‘Master.’ Ranulf grasped him by the shoulder and spun him round, then drew him close, his green eyes like those of a cat, cold and hard. ‘Do not do that again!’ he whispered. ‘For the love of God, master, have I not told you, you are a King’s man! Walking along a lonely country trackway! We are surrounded by enemies on every side and you wander as witless as a pigeon!’
‘Ranulf is right,’ Chanson piped up. ‘Especially out here inthe country, master, where all sorts of beasts and dreadful creatures lurk.’
‘Shut up!’ Ranulf snarled.
Corbett was glad of Chanson’s interruption. He winked at the Clerk of the Stables, took away Ranulf’s hand and clasped it between his own.
‘Ranulf, I apologise. I become lost, brooding in my own thoughts. I wandered away. Even before those outlaws stepped out from the thicket, I realised I had done a stupid and dangerous thing.’
‘But they weren’t just outlaws, were they?’ Ranulf asked.
‘No, they weren’t,’ Corbett agreed. ‘They wanted the Sanguis Christi. God knows who they were. It has opened the possibility that there might be more than one Sagittarius!’ He grinned. ‘Now my two stalwart companions have come to the rescue, what danger can afflict us?’
Corbett kept up the brave front, but as soon as he was back in Mistleham Manor, he excused himself, went up to his chamber and sat on the edge of the bed. Then he moved to a stool in front of the fire, pulling off his gauntlets and his boots, warming his hands and feet, closing his eyes and quietly reciting a prayer of thanks. Ranulf came up with a platter of food and drink. Corbett sipped at the bowl of hot pottage from the kitchens, where they were preparing the funeral feast.
‘Master, I leave you to your thoughts.’
‘To look after the Lady Hawisa?’ Corbett spoke over his shoulder.
‘Master, that’s my business; your safety is ours and the King’s. I beg you not to do that again.’
Corbett gave him assurances and Ranulf left. Corbett sat staringinto the flames, wondering who those three strangers were. He tried to recall every word and gesture. They were not assassins; they truly meant him no harm. They simply wanted something. He wondered what would have happened if Ranulf and Chanson had not emerged. He recalled the wall painting in the church, the carving on that headstone in the cemetery. Slowly, surely, he was gathering the pieces of the mosaic. He must gather some more. He recalled Master Plynton, a wandering artist who visited Leighton manor. Plynton had executed a small mosaic for the village church just near the baptismal font, the head of St Christopher and that of the infant Christ. Corbett had watched fascinated as the skilled craftsman had assembled the coloured stones. Jumbled together they made no sense, but as Plynton put them in place, a beautiful picture began to emerge. This puzzle was similar, though the conclusion would be horrid and dreadful. The face of an assassin, a murderer, who, if Corbett could prove he or she was guilty, must hang.
Corbett heard sounds from downstairs. He sighed, put on his boots, took off his war belt and walked to the door. He would go down, observe the pleasantries, but before the day was out, he must tell Lady Hawisa and all the rest what was planned for the morrow.
10
Nor would they, without the advice of their ecclesiastical superiors, submit themselves to secular Judges.
Corbett had his way. The commission of oyer and terminer met just after the Angelus bell the following morning. Corbett took over the great hall, its high table and the dais being transformed into King’s Bench. He displayed the royal warrant, the King’s seal giving him the power ‘to act on all matters affecting the Crown’. Across the warrant he laid his sword. Nearby stood a crucifix flanked by two candles. Three high-backed chairs were placed behind the table. On the wall above these Corbett displayed the King’s standard, emblazoned with the royal arms, golden lions against a scarlet and blue background. Before the table stood a row of stools. Near the dais was a lectern bearing a Book of the Gospels bound in reddish leather with a gold-embossed cross on its front; those summoned would take the oath on that. The fire had been kindled, candles lit, cresset torches flickered. Physician Ormesby had agreed to be included and was taken up to the chapel to render the oath.
Corbett had announced the sitting during the funeral collation the night before. Lady Hawisa had immediately demurred. Allthree priests voiced their clerical status, pleading benefit of clergy, which Dame Marguerite supported, whilst Master Claypole claimed the rights of the town. Corbett swiftly silenced the protests, pointing out how the King wished to establish the truth about so many issues, including the murder of a manor lord, not to mention the theft of royal property, whilst a refusal to cooperate could mean the Court of Chancery might find it difficult to approve Lord Scrope’s will. Corbett even hinted that, as in certain cases, such a delay might take years. They all agreed, more or less, the three priests, Brother Gratian particularly, reminding Corbett that they were clerics and could not be tried before a secular court.
‘You’re not being tried,’ Corbett retorted, ‘but asked the truth about certain questions.’
Father Thomas replied that he had no difficulty with that and the three priests promised to present themselves before the commission when summoned. Corbett also issued warrants under a subpoena to the town hangman, boatman Pennywort and others of Scrope’s retinue. He began with these. Pennywort could add little to what he had already said. He took the oath standing at the lectern beside Chanson, then recited what had happened. Corbett thanked him, asked Chanson to return Pennywort’s belt then gave the boatman a coin to stand on guard outside the door whilst Chanson secured the inside. The rest of Scrope’s retinue could say little about the night their master was murdered. Corbett quickly established how these men had sheltered amongst the trees around their fire. The weather had been freezing cold. They had been reluctant to leave the warmth yet they individually swore that the jetties, the boat and the approaches to the reclusoriumhad been carefully watched, and they had seen no one or anything untoward. Verderers and huntsmen were questioned about the Free Brethren practising archery in Mordern woods, but memories were indistinct and no one could say who actually saw what. Corbett then summoned the hangman Ratisbon, a dirty, dishevelled character dressed in faded leather breeches and jerkin over a tattered grimy shirt. His hair was lank and greasy, moustache and beared badly clipped, his face rubbed raw by the wind, his watery blue eyes reluctant to meet Corbett’s gaze. He was unable to read, so had to give the oath word by word after Chanson had repeated each one at least twice. He slouched down on the bench, glared at Corbett then looked away.
‘I’ve done nothing wrong,’ he mumbled. ‘All I do is the odd job here and there. The mayor pays me to execute felons, so I do.’
‘Do you remember John Le Riche, the thief who plundered the King’s treasury at Westminster?’