‘Lord Scrope, I asked a question. Indeed, I have so many questions to ask you.’
‘Father Thomas,’ Scrope replied testily. ‘He first used the word Sagittarius.’
‘When?’
Both men looked at each other.
‘When? Lord Oliver, Master Claypole, I want an answer. I am losing patience. The King’s own subjects have been killed, whilst you show little respect for the corpses of men who served you.’
‘I’ll see to my own dead, Corbett.’
‘Pax et bonum …’ Corbett whispered. ‘I wish you well, but watch your tongue, Scrope. You can speak to me here man to man or I’ll summon you to Westminster. One question: why the Sagittarius? Father Thomas also hinted that such an assassin has been here before.’
‘He’s a prattling priest.’
‘A good priest, Scrope. So do you and Master Claypole wish to appear on oath before the King’s justices?’
‘Tell him,’ Claypole grated, turning his face against the biting breeze. ‘For God’s sake, Lord Oliver, tell him! What does it matter now?’
‘Sir Hugh!’
Corbett turned.
Master Benedict, neat and precise in his long woollen robe, cowl pulled full across his head, came striding across.
‘Sir Hugh, Dame Marguerite would like to speak to you.’
‘Master Benedict, give your mistress my kindest regards. Tell her I shall do so when I return to Mistleham Manor.’
‘Sir Hugh.’ Master Benedict took a deep breath and bowed. ‘If you can, sir, remember me at court.’ The chaplin wrung his hands. ‘Here in Essex, this violence, the bloodshed … Sir Hugh, that is one of the reasons I entered the priesthood. I detest what is happening here. I do not wish to carry a sword, pluck a bow …’
Master Benedict was still shocked by what he had witnessed.
‘Go back.’ Corbett gently patted him on the shoulder. ‘Do not worry.’ He smiled. ‘I shall do what I can.’
The chaplain, thanking him profusely, walked away. Corbett turned back.
‘Now, Lord Scrope, Master Claypole, the Sagittarius?’
‘I returned here in 1292.’ Scrope measured his words. ‘I settled down. All was peace and harmony, but in the autumn of the following year, for a few weeks I was stalked, hunted, Sir Hugh, by a bowman. Oh, he must have loosed six or seven shafts at me. He always missed.’
‘At no one else?’
Scrope smiled thinly. ‘No, Sir Hugh, just me. Father Thomas called him the Sagittarius; he warned his parishioners from the pulpit that whoever was responsible was committing a great sin.’
‘But the Sagittarius never did any harm, he never struck you?’
‘No, Sir Hugh, then it stopped as mysteriously as it began.’
‘And you never found out who or why?’
‘Of course not. If I had found the culprit, I’d have hanged him! Sir Hugh, you said you had many questions, so ask me, though I do not have many answers. I have told you what I can. I know nothing else. I cannot help you. I have agreed to return the Sanguis Christi and the dagger. What I have done here I did for my own protection and for the good of the Crown. I kept the peace.’
‘And this Sagittarius,’ Corbett persisted, ‘do you think he is the same person as the last?’
Scrope just pulled a face. Corbett stepped closer.
‘Whatever you say, Lord Oliver, or you, Master Claypole, I tell you this, not as a King’s clerk, but as one soul speaking to another. This violence will continue blazing like a fire; only the truth can douse its flames.’
Corbett spun on his heel and walked over to St Alphege’s Church. A group of young men and women sheltering inside the porch informed him how the three corpses had been taken to the death house. Father Thomas was busy tending them there with the Guild of Magdalene, a group of pious townswomen dedicated to such tasks as collecting the dead, dressing them and preparing them for burial. Corbett nodded. He asked about the painting done by the Free Brethren. One of the young men led him in along the transept and pointed to the fresco.
‘Vividly done,’ he said. ‘Look, sir, the colours.’
‘And the story?’
Corbett’s guide screwed his face up in concentration. ‘Father Thomas did tell us. He preached about it and used the painting to explain. Ah, that’s it! The Fall of Ba-’
‘The Fall of Babylon.’ Corbett, staring at the fresco, finished the word. ‘Of course, thank you very much.’
He examined the painting closely. The theme had been cleverly depicted, the colours specially chosen to stand out in the poor light, particularly the reds and greens. He studied it curiously, moving from scene to scene. The great dragon in the sky; the towers and walls of the city; the attackers in their white cloaks; a man in bed; a banquet scene; the flight of Judas and other traitors down theValley of Death; the strange symbols and plant-like shapes decorating the fringes of the painting. He broke from his study as voices further down the church near the front door began to sing a hymn.
‘Oh pure Virgin! Come ye with tapers of wax. Come forth here and worship this child both God and man, offered in his Temple by his mother dear.’
Corbett smiled and glanced down the nave. Despite the hideous killings out in the marketplace, the young men and women in the porch were still intent on preparing for the Feast of Candlemas. He walked back and watched the troupe rehearse their play: Simeon and Anna the prophetess waiting for Mary and Joseph to bring the baby Jesus into the Temple. They finished with a rendering of the Benedictus. Corbett asked if he could participate; they cheerfully agreed and gathered around the baptismal font to rehearse. Corbett sang the first verse so he could set the pitch and tone; the others replied with the second stanza, the choristers staring shyly at this King’s man who seemed so interested in what they were doing. Eventually the cadence and tone were agreed and Corbett led them in song, opening with the beautiful line of the hymn: ‘Blessed be the Holy Child, Mary’s own son …’
The choir joined in lustily. Corbett soon forgot the dangers, chanting the verses with the rest. He was so pleased with the result, he asked if they would sing it a second time, handing over a piece of silver for them to share afterwards. The choir quickly agreed. Once again Corbett became lost in the rise and fall of the beautiful plainchant. After they had finished, the choir made their apologies but said they must go, adding that Father Thomas would not be returning to give them a blessing. They left, closing the door behind them. Corbett crouched at the foot of a pillar and stared down thenave. Darkness was creeping in. Candle glow from the chantry chapels and the lady altar provided meagre light. He glanced towards the transept and glimpsed those wild figures on the battlements of the wall painting. A cold night mist was seeping under the door. Corbett shivered. He was approaching his nightmare, one that always haunted him on expeditions such as this, that he’d be caught vulnerable by an arrow or knife speeding through the darkness. He shook himself and got to his feet. The Christmas season was now over; perhaps if Father Thomas did return, he would hear Corbett’s confession and shrive him. Corbett returned to the painting, studying it carefully, marvelling at its ingenuity and imagination. He felt a pang of pity for the young people who had done this, now nothing but black ash in that dark, damned forest at Mordern.
He heard the corpse door open and whirled round. Father Thomas came striding across.
‘Sir Hugh, one of the young men you were singing with,’ the priest stepped out of the shadows, ‘he came and said you were here. What can I do to help?’
‘I admire the painting.’ Corbett gestured at the wall. ‘You must be very proud of it?’
‘I am.’ Father Thomas smiled.
Corbett stepped closer. The light was poor and he wanted to watch this priest’s eyes. ‘It’s a pity,’ he said, ‘they were killed.’
‘Aye.’ The priest sighed. ‘And if Lord Scrope has his way, the painting will disappear. He has agreed to refurbish both St Alphege’s and a great deal of St Frideswide’s Convent, perhaps contrition for his sins.’