The lady of the manor, shocked and surprised, could only nod in agreement.
‘This is unjust …’ Claypole tried to gabble his innocence, but the look in his eyes betrayed a deep fear.
‘Unjust? No it is not,’ Corbett soothed. ‘I do not want you to flee or try and rouse the townspeople. Moreover, I need to collect further evidence.’
Claypole tried to struggle, but Ranulf drew his dagger and pricked the side of the mayor’s neck. Claypole’s resistance collapsed; weeping and cursing, he was bundled from the hall. Corbett retook his seat and lifted the chancery bag on to the table. Ormesby and Father Thomas particularly were full of questions, but Corbett refused to answer them.
‘Claypole may not be the sole assassin,’ he murmured. ‘There is still work to be done.’ He pointed at the Dominican. ‘BrotherGratian, you knew Claypole long before you came here. Consequently I want you to stay here tonight and visit him. Reason with him, advise him to confess all and throw himself on the King’s mercy.’
‘I can only do what I can.’
‘Good.’ Corbett smiled at the Dominican. ‘Father Thomas,’ he turned to the parish priest, ‘you received my letter this afternoon and did what I asked?’
‘I did, Sir Hugh, I-’
‘Good,’ Corbett murmured, raising his hand for silence as Ranulf came back into the hall. ‘Please, Father, talk to Ranulf after this meeting.’ He stared down at the chancery bag, then opened it.
‘Master Benedict, I have a most important task for you. Dame Marguerite asked me to recommend you to the King; as a mark of respect to her memory, I have done so.’ Corbett drew a number of scrolls, tied and sealed, and pushed these across the table. ‘At first light tomorrow, I want you to leave here and ride swiftly to the King, who is now residing at Colchester. Seek out Lord Drokensford, give him these letters of recommendation – and they are powerful ones – then hand over these other letters, urgent requests that Lord Drokensford send me a list of items looted from the treasury at Westminster. Such a list will convict Claypole not only of robbery but, as I shall prove, of cold-blooded murder.’
‘Are you sure?’ Master Benedict smiled. ‘I mean, Dame Marguerite lies dead at St Frideswide.’
‘Yes, yes, you can return for the funeral,’ Corbett declared, ‘but this is urgent. Brother Gratian must stay here, as must Father Thomas. I need Ranulf and Chanson for other tasks. I am concerned, wary of Claypole’s associates. The letters will also ask LordDrokensford to send the Sheriff of Essex and his comitatus here along with the shire muster rolls which will demonstrate that Claypole and his accomplices-’
‘Accomplices?’ Physician Ormesby couldn’t contain himself. ‘Sir Hugh, what accomplices?’
‘Please bear with me,’ Corbett replied. ‘I need vital information to prove that Claypole and his accomplices were master bowmen.’
‘You said I should lodge here for the night?’ Master Benedict queried, ‘but I need to collect certain items from St Frideswide. Pay my respects to Dame Marguerite’s corpse.’
‘Of course.’ Corbett turned to Chanson. ‘You will accompany Master Benedict back to St Frideswide. He will leave at first light.’ He pushed across another document, unsealed and loose. ‘This is a warrant that will allow you safe passage anywhere in the kingdom. You are not to delay or be delayed. However, you, Chanson, must return here. I need you to search Claypole’s house and other tenements.’ Corbett was determined not to be kept or questioned any further. He abruptly rose and bowed towards Lady Hawisa. ‘My apologies for what is happening, but these matters are pressing. Master Claypole lies at the root of all the wickedness here. My lady, gentlemen, I bid you good night.’
The company broke up. Master Benedict, clutching his documents, beamed at Corbett and followed Chanson out of the hall. Ranulf had a few whispered words with Father Thomas, who murmured his reply. Ranulf smiled, turned and gestured at Corbett.
Master Benedict Le Sanglier, former chaplain to Dame Marguerite, late Abbess of St Frideswide, rode into the village of Mordern just as daylight strengthened. A thick mist still shrouded thederelict buildings, deepening Mordern’s ghostly aspect. The chaplain dismounted, stared round and hobbled his horse, the best the convent stables could provide. He patted the heavy panniers slung either side of the saddle, threw his cloak about his shoulders and walked into the cemetery, looking for the headstone displaying the carving of the Annunciation. When he reached it, he stared down and felt a stab of unease. The grave had been disturbed. A twig snapped somewhere behind him. He whirled around even as the arrow whipped the air above him. He watched in horror as the bowman emerged from the mist, head and face hidden by a cowl. The longbow he held was taut, the arrow notched ready for flight. Master Benedict’s throat went dry.
‘God save you, sir.’ His voice came in a rasp.
‘And God save you too, Master Benedict.’
The chaplain turned. Corbett walked towards him, accompanied by Chanson armed with a primed arbalest. Master Benedict blinked. Chanson had made his hasty farewells at St Frideswide and galloped away as if more concerned about events at Mistleham, yet now he was here.
‘Please,’ Corbett spread his hands, ‘your belt with its dagger, sir.’
Master Benedict unbuckled this and let it fall to the ground.
‘Ranulf, Chanson,’ Corbett called out, ‘take our guest to the church.’
Master Benedict glanced back at Ranulf, who’d now drawn closer, the longbow still primed with its sharp iron barb and grey goose feathers. Master Benedict tried to relax, his first panic being replaced by a watchful wariness, eager to exploit any mistake, but Corbett was careful. The chaplain was led into the church and forced to sit with his back to a pillar while Chanson deftlytied his wrists with twine then carefully searched him, pulling out the leather pouch beneath the quilted jerkin as well as the thin knife hidden in the top of his boot. Corbett undid the heavy pouch and shook out the precious items. Jewels, rings and the Sanguis Christi, a beautiful heavy gold cross embedded with five glowing rubies. Its beauty drew exclamations of surprise from Chanson and Ranulf, who’d also brought in the chaplain’s heavy panniers, which contained documents and a second hoard of precious items and keepsakes.
‘Enough to hang you!’ Corbett murmured.
‘Last night,’ the chaplain asked, ‘that was all mummery?’
‘Yes and no.’ Corbett squatted before him. Ranulf stood behind, bow at the ready, more arrows lying at his feet. ‘Yes, Master Claypole has a great deal to answer for regarding John Le Riche. He undoubtedly formed an alliance to buy treasure stolen from the King. He and Lord Scrope betrayed Le Riche, drugged him then hanged him. For the rest …’ Corbett shrugged. ‘Brother Gratian has to stay until I tell him to. Physician Ormesby will tend to Lady Hawisa. Father Thomas? Well, he has fulfilled his task. He searched his church both in and out. He found the stave of the small horn bow you used to kill your former accomplice Dame Marguerite.’
Master Benedict just laughed and turned away.
‘I will come to that by and by,’ Corbett continued. ‘Ranulf here talked about the fox, how it steals into the hen coop and causes bloody mayhem, which arouses the farmer, but sooner or later the fox has to leave and confront the danger. You’re my fox; I wanted you to do that. I gave you all the letters you needed, including one guaranteeing safe passage, be it on the highways orin a harbour. Desperate to go, you rose to the bait, you had to. Time was passing. The farmer and his dogs were closing in. You grasped the opportunity: carpe diem – seize the day. You had to retrieve your plunder from its hiding place at St Frideswide and, of course, you had to come here to collect the rest. You could not resist that, especially as everybody else was busy elsewhere. True?’