‘God rest them. These have been dead a long time,’ he muttered.
‘And the stench?’ Ranulf asked.
Corbett sifted the dust with the point of his sword.
‘Herbs thickly piled on but now decayed. Rosemary, withered hyacinths, cypress leaves and new shoots. This is an old charnel house, Ranulf, a place of gloomy midnight. All that is missing,’he glanced over his shoulder, ‘is a screeching owl, a cauldron of bubbling mandrake, and it could be a warlock’s cavern, but no.’ He sheathed his sword. ‘The truth is that the soil outside is hard to dig, hence the village’s eventual decay. Accordingly, every so often the inhabitants of Mordern would empty God’s Acre for fresh burials and bring the bones of their long-departed down here. I suspect the church above was built on something more ancient still, when Caesar’s people ruled this island.’ He walked round, pausing near the ledge, and, in the light of the lamps, studied the ground. ‘Food and wine?’ He picked up scraps of bone and hardened bread. ‘Why should anyone eat or drink in such macabre surroundings?’
‘Unless they were hiding.’
‘John Le Riche,’ Corbett replied. ‘And richer still? I wonder if that verse applies to him. Did the Free Brethren hide him here? Which,’ he got to his feet, ‘brings us to a more pressing problem, Ranulf. If you were a member of that Westminster gang, fleeing through the wilds of Essex with treasures stolen from the King’s own hoard, you would be very careful, surely?’
‘Of course.’
‘And you wouldn’t proclaim the fact. Yet Le Riche, cunning enough to break into the royal treasury, astute enough to escape the King’s searchers, finds sanctuary in Essex but then becomes a babbling infant. He actually turns up at Mistleham guildhall offering to sell a dagger belonging to the King. A dagger not of English origin but Saracen, which would certainly arouse suspicion. Master Claypole and Lord Scrope are not telling us the truth, but that will have to wait. What I do suspect is that this crypt was used to house Le Riche; he hid here, the Free Brethrenfed him. They probably also stored their weapons here against the curious. They made mistakes … No, no,’ he shook his head, ‘no they didn’t, at least not then.’
‘What do you mean, master?’
‘Scrope’s story – that a verderer was wandering in the woods and by chance came across some of the Free Brethren practising archery – that doesn’t ring true; it’s not logical, is it? Here are a group who were planning a secret attack, yet practised with their weapons in the greenery where verderers, foresters, beggars, wandering tinkers and chapmen could see them.’ Corbett pointed down the chamber at the pile of bones. ‘They were collected,’ he said, ‘and piled there deliberately.’ He went back and moved the bones away to reveal the great beam embedded in the wall beyond. ‘Ranulf, bring the lantern closer.’ His companion did so. ‘Look.’ Corbett pointed at the countless fresh marks in the thick dark beam.
‘Archery,’ Ranulf whispered. ‘A target post.’
‘It’s possible.’
‘Sir Hugh,’ Ranulf gestured at the far end of the crypt, ‘they came down here and used this central pillar as a target. If they could hit that in this murky place, they would strike anything in God’s own daylight.’
‘So,’ Corbett declared, ‘if they were practising their archery down here, and I think they were, why go out in the greenwood where the world and his wife might come upon them? One lie after another, eh, Ranulf? We will have to start again. Question Scrope and Claypole closely, show we are not the fools they think we are …’ He paused abruptly. ‘Did you hear that, Ranulf?’ He put a finger to his lips, then the sound came again: the long, chilling blast of a hunting horn.
‘It could be Master Claypole or Robert de Scott,’ Ranulf said hurriedly, ‘calling in their men.’
‘I doubt it!’ Corbett declared.
They hastened up the steps into the church and out of the nave. As they did so, another horn blast trailed away. Corbett stared round. The funeral pyre was almost prepared, the corpses lying between layers of kindling, bracken and dried wood. One of the comitatus was already pouring oil but the rest were scattering, looking for arms. Claypole came round the church towards them, his white face all sweat-soaked.
‘Sir Hugh, the Sagittarius is here.’
‘Who called him the Sagittarius?’ Corbett asked.
‘Sir Hugh, that’s the name given to him.’
‘But that’s not the name, is it?’ Corbett glimpsed Father Thomas emerging from the trees with a pile of kindling in his hand. ‘That’s not the name that was told to Father Thomas when he was visited in his church.’
‘Sir Hugh, what does it matter?’
‘Yes, yes, I agree.’ Corbett drew his sword and stepped out of the porch. ‘Ranulf, for the love of God tell those men to use their wits. If the Sagittarius is here, the church is their best defence.’
Both clerks went out calling to the escort to fall back. Corbett tried to ignore the thought of that nightmare killer, bow drawn, arrow notched, slipping through the trees searching for a victim. For a while there was chaos and confusion. Corbett organised some of the men to watch the treeline, whilst the others fell back to the church.
‘Nothing!’ Robert de Scott called out. ‘I can see nothing at all.’
Corbett chose ten men and led them out into the trees,spreading out, moving forward towards what he considered to be reasonable bowshot, a perilous walk through the coldest purgatory: trees and gorse soaked with ice and snow, all shrouded by that heart-chilling silence. Eventually he summoned the men back, strode out of the trees and ordered that the pyre be lit. Sacks of oil drenched the wood and bracken, the corpses hidden between. Father Thomas blessed the pyre once more, sprinkling it with holy water using the asperges rod and stoup he’d brought. One Pater and three Aves were recited, then the torches were flung. Everyone withdrew as the flames roared and plumes of black smoke curled above the trees.
‘They’ll see it in Mistleham,’ Master Claypole declared.
‘Then they’ll know what is happening,’ Corbett replied. ‘God’s judgement, and that of the King.’
6
We wish a hasty remedy for this outrage.
Lady Hawisa was tending her extensive herb garden in its walled enclosure at the manor. Despite the snow and ice, the grey skies and sharp air, Hawisa loved to come here, to be by herself. She had already visited the kitchen, inspecting the trenches of beech-wood, the pewter jugs and drinking horns as well as the knives, fleshing blades and cutters of the cooks before moving to scrutinise the ovens and hearths. She wanted to ensure all was clean and safe, including the ratchet used for the huge cauldron and the bellows for encouraging the flame. Everything had to be neat and precise. Lady Hawisa prided herself on that: being busy like a nun marking the hours, moving from one task to another. She’d also visited the butteries and store chambers where the bitter fruit of last autumn’s harvest was stored, stirred and mixed into potted jams, jellies and preserves. Finally she’d supervised the preparation of the evening meal, taking special responsibility for the blancmange of veal, mixed with cream, almonds, eggs and some of these herbs all dried and chopped. Lady Hawisa did not want to think, to give way, to reflect on the passions seething in her like black smoke trapped in a stack. She smiled at the thoughtof Ranulf-atte-Newgate then blushed. Ranulf was so handsome, so courteous!
‘Ah well,’ she whispered. ‘I wonder when the clerks will return from Mordern.’
A royal messenger carrying letters for the sheriff at Colchester had stopped at the manor with a chancery pouch for Sir Hugh, issuing strict instructions that it must be given to the clerk as soon as he returned. Lady Hawisa abruptly startled at the cries from a maid standing in one of the casement windows overlooking the herb garden. She followed the direction of the girl’s gaze and saw the dark cloud of smoke rising above Mordern forest like some demon, shapeless but swift, as if eager to escape into the grey sky.