Lord Scrope’s funeral day proved to be bitterly cold. No snow fell, but an icy breeze stung the faces of mourners as they processedsolemnly down the trackway, across Mistleham market square and into St Alphege’s. Scrope’s coffin rested on an ox-drawn cart, covered with thick purple and gold drapes and surrounded by altar servers carrying funeral candles capped against the breeze. The harness of the oxen gleamed a golden brown. Black banners flapped alongside standards, and pennants emblazoned with Scrope’s arms. On top of the coffin rested the dead knight’s crested helmet, shield, war belt and sword. The air grew sweet with the incense smoke trailing from swinging thuribles as Father Thomas vigorously chanted the psalms for the dead. Scrope’s body had lain in state in the manor chapel, so once they entered the welcoming warmth of the nave, the townspeople drew aside to allow the funeral cortege to pass. The requiem mass began immediately, celebrated by Father Thomas, assisted by Brother Gratian and Master Benedict as deacon and subdeacon respectively. Lady Hawisa led the mourners, escorted by Dame Marguerite and Ranulf, on whose strong arm she securely rested. They took up position just within the rood screen, whilst Corbett stood outside in the nave. Once everyone was settled, he moved back into the transept, his gaze drawn by that vivid wall painting done by the Free Brethren.
Father Thomas intoned the introit, leading the choir with the powerful words ‘Dona ei requiem aeternam, Domine … Eternal rest grant to him, oh Lord.’ The rest of the mass followed its usual beautiful rhythm. The gradual hymn was sung, its sombre words echoing around the nave: ‘Dies irae, dies illa – oh day of wrath, oh day of mourning, see fulfilled Heaven’s warning, Heaven and Earth in ashes burning.’ Corbett joined in lustily, then listened to the epistle and gospel being read, followed by Father Thomas’ briefhomily on the final resurrection. The priest’s words cut through the incense-filled church where the carvings of saints, angels, demons and gargoyles gazed down in stony silence. The solemn part of the mass then ensued: the consecration, the distribution of the singing bread and the final benediction. Corbett only half participated, his attention fully taken up by that wall painting: the colours used, the strange symbols and plants: the scene of a man lying in bed, the banqueting chamber, the flight of Judas, and that cross dominating the Valley of Death displaying the five wounds of Christ. He felt a tingle of excitement – was this truly a drawing of the Fall of Babylon or something else?
‘Let him be taken to a place of rest and not fall into the hands of the enemy, the evil one …’ Father Thomas’ strident voice caught Corbett’s attention. The coffin was now being blessed with holy water, incensed and prayed over. The funeral party lined up; the coffin was raised and taken out through the corpse door into a bitterly cold God’s Acre. Snow clouds were gathering. The cemetery looked bleak and stark. A scene from purgatory, Corbett decided as he watched the coffin being lowered into the ground. Father Thomas continued his litany of prayer. Corbett leaned on a headstone and gazed around the various memorials. He was still thinking about the wall painting when his attention was caught by a headstone of recent origin to one ‘Isolda Brinkuwier, spinster of this parish’. On either side of the woman’s name was a carved stone medallion illustrating the Annunciation, when the Angel Gabriel asked the Virgin Mary to be the Mother of God.
‘Nazareth in Galilee,’ Corbett whispered to himself. ‘Where God kissed Mary.’ He thought of the refrain etched on the sacristy wall of that lonely church. Rich, shall richer be, Where God kissed Mary inGalilee. ‘I wonder,’ he murmured, ‘si mortui viventibus loquntur – if the dead do speak to the living.’
Father Thomas had finished. The funeral party began to disperse, first the curious amongst the townspeople then the party from the manor. Corbett glimpsed Chanson mingling with the servants. Ranulf was still being supportive of Lady Hawisa, who was dressed completely in black, a veil drawn over her face. She walked away from her husband’s grave, both hands grasping the arm of Corbett’s companion. The bells of St Alphege tolled, the signal that another soul had gone to God blessed and hallowed. Corbett wondered what judgement awaited Scrope, before deciding to make his own way back to Mistleham Manor. He left the cemetery by the wicket gate, going across the square, ignoring the dark looks and grumbles of the townspeople he passed. In their eyes the King’s man was busy, but it seemed as if God was going to settle matters rather than the King at Westminster. Corbett ignored them. To show he was not cowed, he paused on a corner of the marketplace where a wandering story-teller had set up his stall. He’d hobbled his donkey and driven his standard, as he called it, into the dirt, the pennant fluttering from it indicating which way the cold breeze was blowing. Children and young people were gathering round. The story-teller, dressed garishly in motley rags, was reciting well-known stories about ‘Madam Lyabed’ and ‘Madam Earlybird’ as well as ‘Madam Gobblecherries’, characters whom his audience would recognise as people perhaps living in their own town or even along their own street. Corbett stopped and stared at the story-teller’s worn face; such a man might be one of his own agents wandering the streets and lanes of England. He did not recognise the face, so he moved on out of the town and up the deserted trackway.
He was only a short way along when he began to regret his decision. The line of trees on either side rose stark and black, the undergrowth still covered by an icy canopy, the sheer loneliness of the place becoming all the more oppressive after the noise and bustle of the town. To lighten his spirit Corbett began to sing a Goliard chant: ‘I am a wandering scholar lad full of toil and sadness. Often I’m driven by poverty to madness. Literature and knowledge I fain would be learning …’ He paused and laughed softly at the doleful words. He was about to continue when three figures slipped like shadows on to the trackway, hooded and visored; they raised their longbows, arrows notched, pointing at Corbett. The clerk stopped, his hand going beneath his cloak for his sword. He tried to control his seething panic. This was his nightmare, to be trapped, killed on a lonely road. Would it be here that he’d receive his death wound? Would it be here where he would rise on the last day?
‘Friends,’ he called out, ‘what business do you have with me? I’m the King’s man.’
‘We know that, Sir Hugh, we simply want something from you.’
‘Then ask, friends. Why not pull back your hoods, lower your visors, speak like Christian folk. Why do you threaten the King’s man on the King’s highway? That is treason, punished immediately by death.’
‘We mean you no harm, Sir Hugh. We ask you this: the Sanguis Christi, do you have it on you?’
‘Do you think I would wander these lanes with a precious relic belonging to the King in my pouch?’ Corbett spread his hands. ‘Search me! I have no such item, and before you ask, nor do I have it at Mistleham Manor. You’ve heard the news. Lord Scropeis dead, his treasure coffer raided; the Sanguis Christi is missing. I do have a letter from the King expressing his anger at what has happened.’
The archer on Corbett’s right lowered his bow, as did the one in the centre, but the one on his left still kept aim.
‘Friends,’ Corbett walked forward, ‘you’ve asked me a question, so I’ll ask you one. What is the Sanguis Christi to you, why do you demand it of me?’
He received no reply. The archer to his left still had his bow drawn, arrow notched, the barbed point directed at Corbett’s chest. The man in the centre spoke swiftly, some patois Corbett had never heard before. The bow was lowered. The man in the centre was about to walk forward when Corbett heard shouts and yells behind him, and a crossbow bolt came whirring over his head, smacking into a tree. He whirled round. Ranulf and Chanson were hastening towards him, the Clerk of the Green Wax already fitting another bolt into the arbalest. When Corbett glanced back, all three assailants had disappeared. He took off his gloves and wiped the sweat from his face, then stared down at the trackway, trying to control his breathing. His stomach was pitching and he felt as if he wanted to vomit, but by the time Ranulf and Chanson reached him, he’d regained some composure.