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‘Acre became besieged by the Saracens and their allies. It was a huge port, sprawling, ill prepared for a siege. The Saracens began to fillet us like a butcher would a piece of meat, taking one section of the city at a time. We retreated into the Temple stronghold overlooking the sea. The Saracens made an all-out assault, the story is well known. Lord Scrope and I decided tofight our way out. The battlements were stormed and taken. Lord Scrope and I retreated down the corridors. We first visited the infirmary where Gaston his cousin had been taken with terrible wounds. Lord Scrope went in. Gaston was dead in his bed; ill attended, with no medicines and very little to drink, he had died of his wounds. Lord Scrope decided he would seek compensation for all his troubles. The Templar treasury was near the infirmary. We found the door open; one of the Templar serjeants was already helping himself. We simply went in and did likewise, taking whatever treasures we could seize, including the Sanguis Christi. The fury increased. Shouts and screams rang out. We knew the Templar stronghold had fallen and so we fled. Lord Scrope was a skilled fighter, a true warrior. People here will tell you his faults. I saw his courage that day. We reached the shore, found a boat and rowed out to the waiting ships, and took passage home.’

Corbett nodded understandingly. ‘So you returned to Mistleham?’

‘Yes. Lord Scrope was welcomed as a victorious warrior of Christ.’ Claypole couldn’t keep the sarcasm out of his voice. ‘He was favoured by king, court and Church, granted extensive estates, given Lady Hawisa in marriage. Her family not only owned land but reaped the rich profits of the wine trade with Gascony. Lord Scrope used his wife’s money, as well as the treasures he brought from Outremer, to enrich his demesne, renovate this manor hall and build the reclusorium on the Island of Swans. True, his experiences in Acre did change him, but he never cared a whit about what people thought.’

‘And the warnings?’ Corbett asked.

‘Oh, they began about a year ago,’ Claypole replied heartily.‘Lord Scrope was not concerned about them. The Templars tried to negotiate the return of the Sanguis Christi, but Lord Oliver would not do business with them, hence the warning about the Mills of the Temple. As regards the warnings about the Mills of God, they began around Easter last year. Again Lord Scrope ignored them. He was used to such menace; it did not concern him.’

‘And Master Le Riche?’

‘Le Riche appeared in Mistleham trying to sell that dagger. He approached a goldsmith.’

‘Which goldsmith?’

‘I forget now, but he directed Le Riche to the guildhall and me. As soon as I recognised the dagger, I recalled the warnings the King had issued about the theft at Westminster.’

‘But surely,’ Ranulf asked, ‘an outlaw like Le Riche would be very wary of approaching the guildhall?’

‘He was desperate,’ Claypole replied. ‘He came in. I met him and arrested him for what he was, an outlaw. I sent a message to Lord Scrope, who was visiting Mistleham at the time; the rest you know. Le Riche was put on trial and hanged. We held the dagger and were prepared to give it back to the King. As regards Le Riche’s corpse – God knows what happened to that.’

‘And the Free Brethren of the Holy Spirit?’

‘Sir Hugh, they came into Mistleham. Lord Scrope was most generous in permitting them to shelter at the deserted village at Mordern. They were allowed to barter their labour for food and drink. Time passed. Allegations were levelled against them of theft, poaching, lechery and heresy. After careful investigation, Lord Scrope decided they were a group of outlaws. He summoned his men and instructed me to do the same in the town. The resthas been told. Lord Scrope was correct; they were outlaws. We found weapons. They were planning villainy, perhaps an attack on this manor house, though God knows the reason why, apart from plunder and whatever other wickedness they could perpetrate.’

‘And the Sagittarius?’ Corbett asked.

Claypole just shrugged. ‘A killer, Sir Hugh. I know nothing of him.’

‘And the night Lord Scrope died?’

‘Question my neighbours, my wife. I was home in bed. Why, what are you accusing me of?’ He leaned forward. ‘Creeping from my bed, entering this manor, crossing the snowy wastes, swimming the icy lake, passing guards unnoticed, securing entry into the reclusorium? I don’t think so. Why should I kill Lord Scrope? When I returned from Acre it was he who provided me with the wealth, the means to set up my own shop as a goldsmith and enter the guild. I owed everything to him. I am his legitimate son. Sir Hugh,’ Claypole half rose, ‘if you have no further questions for me, I should be gone. Like you I am a busy man.’

Corbett waited for the door to close behind Claypole, then straightened up in his chair. ‘Now there,’ he remarked, ‘goes a liar! A man who has perjured himself. I doubt if he has told us the truth about anything.’

‘What proof do you have of that?’ Ormesby asked.

‘Too glib,’ Corbett replied. ‘Words tripping off his tongue as if he was reciting lines from a mummer’s play. He knew what we’d ask. He’d prepared himself well. A man who has a great deal to hide, is Master Claypole.’

Brother Gratian then entered the chamber and took the oath. He immediately declared how he was Lord Scrope’s confessor sohe could tell Corbett nothing. He then sharply reminded the royal clerk how the seal of confession was strictly covered by canon law; even attempting to infringe it could incur the most damning excommunication. Corbett hid his own anger at this arrogant priest. He entertained the deepest suspicions about the Dominican, who seemed to care for no one yet distributed Mary loaves to the local poor three times a week.

I’ll let you float in your own smugness, Corbett quietly decided, and trap you in my own good time. So he nodded understandingly and airily asked where the Dominican was the night Lord Scrope was murdered.

‘In my chamber, Sir Hugh,’ Gratian replied smugly. ‘Ask the servants; they brought me food and drink. I recited my office and went to sleep. I may do many things,’ Gratian’s bony white face creased into an arrogant smile, ‘but walking across icy water unseen by anyone, then passing through stone and wood is not one of them.’

Corbett nodded as if satisfied and courteously dismissed the Dominican.

‘Proud priest!’ Ormesby muttered.

‘Pride blind!’ Corbett quibbled. ‘Father Thomas will be different.’

The parish priest was. He took the oath, made the usual reference to his clerical status then promised to answer all questions as honestly as his conscience would allow. He made no attempt to hide his deep dislike of Lord Scrope, his disapproval at the slaughter of the Free Brethren and his condemnation of the manor lord’s harshness. Corbett murmured understandingly and kept his important questions to last, glancing at Ranulf as if he was more interested in his scribe’s copying than anything else.

‘Father,’ Corbett smiled, ‘why did you really come to Mistleham?’

‘I’ve told you, I wanted to be a poor priest and serve Christ and his people.’

‘You also come from these parts?’

‘Yes, that did influence Lord Scrope to support me for the benefice of St Alphege’s. I am a local man, a former royal chaplain. I am also, after a fashion, scholarly and erudite, whilst my letters of recommendation were excellent.’

‘Your brother Reginald, did he play a part in your coming here?’

‘My brother is dead.’

‘Killed at Acre, I understand?’ Corbett glimpsed the flicker, the change in the priest’s light blue eyes: grief, anger, resentment? ‘Father Thomas, the truth.’

‘I loved Reginald.’ The priest fought back his grief. ‘Always happy, Sir Hugh, a truly merry soul. I loved him deeply. He left for Acre before I could stop him. He died there.’

‘And?’

‘I always wanted to find out how and why.’

‘Did you?’

‘No. The only survivors were Scrope and his creature Claypole. They could tell me little.’