Corbett glanced at the chaplain. He sat head down as if listening intently. Corbett felt just for a moment a profound sadness about the abbess, even though she was half smiling at the memories she’d evoked.
‘And Gaston?’
The abbess just shrugged. ‘From what I gather, he was sorely wounded at Acre after the walls were stormed. He was taken tothe infirmary where he died of his wounds. Oliver and Master Claypole did what they could.’
‘But isn’t it strange,’ Corbett insisted, ‘that only two from Mistleham returned? Lord Scrope and his squire Master Claypole.’
‘Sir Hugh, in some communities no one returned. Only a few went out, some died on the voyage, others of illness or wounds. My brother himself was wounded, as was Master Claypole.’
‘But he came back a rich man.’
‘Oh, definitely.’
Corbett startled as Master Benedict sprang to his feet, hand to mouth, and rushed towards the door.
‘Poor boy.’ Dame Abbess stared at Corbett. ‘What he saw this morning has deeply upset him.’ She waited for a while, until Master Benedict returned, wiping his mouth on a napkin.
‘I am sorry,’ he apologised, ‘my stomach is queasy.’ He retook his seat. ‘This talk,’ he whispered. ‘Acre, the slaughter in the dragon courtyard, hideous killings in Mordern, threats and menaces.’ He shook his head. ‘I did not think it would be like this.’
Dame Marguerite asked whether he wanted anything to eat or drink, but Master Benedict simply held up a hand.
‘Sir Hugh,’ the abbess lifted the ave beads wrapped around her fingers, ‘I’ve come to ask you for two favours. First, when you return to London, please mention Master Benedict to the King. He must enter the royal service, he deserves preferment. He is a very good priest, a most erudite clerk, but I’ll leave that to you. Second, however, a much more serious matter. I call my brother a man of blood, and so he is. He is now being threatened whether rightly or wrongly, but he is still threatened. Even the King is displeased with him. The Sagittarius has appeared. In myview, that murderous archer is pursuing vengeance for those deaths at Mordern. I am sure you would agree with me; there’s no other logical explanation. What I believe is that sooner or later my brother is going to meet his God. Scripture says that those who live by the sword die by the sword. I fear for my brother, I truly do.’
‘Madam,’ Corbett replied, ‘how does that concern me? I am here to serve your brother’s interests as best I can. You quote scripture: what a man sows, his soul reaps. Are you saying your brother is in mortal danger?’
‘My brother is always in danger,’ she replied. ‘He is the heart of the problem. Our family, Sir Hugh, have owned this land since the Conqueror. We are the last Scropes. I am a virgin dedicated to God, my brother is married but has no legitimate heir. If he dies suddenly without issue …’
‘Then surely the lands would go to his wife, Lady Hawisa?’
‘I am deeply concerned,’ the abbess cut in, ‘as is Master Benedict, with whom I’ve discussed this on many occasions. If my brother dies without heir, true, his estates would go to Lady Hawisa. I would receive my portion; some would also go to Master Claypole and others. However, you must have heard the rumours? You must have looked at Claypole and my brother and seen the likeness?’
Corbett just stared back.
She took a deep breath. ‘Some people claim,’ she continued, ‘that Master Henry Claypole is a by-blow, the illegitimate son of my brother. Many, many years ago, before he took to fighting and serving in the King’s forces, my brother became enamoured of a certain Alice de Tuddenham. She was the daughter of a local wool merchant. Alice became pregnant shortly before she married a local trader, and the rumour persists …’
‘That Claypole is your brother’s son rather than that of Alice and her husband?’
‘Precisely, Sir Hugh. Now, my brother Oliver and Master Henry Claypole have always been close. I am sure that in his will Lord Oliver has remembered Henry Claypole’s good and faithful service. However, I am deeply concerned that when my brother dies without a legitimate heir, even though his estates should go to his widow, Master Claypole may well argue in the King’s courts that he is not only my brother’s son but a legitimate one.’
‘How can that be?’ Corbett was now genuinely puzzled.
‘There are rumours,’ the abbess continued, ‘that Lord Scrope secretly married Alice de Tuddenham, which makes her second union invalid according to canon law. Both she and her husband have now gone to their reward, whatever that may be. Now, Sir Hugh, according to the law of the Church-’
‘Henry Claypole could prove that he is the legitimate heir of Lord Oliver,’ Corbett declared. ‘And, by right of that, claim his estates, yet to achieve that, he will need proof?’
‘I have visited Father Thomas,’ Dame Marguerite declared. ‘We have both searched for the blood books, the marriage registers, whatever documents the church might hold. However, for the period in which my brother may have married Alice de Tuddenham, the blood registers have mysteriously disappeared.’
‘You think Master Claypole has stolen them?’
‘He’s an ambitious, avaricious man, Sir Hugh. He has fingers in many pies in Mistleham. It is possible that he stole them, keeping them against the evil day. At the same time, perhaps, the absence of those blood books is just a mishap. My brother andAlice de Tuddenham may have married in another church, another parish, though I doubt it.’
‘Have you questioned your brother on this?’
‘On a number of occasions over the years, but he has always shrugged it off. He claims he is not responsible for the sins of his youth.’
‘And Lady Hawisa?’
‘I have never spoken to her directly about the matter. I feel a kinship for her, a virtuous woman. She’s probably heard the rumours but nothing definite.’
Corbett stared into the fire. He had heard of similar cases coming before the chancery courts where an illegitimate child argued that he was in fact born within wedlock and, according to the law of both church and state, should receive a man’s inheritance.
‘Is your brother frightened of Master Claypole? Is that why he has favoured him, supported him in his appointment to mayor?’
‘Over the years their relationship has changed,’ Dame Marguerite conceded. She paused and stared round the comfortable chamber as if searching for a memory. The fire crackled and sparked. Outside, the wind had picked up, flapping at the shutters. Corbett could hear the creak and groan of the timbers of the manor, so full of riches yet also a place of dark memories, grudges and grievances. He was right to be cautious, to be wary. An intricate game was being played out here; more blood would be spilt.
‘Yes,’ Dame Marguerite nodded, ‘I would say their relationship has changed. Claypole was always the servant; sometimes now he regards himself as an equal, as if he has …’
‘A claim against your brother?’
‘Exactly, Sir Hugh.’
‘Is Lord Oliver frightened of Master Claypole?’ Corbett repeated.
‘My brother is a warrior. Publicly he is frightened of no one, but of course you haven’t visited the reclusorium?’
Corbett shook his head.
‘I’ve heard about the first Sagittarius,’ he declared, ‘the bowman who appeared, what, some ten years ago, and loosed shafts at your brother, though none ever found its mark.’
Dame Marguerite smiled. ‘Yes, that frightened Lord Oliver, frightened him deeply, but there are other terrors lurking in his hard heart, like wolves in the darkness of the trees. He had been back scarcely two years when the reclusorium was built. He’d always liked the Island of Swans. When we were children he and I would go across there, turn it into what we called our own little kingdom. Now it is his refuge, so yes, my brother is frightened, perhaps of Henry Claypole or of others, shadows from the past.’