Corbett was keen to investigate the tension he sensed in the manor. He had already glimpsed the cadavers of the two great hunting dogs, legs peeping out from beneath the rough sacking thrown over them in the manor bailey. Moreover Brother Gratian proved strangely reluctant to take them out through the gateway at the back of the manor. Corbett gently insisted, so the Dominican escorted them along the path to the brow of the hill which swept down to the Island of Swans and its impressive reclusorium. Corbett was immediately taken with the ring of shimmering water, the jetties facing each other, the steep steps leading up to the heavy door of the reclusorium. Then his attention was diverted by the great reddish-brown stains near the edge of the lake as well as similar ones further up the hill, near the remains of a fire built close to a copse of trees.
‘What happened?’ Ranulf asked watching servants and retainers, garbed in Lord Scrope’s livery, scurrying about amongst the trees. In the far distance mounted figures could be glimpsed: undoubtedly Lord Scrope and his henchmen searching for something. ‘What happened?’ he repeated.
‘The Sagittarius,’ Brother Gratian replied reluctantly. ‘A mysterious bowman who is terrorising Mistleham. He has already slain a number of innocents. Apparently last night,’ he continued hastily, ‘or early this morning, the Sagittarius entered the manor lands.Lord Scrope had withdrawn to the reclusorium.’ Brother Gratian pointed to the island.
‘Why?’
‘To pray, to reflect, to meditate.’
‘Why?’ Ranulf repeated.
Brother Gratian’s cold, pinched face broke into a wintry smile. ‘You had best ask Lord Scrope that.’ He hurried on. ‘The Sagittarius committed trespass. He killed the mastiffs, severed their heads and stuck these on poles down near the jetty. Lord Scrope was furious.’ The Dominican was gabbling now. ‘That’s why he was unable to meet you, whilst Lady Hawisa has withdrawn to her own chambers.’
‘Why kill the mastiffs?’ Ranulf persisted. ‘Were they used during the massacre at Mordern?’
‘It was not a massacre,’ Gratian retorted, ‘but the extirpation of a nest of heretics, lecherous fornicators and thieves, and yes,’ he faced Ranulf squarely, ‘the mastiffs were used in the attack on that lawless rabble at Mordern.’
The conversation had definitely chilled the Dominican’s mood. Corbett tactfully declared that he was cold, so Gratian led them back to the kitchens for goblets of mulled wine spiced with nutmeg, and a platter of manchet loaves, soft cheese and butter. Afterwards Corbett withdrew to his own room. Ranulf and Chanson, at their master’s secret direction, were to wander the manor listening to conversations, the rumours and gossip in the hall, kitchen and stable. Corbett checked certain items in his own chamber then went to the small chapel. He lit a taper before the black-stone carving of the Virgin and knelt on the quilted prie-dieu. He prayed for Maeve, his children and the King. To lightenhis mood he softly sang his favourite hymn to the Virgin: ‘Alma Virgo Dei’. He blessed himself and returned to his own chamber, where he stripped, wrapped a cloak about himself and slept until Ranulf roused him. He rose, shaved, washed and changed into his best; a long murrey-coloured jerkin over a white cambric shirt and black hose pushed into a soft pair of leather boots. He put his chain of office around his neck and the large signet ring bearing the royal arms on the middle finger of his left hand.
Corbett, now sitting in the great banqueting hall of the manor, secretly hoped he would not have to exercise the power that ring gave him. He broke from his reflections, sat back in his chair and continued to listen to the sweet songs from the minstrel gallery, followed by the soft melodies of the viol, rebec and lyre. He tapped his fingers on the ivory-coloured tablecloth in appreciation of the music whilst admiring the wealth of the halclass="underline" the great fire roaring merrily in the carved mantled hearth, the polished wood posts and furnishings, the jewelled silverware on the high table and the exquisite salt cellar fashioned out of costly jasper. Catherine wheels, their rims studded with gleaming lamps, had been lowered to strengthen the light from the silver-chased candlesticks as well as the cresset torches blazing along the walls.
Corbett also used the musical interlude and the silence it demanded in the hall, on the dais as well as among those sitting below the salt, to quietly study his host and other guests. Lord Scrope, dressed in a costly red robe, his fingers, arms and neck adorned with glittering rings, bracelets, brooches and clasps, looked the powerful seigneur. Corbett had met him years ago and the passage of time had not improved his estimation of the King’s old warrior comrade. Lord Oliver was a choleric man, his uglyface indeed like that of a bat, his narrow, darting eyes full of his own importance and pride. A dangerous man, Corbett concluded, quick-tempered and cruel, who could carry out a massacre like that at Mordern without any scruple or regret. Lady Hawisa, sitting on her husband’s left, was totally different, with her comely ivory face, serene grey eyes and laughing mouth. She was garbed in a light blue dress tied high around the neck, a filigreed chain around her waist, a cream-coloured veil covering her rich black hair. She had a merry laugh and a welcoming, courteous voice. Before they had taken their seats, she had asked the clerks about their journey then quietly insisted that they must find everything at Mistleham Manor to their liking.
Corbett leaned forward and glanced down the table. Ranulf was sitting on Lady Hawisa’s left. The Principal Clerk in the Chancery of the Green Wax had immediately shown a deep liking for her. Corbett silently prayed that Scrope did not take offence at Ranulf’s open admiration and consequent flirtation with his wife. He caught the eye of Father Thomas, smiled and nodded. He had met the priest during the King’s campaign in Wales. Father Thomas had a hard, lined face under thinning grey hair, a frugal man dressed in a simple brown robe, his bleak austerity offset by gentle eyes. During their meeting before the banquet, Corbett had noticed how the priest barely sipped at his wine, being more concerned with threading the ave beads around his bony knuckles. Next to him was a bird of different character: Master Claypole the mayor, lean and tense like a ferret, with close-set eyes, a nose sharp as a quill, his lower lip jutting out as if ready for any argument. Corbett felt his elbow brushed and turned to a smiling Dame Marguerite, Lady Abbess of St Frideswide, small, petiteand pretty-faced. He found it almost impossible to believe that this elegant abbess, her face framed by a snow-white wimple under a black veil, was Lord Scrope’s blood sister. She played with the gold ring on one of her fingers, emblazoned with what looked like a deer, whilst beating gently on the tablecloth, thoroughly enjoying the music.
‘But I am hungry,’ she leaned forward grinning impishly, ‘whilst my chaplain is ready to eat his own knuckles.’
Corbett leaned forward and nodded at Master Benedict, who, throughout the music, had been staring at Corbett, eyes all anxious, fingers to his lips. Corbett glanced away to hide his own annoyance. Benedict Le Sanglier was an ambitious priest, a Gascon bearing letters from the Archbishop of Bordeaux. He had, during their meeting before dinner, attempted to show Corbett these as well as declare how desirous he was of securing a benefice at court.