Paul Doherty: The Mysterium

‘Found floating in the Thames.’

Edward of England walked over. The King’s face was rather pale, the furrowed lines more emphasised, the iron-grey tangle of hair uncombed. Corbett recognised the signs. Edward’s lips were a bloodless line, his right eye drooped almost shut. The King was seething.

‘Again the Mysterium.’ Corbett pointed to the large ‘M’ etched on Engleat’s brow.

‘And these were found pinned to the two corpses.’ Edward handed over two scraps of soaked vellum. The ink was blurred but the two words were clear enough: Mysterium Rei — the Mystery of the Thing. ‘Evesham,’ he hissed. ‘I thought Evesham trapped that assassin?’

‘If I recall,’ Corbett replied, ‘the Mysterium escaped. He vanished. Now, your grace, he has apparently returned with a vengeance. And this?’ He moved to the third corpse.

The last cadaver was disgusting. The man had undoubtedly been hanged; his bloated face was a bluish grey. One eye had been plucked out, and the end of his nose and part of his upper lip had been gnawed away.

‘Scemscale,’ called Hervey Staunton, a pomander muffling his nose and mouth. Corbett looked up. ‘Scemscale,’ Staunton repeated. ‘That’s what he called himself. That’s the name I used when I sentenced him to hang on the river scaffold for the turn of three tides.’

‘When?’

‘Oh, about a week ago.’

‘His corpse,’ the King intervened, ‘was found lashed to that of Ignacio Engleat.’

‘An ancient punishment.’ Staunton was determined to show his knowledge. ‘And one more’s the pity, not used today. The punishment for a liar and a perjurer who sent others to their deaths by false accusation and blasphemous oaths.’

‘What else?’

‘The assassin is proclaiming that Engleat was also a murderer, but when, how and why? I don’t know.’

‘A sorry tale,’ Corbett whispered.

‘But not here,’ murmured the King, ‘not here. My lord abbot’s parlour would be more fitting for our deliberations.’

Corbett agreed. The abbot’s parlour proved to be a welcome relief from the haunting, dour corpse chapel. He’d been glad to be free of it, out in the clear night air, the rich smell of burning wood mingling with that of sweet incense and candle smoke. The chanting of compline echoed from the great church. On the fitful breeze faint sounds carried from the surrounding woods as darkness settled. Corbett washed his face and hands at a lavarium in the cloisters, the King constantly by his side whispering how he must stay in the abbey that night, how he wanted this malevolent business swiftly resolved. Corbett just nodded until the King fell silent, glaring at him as a lay brother led them through a labyrinth of hollow-stoned passageways to this exquisitely comfortable chamber where flames sparked and flared as the logs in the great mantled hearth cracked and split. Candlelight glowed in the sheen of oaken panelling and the long table dominated by a small nef, an intricately carved silver cog bearing the Mary and her Divine Child. Many-coloured triptychs decorated the white plaster above the gleaming panelling. The shelves of the open aumbry against the far wall displayed the precious gold and silver plate of the abbey. It was truly a place to relax after the rigours of the day.

A servant poured mulled wine, so hot each goblet was wrapped in a thick white napkin. On a small pewter plate beside it was diced spiced meat covered with breadcrumbs, to be eaten with the horn spoon provided. The King, seated at the top of the table, invited them to eat and swiftly devoured his own portion. Sir Hervey Staunton seemed reluctant, so the King pulled across his platter and quickly cleared it, sitting back in the high-backed chair with a sigh of relief as he warmed his hands around the goblet. Corbett ate carefully, nudging Ranulf with his knee to warn him not to laugh at the King. Ranulf obeyed, keeping his head down, though now and again the red-haired clerk would glance across at Staunton and Blandeford. Corbett did not like either of them; neither did Ranulf, who secretly dismissed the precious pair as ‘cheeks of the same arse’.

Staunton sat in the Court of King’s Bench: he was a small, furtive man with a pointed face that reminded Ranulf of a rat. His lank hair framed thin, solemn features: a small mouth, sharp nose and close-set eyes. Clean-shaven, dressed in a bottle-green cotehardie with a silver chain of office around his neck, Staunton might be considered a lowly official, but that was a dangerous conclusion, Ranulf reflected. In the scarlet silks of his office he was a truly frightening figure, a bully who would often reduce those who appeared before him to a state of nervous exhaustion. A ruthlessly ambitious man who, according to Corbett, believed only in one legal verse: Voluntas Principis habet vigorem legis — the will of the Prince has force of law, Staunton was a royal creature, with only one master, the Crown.

Blandeford, his scribe, was tall and slender, his olive-skinned face closely shaved, his black hair neatly cut, his clerical tonsure clear to see. His pious, gentle looks concealed a brain teeming like a beehive and a heart as hard as flint. Court gossips maintained that Blandeford, a truly vaunting clerk, would enter the Church and became a bishop. God help us all on that, Ranulf reflected. He finished his food and stared directly across at Blandeford, who sat watching him just as closely.

Edward I, now warm, his belly full, the royal right eye no longer drooping so much, sat lost in thought. Corbett cradled his own wine cup and stared at a triptych on the wall opposite. Gilt-edged and painted deftly in red, blue, green and gold, it described the death of St Benedict’s sister Scholastica. He concentrated on the pious images, which soothed the harrowing memories of the day.

‘My lords,’ Edward tapped the table, ‘it is good to be here.’ He gestured at the door barred from the inside, then at the polished shutters over the small oriel window on the far wall. ‘We can take close council here, so I shall begin. You know most of the sorry tale, but it becomes richer in its retelling. Twenty years ago, an assassin appeared in London. Now that city, that seething pot of dissent and rebellion, is truly the house of murder: assassins and slayers are manifold, but the Mysterium was different. He’d kill those whom the powerful of London wanted dead. His victims suffered various fates: drowning, stabbing, burning in a fire, garrotting, or the casualty of a falling wall.’ The King raised a hand. ‘When the corpses were found, and I believe not all were, the letter “M” was carved on the victim’s forehead and upon the corpse was a scrap of parchment with the words Mysterium Rei — the Mystery of the Thing — an enigmatic, taunting phrase. God knows what it means; perhaps it was left to intrigue or to serve as a hallmark. Now London bubbles with enmities and rivalries of every kind: husband and wife, feuding kin, business rivals, insults given, insults suffered. .’ The King paused as Staunton lifted his hand.

‘Sire, the writing on the parchment?’

‘By a hand ordinary enough, on parchment that could be found anywhere. Nothing remarkable, except,’ Edward added flatly, ‘this was murder.The number of deaths increased; protests were lodged.’

Staunton and Blandeford murmured their agreement.

‘Now.’ Edward gestured around. ‘All of you served in the chancery at the time. You know most of this through rumour, gossip and tittle-tattle. A murder by the gangs in London is one thing, but the Mysterium was another. Old Burnell, my chancellor, turned to a very ambitious, talented clerk, Walter Evesham. All of you must have known him. Corbett, this was in your green and salad days.’ The King’s glance softened. ‘Before my beloved Eleanor.’ His voice became choked with emotion, as it did whenever he mentioned his first wife. ‘Ah well,’ he whispered, ‘glory days! Do you remember them, Corbett? As for you, Ranulf,’ Edward half smiled, ‘no, you wouldn’t know any of this.’