Nightshade

8

Once he’d returned to Mistleham Manor and made himself presentable, Corbett went into the Antioch Wing of the house where a servant led him to the abbess’ chambers. Despite the roaring fire, the warm hangings and shuttered windows, Dame Marguerite was still garbed in her thick black gown and cloak, her sweet face framed by a white wimple. She was sitting in a high-backed chair before the fire, her feet resting on a stool. Master Benedict, dressed in a cambric shirt and dark blue hose, feet pushed into slippers, a sleeveless gown over his shoulders, sat next to her, a book on his lap.

‘Ah, Sir Hugh.’ Dame Marguerite made to rise, but Corbett shook his head. ‘Master Benedict was reading from The Romance of the Rose. I so like the story. A work of art, don’t you think, Sir Hugh?’

Corbett nodded in agreement.

‘Master Benedict, please?’ the abbess whispered.

The chaplain rose, smiled at Corbett and pulled across another chair, positioning it between himself and Dame Marguerite. Corbettsat down. For a while the usual pleasantries and courtesies were exchanged. Dame Marguerite looked composed but Master Benedict was still pale and pinched from the horrors he’d witnessed.

‘I’ve given Master Benedict two goblets of claret,’ Dame Marguerite remarked, following Corbett’s gaze. ‘My brother is truly a man of blood, Sir Hugh. Perhaps Master Benedict should not have gone there. But look, I thank you for coming.’ She paused as Corbett sipped from the goblet of white wine Master Benedict served. The chaplain also offered a platter of comfits, which he refused.

‘Dame Marguerite, I have some questions for you. Perhaps it is best if I ask them before you tell me the purpose of this meeting.’

‘Of course.’ She smiled. ‘No, no, Master Benedict, please stay. You are my confessor, you know everything I say and do.’ She laughed prettily. ‘Even think! Sir Hugh, your questions?’

‘You call your brother a man of blood; was he that before he went to Acre?’

‘You can answer that yourself. My brother had a fearsome reputation as a warrior, in Wales and elsewhere, a man who relished the fury of battle. He took to fighting like a fish to swimming. He did not come back changed, just harder, angrier.’

‘And he brought back treasures?’

‘Yes, he brought back a hoard of precious items looted from the Temple, what he called the spoils of victory.’

‘And Master Claypole too?’

‘Yes, he profited. Strange you mention his name, Sir Hugh, because that’s the reason for my asking to meet you.’

‘But first you, Dame Marguerite. You’re so different from your brother.’

‘God knows why!’ The abbess laughed, leaning back in her chair. ‘When we were children I was a little frightened of Oliver. He could be violent, but we had a cousin, Gaston, he kept Oliver in check. The three of us would play. Our estates were much smaller than they are now, but where this manor house stands, the Island of Swans, the fields and meadows around, they’ve always been in my family. Our parents were distant, rather cold. Father was always busy on king’s business. Our mother died young so we were left to the care of good servants as well as to our own devices. Mistleham, Mordern Forest, the deserted village, the Chapel of the Damned, they became our places of dreams where we fought dragons, the infidel or the King’s enemies. Always the three of us,’ she commented, ‘but life changes, children cease to be innocent. Oliver and Gaston went off to the King’s wars, Wales, Gascony and the Scottish border. Then they came home. Father had died, profits from our estates had fallen off. I admit, and so would Lord Oliver, that he journeyed to Outremer not only to fight for the cross but also for his own purse. By the time he came home I too had changed.’ She drew a deep breath. ‘While he was away I decided to enter St Frideswide as a Benedictine nun. Life continued to change. Oliver became what he wanted to be and I am what God wants me to be.’

Corbett glanced at the chaplain. He sat head down as if listening intently. Corbett felt just for a moment a profound sadness about the abbess, even though she was half smiling at the memories she’d evoked.

‘And Gaston?’

The abbess just shrugged. ‘From what I gather, he was sorely wounded at Acre after the walls were stormed. He was taken tothe infirmary where he died of his wounds. Oliver and Master Claypole did what they could.’

‘But isn’t it strange,’ Corbett insisted, ‘that only two from Mistleham returned? Lord Scrope and his squire Master Claypole.’

‘Sir Hugh, in some communities no one returned. Only a few went out, some died on the voyage, others of illness or wounds. My brother himself was wounded, as was Master Claypole.’

‘But he came back a rich man.’

‘Oh, definitely.’

Corbett startled as Master Benedict sprang to his feet, hand to mouth, and rushed towards the door.

‘Poor boy.’ Dame Abbess stared at Corbett. ‘What he saw this morning has deeply upset him.’ She waited for a while, until Master Benedict returned, wiping his mouth on a napkin.

‘I am sorry,’ he apologised, ‘my stomach is queasy.’ He retook his seat. ‘This talk,’ he whispered. ‘Acre, the slaughter in the dragon courtyard, hideous killings in Mordern, threats and menaces.’ He shook his head. ‘I did not think it would be like this.’

Dame Marguerite asked whether he wanted anything to eat or drink, but Master Benedict simply held up a hand.

‘Sir Hugh,’ the abbess lifted the ave beads wrapped around her fingers, ‘I’ve come to ask you for two favours. First, when you return to London, please mention Master Benedict to the King. He must enter the royal service, he deserves preferment. He is a very good priest, a most erudite clerk, but I’ll leave that to you. Second, however, a much more serious matter. I call my brother a man of blood, and so he is. He is now being threatened whether rightly or wrongly, but he is still threatened. Even the King is displeased with him. The Sagittarius has appeared. In myview, that murderous archer is pursuing vengeance for those deaths at Mordern. I am sure you would agree with me; there’s no other logical explanation. What I believe is that sooner or later my brother is going to meet his God. Scripture says that those who live by the sword die by the sword. I fear for my brother, I truly do.’

‘Madam,’ Corbett replied, ‘how does that concern me? I am here to serve your brother’s interests as best I can. You quote scripture: what a man sows, his soul reaps. Are you saying your brother is in mortal danger?’

‘My brother is always in danger,’ she replied. ‘He is the heart of the problem. Our family, Sir Hugh, have owned this land since the Conqueror. We are the last Scropes. I am a virgin dedicated to God, my brother is married but has no legitimate heir. If he dies suddenly without issue …’

‘Then surely the lands would go to his wife, Lady Hawisa?’

‘I am deeply concerned,’ the abbess cut in, ‘as is Master Benedict, with whom I’ve discussed this on many occasions. If my brother dies without heir, true, his estates would go to Lady Hawisa. I would receive my portion; some would also go to Master Claypole and others. However, you must have heard the rumours? You must have looked at Claypole and my brother and seen the likeness?’

Corbett just stared back.

She took a deep breath. ‘Some people claim,’ she continued, ‘that Master Henry Claypole is a by-blow, the illegitimate son of my brother. Many, many years ago, before he took to fighting and serving in the King’s forces, my brother became enamoured of a certain Alice de Tuddenham. She was the daughter of a local wool merchant. Alice became pregnant shortly before she married a local trader, and the rumour persists …’

‘That Claypole is your brother’s son rather than that of Alice and her husband?’

‘Precisely, Sir Hugh. Now, my brother Oliver and Master Henry Claypole have always been close. I am sure that in his will Lord Oliver has remembered Henry Claypole’s good and faithful service. However, I am deeply concerned that when my brother dies without a legitimate heir, even though his estates should go to his widow, Master Claypole may well argue in the King’s courts that he is not only my brother’s son but a legitimate one.’

‘How can that be?’ Corbett was now genuinely puzzled.

‘There are rumours,’ the abbess continued, ‘that Lord Scrope secretly married Alice de Tuddenham, which makes her second union invalid according to canon law. Both she and her husband have now gone to their reward, whatever that may be. Now, Sir Hugh, according to the law of the Church-’

‘Henry Claypole could prove that he is the legitimate heir of Lord Oliver,’ Corbett declared. ‘And, by right of that, claim his estates, yet to achieve that, he will need proof?’

‘I have visited Father Thomas,’ Dame Marguerite declared. ‘We have both searched for the blood books, the marriage registers, whatever documents the church might hold. However, for the period in which my brother may have married Alice de Tuddenham, the blood registers have mysteriously disappeared.’

‘You think Master Claypole has stolen them?’

‘He’s an ambitious, avaricious man, Sir Hugh. He has fingers in many pies in Mistleham. It is possible that he stole them, keeping them against the evil day. At the same time, perhaps, the absence of those blood books is just a mishap. My brother andAlice de Tuddenham may have married in another church, another parish, though I doubt it.’

‘Have you questioned your brother on this?’

‘On a number of occasions over the years, but he has always shrugged it off. He claims he is not responsible for the sins of his youth.’

‘And Lady Hawisa?’

‘I have never spoken to her directly about the matter. I feel a kinship for her, a virtuous woman. She’s probably heard the rumours but nothing definite.’

Corbett stared into the fire. He had heard of similar cases coming before the chancery courts where an illegitimate child argued that he was in fact born within wedlock and, according to the law of both church and state, should receive a man’s inheritance.

‘Is your brother frightened of Master Claypole? Is that why he has favoured him, supported him in his appointment to mayor?’

‘Over the years their relationship has changed,’ Dame Marguerite conceded. She paused and stared round the comfortable chamber as if searching for a memory. The fire crackled and sparked. Outside, the wind had picked up, flapping at the shutters. Corbett could hear the creak and groan of the timbers of the manor, so full of riches yet also a place of dark memories, grudges and grievances. He was right to be cautious, to be wary. An intricate game was being played out here; more blood would be spilt.

‘Yes,’ Dame Marguerite nodded, ‘I would say their relationship has changed. Claypole was always the servant; sometimes now he regards himself as an equal, as if he has …’

‘A claim against your brother?’

‘Exactly, Sir Hugh.’

‘Is Lord Oliver frightened of Master Claypole?’ Corbett repeated.

‘My brother is a warrior. Publicly he is frightened of no one, but of course you haven’t visited the reclusorium?’

Corbett shook his head.

‘I’ve heard about the first Sagittarius,’ he declared, ‘the bowman who appeared, what, some ten years ago, and loosed shafts at your brother, though none ever found its mark.’

Dame Marguerite smiled. ‘Yes, that frightened Lord Oliver, frightened him deeply, but there are other terrors lurking in his hard heart, like wolves in the darkness of the trees. He had been back scarcely two years when the reclusorium was built. He’d always liked the Island of Swans. When we were children he and I would go across there, turn it into what we called our own little kingdom. Now it is his refuge, so yes, my brother is frightened, perhaps of Henry Claypole or of others, shadows from the past.’

Corbett glanced at Master Benedict, who sat like a scholar in a schoolroom, all patient and attentive.

‘And what do you think of this, sir?’

‘I understand my lady abbess’ concerns. I too share them. Nonetheless, as I’ve said to you, Sir Hugh, Mistleham is not my manor or the place I want to be. I believe that should I be appointed to some benefice in London, perhaps gain preferment in the royal service, then if, as she says, that evil day comes, the lady abbess would have-’

‘Friends at court?’ Corbett asked.

‘Precisely!’ Master Benedict pulled a face. ‘Sir Hugh, when you return to London, when this business is finished, perhaps you canraise the matter of Claypole’s secret desires and ambitions before the King.’

‘I have heard of similar cases.’ Corbett closed his eyes. ‘I cannot quote chapter and verse, but even the King himself cannot set aside the law. If Master Claypole can prove he is Lord Scrope’s legitimate heir, there is little anyone can do.’ He opened his eyes and smiled. ‘But of course, you want more, don’t you?’

‘Yes, Sir Hugh, I want my brother to live.’ Lady Abbess swallowed hard. ‘He must live. I pray for his safety. What I would like to do, through you, is to challenge Master Claypole about these rumours whilst my brother is still alive, to establish whether or not he is Lord Scrope’s legitimate heir.’

‘Of course,’ Corbett whispered. ‘I now understand why you wished to see me, Lady Abbess. If Henry Claypole is summoned to the King’s council, put on solemn oath and asked to produce whatever proof he has whilst Lord Oliver is alive and has no heir, your brother can rebut or support such claims. Of course, once your brother is dead, the one person who knows the truth is silenced for ever. But surely you have raised this issue with your brother, the dangers you and Lady Hawisa face?’

‘I have, but my brother just scoffs at me, and says that time will take care of everything. Sir Hugh, I do not put my trust in time but in God and you. The sooner this business is done, the better.’

Corbett finished his wine and made his farewells. He rose, bowed to both Dame Marguerite and Master Benedict and went out closing the door behind. He’d reached the top of the stairs when a shadow slipped out of a window embrasure, so swift, so unexpected, Corbett stepped back, hand going round for his dagger.

‘Pax et bonum, Sir Hugh.’

Corbett relaxed. ‘Brother Gratian, I beg you, in the dark, at a time like this, in a place like this, you should be more prudent about stepping out of the shadows.’

‘I wanted to see you, Sir Hugh. I have a favour to ask. You’ll be finished here, surely? Can I accompany you back to London?’

‘You’ll be carrying the Sanguis Christi?’

‘Of course!’

‘Why the haste, Brother? What about your care for the spiritual life of your patron?’

‘Sir Hugh, such a matter, between him and me, is covered by the seal of confession.’

‘I will answer your question, Brother, when you answer mine.’

‘Which is?’

‘Were the Free Brethren such a threat to Holy Mother Church and the King’s peace?’

‘I’ve told the truth, Sir Hugh.’

Corbett shook his head.

‘No you haven’t, Brother! I don’t think anyone has told the truth. I bid you good night …’

Corbett watched as Father Thomas finished the Jesus Mass with the final Gospel, the first twenty-two verses from St John beginning: ‘In principio erat Verbum – in the Beginning was the Word.’ At the phrase ‘the Word was made flesh’, Corbett, together with the rest of the small congregation in the manor chapel, genuflected and kissed his thumb as a mark of respect. He rose and stared round. Ranulf, Chanson, Lady Hawisa, Dame Marguerite and Master Benedict were present, with servants and retainersfrom the manor. Brother Gratian was undoubtedly celebrating his own dawn mass in his chamber whilst Master Benedict, according to Dame Marguerite’s hushed conversation before mass, had spent most of the night in the manor infirmary. Corbett rubbed his own eyes. He’d slept well but fitfully, his rest plagued by nightmares.

After the mass, Corbett had a few words with Lady Hawisa, then joined Ranulf and Chanson in the buttery for bread, cheese, butter and light ale. He hadn’t decided what to do that day. He discussed with Ranulf the possibility of convoking a formal court of oyer and terminer, acting as Justices of the King and summoning people on oath. He considered the possibility of the priests, Master Benedict, Brother Gratian and Father Thomas, pleading benefit of clergy, that they answered to the church courts rather than those of the King. Nevertheless, he thought such a way forward was possible. One thing he had decided on: to interrogate Lord Scrope again and try to establish logical answers to his questions. He and Ranulf were about to leave the buttery when he heard a distant clanging. A groom sprang to his feet.

‘What’s the matter, man?’ Ranulf asked.

‘It’s Lord Scrope,’ the fellow replied. ‘That’s the alarm from the reclusorium!’

Corbett and Ranulf joined the rest as they streamed from the buttery across the yard, through the Jerusalem Gate and down the icy, slippery hill towards the Island of Swans. Corbett paused halfway and took in the scene in the grey morning light. On the jetty Father Thomas was busy clambering from a boat; on the other side of the lake Dame Marguerite was busy beating the gong hung outside the reclusorium, the door to which was flung open. Corbett hurried down, now and again slipping on the ice, Ranulffollowing behind. Once they’d reached the jetty, Ranulf turned, telling the servants to stand back. Corbett grasped Father Thomas, who was still labouring to catch his breath.

‘What is it?’ he asked.

The priest looked haggard, wet-eyed from the cold. ‘Sir Hugh, it’s Lord Scrope, he’s been murdered. You’d best come.’

Corbett clambered into the boat; Ranulf followed with Father Thomas. The boat itself was small and bobbed dangerously. The oarsman told them to sit down. He too was pale-faced, startled at what he’d seen. He pulled on the oars and the wherry cut its way through the cold water to the far side.

‘Be careful,’ the oarsman said as he pulled the oars in and slid his boat alongside the landing place. Corbett and Ranulf clambered out and walked up the steps to where Dame Marguerite was standing just inside the doorway. The lady abbess was whey-faced, eyes enlarged, and could hardly speak as she led Corbett into the reclusorium. The clerk immediately stared around. The windows were shuttered behind their drapes of velvet and leather. The room smelt of wine and fragrant beeswax; two or three candles still spluttered against the darkness. Corbett was aware of richness and luxury, costly items, rugs on the floor, heavy tapestries hanging against the walls, beautifully carved stools, tables and chairs, a large bed in the far recess, light glinting off silver and gold ornaments. He also noticed the window immediately to his right. Its drapes had been torn away, the wooden shutters smashed.

‘It’s where we forced an entry,’ Dame Marguerite whispered.

Corbett held his hand up. The reclusorium reeked of wealth, but something else lurked in the gloom, an evil Corbett hadpursued all his adult life: sudden, brutal murder. He had to go forward to see, to inspect the horror waiting deeper in the darkness. He crossed over to the dark shape outlined in the poor light, slumped in the great high-backed chair. Lord Scrope sat there, dead hands grasping its sides, his head slightly back. The look of mortal horror made his ugly face more gruesome in death, eyes popping, mouth slightly opened, nose and lips crusted with blood. In his chest, thrust deep to the hilt, was the assassin’s dagger, the King’s property, the faded red ribbon still attached to the handle.

‘By Satan’s feet!’ Ranulf murmured.

Corbett studied the dead man’s corpse closely. Scrope’s tawny bed-robe was drenched with congealed blood. Ranulf brought across a candelabra, the weak flames deepening the hideousness of that corpse, gruesome in death, the face like a gargoyle mask. Some blood stained Scrope’s fingers; a little more was on the floor.

‘The bed chest!’ Ranulf whispered.

Corbett walked over. The curtains to the four-poster bed had been pulled back, the counterpanes and sheets also; the bolsters were slightly pressed. Scrope had apparently adjourned to bed before murder came visiting. The trunk at the foot of the bed had been ransacked. The metal-rimmed caskets and coffers inside were empty, their lids thrown back. Corbett returned to the corpse. He leaned over, trying to avoid that popping, glassy dead glance. He felt beneath the rim of the bed-robe and gently lifted the silver key-chain up over the head, then went back to the chests and coffers. Sounds from outside echoed through. He glanced over his shoulder. More people had crossed to the Island of Swans, including Lady Hawisa. Dame Marguerite recollected herself andwent out to help. Servants were also milling about; apparently both ferries had been used to bring them across. Corbett quickly tried the keys in the chests; they all fitted. He handed them to Ranulf and went outside. The island now thronged with the gawping and the curious, with more gathering on the far bank. Lady Hawisa stood at the foot of the steps, leaning on the arm of a maid. Scrope’s widow was half listening to a silver-haired man with a wan face, bushy eyebrows over deep-set eyes, his shaven cheeks sharply furrowed.

‘Lady Hawisa?’ Corbett came down.

‘Ah, you must be Lord Corbett.’ The silver-haired man blinked and smiled, though his face and eyes remained keen. He stared over Corbett’s shoulder into the darkness of the reclusorium.

‘I am who you say I am, and you, sir?’

‘Physician Ormesby late of Balliol Hall, Oxford, now spending my autumnal days on the outskirts of Mistleham. In brief, sir, I am or was,’ Ormesby added, ‘physician to Lord Scrope. My main care now is for Lady Hawisa.’

Corbett glanced around. Dame Marguerite was ordering servants here and there. Father Thomas was walking backwards and forwards, ave beads strung from one hand. Brother Gratian stood on the jetty, fingers to his lips, like a man who’d lost his wits. Across the water Corbett glimpsed the arrival of Master Claypole and members of the town’s council, resplendent in their ermine-lined robes and glittering chains of office. He groaned and plucked at Ormesby’s sleeve.

‘Physician, I want you to stay here. Father Thomas and you, madam,’ he gestured at the abbess, ‘must also stay, together with the servant who rowed you across.’ Corbett then grasped LadyHawisa’s hand, listless and ice cold. Eyelids fluttering, she opened her mouth to speak but then shook her head. ‘Lady Hawisa,’ he urged, ‘you must leave.’ He gently squeezed her hand. ‘No, no, your husband, God assoil him, is dead, cruelly murdered. You must not see him like that. You,’ Corbett turned to the maidservant, ‘look after your mistress. My lady, you must leave.’

Lady Hawisa nodded in agreement. Corbett strode up the steps beckoning to Ranulf, who quickly joined him outside. Corbett drew his sword and banged on the bronze gong dangling from its chain beside the door post. Eventually he obtained silence.

‘Good people,’ he shouted, ‘I am Sir Hugh Corbett, King’s man. I have authority here under the royal seal. Lord Scrope, God pardon him, is dead, cruelly murdered. I must ask you to leave the Island of Swans immediately, except for those I ask to stay.’

People looked askance at him. There were shouts, a few catcalls and mocking cries. Ranulf drew his sword. The clamour died and people drifted towards the jetty. Corbett called across Physician Ormesby, Dame Marguerite, Father Thomas and the servant who’d rowed them across, a small beetle-browed character who rejoiced in the name of Pennywort. Corbett respectfully asked all these to stay outside whilst he and Ranulf returned to inspect the corpse, the chests, the windows and the only door. All the windows except one were firmly shuttered, their bars down, the pegs on each shutter at top and bottom firmly in place, their velvet and leather drapes undisturbed.

‘There is no other entrance,’ Corbett breathed. ‘The main door is secured by bolts at top and bottom, its lock definitely the work of some guildsman.’

He inspected the broken window. The shutters were smashed,the lintel scuffed and scraped. He and Ranulf went outside, apologising for the delay to those waiting. They walked round the reclusorium. Corbett admired what Scrope had done. A ring of vegetation ran along the rim of the island, with clumps of trees, including beautiful bending willows, but the area immediately around the house itself had been provided with a clear view, no other obstacle except for a narrow channel dug from under the reclusorium to carry waste down to the lake. The icy ground was now pitted with the footprints of those who’d come across. Corbett glanced down at the lake. It must be, at every point, at least six yards across and undoubtedly deep. He could see no other landing place or sign of any bridge, raft, ferry or boat. He and Ranulf returned inside. He covered Scrope’s face with a cloth, instructed Ranulf to build up the meagre fire and then invited his guests, Dame Marguerite, Father Thomas, Pennywort and Physician Ormesby, to the stools he placed in front of the fire. The physician excused himself and went across to scrutinise the corpse. He removed the face cloth, exclaimed in horror, then busied himself near the table on which Corbett had glimpsed the exquisitely carved wooden goblet brimming with red wine. The physician picked this up, sniffed at it, then muttered a prayer.

‘What is it?’ Corbett went across.

‘Smell but don’t drink, Sir Hugh.’

Corbett did so. Beneath the rich odour he caught a bitter tang.

‘Belladona,’ Ormesby murmured. ‘Deadly nightshade. But look, Sir Hugh, the cup seems untouched, the wine not drunk. I’ve observed Scrope’s face, and it betrays no symptoms of poisoning.’ Again that cold, knowing smile. ‘Sir Hugh, I know poisons. Ifnightshade had killed him, its effects would be obvious; he would have died in frenzied convulsions.’

Corbett nodded and handed the goblet back. ‘Was Scrope first poisoned before being stabbed?’

‘I doubt it.’ The physician stepped closer. ‘We only smell it now because it has fermented, being mixed with the wine for hours. That’s why the victim drinks it and physicians like myself later detect it. Belladona is a cruel assassin; Lord Scrope would have convulsed like an imp in hell. Of course I need to inspect his corpse more closely. There are other symptoms.’ Ormesby patted his own stomach. ‘Discoloration of the belly, stains on the flesh.’

He paused and went back to sniff at the silver-chased wine flagon.

‘The same,’ he declared. ‘The flagon, I suspect, was poisoned, the wine later poured into the goblet. Oh, by the way, the goblet is fashioned out of yew, an ill-omened wood.’ He lifted the cup. ‘I know the texture of woods. My father was a verderer in these parts.’

‘Very well,’ Corbett replied. ‘Give the goblet to Ranulf to keep.’

The physician obeyed and joined the rest at the fire, handing the goblet to Ranulf and whispering at him to be careful. The clerk placed the cup on the floor.

‘What happened?’ Corbett asked.

Father Thomas glanced at Dame Marguerite, then fearfully over his shoulder as if he expected the corpse to stir.

‘I was repelled by him in life,’ the priest murmured, ‘and so in death, Sir Hugh. Must we stay here with his corpse?’

‘The dead are beyond us now,’ Corbett replied. ‘What I must do, Father, is discover who murdered this loyal subject of theKing, and, more importantly, who plundered those coffers and caskets. I believe, Dame Marguerite, though I have yet to establish this, that the Sanguis Christi and other precious items were kept here.’

The abbess, eyes closed, nodded in agreement.

‘According to what I see,’ Corbett continued, ‘Lord Scrope came over here last night. You, sir,’ he pointed to Pennywort, ‘brought him across?’

‘Oh yes.’ Pennywort was pleased at the importance being shown him. ‘Oh yes, Sir Hugh, ever since his hounds were killed, Lord Scrope ordered some of his men out beneath the trees. I suppose I was in charge, Robert de Scott being killed in the marketplace. My task was to row him across. I did so.’

‘When?’

‘Oh, late last night, sir, after he returned from the town. It must have been well after Compline.’

‘And how was Lord Scrope?’

Pennywort closed his eyes and smiled, his teeth nothing more than little stumps. ‘I would say he was morose, withdrawn. He said we would have visitors in the morning, Dame Marguerite and Father Thomas. We reached the jetty. As usual he did not thank me but went straight up the steps.’

‘Did you follow him?’

‘Yes, yes, I did,’ Pennywort replied. ‘I always had to. Lord Scrope wanted to make sure there’d be no disturbance. He unlocked the door and went inside. I helped build up the fire as I always did, made sure everything was as it should be. Lord Scrope sat in that chair drumming his fingers on the arm, impatient for me to go. I lit the candles. Lord Scrope growledat me to keep a close and careful watch that night with the rest. He missed his two dogs, Romulus and Remus. Perhaps he felt wary. I left. Now as I went down the steps, I definitely heard him draw the bolts and lock the door behind me. As I rowed across, I could see lights glowing between the shutters. I then joined the rest of the guards in the clump of oak trees further up the hill; you know, sir, where the dogs used to lie. We built a fire. There was a full moon last night. It was bright.’

‘Did you patrol the banks of the lake?’

‘No, we watched,’ Pennywort replied, glancing away, ‘but we saw nothing.’

‘And there is no other way across,’ Corbett insisted, ‘between the two jetties, except by boat?’

‘None, Sir Hugh.’

‘Dame Marguerite, you know this island – you came across as a child?’

‘There was a bridge where the jetties now stand. A rickety wooden affair more dangerous than useful. My brother totally destroyed it.’

‘And the lake,’ Ranulf asked, ‘how deep is it?’

‘Very deep indeed, sir,’ Pennywort replied. ‘I would say at least three yards in places. It would swallow you up. It is weed-encrusted, a dangerous stretch; not even Satan himself could swim across such an icy lake at the dead at night. If someone crossed they would have to use one of those boats. If they did, I would have seen them. I would certainly have noticed something wrong this morning but I didn’t.’

‘Did you observe anything untoward?’ Corbett asked. ‘Anything at all, Pennywort?’ He opened his purse and took out a coin.

Pennywort almost sighed with pleasure, and his fingers went out. ‘Sir, I could make up lies and stories, but if you put me on oath in Father Thomas’ church, my hand placed over the pyx, I would swear I saw nothing, I heard nothing, nor did any of my companions. True, we kept ourselves warm, true we ate our dried meat and drank our ale, but we kept close watch, sir. Nothing happened.’