‘By late autumn,’ Brother Gratian leaned forward as if he was a preacher in his pulpit lecturing his congregation, ‘rumours were rife about the activities of the Free Brethren. Horrid allegations were levelled about their lechery, their lack of honesty, their deceit. Moreover, they were openly preaching doctrines rejected by our Church. Anyway, I went into the forest of Mordern, to the village there, to reason with the Brethren, to ask them to restrain themselves, even to clear the accusations laid against them.’
‘And did they respond?’ Corbett asked.
‘No.’ Gratian shook his head. ‘More’s the pity, Sir Hugh! They just mocked and ridiculed me. Their mood had changed. I didn’t like it. They were not hospitable. True, they offered no violence, but they refused to obey. Now, outside the deserted church there’s a headstone, long battered by the rain and weather. As I left the meeting, I noticed how it had been recently used as soldiers do to sharpen their blades. When I came back, I informed Lord Scrope.’
‘I immediately became suspicious.’ The manor lord took up the story. ‘Sir Hugh, stories were rife of deer being poached, of quail and pheasant being brought down. One of my verderers found an arrow embedded in a tree trunk. So I decided to investigate further. I sent my huntsmen into the forest with strict instructions to watch and observe the Free Brethren. Now for most of the day they went about their usual mischief, wandering into Mistleham or the farms around. Occasionally they’d congregate in Father Thomas’ church. They were, to all appearances, harmless enough except for those stories, but I maintained a strict watch. Eventually one of my verderers reported that he’d espied them practising archery deep in the forest, and from what he reported, they were skilled at loosing and often hitting their mark. One suspicion begets another. I had them more closely watched. Towards the end of October, Adam, their leader, left the community and journeyed towards the coast. He visited Orwell, where he frequented a tavern, the Lantern Horn, being closeted with the captain of a small cog, Robert Picard.’
Corbett glanced up. ‘I’ve heard that name.’
‘He is a well-known smuggler, contraband as well as people who wish to leave or enter the kingdom without licence. When this was reported back to me I was intrigued. Here was a group of men and women sheltering on my lands, causing disruption, and the subject of foul allegations. They were not what they pretended to be. They were well armed, possibly preparing to attack this manor then flee to seek passage at an Essex port and go beyond the seas. Why? They had been in England for over six months and spent most of their time in Mordern, close to here. I reasoned they’d discovered my wealth, perhaps even heard stories about the Sanguis Christi. They plotted to attack Mistleham Manor, Corbett. I have a right to defend what is mine. Moreover, I am responsible for the King’s peace in the area. The Free Brethren were thieves, lechers and heretics.’
‘Rumours,’ Father Thomas interjected. ‘There are always rumours about this or that.’
‘But sometimes true!’ Claypole snapped. ‘My daughter Beatrice, my only daughter, she was much taken by one of the group, a young man called Seth. I did not like him. She would seize any opportunity to escape from the house and meet him, either in town or on its outskirts, even in the forest itself. What did he have to offer, what did he want except to slake his own lust?’
Corbett sensed the hatred and anger in the mayor’s face and voice, a man deeply insulted by the Free Brethren.
‘Why didn’t you just disarm them?’ Ranulf asked. ‘Take them by surprise, holding them prisoner for questioning?’
‘But I did,’ Scrope murmured, rubbing the corner of his mouth. ‘I did, Master Ranulf! I sent Brother Gratian here with a formal summons that they present themselves either here or in the guildhall.’
‘And their response?’
‘They mocked me,’ Brother Gratian replied. ‘They said they would beat me like a dog and go about their business. They did not have to answer to any summons or to any lord.’
Corbett nodded understandingly. Scrope was preparing a defence that would be accepted before King’s Bench or any court in the land. He was lord of the manor. He had wellfounded suspicions that a coven posed a real danger to the King’s peace. He had sent them a formal summons to appear in his court to answer the charges. They had not only refused but mocked his messenger.
‘Early in the morning on the Feast of St Ambrose I summoned my own men,’ Scrope declared, ‘and levies from the town, about a hundred and fifty men in all. We entered the forest carefully. I took my mastiffs Romulus and Remus with me. We would use them to make sure that none escaped …’
‘Did they have guards, sentries?’ Corbett asked.
‘Oh yes. He was killed, offering resistance, and the alarm was raised. Once again I sent Brother Gratian forward, carrying a cross. He pleaded with them to surrender. They replied with,’ Scrope pointed to an arbalest, ‘a crossbow bolt. My men attacked. The Free Brethren resisted where they could but they hadn’t time to arm themselves properly. We forced the church. It was all over very swiftly. Eight were killed outright; the other six were seriously wounded. Eve was killed. Adam received a blow here.’ Scrope pointed to the side of his neck. ‘I asked him to confess, and he just cursed me. My blood was up; the heat of battle still thrilled me. I ordered him and the rest to be hanged on the nearest trees. By the time the Jesus bell tolled it was all finished.’
‘Then what happened?’
‘We searched the village, especially the church,’ Scrope declared. He paused for effect, lifted his hand and snapped his fingers. ‘We found these …’
4
Who knowingly received the said treasure?
Letter of Edward, I, 6 June 1303
Brother Gratian picked up two pieces of parchment and handed them to Corbett. The first was a skilfully and very neatly drawn map of Mistleham Manor, particularly its walls, gardens and grounds, the Island of Swans and the reclusorium. The parchment was of good quality, the ink a deep black. The second was a coarser parchment but easy to read, short and terse, an indenture in which Robert Picard, master of the cog Mortmain, promised to take, sometime before the eve of the Nativity, the Free Brethren of the Holy Spirit to a port of their choosing in Hainault, Zealand or Flanders, the choice being made once they boarded his ship. The price fixed was half a mark per person, the date on the indenture December 1303. Corbett smiled to himself. Picard was a well-known rogue, notorious for smuggling, closely watched by the sheriffs of East Anglia: a character the clerks of the Exchequer would love to interrogate. He was, however, as wily as a snake. He must have heard about the massacre and would disappear for months.
‘See, Corbett?’ Lord Scrope could hardly contain his glee. ‘I was justified in my attack. This coven was causing mayhem on my lands, concealing weapons, pretending to be what they were not. They had a map of my manor and an indenture to take sudden flight. Tell that to his grace the King.’
Corbett ignored the implied insult.
‘Did you discover anything else?’
‘No.’
‘Why did you leave the corpses? Why not bury them?’
‘A warning to everyone else, especially the people of Mistleham.’ Scrope leaned forward. ‘Don’t forget, Sir Hugh, as Master Claypole remarked, the Free Brethren did have their admirers and supporters amongst the townspeople. I wanted this matter to be brought to an abrupt end.’
‘Are you sure they all died; no one fled?’
‘No one,’ Scrope declared. ‘I took the two mastiffs, Romulus and Remus. They searched but they could detect no trail, no sign of any fugitive. Moreover, I inspected all the corpses, as did Brother Gratian and Father Thomas; they knew their faces, they could account for each and every one of the Free Brethren.’
‘Too true,’ the parish priest murmured sadly, ‘all dead. May God rest them. My lord,’ he turned to Corbett, ‘vengeance has been carried out; they must be given honourable requiem, the corpses disposed of somehow. Yet now,’ he added wistfully, ‘the ground has grown very hard.�
��
‘I will come to that,’ Corbett intervened. ‘So,’ he turned back to Scrope, ‘the Free Brethren are all dead?’
‘Yes.’
‘When you searched the church, you discovered the weapons and those two documents?’
‘Yes.’
‘Anything else?’
‘No.’
‘And yet,’ Corbett continued remorselessly, ‘it’s not finished. This Bowman, this Sagittarius, has emerged to exact vengeance. He has already killed five—’
‘Seven!’ Scrope retorted. ‘Most of the killings take place on lonely paths, someone coming out of a door, but the last two, Eadburga and Wilfred, were slain in God’s own daylight in our marketplace.’
‘So this Sagittarius must be a master bowman,’ Corbett declared, ‘someone very skilled, moving fast.’
‘I would say so.’
‘And the victims are chosen at random?’
‘So it seems,’ Lady Hawisa interjected, ‘but all were young people, Sir Hugh, full of life and love.’ She smiled at Ranulf.
‘Revenge, then,’ Corbett declared, ‘for the killings at Mordern? So there must have been a fifteenth member?’
‘We know of no such person.’ Scrope scratched his head. ‘I have questioned Brother Gratian and Father Thomas on this. Master Claypole also has done his searches. There was no fifteenth member.’
‘Or someone deeply devoted to the Free Brethren?’
‘But who?’ Lady Hawisa asked. ‘Sir Hugh, you’ve heard my husband. The Free Brethren had friends amongst the young of the town, but a skilled bowman, someone prepared to kill and kill again?’
‘True,’ Dame Marguerite intervened. ‘Wilfred and Eadburga were killed just outside St Alphege’s, where I was sheltering. Master Benedict was guarding the side door. I’d come to meet Lady Hawisa; we were talking. Sir Hugh, it was so sudden, that horrid horn sounding.’
‘Horn?’ Ranulf asked.
‘Always, before the Sagittarius strikes,’ Scrope murmured. ‘Three blasts of a hunting horn.’
‘Then death comes showering down,’ Benedict whispered.
‘And now he has struck at you.’ Corbett gestured at Lord Scrope. ‘Your two mastiffs were killed last night. How could that be done?’
Scrope just shrugged. Corbett decided not to pursue the matter any further. He would have to reflect. Both he and Scrope knew that in Wales, enemy bowmen had crept into the King’s camp and loosed their deadly shafts at anyone they chose. He could imagine that something similar had happened last night at the manor. The Sagittarius scaling the curtain wall, probably dressed in a white cloak, moving swiftly. The dogs, dozing by the fire, would be aroused, dark shapes against the snow and glowing flames, an easy enough target for a skilled archer.
‘So, to answer my earlier question.’ Ranulf half smiled. ‘The mastiffs were slain because they were at Mordern?’
‘Or as a warning,’ Brother Gratian declared.
‘But there is more, isn’t there, my lord?’ Father Thomas leaned forward, hands fluttering.
‘Two nights ago,’ Lord Scrope had lost some of his arrogance, ‘the same day Wilfred and Eadburga’s corpses were laid out in the church, Father Thomas received a visitor. He didn’t call himself the Sagittarius but Nightshade. God knows why he took such a repellent title; however, he threatened that unless I make full confession of all my sins at the market cross, more vengeance would follow.’
‘What sins, Lord Scrope?’ Ranulf asked sardonically.
The manor lord didn’t even glance at him, let alone reply.
‘My lord,’ Corbett was eager to break the tension, wary of Scrope’s violent temper, ‘the Free Brethren came here to the manor?’
Scrope nodded.
‘And Father Thomas, they visited your church?’
‘Of course,’ the priest murmured.
‘And they must have gone to St Frideswide to beg, to seek help?’
‘Yes, they did.’ Dame Marguerite smiled. ‘Sir Hugh, I found them harmless enough. The young men, well, they were lean, fit as greyhounds. They certainly caused a flutter amongst the novices, yet in my dealings with them I found them fairly innocent, a little stupid, naive, living as if they were flowers under the summer sun. But we were all young once, we all had our dreams. I felt for them. They teased me about my vows of chastity and the rule of St Benedict. Still,’ she smiled, ‘I found them honest. I gave them work on our land, gardening, clearing away rubbish, pruning a herb, cutting a hedge, clearing outhouses and latrines. They always worked hard, I always paid them.’
‘And you, Master Benedict?’
The chaplain blushed and shuffled his feet. ‘I was taken by some of the young ladies. They were fair and gracious. They would tease me about my celibacy and asked why I didn’t imitate the poverty of Christ. I admit, Sir Hugh, I could find no answer to that. They were not of my calling but they meant well. I am sorry they are dead.’
‘You are sure of that?’ Corbett asked. ‘That they were all killed?’
‘Yes,’ Dame Marguerite intervened. ‘When I heard about the attack, I couldn’t believe all had been slain. I asked Brother Benedict here to go to Mordern. He knew all of the members by face if not by name. He came back to report that all were dead. I disagree with my brother: perhaps they did deserve execution, perhaps they were a threat to the King’s peace, but now they are dead, they must be buried.’
‘And so they will be.’ Corbett straightened up. ‘I carry the King’s warrant in this matter. Tomorrow morning, Lord Scrope, I, and some of your retainers, will go out to Mordern. We will collect the corpses. If the ground is too hard, which I suspect it is, they will be burnt. Father Thomas, Master Benedict, you are most welcome to come. I would like the corpses blessed, given the rites, some prayers. God’s work and that of the King shall be done.’ Both priests agreed. Lord Scrope pulled a face and looked away. ‘One final matter.’ Corbett lifted his hand. ‘Lord Scrope, you returned from Acre about twelve years ago, yet the events we have just described occurred only in the last twelve months.’ He paused. ‘So, let me get the sequence of events clear in my own mind. The Free Brethren arrived last year at the beginning of Lent, early March 1303?’ Everyone nodded in agreement. ‘They moved into the forest of Mordern and settled in the deserted village there. At first they were accepted. You, my lord, disliked some of their teachings but they seemed innocent enough.’ Again a murmur of agreement. ‘They worked in the parish church,’ Corbett continued, ‘rendering a vivid painting. Then, during November last, Lord Scrope, your suspicions were aroused that the Free Brethren were not what they pretended to be: the sharpening of weapons, the practice of archery in the forest, the journey to Orwell. You decided to strike, and by the end of Advent, the Free Brethren were all dead. In the New Year the Sagittarius appeared, inflicting vengeance wherever he could. Now all this occurred in the last year. So what has changed? You, Master Benedict, have been in England for how long?’
The chaplain blew his cheeks out. ‘Oh, about fifteen months. As I told you, Sir Hugh, I did good service in Bordeaux and I was given letters of accreditation to the Lady Abbess here.’
‘Yes, yes, and you, Brother Gratian?’
‘I have been Lord Scrope’s confessor for about a year. He wrote to our house at Blackfriars and asked them to choose a man. They selected me, and I was happy to come.’
Corbett was about to continue when the lowing of a hunting horn brayed through the night. Not even the thickness of the manor walls or the shutters across the windows could dull the threatening sound. Corbett thought he had been mistaken, but then the note came again, braying long and mournful.
‘Where is he?’ Lord Scrope whispered. ‘He must be here.’
It was as if some evil wraith had swirled into the solar. A deathly silence, followed by clamour as people sprang to their feet. Corbett was more interested in the horn-blowing and wondered how close the Sagittarius was to the manor. Scrope, however, was hurrying towards the solar door, the sound of serv
ants running echoing along the gallery outside. Everyone followed the manor lord out, but Corbett gestured at Ranulf to stay.
‘Are we under attack?’ Ranulf whispered. He had changed for the banquet, dressed similarly to Corbett, though he’d also brought his war belt. He went to pick this up from the floor but caught Corbett’s quick shake of the head and stopped even as the third horn blast echoed from the darkness outside.
‘What do you think, master?’
‘Murder!’ Corbett whispered. ‘The demon that slumbers like bread in an oven. A person can appear witless as a pigeon yet be as swift as the wynkin. Appearances do not matter here. Murder nestles like a fledging bird in its nest, growing in strength then, one day, taking sudden flight. This is what is happening, Ranulf. Ancient sins bursting to ripeness, spitting out their poison.’ He paused as Dame Marguerite, followed by her chaplain, slipped back into the solar, closing the door behind them. Corbett could hear Lady Hawisa calling for more lights and lanterns as her husband organised others into searching the demesne. ‘Madam.’ Corbett made to rise, but Dame Marguerite gestured otherwise as she sat in Scrope’s chair, indicating that Master Benedict sit next to her.
‘Sir Hugh, I do not know what is happening,’ she declared breathlessly, ‘but I am sure there is no real danger to us now. I must tell you this.’ She shook one hand free from her voluminous sleeve and leaned closer. Corbett caught the fragrance of her light perfume. ‘My brother is truly a man of blood,’ she whispered hoarsely. ‘The Free Brethren may have been heretics, thieves, lechers, whatever he may accuse them of, but to cut them down so ruthlessly, to assume the role of God’s avenging angel …’ She shook her head. ‘I will be swift as a hawk in its swoop, Sir Hugh: one man did survive the massacre at Mordern. In truth, an idiot, a jack of the woods, a madcap; he saw what happened.’
‘Who?’ Ranulf interrupted.
‘Jackanapes, an orphan, weak in wits but blunt in tongue,’ Dame Marguerite whispered, glancing fearfully at the door. ‘He dresses like a buffoon and lives off the charity of the manor and the likes of St Frideswide. You must meet him.’
Nightshade Page 6
