‘Brother Gratian,’ Corbett interrupted, ‘you have seen the wall painting in St Alphege’s – the one done by the Free Brethren?’
‘Of course,’ the Dominican retorted. ‘That’s not the fall of Babylon; it describes the fall of Acre. The attackers are the Saracens, the defenders depicted as Scrope’s retainers. Lord Scrope recognised that immediately.’
‘What did he say?’
‘Nothing, except to quietly curse and vow vengeance.’
‘Was that the reason he attacked the Free Brethren?’
‘Of course. He saw them as a real threat.’
‘Does the wall painting contain a cryptic message?’
‘No, I studied it closely, but saw nothing new there.’ Brother Gratian’s fingers went to his lips. ‘Scrope’s men fighting, Scrope himself fleeing, his cousin dead or dying in the infirmary. The reference to Judas could be an insult to Scrope, though I saw no betrayal, whilst the soaring cross is undoubtedly an allusion to the Sanguis Christi.’
‘But did Lord Scrope see anything extra?’
‘I have told you, Lord Scrope had secret sins. If he did notice anything, he never told me.’
‘But how did the Free Brethren know about Acre?’
‘Sir Hugh, the story of the siege is well known, particularly in Mistleham.’
‘But why were the Free Brethren so eager to depict it? What concerns did it have for them?’
‘Perhaps it was just a way of taunting Scrope.’
‘Was there any connection between the Free Brethren and those who fought at Acre?’
‘You must remember,’ the Dominican leaned forward, voice hoarse, ‘a company from Mistleham went to Acre with Lord Scrope; none of them, except Claypole, returned, and that includes Father Thomas’ brother. Of course people were curious, angry and resentful. Perhaps the Free Brethren took the idea from them, but what that painting secretly contains and why they did it is beyond me.’
‘Lord Scrope’,Ranulf broke in harshly, ‘also attacked the Free Brethren because they were arming. Did you see any evidence for that?’
The Dominican coloured and glanced away.
‘Brother, please?’
‘Look,’ he whispered, ‘I’ve served as a soldier. I can recognise a whetstone used for sharpening blades. I did see that on the tombstone outside the deserted church. I was alarmed. The Free Brethren acted as if they did not believe in violence or weapons, so I informed Lord Scrope. It only increased his suspicions.’
‘And the crypt in the Church of the Damned?’
‘Lord Scrope searched it but found nothing.’
‘And the thief Le Riche?’ Corbett asked. ‘You heard his confession?’
‘Of sorts, Sir Hugh. I truly don’t understand what happened; that was a matter for Scrope and Claypole. When I did visit Le Riche in the guildhall dungeon, he was witless.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He could hardly sit up; he was drunk, intoxicated from wine or an opiate.’
‘What did he confess?’
‘Nothing, he just slurred his words, moaning about how he’d been betrayed but how things might still turn well.’ The Dominican shrugged. ‘How could I shrive such a man? He was not worthy of absolution. I left and the next morning he was hanged.’
‘And the allegations against the Free Brethren?’
‘Oh,’ the Dominican rubbed his bony face, ‘there was some truth in them. They were lecherous and promiscuous, but, God forgive me, I did my share in fanning the flame of suspicion andrumour against them. They were certainly heretics, Sir Hugh. They did not accept the teaching of our Church on important matters.’
‘But not worthy of sudden brutal death?’
‘No, that was the work of Scrope and Claypole. They sowed a crop of lies and allegations. They turned Mistleham against the Free Brethren, then Scrope harvested what was sown; he destroyed them early one winter morning.’
‘And the warnings about the Mills of the Temple; they were your work?’
Gratian pulled a face. ‘Of course,’ he whispered.
‘A task given to you by your old friends and comrades at the Temple?’
‘Acre,’ Gratian replied. ‘Let me explain.’
Corbett nodded in agreement.
‘The Saracens took Acre, forcing the defenders from the walls on to the streets. Those who could, fled immediately to the port. The Templars, myself included, fell back to their donjon overlooking the sea. In our retreat we were joined by others, including the company from Mistleham under Lord Scrope. A bloody affray, Sir Hugh, ferocious hand-to-hand fighting, but at last we locked ourselves inside and the Saracens laid siege.’ Gratian wiped the sheen of sweat from his forehead. ‘I will keep it brief. There was a secret tunnel from the donjon leading out to the port. The tunnel itself was safe but the port was being overrun by the Saracens. The Templar commander asked for volunteers to explore the tunnel, discover what was happening in the port, secure a boat and return for everyone else. Of course there was debate. We had injured, weakened men. During our retreat, Lord Scrope’s cousin Gaston de Bearn was seriously wounded and lodged withthe rest in the small infirmary. Our situation was truly desperate. Scrope volunteered, as did Claypole. I’d seen what a ruthless fighter Scrope was. I reasoned it would be safer to stay with him than in the donjon. We were set to leave early one afternoon. Just as we did, the Saracens launched their final assault. We were left to our own devices. Lord Scrope led us down hollow-stoned galleries. He told us to wait outside the infirmary whilst he visited Gaston. He stayed some time. When he returned, he was griefstricken, carrying Gaston’s ring. He announced that his cousin was dead, there was nothing more we could do.’
‘Do you think he may have killed Gaston?’ Ranulf asked.
‘Perhaps,’ Gratian murmured. ‘The thought did occur to me: a mercy cut. Gaston was too badly injured to be carried away, and if he fell into the hands of the Saracens …’ Gratian visibly shuddered. ‘At the time we were all sweat-soaked and terrified, except for Scrope. He was formidable: cold, fierce with his sword, trusting only in himself. He said we should also save the Temple treasury. I objected, but Claypole was adamant that we follow Scrope’s orders. I then reasoned that this had all been planned. Moreover, if Scrope wanted to do something, Claypole, his shadow, never disagreed. Yes,’ the Dominican smiled thinly, ‘even then I noticed the physical similarities between the two. Claypole and his lord: wherever Scrope went, Claypole always followed. God forgive me,’ he whispered. ‘Scrope intended to loot the treasury, find a way out and never return.’ The Dominican drew a deep breath. ‘Now the treasury lay near the entrance to the secret tunnel guarded by one Temple serjeant. He objected, said he had his orders to allow no one in. It happened so swiftly.’ Gratian licked his lips. ‘Scrope killed him, a swift thrust to the throat. Heswept aside my objections, dismissing the serjeant as a fool, asking why should the Saracens secure such precious goods? He took the keys and plundered the treasury, anything that could be carried away. God be my witness,’ Gratian held up a hand, ‘I never took anything. Scrope and Claypole, however, filled their sacks. We then hurried into the tunnel, a long, hollow passageway leading underground down to the port. By the time we reached it, parts of the harbour had been seized. Scrope killed two Saracen scouts and screamed at us to follow him along the beach. I will never forget that shoreline: corpses bobbed in the waves alongside rafts and bundles of possessions. We found a longboat that had come adrift from one of the ships. We clambered in, and Scrope insisted that we leave. He ignored my plea to return, saying the Templar donjon wouldn’t survive the most recent attack. In a sense,’ Gratian breathed in deeply, ‘he was correct. We rowed out to sea and were picked up by a Venetian galley. The Templar stronghold fell in that last assault; everyone inside was put to the sword.’