Corbett returned to the chancery chamber, where Lechlade was carefully filing everything back. The servant mumbled something under his breath, but Corbett was tired of conversation in hushed tones. He must act and do so determinedly. He instructed Lechlade to tell the guards to take the remains found in the garden to Parson Warfeld’s church for burial, whilst he turned to the sheaf of documents sent from the Guildhall relating to Adam Blackstock and Hubert the Monk. Slouched in Decontet’s chair, he sifted through these, finding nothing much but listing the important relevant facts.
Corbett now decided to take more public action. Chanson was sent across to St Alphege’s to borrow a Book of the Gospels, then returned to prepare the hall for Corbett’s summary court. Outside, the wintry evening gathered in, but the fires and braziers were now crackling merrily. Corbett dispatched exchequer notes to levy more purveyance from shops and nearby alehouses. Ranulf, who always surprised his master with his culinary skills, busied himself in the kitchen, assisted by a pink-cheeked Berengaria and a sweaty-faced Chanson. They prepared manchelet, a veal stew in white wine, honey, parsley, ginger and coriander. Shortly before it was ready, the savoury odours trailing through the house, Ranulf searched out his master.
‘Sir Hugh?’
Corbett, reflecting in front of the hearth, turned sleepily. ‘Is the meal ready, Ranulf?’
‘Soon.’ Ranulf smiled. ‘It’s just that. .’ He walked over, put his hand on the back of the chair and leaned down to whisper into Corbett’s ear. ‘Master, I have been through this house as you told me, from cellar to attic. I have searched for food, pots. .’
‘And?’ Corbett asked.
‘Everywhere I go, master, I have the feeling it has already been inspected very cleverly, thoroughly scrutinised for something.’
‘You are sure?’ Corbett turned in the chair.
‘Certain, master. Not just an ordinary search, but something else. Now whether it took place before Sir Rauf was killed or afterwards. .’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t know.’
Under Ranulf’s direction, the meal was hastily served to all who wanted it in the hall, a long, gloomy chamber warmed by the fire roaring in the hearth. Desroches and Parson Warfeld returned, but Corbett kept his own counsel. The meal continued quietly; even the guards, sitting at tables or on the floor with their backs to the wall, whispered amongst themselves, aware of the oppressive atmosphere. Afterwards Corbett had the hall swiftly prepared. A high-backed chair was placed at the centre of the high table on the dais, a similar chair on the other side, with stools at either end for Ranulf and Parson Warfeld. Corbett ignored protests from Castledene and others at being kept waiting so long. Ranulf undid the chancery bags, taking out a replica of the privy seal, a crucifix, and Corbett’s commission with its huge purple seals. This was unrolled in the centre of the table, kept flat by weights placed at each corner. The crucifix on its stand was moved to the right of this, the royal seal to the left. Corbett called for his war belt, drew his sword and laid it across the commission. Ranulf busied himself with his own chancery tray, aware of the deepening silence amongst the others gathered further down the hall. They knew what was about to happen. Corbett had the candelabra lit and brought closer. He grasped the sword in one hand, the seal in the other, then held them up.
‘Edward, by the grace of God,’ he intoned, ‘King of England, Lord of Ireland and Duke of Aquitaine, to all sheriffs, bailiffs, officers of the crown and all faithful subjects, know you by these letters patent I have appointed Sir Hugh Corbett, Keeper of the Secret Seal, to investigate all matters affecting our Crown and Person in our royal city of Canterbury. All subjects on their loyalty to the Crown. .’ The solemn words rolled out, Corbett’s powerful voice echoing through the hall as he laid a duty on each and every one to tell the truth, which they would swear on the Book of the Gospels, adding that anyone who told a lie was guilty of perjury and would suffer the dire consequences. Corbett knew the commission word for word, and he emphasised the power and the strength of the royal warrant. At the end, having given the place and date of its issuing, he put the seal back on the table, his sword across the commission, and gestured at the others to approach the dais.
‘You have heard what the King has ordered,’ he declared, his voice still carrying. His gaze moved from face to face. ‘These are important matters. Master Ranulf here will keep a fair summary of what is said. Parson Warfeld will swear each person on oath that they tell the truth. I shall call you one by one. You shall answer my questions!’
The hall was cleared. Corbett declared he would have no need for the city watch; Chanson would guard the door. Ranulf bowed his head to hide his smile, then gazed cheekily across at the Clerk of the Royal Stables. Chanson was full of his own importance as he took up position, war belt strapped about him, an arbalest already primed on a bench beside him. Ranulf knew the truth. There were two things you never asked Chanson to do: the first was to sing, and the second was to touch any weapon, as Chanson would do more harm to friend than foe.
Corbett coughed, and Ranulf’s smile faded. With the hall empty except for a highly nervous Parson Warfeld, Corbett took his chair, snapped his fingers and beckoned Warfeld on to the dais. The parson sat on the high stool and placed his hand on the Book of the Gospels, repeating the words Corbett said, promising to tell the truth or face the full penalties of statute and canon law, under which anyone guilty of gross perjury would face the hideous sentence of being crushed to death.
‘Very well.’ Corbett relaxed in the chair and stared hard at the cleric. ‘Parson Warfeld, you are a priest at St Alphege?’
‘I am, Sir Hugh.’
‘For how many years?’
‘Two.’
‘Did you know Adam Blackstock, Hubert the Monk or Blackstock’s ship The Waxman? Is there any connection between you and that ship, its captain or his half-brother?’
Warfeld opened his mouth, then glanced quickly at the Book of the Gospels, its leather covering etched with a brilliant cross of gold.
‘I. .’
‘The truth!’ Corbett insisted.
Warfeld lifted his face. ‘I had a cousin,’ he declared, ‘a sprightly young man. He lived near Gravesend.’
‘He was a sailor?’
‘Yes. He worked the cogs between London and Dordrecht; sometimes he joined the wine fleet.’
‘And?’ Corbett asked. ‘Parson Warfeld, you are on oath. Be brief and succinct.’
‘His ship was attacked by The Waxman. My kinsman was his widowed mother’s only son. Blackstock took no prisoners; the ship and all its crew simply disappeared off the face of the earth.’
‘And revenge?’ Corbett asked.
‘What revenge, Sir Hugh? Blackstock is dead. Hubert has disappeared. My cousin’s death was one of those tragedies; there are many in the city of Canterbury who have suffered similar.’
‘And there is no other link or connection between you and The Waxman?’
Warfeld pulled a face and shook his head.
‘Though you didn’t tell me that at the beginning?’
‘Sir Hugh, you didn’t ask.’
Corbett half smiled. ‘Very well, very well.’ He tapped the table. ‘Were Sir Rauf and Lady Adelicia ever shriven by you?’
‘Yes,’ Warfeld replied. ‘At Easter or thereabouts, as canon law dictates. Sir Hugh, I cannot break the seal of confession.’
‘I’m not asking you to. Their marriage was sterile, loveless?’
Warfeld nodded. ‘From the little I know.’
‘Was Sir Rauf impotent?’