‘This is ridiculous,’ Staunton protested. He made to rise, but then sat back as Ranulf also moved in his seat.
‘My lord,’ Corbett tapped the table, ‘don’t you understand? Can’t you see? We are all on trial. Walter Evesham was Chief Justice in King’s Bench, yet he was an ally, a close friend, of two of the greatest rogues in the city. He twisted and perverted justice. He profited from robberies. If that happened in the green wood, what might happen in the dry? So yes, my lord, you are a suspect, as is Master Blandeford, as is everybody in this chamber. How far has such corruption spread, how deep does it reach?’
‘I have told the truth,’ Staunton said flatly.
‘Oh my lord, I am sure you have.’ Corbett smiled. ‘I will go on oath that you have told me the truth, but you’ve not told me the full truth, and for that we may have to question you both again. Now go.’ He waved a hand and returned to his papers as Staunton and Blandeford rose noisily, pushed back their chairs and, muttering amongst themselves, left the chamber.
‘Sir Hugh, you have upset them.’
‘Master Ranulf, I intended to. Both of them are ambitious and very ruthless men.’
‘Ruthless enough to murder?’
Corbett turned to face Ranulf squarely. ‘Yes, my friend, to murder. They are King’s men. There’s something here,’ he gestured vaguely, ‘something I cannot form into an idea, an emotion, a feeling, a suspicion. The King has a hand in these matters, but why, where and how I don’t really know. Enough of speculation. Let’s question the mysterious Lapwing.’
7
Barrator: a corrupt official
The young clerk came swaggering in. He paused just inside the chamber to place a hand on the Book of the Gospels and recite the oath, reading swiftly from the piece of parchment Chanson gave him. Then he walked forward and, without being invited, sat down on one of the chairs. He crossed his legs, playing with the ring on his finger, staring now at Ranulf then back at Corbett.
‘Master Escolier, known as Lapwing,’ Corbett jabbed a finger at him, ‘you were lucky enough not to lose your head at St Botulph’s.’
‘Sir Hugh, all my life I have been fortunate. It’s not the first time, and I doubt if it will be the last, that I have risked losing my head.’
‘Clever-mouthed,’ Ranulf declared, ‘but you’ll answer our questions truthfully. You’ve taken an oath. You can still hang or be crushed to death for perjury.’
‘Have I said I won’t answer? Ask your questions, whatever you wish.’
‘Why did you go to the Angel’s Salutation?’ Corbett demanded.
‘I heard the news, rumours about Giles Waldene and Hubert the Monk being murdered. Of course I wanted to know.’
‘Why?’
‘I hated them.’
‘Ah yes, your masters Hervey Staunton and Master Blandeford claimed you had some grievance against the rifflers.’
‘That’s correct, Sir Hugh. Many years ago my father was a prosperous merchant, a chandler. He sold precious wax both to the city and abroad.’ Lapwing spread his hands. ‘What Waldene and Hubert did was simply demand that he pay them a tax, a sort of protection. My father protested. They assaulted him grievously and wrecked his shop. I never forgot.’
‘And where do you live now?’
‘In Mitre Street, a small house with my mother.’
‘And before that?’
‘I went to school at St Paul’s, then on to the halls of Oxford. Afterwards I took employment with his grace the Bishop of Winchester. I served him well and long, but I had to leave because my mother is ailing.The bishop gave me letters of testimony and I returned to London. I tried to seek employment here and there, but as you know, it is difficult. I approached my lord Staunton, but he could not give me a benefice or office. I later discovered how Waldene and Hubert the Monk had waxed fat and powerful. I told Staunton that I would join their coven and betray them. I would have loved nothing better than to see both of them hang from the Elms in Smithfield.’
‘And were you not afraid?’ Ranulf asked. ‘I mean, a clerk from the household of the Bishop of Winchester mingling with wolfsheads? ’
‘Master Ranulf, like you I have worn armour. I have stood in the battle line in Scotland and Gascony. The letters of his grace the Bishop of Winchester will attest to that. I am not afraid of the cut and thrust. I’ve seen more bloodshed in my life than others do in many lifetimes. It did not concern me. Moreover, I had grievances against both those rogues.’
‘And so you joined Giles Waldene’s coven. He accepted you?’
‘Of course! I am literate, I can write, I can read. I represented myself as a former priest who had to flee from his benefice in Lincolnshire because of certain crimes. How I could sin with the best of them. Waldene accepted me. I sat high in his councils. What information I learnt I passed on to my lord Staunton. I just wish I’d had more time.’
‘But you knew nothing of Waldene or Hubert the Monk’s relationship with Walter Evesham, the chief justice?’
‘I did not. I now understand there was another spy, someone who described himself as being from the Land of Cockaigne, but I knew nothing of that.’
‘And the prison riot?’ Corbett asked. ‘You visited the coven in Newgate?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘I wanted to maintain the fable that I was their ally, worried about what might have happened to my friends. I told them I’d escaped the clutches of the sheriffs’ men. They didn’t realise I secretly carried a letter that provides me with all the protection of the Crown.’
‘And when was this?’
Lapwing blinked, and his lips tightened. You’re lying, Corbett thought, you are not telling the full truth.
‘When was this?’ Ranulf barked.
‘Shortly before the riot. I continued to pose as one of them. I did not see Waldene; he was held in one of the pits. I brought wine, bread and fruit for his followers. I chattered with them, I assure you, nothing of importance.’
‘And that is all?’
‘I have told you, that is all.’
‘So why did you join the other criminals and felons in the cemetery of St Botulph’s?’
‘The Chief Justice’s disgrace came as a surprise to me. I hoped to learn more information that could tie Waldene and Evesham more closely together. I didn’t. The following day, hearing of the riot and the consequent escape, I went down to St Botulph’s. By sheer chance, a mere accident, I was recognised and taken prisoner. I maintained my pretence till I appeared before you.’
‘What now, Master Clerk?’ Corbett asked. ‘What will you do?’
‘I hope to gain from what I’ve achieved. Lord Staunton might well appoint me to his household or secure some other benefice for me.’
Corbett sat back in his chair.
‘You know, Master Escolier, Lapwing or whatever you call yourself, I am half minded to put you in irons and send you back to Newgate.’
‘Sir Hugh, why? What crime have I committed?’
‘Like your masters,’ Corbett replied, ‘you haven’t told a lie, or I don’t think you have; you just haven’t told me the full truth. You are far too glib, sir! The words trip off your tongue like a well-rehearsed speech, some lesson learnt by rote in the halls of Oxford. To put it bluntly, I do not trust you. I think you know more about the villainy that has occurred than you reveal. You are, by your own admission, a mailed clerk. You’ve served in the King’s armies. It’s possible that you entered the Halls of Purgatory, took Ignacio Engleat out and murdered him at Queenshithe. It’s possible that you entered the grounds at Syon Abbey and executed Walter Evesham. It’s possible that you entered the Angel’s Salutation and slaughtered two men you nurse deep grievances against. Finally it’s possible that you entered Walter Evesham’s house and, for reasons known only to yourself, decapitated Clarice, our former justice’s second wife, and her lover Richard Fink.’