5
They stayed there two nights … before advancing with arms towards Westminster.
Claypole gave vent to his fury and fear, yelling at his men to scatter and search even as Corbett, Ranulf and others from the manor galloped into the square. Claypole stared at the leading riders. It was like a dream. For a moment, just a brief while, those two royal clerks on their great destriers, cloaks fluttering about them, cowls up, their horses moving slightly sideways in an aura of misty sweat and hot breath, seemed like the Angels of Death entering Mistleham. Claypole shook himself from such a doom-laden dream and gazed around. Already, despite the early hour, the commotion had aroused the many households in the warren of chambers, rooms, garrets and attics fronting the square. Shutters were flung back, candles and lanterns glowed at windows, doors creaked open, dogs were barking. Father Thomas, a stole about his neck, hastened out of the Galilee porch of his church and, slipping and slithering, hurried across. He stared piteously at Claypole and Corbett’s retinue before crouching beside the fallen man. Jackanapes was not yet dead; his legs trembled, his feet in the pathetic old boots still shifted on the cobbles.
‘Jesu miserere,’ Father Thomas whispered. He stretched himself out on the slush and whispered the Absolvo Te, the final absolution, into the dying man’s ear, then opened the small pyx and forced the host between Jackanapes’ lips before swiftly anointing the dying man’s brow, eyes, lips, hands and feet.
Corbett, astride his horse, cloak gathered about, crossed himself and whispered the Requiem. Ranulf followed suit even as he turned in the saddle to gaze swiftly around the square. Claypole’s men were now returning. A search was futile, Ranulf realised that. Slayings like these were not new to the sons of Cain. In London the same happened every so often. A killer on the loose, some skilled archer, a veteran, his soul rotten with old grievances and ageing grudges, hating life and eager for death, would deal out summary judgement. Sometimes from a church tower or steeple, the dark mouth of a stinking alleyway or the window of a deserted tavern. Corbett caught Ranulf’s attention and raised a hand as a sign that he should stay.
‘He is gone.’ Father Thomas clambered to his feet, eyes brimming with tears. ‘Why should anyone kill poor Jackanapes?’
‘Two shafts.’ Corbett leaned over the corpse. ‘That’s not happened before, has it?’ He gazed around. No one answered. ‘One to the chest and one to the throat. The killer wanted to make sure Jackanapes was killed.’
‘So swift.’ Master Benedict forced himself through the throng. ‘Master Claypole,’ the chaplain turned to the mayor, ‘I was waiting for you here. I swear the marketplace was deserted. I saw no one. You came down, you rode towards Jackanapes, then that horn.’ He paused, gave the reins of his palfrey to a bystander and walked over to grasp the bridle of Corbett’s mount. ‘That’s how it was,Sir Hugh.’ The chaplain stared fearfully up at him. ‘That horn, followed by the whistling shafts, isn’t that true, Master Mayor?’
Claypole took a deep breath. Old memories were pressing deep upon him, images from a foul nightmare. He was truly fearful, yet he must hide it. ‘Lord Scrope did not come?’ he asked.
‘Apparently not,’ Ranulf snapped.
‘Then we must go …’
Master Claypole paused as Brother Gratian arrived, perched precariously on a palfrey that came trotting across the cobbles, the Dominican’s white and black robe flapping about. He clumsily pushed his mount through the bystanders, reined in and glanced down at the corpse.
‘God have mercy,’ he intoned. ‘God have mercy on us all.’
‘If we deserve it,’ Father Thomas added. ‘Look …’ He briskly summoned forward some of his parishioners, inviting them by name, issuing instructions for Jackanapes to be taken to the corpse house on the far side of God’s Acre. He then wiped his hands on his gown, muttering that he would join them, and hurried away.
Corbett decided not to wait, but turned his horse’s head and made his way across the market square, up the side streets and ice-covered runnels towards the trackway that led across frozen fields to the dark forest circling the deserted village. Master Claypole pushed his horse alongside but Corbett ignored him. The clerk could make little sense of what was happening; he would just listen, observe, recollect, sift and analyse. Silence was best. Corbett tried to recall Maeve resplendent in her fur-trimmed nightgown, her rich hair tumbling down framing that beautiful face, those eyes full of mischief. He took a deep breath and glanced back. Father Thomas had joined them, urging his hack alongsideMaster Benedict. The rest, apart from Ranulf and Chanson, were retainers or town levies, a dark host of men, a black cloud moving across the snow-covered fields. Ahead of them a line of trees marked the edge of the forest. Steel-grey clouds pressed down as if they wished to cover the land criss-crossed here and there by hedgerows or long high mounds marking the end of one field and the beginning of another. A flock of birds mobbed an owl caught out in the daylight. Corbett glimpsed a fox, belly low, loping across a field.
The silence grew oppressive, despite the muttered conversations of the men. Father Thomas chanted the Dirige psalm for the dead. Chanson quietly teased Ranulf. The Principal Clerk of the Chancery of the Green Wax truly feared the desolate, forbidding countryside. Chanson was whispering stories about Drac, a hideous monster that lurked in the forest and came out seeking its prey especially on a sombre day like this. Corbett smiled grimly to himself. This was similar to marching in Scotland or along those Welsh valleys; the longer the oppressive silence lasted, the worse it became. He took a deep breath and, much to the surprise of everyone, wistfully sang a favourite marching song about a beautiful girl in a tower. The words were familiar, the tune simple to catch. Within a short while, other voices were raised in song, the melody echoing across the bleakness, bringing some warmth, dulling fears about the future and the memory of Jackanapes in his death throes. Once the singing ended, Corbett reined his horse in and turned to Claypole, who was staring curiously at him.
‘There’s nothing like a song, Master Claypole. Now, this village, you know the way?’
Claypole pointed to the trackway snaking between the trees.
‘There is only one path in, Sir Hugh.’
‘And Mordern,’ Corbett asked, ‘why is it deserted?’
Claypole pulled down the rim of his cloak, eager to impress this clerk.
‘About ninety years ago it was totally destroyed in the civil war between the King’s grandfather and the barons. A massacre took place around the old church; the place became cursed. Some people claim Lord Scrope’s ancestors sowed the earth with salt so the survivors had to move away.’
‘And you?’ Corbett asked.
‘Oh, I think the village lay too deep in the forest. Its inhabitants lacked the means to fell the trees and plough the land. So they simply used the war as an excuse to move away.’
‘Lord Scrope allowed the Free Brethren to shelter there?’
‘Why not?’ Claypole declared. ‘Others have. There is very little we can do about it: wandering tinkers, traders, even the occasional outlaw, moon people. Lord Scrope allows them to shelter and snare the occasional rabbit for the pot. As long as they don’t start poaching or hunting venison, he leaves them be. In the summer it’s different, the children go out there to play. When I was a lad I used to follow Lord Scrope there with his sister Marguerite and their cousin Gaston.’