‘Do continue, please.’ The manor lord smiled. ‘What is it, Sir Hugh? Do you want me to go to Westminster and plead before Staunton and Hengham at King’s Bench?’
‘That could be arranged,’ Corbett replied quietly. ‘I could swear out the writ now; Ranulf would draft it for sealing.’
Scrope turned and shouted at the door. The captain of his guard tumbled through, a tough-looking soldier with balding head and popping blue eyes in a wine-flushed face.
‘Bring out the arrow chest, Robert, the one taken from Mordern.’
The fellow bowed and hurried away.
‘Now,’ Scrope turned and pointed a finger at Corbett, ‘listen, Sir Hugh. The Free Brethren of the Holy Spirit were French, one of those many groups who wander the face of God’s earth preaching the freedom of religion. Their name is legion. They accept what they like of Holy Mother Church’s teaching, then peddle their own theories. Some are harmless enough, others are highly dangerous, a real threat to the soul, emissaries of the Lord Satan.’
Corbett held his peace.
‘The Free Brethren arrived here at the beginning of Lent last year. Fourteen in all, they gave themselves biblical names. Their leaders, Adam and Eve, were presentable enough but took to lying like a bird to flying; golden-haired and golden-mouthed, they were most persuasive. I allowed them to settle in the village of Mordern. They offered labour in return for food.’
‘They executed a fine painting in my church, Sir Hugh, finished around the Feast of St Augustine. Vividly beautiful, isn’t it?’
A murmur of approval greeted Father Thomas’ words; this faded at a knock on the door. The two retainers brought in a battered arrow chest. They placed this in front of Lord Scrope, bowed and withdrew. The manor lord, with a flourish of triumph, kicked back the jutting lid with the toe of his boot. Corbett nodded at Ranulf, who crouched down and began to lift out the contents: two longbows, the yew still gleaming; two quivers of long ash arrows, iron-tipped, with grey goose feathers; two Brabantine crossbows; the same number of battle axes; daggers and Welsh stabbing swords, short and squat with wicked-looking points and serrated edges. Corbett picked up a bow about a man’s height in length. It was fashioned completely out of yew with a firm cordgrip and stringed with powerful twine. He twanged this, pulling it back slightly as he repressed his own nightmares about the bloody havoc these longbows had wreaked during the King’s campaign in Wales: men pierced through by arrows from such powerful weapons, deadly enough to bring down a mailed warhorse and its armoured rider. A master bowman could loose ten shafts in the space of a few heartbeats. He put the weapon down and, with his foot, sifted amongst the others.
‘They’re new,’ he murmured, ‘but according to all the evidence, they were penniless. Moreover, they landed at Dover …’
‘Precisely.’ Scrope’s tone was almost a jeer. ‘They carried letters from the cardinals at Avignon, sealed and dated over a year old.’ He turned and snapped his fingers. Brother Gratian handed over a leather pouch; Scrope emptied the contents and handed the tattered scrolls to Corbett. The clerk unrolled these and studied them closely. They were yellowing and fingered with age, though they still carried the purple seal of the curial offices at Avignon. Issued under the name of Cardinal Caetani, they were the usual licences granted to such wandering groups, asking that the Free Brethren of the Holy Spirit be allowed safe passage.
‘The port reeves of the Keeper of Dover,’ Corbett murmured, ‘would see these. They’d search their baggage, find no weapons or contraband and allow them through the gates.’ He paused. ‘As far as their religion was concerned,’ he added drily, ‘I am sure the good fathers at Avignon were not fully appraised of the Free Brethren’s attitude to the Church’s teaching on certain sensitive matters. So,’ he concluded, ‘how did they buy these weapons? How did they obtain the silver needed?’
‘Or did someone else supply them?’ Ranulf asked.
‘And for what?’ Corbett mused. ‘But,’ he pointed at Scrope, ‘you only found these weapons after your attack on the Free Brethren?’
‘No, no, no.’ Scrope smiled, shaking his head. ‘Brother Gratian, tell them what happened.’
‘By late autumn,’ Brother Gratian leaned forward as if he was a preacher in his pulpit lecturing his congregation, ‘rumours were rife about the activities of the Free Brethren. Horrid allegations were levelled about their lechery, their lack of honesty, their deceit. Moreover, they were openly preaching doctrines rejected by our Church. Anyway, I went into the forest of Mordern, to the village there, to reason with the Brethren, to ask them to restrain themselves, even to clear the accusations laid against them.’
‘And did they respond?’ Corbett asked.
‘No.’ Gratian shook his head. ‘More’s the pity, Sir Hugh! They just mocked and ridiculed me. Their mood had changed. I didn’t like it. They were not hospitable. True, they offered no violence, but they refused to obey. Now, outside the deserted church there’s a headstone, long battered by the rain and weather. As I left the meeting, I noticed how it had been recently used as soldiers do to sharpen their blades. When I came back, I informed Lord Scrope.’
‘I immediately became suspicious.’ The manor lord took up the story. ‘Sir Hugh, stories were rife of deer being poached, of quail and pheasant being brought down. One of my verderers found an arrow embedded in a tree trunk. So I decided to investigate further. I sent my huntsmen into the forest with strict instructions to watch and observe the Free Brethren. Now for most of the day they went about their usual mischief,wandering into Mistleham or the farms around. Occasionally they’d congregate in Father Thomas’ church. They were, to all appearances, harmless enough except for those stories, but I maintained a strict watch. Eventually one of my verderers reported that he’d espied them practising archery deep in the forest, and from what he reported, they were skilled at loosing and often hitting their mark. One suspicion begets another. I had them more closely watched. Towards the end of October, Adam, their leader, left the community and journeyed towards the coast. He visited Orwell, where he frequented a tavern, the Lantern Horn, being closeted with the captain of a small cog, Robert Picard.’
Corbett glanced up. ‘I’ve heard that name.’
‘He is a well-known smuggler, contraband as well as people who wish to leave or enter the kingdom without licence. When this was reported back to me I was intrigued. Here was a group of men and women sheltering on my lands, causing disruption, and the subject of foul allegations. They were not what they pretended to be. They were well armed, possibly preparing to attack this manor then flee to seek passage at an Essex port and go beyond the seas. Why? They had been in England for over six months and spent most of their time in Mordern, close to here. I reasoned they’d discovered my wealth, perhaps even heard stories about the Sanguis Christi. They plotted to attack Mistleham Manor, Corbett. I have a right to defend what is mine. Moreover, I am responsible for the King’s peace in the area. The Free Brethren were thieves, lechers and heretics.’
‘Rumours,’ Father Thomas interjected. ‘There are always rumours about this or that.’
‘But sometimes true!’ Claypole snapped. ‘My daughter Beatrice, my only daughter, she was much taken by one of the group, a young man called Seth. I did not like him. She would seize any opportunity to escape from the house and meet him, either in town or on its outskirts, even in the forest itself. What did he have to offer, what did he want except to slake his own lust?’
Corbett sensed the hatred and anger in the mayor’s face and voice, a man deeply insulted by the Free Brethren.