In the days following, Corbett decided against convoking his court of oyer and terminer so soon. He deemed it best just to observe and listen carefully for a while. Moreover, the manor was in mourning and Lady Hawisa still in shock, yet obliged to deal with all the funeral preparations. Lord Scrope’s corpse was hastily prepared for burial. Father Thomas, Master Benedict and Brother Gratian solemnly promised to sing chantry masses every day up to the final interment for the repose of his soul. The Dominican in particular became very busy. He held one copy of the tripartite indenture that laid out Lord Scrope’s will, the other two copies being held by Father Thomas in his parish chest and Scrope’s attorney in Mistleham. Corbett was sure that the manor lord must have kept his own master copy. This might well have been in one of the caskets or coffers held secure in the bed chest, yet no such manuscript was found. Corbett, recalling Father Thomas’ words about the blood registers, wondered if any manuscripts had been stolen from the reclusorium. According to rumour, Brother Gratian often mentioned the will, as if eager for the funeral preparations to be completed, loudly announcing that now Lord Scrope was dead, he must return to Blackfriars in London. Ranulf, very solicitous for Lady Hawisa, made his own careful inquiries about the will. Its clauses still had to be read, published and approvedby the Court of Chancery, though it seemed that the bulk of Scrope’s estates would go to his wife, with the most generous bequests to Master Claypole, Father Thomas, Dame Marguerite, Brother Gratian and Physician Ormesby.
The old physician himself cheerfully proclaimed the good news when he visited Corbett to report on what he’d discovered when he’d dressed Scrope’s body for burial.
‘The flesh was marked with old bruises and scars. Scrope was definitely a man of war, his skin bore ample witness to that. For the rest his right hand was stained with blood. He was definitely killed by one dagger thrust to his heart. I detected no signs of resistance, fresh cuts or blows. True,’ the physician spread his hands, ‘deadly nightshade was found in the wine. God knows why, as Scrope never drank a drop. And that, my royal clerk, is all I can tell you, except that the funeral is arranged for the day after tomorrow. A small service in the manor chapel followed by a procession down to St Alphege’s for the solemn high requiem mass. Our good manor lord will be interred for a while in God’s Acre whilst his tomb is built in the south transept of St Alphege’s, a beautiful table monument with an exquisite canopy.’ The physician smirked. ‘Few will make pilgrimage there! Lady Hawisa is much recovered.’ Ormesby bowed sardonically in Ranulf’s direction. ‘Your colleague and comrade has been a great source of help and comfort to her.’
Ranulf stared coldly back.
‘As far as the rest are concerned,’ the physician continued blithely, ‘Dame Marguerite, with her little shadow the chaplain, has taken up residence here. Lady Hawisa is distressed, so the good abbess has taken over the running of the manor. MasterClaypole looks thunderstruck, weighed down by all the cares of high office. Brother Gratian is impatient to leave but still insists on distributing the Mary loaves three times a week at the manor gates.’ Ormesby noticed Corbett’s surprise. ‘Yes, our good Dominican’s one Christ-like task. Anyway, Father Thomas is busy with funeral matters, the burials of those killed by the Sagittarius. I suppose it’s true what he says.’
‘Which is?’ Corbett asked.
‘Hell must surely be empty because all the demons have come to Mistleham. God be thanked,’ the physician rose to his feet, ‘the Sagittarius has not returned. Perhaps he’s finished his bloody work now that Scrope is dead.’ Ormesby made his farewells. Corbett thanked him and the physician left.
For a while the royal clerk just stared at the door.
‘Master?’ Ranulf asked.
‘Father Thomas’ mysterious visitor, the one who threatened Scrope: he called himself Nightshade, the same poison found in Scrope’s wine. The same sinister visitor ordered Scrope to creep to the market cross and confess his sins. He didn’t, so he was killed. Now Brother Gratian wishes to leave.’ Corbett stared at the table. The letters he’d received from the Chancery still lay there.
‘What are you thinking, master?’ Ranulf rose and placed another log on the fire. ‘By the way, that’s your job,’ he teased, turning towards Chanson, who was perched on a stool in the corner, busy whittling at a piece of wood.
‘I have another task for you, Chanson.’ Corbett beckoned him forward. ‘It’s simply this.’ The groom came over.
‘Master?’
‘Work at last,’ Ranulf whispered.
‘At least I’m not frightened of the countryside, Ranulf!’
‘Enough of that.’ Corbett pointed to the door. ‘I want you to mix with the servants, Chanson, but keep a very close eye on Brother Gratian. Every time he distributes the Mary loaves, go down with him, act as if you’re just gawping around.’
‘That won’t be difficult,’ Ranulf interjected.
‘No, no, listen,’ Corbett continued. ‘Just watch him distribute the loaves.’
‘What am I looking for, master?’
‘I don’t know.’ Corbett grinned. ‘But you’ll know when you see it. Come back and tell me.’
Corbett spent the rest of that day sifting through the evidence, but he could find nothing new. Now and again he’d leave his chamber and wander the manor. Chanson was gossiping with the other grooms, Ranulf was taking special care of Lady Hawisa during her mourning. Corbett smiled to himself. He knew what Ranulf was plotting. The Principal Clerk in the Chancery of the Green Wax was extremely ambitious; he had yet to decide which road to take: marriage to the likes of Lady Hawisa, or any other heiress who attracted his attention; or entry into the church, receiving clerical status and seeking preferment along that path. Other clerks did the same. Corbett’s colleague John Drokensford had remained a bachelor and accepted clerical status; rumour at court whispered that the next bishopric which fell vacant would be his. Corbett eventually decided to visit the manor chapel and, in its silence, sat and reflected on the problems facing him. He eventually concluded there was very little he could do, not until the funeral was over. He returned and closeted himself in his own chamber, writing to Maeve and the children.
The following morning, when a royal messenger came thundering up to the manor flecked with muddy snow and cursing the state of the roads, Corbett received more chancery pouches. Most of these were business reports from his spies and agents in various ports, such as a letter from the Mayor of Boulogne complaining about the infringements of the French. The pouch also included a personal letter from the King expressing his anger at Scrope’s death and his fury at the loss of the Sanguis Christi. Corbett simply tapped this against the table and put it to one side. Edward’s anger would have to wait. Finally there was a letter from Drokensford saying how he’d searched the records but had discovered little of note about the fall of Acre or Scrope’s involvement in it.
On the eve of the funeral Corbett summoned Ranulf and Chanson back to his chamber. The Clerk of the Stables had little to report except how Scrope was savagely disliked and people now hoped Lady Hawisa would be a more benevolent and kind seigneur. They also prayed that the Sagittarius, having wreaked his vengeance, would not re-emerge. People wanted to close the door on the past and get on with their lives. As for Brother Gratian, he had not distributed any Mary loaves but apparently intended to do so once the funeral was over. Corbett heard Chanson out, then turned to Ranulf, laying out his plans for the commission of oyer and terminer. He declared he would announce it at the end of the funeral banquet tomorrow, with Ormesby being sworn in as the third member of the commission.