Corbett smiled at Lady Hawisa’s bluntness.
‘If Master Claypole wants to try his case in the courts, then let him. I shall vigorously challenge any such claims.’
‘And before your husband died?’ Corbett asked. ‘He betrayed no anxieties?’
‘I did not know my husband’s business. He resented you being here and wished you were gone. He bitterly regretted having to hand over the Sanguis Christi. He believed the King had judged him unfairly over his treatment of the Free Brethren, but more than that? Lord Scrope was as much a stranger to me as he was to you. When he spoke it was about minor matters, the care of the manor, what the cooks were doing. He showed more concern for his horse and his dogs than he did for me.’ She paused. ‘Only one thing, and he mentioned it more as a source of irritation. The day before he died, Lord Scrope asked if I had noticed anything missing from the chapel. I said I hadn’t, what was he talking about? But that was his manner. He just glared at me and walked away.’
‘Something missing from the chapel, here in the manor?’
‘Yes, Sir Hugh. I still don’t know what he was talking about.’
‘Sir Hugh,’ Ranulf intervened, ‘I believe her ladyship has told us all she can.’
Lady Hawisa beamed at Ranulf, who just coughed and glanced away. Corbett studied the woman. Sometimes in court or during an interrogation he would scrutinise something that could not be put into a logical framework. If Lord Scrope was a mystery, so was Lady Hawisa. Was it because she had spent her long years of marriage living like a nun, hiding behind a veil against her coldhearted husband, or was she concealing something else? Nevertheless he sensed that he’d questioned her enough, at least for today. He rose, thanked her, and Lady Hawisa took her leave.She nodded at Ormesby, smiled dazzlingly at Ranulf and swept out of the hall. Corbett sat down, drumming his fingers on the tabletop.
‘You are hard, master.’
‘Ranulf, this is hard business. We are dealing with treason, murder and theft. Let us not forget why we are here. Lord Scrope, whatever he was as a man, was a manor lord holding his lands directly from the King. He also held certain goods which rightly belong in the royal treasury at Westminster. More importantly, a murderer prowls Mistleham; he has killed time and time again and might do so again. Our task is to resolve these mysteries. We’ll question Master Claypole next.’
The mayor swaggered up to the dais resplendent in his furlined civic robes, a chain of office round his neck, its gilt medallion shimmering in the light. He stood at the lectern, his mean face screwed up with annoyance. He placed one hand on the Book of the Gospels, lifted the other and gabbled the oath. Afterwards he took the chair directly opposite Corbett, one hand clutching the edge of the table, the other his beaver hat. He glared at Corbett as he wiped his mouth on the back of his hand.
‘Say it,’ Corbett rasped. ‘Come on, say your piece, Master Mayor! How you object to these proceedings. How you are a mayor of a town with its own liberties. How you object to being summoned here.’ He shrugged. ‘All nonsense! You either answer here or before King’s Bench in Westminster Hall. I assure you, Chief Justices Staunton and Hengham will have little patience with your petty claims.’
Claypole cleared his throat and waved a hand as if wafting away a foul smell.
‘Sir Hugh, your questions. I am here.’
‘Your service in Outremer?’
‘In 1290,’ Claypole gabbled as if reciting a poem, ‘we learnt how hard pressed the Christian kingdom in Outremer had become. Lord Scrope convoked a meeting of every able-bodied man in the nave of St Alphege’s Church.’
‘Yes, yes,’ Corbett intervened. ‘You went as his squire along with others; they never returned, you did.’
‘You are skilled with the longbow?’ Ranulf asked.
‘Of course!’ Claypole retorted, face all flushed. ‘As are many in Mistleham.’
‘Why did Scrope appoint you as his squire?’ Ormesby asked.
Corbett hid his smile. The rumours about Claypole’s possible parentage would certainly intrigue this inquisitive physician.
‘Why shouldn’t I be his squire?’
‘Is it true,’ Ormesby persisted, ‘and remember, sir, you are on oath. What you say can be used elsewhere either for or against you.’ He paused. ‘Are the rumours true that you are a by-blow, the illegitimate son of Lord Scrope?’
Claypole’s face suffused with rage, red spots of anger blotched high in his cheeks, eyes glittering, and for a moment Corbett thought he was going to rise and strike Ormesby.
‘Master Claypole,’ Corbett soothed, ‘we only repeat rumours. Are they true?’
‘No, they are not true.’ The mayor leaned against the table, glaring at Corbett. ‘They are not true because I am the legitimate son of Lord Scrope and Mistress Alice de Tuddenham, and I shall prove that.’
‘How?’ Corbett asked. ‘Father Thomas says the blood registers covering the year of your birth are missing. Do you have them?’
‘Do you think I would be sitting here if I did? No! I asked Lord Scrope about that. He believed Father Thomas stole or destroyed them.’
‘Why should he do that?’
‘Because Father Thomas hates me as he hated Lord Scrope. Do you think it’s a coincidence, Corbett-’
‘Watch your tongue!’ Ranulf snapped.
‘Oh, I am watching my tongue,’ Claypole assured him. ‘But do you think it’s a coincidence that Father Thomas came here to serve in a parish church the lord of which was a man he hated? No, no, no! He came here for other reasons.’
‘Which are?’
‘Ask Father Thomas,’ Claypole retorted. ‘He is from these parts, as was his brother Reginald, who joined us on our expedition to Acre.’
Corbett sighed and leaned back in the chair. ‘And what happened to Reginald?’
‘Killed with the rest.’
‘So you think,’ Corbett asked, ‘that Father Thomas came here to discover what happened to his brother?’
‘I don’t know. You must ask him.’
‘But why should Lord Scrope,’ Ormesby asked, ‘patronise a man who hated him?’
Claypole showed his yellowing teeth in a smile. ‘Quite simple, physician. Lord Scrope did not hate Father Thomas. He is a good pastor, a priest who looks after the poor; such priests are rare. Moreover, Father Thomas is a local man. Lord Scrope felt sorry for Reginald’s loss. My master did have his good qualities, a sense of justice. He was happy to see Father Thomas appointed to St Alphege’s.’
‘And did Lord Scrope inform you that you were his legitimate son?’
‘He never did, but I heard the rumours. I used to question him, challenge him; he said I would have to wait. I decided to institute my own searches, but by then it was too late. The blood registers in the parish chest had disappeared. I remonstrated with Lord Scrope, who said there was nothing he could do for the time being. Father Thomas claimed those documents were not there when he took up his appointment after our return from Acre; that is all I can say on the matter.’
‘So,’ Corbett declared, ‘your legitimacy is a matter still to be proved? Lord Scrope never confirmed it?’
‘What does it matter?’ Claypole jibed. ‘As yet I have no proof. One day I shall find it. In the meantime I will issue a challenge in the Court of Chancery against Lady Hawisa’s claims. Sir Hugh, it was only after I went to Acre, when my master and I were fighting shoulder to shoulder, when we expected death at any moment, that Scrope confirmed the rumours and said I was his son. It was my legitimacy he refused to confirm. I think he loved my mother. She married again and died in childbirth; that’s all he would tell me.’
‘So you served with him in Acre. What happened there?’ Corbett asked.