‘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.’