Master Henry Claypole stood in the embrasure of the great bow window of the guildhall in Mistleham overlooking the marketplace and stared down at the ice-covered cobbles. A fresh dusting of snow had fallen. Master Claypole likened that to God’s grace sprinkled out to cover the dirt and foulness of the deeds of men. The mayor of Mistleham had slept poorly. He’d organised the main search of the manor lands but found no indication of where the Sagittarius had been. Some of those who had accompanied them even claimed the horn had been blown from behind the walls. He’d returned to the manor to find Lord Oliver in a foul mood. Corbett was determined to go to Mordern, and Claypole and a company of town soldiers were to accompany him. Corbett was to be watched! The arrival of the King’s men had deeply disturbed Claypole. Corbett was dark and brooding like some falcon on a branch, coldly surveying both the present and the past, whilst the other one, Ranulf, with his bright red hair, neatly combed and pulled tight into a queue at the back of his neck, long white fingers constantly caressing the hilt of his dagger, green eyes darting, taking in everything, lips twisted in a half-cynical smile … Claypole had met such men before, who were fully aware of their power. Yet Ranulf was different. He was eager to exercise it whatever the consequences. He and Corbett were two justices come to probe hearts and minds. Claypole quietly cursed Lord Scrope. He was the root and cause of all this. He simply did not know when to call an end, to walk away, to say he had had enough and wanted no more.
Claypole stared at the mist trailing about. It was still dark; even the busiest of traders had yet to stir, so all was quiet. He glared down at the empty marketplace. He recalled massing thereso many years ago, ready to enter St Alphege’s to prostrate himself and take the cross. So long ago, so innocent, so free of sin, and now what? He always tried to forget Acre: the raging fires, the horrid roll of the enemy kettle-drums, their green banners flapping in the dry wind, the shrieking battle cries, the terrible news of how the walls had been breached and they must fall back. Scrope shouting at them where to go. Gaston lying wounded in the infirmary. Claypole’s dreams were disturbed by the chaos that had ensued. The final days as the sky above Acre became lighted by the fiery missiles of the Saracens, their white-robed dervishes, scimitars and daggers rising and falling like the blades of reapers. Scrope’s desperate gamble to flee the impending nightmare. Yet they had escaped! They’d returned to England to be hailed as Christ’s warriors, Crusaders, men of faith who’d shown themselves true to their vows. They’d also, Claypole reflected, returned very wealthy, the result of Lord Scrope’s plundering of the Templar treasury. For a while all had been quiet, peaceful, and very enjoyable. Master Claypole had settled down and married the daughter of a goldsmith, using his marriage to climb even further up the ladder of preferment. A happy marriage, he reflected, a simple-minded girl, merry in bed, who had produced a daughter, Beatrice, whom Claypole loved above all things. A happy, quiet time living on the fat of the land, until those Free Brethren had arrived.
At first Claypole had been dismissive, yet even he had been taken by them, especially young Eve with her oval face, beautiful eyes, and long blond hair falling down to her shoulders. He recalled the guilty pleasure during the festivities at the cherry fair. A balmy Sunday evening; Vespers had been sung. Claypolehad found himself alone with her, distant from the rest, deep in the cherry orchard. He’d drunk deeply of claret; he’d stroked and caressed her breasts, ripe and full, loosened from her bodice, whilst she had pressed her lips against his face and whispered all sorts of sweet things as they lay together like lovers. Afterwards Claypole had tried to pay her, but Eve had just laughed mockingly, saying his coins weren’t worth what she had given him. How sauce for the goose was good for the gosling. He didn’t know what she meant until he heard the whispers after the morning mass or at meetings here at the guildhalclass="underline" how his Beatrice was much taken by young Seth. He’d watched his innocent daughter like a cat would a mousehole. He found to his horror how she would slip from the house early in the evening, saying she was going to meet this person or that, but he learnt the truth. Beatrice was meeting her lover in the orchard. Rumours milled about. Then Lord Scrope, that dark shadow across his life, had summoned him to the manor to show him the warnings, to whisper about the danger the Free Brethren posed …
Claypole, agitated, rubbed his mouth. He dared not cross Scrope – if the manor lord died without heir, Claypole intended to press his suit. Scrope had never told him the truth but kept it dangling like a lure on a string. Had Alice de Tuddenham been validly married to him? If so, Claypole was his legitimate heir. Yet how could he prove that? The blood registers covering the time of his birth had gone missing from the parish chest. Was that Scrope’s work? Or Father Thomas, who claimed he’d never seen them? Or Dame Marguerite, who’d always resented his claims? Why didn’t Scrope tell the truth, or was that how he wanted it? To lure hisso-called illegitimate son into nefarious schemes such as dealing with the likes of Le Riche? Despite the warmth, Claypole shivered. Now that was dangerous. Scrope’s greed might still trap them in a charge of treason.
‘Sir?’
Claypole, startled, looked over his shoulder. The captain of the town guard stood waiting, dressed in half-armour. He said the men were assembled in the courtyard below, horses harnessed and ready.
‘Sir, we should leave now!’
Claypole sighed, picked up his cloak and put it about his shoulders, snapping the clasp shut, easing the war belt around his waist. Only the dead waited for them at Mordern, yet he had to be careful! He glanced through the window. A horseman had ridden into the square and was now dismounting. Master Benedict had arrived. It was time to be gone. Claypole went down to the guildhall yard, nodded at the captain of the guard and stood on a stone plinth.
‘We are to go out to Mordern this morning. We have unfinished business,’ he declared. ‘You know the King’s men are here. The corpses of the felons we killed must be given honourable burial or burnt; either way they will disappear.’ His words were greeted with silence. He noted the sombre looks and whispers as he grasped the reins of his horse and mounted. This was a highly unpopular task. He’d warned Scrope about it from the start. They should have buried the corpses and forgotten about them. Now they had to return in cold blood to where hot blood had been spilt, lives extinguished like the wick of a lamp. He gathered the reins and dug in his spurs, urging the horse forward.The gates of the guildhall yard swung open. Claypole and the others cantered out, the clatter of their horse’s hooves reassuring him with a sense of power. They crossed the marketplace. Jackanapes, in his tawdry refinery, was, as usual, sitting near the horse trough close to the church. The beggar man jumped up as Claypole approached, running towards him, leaping about, hands extended.
‘Master Mayor, Master Mayor,’ he cried. ‘I have news!’
Claypole reined in and stared at this frantic figure, face all wan with cold, eyes dancing with madness, mouth gaping to show half-chewed food.
‘The Sagittarius has come again,’ Jackanapes shouted. ‘I know he is here. I wait for my reward.’ He’d hardly finished when the shrill blast of a hunting horn shattered the silence of the marketplace. Even those beggars sleeping in the dark nooks and crannies shook themselves awake and crawled deeper into the shadows. Again the blast of the horn. By now Claypole’s men were stirring, turning their horses, swords half drawn, seeking out the danger. A third blast. Claypole dismounted hurriedly, trying to keep the horse between himself and any possible assassin. He heard the twang like the strings of a harp being plucked, followed by the whistle of the darting shaft. A scream startled his horse. Claypole stared in horror at Jackanapes, who was now staggering back, an arrow shaft embedded deep in his chest. The madman tried to keep his balance, hands flapping, face jittering, mouth opening and shutting even as the blood spurted out. Another arrow sliced the air, followed by the gargle of a man choking on his own blood. The mayor moved his horse. Jackanapes had been the sole target. The poor fool had slumped to his knees, a shaftthrough the side of his throat completing the work of the other deep in his chest. Jackanapes stared dully at Claypole, lips parted, mouth dribbling blood, then he pitched forward on his face, twisting in his death throes on to his back.