Corbett glanced at Master Benedict, who sat like a scholar in a schoolroom, all patient and attentive.
‘And what do you think of this, sir?’
‘I understand my lady abbess’ concerns. I too share them. Nonetheless, as I’ve said to you, Sir Hugh, Mistleham is not my manor or the place I want to be. I believe that should I be appointed to some benefice in London, perhaps gain preferment in the royal service, then if, as she says, that evil day comes, the lady abbess would have-’
‘Friends at court?’ Corbett asked.
‘Precisely!’ Master Benedict pulled a face. ‘Sir Hugh, when you return to London, when this business is finished, perhaps you canraise the matter of Claypole’s secret desires and ambitions before the King.’
‘I have heard of similar cases.’ Corbett closed his eyes. ‘I cannot quote chapter and verse, but even the King himself cannot set aside the law. If Master Claypole can prove he is Lord Scrope’s legitimate heir, there is little anyone can do.’ He opened his eyes and smiled. ‘But of course, you want more, don’t you?’
‘Yes, Sir Hugh, I want my brother to live.’ Lady Abbess swallowed hard. ‘He must live. I pray for his safety. What I would like to do, through you, is to challenge Master Claypole about these rumours whilst my brother is still alive, to establish whether or not he is Lord Scrope’s legitimate heir.’
‘Of course,’ Corbett whispered. ‘I now understand why you wished to see me, Lady Abbess. If Henry Claypole is summoned to the King’s council, put on solemn oath and asked to produce whatever proof he has whilst Lord Oliver is alive and has no heir, your brother can rebut or support such claims. Of course, once your brother is dead, the one person who knows the truth is silenced for ever. But surely you have raised this issue with your brother, the dangers you and Lady Hawisa face?’
‘I have, but my brother just scoffs at me, and says that time will take care of everything. Sir Hugh, I do not put my trust in time but in God and you. The sooner this business is done, the better.’
Corbett finished his wine and made his farewells. He rose, bowed to both Dame Marguerite and Master Benedict and went out closing the door behind. He’d reached the top of the stairs when a shadow slipped out of a window embrasure, so swift, so unexpected, Corbett stepped back, hand going round for his dagger.
‘Pax et bonum, Sir Hugh.’
Corbett relaxed. ‘Brother Gratian, I beg you, in the dark, at a time like this, in a place like this, you should be more prudent about stepping out of the shadows.’
‘I wanted to see you, Sir Hugh. I have a favour to ask. You’ll be finished here, surely? Can I accompany you back to London?’
‘You’ll be carrying the Sanguis Christi?’
‘Of course!’
‘Why the haste, Brother? What about your care for the spiritual life of your patron?’
‘Sir Hugh, such a matter, between him and me, is covered by the seal of confession.’
‘I will answer your question, Brother, when you answer mine.’
‘Which is?’
‘Were the Free Brethren such a threat to Holy Mother Church and the King’s peace?’
‘I’ve told the truth, Sir Hugh.’
Corbett shook his head.
‘No you haven’t, Brother! I don’t think anyone has told the truth. I bid you good night …’
Corbett watched as Father Thomas finished the Jesus Mass with the final Gospel, the first twenty-two verses from St John beginning: ‘In principio erat Verbum – in the Beginning was the Word.’ At the phrase ‘the Word was made flesh’, Corbett, together with the rest of the small congregation in the manor chapel, genuflected and kissed his thumb as a mark of respect. He rose and stared round. Ranulf, Chanson, Lady Hawisa, Dame Marguerite and Master Benedict were present, with servants and retainersfrom the manor. Brother Gratian was undoubtedly celebrating his own dawn mass in his chamber whilst Master Benedict, according to Dame Marguerite’s hushed conversation before mass, had spent most of the night in the manor infirmary. Corbett rubbed his own eyes. He’d slept well but fitfully, his rest plagued by nightmares.
After the mass, Corbett had a few words with Lady Hawisa, then joined Ranulf and Chanson in the buttery for bread, cheese, butter and light ale. He hadn’t decided what to do that day. He discussed with Ranulf the possibility of convoking a formal court of oyer and terminer, acting as Justices of the King and summoning people on oath. He considered the possibility of the priests, Master Benedict, Brother Gratian and Father Thomas, pleading benefit of clergy, that they answered to the church courts rather than those of the King. Nevertheless, he thought such a way forward was possible. One thing he had decided on: to interrogate Lord Scrope again and try to establish logical answers to his questions. He and Ranulf were about to leave the buttery when he heard a distant clanging. A groom sprang to his feet.
‘What’s the matter, man?’ Ranulf asked.
‘It’s Lord Scrope,’ the fellow replied. ‘That’s the alarm from the reclusorium!’
Corbett and Ranulf joined the rest as they streamed from the buttery across the yard, through the Jerusalem Gate and down the icy, slippery hill towards the Island of Swans. Corbett paused halfway and took in the scene in the grey morning light. On the jetty Father Thomas was busy clambering from a boat; on the other side of the lake Dame Marguerite was busy beating the gong hung outside the reclusorium, the door to which was flung open. Corbett hurried down, now and again slipping on the ice, Ranulffollowing behind. Once they’d reached the jetty, Ranulf turned, telling the servants to stand back. Corbett grasped Father Thomas, who was still labouring to catch his breath.
‘What is it?’ he asked.
The priest looked haggard, wet-eyed from the cold. ‘Sir Hugh, it’s Lord Scrope, he’s been murdered. You’d best come.’
Corbett clambered into the boat; Ranulf followed with Father Thomas. The boat itself was small and bobbed dangerously. The oarsman told them to sit down. He too was pale-faced, startled at what he’d seen. He pulled on the oars and the wherry cut its way through the cold water to the far side.
‘Be careful,’ the oarsman said as he pulled the oars in and slid his boat alongside the landing place. Corbett and Ranulf clambered out and walked up the steps to where Dame Marguerite was standing just inside the doorway. The lady abbess was whey-faced, eyes enlarged, and could hardly speak as she led Corbett into the reclusorium. The clerk immediately stared around. The windows were shuttered behind their drapes of velvet and leather. The room smelt of wine and fragrant beeswax; two or three candles still spluttered against the darkness. Corbett was aware of richness and luxury, costly items, rugs on the floor, heavy tapestries hanging against the walls, beautifully carved stools, tables and chairs, a large bed in the far recess, light glinting off silver and gold ornaments. He also noticed the window immediately to his right. Its drapes had been torn away, the wooden shutters smashed.
‘It’s where we forced an entry,’ Dame Marguerite whispered.
Corbett held his hand up. The reclusorium reeked of wealth, but something else lurked in the gloom, an evil Corbett hadpursued all his adult life: sudden, brutal murder. He had to go forward to see, to inspect the horror waiting deeper in the darkness. He crossed over to the dark shape outlined in the poor light, slumped in the great high-backed chair. Lord Scrope sat there, dead hands grasping its sides, his head slightly back. The look of mortal horror made his ugly face more gruesome in death, eyes popping, mouth slightly opened, nose and lips crusted with blood. In his chest, thrust deep to the hilt, was the assassin’s dagger, the King’s property, the faded red ribbon still attached to the handle.
‘By Satan’s feet!’ Ranulf murmured.