by Paul Doherty
Edward had summoned both the Archbishops of Canterbury and York to meet their clergy in convocation to raise taxes. However, shortly after the sack of Berwick, matters had been complicated by Boniface VIII issuing his bull, 'Clericis Laicos,' which Winchelsea had used to insist that the king could only tax the Church with the Church's permission. Edward, hiding his terrible anger, had bitterly agreed. Matters were further worsened, Corbett thought, as he looked along the row of dignitaries in front of him, by plotters like Bigod and Bohun, who not only resented royal taxation but also Edward's demands to accompany him abroad to fight the French. Soon these diverse plotting groups would unite and form the same opposition Edward's father and grandfather had faced when trying to raise money for disastrous wars abroad.
Corbett stared through the haze of incense at the tall emaciated figure of the chief celebrant, Walter de Montfort: Archbishop Winchelsea had decided that the Church's case – requiring its full approval before it was taxed should be put to the king by no less a person than the Dean of St Paul's, Walter de Montfort. The archbishop's choice was a quiet, deadly insult to Edward, for the dean was a member, albeit tenuously, of the great de Montfort family who forty years ago had opposed Edward and his father, King Henry. Simon de Montfort, Earl of Leicester, one of the great barons of the time, had risen in revolt, seized the government and virtually dictated his own terms to the defeated monarch, Henry III.
Edward, then Prince of Wales, had quietly accepted such demands until he had gathered sufficient forces for a counter-attack. The ensuing civil war was a bloody, vicious affair, ending only when de Montfort was killed, hacked to pieces at the Battle of Evesham. After that the de Montforts, or most of those who had survived the collapse of Earl Simon, had gone abroad, but continued a secret war against Edward, sending assassins into the country to kill him and attacking his envoys abroad. On one occasion they even murdered the king's cousin while he was at mass en route to Rome. Of course, Walter de Montfort was not a traitor, nor even tainted with any treason, but he was a fiery, logical, eloquent preacher and, Once again, Edward would be faced by a de Montfort lecturing him on the limitations of the Crown in taxing its subjects. It would not be a pleasant meeting. Corbett had met the king just after he learnt of the choice of speaker and his anger had been uncontrollable.
'By God's mouth!' he muttered. 'Must I listen to a de Montfort tell me when and where I can get my monies from? I will not forget Winchelsea's insult. I do not bear such grudges lightly.'
Edward, when crossed, was a vindictive man, as the sack of Berwick proved. Corbett himself owed a great deal to the king. He had risen through the ranks to become a senior clerk in the chancery, with fat fees, two pleasant town houses and a manor with good land and grazing near Lewes in Sussex. Nevertheless, he was always wary of the king, for Edward's temper, since the death of his beloved Eleanor, was always fickle and his moods could swerve abruptly like a wind at sea arising suddenly to destroy anything in its path. Edward's anger could lash and vindictively punish even great lords who dared to oppose him.
Corbett suddenly reasserted himself. The consecration prayer had finished; there would be the kiss of peace before the Eucharist was shared. De Montfort, grandly attired in gold and purple copes, walked down the altar steps towards the king and, bowing, put his hands lightly on the king's shoulders and kissed him gently on each cheek.
'Pax Domini sit semper vobiscum.'
'Et cum spirituo,' the king whispered.
Then de Montfort, resplendent in liturgical robes as well as his own arrogance, walked back to the altar where the mass continued.
The choirs sang the Agnus Dei emphasizing the 'miserere nobis', their chant trailing away, lost in the high vault of the cathedral. Corbett felt himself relax; the music soothed and calmed him. There was little point in worrying and he began to search his own soul in preparation for the sacrament. The Host was elevated, the bells rung. Corbett looked at Ranulf to ensure he still had the proper pious expression. There was a short interruption in the service as the Host was passed around, the celebrant priests now in a huddle around the altar, then the chalice was circulated. Corbett saw de Montfort turn to elevate the Host to the rest of the congregation.
'Ecce Agnus Dei, qui tollit peccata mundi – Behold the Lamb of God, who takes away the sins of the world. Suddenly de Montfort went rigid and the ciborium slipped from his hand, dashing the white hosts like snowflakes onto the altar steps. The man's hand went out, pointing at the king, his usually skull-like face now almost cadaverous, the skin drawn tight, the eyes bulging. Corbett rose, his hand searching for the knife beneath his cloak. De Montfort's mouth opened and shut like a landed carp, then with a loud cry he fell headlong down the steps, his skull crashing against the stone. For a few seconds there was absolute silence, followed by consternation. Several knights of the royal household ran up, pushing their way through the crowds into the sanctuary, looking around up into the nave to see if de Montfort had been brought down by some mysterious assassin. There was shouting, screaming. Corbett saw Sir Fulk Bassett, a young knight banneret and a member of Edward's household, go across the sanctuary and kneel beside de Montfort's rigid body. He gave him the most superficial look, turned and shouted across to the king.
'Sire!' Corbett saw Bassett feel the man's throat. 'I think he is dead.'
A young deacon, his gold vestments swirling around him like the dress of a woman, hurried up to Winchelsea.
'My Lord Bishop,' he stuttered, 'the priest is dead.'
Winchelsea glanced sideways at the king.
'Have his body removed,' he replied softly. 'And do not finish the service.' The man, bowing and bobbing, scurried away.
Winchelsea turned to the king. 'Your Grace,' he said wryly, 'it appears there will be no sermon,'
'And will I get my taxes, my Lord Bishop?'
'Not till this matter is resolved,' Winchelsea snapped back. He leaned over to the king. 'I must urge Your Grace to respect the rights of the Church, fought for and protected by the papacy and sealed with the blood of the martyred Becket.'
The king leaned forward, his face suffused with rage.
'Sometimes, my Lord Bishop,' he rasped quietly, 'it would appear the Blessed Becket richly deserved what he got.'
Winchelsea recoiled at such blasphemy and was about to reply when a strident, wailing cry cut across the sanctuary. Corbett, who had heard the exchange between the bishop and the king, stared around. The sound came from a slit in the far sanctuary wall, from which a scrawny, skeletal hand suddenly shot out.
'It's the anchorite,' Ranulf whispered. 'There is an anchorage over there.' Again the wailing screech, followed by a deep sepulchral voice.
'And the Lord sent out the Angel of Death over the Egyptians and he struck them. The Angel of Death, my Lords, is here, in this church! God's anger! Murder, I tell you!' The prophetic doom-laden voice silenced the hubbub of the sanctuary for a few seconds, then the hand disappeared. The king gestured to Bassett, the young household knight.
'Sir Fulk,' the king whispered quietly, 'clear the sanctuary and the church. Get rid of the populace here!'
The sanctuary was now being invaded by people, domicellae, maids of the court, knights, pages, even men-at-arms. Behind these were others: a young gallant with a hawk upon his wrist; merchants; girls with wanton looks from the streets and taverns beyond the cathedral walls. Women chattered, men talked loudly, girls whispered and laughed at the confusion which surrounded the great ones of the land.
'I will not be gaped at!' the king muttered. Across the sanctuary lay-brothers and servants of the cathedral were lifting de Montfort's body onto leather sheeting to take it out into the nearby sacristy. The king rose, turned and snapped his fingers at Corbett.
'Follow me.' He turned. 'My Lord Surrey.'
John de Warrene, Earl of Surrey, the most competent and loyal of Edward's barons, sighed and got up. The king walked across the sanctuary and past the altar, knocking aside the staring servants, priests and others s
till stunned by the tragedy. The king pushed under the carved-oak rood-screen, pulling aside the heavy blue velvet arras, and entered the chapel beyond, Corbett and Surrey following. The latter, white-haired and red-faced, was stroking his goatee beard. He looked as anxious and frightened as Corbett and the clerk could understand why. They had both heard the king's short but violent exchange with the archbishop and knew de Montfort's death would not help the king's cause in raising taxes from the Church. Edward walked across the empty chapel and leaned against the tomb of some long-buried bishop. Corbett, attempting to calm his mind, tried to think of the name, Erconwald, that was it! Some Saxon priest. The king, resting against the white stone sarcophagus, took deep breaths, his massive chest heaving with the strain. He glared across at his chief clerk, one of the few men he really trusted.
'I hate this church,' he rasped, looking up at the soaring roof. Corbett stared above the king at the great rose window now suffused with every colour of the rainbow as a weak sun struggled through the snow clouds.
'I hate this church,' the king whispered again. 'Here the Londoners met when they pledged their support to Simon de Montfort. Do the ghosts of Evesham dwell here?'
Corbett sensed the king's anger, taking it out on the building rather than the people it represented. Edward did have a special hatred for St Paul's, not only because of de Montfort but because it represented the lawlessness in the capital. The great bell of St Paul's would always boom out to rouse the citizens to arms, or to bring them into the great square around St Paul's Cross to hear some preacher or some rabble-rousing politician speak against the court or the king's taxes. It also had the right of sanctuary; outlaws from both sides of the river fled here from the sheriffs and other officials of the king. Edward had done his best to stop such abuses, building a huge sanctuary wall around the cathedral; but still it was more a market-place than a house of prayer. Here lawyers met their clients; servants came to be hired; merchants to arrange deals. You could buy virtually anything in this house of God.
Surrey, still stroking his beard, decided he had had enough of the king's temper.
'Are we here, Your Grace, to discuss the faults and failings of this Cathedral or,' gesturing with his head behind him to the noises behind the altar screen, 'are we here to discuss what will happen because of de Montfort's death?'
The king glared at Surrey, about to give some biting reply when he sensed he had made enough enemies, so he turned to Corbett.
'Hugh, go and see if de Montfort is truly dead. Bassett!' As Hugh turned he saw the young knight guarding the rood-screen door. Ranulf was skulking behind him, watching round-eyed at the king's anger and wondering if this would affect his fortunes and those of his master. Ranulf had been with Corbett too many times to be totally overawed by royal majesty but he sensed Edward's fickle temper and knew that if Corbett fell from favour Ranulf would also go back to the gutter from which he came. Consequently he looked after his master's happiness with an almost religious fervour. Ranulf did not want anyone to upset Corbett; he viewed that as his own prerogative.
'Basset,' the king repeated, 'go with Corbett. And Hugh,' – the king nodded to where Ranulf still skulked, 'take your watchdog with you. He should not be here.'
Corbett and Bassett bowed, pulled back the arras and went back into the hubbub in the sanctuary. Royal men-at-arms were now imposing some form of order. They had sealed the sanctuary off with a ring of steel while royal marshals and trumpeters had gone down into the nave to instruct the people to leave. Even under the noise and clamour Corbett felt the menace and threats. The people, by right, regarded the nave of the church as theirs and they resented being told to leave and so prevented from watching such an interesting spectacle. Worse, news of de Montfort's collapse and the prophetic cries of the anchorite had spread, God knows how, and the people were already muttering that de Montfort's death was a judgement against the king.
3
Corbett, followed by Bassett and Ranulf, walked across the now quietening sanctuary and entered the sacristy, a large oak-panelled room with an enormous table down the centre and aumbries in the walls. Someone had lit cresset torches and wheeled in charcoal braziers to ward off the oppressive cold. The main celebrants of the mass and the servers were still there.
Corbett gazed round the crowded sacristy. There were soldiers, guests from the service and other canons of the cathedral moving around, though they kept away from the great table now cleared except for the leather sheeting holding de Montfort's corpse. A young priest, a stole around his neck, was busy anointing the eyes, mouth and hands of the dead man. Corbett again looked round for someone in authority and finally saw a promising candidate. A youngish man of small stature, plump, with thick matted red hair, he still wore the gold and red chasuble, and Corbett recognized him as one of the main celebrants. The clerk went over to introduce himself and, when the man turned, Corbett was immediately struck by his comely and saintly face. There were some men who looked like priests, some who did not. This cleric looked every inch a man of God. His face was round and plump with deep-set blue eyes and a smooth olive skin. He smiled at Corbett.
'So, His Grace the king has sent you,' he said.
'Yes,' Corbett replied. 'I have to find out about Master de Montfort.'
The priest turned and nodded towards where the corpse lay. 'De Montfort has gone to a different court, Master Corbett.'
'What is that priest doing?' Corbett asked. 'Anointing him.'
'I thought that only happened when a man was dying, not when he was dead.'
The priest shrugged his shoulders.
'You have read your theology, Master Clerk? Aquinas and Bonaventure say the soul may not leave the body till hours after the heart has stopped beating. For de Montfort's sake let us hope that this is so and his soul has been cleansed of sin.'
Corbett was about to go towards the table but the priest put his hand gently on the clerk's arm.
'Let the priest finish, Master Clerk,' he said. 'Then you can look.'
'And who are you?'
'I am Sir Philip Plumpton, canon of St Paul's,' the fellow replied.
Corbett nodded.
The young priest, who must also have been a celebrant at the fateful mass, had finished the anointing and now began the Psalm for the Dead: 'De Profundis Clamavi ad Le'. Once that was ended, the young priest, head bowed so that his complete tonsure was showing, began the final invocation, telling the dead man's soul to go out, invoking the Archangels Michael and Gabriel to meet him with the heavenly host, praying the dead man's soul would not fall into the hands of the Evil One, the Son of Perdition.
Corbett shivered. Here in the house of God, surrounded by priests, he felt a malevolence, a deep-seated malice. He already half suspected that de Montfort's death was no accident and, strangely, remembered stories he had heard about St Paul's: how it was often a den of iniquity, many of the canons not following the rules of their order or the vows they made at ordination. Some people claimed it was because the cathedral had been built over an ancient temple once used by the Romans in their sacrifices to Diana, goddess of the hunt. Corbett shivered again. With evil came chaos and chaos cried out for order to be imposed. If de Montfort's death was no accident, then the king would certainly assign him to find out why.
Corbett did not relish the commission. He had already seen the king's anger and believed a great deal of it was pretence. Did Edward have a hand in de Montfort's death? The clerk had no illusions about his royal master. King Edward was a pragmatist, the means always justifying the end. In the universities of Europe there were political theorists who claimed a king was above the law; indeed, even what he wished became law. Was the corpse lying on the table proof of this? A man who came from a family hated by the king, who was preparing a speech denouncing the king's taxation. Did Edward have a hand in his death? Is that why the king himself had not come into the sacristy? Did Edward believe that the body of a murdered man always bled in the presence of his assassin?
Cor
bett gently removed Plumpton's hand from his wrist and walked over to the table as the young priest, his face white and lined with fear, rose and walked quietly away. The corpse, still dressed in priestly garb, had a gauze veil over its face. Corbett, now aware of the growing silence around him as people watched what he would do, removed the gauze. De Montfort's face, never handsome in life, looked tragic, almost grotesque, in death. The muscles in the face were still rigid, the eyes half open, and Corbett saw two pennies lying on either side of the head, proof that the officiating priest had attempted to lay two coins there to keep the eyes closed. Instead, they seemed to glare malevolently at Corbett: the nostrils were dilated, the lips drawn back in the awful rictus of death. Corbett, who knew a little of medicine, bent down and sniffed at the man's mouth. He detected garlic, wine and something else, a bitter-sweet smell. Steeling himself, he forced two fingers into the man's mouth and, despite the low moans of protest from the people surrounding him, gently forced the jaws open and stared in. As he suspected, the man's mouth had failed to close because the tongue had swollen and the gums round the rotting teeth were black. Corbett at once knew the truth. De Montfort had not collapsed or died; there had been no failure of the heart or sudden rush of blood to the head. De Montfort had been poisoned.
