Paul Doherty - Nightshade

Dame Marguerite turned to Master Benedict.

‘Jackanapes is fey and witless,’ the chaplain declared. ‘He comes down to St Frideswide to beg, that is how I found out what happened. He gabbles and babbles. Jackanapes does not like to sleep in any enclosed space but out beneath a bush or under a tree. He calls such places his windswept castles of the greenwood. He was there when the Free Brethren were massacred. He was nestling high in a tree.’

‘Which is why he escaped the dogs?’

‘I would say so,’ the chaplain replied. ‘He told me little except that the felon, John Le Riche, stayed in Mordern for a while, sheltered by the Free Brethren.’

‘Are you sure?’ Corbett asked.

‘As God created Sundays,’ the chaplain replied, ‘that is what Jackanapes told me. And something else: Le Riche was hanged on a Friday in November just after dawn and left dangling there; within the hour, so we understand, his corpse had vanished and has never been seen since.’

Corbett glanced at Dame Marguerite, who shrugged.

‘Did he truly die?’ Ranulf asked. ‘It has been known in Londonfor a condemned man to bribe the hangman.’ He gestured with his fingers. ‘A leather collar around the neck and throat, the knot placed differently, painful, but the condemned doesn’t choke. You were there, sir, when Le Riche was hanged?’

‘Of course.’ Master Benedict closed his eyes. ‘He was wearing a long tattered gown, but yes, a high collar. However, he was listless and quiet. He was hoisted up the ladder and quickly turned off. He jerked for a while and then hung soundly, just swinging. The light was grey, morning was breaking. It was bitingly cold. Demons of ice battered our fingers and noses. We all turned and went our ways. I remember the execution cart crashing and slithering on the ice behind us.’

‘Why are you telling us this?’ Corbett asked.

‘The truth,’ Marguerite declared, her face no longer smiling. ‘I simply cannot sit and listen to my brother spin his web of conceit and lies.’ She blinked, her lips a thin bloodless line, staring at the screen behind Corbett as if fascinated by the exploits of Arthur and Guinevere. ‘He grows more ruthless by the month.’

‘Is there anything else?’ Corbett asked.

She shook her head.

‘And these warnings?’ Corbett asked. ‘I did not raise the matter with Lord Scrope. Do you know of them? Warnings delivered to your brother?’

‘Warnings?’ Dame Marguerite’s face softened. ‘What warnings? ’ She paused as Lady Hawisa, accompanied by Father Thomas, opened the door and swept into the chamber. Ranulf, concerned at Hawisa’s agitation, went across and clasped her hand. Father Thomas sat down on a stool, face in his hands; he rubbed his cheeks and glanced up at Corbett.

‘Lord Scrope is organising a search of the demesne, but I doubt if he’ll find anything.’

Lady Hawisa retook her seat, glancing prettily at Ranulf.

‘Sir Hugh.’ She shifted towards Corbett, her smile fading.

Corbett walked across. ‘You know your husband has received warnings?’

‘I know,’ she murmured.

Corbett sat on the small footstool near her chair. ‘You’ve seen these?’

‘Once or twice,’ she replied, rubbing her brow. ‘My husband …’

Corbett glanced up. Lord Scrope, the door off its latch, had slipped quietly into the room, Brother Gratian like a shadow behind him.

‘Her husband,’ Lord Scrope slammed the door shut, ‘will answer any of your questions here in his own house. There is no need to ask others.’

‘And the hunting horn?’ Corbett ignored the manor lord’s hot temper.

‘Master Claypole will see to that.’ Scrope went across to the fire, turning his back to warm himself.

‘Master Claypole is so useful for so many things,’ Lady Hawisa murmured.

‘What do you mean by that?’ her husband declared. ‘I have known him years.’

‘Yes, you have,’ his wife replied sweetly. ‘He was with you at Acre, was he not? A squire?’

Corbett caught the drift of her question.

‘What are you implying?’ Her husband walked across.

Corbett rose to his feet.

‘Nothing!’ she said wearily. ‘Husband, you hold the Sanguis Christi, you are being threatened about that. You receive warnings about confessing your sins at the market cross.’

‘Tell me,’ Corbett intervened, ‘who actually went to Acre?’

‘Myself, cousin Gaston and other men from Mistleham. We’d heard how the Saracens intended to drive the Templars and all Christian forces from Outremer. We were full of idealism. Gaston and I were young knights. We wished to seek adventure rather than chase the Welsh up their valleys or hunt for Scottish rebels amongst the drenching heather. A party of us took the cross in St Alphege’s church and journeyed east to join the garrison at Acre. Soon afterwards the city was invested by the Saracens. You know the story. Acre fell, we escaped, others didn’t. We lost good men, Corbett, and a great deal of silver and wealth. When Acre was about to fall I hastened to the Templar treasury. I took what I could. I rescued it from the hands of the infidels and brought it back to England. God was rewarding me and others for our good work.’

‘And yet you now have warnings; the Templars and others threaten you.’

‘They have …’

‘May I see these warnings?’

Scrope pulled a face, then clicked his fingers. Brother Gratian hurried off. Corbett stood staring at the floor. The rest of the company had fallen silent, each busy with their own thoughts. He glanced quickly at Ranulf. The Principal Clerk in the Chancery of the Green Wax was thoroughly enjoying himself, but that was Ranulf. He liked to see Corbett enter a room like a cat stealing into a parliament of mice. Corbett winked at him and went backto his thoughts, listening to the burning twigs snapping in the hearth. Old sins, he thought, dried and hard, now brought to burning: that was what was happening here.

‘Sir Hugh, Sir Hugh.’

Corbett broke from his reverie. Brother Gratian had returned with a small chancery pouch. Corbett took it and shook out the contents. The scrolls were small and thin, the warnings very similar. The vellum was of high quality, the script neat, fully formed and easy to read. One set in red ink, the other in black, but apart from this, there was no indication of their source. Corbett studied the carefully formed writing sifting the contents into two, though the message was always the same. The first, ‘The Mills of the Temple of God grind exceedingly slow but they do grind exceedingly small’, and the second, ‘The Mills of the Temple may grind exceedingly slow and exceedingly small, but so do the Mills of God’s anger.’

‘And how were these delivered?’

‘Sir Hugh,’ Scrope replied, ‘traders and merchants are common visitors here. They bring supplies as well as letters or petitions from the markets, the town and the surrounding villages. A scroll pushed into the hand. They cannot remember who, how and when for every scrap of parchment they are given.’

Corbett handed them back.

‘My lord, whatever you say, these warnings are not linked to what is happening here at Mistleham but to events many years ago.’ Corbett paused. ‘Are you sure there is nothing you wish to tell me?’

‘Sir Hugh,’ Scrope replied, sitting down in his chair and rubbing his knees, ‘if I have to confess, then I would do so to Brother Gratian, but for the rest, this is nothing but villainy. Isent out search parties to look for the source of that horn but I am sure nothing will be found.’ He gestured at the parchments. ‘The same for those. You’ve seen the warnings, but there again, Corbett, like you I have lived with danger all my life. Whatever comes, I shall face.’ He glared at his wife. ‘And in future,’ he glanced back at Corbett, ‘if you have questions about my doings, then ask me.’ He rose to his feet, clapping his hands softly. ‘I am sorry the banquet ended like this, but I am only the victim, not the cause. Sir Hugh, you look as if you have something more to say.’