Lord Scrope shivered and moved to the hearth to warm himself. He stared at the carved face of the woodwose at the centre of the mantle shelf; painted black with red eyes and gleaming white teeth, the entire head was crowned by a halo of forest greenery. On reflection Scrope did not like that face with its slightly sneering expression, and he vowed to have it changed as soon as he could. He picked up his finely carved wooden goblet of wine, leaned against the mantle shelf and stared down at the flames licking the dried bracken. Outside, a fresh fall of snow covered the ground. The lake had not yet frozen, though when he’d been rowed across the previous evening, the water had been bitingly cold, flecks and splashes stinging his face. Scrope sipped the mulled wine; of course it was warm in here. The six window openings were firmly shuttered and protected by leather hangings and thick blue woollen drapes.
Scrope had tried to sleep but been unable to. His soul was agitated by memories of the past, his heart rattled about recent worries. He absent-mindedly muttered a prayer. He reflected on the words of the psalm, how unabsolved sins from the past stretched out like a trap to seize the guilty. His night had been racked by the usual nightmares: the screaming and whirling missiles over Acre; Gaston, face all bloodied, staggering along that path; the furious hand-to-hand fighting across the courtyards where the fountains turned crimson with blood; the heart-stopping terror as they struggled to reach the donjon. And afterwards? The Templetreasure-hold, that serjeant arguing with him … Lord Scrope scratched his head and hid his own guilt beneath a seething rage. The arrogant impunity of those Free Brethren! How dare they display such mockery! How could they know his dark secret? Some survivor from Acre, but who? It did not matter. They had provoked their own downfall! Now Edward the King was interfering, reminding Scrope of his promise about the Sanguis Christi, how the attack on the Free Brethren had not been according to statutory law or ordinance of the council. Scrope’s powerful friends in church and state at Westminster had protected him; they had also dispatched messages that the King was sending no less a person than Sir Hugh Corbett, Keeper of the Secret Seal, into the shire with full power to investigate what was happening at Mistleham. Corbett! Scrope knew him, lean of face, dark-eyed and sharp-witted, a clerk who could not be threatened or bribed.
Scrope gripped the goblet more tightly, listening to sounds from outside. He promised himself that he would go and check on Romulus and Remus, the great mastiffs who protected the edges of the lake. He eased himself down into the chair and stretched one hand out towards the fire. So much danger! The Sagittarius, an assassin sent by the Temple? Or a survivor of the massacre at Mordern? Yet surely they had all been killed? Brother Gratian had assured him of that, whilst the Dominican had also affirmed that Scrope had only done God’s will, so why be afraid? He must deal with all his problems. Father Thomas could be persuaded. Marguerite would, as always, be the loving, supportive sister. He must escape from all these troubles and spend more time enjoying the delicious body of his wife. Of course the Sanguis Christi and the assassin’s dagger would have to be returned.
Scrope put down the goblet, took the silver chain from round his neck and moved to the great chest at the foot of the bed. He knelt down, undid the intricate locks on the chest, pushed back the lid and drew out the black coffer with its silver bands and three more locks, each with its own special key. He opened this and stared greedily at the treasures within. The Sanguis Christi, pure gold, those great red rubies glinting even in the dim light of the reclusorium; beside it other precious items looted from the Temple’s treasure hoard in Acre. They’d never get those back! The Sanguis Christi he’d hand to the King as a gift, a bribe, a reminder of how loyal Lord Scrope was. He’d also send the King a letter recalling those great days when they’d served shoulder to shoulder in Ireland, Wales or pursuing Scottish rebels through the mist and heather north of the border. He’d entertain Corbett. He’d use Brother Gratian to explain how the Free Brethren were a menace, a threat to the King’s peace as well as the teaching of the Church.
Lord Scrope delved deep into the chest, took out a velvet bag, undid the cord and shook out the assassin’s dagger. He held it up, the curved steel blade with its wicked point, the bronze handle carved to give a firm grip, the red ribbon of the assassins, the personal emblem of the Old Man of the Mountains, faded and worn, still tied around it. The precious dagger looted from the King’s treasury in the crypt of Westminster Abbey! Scrope had read the writ dispatched under close seal by the Chancery office, detailing the items stolen as well as a list of those involved. He’d openly alerted his own henchmen, including Master Claypole the mayor, to keep a watching eye on strangers who entered Mistleham to barter or sell precious goods. Claypole, a goldsmith, had donewell in the secret negotiations over such precious items. One of Puddlicott’s lieutenants had appeared and boldly approached the good mayor with this dagger and the offer of other valuable items: the robber, John Le Riche, had been seized and easily silenced. The dagger, of course, could not be concealed. Scrope and Claypole had searched for the rest of the treasure but – Scrope ground his teeth – had not found it. Another example of malicious meddling by the Free Brethren! He’d duly informed the King about the dagger. Edward had been so grateful; he should remember that! As for Le Riche, a leading member of Puddlicott’s gang, Scrope had decided the dead did not gossip. He’d summarily tried the thief and hanged him on the gibbet at the crossroads leading into Mistleham.
Scrope put the items back, securing the locks of both coffer and chest. He felt better. He walked to the great heavy oaken door, pulled back the grille and peered out. The grey light was now brightening. It was time he returned. He undid the lock, drew back the bolts at top and bottom, opened the door and stood at the top of the steps, bracing himself against the piercing breeze. He stared down at the small jetty where his boat was moored, the approaches to it lit by fires still burning merrily in their great pitch casks. The fresh snow that now carpeted everything had not extinguished them. He stared across the lake, searching for Romulus and Remus. He peered at the cluster of great oaks; the fire built to warm the dogs had burnt low. He glimpsed the dark shapes lying against the whiteness. Something was wrong! His heart skipped a beat; he whistled, but there was no sound, nothing but the cries of rooks and crows. He glanced across the lake: those two poles on the far bank should not bethere. Forgetting even to close the door behind him, Scrope hastened down the steps; his slippered feet made this precarious, so he kicked them off, hastening along the jetty and almost threw himself into the boat. Cursing loudly, he pushed away, powerful arms pulling at the oars as he glanced fearfully over his shoulder.
Scrope reached the small mooring place, clambered out and stared in horror at the severed heads of his mastiffs, their snarling faces now frozen masks, necks still bright with blood, one impaled on each side of the jetty, nothing more than hunks of meat. Despite the snow freezing his feet, Scrope was only aware of the fear that sent his heart racing, his stomach churning. He clambered up the hill towards the fire where the dogs should have sheltered: their cadavers now lay next to it, the snow around drenched dark with blood. Scrope crouched down and stared at the long shafts that pierced their carcasses, two in each, death-dealing blows. He clambered to his feet and staggered back, and it was then that he heard it, cutting through the chilling air: the braying sound of a hunting horn.
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