Paul Doherty: Nightshade

Corbett steeled himself. He respected Edward of England, a man of iron who, despite his many faults, imposed order on a chaos that, if unchecked, would sweep away Corbett’s world of logic, reason, evidence, the rule of law and all the trappings thatkept the utlegati – the wolf men – lurking beyond the light. Nevertheless, Corbett was wary of princes, and none more so than Edward, especially when he acted maudlin.

‘Your grace,’ he gestured round, ‘the light in here is poor, it’s freezing cold, my wife and children …’

‘Hugh, Hugh …’

‘Is it this, your grace? I thought the conspiracy had been broken.’

‘This is not just my treasure hoard,’ Edward declared, beating his chest. ‘It is part of me.’ He edged closer, hitching up the neck of his sack-like tunic then plucking at his coarsely woven breeches tucked into cowhide boots.

Corbett hid his smile. Edward of England liked nothing better than to play the role of the peasant farmer when it suited him.

‘I brought you here because something about which I must tell you belongs here. I’ll not keep you long. I must go to the royal mews,’ Edward murmured. ‘One of our beloved falcons is ill. Whilst you, Corbett, must be off to Mistleham in Essex, to question Oliver Scrope, lord of the manor.’

‘Your grace,’ Corbett protested, ‘you promised me rest until well after Hilary.’

‘I know, I know.’ The King waved a hand. ‘But I need you in Essex, and I’ll tell you why.’ He breathed in deeply. ‘Early last year a wandering group of Beguines, male and female, who called themselves the Free Brethren of the Holy Spirit, landed at Dover. They journeyed into Essex on to the manor lands of Lord Oliver Scrope. You’ve heard of him?’

Corbett shrugged.

‘He owns vast estates, a man certainly blessed by fortune if not by God,’ Edward added cynically. ‘Oliver is an old comrade-in-arms.He and I have fought shoulder to shoulder in Wales and along the Scottish march. You do recall him?’

Corbett pulled a face, then shook his head.

‘Yes you do!’ Edward teased. ‘You said he had the face of a bat: balding head, with protuberant eyes, puffed cheeks and ears that stuck out.’

‘True. I remember,’ Corbett conceded. ‘A small, thick-set man, hot-tempered and violent. Your grace, comrade or not, Scrope has a nasty soul, a man of blood. He took to killing like a bat to flitting. He butchered some Welsh prisoners outside Conwy, didn’t he?’

‘Yes, yes.’ Edward grimaced. ‘Oliver is a fighter. He is also a hero, Corbett, a Crusader who escaped Acre when it fell thirteen years ago to the Saracens. Fought his way through, brought back a king’s ransom in precious goods. I converted a great deal of it into land for him and married him off to a rich heiress fifteen years his junior, Lady Hawisa Talbot. However, one thing he did not hand over to me,’ Edward narrowed his eyes, ‘was the Sanguis Christi.’

‘The Blood of Christ?’

‘An exquisite cross of thick pure gold,’ the King’s eyes gleamed, ‘studded with five huge rubies allegedly containing blood from Christ’s precious wounds. According to legend, the rubies were embedded in the True Cross found by the Empress Helena a thousand years ago. The Sanguis Christi, along with other wealth, was seized by Scrope when he fled Acre. On his return to England, he solemnly promised me, after I had given him so much help and favour, that the Sanguis Christi would be mine, either when he died or after twelve years had elapsed. It is now January 1304.’Edward smiled. ‘The twelve years have elapsed. The Sanguis Christi should be mine.’

‘Then summon him to Westminster!’ Corbett declared crossly.

‘Ah, that’s just the beginning.’ The King smiled. ‘Scrope is a wily man. He was with the Templars in Acre. The Sanguis Christi and all the treasures he seized once belonged to that order. They have demanded everything back, particularly the Sanguis Christi. Scrope has utterly rejected their plea. I support him in this.’ He grinned. ‘Naturally. The Temple, according to rumour, have sworn vengeance. They’ve sent formal envoys to Lord Scrope demanding the return of their property. Scrope has refused, so the Templars, in a secret consistory, have passed sentence of death on him. Now,’ the King sighed, ‘I do not know whether this is the work of the General Chapter or just extremists, but so far they have made little progress.’

‘Couldn’t the Pope intervene?’

‘The Pope sprawls in Avignon, firmly in the power of France, who, as you know, has no great love for the Order of the Temple. Anyway, His Holiness claims that Scrope’s treasures are the just plunders of war, whilst our archbishop, old Robert Winchelsea, when he is not in exile, fully agrees.’

‘But you are concerned that the Temple may seize the Sanguis Christi?’

‘As is Lord Scrope. He has received mysterious messages.’ Edward closed his eyes. ‘“The Mills of the Temple of God grind exceedingly slow but they do grind exceedingly small.”’

‘How were these messages delivered?’ Corbett now forgot the freezing gloom, deeply intrigued by what the King was saying.

‘Oh, writs and letters, anonymously and mysteriously delivered at Scrope’s great manor hall.’

‘So you need me to collect the Sanguis Christi before the Temple do?’

‘Precisely!’

‘But the Temple will object to you having it.’

Edward clicked his tongue. ‘They can object until the Second Coming, Corbett. I’ll simply say I am holding it in trust until the matter is decided, which will be never! Moreover, Scrope has demanded my help before he hands it over. There is more to the story than a beautiful gold cross and five precious rubies.’

‘You mentioned the Free Brethren of the Holy Spirit?’

‘Yes, yes.’ The King breathed out noisily. ‘You know what is happening, Sir Hugh. The Pope wallows in luxury at Avignon, bishops, priests and clerics live lives alien to their calling. Europe is plagued by wandering groups attacking such decadence; fraternities, companies and sisterhoods all claiming a special revelation from God. The Free Brethren of the Holy Spirit were one of these. Like the Beguines, the Columbini, the Pastoreux, they believed that true religion should be free of all structures, strictures and hierarchy. Men and women, they argued, should live in their natural state and not feel guilty over sexual matters or any other burdens of sin. Property should be held in common, as should all wealth and income. The sacraments are not necessary, particularly marriage.’ Edward fluttered his fingers. ‘You know how the hymn goes. Anyway, this company of Free Brethren, male and female, under their leaders, who rejoiced in the names of Adam and Eve, moved into Mistleham. At first Lord Oliver tolerated them …’

‘Why?’

‘He had other problems. Not only was he being menaced bythe Temple, but new threats were emerging like prostitutes from some filthy runnel. Again warnings were anonymously delivered, following the same lines as the earlier though slightly different. Yes, that’s how it goes.’ Edward scratched his head. ‘“The Mills of the Temple may grind exceedingly slow and exceedingly small, but so do the Mills of God’s anger.”’

‘And their origin?’

Edward pulled a face. ‘Scrope visited me on the last Sunday of Advent and confessed all this, but he didn’t know who was threatening him and why this new menace had emerged.’ The King opened and shut the battered lid of a looted coffer next to him. ‘However, by then, one problem had been resolved, the Free Brethren of the Holy Spirit had ceased to exist.’

‘Your grace?’ Corbett leaned forward. In December he’d been busy in Canterbury, but on his return he’d heard chilling tales from Essex.