‘Brother Gratian,’ Corbett interrupted, ‘you have seen the wall painting in St Alphege’s — the one done by the Free Brethren?’
‘Of course,’ the Dominican retorted. ‘That’s not the fall of Babylon; it describes the fall of Acre. The attackers are the Saracens, the defenders depicted as Scrope’s retainers. Lord Scrope recognised that immediately.’
‘What did he say?’
‘Nothing, except to quietly curse and vow vengeance.’
‘Was that the reason he attacked the Free Brethren?’
‘Of course. He saw them as a real threat.’
‘Does the wall painting contain a cryptic message?’
‘No, I studied it closely, but saw nothing new there.’ Brother Gratian’s fingers went to his lips. ‘Scrope’s men fighting, Scrope himself fleeing, his cousin dead or dying in the infirmary. The reference to Judas could be an insult to Scrope, though I saw no betrayal, whilst the soaring cross is undoubtedly an allusion to the Sanguis Christi.’
‘But did Lord Scrope see anything extra?’
‘I have told you, Lord Scrope had secret sins. If he did notice anything, he never told me.’
‘But how did the Free Brethren know about Acre?’
‘Sir Hugh, the story of the siege is well known, particularly in Mistleham.’
‘But why were the Free Brethren so eager to depict it? What concerns did it have for them?’
‘Perhaps it was just a way of taunting Scrope.’
‘Was there any connection between the Free Brethren and those who fought at Acre?’
‘You must remember,’ the Dominican leaned forward, voice hoarse, ‘a company from Mistleham went to Acre with Lord Scrope; none of them, except Claypole, returned, and that includes Father Thomas’ brother. Of course people were curious, angry and resentful. Perhaps the Free Brethren took the idea from them, but what that painting secretly contains and why they did it is beyond me.’
‘Lord Scrope’,Ranulf broke in harshly, ‘also attacked the Free Brethren because they were arming. Did you see any evidence for that?’
The Dominican coloured and glanced away.
‘Brother, please?’
‘Look,’ he whispered, ‘I’ve served as a soldier. I can recognise a whetstone used for sharpening blades. I did see that on the tombstone outside the deserted church. I was alarmed. The Free Brethren acted as if they did not believe in violence or weapons, so I informed Lord Scrope. It only increased his suspicions.’
‘And the crypt in the Church of the Damned?’
‘Lord Scrope searched it but found nothing.’
‘And the thief Le Riche?’ Corbett asked. ‘You heard his confession?’
‘Of sorts, Sir Hugh. I truly don’t understand what happened; that was a matter for Scrope and Claypole. When I did visit Le Riche in the guildhall dungeon, he was witless.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He could hardly sit up; he was drunk, intoxicated from wine or an opiate.’
‘What did he confess?’
‘Nothing, he just slurred his words, moaning about how he’d been betrayed but how things might still turn well.’ The Dominican shrugged. ‘How could I shrive such a man? He was not worthy of absolution. I left and the next morning he was hanged.’
‘And the allegations against the Free Brethren?’
‘Oh,’ the Dominican rubbed his bony face, ‘there was some truth in them. They were lecherous and promiscuous, but, God forgive me, I did my share in fanning the flame of suspicion and rumour against them. They were certainly heretics, Sir Hugh. They did not accept the teaching of our Church on important matters.’
‘But not worthy of sudden brutal death?’
‘No, that was the work of Scrope and Claypole. They sowed a crop of lies and allegations. They turned Mistleham against the Free Brethren, then Scrope harvested what was sown; he destroyed them early one winter morning.’
‘And the warnings about the Mills of the Temple; they were your work?’
Gratian pulled a face. ‘Of course,’ he whispered.
‘A task given to you by your old friends and comrades at the Temple?’
‘Acre,’ Gratian replied. ‘Let me explain.’
Corbett nodded in agreement.
‘The Saracens took Acre, forcing the defenders from the walls on to the streets. Those who could, fled immediately to the port. The Templars, myself included, fell back to their donjon overlooking the sea. In our retreat we were joined by others, including the company from Mistleham under Lord Scrope. A bloody affray, Sir Hugh, ferocious hand-to-hand fighting, but at last we locked ourselves inside and the Saracens laid siege.’ Gratian wiped the sheen of sweat from his forehead. ‘I will keep it brief. There was a secret tunnel from the donjon leading out to the port. The tunnel itself was safe but the port was being overrun by the Saracens. The Templar commander asked for volunteers to explore the tunnel, discover what was happening in the port, secure a boat and return for everyone else. Of course there was debate. We had injured, weakened men. During our retreat, Lord Scrope’s cousin Gaston de Bearn was seriously wounded and lodged with the rest in the small infirmary. Our situation was truly desperate. Scrope volunteered, as did Claypole. I’d seen what a ruthless fighter Scrope was. I reasoned it would be safer to stay with him than in the donjon. We were set to leave early one afternoon. Just as we did, the Saracens launched their final assault. We were left to our own devices. Lord Scrope led us down hollow-stoned galleries. He told us to wait outside the infirmary whilst he visited Gaston. He stayed some time. When he returned, he was griefstricken, carrying Gaston’s ring. He announced that his cousin was dead, there was nothing more we could do.’
‘Do you think he may have killed Gaston?’ Ranulf asked.
‘Perhaps,’ Gratian murmured. ‘The thought did occur to me: a mercy cut. Gaston was too badly injured to be carried away, and if he fell into the hands of the Saracens …’ Gratian visibly shuddered. ‘At the time we were all sweat-soaked and terrified, except for Scrope. He was formidable: cold, fierce with his sword, trusting only in himself. He said we should also save the Temple treasury. I objected, but Claypole was adamant that we follow Scrope’s orders. I then reasoned that this had all been planned. Moreover, if Scrope wanted to do something, Claypole, his shadow, never disagreed. Yes,’ the Dominican smiled thinly, ‘even then I noticed the physical similarities between the two. Claypole and his lord: wherever Scrope went, Claypole always followed. God forgive me,’ he whispered. ‘Scrope intended to loot the treasury, find a way out and never return.’ The Dominican drew a deep breath. ‘Now the treasury lay near the entrance to the secret tunnel guarded by one Temple serjeant. He objected, said he had his orders to allow no one in. It happened so swiftly.’ Gratian licked his lips. ‘Scrope killed him, a swift thrust to the throat. He swept aside my objections, dismissing the serjeant as a fool, asking why should the Saracens secure such precious goods? He took the keys and plundered the treasury, anything that could be carried away. God be my witness,’ Gratian held up a hand, ‘I never took anything. Scrope and Claypole, however, filled their sacks. We then hurried into the tunnel, a long, hollow passageway leading underground down to the port. By the time we reached it, parts of the harbour had been seized. Scrope killed two Saracen scouts and screamed at us to follow him along the beach. I will never forget that shoreline: corpses bobbed in the waves alongside rafts and bundles of possessions. We found a longboat that had come adrift from one of the ships. We clambered in, and Scrope insisted that we leave. He ignored my plea to return, saying the Templar donjon wouldn’t survive the most recent attack. In a sense,’ Gratian breathed in deeply, ‘he was correct. We rowed out to sea and were picked up by a Venetian galley. The Templar stronghold fell in that last assault; everyone inside was put to the sword.’
He paused. ‘We eventually returned to England and went our separate ways. I had no real vocation for the Templars, so I journeyed to Blackfriars and entered the Dominicans. Scrope continued to f
lourish,’ he added bitterly, ‘like the cedars of Lebanon. About eighteen months ago, he wrote me a friendly letter. He also asked my superiors if I could be released to be his confessor and spiritual director.’ Gratian laughed sourly. ‘Scrope was a powerful lord, rich and influential; of course, my superiors agreed.’
‘And you?’ Corbett asked.
‘I was curious. I wanted to find out what had happened. When I arrived, Scrope often talked about our flight, of his regrets, how he’d made mistakes. He also made reference to certain secrets but never discussed them. I wondered if he felt guilty because of the treasury and his flight from Acre.’ The Dominican quickly crossed himself. ‘No, I suspect it was something else, like the murder of his cousin. In the main he rendered himself pleasant to me. He acted the great manor lord, the faithful son of the Church. I was lulled into the part he wanted me to play. I soon became aware of his world: his adoring, faithful sister, the unstinting loyalty of Claypole, and the cold indifference that existed between Scrope and his wife. Father Thomas was cordial enough, but he too had a deep distrust of his manor lord. Only recently,’ Gratian sighed, ‘did I realise Scrope’s true reason for inviting me.’
‘Which was?’
‘He wanted to keep an eye on me. He wanted to discover if I knew anything about what had really happened at Acre, if I’d seen or heard something untoward.’
‘Had you?’
‘No.’ Gratian spread his hands. ‘True, the killing of that serjeant was murder. I was implicated, and his death always weighed heavily on me. On one occasion I spoke to Scrope about it. I never did again; his fury knew no bounds.’
‘And the Templars?’
‘They too had suspicions about what had happened at Acre, but no proof. What they really wanted was the return of their treasure, particularly the Sanguis Christi. When they learnt about my appointment as Scrope’s confessor, messengers came to me. The Templars invoked old times; they hinted at what might have happened. They asked for my help. I remembered that serjeant, my own guilt, so as an act of reparation I agreed. It was the least I could do. I sent Scrope those messages about the Mills of the Temple grinding exceedingly slow, but he still refused to concede. Eventually the Templars sent envoys to Mistleham; they disguised themselves as beggars, and lodged in a garret at the Honeycomb. Every so often I would meet them to distribute the Mary loaves. They would pass messages to me and I to them. Now, the plan was that when Lord Scrope gave me the Sanguis Christi, I would journey to London and the Templars would stage a mock ambush, an assault on the road, steal the Sanguis Christi and flee. I would act the innocent injured party. But then, of course, you arrived and Lord Scrope was murdered. The Templars were furious. My lord,’ he blinked, ‘I did not know about that confrontation with you on the trackway till afterwards. I objected. I knew you would become suspicious.’ Brother Gratian cleared his throat. ‘I was frightened, wary of the Templars, that’s why I wish to be gone …’
‘And be taken back to London by us,’ Ranulf intervened, ‘protected against the Templars?’
Brother Gratian nodded in agreement.
Corbett leaned back in his chair and stared at the Dominican. He’d made a mistake about this man. Brother Gratian looked like an inquisitor, a hard, ruthless man, keen to protect the Church and its teaching, but like everyone else, he carried his own bag of past sins and guilt. Nevertheless, had he spoken the truth or simply conceded what he was obliged to?
‘Do you know anything,’ Corbett asked, ‘about Lord Scrope’s death?’
The Dominican closed his eyes and shook his head.
‘Or anything,’ Ranulf interjected, ‘that may be of assistance to us?’
‘I have told you all I can.’ The Dominican rose to his feet. ‘Sir Hugh, I can say no more.’
Brother Gratian left, the door closing quietly behind him. Corbett sat for a while staring down at the hilt of his sword.
‘Master?’ Ranulf queried. ‘Has he told us the truth?’
‘No,’ Corbett declared, ‘but I suspect he has told us all he can.’
‘Could he be the Sagittarius?’ Ranulf asked.
‘It’s possible.’ Corbett conceded. ‘It has happened before.’ He smiled. ‘A man confesses one sin to satisfy the confessor whilst hiding the rest. Gratian is certainly hard-souled, very wary of Lord Scrope. We have also learnt that our Dominican is a born intriguer, as well as a former soldier, experienced in arms, tough and resolute. He would make a worthy opponent.’
‘And the wall painting?’ Ranulf asked.
‘I am not too sure.’ Corbett shook his head. ‘It might have been a way of taunting Lord Scrope. There is something else, something we’ve missed, something Lord Scrope recognised as the truth, but what?’
‘The deadly nightshade?’ Ranulf asked. ‘Is that the plant in the painting? Is that why Father Thomas’ mysterious visitor gave himself that name?’
‘You’ve spoken the truth, Ranulf.’ Corbett rocked himself gently backwards and forwards. ‘I suspect Lord Scrope killed Gaston. He fed him a drink, an opiate to lessen the pain of his wounds, to make sure he was dead when the Saracens invaded. Scrope was a soldier; he knew the fight was lost, that is why he plundered the treasury and refused to go back. That could be his secret sin, something that rankled in his soul for years.’
‘And Claypole?’ Ranulf asked. ‘Gratian describes him as Scrope’s pet dog, his shadow, but he could have turned.’
‘Again correct. Claypole is as ruthless and cruel as his master. I wouldn’t put any sin past him. He’d resort to any villainy, any violence to achieve what he wanted. It leads to a very interesting thesis. Did Claypole become tired of Scrope and turn against his master?’
‘He should be questioned, then arrested.’ Ranulf got to his feet.
‘We certainly have enough to load him with chains, but we will not confront Master Claypole, not yet. Tell the mayor to return home. Let’s see what happens. Ranulf, leave me for a while. I wish to think. Oh …’
Ranulf turned as he went towards the door.
‘Please,’ Corbett smiled, ‘ask Lady Hawisa if the manor accounts could be brought, particularly those records of receipt and income.’
A short while later Ranulf returned carrying bundles of documents. He stacked these on the table, lit more candles and placed them round. He asked Corbett if he wished to have something to eat or drink, but the clerk just shook his head, pulling across the first ledger. By the time he’d finished, the candles had burnt low and darkness was falling. He pushed the household books away, quietly whispering to himself, then rose to his feet, swinging his cloak around him, and told Chanson, still on guard at the door, to extinguish the candles and remove the accounts.
‘What will you do, master?’
‘Oh, it’s evening time.’ Corbett smiled. ‘I’ll wander the manor.’
For the next two hours Corbett did so, visiting the stables, the buttery, the kitchen, the outhouses, talking to servants, especially those who’d served Lord Scrope for many years. The more he questioned, the more certain he became. By the time he retired that night, having said his prayers and placed his dagger beside him, his suspicions had begun to harden into certainty, but how was he to trap the assassin?
Early the following morning, round the hour of Nones, Physician Ormesby gathered his cloak more firmly about him and glared across the marketplace. He’d received an urgent message from Dame Marguerite to meet him in front of the rood screen in St Alphege’s Church, something about the blood registers. He paused at the corner of an alleyway and pulled his beaver hat more firmly down on his head. He just wished the weather would break. He stared across to where the travelling troupe had set up their stage near the church. He would like to have words with the mountebank who was selling potions and philtres. He had met their type many a time before; their so-called cures could kill his patients! He peered up at the mist swirling around the gables and towers of the church. He wondered why Dame Marguerite really needed to see him at such an early h
our, but she’d been most insistent; the note had said something about the blood registers, about Claypole’s parentage. Ormesby swallowed hard. He wasn’t sure, but rumour had it that his own mother had acted as midwife and delivered Claypole. Was it in connection with that? He jumped as a cat scuttled by with a still struggling rat in its jaws. He was almost across the marketplace, half listening to the sounds of stall-holders, when the ominous horn blast rang out like the knell of the Avenging Angel on Doomsday.
The effect in the marketplace, as Physician Ormesby later described it, was as if the Lord of Hell had set up stall there. People ceased what they were doing and ran for the protection of alleyways and porches. Ormesby heard the third blast and realised it came from the church. Drawing his dagger, he hurried across, down the path and through the corpse door, which stood off its latch. He stepped inside. The air was sweet with incense still curling after the Jesus Mass. Father Thomas would not be there. The priest had a strict routine and would have adjourned to his house to break his fast and tend to parish matters. Physician Ormesby heard sobbing, an awful heart-chilling sound. The nave was gloomy; here and there a candle glowed through the juddering shadows. He immediately went to one of the pillars and stared around. He glimpsed the baptismal font, the image of Christopher on a pillar, the stool in the corner, then he glanced down at the rood screen before the high altar. The glow of candles was stronger there. He saw the body lying just near the entrance to the rood screen, hurried down, then stopped. Dame Marguerite lay sprawled in front of the entrance to the sanctuary, arms extended, face caught in the shock of death, eyes staring blindly. A trickle of blood snaked from the corner of her mouth to stain her white wimple. The arrow shaft had pierced her deep in the left side. A blow to the heart, Physician Ormesby thought; death would have been immediate. The blood was still bubbling around the shaft.
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