Paul Doherty - Nightshade

‘None of us were there,’ La Marche replied. ‘All we know is that our brothers held out to the end; our stronghold was the last to fall. They surrendered, but when the Saracens began to ill treat the women and boys, the Templars attacked them with their bare hands. The Saracens retaliated by slaying all our brothers.Acre is a matter of history, Sir Hugh. One day we shall return, but in the meantime, we look for what is ours.’

‘And why Gratian?’

‘Ask him yourself.’

Corbett shook his head. ‘That is why I am visiting you here. You can answer my questions now and I will let you go, or I’ll arrest you. I will either take you to Mistleham or send you under armed guard to Westminster for questioning by the King’s justices, so I ask you again, why Gratian?’

‘He is a Dominican now,’ La Marche declared, ‘but in 1291, the year Acre fell, he was one of us.’

‘A Templar?’ Corbett exclaimed.

‘A novice,’ La Marche replied, ‘a squire; he hadn’t yet taken his full vows. After Acre fell, Gratian returned to England, where he decided to change his vocation and enter the Dominican order.’

‘Ah, I see.’ Corbett nodded. ‘Of course, that is logical. Scrope wanted his own confessor, someone who was with him at Acre, so he asks the minister general of Dominicans for Brother Gratian, who perhaps knows all about his past. Now, sirs,’ Corbett rose to his feet and stared down, ‘there will be no more Mary loaves for you. I want you out of Mistleham before darkness, and you are never to return.’

‘And the Sanguis Christi?’ La Marche demanded. ‘Where is it?’

‘I don’t know,’ Corbett replied, ‘but when I find it, I will return it to its rightful owner, the King. If your master then wishes to do business with my lord, that is a matter for him. Gentlemen, I bid you adieu.’

Corbett slowly backed out of the chamber, Ranulf following. They went down the stairs to the tap room. The taverner camebustling over to solicit custom, but Ranulf raised his hand and followed Corbett out into the marketplace.

‘They may know more, master.’

‘I don’t think so.’ Corbett peered up at the sky. ‘They are just envoys, sent into Mistleham to collect something. Brother Gratian was to deliver it to them at the appropriate time.’

‘But I thought Lord Scrope said that Brother Gratian would take it back to London himself?’

‘Oh, I am sure he would,’ Corbett smiled, ‘and on the way he would have been robbed by those gentlemen upstairs. He would return to London acting none the wiser and the King would have to accept what he said. Now, Ranulf, tell Chanson to bring our horses. It is time we returned to Mistleham. I am beginning to wonder. But first I want to question both Master Claypole and Brother Gratian.’

‘You are not concerned about the Templars?’

Corbett shook his head. ‘They are soldiers, cooped up in that little garret, obliged to wear filthy rags and eat rancid food. They have been sent here by the Temple to collect something. They have failed; that is why they accosted me on the trackway. They were desperate. They came here in the hope that Gratian would hand over the Sanguis Christi. They must have been curious to hear that Lord Scrope was murdered and the Sanguis Christi had disappeared. Hence their attack. I’m sure their master in London will not be pleased when they report back to him though they’ll be only too happy to leave such fetid lodgings.’

‘They did accost you, the King’s man.’

‘As I said, they were desperate. What can we do, Ranulf, arrest them? They’ll also claim benefit of clergy. No, as long as they aregone by dusk, they do not concern me. Scrope is dead; there’ll be no more warnings sent to him by Brother Gratian. Our Dominican friend has a great deal to account for.’

They mounted their horses and were halfway across the square when Corbett heard his name being called. Pennywort came hurrying across, gesticulating with his hand.

‘Sir Hugh, Sir Hugh!’

Corbett reined in.

Pennywort grasped the reins, fighting for breath.

‘A message from Dame Marguerite, delivered at Mistleham by a servant whom Lady Hawisa sent back. Dame Marguerite says the Sagittarius has visited St Frideswide’s. She begs you to come, at least to comfort her. Lady Hawisa has sent me to direct you. Sir Hugh?’

Corbett closed his eyes and sighed. ‘Very well.’

Pennywort raced before them like a greyhound. They crossed the market square through the huddle of houses leaning over them and out on to the pathway that wound through ice-bound fields to the convent of St Frideswide. Every so often Pennywort would hurry back to explain where they were going. After a short ride they turned into a narrow trackway bordered on either side by thick clumps of trees. Pennywort told them that they were now on the convent estates, fields that Lord Scrope had granted to St Frideswide during his sister’s abbacy. They rounded a bend and sighted the high grey-stone curtain wall, above which rose the red-slate roofs of St Frideswide. A lay sister let them through a postern gate into the convent grounds. Corbett was surprised at how grand the convent was, with its granges, outhouses, stables, guest halls, lodgings, refectory, infirmary, butteries and kitchens,and, at the heart of it all, an impressive church with a high bell tower. They passed this going into the stable yard, where smells of every sort wafted across from the wash tubs, kitchens, gardens and spicery. Nuns and lay sisters garbed in black or grey pattered about on their business. A bell tinkled clearly while the music of a flute carried hauntingly across the convent grounds.

They stabled their horses and entered the guest hall, to be met by a very important-looking nun who greeted them loudly, announcing that she was Dame Edith, the prioress. She spoke so clearly, Corbett suspected she was half deaf. He glared a warning at Ranulf and Chanson not to laugh as they followed the prioress across the peaceful cloisters into the convent church, where, Dame Edith trumpeted, the lady abbess awaited them.

The inside of the church was full of the most fragrant incense, which curled around the statues, the beamed roof and the gilded cornices. A serene house of prayer, the floor of the long nave was a gleaming path of black and white lozenge-shaped tiles. Gorgeous tapestries hung between the pillars, which swept up to a brilliantly painted rood screen and the polished choir stalls beyond. Candles glowed around statues and from side chapels. Dame Edith took them along one of the shadowy transepts. Corbett paused before a wall plaque above a brilliantly hued tapestry. The plaque was carved out of Purbeck marble; the lettering under the crowned stag proclaimed the achievements of Gaston de Bearn and asked all those who passed to pray for this ‘ Miles Christi, fidelis usque ad mortem – Soldier of Christ, faithful until death’. The memorial was similar to the ones in the manor chapel and St Alphege’s, but larger and more exquisitely rendered.

‘Beautiful,’ Dame Edith remarked. ‘We always pray for Gaston’s soul, and see here, Sir Hugh.’ She led them further along to where flagstones had been raised and a deep pit dug. ‘Lady Abbess plans to erect a memorial to her family. Even more so now that …’ The prioress abruptly remembered herself and led them along the transept before turning right into a small chantry chapel with an altar beneath a statue of St Frideswide. The chapel floor was covered in pure wool rugs, well warmed by braziers and lighted by a beautiful stained-glass window. Dame Marguerite and Master Benedict sat on a bench, ave beads wrapped round their fingers, heads close, whispering to each other. On the floor beside them lay an arrow and a scrap of parchment. The pair drew apart as Corbett entered. The abbess looked frightened, slightly red-faced. Master Benedict acted distinctly uneasy.