Paul Doherty: Angel of Death

'Is de Montfort dead?'

Corbett turned and, before he could think, replied, 'Yes, the fellow is dead.' By the time he had regained his composure, the woman had spun on her heel and walked boldly down the nave of the church, her broad rich hips swaying suggestively under the silken gown. Corbett would have liked to go after her and ask why she was so interested, but the king was waiting, so he turned and walked up the line of men-at-arms. As he approached, one of them put out a hand to stop him, but Bassett, hurrying behind, had a whispered conversation with the Captain of the Guard and Corbett was allowed through.

He strode up the main steps and stood at the altar. It was long, broader than Corbett had thought, and made of marble. Its frontal was covered with intricate carvings of angels and shepherds, a scene treated with almost childish gaiety; the shepherd was blowing so loud a blast upon his bagpipe he could not hear the heavenly song. Corbett looked at the carving, touching its smoothness, forgetting for the moment the task in hand as he admired its intricate, carefully carved tracery. He crouched down and looked at the faint wine stain and noticed that similar red blotches stained the carpet. Had wine been spilt? It seemed a little had. He shrugged and rose to scrutinize the altar itself, placing his hands on it, feeling beneath the linen, now covered in pools of pure wax, the precious cloths which, he suspected, were sendal, samite, sarcanet, damask silk and velvet. The top cloth itself pure white with embroidery around the edges in tawny brown, gold, green and deep blue. In the centre of the linen cloth was a red cross which marked the relic stone every altar bore but because this was the cathedral of St Paul's, it covered some of the rarest relics: a splinter of the true cross, grains from a stone on which Christ had stood before he ascended into heaven, a piece of the Virgin's veil and relics from St Paul's tomb in Rome.

On the altar stood beautiful jewel-work: huge candlesticks, a mass of writhing, intertwining, silver foliage, adorned with tiny gold figures of men and demons; small shallow cruets with stems of coloured crystal engraved with scenes from the Passion of Christ. There was a many-rayed monstrance, patens of pale, beautiful silver gilt, some still holding consecrated hosts. A gold-encrusted thurible had also been left there in the confusion and beside it a jewel-covered, boat-shaped incense-carrier. Corbett scrutinized all of these carefully. Many priests would consider him guilty of blasphemy, for the sacred bread and wine were still on the altar, but Corbett believed he knew enough of theology to realize blasphemy is what one intends, not what one does. He murmured a short prayer, struck his breast again, muttering 'Peccavi,' believing God would see into his heart and realize he meant no disrespect but was pursuing the truth; for surely, here, a terrible crime had been committed? But how?

Corbett went through the rite of the mass. After the Agnus Dei, all the celebrants would take a host from the silver patens on the altar: Then the chalice would be taken up, each celebrant taking a sip before passing it on to his fellow. Is this how de Montfort had been poisoned? Corbett walked towards the thurible and picked up the gold cap; inside the small charcoal pieces were now cold. Corbett sniffed but smelt nothing except burnt incense. The wild fantasy occurred to him that perhaps de Montfort had been killed by breathing some deadly fume, but he dismissed it. If de Montfort had smelt it, so had others in the church; yet they were hale and hearty while de Montfort lay dead in the sacristy, his body going rigid in death. Had the host been poisoned? Corbett rejected the idea. After all, no priest would know which host would be given to him and that did not fit into his suspicion of the king being the intended victim rather than de Montfort. It must have been the wine.

Corbett walked over to the solitary chalice, still half full with wine. He picked it up and smelt it, but could only detect the fragrant tang of grape. He put a finger in and was about to taste when a voice suddenly shouted out, 'That is blasphemy!'

He turned to find that Winchelsea, his face pale with fury, had come to the bottom of the altar steps and was glaring through the ranks of soldiers at Corbett.

'What are you doing, man?'

'My Lord Bishop,' Corbett replied, 'I do nothing except on the king's orders. De Montfort was poisoned at this altar. I mean no blasphemy but somewhere here lies the venom which killed him. If we can find that then we can expose the poisoner.' Corbett looked at the archbishop glaring at him.

'You have no right. You are a layperson,' the Archbishop snapped. 'You should have my permission or at least that of his Lordship, the Bishop of London, before you even approach the altar.'

'My Lord Bishop,' Corbett said, tired of the farce of speaking over the shoulders of the men-at-arms, some of whom were grinning broadly at the altercation. 'My Lord Bishop, if you object to what I am doing, then see the king. Or, if you wish, excommunicate me. Yet I mean no disrespect. On this altar lies the source of de Montfort's death and I intend to find it.'

'The clerk is right,' another voice broke in and Corbett turned to see Plumpton at the far corner of the altar gazing up at him. 'My Lord Bishop,' Plumpton continued smoothly, 'the clerk means no disrespect. He is here on the king's orders. There is enough tension in this church. Now, perhaps if I assisted him?'

The archbishop nodded and Plumpton waddled up the steps past the soldiers and joined Corbett in the centre of the altar.

'Have you found the poison, Master Clerk?'

'I have found nothing,' Corbett said, turning his back on the still fuming prelate. 'This is the principal chalice?' He picked up the beautifully engraved cup.

'That is the only chalice,' Plumpton replied. 'It belonged to de Montfort. He was very proud of it. After all, it was given to him by the great Earl Simon himself.'

'And he drank from this?'

Plumpton nodded.

'Then this was the source of his death.'

Plumpton took the brimming cup and drained it before placing it back on the altar. 'I do not think so,' he said. 'I have drunk the consecrated wine because someone had to and, in a few minutes, you will find out if it was poisoned. I think, Master Clerk,' he smiled at Corbett, 'you already know that. The chalice is not poisoned. Remember we all drank from it at mass.'

Corbett chewed his lower lip and nodded. He could find nothing here. 'Sir priest,' he said, 'thank you for your help. I meant no disrespect.' Corbett gestured with his hand. 'I realize the priests here must clean and tidy the altar but I order you now, and this is from the king himself, none of this must be removed from the church until it has been examined again.'

Plumpton shrugged his shoulders. 'Of course. But,' he said, 'I understand the king waits for you now. My Lord Bishop of London has prepared a banquet for us to celebrate the king's discomfiture but the cooks are ready and de Montfort's death has surely not spoilt our appetite.'

Corbett grinned, passed through the ranks of soldiers down the altar steps, gazed coolly at the still glowering archbishop and walked back behind the rood-screen to join the king. He found Edward had regained his composure and allowed in others of the royal household: marshals, stewards, courtiers, all bustling around, attempting to impose some order on the chaos which had broken out. The king had a silver ewer of water and napkins brought to him. He washed his hands with fragrant soap and allowed the royal barber to comb his beard and hair and replace the silver chaplet. Once that was done, Edward announced that His Grace the Bishop of London awaited them in the chapter-house and, followed by a trail of retainers, Corbett and Surrey included, the king strode back into the sanctuary. He ignored the others standing there and, walking out of the east door, went through the windswept snow-covered cloisters and into the chapterhouse of the cathedral.