‘We all have reparation to make.’
‘Is that true, King’s clerk?’
‘It is true, priest. You asked if you could do anything for me. I would like you to shrive me, hear my confession.’
Father Thomas looked surprised, but agreed. He led Corbett up the church and gestured to him to kneel on the prie-dieu before the mercy seat. Then he went to the sacristy and returned with a purple stole around his neck. He sat down on the chair, turning his face away from Corbett.
‘In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti …’
Corbett blessed himself and intoned the formula.
‘Father, it is three months since I was last shrived. These are my sins …’
Father Thomas tried to hide his surprise and concentrate on what Corbett was saying. It was virtually unheard of for such a leading royal clerk to make his confession to a simple parish priest. Nevertheless, the more the priest listened, the more perturbed he became. Corbett he recognised as a just man, trying to pursue the right: the clerk turned in on himself, confessing not so much sins as all the opportunities to do good he had ignored. How he’d showed irritation to his wife and children, impatience to others in the Chancery where he worked, a lack of compassion towards his companions. Father Thomas never interrupted, just nodded occasionally as his own apprehension deepened. If this man could criticise himself so clearly, so accurately, what would happen when he turned on the inhabitants of Mistleham, himself included, with his keen wit and sharp eye? If this clerk had his way, all the evil mystery swirling around the town and manor would be resolved. Once Corbett had finished, Father Thomas sat in silence for a while, then turned to face the clerk squarely.
‘You shouldn’t belabour yourself, Sir Hugh. You should also,’ he smiled, ‘think of the good you’ve done. That is what being shrived is about: recognising your true state before God. For your penance, what can I give you, what would you like to do?’
Corbett smiled. ‘Let’s sing, Father. The day is ending, bloody work has been done. I came into this church to be shriven, to be cleansed.’ He stared round at the dancing shadows and pointed to the lady altar. ‘Do you have a good voice, Father?’
‘I once sang in the royal chapel.’ The priest laughed.
‘Come then.’
They both went and stood in the lady chapel, staring up at the statue of the Virgin. For a few moments they practised, then both men intoned the Salve Regina, the Church’s evening hymn to the Virgin.
‘Salve Regina, Mater Misericordiae, Vita Dulcedo et Spes Nostra – Hail Holy Queen, Mother of Mercy, Hail Our Life, Our Sweetness and Our Hope …’
Father Thomas was a lusty singer with a powerful voice. Corbett thoroughly enjoyed himself, not only in giving praise but in purging himself of the terrors of that day. After they’d finished he lit three tapers, one for Maeve, one for Edward and one for Eleanor, and then, feeling guilty, a fourth for the King.
‘I must be gone,’ Father Thomas declared, but then paused as the door was flung open and Lord Scrope, accompanied by Brother Gratian, came marching up the nave like anger incarnate.
‘The corpses are in the death house?’ Scrope made no attempt at courtesies.
‘You know they are.’ Father Thomas gestured at the door on the far side of the church.
The manor lord stared round. ‘I promise you this, Father, by midsummer the renovation work will have begun. I’ll give you a church to be proud of.’
‘I am proud of it now.’
The manor lord didn’t even both to answer, but continued on. Brother Gratian, his bony white face shrouded by a deep cowl, nodded courteously and followed him out.
‘I had best go with him,’ Father Thomas murmured.
‘No, Father, I don’t think you should.’ Corbett caught him by the sleeve.
The priest glanced up in surprise.
‘Father, you served in the King’s forces in Wales?’
‘You know I did.’
‘And you met Lord Scrope there?’
‘Yes.’
‘You were a priest in the royal chapel?’
‘I was.’ Father Thomas tried to keep the nervousness out of his voice.
‘And you decided to abandon Crown preferment to become a faithful pastor, a good shepherd?’
‘I strive to do my best. I was in the war in Wales. I saw people murdered, killed in more ways than any man could imagine. Afterwards I felt sick. What does it profit a man if he gains the whole world but suffers the loss of his own soul? I was party to that. I had to make reparation. I met Lord Scrope at the beginning of the campaign, years before he went to Acre. He promised me that if I wanted, he would use his influence, persuade the Crown to appoint me to a benefice here.’
‘But you did not like him?’
‘No, I didn’t.’
‘Do you have a longbow, Father? Please, the truth, here before Christ.’
The priest turned abruptly and walked away. Corbett realised that he intended to return and did so a short while later, hurrying back with a longbow and a quiver full of arrows.
‘Of course, I keep it close. We live in violent times, Sir Hugh. A priest may have to protect himself, his church or his flock.’
‘And your aim is as good as ever?’ Corbett asked.
‘Lord, do you want to put me to the test?’
Corbett smiled thinly. ‘I’m no fool, Father. If you are trained in the longbow, you will eventually hit your mark.’
‘Why are you asking this, Sir Hugh?’
Corbett walked past the priest, paused, then turned.
‘The Sagittarius, the one who appeared almost ten years ago: you were that man, weren’t you, Father? You served with Lord Scrope in Wales. You saw him butcher Welsh prisoners, and when you arrived here, you saw him high on the hog, feasting himself, a man of blood acting the great lord. Isn’t there a psalm about God drawing back his bow and aiming at the wicked?’
‘What makes you think it was me?’
‘Oh,’ Corbett walked back, carefully measuring his footsteps, ‘a master bowman never misses, Father. Maybe once, but two, three times, no! The bowman of almost ten years ago was a man who wanted to frighten Lord Scrope. The only person who’d want to do that, at least according to the evidence, would be you. You called yourself the Sagittarius – God’s archer. It’s true, isn’t it, Father? You’ve heard my confession; now I’ll hear yours. What I have said to you is covered by the seal; what you say to me is also covered by the seal.’
‘I hate him!’ the priest whispered. ‘Sir Hugh, I felt guilty. I secured this benefice through his good offices, but I truly hate Lord Scrope. Yes, I was in Wales. A group of Welsh rebels, tired and hungry, came down from the hills carrying a cross, ready to surrender. Scrope was in charge of a vexillation of mounted archers and footmen. I was there. It was late in the evening, on a day like this, cold and bitter. They came into our camp barefoot and unarmed, one of them carrying that cross. Before anyone could do anything, Scrope had drawn his sword and moved amongst them, stabbing and hacking; others joined in. They’d seen their friends and comrades killed by the Welsh so they showed no mercy. By the time I’d reached that part of the camp they were dead, sixteen or seventeen souls, Corbett, young men, some of them mere boys, corpses awash with blood, Scrope leaning on his sword, the others holding axes, daggers, clubs, bloodied up to their elbows. I cursed him. I shrieked at him. You served in Wales, Corbett, you know what it was like. No mercy asked, none shown. A fight to the death.’ Father Thomas breathed in.
‘Afterwards, I left the royal service; I served in this village or that. Scrope is a strange man. Part of his soul is not yet fully rotten. He sinned but he wanted to purge himself. Anyway, he remembered me and I was invited back here.’ Father Thomas abruptly caught himself. ‘The people of Mistleham are good, decent and God-fearing. Oh there are individuals like Claypole and Robert de Scott, but you met those young men and women preparing the play for Candlemas. I enjoy serving them. Anyway, I was appointed just after Scrope returned from Acre. He came back more steeped in sin than ever. He brought treasures and waxed fat as the wealthy manor lord. He married Lady Hawisa, a true beauty. I’ll be honest.’He smiled. ‘We priests are supposed to be celibate, chaste in thought, word and deed, but Lady Hawisa …’ He shrugged. ‘I sometimes dream of her, my fair, fair lady. I was angry with Scrope, I recalled those corpses. He seemed to be gaining everything; no ill could befall him, living proof that Satan does look after his own. So I decided to frighten him. I brought out my longbow and, for a while, taunted, baited and terrified him. I realised I was doing wrong so I stopped. Yes, I was the Sagittarius. I preached against my own sin. I was the one who used that name, but I tell you this, Corbett.’ He grasped Sir Hugh’s hand and squeezed it. ‘Not in my nightmares did I ever imagine another Sagittarius would emerge, the archer of death, the bowman from hell!’