‘God damn you,’ he shouted. ‘Go down to hell, you and your killer dog.’ He stood up and waited again. Nothing. Swaying on his feet, he kicked aside his sword, dagger and keys and stumbled over to where Griffyths lay in a widening pool of blood. He pushed aside the archer’s fallen sword, turned the corpse over and groaned. Griffyths’ face was smeared with blood, which had gushed from both nose and mouth. The crossbow bolt was embedded so deeply in the archer’s chest it was almost hidden, except for the feathers on the end of the wicked-looking quarrel. Corbett knelt and made the sign of the cross on the man’s forehead and whispered the ‘De Profundis’. Hands clasped, he prayed that the Welshman’s faithful soul would journey unchallenged into the realm of light. Then he sat back on his heels, glancing round this hateful church. He recognised what had happened. The murderer, that hideous assassin, had been hunting him. The serjeant-at-arms at Westminster had been wrong. Some evil killer had gone there to spy Corbett out. He’d withdrawn to lurk in the shadows, then pursued him and Griffyths to this desolate church. The assassin must have left the war hound quiet outside, followed them in through the corpse door, doused the torches and waited. Griffyths simply walked to his death. If Corbett had not been so fortunate, he would have met his out in that ghostly cemetery.
Corbett stumbled to his feet and went down the church to the small cask of holy water beside the baptismal bowl. He took off the lid and filled the ladle inside, then took it back and dripped the water over Griffyths’ corpse.
‘It’s the best I can do for the moment,’ he murmured. ‘I can do no more.’ He tossed the ladle to the ground and went across to the Lady Chapel, pausing on the steps leading into it. He’d noticed how one of the flagstones was smooth, recently replaced, but apart from that, he’d observed nothing untoward in this ghost-filled church.
‘It should be burnt,’ he murmured. ‘If I had my way, I would burn this house of blood and build anew.’
12
Caitiff: a cowardly, wicked being
‘Master? Master?’ Ranulf’s voice echoed, followed by a pounding on the corpse door. ‘Sir Hugh!’
Corbett hurried across and unlocked the door. Ranulf almost knocked him aside as he strode into the church followed by Chanson.
‘Master, what’s happened here? We’ve been to the north door. There’s a war dog lying outside, its throat slashed.’ He glanced across at Griffyths’ corpse and hurried over. ‘Jesu miserere,’ he murmured. ‘Sir Hugh, what happened here?’
Corbett swayed on his feet, and Ranulf caught him.
‘Come,’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘Chanson, tell Sir Ralph to stay outside. He is not to come in here, not yet.’ He lowered Corbett to the ground, leaning his master back against the church wall.
For a while Corbett fought the urge to be sick, to retch, to vomit out the tension he felt. At last he felt better.
‘Apart from the war dog you saw nothing else?’ he asked.
‘A crossbow bolt in the sacristy door.’
Corbett told him what had happened. Ranulf, crouching beside him, listened intently.
‘You shouldn’t have come. .’ he said when Corbett had finished.
‘Don’t lecture me, don’t preach. Griffyths has gone to God, and I think this mystery is clearing. Look,’ Corbett clambered to his feet, ‘first Sir Ralph.’
They went out into the cemetery, where the constable had already set up camp beneath the yew trees. His men had collected dry bracken and were starting a fire. Sandewic rose as Corbett approached.
‘Sir Ralph, I am pleased you’re here.’ Corbett grasped Sandewic’s hand and led him away, Ranulf and Chanson following.
Corbett pithily described what had happened.
‘The war hound is dead,’ Ranulf commented. ‘The lime did terrible damage to its throat and eyes. Its owner put the beast out of its misery with a mercy cut.’
‘And who is its owner?’ Corbett paused as starlings burst out from a nearby tree.
‘Boniface perhaps? He’s returned and is lurking in hiding. I’ve heard of such assassins. .’ Ranulf’s voice trailed away. He was concerned about Corbett, his lack of colour, the nervous twitch to his eyes and lips.
‘We could scout the entire ward,’ Sandewic grumbled, ‘but what good would that do? Sir Hugh, what do you want with me? You asked for a comitatus. .?’
Corbett stared up at the church tower. He must be done with this. He wanted to warm himself before a fire, but the ghosts were gathering about him. Somewhere here, in this churchyard, lay the rotting corpse of Boniface Ippegrave, a good clerk, a man of integrity. His flesh must have long decayed but his soul, like some tongue of flame hungry for dry wood, surely demanded justice.
‘Sir Hugh?’
Corbett smiled, stretched across and pulled up Chanson’s cowl. The Clerk of the Stables looked surprised.
‘Pull it tighter,’ Corbett ordered. ‘Ranulf, do up your cloak and cover your head with the hood.’ He turned to the constable. ‘Divide your men. You must place a close guard around the church.’ He paused as the corpse door opened and two of Sandewic’s men brought out Griffyths’ body shrouded under the archer’s cloak.
‘Sir Ralph, before we begin, send poor Griffyths’ remains to the corpse house near the King’s Chapel at Westminster.’
‘And for the rest?’
‘Divide your comitatus. Guard the north door, sacristy door, front door and corpse door. Tell your guards that they must not allow Chanson out of St Botulph’s.’
‘But they don’t know him.’
Corbett pointed to Ranulf. ‘Our cloaks are Benedictine black, Chanson’s is Lincoln green. He must not leave. Do you understand? ’
Sandewic grinned, shrugged and sauntered off. He knew Corbett of old. The clerk could be capricious and eccentric yet ruthless in his pursuit of the truth.
‘Well, Chanson?’ Corbett tapped the surprised groom on the shoulder. ‘Go on, enter the church. Oh, Sir Ralph,’ he called. The constable turned. ‘Chanson will pretend to be in sanctuary. No one except Ranulf and myself may visit him, you understand?’
The constable raised a hand.
‘Go into the church, Chanson.’ Corbett gestured at the corpse door. ‘Sit on the sanctuary steps.’
‘Master, this is a place of blood.’
‘You can always sing,’ teased Ranulf. ‘Sir Hugh, what is this?’
‘I will show you how Boniface disappeared. Do you remember Adelicia’s night visitor, the prowler in the woods? He claimed to be Boniface. When asked how he disappeared from St Botulph’s, he replied that he simply walked through the door. Whoever he was, that stranger was telling the truth, as we shall prove.’
Corbett ushered the reluctant Chanson into the church and closed the door, then he and Ranulf went round checking on all the other doors. A small group of Sandewic’s archers had assembled near the still battered front porch, but Corbett, now recovering from the attack, laughingly reassured them that if Chanson did escape, it would not be through there.
Once Griffyths’ corpse had been honourably removed and Sandewic’s men were in place, Corbett and Ranulf went in and out of the various doors muffled and cowled in their heavy cloaks. Sandewic, taking up his command at the north door, watched fascinated. The grizzled constable was already relishing the story he would tell the King next time they were in their cups. On one occasion Corbett paused to inspect the corpse of the war hound, which Sandewic’s men had sprawled across an old tombstone. On another, Sandewic, at Corbett’s invitation, followed them as near as he could into the church and listened to Corbett and Ranulf trying to cheer the disconsolate Chanson. The clerks would then separate to wander in and out of the church or across the sprawling cemetery. At last Corbett approached Sandewic.