Again that chilling sound of sobbing from behind the rood screen. Ormesby looked up and saw another long shaft embedded in the wood of the screen just near the entrance. Lifting his dagger, he stepped round the corpse and walked into the sanctuary.
Master Benedict crouched there, fingers to his lips, eyes rounded in terror. Other people were now coming into the church. Ormesby ignored these. He knelt down and grasped the chaplain’s hand. The man was even more pale-faced than usual, lips quivering.
‘We were just standing there,’ the chaplain gasped. He let Ormesby help him to his feet. ‘We were just standing there talking, waiting for you to come, then I heard it, the corpse door being opened. I thought it might be Father Thomas. I walked a bit further down, I could see no one, then I heard the hunting horn, three long blasts. I just stood there, and so did Dame Marguerite. She was standing in the entrance to the rood screen. I walked further; the arrow came whirling through the air followed by a chilling scream. I looked over my shoulder. Dame Marguerite lay sprawled on the ground. I hurried back. I could see the shaft had struck deep, here.’ He patted his own left side. ‘I turned around. I glimpsed a shadow; the Sagittarius was taking aim. I threw myself behind the rood screen. I heard the arrow strike, followed by footsteps.’ He paused. ‘Footsteps,’ he repeated, ‘then I heard yours.’
‘Oh Lord have mercy on us all!’
Ormesby hastened back through the rood screen. Father Thomas was bending over Dame Marguerite’s corpse, sketching the sign of the cross on her forehead. He glanced quickly at the physician.
‘I was in the priest house,’ he murmured. ‘I was doing the accounts. I heard the horn blowing and couldn’t believe it. I ran here.’ He got to his feet. ‘Master Benedict,’ he called, ‘you are well?’
The chaplain came out from behind the rood screen. He went to Dame Marguerite’s corpse and sank to his knees, face in his hands, sobbing like a child. Ormesby walked down the church, telling the curious to stay by the font, then glanced around, looking for the coffin door. He walked across into the dark transept and tugged at the latch. The door was open. He strode back up the nave; the door to God’s Acre through the sacristy was also unlocked.
‘I will get the holy oils,’ Father Thomas declared. ‘I will anoint her, do what I can.’
‘What is happening here?’
Claypole, robe flapping about him, came striding up the nave, the heels of his boots clipping on the paving stones. He paused, stared down at Dame Marguerite and whispered something under his breath. Ormesby couldn’t determine if it was a prayer or a curse.
‘We must send for Corbett,’ Ormesby urged. ‘You,’ he pointed at Claypole, ‘dispatch one of your servants. Everybody must stay back, leave everything as it is until Corbett arrives.’
The clerk was breaking his fast in the buttery when Claypole’s messenger arrived. Corbett wiped his hands and told Chanson to saddle their horses before hastening off to his own chamber to slip on boots, strap on his war belt and grab his coat and gloves. He met Ranulf in the gallery outside.
‘You do not seem surprised, Sir Hugh?’
‘No, I’m not.’ Corbett clicked his tongue. ‘Everything is breaking down, Ranulf. Soon we’ll have the truth, but first let’s see what mischief brews.’
The marketplace was thronged and they had to fight their way through to St Alphege’s. Corbett told Chanson to stay with their horses while he and Ranulf went through the corpse door. A small party was waiting for them before the rood screen. Corbett carefully inspected Dame Marguerite’s corpse. The arrow had thrust deep; the blood on her face was now congealed, but her eyes still stared sightlessly with terror. He asked Father Thomas to fetch a small altar cloth and gently covered the abbess’ face. He inspected the arrow in the rood screen, then walked back down the church, Ranulf going before him to clear those townspeople thronging in to view the gruesome sight. Corbett inspected the coffin and corpse doors as well as that leading to the sacristy. Ormesby had described how he was almost across the market square when he heard the three horn blasts and hurried into the church to find Dame Marguerite dead and Master Benedict hiding behind the rood screen. The chaplain, now more composed, was still white-faced, his eyes red-rimmed. He haltingly explained how Dame Marguerite had insisted on leaving the safety and security of St Frideswide because she needed to speak to Ormesby most urgently.
‘On what matter?’ Corbett asked.
‘Sir Hugh, I don’t know, but,’ he lowered his voice, glancing over his shoulder to where Claypole stood with other town dignitaries, ‘something about the blood register, about Claypole’s claims.’
‘And what would that have to do with you, Master Ormesby?’
The physician closed his eyes, took a breath, then opened them again.
‘We all know,’ he took Corbett by the arm, leading him away, well out of earshot of Claypole and the rest, ‘that Lord Scrope was Claypole’s natural father; whether he and Alice de Tuddenham were blessed in holy wedlock is a matter of debate. Alice later died in childbirth. Now, I only say this as a supposition, Sir Hugh, but rumour has it that my mother, a midwife in Mistleham, delivered the child. She may have heard or seen something, then told me before she died, or so people think. I don’t know! Perhaps that’s why Dame Marguerite wanted to see me.’
Corbett thanked him and returned to the chaplain, who, once again, in halting tones, described how he and Dame Marguerite had arrived just before Nones, the time stipulated in her letter to Physician Ormesby. Corbett asked the physician to produce this letter, which he did. Corbett read it quickly. The note was carefully written but it begged Ormesby, ‘for the most important reason’, to meet Dame Marguerite at the hour of Nones before the rood screen in St Alphege’s. He glanced up at the chaplain.
‘But why here?’ he asked. ‘Why didn’t she invite Physician Ormesby to St Frideswide in the safety and security of her convent?’
‘Because she said this church held a secret,’ Master Benedict replied. ‘That’s what she told me when I begged her to stay. She said she wouldn’t put it in the letter, but this church,’ he gestured round, ‘held the key to all the secrets of Mistleham: the death of her brother, the Sagittarius, and above all, Master Claypole’s claims. More than that she wouldn’t say. We came in here, we were talking in front of the rood screen, the church was empty. The Jesus Mass had been celebrated. I heard the corpse door open. I thought it was Father Thomas and I walked down, then came the three swift blasts of the hunting horn. I couldn’t see clearly. I panicked, then a shadow emerged. I heard the whistle of the arrow as it cut the air, followed by Dame Marguerite’s scream. I hurried back and glanced round. The archer had drawn nearer, hooded, cowled and cloaked, only a shadow, but the longbow he carried gleamed in the light. I just ran! I hid behind the rood screen. I heard the arrow strike the wood. I thought he would draw closer but I suppose it was Dame Marguerite he wished to kill. I heard no more until Physician Ormesby arrived.’
Corbett thanked him, walked past the corpse, under the rood screen and up the steps leading to the high altar. He stared at the crucifix, closed his eyes and quoted verses from the Veni Creator Spiritus: ‘Light Immortal, Light Divine, visit thou these hearts of thine …’ He opened his eyes. It was time he primed the trap. He was wasting his time here. He had to return to Mistleham, to explore one further possibility. He turned round and walked back to join the rest.
‘Tonight,’ he declared, ‘I must ask you all to join me at Mistleham Manor. We will assemble in the hall not to feast but to decide on certain matters. I urge you all on your allegiance to the Crown to be there. Fail to do so and you will be put to the horn, proclaimed as an outlaw. Physician Ormesby, that includes you.’ Corbett gestured at Dame Marguerite’s corpse; the white cloth covering her face was now stained with blood. ‘Father Thomas, I would be grateful if you would see that the lady’s body be honourably removed. Physician Ormesby, the arrow must be taken out, the body given some sort of semblance before it is taken to St Frideswide
.’ He thanked them, beckoned to Ranulf and left.
14
We, wishing to have a hasty remedy to this business, have assigned you to enquire on oath …
Letter of Edward I, 6 June 1303
The journey back to Mistleham was silent. Corbett refused to be drawn by Ranulf’s questions.
‘You never asked them, master, where they all were.’ Ranulf couldn’t curb his curiosity. ‘Father Thomas, Claypole and the rest.’
‘It doesn’t matter where they all were,’ Corbett replied enigmatically. ‘What matters, Ranulf, is what we are going to do now.’ He pulled at his reins and gently stroked his horse’s neck. ‘Physician Ormesby is keen-witted. Do you remember what he told us? How these mysteries can be solved by discovering what really happened at Acre thirteen years ago and on the Island of Swans the night Lord Scrope was killed. Well,’ he urged his horse on, ‘we’ve studied Acre and discovered all we can about what truly happened there; now it’s time to return to the Island of Swans. Once back at Mistleham, get Pennywort. Tell him I need the services of his boat, and you, Ranulf, fetch a long pole. I am going to ask Pennywort to row you round the lake. Someone crossed the lake that night. They didn’t use the boat, there’s no bridge and, to quote Brother Gratian, outside the Gospels, no one walks on water, but someone crossed and I intend to find how they did it!’
The brutal murder of Dame Marguerite had disturbed the manor. When Corbett and Ranulf returned, they found servants gathered in small groups whispering amongst each other. Lady Hawisa came down, face all shocked at the news. Corbett took her hands and kissed her fingers gently.
‘My lady, Dame Marguerite is gone to God. I must discover her killer and that of your husband, and the sooner the better. Think of time as sand running through an hour glass; only a few grains remain. I must act and do so swiftly.’
He told Ranulf to keep on his cloak, cowl and gloves and seek out Pennywort. The boatman arrived all agog, wondering what was expected of him. Corbett asked him to row them across to the Island of Swans, told him to secure the boat, and all three went up the steps. Corbett produced the key, broke the seals, unlocked the reclusorium and went inside. It was freezing cold and rather bleak, the air stale. Corbett told Pennywort and Ranulf to stay just within the doorway as he walked slowly around.
‘There are six windows here,’ he said. ‘Two look out towards the back of the reclusorium, the others provide a view on either side of the Island of Swans. Very well.’ He went down the steps and, much to Ranulf and Pennywort’s astonishment, began to walk around the reclusorium. It was now about noon, bitterly cold, the clouds beginning to break; rooks and crows floated above them, black-feathered wings displayed, their strident cries mocking Corbett as he slipped and slithered on the ice. He kept looking across at the lake, and when he reached the rear of the hermitage, he pointed across to a group of willows on the far side and the narrow path that snaked between the trees.
‘I wonder!’ he exclaimed, but he didn’t bother to explain to his companions. Instead he returned to the jetty and instructed Pennywort to row Ranulf into the centre of the lake and proceed slowly in the direction of those willows. Ranulf was to stand in the stern with the long pole he’d taken from the stables and test the depth of the water as they went. Pennywort immediately dismissed that as a waste of time.
‘Have you ever tested the depth?’ Corbett teased.
‘Yes, but not for the entire lake.’
‘Of course not.’ Corbett smiled.
‘What are we looking for?’ Ranulf asked.
‘The same as when I scrutinised the receipts and rents of this manor,’ Corbett replied. ‘We’ll know the truth when we see it. Now, sirs …’
Pennywort, muttering under his breath, clambered into the boat. Ranulf, carrying his pole, climbed in behind; cloaked and cowled, he looked like the Angel of Death standing in the stern. Pennywort rowed out, then turned in the direction Corbett had instructed. At Corbett’s shouted order, Ranulf let the pole down; eventually he had to sit, as most of it disappeared beneath the surface. Corbett walked with them along the bank. Sometimes vegetation and undergrowth sprouting on the edge hid the boat from view, so he called out and Ranulf shouted back that there had been no change. They rounded the island, approaching the rear of the reclusorium. Corbett glimpsed the tops of the willows on the far bank and tried to control his excitement. He was almost level with the trees when he heard Ranulf and Pennywort’s loud exclamation. He hurriedly pushed through the bushes to the edge of the lake. Pennywort was trying to keep the flatbottomed boat stationary as Ranulf jabbed his pole at something beneath the water.
‘What is it?’ Corbett called, even though he anticipated the answer.
‘About a foot or more beneath the boat,’ Ranulf exclaimed, ‘there’s a hard, ridged surface. It’s broad, master, about two feet across, like a ledge or shelf.’
‘The remains of a bridge, perhaps?’ Pennywort called out. ‘I never knew. Lord Scrope refused to allow any barge or boat to circle the lake.’
Corbett just stared across at the narrow path between the willows. He called Pennywort to bring his boat closer and row him across; Pennywort tried to, but though the lake grew shallower towards the edge, it was still too deep to wade through, Corbett decided he’d walk back to the jetty and meet them there. When he arrived, Pennywort was waiting, full of surprise at their find. After he’d taken Corbett back to the other side, he quickly moored his boat and followed the royal clerks round the edge of the lake to the clump of willows. Once amongst these, hacking at the trail of undergrowth with his sword, Corbett pointed back.
‘If someone entered the manor grounds stealthily at night,’ he explained, ‘they could lurk here unnoticed by the guards sheltering around their fire under the trees some distance away. Remember, there were no dogs. Both had been killed to prepare for that night of blood. Pennywort, would you have seen anything here?’
The boatman shrugged. ‘We’d never even think to look,’ he murmured.
‘Of course not. Here in this clump of trees the killer prepared. He had a staff.’ He pointed to the pole. ‘Cut a third off.’
Ranulf, with Pennywort’s help, did so. Corbett grasped the staff, then advanced to the edge of the lake.
‘Master …’ Ranulf warned.
Corbett walked on, using the pole to test the water. He felt it hit rock and carefully walked on to the broad ledge beneath. The water rose to about a foot, almost touching the rim of his boots. He edged forward carefully in a straight line. Icy water splashed his legs, but the ledge was quite broad and gritty, whilst the flow of the lake, fed by some underground stream, was not strong.
‘It’s very similar,’ he called back, ‘to a ford: shallow water over sure footing!’ He found the pole invaluable. Like a blind man with a stick, he would push it forward and then follow. He felt slightly nervous when he reached the centre, but the underwater ridge stretched before him, broad enough to take any slip to the left or right. Moreover, as he approached the far side, the ledge began to rise slightly. The water grew shallower, then he was across, boots crunching on the icy undergrowth along the island edge. He turned and smiled triumphantly, lifting his hands towards his companions, then began the journey back. On one occasion he nearly slipped as the staff wedged in a crack on the ledge, but he reached the far bank safely.
‘Nothing!’ he exclaimed. ‘Some cold water on my legs, but it wasn’t too dangerous.’
‘But at night?’ Ranulf asked.
Corbett held up the staff. ‘Shielded by the trees, the killer could have used a shuttered lantern. More importantly,’ he pointed to one of the willows,’ he may have brought a rope.’
‘Of course,’ Pennywort breathed, ‘A covered lantern to mark the place he left. He’d tie one end of the rope securely around a tree, the other end about his waist.’
‘Precisely!’ Corbett clapped Pennywort on the shoulder. ‘Then he used the staff to find his foothold and move carefully across, as I did. The dark would
make no difference; as long as the pole hit hard rock, he was safe. If he slipped or even fell, the rope would secure him. He could haul himself back on to the ledge and carry on. Once on the other side, he’d secure the rope to use on his return. That is how our killer crossed to the Island of Swans.’
‘But the reclusorium?’ Pennywort stammered. ‘How did the killer force an entry? Everything was secure. I had to smash the shutters.’
‘Hush.’ Corbett opened his purse and pressed a silver piece into the man’s hand. ‘For now, silence, Pennywort! This is King’s business.’
The boatman beamed down at the piece of silver. ‘I never knew,’ he murmured, ‘about the ford.’
‘Very few did,’ Corbett replied. ‘I suspect that many years ago masonry and cement were poured in to support a bridge that was eventually destroyed or fell down, but its rocky foundations are as sure as those of a cathedral, a mass of hardened concrete known only to a few, forgotten over the years. Lord Scrope didn’t forget when he built his reclusorium. He insisted that the only way across the lake was by boat, a fact everybody accepted as the truth and that, strangely enough, proved to be his own undoing …’
Darkness had fallen when Corbett gathered his guests around the high table on the dais in Mistleham Manor. Lady Hawisa, despite Corbett’s request, insisted on serving a light collation for all those invited. The dais gleamed in the light of a long row of candelabra, the fire in the great hearth had been built up, and braziers glowed from the corners of the hall. Corbett’s guests arrived together: Claypole, Master Benedict, Ormesby, Father Thomas and Brother Gratian, all graciously welcomed by Lady Hawisa. Corbett had prepared himself well. He’d spoken briefly to Ranulf and Chanson, then drawn up documents; the chancery bag resting against the leg of his chair contained all the letters and warrants he needed. Ranulf had also come prepared, his war belt lying on the floor beside a small arbalest, though Corbett predicted there would be little violence.
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