Nightshade

by P. C. Doherty

  The townspeople were still hiding when Corbett and Ranulf, accompanied by Scrope and the rest of his henchmen, thundered into the marketplace. Scrope’s retainers had brought long oval shields from the manor armoury. Corbett and his companions dismounted and hid behind the shields as the henchmen formed a protective screen around them. Corbett peered over the rim of the shield-wall and saw a corpse almost floating in a puddle of blood as well as the body of the last victim still sprawled gruesomely against the tavern door. He ordered the shield-wall to hold, telling Chanson and others to keep the horses quiet. Scrope, beside himself with rage, was glaring around. He glimpsed Claypole waving agitatedly from a window.

  ‘How many?’ Scrope bellowed.

  Catchpole lifted a hand, three fingers extended.

  ‘Vavasour and Mutwart,’ declared one of Scrope’s men, with a keener sight than the rest.

  ‘Robert de Scott is also dead.’ Claypole’s voice carried across the marketplace.

  Scrope gave vent to a litany of curses. Corbett ignored him as he gazed at the entrance to the Portal of Heaven then round the marketplace. He admired the skill of the assassin. This was a good place for a master bowman to move and hide. He studied the empty doorways, the dark mouths of alleyways and runnels; the killer could lurk in any of these, not to mention the houses, four or five storeys high, with their garrets, narrow windows, ledges and roofs. Nevertheless, Corbett sensed the Sagittarius would not strike again. Time had passed. It would be too dangerous now; a flurry of movement or a flash of colour might betray the killer. The Sagittarius not only hid in the dark but used panic and fear to disguise himself.

  ‘In God’s name, I beg you cease this!’

  Corbett spun around. Father Thomas, preceded by Master Benedict Le Sanglier carrying a cross, processed across the marketplace. In one hand the parish priest carried a lighted candle capped against the breeze, in the other a hand bell, which he shook vigorously.

  ‘In God’s name,’ the priest shouted, ‘I adjure you to cease this.’ He paused in the middle of the square. A dog came snuffling over. Corbett ordered the shield wall to stand aside and walked across.

  ‘I think the danger has passed,’ he said softly.

  ‘It will return,’ Father Thomas retorted, face all concerned. ‘As it has in the past …’ He broke off abruptly. ‘I was closeted in my house.’ The priest’s anger drained away. ‘Master Benedict came running through the church to tell me what had happened.’ He blew out the candle and pointed at the Portal of Heaven. ‘I must see to the dead.’

  7

  On that day 13 January 1304, the Judges began their deliberations.

  Annals of London, 1304

  Father Thomas hurried away even as people began to emerge from their hiding places. Doors were flung open, shutters removed. A boy came racing across the cobbles, ignoring the shrieks of his mother. Lord Scrope’s retinue broke up. The manor lord became busy talking to Master Claypole, who’d emerged from his house looking rather ridiculous, a dagger in one hand, a large pan in the other to serve as a shield. A bell sounded. The market returned to business, but Corbett sensed the mood had grown ugly. There were dark looks, mutterings and mumbles. The people of Mistleham now believed that the Sagittarius and his dreadful acts were connected to those hideous events out at Modern. Corbett told Chanson to guard the horses, plucked Ranulf by the sleeve and gestured towards the Portal of Heaven. ‘The Bowman must have stood directly opposite.’ He turned and pointed to the line of houses across the square, facing the tavern.

  ‘Search the alleyways, alcoves and runnels, Ranulf. Go literally from house to house and room to room, see what you can find.’

  ‘He must have carried his bow,’ Ranulf murmured.

  ‘Or had it hidden away, ready for use. There again,’ Corbett chewed the corner of his lip, ‘a bow can be unstrung, it can look like a stave, whilst the quiver of arrows remains hidden under a cloak. See what you can find.’

  Ranulf nodded and walked across. Corbett went over to where Scrope and Catchpole were deep in conversation. He paused. He hadn’t noticed it before, but now the more he stared at these two men with their harsh, pugnacious faces, the more he could see the blood tie between them. What was more important was that both the manor lord and the mayor were in heated conversation. Corbett wondered what it was about, whilst he was eager to question both about that strange half-finished remark by Father Thomas about the Sagittarius returning as he had in the past.

  ‘Sir Hugh,’ Scrope turned, a bland smile on his ugly face, ‘this is damnable.’

  ‘So is the cause, Lord Oliver! The Sagittarius, who gave him that name?’

  Scrope glanced at Claypole; the mayor just pursed his lips, shrugged and glanced away.

  ‘I asked a question.’ Corbett paused as a crowd of townsmen headed towards them, carrying clubs, faces full of resentment. Corbett drew his sword in a slashing curl of light. Scrope also drew his, whilst his men-at-arms began to drift back, uncertain about what was happening.

  ‘I am the King’s man.’ Corbett advanced to confront the angry mob. ‘You will see justice done. This is not your business! Go about your trade.’

  ‘This is Scrope’s doing!’ a voice shouted. ‘Those young ones out at Mordern, it should never have happened.’

  ‘In the King’s name,’ Corbett repeated loudly, ‘go about your business.’ His hand went behind his back, he pulled his dagger from its sheath and walked closer to the hostile traders. ‘Don’t be foolish,’ he said softly to their leader, a burly faced, popping-eyed man, apparently a butcher from the bloody apron wrapped around him. ‘Go back to your business, sir; take your friends with you. This will end and justice will be done, I assure you.’

  The butcher glanced at his companions. Corbett lowered his sword.

  ‘As you say,’ the man muttered, ‘this must end.’ He gestured with his hands; the tradesmen broke up, drifting back, muttering and cursing over their shoulders.

  ‘Sir Hugh,’ Scrope declared, ‘these murders must be brought to an end.’

  ‘And so they will be, Lord Oliver, though I suspect it will end in a hanging.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Claypole queried, eyes narrowed, lower lip jutting out, ready to take up the argument.

  ‘That’s how it always ends,’ Corbett added cheerfully, sheathing his sword. ‘A hanging! Someone, some day, somehow will have to die violently for all this. However, I do not predict the future, I just use logic and evidence. I asked you a question, sirs. This bowman, the Latin name, the Sagittarius, who gave it to him?’

  He stared up at the sky, trying to hide his nervousness. If he wanted to, that deadly bowman could return, and what better target than the King’s own man? He felt a stab of fear. He was hunting a true killer, a soul dedicated to inflicting as much destruction as he could. He was right, there was no other way, this business would end in heinous violence.

  ‘Lord Scrope, I asked a question. Indeed, I have so many questions to ask you.’

  ‘Father Thomas,’ Scrope replied testily. ‘He first used the word Sagittarius.’

  ‘When?’

  Both men looked at each other.

  ‘When? Lord Oliver, Master Claypole, I want an answer. I am losing patience. The King’s own subjects have been killed, whilst you show little respect for the corpses of men who served you.’

  ‘I’ll see to my own dead, Corbett.’

  ‘Pax et bonum …’ Corbett whispered. ‘I wish you well, but watch your tongue, Scrope. You can speak to me here man to man or I’ll summon you to Westminster. One question: why the Sagittarius? Father Thomas also hinted that such an assassin has been here before.’

  ‘He’s a prattling priest.’

  ‘A good priest, Scrope. So do you and Master Claypole wish to appear on oath before the King’s justices?’

  ‘Tell him,’ Claypole grated, turning his face against the biting breeze. ‘For God’s sake, Lord Oliver, tell him! What does it matter now?’

  ‘Sir Hugh!’<
br />
  Corbett turned.

  Master Benedict, neat and precise in his long woollen robe, cowl pulled full across his head, came striding across.

  ‘Sir Hugh, Dame Marguerite would like to speak to you.’

  ‘Master Benedict, give your mistress my kindest regards. Tell her I shall do so when I return to Mistleham Manor.’

  ‘Sir Hugh.’ Master Benedict took a deep breath and bowed. ‘If you can, sir, remember me at court.’ The chaplin wrung his hands. ‘Here in Essex, this violence, the bloodshed … Sir Hugh, that is one of the reasons I entered the priesthood. I detest what is happening here. I do not wish to carry a sword, pluck a bow …’

  Master Benedict was still shocked by what he had witnessed.

  ‘Go back.’ Corbett gently patted him on the shoulder. ‘Do not worry.’ He smiled. ‘I shall do what I can.’

  The chaplain, thanking him profusely, walked away. Corbett turned back.

  ‘Now, Lord Scrope, Master Claypole, the Sagittarius?’

  ‘I returned here in 1292.’ Scrope measured his words. ‘I settled down. All was peace and harmony, but in the autumn of the following year, for a few weeks I was stalked, hunted, Sir Hugh, by a bowman. Oh, he must have loosed six or seven shafts at me. He always missed.’

  ‘At no one else?’

  Scrope smiled thinly. ‘No, Sir Hugh, just me. Father Thomas called him the Sagittarius; he warned his parishioners from the pulpit that whoever was responsible was committing a great sin.’

  ‘But the Sagittarius never did any harm, he never struck you?’

  ‘No, Sir Hugh, then it stopped as mysteriously as it began.’

  ‘And you never found out who or why?’

  ‘Of course not. If I had found the culprit, I’d have hanged him! Sir Hugh, you said you had many questions, so ask me, though I do not have many answers. I have told you what I can. I know nothing else. I cannot help you. I have agreed to return the Sanguis Christi and the dagger. What I have done here I did for my own protection and for the good of the Crown. I kept the peace.’

  ‘And this Sagittarius,’ Corbett persisted, ‘do you think he is the same person as the last?’

  Scrope just pulled a face. Corbett stepped closer.

  ‘Whatever you say, Lord Oliver, or you, Master Claypole, I tell you this, not as a King’s clerk, but as one soul speaking to another. This violence will continue blazing like a fire; only the truth can douse its flames.’

  Corbett spun on his heel and walked over to St Alphege’s Church. A group of young men and women sheltering inside the porch informed him how the three corpses had been taken to the death house. Father Thomas was busy tending them there with the Guild of Magdalene, a group of pious townswomen dedicated to such tasks as collecting the dead, dressing them and preparing them for burial. Corbett nodded. He asked about the painting done by the Free Brethren. One of the young men led him in along the transept and pointed to the fresco.

  ‘Vividly done,’ he said. ‘Look, sir, the colours.’

  ‘And the story?’

  Corbett’s guide screwed his face up in concentration. ‘Father Thomas did tell us. He preached about it and used the painting to explain. Ah, that’s it! The Fall of Ba—’

  ‘The Fall of Babylon.’ Corbett, staring at the fresco, finished the word. ‘Of course, thank you very much.’

  He examined the painting closely. The theme had been cleverly depicted, the colours specially chosen to stand out in the poor light, particularly the reds and greens. He studied it curiously, moving from scene to scene. The great dragon in the sky; the towers and walls of the city; the attackers in their white cloaks; a man in bed; a banquet scene; the flight of Judas and other traitors down the Valley of Death; the strange symbols and plant-like shapes decorating the fringes of the painting. He broke from his study as voices further down the church near the front door began to sing a hymn.

  ‘Oh pure Virgin! Come ye with tapers of wax. Come forth here and worship this child both God and man, offered in his Temple by his mother dear.’

  Corbett smiled and glanced down the nave. Despite the hideous killings out in the marketplace, the young men and women in the porch were still intent on preparing for the Feast of Candlemas. He walked back and watched the troupe rehearse their play: Simeon and Anna the prophetess waiting for Mary and Joseph to bring the baby Jesus into the Temple. They finished with a rendering of the Benedictus. Corbett asked if he could participate; they cheerfully agreed and gathered around the baptismal font to rehearse. Corbett sang the first verse so he could set the pitch and tone; the others replied with the second stanza, the choristers staring shyly at this King’s man who seemed so interested in what they were doing. Eventually the cadence and tone were agreed and Corbett led them in song, opening with the beautiful line of the hymn: ‘Blessed be the Holy Child, Mary’s own son …’

  The choir joined in lustily. Corbett soon forgot the dangers, chanting the verses with the rest. He was so pleased with the result, he asked if they would sing it a second time, handing over a piece of silver for them to share afterwards. The choir quickly agreed. Once again Corbett became lost in the rise and fall of the beautiful plainchant. After they had finished, the choir made their apologies but said they must go, adding that Father Thomas would not be returning to give them a blessing. They left, closing the door behind them. Corbett crouched at the foot of a pillar and stared down the nave. Darkness was creeping in. Candle glow from the chantry chapels and the lady altar provided meagre light. He glanced towards the transept and glimpsed those wild figures on the battlements of the wall painting. A cold night mist was seeping under the door. Corbett shivered. He was approaching his nightmare, one that always haunted him on expeditions such as this, that he’d be caught vulnerable by an arrow or knife speeding through the darkness. He shook himself and got to his feet. The Christmas season was now over; perhaps if Father Thomas did return, he would hear Corbett’s confession and shrive him. Corbett returned to the painting, studying it carefully, marvelling at its ingenuity and imagination. He felt a pang of pity for the young people who had done this, now nothing but black ash in that dark, damned forest at Mordern.

  He heard the corpse door open and whirled round. Father Thomas came striding across.

  ‘Sir Hugh, one of the young men you were singing with,’ the priest stepped out of the shadows, ‘he came and said you were here. What can I do to help?’

  ‘I admire the painting.’ Corbett gestured at the wall. ‘You must be very proud of it?’

  ‘I am.’ Father Thomas smiled.

  Corbett stepped closer. The light was poor and he wanted to watch this priest’s eyes. ‘It’s a pity,’ he said, ‘they were killed.’

  ‘Aye.’ The priest sighed. ‘And if Lord Scrope has his way, the painting will disappear. He has agreed to refurbish both St Alphege’s and a great deal of St Frideswide’s Convent, perhaps contrition for his sins.’

  ‘We all have reparation to make.’

  ‘Is that true, King’s clerk?’

  ‘It is true, priest. You asked if you could do anything for me. I would like you to shrive me, hear my confession.’

  Father Thomas looked surprised, but agreed. He led Corbett up the church and gestured to him to kneel on the prie-dieu before the mercy seat. Then he went to the sacristy and returned with a purple stole around his neck. He sat down on the chair, turning his face away from Corbett.

  ‘In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti …’

  Corbett blessed himself and intoned the formula.

  ‘Father, it is three months since I was last shrived. These are my sins …’

  Father Thomas tried to hide his surprise and concentrate on what Corbett was saying. It was virtually unheard of for such a leading royal clerk to make his confession to a simple parish priest. Nevertheless, the more the priest listened, the more perturbed he became. Corbett he recognised as a just man, trying to pursue the right: the clerk turned in on himself, confessing not so much sins as all the opp
ortunities to do good he had ignored. How he’d showed irritation to his wife and children, impatience to others in the Chancery where he worked, a lack of compassion towards his companions. Father Thomas never interrupted, just nodded occasionally as his own apprehension deepened. If this man could criticise himself so clearly, so accurately, what would happen when he turned on the inhabitants of Mistleham, himself included, with his keen wit and sharp eye? If this clerk had his way, all the evil mystery swirling around the town and manor would be resolved. Once Corbett had finished, Father Thomas sat in silence for a while, then turned to face the clerk squarely.

  ‘You shouldn’t belabour yourself, Sir Hugh. You should also,’ he smiled, ‘think of the good you’ve done. That is what being shrived is about: recognising your true state before God. For your penance, what can I give you, what would you like to do?’

  Corbett smiled. ‘Let’s sing, Father. The day is ending, bloody work has been done. I came into this church to be shriven, to be cleansed.’ He stared round at the dancing shadows and pointed to the lady altar. ‘Do you have a good voice, Father?’

  ‘I once sang in the royal chapel.’ The priest laughed.

  ‘Come then.’

  They both went and stood in the lady chapel, staring up at the statue of the Virgin. For a few moments they practised, then both men intoned the Salve Regina, the Church’s evening hymn to the Virgin.

  ‘Salve Regina, Mater Misericordiae, Vita Dulcedo et Spes Nostra — Hail Holy Queen, Mother of Mercy, Hail Our Life, Our Sweetness and Our Hope …’

  Father Thomas was a lusty singer with a powerful voice. Corbett thoroughly enjoyed himself, not only in giving praise but in purging himself of the terrors of that day. After they’d finished he lit three tapers, one for Maeve, one for Edward and one for Eleanor, and then, feeling guilty, a fourth for the King.