Paul Doherty: The Mysterium

‘Not all of us!’

‘Aren’t we?’ Corbett asked hoarsely. ‘If not with knives and clubs, don’t we slay each other in our souls? Aren’t such thoughts the dreadful parents of our deeds?’

The priest stepped back, face shocked. He stared open-mouthed at Corbett, then, spinning on his heel, walked off into the gloom of the church.

‘Master, Master.’ Ranulf approached softer than a cat, beckoning with his hand. ‘Sandewic has been out to see the heads piled in their baskets. He’s like a farmer with choice plums. He says he’ll decorate the bridge, the Tower and every wall spike in Newgate. By the way, where is Chanson?’ he continued. ‘Our Clerk of the Stables appears to have-’

‘Our Clerk of the Stables,’ Corbett retorted, coming out of the Lady Chapel, ‘is carrying documents to the King, who, I believe, is flying his hawks in the woods outside Sheen. There’s been trouble in the Narrow Seas. French privateers-’

‘Sir Hugh,’ Sandewic called, ‘we should begin again.’

‘And again, and again. .’ Corbett murmured.

It was late afternoon by the time they were finished and the last ominous thud echoed through the church. All the felons bar one had been tried and executed. The sole survivor was Thomas Brokenhale, alias John Chamoys, alias Reginald Clatterhouse, alias Richard Draper, also known as Lapwing. Sandewic reported how Lapwing had been seen in the company of the prisoners at Newgate early the previous afternoon. He had then disappeared, but returned mid-morning to watch events from near the lychgate. One of the Newgate gaolers had recognised him as a visitor to Waldene’s coven in prison. Lapwing had been held fast in the cellar of a nearby tavern before being dragged across for investigation. A young, cheery-faced rogue, he confessed to having some knowledge of both Waldene and Hubert the Monk. He had not, however, so he claimed, raised a hand against man or maid. No, he knew nothing about the Land of Cockaigne, but he did know his rights. ‘I’m a clerk,’ he protested, showing the faint tonsure almost overgrown by his dirty reddish hair. More importantly, he could recite the first verse of Psalm 50. Have mercy on me oh God in your kindness, in your compassion blot out my offence .

‘I’m a clerk,’ he repeated. ‘I demand to be tried by Holy Mother Church. I am not subject-’

‘Shut up!’ Sandewic bawled. ‘You’re guilty and you’ll die with your coven.’

Corbett intervened. Lapwing, whoever he was, had pleaded the law. More importantly, Corbett sensed the man was telling the truth. He was not like the rest of the rifflers and ribauds, who lived for the day and certainly didn’t care for the next. Sandewic, however, proved obdurate. Offended by Lapwing’s insolence, the constable wanted the accused’s head, and bellowed that he’d even risk excommunication by the bishops. They had cursed him before and they’d certainly do it again. He didn’t give a demon’s fart for their arrogance.

Sandewic’s shouting attracted the attention of his men-at-arms, who thronged across the nave. Corbett became uneasy. Ranulf rested his hand on the hilt of his dagger. Sandewic bawled for his sword. Lapwing’s smile faded, and he hastily scrabbled at a secret pocket in his jerkin, brought out a thin scroll and handed this to Corbett. The Keeper of the Secret Seal unrolled it, read the contents, smiled and looked at Sandewic.

‘Listen to this, Master Constable!’ he said. ‘“The King to all faithful subjects. Know you that Stephen Escolier (also calling himself Lapwing) of Mitre Street, Cripplegate, is a faithful servant of the Crown, a clerk of this city. Know you that whatever he has done, he has done for the good of the Crown and the safety of this Realm.”’ The writ was witnessed by a leading judge, Hervey Staunton, and his henchman Roger Blandeford, and sealed with the King’s personal signet. Corbett handed it back to Lapwing, who smiled, winked at Sandewic and swaggered out of the church.

Corbett wearily declared he was finished. ‘What had to be done,’ he declared, ‘has been done.’

He left the church, going across the busy street into the Burning Bush tavern, where he and Ranulf had stabled their horses. He was washing his hands and face in a bowl at the lavarium when he heard Ranulf groan. He glanced back at the door. Chanson stood there, hopping from foot to foot.

‘The King wants us?’ Corbett breathed.

‘Yes, Sir Hugh, he does,’ Chanson called back. ‘He is waiting at the Abbey of Syon on Thames. Lord Walter Evesham has been horribly murdered.’

Today, reflected Corbett, the Feast of St Perpetua and Felicitas, I shall certainly not forget. He pressed a pomander soaked in a mixture of fennel and lavender against his face and walked around the mortuary tables in the corpse chapel at Syon Abbey. He fought his weariness and ignored the hum of conversation as Ranulf informed the King and his entourage about what had happened at St Botulph’s. He wanted to climb the steps, go out and embrace the last of the evening, capture the essence of that sunset when the western sky turns to a glorious band of blue and fiery gold. He wanted to feel the breeze, heavy with the promise of spring, cool against his face and to catch the last birdsong of the day.

‘What did the poet write — ah yes,’ he murmured. ‘The birdsong of each day is totally unique. In all creation it has never been heard before and never will return.’ He’d love to be free of this coat of mail, wrapped in a cloak instead; to sit by his hall fire, crackling and merry, contemplating the day with Maeve, or stand with her in that lovely bower overlooking their herb garden. In a word, he wanted to go home.

‘Sir Hugh?’

The King was demanding he inspect those three cadavers. Corbett took a deep breath and stared down at the corpse of Walter Evesham, former Chief Justice in the Court of King’s Bench.

‘I never liked you in life,’ he whispered, ‘and death has not changed that.’ He breathed a prayer and studied the grisly remains of that old hypocrite garbed in the brown sacking of a Benedictine recluse. Evesham’s face was powder-white, his lips still rather full and red, pennies pressed down his heavy eyelids, and that nose, so often wrinkled in distaste, now jutted sharp and pointed. Even in death, his full, high-cheekboned face held a hint of arrogance, despite the thick white hair being shorn close to the scalp. Corbett crouched and peered at the wound that sliced Evesham’s throat from ear to ear.

‘Who would do that?’ demanded Roger Blandeford, chief clerk to Justice Hervey Staunton.

Corbett was tempted to reply that half of London would, whilst the other half would have clapped with glee. Instead he leaned closer, ignoring the harsh tang of the herbs in which the cadaver had been washed, and carefully scrutinising the letter ‘M’ carved on to Evesham’s smooth forehead. He felt a chill of apprehension. ‘M’ for Mysterium, the hallmark of a professional assassin who’d prowled London two decades ago. A skilled killer who’d murdered for profit until Lord Walter Evesham had brought him down.

He moved to the second corpse. Ignacio Engleat had never been handsome in life; death only emphasised his ugly face and scrawny hair, the jowly mouth, the snub nose and flared nostrils, those ever-peering eyes now closed for good. Both body and face were bloated with water and, despite the herbs and washing, reeked of mud slime and river offal. Engleat had been Walter Evesham’s faithful clerk and scribe; he had shadowed him in more senses than one. An arrogant, haughty man with a scornful heart and viper-like tongue, he would toady to the great but savage those weaker or more vulnerable than himself.