‘Foolish!’ Lady Mathilda cried. ‘Your brains are addled!’
‘Ah mea Passerella — my little sparrow — isn’t that what your brother called you so many years ago, Mathilda, when you and he fought for the King against de Montfort? You, by your own admission, were a royal spy in London where you collected the tracts and broadsheets of de Montfort’s followers and sent them to your brothers. “Per manus P.P.”’ Corbett watched Lady Mathilda’s pebble-black eyes. ‘I noticed that on the back of various tracts in the book I found in Appleston’s chamber was scrawled “Per manu P.P.” — “by the hand of his parva passera”: “little sparrow”, as your brother called you. I have been through the other books in the library,’ Corbett continued, ‘as Ascham did. ‘But, although you tried to remove any letters which betrayed your brother’s sweet epithet for you, his little sparrow, you missed one place.’ Corbett paused. ‘He had a book of the Lives of the Saints, in which Ranulf wanted to read about the life of Monica, mother of Augustine. The first saint to appear under ‘M’ was “Mathilda”’ and beside the name your brother had written “Soror mea, Passerella mea”: my sister, my little sparrow. Ascham knew that, didn’t he? And when he was dying, his mind confused, he tried to scrawl the word on a piece of parchment.’
‘Sir Hugh.’ Lady Mathilda picked up the piece of embroidery. She jabbed the needle as if it were a dagger. ‘Are you accusing me of being the Bellman? Of trying to tear down what my brother built? Are you saying that I — FEEBLED, resting on a cane — killed my colleagues here at Sparrow Hall?’
‘That’s exactly what I’m saying, Lady Mathilda: that’s why I asked Master Moth to leave. In my note to Bullock, I wrote that he should keep Master Moth with him and take his time getting here. Master Moth is more dangerous than he looks: the silent assassin. You don’t even need to make those strange gestures at him; he would know, just by watching your face, that you were in grave danger and act accordingly. By the time he returns with our good Sheriff I will be finished and you, Lady Mathilda, will be under arrest for high treason and murder.’
‘This is nonsense!’ Lady Mathilda spat back. ‘I am the King’s good friend. His most loyal subject.’
‘You were the King’s good friend and loyal subject,’ Corbett declared. ‘Now Lady Mathilda, your soul seethes with malice. You want revenge: revenge on the King; revenge on those here at Sparrow Hall who, when you die — and die you shall — will soon forget your brother’s memory, change the name of your precious Sparrow Hall and obtain royal confirmation of different statutes and regulations. In a way, the mad anchorite’s curse will be fulfilled.’
‘A witless harridan,’ Mathilda interrupted. ‘I should have dealt with her years…’ She paused and smiled.
‘You were going to say, Lady Mathilda?’
‘What proof?’ she asked quickly. ‘What proof do you have of this?’
‘Some. Enough for the Royal Justices to begin their questioning.’
Corbett studied this small, passionate woman. Years ago, at St Paul’s, a priest had attacked him in the confessional with a knife. Corbett knew that Lady Mathilda, despite her apparent frailty, was just as dangerous. Murder didn’t always need brute strength — just the will to carry it out.
‘I asked for proof, Sir Hugh?’
‘I’ll come to that by and by, Lady Mathilda. Let’s go back to the root and cause of it all, forty years ago when Henry Braose and his sister Mathilda decided to support the King. Both of them were skilled, ruthless and determined. Henry was a brave soldier and Mathilda, who adored her brother as if he were God himself, was also accomplished: a woman of great cunning and deception, well versed in writing and reading, she acted as the King’s spy in London. She and her brother were opportunists with the ambition of eagles, to climb and soar as high as they could. The only obstacle was de Montfort. Glorious days, eh, Mathilda? While Henry fought with the King, you spied upon the King’s enemies. God knows how many men paid with their lives for trusting you.’
Lady Mathilda smiled but she bowed her head and continued to sew.
‘At Evesham it all ended,’ Corbett continued. ‘De Montfort’s defeat was final and the Braoses came forward to collect their reward: land, tenements, treasure and the King’s personal favour. Men like de Warrenne and de Lacey were content just to grab and hold, but not the Braoses. Brother and sister shared a dream — to found a college, a Hall in Oxford.’
Lady Mathilda looked up. ‘Golden years, Sir Hugh. But those who gambled and won …?’
‘You, Lady Mathilda, were the source of your brother’s energy and ambition. He shared everything with you, didn’t he?’
Lady Mathilda gazed back unblinkingly.
‘And you ensured that his dream was fulfilled. Land was bought here and across the lane, people were cleared out, and your lavish treasure was spent on building Sparrow Hall.’
‘It was our right,’ Lady Mathilda intervened. ‘Those who bear the sweat of the plough have every right to reap the harvest.’
‘And so you did,’ Corbett replied. ‘Your brother’s dream became a reality. But, towards the end of his life, he began to regret his avaricious acquisitions. Your brother died and, to your fury, you realised that what he had built had passed into the hands of others who wanted Sparrow Hall to break from the past. The King, your old master and friend, was no longer concerned, was he? There were no more grants, no more preferment. And the Masters here not only wanted to forget your brother, but heartily wished you elsewhere.’
‘You’ve still not mentioned any proof!’
‘Oh, I’ll come to that by and by. What I want to establish — ’ Corbett rose and pulled his chair closer ‘- is why you did it? I think I know the reason. Like a child, Lady Mathilda, you felt that others should not possess what you could not have. You decided to destroy what you and your brother built up and, in so doing, waged a terrible war against your former friend the King. Revenge was your motive, the evil you called your good!’
Chapter 14
Corbett looked at Ranulf, who just stood with his back to the door, arms crossed, staring down at the floor. There was no excitement, none of his usual desire to participate in the questioning. Corbett hid his unease.
‘Are you going to tell me the rest?’ Lady Mathilda broke in, ‘Or should I pass you a piece of embroidery, Sir Hugh, so you can help me?’
‘I will weave you a tale,’ Corbett retorted, ‘of treason and bloody murder. Full of malice, Lady Mathilda, and angry at the King’s lack of support, you sat and brooded. You, above all, know the nightmares which haunt our King’s soul. You chose your tune and played it skilfully. You studied that book I found in dead Appleston’s chamber: all the old claims and challenges of de Montfort and his party. You became the Bellman.’
‘And, if I did, why should I name Sparrow Hall?’
‘Oh, that was the heart of your plot — to teach the King a lesson, never to forget you or Sparrow Hall. The crisis began: at the same time, you offered yourself as a spy to the King.’
‘And what did I hope to gain?’
‘Royal attention. Perhaps the removal of certain Masters who had plans to change the name and status of the Hall. To create suspicion and distrust, to strengthen your hand here.’
‘And I suppose I just slipped out of Sparrow Hall to post my proclamations on church doors?’
‘Of course not. Your servant did that — the ever silent Master Moth. I have seen where your chamber is positioned, it would be easy for him to slip out of a window, cross the yard and over the wall.’
‘But Master Moth can’t read or write.’
‘Oh, I think he was perfect for your plans,’ Corbett replied. ‘He’s young, able and vigorous. He could steal like a shadow along the streets and lanes of Oxford. And if he wanted to, be dressed for the part, act the beggar…’