady Hawisa murmured.

‘What do you mean by that?’ her husband declared. ‘I have known him years.’

‘Yes, you have,’ his wife replied sweetly. ‘He was with you at Acre, was he not? A squire?’

Corbett caught the drift of her question.

‘What are you implying?’ Her husband walked across.

Corbett rose to his feet.

‘Nothing!’ she said wearily. ‘Husband, you hold the Sanguis Christi, you are being threatened about that. You receive warnings about confessing your sins at the market cross.’

‘Tell me,’ Corbett intervened, ‘who actually went to Acre?’

‘Myself, cousin Gaston and other men from Mistleham. We’d heard how the Saracens intended to drive the Templars and all Christian forces from Outremer. We were full of idealism. Gaston and I were young knights. We wished to seek adventure rather than chase the Welsh up their valleys or hunt for Scottish rebels amongst the drenching heather. A party of us took the cross in St Alphege’s church and journeyed east to join the garrison at Acre. Soon afterwards the city was invested by the Saracens. You know the story. Acre fell, we escaped, others didn’t. We lost good men, Corbett, and a great deal of silver and wealth. When Acre was about to fall I hastened to the Templar treasury. I took what I could. I rescued it from the hands of the infidels and brought it back to England. God was rewarding me and others for our good work.’

‘And yet you now have warnings; the Templars and others threaten you.’

‘They have …’

‘May I see these warnings?’

Scrope pulled a face, then clicked his fingers. Brother Gratian hurried off. Corbett stood staring at the floor. The rest of the company had fallen silent, each busy with their own thoughts. He glanced quickly at Ranulf. The Principal Clerk in the Chancery of the Green Wax was thoroughly enjoying himself, but that was Ranulf. He liked to see Corbett enter a room like a cat stealing into a parliament of mice. Corbett winked at him and went backto his thoughts, listening to the burning twigs snapping in the hearth. Old sins, he thought, dried and hard, now brought to burning: that was what was happening here.

‘Sir Hugh, Sir Hugh.’

Corbett broke from his reverie. Brother Gratian had returned with a small chancery pouch. Corbett took it and shook out the contents. The scrolls were small and thin, the warnings very similar. The vellum was of high quality, the script neat, fully formed and easy to read. One set in red ink, the other in black, but apart from this, there was no indication of their source. Corbett studied the carefully formed writing sifting the contents into two, though the message was always the same. The first, ‘The Mills of the Temple of God grind exceedingly slow but they do grind exceedingly small’, and the second, ‘The Mills of the Temple may grind exceedingly slow and exceedingly small, but so do the Mills of God’s anger.’

‘And how were these delivered?’

‘Sir Hugh,’ Scrope replied, ‘traders and merchants are common visitors here. They bring supplies as well as letters or petitions from the markets, the town and the surrounding villages. A scroll pushed into the hand. They cannot remember who, how and when for every scrap of parchment they are given.’

Corbett handed them back.

‘My lord, whatever you say, these warnings are not linked to what is happening here at Mistleham but to events many years ago.’ Corbett paused. ‘Are you sure there is nothing you wish to tell me?’

‘Sir Hugh,’ Scrope replied, sitting down in his chair and rubbing his knees, ‘if I have to confess, then I would do so to Brother Gratian, but for the rest, this is nothing but villainy. Isent out search parties to look for the source of that horn but I am sure nothing will be found.’ He gestured at the parchments. ‘The same for those. You’ve seen the warnings, but there again, Corbett, like you I have lived with danger all my life. Whatever comes, I shall face.’ He glared at his wife. ‘And in future,’ he glanced back at Corbett, ‘if you have questions about my doings, then ask me.’ He rose to his feet, clapping his hands softly. ‘I am sorry the banquet ended like this, but I am only the victim, not the cause. Sir Hugh, you look as if you have something more to say.’

Corbett walked forward. He stood before the manor lord and stared down at him. ‘I do, Sir Oliver. Your mastiffs Romulus and Remus were slain?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then I give you a fresh warning,’ Corbett whispered, ‘and I do so most solemnly. If I were you, Lord Scrope, I would reflect very carefully on my circumstances and make sure I was well guarded both day and night. True, warnings have been delivered but they’ve yet to be fulfilled. However, time presses on, the hour grows late and we must all retire.’ Corbett turned away, determined that Lord Scrope would not have the last word. ‘Tomorrow morning, before the Jesus Mass, Master Ranulf and I will go out to Mordern, seek out the corpses of the Free Brethren and give them honourable burial. Father Thomas, Master Benedict, I would be grateful for your presence, and you, Brother Gratian. The Office of the Dead must be recited, the law of Holy Mother Church observed.’ He raised a hand. ‘I bid you good night …’

Master Henry Claypole stood in the embrasure of the great bow window of the guildhall in Mistleham overlooking the marketplace and stared down at the ice-covered cobbles. A fresh dusting of snow had fallen. Master Claypole likened that to God’s grace sprinkled out to cover the dirt and foulness of the deeds of men. The mayor of Mistleham had slept poorly. He’d organised the main search of the manor lands but found no indication of where the Sagittarius had been. Some of those who had accompanied them even claimed the horn had been blown from behind the walls. He’d returned to the manor to find Lord Oliver in a foul mood. Corbett was determined to go to Mordern, and Claypole and a company of town soldiers were to accompany him. Corbett was to be watched! The arrival of the King’s men had deeply disturbed Claypole. Corbett was dark and brooding like some falcon on a branch, coldly surveying both the present and the past, whilst the other one, Ranulf, with his bright red hair, neatly combed and pulled tight into a queue at the back of his neck, long white fingers constantly caressing the hilt of his dagger, green eyes darting, taking in everything, lips twisted in a half-cynical smile … Claypole had met such men before, who were fully aware of their power. Yet Ranulf was different. He was eager to exercise it whatever the consequences. He and Corbett were two justices come to probe hearts and minds. Claypole quietly cursed Lord Scrope. He was the root and cause of all this. He simply did not know when to call an end, to walk away, to say he had had enough and wanted no more.

Claypole stared at the mist trailing about. It was still dark; even the busiest of traders had yet to stir, so all was quiet. He glared down at the empty marketplace. He recalled massing thereso many years ago, ready to enter St Alphege’s to prostrate himself and take the cross. So long ago, so innocent, so free of sin, and now what? He always tried to forget Acre: the raging fires, the horrid roll of the enemy kettle-drums, their green banners flapping in the dry wind, the shrieking battle cries, the terrible news of how the walls had been breached and they must fall back. Scrope shouting at them where to go. Gaston lying wounded in the infirmary. Claypole’s dreams were disturbed by the chaos that had ensued. The final days as the sky above Acre became lighted by the fiery missiles of the Saracens, their white-robed dervishes, scimitars and daggers rising and falling like the blades of reapers. Scrope’s desperate gamble to flee the impending nightmare. Yet they had escaped! They’d returned to England to be hailed as Christ’s warriors, Crusaders, men of faith who’d shown themselves true to their vows. They’d also, Claypole reflected, returned very wealthy, the result of Lord Scrope’s plundering of the Templar treasury. For a while all had been quiet, peaceful, and very enjoyable. Master Claypole had settled down and married the daughter of a goldsmith, using his marriage to climb even further up the ladder of preferment. A happy marriage, he reflected, a simple-minded girl, merry in bed, who had produced a daughter, Beatrice, whom Claypole loved above all things. A happy, quiet time living on the fat of the land, until those Free Brethren had arrived.

At first Claypole had been dismissive, yet even he had been taken by them, especially young Eve with her oval face, beautiful eyes, and long blond hair falling down to her shoulders. He recalled the guilty pleasure during the festivities at the cherry fair. A balmy Sunday evening; Vespers had been sung. Claypolehad found himself alone with her, distant from the rest, deep in the cherry orchard. He’d drunk deeply of claret; he’d stroked and caressed her breasts, ripe and full, loosened from her bodice, whilst she had pressed her lips against his face and whispered all sorts of sweet things as they lay together like lovers. Afterwards Claypole had tried to pay her, but Eve had just laughed mockingly, saying his coins weren’t worth what she had given him. How sauce for the goose was good for the gosling. He didn’t know what she meant until he heard the whispers after the morning mass or at meetings here at the guildhall: how his Beatrice was much taken by young Seth. He’d watched his innocent daughter like a cat would a mousehole. He found to his horror how she would slip from the house early in the evening, saying she was going to meet this person or that, but he learnt the truth. Beatrice was meeting her lover in the orchard. Rumours milled about. Then Lord Scrope, that dark shadow across his life, had summoned him to the manor to show him the warnings, to whisper about the danger the Free Brethren posed …

Claypole, agitated, rubbed his mouth. He dared not cross Scrope – if the manor lord died without heir, Claypole intended to press his suit. Scrope had never told him the truth but kept it dangling like a lure on a string. Had Alice de Tuddenham been validly married to him? If so, Claypole was his legitimate heir. Yet how could he prove that? The blood registers covering the time of his birth had gone missing from the parish chest. Was that Scrope’s work? Or Father Thomas, who claimed he’d never seen them? Or Dame Marguerite, who’d always resented his claims? Why didn’t Scrope tell the truth, or was that how he wanted it? To lure hisso-called illegitimate son into nefarious schemes such as dealing with the likes of Le Riche? Despite the warmth, Claypole shivered. Now that was dangerous. Scrope’s greed might still trap them in a charge of treason.

‘Sir?’

Claypole, startled, looked over his shoulder. The captain of the town guard stood waiting, dressed in half-armour. He said the men were assembled in the courtyard below, horses harnessed and ready.

‘Sir, we should leave now!’

Claypole sighed, picked up his cloak and put it about his shoulders, snapping the clasp shut, easing the war belt around his waist. Only the dead waited for them at Mordern, yet he had to be careful! He glanced through the window. A horseman had ridden into the square and was now dismounting. Master Benedict had arrived. It was time to be gone. Claypole went down to the guildhall yard, nodded at the captain of the guard and stood on a stone plinth.

‘We are to go out to Mordern this morning. We have unfinished business,’ he declared. ‘You know the King’s men are here. The corpses of the felons we killed must be given honourable burial or burnt; either way they will disappear.’ His words were greeted with silence. He noted the sombre looks and whispers as he grasped the reins of his horse and mounted. This was a highly unpopular task. He’d warned Scrope about it from the start. They should have buried the corpses and forgotten about them. Now they had to return in cold blood to where hot blood had been spilt, lives extinguished like the wick of a lamp. He gathered the reins and dug in his spurs, urging the horse forward.The gates of the guildhall yard swung open. Claypole and the others cantered out, the clatter of their horse’s hooves reassuring him with a sense of power. They crossed the marketplace. Jackanapes, in his tawdry refinery, was, as usual, sitting near the horse trough close to the church. The beggar man jumped up as Claypole approached, running towards him, leaping about, hands extended.

‘Master Mayor, Master Mayor,’ he cried. ‘I have news!’

Claypole reined in and stared at this frantic figure, face all wan with cold, eyes dancing with madness, mouth gaping to show half-chewed food.

‘The Sagittarius has come again,’ Jackanapes shouted. ‘I know he is here. I wait for my reward.’ He’d hardly finished when the shrill blast of a hunting horn shattered the silence of the marketplace. Even those beggars sleeping in the dark nooks and crannies shook themselves awake and crawled deeper into the shadows. Again the blast of the horn. By now Claypole’s men were stirring, turning their horses, swords half drawn, seeking out the danger. A third blast. Claypole dismounted hurriedly, trying to keep the horse between himself and any possible assassin. He heard the twang like the strings of a harp being plucked, followed by the whistle of the darting shaft. A scream startled his horse. Claypole stared in horror at Jackanapes, who was now staggering back, an arrow shaft embedded deep in his chest. The madman tried to keep his balance, hands flapping, face jittering, mouth opening and shutting even as the blood spurted out. Another arrow sliced the air, followed by the gargle of a man choking on his own blood. The mayor moved his horse. Jackanapes had been the sole target. The poor fool had slumped to his knees, a shaftthrough the side of his throat completing the work of the other deep in his chest. Jackanapes stared dully at Claypole, lips parted, mouth dribbling blood, then he pitched forward on his face, twisting in his death throes on to his back.