‘But you?’
‘Gaston was proud of me, though I often felt I was a stranger to the vocation I was following. Living proof, perhaps,’ he grinned, ‘that cacullus non facit monachum – the cowl doesn’t necessarily make the monk.’
‘Then Gaston told you the full truth?’
‘Yes, he fell ill two summers ago, a malignancy inside him. He called us back to what he called his sanctuary and said he must explain why he’d been in Acre and what had happened. He told us everything.’ The chaplain wiped his mouth on the cuff of his jerkin. ‘He did not ask for vengeance; that was my idea. Gaston died. I made enquiries. My fury deepened when I discovered how Lord Scrope had grown fat like a hog in its sty, and so our plan was formed. We would punish Lord Scrope and escape by sea. The rest,’ he shrugged, ‘is in the main, as you say.’
‘Did you intend to kill Lord Scrope?’
‘No, not at first. That was the paradox: because of him, Gaston had remained in Acre and saved us. We hotly debated thequestion. It was the attempt to murder Gaston that was the real sin. We hoped to make Scrope confess, publicly humiliate him, make him acknowledge the evil he’d done, but as you say, we underestimated him. I never,’ he whispered, ‘thought he would do it, even after we defied him; that too was a hot-headed mistake. You were correct. I became genuinely ill with guilt and anger.’ He smiled at Corbett. ‘I thank you for giving their corpses some honour. I came out here secretly to collect any bones. I took them to sacred ground at St Frideswide for burial.’ He sighed deeply. ‘But yes, once the Free Brethren were massacred, I had no choice but to deal out terror.’
‘Even to innocents like the ostler’s daughter and the marketplace fool?’ Ranulf asked.
‘Of course.’ Master Benedict climbed to his feet. ‘Now, I’ve kept my word; you keep yours. Master Ranulf, you want my death.’
‘No, I don’t,’ Ranulf replied. ‘God does! I will give you a chance, better than you gave your victims. I’ve heard your story, Master Chaplain, but I still believe you enjoyed the killing. I truly believe that.’
Corbett stepped back, wondering what Ranulf intended.
‘As I’ve said,’ the chaplain gestured at Ranulf, ‘you want my life.’ He spread his hands. ‘What use pleading benefit of clergy, exile in a monastery? I know your type, Ranulf-atte-Newgate, you’ll be waiting for me, if you ever let me live that long.’
‘You talked about the hideous things you witnessed,’ Ranulf replied softly. ‘So have I, Master Benedict. I’ve seen men and women stabbed in taverns, my friends hanged for stealing a loaf when they were hungry, and as I listened to you, I thought of agame we used to play. It was called “Hawks Swoop”. We’d put a club and a hammer on the ground between us. The first to grasp a weapon could smack the other. We’ll play “Hawks Swoop” now. Chanson,’ Ranulf called across, ‘bring the arbalest.’
The groom of the stables did so. Ranulf laid the crossbow between his feet, a wicked-looking barb beside it. He then picked up the longbow and one of the arrows from the quiver. He let the chaplain inspect these, then placed them at his opponent’s feet. Corbett stared in horror at what Ranulf intended.
‘No one will interfere,’ Ranulf warned. ‘Priest, you are a master bowman, swift and deadly. If you strike me before I strike you, then you are free to go. Sir Hugh?’
‘Ranulf, this is-’
‘Sir Hugh?’
Corbett caught the look in Ranulf’s eyes and nodded, though his fingers crept to the hilt of his own dagger. Master Benedict was most skilled. He could notch an arrow faster than Ranulf would ever prime that arbalest.
Master Benedict studied Ranulf carefully and nodded. He stood, body slack, arms down, twisting his wrists to ease any cramp.
‘When I have recited the Gloria.’ Ranulf smiled. ‘Fitting for a murderous priest about to meet his God.’
‘Say it and have done with it.’
‘Gloria Patri,’ Ranulf intoned harshly, ‘et Filii et Spiritus Sancti …’
The chaplain swiftly reached down, seizing both bow and arrow, bringing them up and stepping back. Ranulf, however, ignored the arbalest; instead he pulled the dagger from his belt and sent it hurtling at the chaplain, striking him full and deep in the chest. Master Benedict staggered back, bow and arrow falling from hishands. Ranulf drew his sword, snaking it out to catch his opponent in the belly, then, stepping closer, thrust it deeper. Master Benedict flailed his hands, head falling back, choking on his own blood.
‘I said,’ Ranulf pressed firmly on his sword, ‘I’d strike you before you struck me, and so I have!’ He pulled out the sword.
Master Benedict’s eyes fluttered; he gave a deep sigh, and collapsed to his knees then on to his side.
‘Trickery,’ Corbett murmured.
‘Justice!’ Ranulf snarled. He squatted before the dead man and plucked out the dagger. ‘He was an assassin, a murderer, Sir Hugh. Did you want him to dance away from the hideous crimes he’d committed? Did you want such a man to slink through the shadows of your nightmares? Perhaps return one day to Leighton Manor, stealing in one night to seek vengeance on you and yours? A wounded animal is a dangerous animal. Master Benedict Le Sanglier deserved his fate. I did what was legal and right.’
‘Right maybe,’ Corbett queried, ‘but legal?’
Ranulf stood up, dug beneath his jerkin and drew out a small parchment scroll. He handed this to Corbett.
‘Legal,’ he declared, ‘just, and right!’
As Corbett undid the scroll, his eyes caught the words ‘what the bearer of this letter has done he has done for the good of the King and the safety of the realm’.
‘Why, Ranulf,’ Corbett glanced up, ‘you are growing most astute.’
‘For the children of this world,’ his companion quoted back,‘are more astute in their dealings with their own kind than the children of the light.’
‘Do you consider yourself to be a child of the light, Ranulf?’
‘No, Sir Hugh.’ Ranulf touched his master gently on the side of his face. ‘I simply work for them.’