Nightshade

7

Father Thomas hurried away even as people began to emerge from their hiding places. Doors were flung open, shutters removed. A boy came racing across the cobbles, ignoring the shrieks of his mother. Lord Scrope’s retinue broke up. The manor lord became busy talking to Master Claypole, who’d emerged from his house looking rather ridiculous, a dagger in one hand, a large pan in the other to serve as a shield. A bell sounded. The market returned to business, but Corbett sensed the mood had grown ugly. There were dark looks, mutterings and mumbles. The people of Mistleham now believed that the Sagittarius and his dreadful acts were connected to those hideous events out at Modern. Corbett told Chanson to guard the horses, plucked Ranulf by the sleeve and gestured towards the Portal of Heaven. ‘The Bowman must have stood directly opposite.’ He turned and pointed to the line of houses across the square, facing the tavern.

‘Search the alleyways, alcoves and runnels, Ranulf. Go literally from house to house and room to room, see what you can find.’

‘He must have carried his bow,’ Ranulf murmured.

‘Or had it hidden away, ready for use. There again,’ Corbett chewed the corner of his lip, ‘a bow can be unstrung, it can look like a stave, whilst the quiver of arrows remains hidden under a cloak. See what you can find.’

Ranulf nodded and walked across. Corbett went over to where Scrope and Catchpole were deep in conversation. He paused. He hadn’t noticed it before, but now the more he stared at these two men with their harsh, pugnacious faces, the more he could see the blood tie between them. What was more important was that both the manor lord and the mayor were in heated conversation. Corbett wondered what it was about, whilst he was eager to question both about that strange half-finished remark by Father Thomas about the Sagittarius returning as he had in the past.

‘Sir Hugh,’ Scrope turned, a bland smile on his ugly face, ‘this is damnable.’

‘So is the cause, Lord Oliver! The Sagittarius, who gave him that name?’

Scrope glanced at Claypole; the mayor just pursed his lips, shrugged and glanced away.

‘I asked a question.’ Corbett paused as a crowd of townsmen headed towards them, carrying clubs, faces full of resentment. Corbett drew his sword in a slashing curl of light. Scrope also drew his, whilst his men-at-arms began to drift back, uncertain about what was happening.

‘I am the King’s man.’ Corbett advanced to confront the angry mob. ‘You will see justice done. This is not your business! Go about your trade.’

‘This is Scrope’s doing!’ a voice shouted. ‘Those young ones out at Mordern, it should never have happened.’

‘In the King’s name,’ Corbett repeated loudly, ‘go about your business.’ His hand went behind his back, he pulled his dagger from its sheath and walked closer to the hostile traders. ‘Don’t be foolish,’ he said softly to their leader, a burly faced, popping-eyed man, apparently a butcher from the bloody apron wrapped around him. ‘Go back to your business, sir; take your friends with you. This will end and justice will be done, I assure you.’

The butcher glanced at his companions. Corbett lowered his sword.

‘As you say,’ the man muttered, ‘this must end.’ He gestured with his hands; the tradesmen broke up, drifting back, muttering and cursing over their shoulders.

‘Sir Hugh,’ Scrope declared, ‘these murders must be brought to an end.’

‘And so they will be, Lord Oliver, though I suspect it will end in a hanging.’

‘What do you mean?’ Claypole queried, eyes narrowed, lower lip jutting out, ready to take up the argument.

‘That’s how it always ends,’ Corbett added cheerfully, sheathing his sword. ‘A hanging! Someone, some day, somehow will have to die violently for all this. However, I do not predict the future, I just use logic and evidence. I asked you a question, sirs. This bowman, the Latin name, the Sagittarius, who gave it to him?’

He stared up at the sky, trying to hide his nervousness. If he wanted to, that deadly bowman could return, and what better target than the King’s own man? He felt a stab of fear. He was hunting a true killer, a soul dedicated to inflicting as muchdestruction as he could. He was right, there was no other way, this business would end in heinous violence.

‘Lord Scrope, I asked a question. Indeed, I have so many questions to ask you.’

‘Father Thomas,’ Scrope replied testily. ‘He first used the word Sagittarius.’

‘When?’

Both men looked at each other.

‘When? Lord Oliver, Master Claypole, I want an answer. I am losing patience. The King’s own subjects have been killed, whilst you show little respect for the corpses of men who served you.’

‘I’ll see to my own dead, Corbett.’

‘Pax et bonum …’ Corbett whispered. ‘I wish you well, but watch your tongue, Scrope. You can speak to me here man to man or I’ll summon you to Westminster. One question: why the Sagittarius? Father Thomas also hinted that such an assassin has been here before.’

‘He’s a prattling priest.’

‘A good priest, Scrope. So do you and Master Claypole wish to appear on oath before the King’s justices?’

‘Tell him,’ Claypole grated, turning his face against the biting breeze. ‘For God’s sake, Lord Oliver, tell him! What does it matter now?’

‘Sir Hugh!’

Corbett turned.

Master Benedict, neat and precise in his long woollen robe, cowl pulled full across his head, came striding across.

‘Sir Hugh, Dame Marguerite would like to speak to you.’

‘Master Benedict, give your mistress my kindest regards. Tell her I shall do so when I return to Mistleham Manor.’

‘Sir Hugh.’ Master Benedict took a deep breath and bowed. ‘If you can, sir, remember me at court.’ The chaplin wrung his hands. ‘Here in Essex, this violence, the bloodshed … Sir Hugh, that is one of the reasons I entered the priesthood. I detest what is happening here. I do not wish to carry a sword, pluck a bow …’

Master Benedict was still shocked by what he had witnessed.

‘Go back.’ Corbett gently patted him on the shoulder. ‘Do not worry.’ He smiled. ‘I shall do what I can.’

The chaplain, thanking him profusely, walked away. Corbett turned back.

‘Now, Lord Scrope, Master Claypole, the Sagittarius?’

‘I returned here in 1292.’ Scrope measured his words. ‘I settled down. All was peace and harmony, but in the autumn of the following year, for a few weeks I was stalked, hunted, Sir Hugh, by a bowman. Oh, he must have loosed six or seven shafts at me. He always missed.’

‘At no one else?’

Scrope smiled thinly. ‘No, Sir Hugh, just me. Father Thomas called him the Sagittarius; he warned his parishioners from the pulpit that whoever was responsible was committing a great sin.’

‘But the Sagittarius never did any harm, he never struck you?’

‘No, Sir Hugh, then it stopped as mysteriously as it began.’

‘And you never found out who or why?’

‘Of course not. If I had found the culprit, I’d have hanged him! Sir Hugh, you said you had many questions, so ask me, though I do not have many answers. I have told you what I can. I know nothing else. I cannot help you. I have agreed to return the Sanguis Christi and the dagger. What I have done here I did for my own protection and for the good of the Crown. I kept the peace.’

‘And this Sagittarius,’ Corbett persisted, ‘do you think he is the same person as the last?’

Scrope just pulled a face. Corbett stepped closer.

‘Whatever you say, Lord Oliver, or you, Master Claypole, I tell you this, not as a King’s clerk, but as one soul speaking to another. This violence will continue blazing like a fire; only the truth can douse its flames.’

Corbett spun on his heel and walked over to St Alphege’s Church. A group of young men and women sheltering inside the porch informed him how the three corpses had been taken to the death house. Father Thomas was busy tending them there with the Guild of Magdalene, a group of pious townswomen dedicated to such tasks as collecting the dead, dressing them and preparing them for burial. Corbett nodded. He asked about the painting done by the Free Brethren. One of the young men led him in along the transept and pointed to the fresco.

‘Vividly done,’ he said. ‘Look, sir, the colours.’

‘And the story?’

Corbett’s guide screwed his face up in concentration. ‘Father Thomas did tell us. He preached about it and used the painting to explain. Ah, that’s it! The Fall of Ba-’

‘The Fall of Babylon.’ Corbett, staring at the fresco, finished the word. ‘Of course, thank you very much.’

He examined the painting closely. The theme had been cleverly depicted, the colours specially chosen to stand out in the poor light, particularly the reds and greens. He studied it curiously, moving from scene to scene. The great dragon in the sky; the towers and walls of the city; the attackers in their white cloaks; a man in bed; a banquet scene; the flight of Judas and other traitors down theValley of Death; the strange symbols and plant-like shapes decorating the fringes of the painting. He broke from his study as voices further down the church near the front door began to sing a hymn.

‘Oh pure Virgin! Come ye with tapers of wax. Come forth here and worship this child both God and man, offered in his Temple by his mother dear.’

Corbett smiled and glanced down the nave. Despite the hideous killings out in the marketplace, the young men and women in the porch were still intent on preparing for the Feast of Candlemas. He walked back and watched the troupe rehearse their play: Simeon and Anna the prophetess waiting for Mary and Joseph to bring the baby Jesus into the Temple. They finished with a rendering of the Benedictus. Corbett asked if he could participate; they cheerfully agreed and gathered around the baptismal font to rehearse. Corbett sang the first verse so he could set the pitch and tone; the others replied with the second stanza, the choristers staring shyly at this King’s man who seemed so interested in what they were doing. Eventually the cadence and tone were agreed and Corbett led them in song, opening with the beautiful line of the hymn: ‘Blessed be the Holy Child, Mary’s own son …’

The choir joined in lustily. Corbett soon forgot the dangers, chanting the verses with the rest. He was so pleased with the result, he asked if they would sing it a second time, handing over a piece of silver for them to share afterwards. The choir quickly agreed. Once again Corbett became lost in the rise and fall of the beautiful plainchant. After they had finished, the choir made their apologies but said they must go, adding that Father Thomas would not be returning to give them a blessing. They left, closing the door behind them. Corbett crouched at the foot of a pillar and stared down thenave. Darkness was creeping in. Candle glow from the chantry chapels and the lady altar provided meagre light. He glanced towards the transept and glimpsed those wild figures on the battlements of the wall painting. A cold night mist was seeping under the door. Corbett shivered. He was approaching his nightmare, one that always haunted him on expeditions such as this, that he’d be caught vulnerable by an arrow or knife speeding through the darkness. He shook himself and got to his feet. The Christmas season was now over; perhaps if Father Thomas did return, he would hear Corbett’s confession and shrive him. Corbett returned to the painting, studying it carefully, marvelling at its ingenuity and imagination. He felt a pang of pity for the young people who had done this, now nothing but black ash in that dark, damned forest at Mordern.

He heard the corpse door open and whirled round. Father Thomas came striding across.

‘Sir Hugh, one of the young men you were singing with,’ the priest stepped out of the shadows, ‘he came and said you were here. What can I do to help?’

‘I admire the painting.’ Corbett gestured at the wall. ‘You must be very proud of it?’

‘I am.’ Father Thomas smiled.

Corbett stepped closer. The light was poor and he wanted to watch this priest’s eyes. ‘It’s a pity,’ he said, ‘they were killed.’

‘Aye.’ The priest sighed. ‘And if Lord Scrope has his way, the painting will disappear. He has agreed to refurbish both St Alphege’s and a great deal of St Frideswide’s Convent, perhaps contrition for his sins.’

‘We all have reparation to make.’

‘Is that true, King’s clerk?’

‘It is true, priest. You asked if you could do anything for me. I would like you to shrive me, hear my confession.’

Father Thomas looked surprised, but agreed. He led Corbett up the church and gestured to him to kneel on the prie-dieu before the mercy seat. Then he went to the sacristy and returned with a purple stole around his neck. He sat down on the chair, turning his face away from Corbett.

‘In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti …’

Corbett blessed himself and intoned the formula.

‘Father, it is three months since I was last shrived. These are my sins …’

Father Thomas tried to hide his surprise and concentrate on what Corbett was saying. It was virtually unheard of for such a leading royal clerk to make his confession to a simple parish priest. Nevertheless, the more the priest listened, the more perturbed he became. Corbett he recognised as a just man, trying to pursue the right: the clerk turned in on himself, confessing not so much sins as all the opportunities to do good he had ignored. How he’d showed irritation to his wife and children, impatience to others in the Chancery where he worked, a lack of compassion towards his companions. Father Thomas never interrupted, just nodded occasionally as his own apprehension deepened. If this man could criticise himself so clearly, so accurately, what would happen when he turned on the inhabitants of Mistleham, himself included, with his keen wit and sharp eye? If this clerk had his way, all the evil mystery swirling around the town and manor would be resolved. Once Corbett had finished, Father Thomas sat in silence for a while, then turned to face the clerk squarely.

‘You shouldn’t belabour yourself, Sir Hugh. You should also,’ he smiled, ‘think of the good you’ve done. That is what being shrived is about: recognising your true state before God. For your penance, what can I give you, what would you like to do?’

Corbett smiled. ‘Let’s sing, Father. The day is ending, bloody work has been done. I came into this church to be shriven, to be cleansed.’ He stared round at the dancing shadows and pointed to the lady altar. ‘Do you have a good voice, Father?’

‘I once sang in the royal chapel.’ The priest laughed.

‘Come then.’

They both went and stood in the lady chapel, staring up at the statue of the Virgin. For a few moments they practised, then both men intoned the Salve Regina, the Church’s evening hymn to the Virgin.

‘Salve Regina, Mater Misericordiae, Vita Dulcedo et Spes Nostra – Hail Holy Queen, Mother of Mercy, Hail Our Life, Our Sweetness and Our Hope …’

Father Thomas was a lusty singer with a powerful voice. Corbett thoroughly enjoyed himself, not only in giving praise but in purging himself of the terrors of that day. After they’d finished he lit three tapers, one for Maeve, one for Edward and one for Eleanor, and then, feeling guilty, a fourth for the King.

‘I must be gone,’ Father Thomas declared, but then paused as the door was flung open and Lord Scrope, accompanied by Brother Gratian, came marching up the nave like anger incarnate.

‘The corpses are in the death house?’ Scrope made no attempt at courtesies.

‘You know they are.’ Father Thomas gestured at the door on the far side of the church.

The manor lord stared round. ‘I promise you this, Father, by midsummer the renovation work will have begun. I’ll give you a church to be proud of.’

‘I am proud of it now.’

The manor lord didn’t even both to answer, but continued on. Brother Gratian, his bony white face shrouded by a deep cowl, nodded courteously and followed him out.

‘I had best go with him,’ Father Thomas murmured.

‘No, Father, I don’t think you should.’ Corbett caught him by the sleeve.

The priest glanced up in surprise.

‘Father, you served in the King’s forces in Wales?’

‘You know I did.’

‘And you met Lord Scrope there?’

‘Yes.’

‘You were a priest in the royal chapel?’

‘I was.’ Father Thomas tried to keep the nervousness out of his voice.

‘And you decided to abandon Crown preferment to become a faithful pastor, a good shepherd?’

‘I strive to do my best. I was in the war in Wales. I saw people murdered, killed in more ways than any man could imagine. Afterwards I felt sick. What does it profit a man if he gains the whole world but suffers the loss of his own soul? I was party to that. I had to make reparation. I met Lord Scrope at the beginning of the campaign, years before he went to Acre. He promised me that if I wanted, he would use his influence, persuade the Crown to appoint me to a benefice here.’

‘But you did not like him?’

‘No, I didn’t.’

‘Do you have a longbow, Father? Please, the truth, here before Christ.’

The priest turned abruptly and walked away. Corbett realised that he intended to return and did so a short while later, hurrying back with a longbow and a quiver full of arrows.

‘Of course, I keep it close. We live in violent times, Sir Hugh. A priest may have to protect himself, his church or his flock.’

‘And your aim is as good as ever?’ Corbett asked.

‘Lord, do you want to put me to the test?’

Corbett smiled thinly. ‘I’m no fool, Father. If you are trained in the longbow, you will eventually hit your mark.’

‘Why are you asking this, Sir Hugh?’

Corbett walked past the priest, paused, then turned.

‘The Sagittarius, the one who appeared almost ten years ago: you were that man, weren’t you, Father? You served with Lord Scrope in Wales. You saw him butcher Welsh prisoners, and when you arrived here, you saw him high on the hog, feasting himself, a man of blood acting the great lord. Isn’t there a psalm about God drawing back his bow and aiming at the wicked?’

‘What makes you think it was me?’

‘Oh,’ Corbett walked back, carefully measuring his footsteps, ‘a master bowman never misses, Father. Maybe once, but two, three times, no! The bowman of almost ten years ago was a man who wanted to frighten Lord Scrope. The only person who’d want to do that, at least according to the evidence, would be you. You called yourself the Sagittarius – God’s archer. It’s true, isn’t it, Father? You’ve heard my confession; now I’ll hear yours. What I have said to you is covered by the seal; what you say to me is also covered by the seal.’

‘I hate him!’ the priest whispered. ‘Sir Hugh, I felt guilty. I secured this benefice through his good offices, but I truly hate Lord Scrope. Yes, I was in Wales. A group of Welsh rebels, tired and hungry, came down from the hills carrying a cross, ready to surrender. Scrope was in charge of a vexillation of mounted archers and footmen. I was there. It was late in the evening, on a day like this, cold and bitter. They came into our camp barefoot and unarmed, one of them carrying that cross. Before anyone could do anything, Scrope had drawn his sword and moved amongst them, stabbing and hacking; others joined in. They’d seen their friends and comrades killed by the Welsh so they showed no mercy. By the time I’d reached that part of the camp they were dead, sixteen or seventeen souls, Corbett, young men, some of them mere boys, corpses awash with blood, Scrope leaning on his sword, the others holding axes, daggers, clubs, bloodied up to their elbows. I cursed him. I shrieked at him. You served in Wales, Corbett, you know what it was like. No mercy asked, none shown. A fight to the death.’ Father Thomas breathed in.

‘Afterwards, I left the royal service; I served in this village or that. Scrope is a strange man. Part of his soul is not yet fully rotten. He sinned but he wanted to purge himself. Anyway, he remembered me and I was invited back here.’ Father Thomas abruptly caught himself. ‘The people of Mistleham are good, decent and God-fearing. Oh there are individuals like Claypole and Robert de Scott, but you met those young men and women preparing the play for Candlemas. I enjoy serving them. Anyway, I was appointed just after Scrope returned from Acre. He came back more steeped in sin than ever. He brought treasures and waxed fat as the wealthy manor lord. He married Lady Hawisa, a true beauty. I’ll be honest.’He smiled. ‘We priests are supposed to be celibate, chaste in thought, word and deed, but Lady Hawisa …’ He shrugged. ‘I sometimes dream of her, my fair, fair lady. I was angry with Scrope, I recalled those corpses. He seemed to be gaining everything; no ill could befall him, living proof that Satan does look after his own. So I decided to frighten him. I brought out my longbow and, for a while, taunted, baited and terrified him. I realised I was doing wrong so I stopped. Yes, I was the Sagittarius. I preached against my own sin. I was the one who used that name, but I tell you this, Corbett.’ He grasped Sir Hugh’s hand and squeezed it. ‘Not in my nightmares did I ever imagine another Sagittarius would emerge, the archer of death, the bowman from hell!’

Corbett heard the door open and Ranulf calling his name. ‘I must go.’

‘God’s peace stay with you, Sir Hugh. I’ll see you tomorrow morning for the Jesus Mass at the manor. Dame Marguerite and I have business with Lord Scrope. He has invited us to the reclusorium, so we’ll meet again soon. Remember, I’ve heard your confession and you’ve heard mine. I have nothing more to add.’

Corbett joined Ranulf out on the porch.

‘Master, I did as you asked. On each side of the square run needle-thin alleyways, really nothing more than holes between the houses.’

‘And the houses themselves?’

‘Well, as you know, some are four, five storeys high. Some are lived in, some are not. Others are single-room tenements used by travelling chapmen and tinkers. One thing I did learn, many of those tenements are actually owned by Lord Scrope; he draws rent from them.’

Corbett nodded. ‘What I suspect, Ranulf, is that our Sagittariusmay have a bow and quiver of arrows disguised or hidden away, or,’ he shrugged, ‘he may have stored his weapons in one of those garrets or rooms.’

‘Not to mention stairwells, Sir Hugh, and a host of windows. Some are mere arrow slits open to the wind, others are casements that can be unlocked. I stood at a few of these; they give a good view across the marketplace. For a skilled archer, it would not be difficult to bring down three or even more men.’

‘And all those killed were from Lord Scrope’s retinue,’ Corbett declared.

‘They were with us at Mordern this morning. The killer knew they’d adjourned to the taverns; he simply waited for the right time.’

‘Did you question anyone?’ Corbett asked.

‘Servants, maids, boys, but they could tell me nothing. Master, those houses are gloomy and shadow-filled; you could hide an army there. Oh, by the way,’ he added, ‘Chanson claims he’s freezing to death. If we don’t return soon, we’ll find nothing but a pillar of ice.’

Corbett nodded. ‘We’ve finished here, Ranulf. Father Thomas will visit the manor early tomorrow morning. I suppose he has to return here to sing the requiem masses for those slain. God’s Acre at St Alphege’s will soon become full.’

They went out into the now silent marketplace. The day’s trading was completely finished. Stalls had been put away. Lantern horns gleamed from hooks on door posts, candles glowed in windows. A dog barked, beggars flittered like shadows in the poor light. Chanson had led their horses over to a tethering pole while he and some beggars grouped around a pitch cask in which somegood citizen had kindled a fire to keep them warm during the night. Chanson muttered and groaned about how cold and hungry he was, but soon cheered as Corbett swung himself into the saddle, saying that they’d return to Mistleham Manor for some good food, ale and, perhaps, even another goblet of that mulled wine. They turned their horses to leave. Corbett was glad he’d been shriven; as they made their way across the icy cobbles into the dark lane leading back to the manor, he sensed he was now moving to the heart of this murderous mystery.