Paul Doherty - The Mysterium

‘No,’ she replied flatly. ‘I wish to God I could say I had. I know what you are going to conclude, Sir Hugh.’

‘Stephen Escolier,’ Corbett’s voice turned hard, ‘also known as the Lapwing. You are young, energetic and skilled. You had the motive and the strength to kill Sir Walter Evesham, his henchman Engleat, Waldene and Hubert the Monk. Coroner Fleschner was also guilty of crimes against your mother, so he too died. Clarice, Evesham’s second wife, you viewed as guilty by association with Evesham. You killed her and the man who tried to protect her, Richard Fink. You also entered this church and tried to slay Evesham’s son, Parson John. On occasions you took your father’s name, on others you aped the Mysterium, the assassin your father hunted. The evidence against you weighs heavy. Can you give me any reason why I should not arraign you for murder before King’s Bench?’

‘No, no,’ whimpered Beatrice, ‘no, it can’t be!’

‘Mistress, who else knew what you did? Either your son is guilty, or both of you are. Remember, you’ve still to account for your own conduct in escaping the murderous attack upon your former mistress Lady Emma.’

‘I know, I know,’ Beatrice whispered. ‘To quote the psalm, that sin is always before me. I knew that one day I would have to pay a terrible price.’

‘Master Stephen,’ Corbett rose to his feet, ‘how say you?’

The accused clerk, face pale and taut, just stared back. He opened his mouth, but then closed it and stared beseechingly at his mother.

‘Sir Ralph?’

Sandewic leapt to this feet, shouting orders at the guards near the door. Lapwing broke from his fear.

‘They deserved it!’ he screamed, lunging at Corbett. Chanson came up behind and grasped him by the shoulder, and Ranulf ran around the table and helped him pull Lapwing back.

‘They deserved it!’ Lapwing screamed again. ‘They killed my father, and given the opportunity they would have killed me. God’s judgement was visited on them and they died for their sins. I have no regrets, do you hear, king’s clerk?’ He licked the froth from his lips. ‘But I’m also innocent,’ he moaned.

‘You face many charges.’ Corbett approached and tapped him on the chest. ‘One hideous murder after another, then there’s the affray at Newgate and the poor innocents who died in and around this church. You have a great deal to answer for.’ He grasped Lapwing’s wrist between his hands. ‘Do you think,’ he hissed, ‘that because you are a clerk you can claim benefit of clergy, that your powerful friends Staunton and Blandeford will help you? I tell you this, sir,’ he ignored the piteous sobbing from Beatrice, who sat crumpled on a stool, ‘you will never be a free man. Sir Ralph, have your guards take Master Lapwing to the Tower. Lodge him in the keep.’

‘And his mother?’ asked the constable.

Corbett crouched beside Beatrice, pulling her hands away from her face. ‘Mistress, the case against your son presses sorely hard, as it does against you. You may return to your lodgings. If you attempt to flee, that will be taken as a sign not only of your own guilt but also your son’s. If you’re captured fleeing you could be hanged out of hand. Do you understand me? You must know the law and its penalties.’

Beatrice, face ghostly white, stared back, eyes shocked, lips trembling.

‘Master Sandewic, have someone escort Mistress Beatrice back to her lodgings. Lapwing, you’re for the Tower. Perhaps the King’s questioners can elicit the truth from you.’

‘I’ll not be put to the torture,’ Lapwing whispered.

‘What you have done,’ Corbett intervened swiftly, ‘is a matter for the courts. Now take him away.’

Lapwing, recovered from his shock, tried to break free of his guards, shouting curses at Corbett before turning tearfully to his mother, who, escorted by two archers, trailed sorrowfully behind. The procession left the church, the door slamming shut behind them. Sandewic grabbed his sword-belt and cloak from one of his henchmen and fastened these on, asking Corbett if the business was finished. He replied that it was, and was making to go down the nave when Ranulf plucked him by the sleeve.

‘The evidence against Lapwing weighs heavy. His own mother’s confession was damning enough. After all, who else knew?’ He pointed down the nave. ‘They certainly didn’t.’

Corbett nodded, eager to join the remaining three. They’d watched the drama unfold and were now staring expectantly towards him.

‘Sir Hugh?’

‘Yes, Ranulf?’

‘Lapwing had no war dog. You never mentioned that murderous assault on you.’

‘Think.’ Corbett walked back. ‘Think, Ranulf.’ He raised his voice so that it echoed through the hollow church. ‘Lapwing was as accustomed to dealing with the wolfsheads and outlaws in the Sanctuaries at Westminster and White Friars as we are. In this city you can hire killers by the dozen. I am sure he did that. Thank God he failed. I’d be grateful,’ he gestured around, ‘if you’d douse the braziers, the lights and candles. Lock this church behind me.’

‘I’ll do it, and then. .’

‘And then what, Ranulf?’

‘Certain business in the city.’ Ranulf smiled, eager to evade Corbett’s hard glance. ‘We should celebrate, Sir Hugh. You’ll return to Leighton Manor?’

‘In a while,’ Corbett retorted. ‘When this is truly finished.’

He walked down the nave to where Brother Cuthbert stood with Adelicia resting on his arm. Parson John beside them raised his hand in blessing.

‘Sir Hugh,’ asked the priest, ‘is it true? We’ve heard some of it. Will Master Lapwing be indicted for these hideous murders?’

‘He’ll certainly go before King’s Bench.’

‘And his mother?’ Brother Cuthbert asked.

‘She too will face charges.’ Corbett walked across and extended his hand for Parson John to grasp. The priest’s grip was limp, fingers cold. ‘I’m sorry,’ Corbett murmured, holding his gaze. ‘Your mother being brutally murdered. I tell you this, sir, the woman who calls herself Mistress Beatrice has a great deal to answer for.’

‘Could she have been an accomplice?’ Parson John asked.

‘Certainly,’ Corbett replied, ‘and I assure you, when Master Lapwing goes on trial in Westminster Hall, you will all be there to hear the evidence.’

Beatrice Escolier dug her needle into the intricately brocaded cover, then lifted her head and stared around the small but comfortable solar of her narrow house in Mitre Street. She pushed away the footstool and spread her hands to catch the warmth from the fire burning merrily in its covered hearth. She stared at the carved faces of the woodwoses that decorated the mantel and wondered about Sir Hugh Corbett, so clever, so cunning, yet, like an arrow launched true and straight, aiming for its mark. In many ways he reminded Beatrice of Boniface, single-minded and determined. She stared across at the shuttered window. Another day had passed. Despite what Corbett had said, nothing had happened. Here she was in a warm, sweet-smelling chamber whilst Stephen languished in some cold dungeon in the Tower. She’d pleaded for him, wanted to visit him, but Corbett had proved obdurate. She must stay here and wait.

Beatrice sighed, rose and lit the lantern horn on the flat top of the black oaken chest, then the candles on their spigots. Tongues of flame glowed greedily, shooting up to catch the glitter from the cups, ewers, mazers and silver platters on the shelves, the mother-of-pearl wall crucifix as well as the gold and silver threads of the tapestries covering the walls. She moved back to the chair before the fire, her hand grazing the psalter on the small table next to it. Perhaps she should pray. She moved a candlestick, took up the psalter and turned to her favourite prayer, the Benedictus of Simeon. She always admired the exquisite, minutely jewelled painting that decorated the capital B. The young clerk depicted there in his green cote-hardie and white leggings, standing in a stall holding a breviary, always reminded her of Boniface.