Corbett heard the door open and Ranulf calling his name. ‘I must go.’
‘God’s peace stay with you, Sir Hugh. I’ll see you tomorrow morning for the Jesus Mass at the manor. Dame Marguerite and I have business with Lord Scrope. He has invited us to the reclusorium, so we’ll meet again soon. Remember, I’ve heard your confession and you’ve heard mine. I have nothing more to add.’
Corbett joined Ranulf out on the porch.
‘Master, I did as you asked. On each side of the square run needle-thin alleyways, really nothing more than holes between the houses.’
‘And the houses themselves?’
‘Well, as you know, some are four, five storeys high. Some are lived in, some are not. Others are single-room tenements used by travelling chapmen and tinkers. One thing I did learn, many of those tenements are actually owned by Lord Scrope; he draws rent from them.’
Corbett nodded. ‘What I suspect, Ranulf, is that our Sagittariusmay have a bow and quiver of arrows disguised or hidden away, or,’ he shrugged, ‘he may have stored his weapons in one of those garrets or rooms.’
‘Not to mention stairwells, Sir Hugh, and a host of windows. Some are mere arrow slits open to the wind, others are casements that can be unlocked. I stood at a few of these; they give a good view across the marketplace. For a skilled archer, it would not be difficult to bring down three or even more men.’
‘And all those killed were from Lord Scrope’s retinue,’ Corbett declared.
‘They were with us at Mordern this morning. The killer knew they’d adjourned to the taverns; he simply waited for the right time.’
‘Did you question anyone?’ Corbett asked.
‘Servants, maids, boys, but they could tell me nothing. Master, those houses are gloomy and shadow-filled; you could hide an army there. Oh, by the way,’ he added, ‘Chanson claims he’s freezing to death. If we don’t return soon, we’ll find nothing but a pillar of ice.’
Corbett nodded. ‘We’ve finished here, Ranulf. Father Thomas will visit the manor early tomorrow morning. I suppose he has to return here to sing the requiem masses for those slain. God’s Acre at St Alphege’s will soon become full.’
They went out into the now silent marketplace. The day’s trading was completely finished. Stalls had been put away. Lantern horns gleamed from hooks on door posts, candles glowed in windows. A dog barked, beggars flittered like shadows in the poor light. Chanson had led their horses over to a tethering pole while he and some beggars grouped around a pitch cask in which somegood citizen had kindled a fire to keep them warm during the night. Chanson muttered and groaned about how cold and hungry he was, but soon cheered as Corbett swung himself into the saddle, saying that they’d return to Mistleham Manor for some good food, ale and, perhaps, even another goblet of that mulled wine. They turned their horses to leave. Corbett was glad he’d been shriven; as they made their way across the icy cobbles into the dark lane leading back to the manor, he sensed he was now moving to the heart of this murderous mystery.
8
He along with others, was accustomed to enter houses of different people at twilight and plunder them.
Once he’d returned to Mistleham Manor and made himself presentable, Corbett went into the Antioch Wing of the house where a servant led him to the abbess’ chambers. Despite the roaring fire, the warm hangings and shuttered windows, Dame Marguerite was still garbed in her thick black gown and cloak, her sweet face framed by a white wimple. She was sitting in a high-backed chair before the fire, her feet resting on a stool. Master Benedict, dressed in a cambric shirt and dark blue hose, feet pushed into slippers, a sleeveless gown over his shoulders, sat next to her, a book on his lap.
‘Ah, Sir Hugh.’ Dame Marguerite made to rise, but Corbett shook his head. ‘Master Benedict was reading from The Romance of the Rose. I so like the story. A work of art, don’t you think, Sir Hugh?’
Corbett nodded in agreement.
‘Master Benedict, please?’ the abbess whispered.
The chaplain rose, smiled at Corbett and pulled across another chair, positioning it between himself and Dame Marguerite. Corbettsat down. For a while the usual pleasantries and courtesies were exchanged. Dame Marguerite looked composed but Master Benedict was still pale and pinched from the horrors he’d witnessed.
‘I’ve given Master Benedict two goblets of claret,’ Dame Marguerite remarked, following Corbett’s gaze. ‘My brother is truly a man of blood, Sir Hugh. Perhaps Master Benedict should not have gone there. But look, I thank you for coming.’ She paused as Corbett sipped from the goblet of white wine Master Benedict served. The chaplain also offered a platter of comfits, which he refused.
‘Dame Marguerite, I have some questions for you. Perhaps it is best if I ask them before you tell me the purpose of this meeting.’
‘Of course.’ She smiled. ‘No, no, Master Benedict, please stay. You are my confessor, you know everything I say and do.’ She laughed prettily. ‘Even think! Sir Hugh, your questions?’
‘You call your brother a man of blood; was he that before he went to Acre?’
‘You can answer that yourself. My brother had a fearsome reputation as a warrior, in Wales and elsewhere, a man who relished the fury of battle. He took to fighting like a fish to swimming. He did not come back changed, just harder, angrier.’
‘And he brought back treasures?’
‘Yes, he brought back a hoard of precious items looted from the Temple, what he called the spoils of victory.’
‘And Master Claypole too?’
‘Yes, he profited. Strange you mention his name, Sir Hugh, because that’s the reason for my asking to meet you.’
‘But first you, Dame Marguerite. You’re so different from your brother.’
‘God knows why!’ The abbess laughed, leaning back in her chair. ‘When we were children I was a little frightened of Oliver. He could be violent, but we had a cousin, Gaston, he kept Oliver in check. The three of us would play. Our estates were much smaller than they are now, but where this manor house stands, the Island of Swans, the fields and meadows around, they’ve always been in my family. Our parents were distant, rather cold. Father was always busy on king’s business. Our mother died young so we were left to the care of good servants as well as to our own devices. Mistleham, Mordern Forest, the deserted village, the Chapel of the Damned, they became our places of dreams where we fought dragons, the infidel or the King’s enemies. Always the three of us,’ she commented, ‘but life changes, children cease to be innocent. Oliver and Gaston went off to the King’s wars, Wales, Gascony and the Scottish border. Then they came home. Father had died, profits from our estates had fallen off. I admit, and so would Lord Oliver, that he journeyed to Outremer not only to fight for the cross but also for his own purse. By the time he came home I too had changed.’ She drew a deep breath. ‘While he was away I decided to enter St Frideswide as a Benedictine nun. Life continued to change. Oliver became what he wanted to be and I am what God wants me to be.’