Nightshade

by P. C. Doherty

  Lord Scrope shivered and moved to the hearth to warm himself. He stared at the carved face of the woodwose at the centre of the mantle shelf; painted black with red eyes and gleaming white teeth, the entire head was crowned by a halo of forest greenery. On reflection Scrope did not like that face with its slightly sneering expression, and he vowed to have it changed as soon as he could. He picked up his finely carved wooden goblet of wine, leaned against the mantle shelf and stared down at the flames licking the dried bracken. Outside, a fresh fall of snow covered the ground. The lake had not yet frozen, though when he’d been rowed across the previous evening, the water had been bitingly cold, flecks and splashes stinging his face. Scrope sipped the mulled wine; of course it was warm in here. The six window openings were firmly shuttered and protected by leather hangings and thick blue woollen drapes.

  Scrope had tried to sleep but been unable to. His soul was agitated by memories of the past, his heart rattled about recent worries. He absent-mindedly muttered a prayer. He reflected on the words of the psalm, how unabsolved sins from the past stretched out like a trap to seize the guilty. His night had been racked by the usual nightmares: the screaming and whirling missiles over Acre; Gaston, face all bloodied, staggering along that path; the furious hand-to-hand fighting across the courtyards where the fountains turned crimson with blood; the heart-stopping terror as they struggled to reach the donjon. And afterwards? The Temple treasure-hold, that serjeant arguing with him … Lord Scrope scratched his head and hid his own guilt beneath a seething rage. The arrogant impunity of those Free Brethren! How dare they display such mockery! How could they know his dark secret? Some survivor from Acre, but who? It did not matter. They had provoked their own downfall! Now Edward the King was interfering, reminding Scrope of his promise about the Sanguis Christi, how the attack on the Free Brethren had not been according to statutory law or ordinance of the council. Scrope’s powerful friends in church and state at Westminster had protected him; they had also dispatched messages that the King was sending no less a person than Sir Hugh Corbett, Keeper of the Secret Seal, into the shire with full power to investigate what was happening at Mistleham. Corbett! Scrope knew him, lean of face, dark-eyed and sharp-witted, a clerk who could not be threatened or bribed.

  Scrope gripped the goblet more tightly, listening to sounds from outside. He promised himself that he would go and check on Romulus and Remus, the great mastiffs who protected the edges of the lake. He eased himself down into the chair and stretched one hand out towards the fire. So much danger! The Sagittarius, an assassin sent by the Temple? Or a survivor of the massacre at Mordern? Yet surely they had all been killed? Brother Gratian had assured him of that, whilst the Dominican had also affirmed that Scrope had only done God’s will, so why be afraid? He must deal with all his problems. Father Thomas could be persuaded. Marguerite would, as always, be the loving, supportive sister. He must escape from all these troubles and spend more time enjoying the delicious body of his wife. Of course the Sanguis Christi and the assassin’s dagger would have to be returned.

  Scrope put down the goblet, took the silver chain from round his neck and moved to the great chest at the foot of the bed. He knelt down, undid the intricate locks on the chest, pushed back the lid and drew out the black coffer with its silver bands and three more locks, each with its own special key. He opened this and stared greedily at the treasures within. The Sanguis Christi, pure gold, those great red rubies glinting even in the dim light of the reclusorium; beside it other precious items looted from the Temple’s treasure hoard in Acre. They’d never get those back! The Sanguis Christi he’d hand to the King as a gift, a bribe, a reminder of how loyal Lord Scrope was. He’d also send the King a letter recalling those great days when they’d served shoulder to shoulder in Ireland, Wales or pursuing Scottish rebels through the mist and heather north of the border. He’d entertain Corbett. He’d use Brother Gratian to explain how the Free Brethren were a menace, a threat to the King’s peace as well as the teaching of the Church.

  Lord Scrope delved deep into the chest, took out a velvet bag, undid the cord and shook out the assassin’s dagger. He held it up, the curved steel blade with its wicked point, the bronze handle carved to give a firm grip, the red ribbon of the assassins, the personal emblem of the Old Man of the Mountains, faded and worn, still tied around it. The precious dagger looted from the King’s treasury in the crypt of Westminster Abbey! Scrope had read the writ dispatched under close seal by the Chancery office, detailing the items stolen as well as a list of those involved. He’d openly alerted his own henchmen, including Master Claypole the mayor, to keep a watching eye on strangers who entered Mistleham to barter or sell precious goods. Claypole, a goldsmith, had done well in the secret negotiations over such precious items. One of Puddlicott’s lieutenants had appeared and boldly approached the good mayor with this dagger and the offer of other valuable items: the robber, John Le Riche, had been seized and easily silenced. The dagger, of course, could not be concealed. Scrope and Claypole had searched for the rest of the treasure but – Scrope ground his teeth – had not found it. Another example of malicious meddling by the Free Brethren! He’d duly informed the King about the dagger. Edward had been so grateful; he should remember that! As for Le Riche, a leading member of Puddlicott’s gang, Scrope had decided the dead did not gossip. He’d summarily tried the thief and hanged him on the gibbet at the crossroads leading into Mistleham.

  Scrope put the items back, securing the locks of both coffer and chest. He felt better. He walked to the great heavy oaken door, pulled back the grille and peered out. The grey light was now brightening. It was time he returned. He undid the lock, drew back the bolts at top and bottom, opened the door and stood at the top of the steps, bracing himself against the piercing breeze. He stared down at the small jetty where his boat was moored, the approaches to it lit by fires still burning merrily in their great pitch casks. The fresh snow that now carpeted everything had not extinguished them. He stared across the lake, searching for Romulus and Remus. He peered at the cluster of great oaks; the fire built to warm the dogs had burnt low. He glimpsed the dark shapes lying against the whiteness. Something was wrong! His heart skipped a beat; he whistled, but there was no sound, nothing but the cries of rooks and crows. He glanced across the lake: those two poles on the far bank should not be there. Forgetting even to close the door behind him, Scrope hastened down the steps; his slippered feet made this precarious, so he kicked them off, hastening along the jetty and almost threw himself into the boat. Cursing loudly, he pushed away, powerful arms pulling at the oars as he glanced fearfully over his shoulder.

  Scrope reached the small mooring place, clambered out and stared in horror at the severed heads of his mastiffs, their snarling faces now frozen masks, necks still bright with blood, one impaled on each side of the jetty, nothing more than hunks of meat. Despite the snow freezing his feet, Scrope was only aware of the fear that sent his heart racing, his stomach churning. He clambered up the hill towards the fire where the dogs should have sheltered: their cadavers now lay next to it, the snow around drenched dark with blood. Scrope crouched down and stared at the long shafts that pierced their carcasses, two in each, death-dealing blows. He clambered to his feet and staggered back, and it was then that he heard it, cutting through the chilling air: the braying sound of a hunting horn.

  3

  Touching the purchase from a stranger who, recently, after the breaking of the treasury at Westminster …

  Calendar of Patent Rolls, 1303 – 1307

  Corbett sat back in his chair and listened to the sweet voices of the choir from the minstrel loft of the great hall in Mistleham Manor. He slipped his hand beneath his cloak and touched the silver amulet Lady Maeve had given him at Christmas inscribed with the words from Luke’s Gospel: ‘Jesus however, passing through the midst of them, went on his way.’ He smiled to himself. Lady Maeve had assured him that wearing such an amulet, with the words describing Jesus’ miraculous escape from a hostil
e crowd intent on murder, would always keep him safe. Corbett was certainly glad that his journey to Mistleham had proved safe despite the long, hard riding. They had spent a night at a wayside tavern, cold and dingy, though the food had been good. One of the horses had shed a shoe, so they’d paused at a blacksmith, but eventually they’d reached Mistleham safe and sound.

  As soon as they entered the town, Corbett sensed a swirl of violence and fear. A cold, hard day. They’d ridden across the cobbles past the market cross. The stalls were still open. People milled about. Bailiffs clustered around the stocks. Children played. Dogs ran loose. The usual turmoil and clamour of a market day. They’d passed the church; Corbett glimpsed Father Thomas on the steps and the priest had raised a hand in blessing. It seemed as if everybody knew the King’s men had arrived. People drew aside giving sharp glances from behind hoods and veils. A few of the young ladies flirted with Ranulf as they made their way through the town. A wealthy, prosperous place. The busy market square was fronted by sturdy timber houses, their wood painted pink, white or black, some of the gables gilded, a few of the lower windows full of gleaming glass. The stalls offered a wide range of goods from skinners, goldsmiths, furriers, butchers, clothiers; their customers appeared well dressed in their long heavy gowns, dresses, tunics and cloaks of brown, green, red and blue. Bailiffs and beadles went about their business. The court of pie-powder sat under the lychgate leading into the parish enclosure. To all appearances Mistleham was a noisy, bustling place but Corbett had sensed the lurking fear and tension of a town under siege. This brooding sense of unease was brought sharply to his attention when a madcap, a moon-fairy in fluttering rags, came dancing out of a runnel to block their way. He had a sharp, dirty face, frenetic eyes, a nose hooked like a bird’s and a tongue too big for his mouth. He wore a dirty red hood adorned with shells; in one hand he carried a willow wand, in the other a used pomander which he’d sniff then glare around. He did a jig in front of their horses. Ranulf made to ride forward and drive him away, but Corbett held up his hand.

  ‘Pax tecum, brother.’ He took off his gauntlet, plucked a coin from his belt purse and spun it towards the fool, who caught it neatly.

  ‘You’re not as foolish as you appear.’

  ‘Never has been for old Jackanapes.’ The fool sniffed at the pomander and glanced slyly up. ‘Old Jackanapes knows you King’s man. Come to judge the wicked, have you?’ He smiled, upper lip slightly curled to reveal rotting teeth. ‘Judgement day not too soon! How long will the wicked prosper, eh, King’s man?’ Then he was dancing away, calling at them to pass on.

  Mistleham Manor proclaimed the same wealth and power as the town. Corbett’s party approached the house along a snow-covered path which wound its way through an avenue of oak, beech and elm bordering snow-covered paddocks. The manor, built square on a slight rise, was of gleaming honey-coloured stone especially imported from the Cotswolds. It boasted a black-tiled sloping roof, chimney stacks and spacious windows, some filled with stretched horn, others with mullioned or even painted glass in their gleaming black frames. The magnificent front door was approached by sweeping steps. The main house had been built as a long hall with an upper storey, wings having been added at either end; a fourth side completed the square, which was pierced by an imposing gateway in the middle. This led into a great cobbled yard or bailey where kitchens, stables, outhouses, smithies, kennels and servants’ quarters were situated. Retainers wearing Scrope’s livery of russet and green came bustling out to take their horses, whilst others escorted them into the house to meet Brother Gratian. The Dominican whispered how there had been ‘an unfortunate and very unpleasant incident earlier in the day’, but declared that, God willing, Lord Scrope and Lady Hawisa would meet them later at a special dinner arranged in their honour.

  Corbett was given his own chamber along the Jerusalem Gallery in the east wing of the house. Ranulf and Chanson were to share the Damascus Room, the name given to a chamber above the great gatehouse. Scrope, Corbett quickly learnt, lived in luxury: tiled floors on the ground level, gleaming floorboards on the upper storeys. The walls of the manor were half covered in shiny oaken linen panels, the plaster above painted a light restful green and adorned with coloured cloths, small tapestries, diptychs, paintings and exquisitely carved crosses. The furnishings were equally splendid, finely cut and carved out of gleaming wood, clearly the work of skilled craftsmen from London or Norwich. Corbett’s chamber was the one always given to any guest of honour. Brother Gratian whispered how the King himself had stayed there around Michaelmas three years ago and thoroughly enjoyed himself. Corbett cordially agreed. The room was dominated by a great four-poster bed adorned with red and gold hangings and silver tassels. On each side of the bed stood small oaken tables with six-branch candelabra; the candles were long, tapering and pure white. A chest with its own locks and clasps rested at the foot of the bed for Corbett’s possessions, and against the far wall was an aumbry with hooks and racks for clothes. The window embrasure, its small panes all glass-filled, had cushioned seats. Beneath the small oriel window stood a writing table with a high-backed leather-quilted chair. In the centre of the table a silver crucifix stretched above a tray of sharpened quills and an array of ink pots, sander, pumice stone and parchment knives. The room was warmed by small wheeled braziers, capped and glowing, easily moved around to give off their herb-scented heat. A huge lavarium stood in one corner, bearing a great bowl; its other tray held a wicker basket full of rare soap, and the rods jutting out from the main stem were draped with napkins and towels. Brother Gratian explained how servants would bring up hot water as well as a wooden tub for bathing. He added that an ease chamber stood close by on the gallery outside whilst – he pointed to the table just inside the door – wine, water and ale would always be available.

  Corbett half listened as Chanson stored away his Chancery panniers and coffers. He was more interested in studying the Dominican. He had met members of this order before; a few he’d liked, others seemed totally absorbed with some special task given to them by God. Brother Gratian belonged to the latter. Garbed in his black and white robes, a cord tied tightly around his waist, feet in their heavy sandals, he was a true inquisitor. He had a narrow face, hard black eyes and a slightly twisted nose above prim, bloodless lips: a hunter, Corbett concluded. Gratian’s speech was clear, his movements sharp and precise, long bony fingers constantly enforcing his words. A man, Corbett reasoned, more concerned with justice than compassion, and one who apparently regarded Lord Scrope as a true pillar of Holy Mother Church. At first the Dominican was rather nervous of the royal clerks, but eventually Corbett’s watchful silence was taken as approval and he led them on a tour of the mansion, Ranulf and Chanson trailing behind. The Principal Clerk in the Chancery of the Green Wax glared at the back of the Dominican’s balding head and recalled that fateful day in Newgate years ago when he’d been led out to be hanged for a litany of petty felonies. A Dominican had shrived him as he waited for the execution cart, assuring him that his stay in purgatory would be long: little comfort, Ranulf reflected, after his neck had been stretched at the Elms. A short while later Corbett had appeared, Master Long Face staring at him with that strange amused gaze, and Ranulf’s life had been transformed. Ranulf clicked his tongue. Eventually he caught Chanson’s attention and began to cleverly mimic the Dominican’s mannerisms as he showed them the great hall, the solar, the perfect jewel of the private chapel, the kitchens and sculleries full of steam and savoury smells as cooks busily prepared the evening banquet.

  Corbett was keen to investigate the tension he sensed in the manor. He had already glimpsed the cadavers of the two great hunting dogs, legs peeping out from beneath the rough sacking thrown over them in the manor bailey. Moreover Brother Gratian proved strangely reluctant to take them out through the gateway at the back of the manor. Corbett gently insisted, so the Dominican escorted them along the path to the brow of the hill which swept down to the Island of Swans and its impressive reclusorium. Corbett was
immediately taken with the ring of shimmering water, the jetties facing each other, the steep steps leading up to the heavy door of the reclusorium. Then his attention was diverted by the great reddish-brown stains near the edge of the lake as well as similar ones further up the hill, near the remains of a fire built close to a copse of trees.

  ‘What happened?’ Ranulf asked watching servants and retainers, garbed in Lord Scrope’s livery, scurrying about amongst the trees. In the far distance mounted figures could be glimpsed: undoubtedly Lord Scrope and his henchmen searching for something. ‘What happened?’ he repeated.

  ‘The Sagittarius,’ Brother Gratian replied reluctantly. ‘A mysterious bowman who is terrorising Mistleham. He has already slain a number of innocents. Apparently last night,’ he continued hastily, ‘or early this morning, the Sagittarius entered the manor lands. Lord Scrope had withdrawn to the reclusorium.’ Brother Gratian pointed to the island.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘To pray, to reflect, to meditate.’