Touching the purchase from a stranger who, recently, after the breaking of the treasury at Westminster …
Corbett sat back in his chair and listened to the sweet voices of the choir from the minstrel loft of the great hall in Mistleham Manor. He slipped his hand beneath his cloak and touched the silver amulet Lady Maeve had given him at Christmas inscribed with the words from Luke’s Gospeclass="underline" ‘Jesus however, passing through the midst of them, went on his way.’ He smiled to himself. Lady Maeve had assured him that wearing such an amulet, with the words describing Jesus’ miraculous escape from a hostile crowd intent on murder, would always keep him safe. Corbett was certainly glad that his journey to Mistleham had proved safe despite the long, hard riding. They had spent a night at a wayside tavern, cold and dingy, though the food had been good. One of the horses had shed a shoe, so they’d paused at a blacksmith, but eventually they’d reached Mistleham safe and sound.
As soon as they entered the town, Corbett sensed a swirl of violence and fear. A cold, hard day. They’d ridden across the cobbles past the market cross. The stalls were still open. People milled about. Bailiffs clustered around the stocks. Children played. Dogsran loose. The usual turmoil and clamour of a market day. They’d passed the church; Corbett glimpsed Father Thomas on the steps and the priest had raised a hand in blessing. It seemed as if everybody knew the King’s men had arrived. People drew aside giving sharp glances from behind hoods and veils. A few of the young ladies flirted with Ranulf as they made their way through the town. A wealthy, prosperous place. The busy market square was fronted by sturdy timber houses, their wood painted pink, white or black, some of the gables gilded, a few of the lower windows full of gleaming glass. The stalls offered a wide range of goods from skinners, goldsmiths, furriers, butchers, clothiers; their customers appeared well dressed in their long heavy gowns, dresses, tunics and cloaks of brown, green, red and blue. Bailiffs and beadles went about their business. The court of pie-powder sat under the lychgate leading into the parish enclosure. To all appearances Mistleham was a noisy, bustling place but Corbett had sensed the lurking fear and tension of a town under siege. This brooding sense of unease was brought sharply to his attention when a madcap, a moon-fairy in fluttering rags, came dancing out of a runnel to block their way. He had a sharp, dirty face, frenetic eyes, a nose hooked like a bird’s and a tongue too big for his mouth. He wore a dirty red hood adorned with shells; in one hand he carried a willow wand, in the other a used pomander which he’d sniff then glare around. He did a jig in front of their horses. Ranulf made to ride forward and drive him away, but Corbett held up his hand.
‘Pax tecum, brother.’ He took off his gauntlet, plucked a coin from his belt purse and spun it towards the fool, who caught it neatly.
‘You’re not as foolish as you appear.’
‘Never has been for old Jackanapes.’ The fool sniffed at the pomander and glanced slyly up. ‘Old Jackanapes knows you King’s man. Come to judge the wicked, have you?’ He smiled, upper lip slightly curled to reveal rotting teeth. ‘Judgement day not too soon! How long will the wicked prosper, eh, King’s man?’ Then he was dancing away, calling at them to pass on.
Mistleham Manor proclaimed the same wealth and power as the town. Corbett’s party approached the house along a snow-covered path which wound its way through an avenue of oak, beech and elm bordering snow-covered paddocks. The manor, built square on a slight rise, was of gleaming honey-coloured stone especially imported from the Cotswolds. It boasted a black-tiled sloping roof, chimney stacks and spacious windows, some filled with stretched horn, others with mullioned or even painted glass in their gleaming black frames. The magnificent front door was approached by sweeping steps. The main house had been built as a long hall with an upper storey, wings having been added at either end; a fourth side completed the square, which was pierced by an imposing gateway in the middle. This led into a great cobbled yard or bailey where kitchens, stables, outhouses, smithies, kennels and servants’ quarters were situated. Retainers wearing Scrope’s livery of russet and green came bustling out to take their horses, whilst others escorted them into the house to meet Brother Gratian. The Dominican whispered how there had been ‘an unfortunate and very unpleasant incident earlier in the day’, but declared that, God willing, Lord Scrope and Lady Hawisa would meet them later at a special dinner arranged in their honour.
Corbett was given his own chamber along the Jerusalem Galleryin the east wing of the house. Ranulf and Chanson were to share the Damascus Room, the name given to a chamber above the great gatehouse. Scrope, Corbett quickly learnt, lived in luxury: tiled floors on the ground level, gleaming floorboards on the upper storeys. The walls of the manor were half covered in shiny oaken linen panels, the plaster above painted a light restful green and adorned with coloured cloths, small tapestries, diptychs, paintings and exquisitely carved crosses. The furnishings were equally splendid, finely cut and carved out of gleaming wood, clearly the work of skilled craftsmen from London or Norwich. Corbett’s chamber was the one always given to any guest of honour. Brother Gratian whispered how the King himself had stayed there around Michaelmas three years ago and thoroughly enjoyed himself. Corbett cordially agreed. The room was dominated by a great four-poster bed adorned with red and gold hangings and silver tassels. On each side of the bed stood small oaken tables with six-branch candelabra; the candles were long, tapering and pure white. A chest with its own locks and clasps rested at the foot of the bed for Corbett’s possessions, and against the far wall was an aumbry with hooks and racks for clothes. The window embrasure, its small panes all glass-filled, had cushioned seats. Beneath the small oriel window stood a writing table with a high-backed leather-quilted chair. In the centre of the table a silver crucifix stretched above a tray of sharpened quills and an array of ink pots, sander, pumice stone and parchment knives. The room was warmed by small wheeled braziers, capped and glowing, easily moved around to give off their herb-scented heat. A huge lavarium stood in one corner, bearing a great bowl; its other tray held a wicker basket full of rare soap, and the rods jutting outfrom the main stem were draped with napkins and towels. Brother Gratian explained how servants would bring up hot water as well as a wooden tub for bathing. He added that an ease chamber stood close by on the gallery outside whilst – he pointed to the table just inside the door – wine, water and ale would always be available.
Corbett half listened as Chanson stored away his Chancery panniers and coffers. He was more interested in studying the Dominican. He had met members of this order before; a few he’d liked, others seemed totally absorbed with some special task given to them by God. Brother Gratian belonged to the latter. Garbed in his black and white robes, a cord tied tightly around his waist, feet in their heavy sandals, he was a true inquisitor. He had a narrow face, hard black eyes and a slightly twisted nose above prim, bloodless lips: a hunter, Corbett concluded. Gratian’s speech was clear, his movements sharp and precise, long bony fingers constantly enforcing his words. A man, Corbett reasoned, more concerned with justice than compassion, and one who apparently regarded Lord Scrope as a true pillar of Holy Mother Church. At first the Dominican was rather nervous of the royal clerks, but eventually Corbett’s watchful silence was taken as approval and he led them on a tour of the mansion, Ranulf and Chanson trailing behind. The Principal Clerk in the Chancery of the Green Wax glared at the back of the Dominican’s balding head and recalled that fateful day in Newgate years ago when he’d been led out to be hanged for a litany of petty felonies. A Dominican had shrived him as he waited for the execution cart, assuring him that his stay in purgatory would be long: little comfort, Ranulf reflected, after his neck had been stretched at the Elms. A short while later Corbett had appeared, Master Long Face staring at him with that strangeamused gaze, and Ranulf’s life had been transformed. Ranulf clicked his tongue. Eventually he caught Chanson’s attention and began to cleverly mimic the Dominican’s mannerisms as he showed them the great hall, the solar, the perfect jewel of the private chapel, the kitchens and sculleries full of steam and savoury smells as cooks busily prepared the evening banquet.