Nightshade Read online

  ‘Yes, yes.’ Edward grimaced. ‘Oliver is a fighter. He is also a hero, Corbett, a Crusader who escaped Acre when it fell thirteen years ago to the Saracens. Fought his way through, brought back a king’s ransom in precious goods. I converted a great deal of it into land for him and married him off to a rich heiress fifteen years his junior, Lady Hawisa Talbot. However, one thing he did not hand over to me,’ Edward narrowed his eyes, ‘was the Sanguis Christi.’

  ‘The Blood of Christ?’

  ‘An exquisite cross of thick pure gold,’ the King’s eyes gleamed, ‘studded with five huge rubies allegedly containing blood from Christ’s precious wounds. According to legend, the rubies were embedded in the True Cross found by the Empress Helena a thousand years ago. The Sanguis Christi, along with other wealth, was seized by Scrope when he fled Acre. On his return to England, he solemnly promised me, after I had given him so much help and favour, that the Sanguis Christi would be mine, either when he died or after twelve years had elapsed. It is now January 1304.’ Edward smiled. ‘The twelve years have elapsed. The Sanguis Christi should be mine.’

  ‘Then summon him to Westminster!’ Corbett declared crossly.

  ‘Ah, that’s just the beginning.’ The King smiled. ‘Scrope is a wily man. He was with the Templars in Acre. The Sanguis Christi and all the treasures he seized once belonged to that order. They have demanded everything back, particularly the Sanguis Christi. Scrope has utterly rejected their plea. I support him in this.’ He grinned. ‘Naturally. The Temple, according to rumour, have sworn vengeance. They’ve sent formal envoys to Lord Scrope demanding the return of their property. Scrope has refused, so the Templars, in a secret consistory, have passed sentence of death on him. Now,’ the King sighed, ‘I do not know whether this is the work of the General Chapter or just extremists, but so far they have made little progress.’

  ‘Couldn’t the Pope intervene?’

  ‘The Pope sprawls in Avignon, firmly in the power of France, who, as you know, has no great love for the Order of the Temple. Anyway, His Holiness claims that Scrope’s treasures are the just plunders of war, whilst our archbishop, old Robert Winchelsea, when he is not in exile, fully agrees.’

  ‘But you are concerned that the Temple may seize the Sanguis Christi?’

  ‘As is Lord Scrope. He has received mysterious messages.’ Edward closed his eyes. ‘“The Mills of the Temple of God grind exceedingly slow but they do grind exceedingly small.”’

  ‘How were these messages delivered?’ Corbett now forgot the freezing gloom, deeply intrigued by what the King was saying.

  ‘Oh, writs and letters, anonymously and mysteriously delivered at Scrope’s great manor hall.’

  ‘So you need me to collect the Sanguis Christi before the Temple do?’

  ‘Precisely!’

  ‘But the Temple will object to you having it.’

  Edward clicked his tongue. ‘They can object until the Second Coming, Corbett. I’ll simply say I am holding it in trust until the matter is decided, which will be never! Moreover, Scrope has demanded my help before he hands it over. There is more to the story than a beautiful gold cross and five precious rubies.’

  ‘You mentioned the Free Brethren of the Holy Spirit?’

  ‘Yes, yes.’ The King breathed out noisily. ‘You know what is happening, Sir Hugh. The Pope wallows in luxury at Avignon, bishops, priests and clerics live lives alien to their calling. Europe is plagued by wandering groups attacking such decadence; fraternities, companies and sisterhoods all claiming a special revelation from God. The Free Brethren of the Holy Spirit were one of these. Like the Beguines, the Columbini, the Pastoreux, they believed that true religion should be free of all structures, strictures and hierarchy. Men and women, they argued, should live in their natural state and not feel guilty over sexual matters or any other burdens of sin. Property should be held in common, as should all wealth and income. The sacraments are not necessary, particularly marriage.’ Edward fluttered his fingers. ‘You know how the hymn goes. Anyway, this company of Free Brethren, male and female, under their leaders, who rejoiced in the names of Adam and Eve, moved into Mistleham. At first Lord Oliver tolerated them …’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He had other problems. Not only was he being menaced by the Temple, but new threats were emerging like prostitutes from some filthy runnel. Again warnings were anonymously delivered, following the same lines as the earlier though slightly different. Yes, that’s how it goes.’ Edward scratched his head. ‘“The Mills of the Temple may grind exceedingly slow and exceedingly small, but so do the Mills of God’s anger.”’

  ‘And their origin?’

  Edward pulled a face. ‘Scrope visited me on the last Sunday of Advent and confessed all this, but he didn’t know who was threatening him and why this new menace had emerged.’ The King opened and shut the battered lid of a looted coffer next to him. ‘However, by then, one problem had been resolved, the Free Brethren of the Holy Spirit had ceased to exist.’

  ‘Your grace?’ Corbett leaned forward. In December he’d been busy in Canterbury, but on his return he’d heard chilling tales from Essex.

  ‘Lord Scrope,’ Edward refused to meet Corbett’s gaze, ‘is most orthodox. He prides himself on having fought in Outremer, on being a Crusader, a knight with personal loyalty to the Holy Father. Little wonder,’ the King laughed drily, ‘that he won protection from that quarter. You see, Corbett, the Free Brethren had moved to Mistleham and lodged in the nearby deserted village of Mordern, which in itself has a sinister history. Once settled, they merged with the local people. At first they were more of a curiosity than a threat …’ Edward paused. ‘Until Lord Scrope abruptly decided otherwise. He accused them of robbery, poaching, lechery and, most importantly, heresy.’

  ‘Heresy?’

  ‘Heresy,’ Edward agreed. ‘Lord Scrope is a strict believer. He was encouraged in this by his personal chaplain, a Dominican, Brother Gratian.’

  Corbett sat back, allowing himself to relax. Although he didn’t like it, he realised why he had been summoned here. The Dominicans worked as papal inquisitors, constantly vigilant against heresy.

  ‘Lord Scrope turned on the Free Brethren. He summoned up his levies and attacked them as they sheltered in the derelict church of Mordern. Those who survived,’ Edward sighed, ‘Lord Scrope summarily hanged from the oak trees around the church.’

  Corbett stared hard at the King as he recalled stories of a heinous massacre in Essex that had seeped into the Chancery offices at Westminster.

  ‘Lord Scrope maintains they were outlaws, heretics,’ Edward continued. ‘He was supported by Brother Gratian with letters and scripts from his minister general as well as the curial offices of the Pope at Avignon. He claims he has God’s own mandate to root out heresy whenever he sees it.’

  ‘This Gratian, how long has he been with Lord Scrope?’

  ‘God knows!’ Edward retorted. ‘He certainly does not act on my authority.’

  ‘So the Free Brethren of the Holy Spirit are all dead?’

  ‘Yes, but to make matters worse, Scrope refuses to have their corpses buried. They still lie out at Mordern or dangle from the trees. Scrope says they should rot where they died as a warning to others.’

  ‘You could send in commissioners.’

  ‘Oh no.’ Edward smiled. ‘Lord Scrope is supported by Holy Mother Church whilst both Lords and Commons are hot against such wandering groups.’

  ‘And the good people of Mistleham?’

  ‘Encouraged by their newly elected mayor, Henry Claypole, they were only too willing to support Lord Scrope in his assault on the Free Brethren. You know how it is,’ the King added bitterly. ‘A shire town, a community hostile to strangers. If a bucket went missing, the Free Brethren were responsible. If a woman was seduced, the Free Brethren were to blame, especially with their singular views on the sins of the flesh.’

  ‘And there was some truth in these accusations?’

  ‘Of course! The Fre
e Brethren were what they claimed to be, expounders of free love, professional beggars living on their wits as well as the charity of others.’ Edward rubbed his hands together. ‘Look, Corbett, Scrope acted sine auctoritate — without authority. I want to warn him that that must never happen again, and under my authority, we must have those corpses buried, secretly but properly.’

  ‘And the others?’ Corbett asked. ‘Anyone of note?’

  ‘Henry Claypole, the mayor. A true firebrand. Some say he’s Scrope’s illegitimate son, a by-blow, the result of his dalliance with a certain Mistress Alice de Tuddenham. Claypole believes he is the legitimate heir to Scrope, whom he served as a squire in Outremer. A bustling, fiery man, Claypole is used to the cut and thrust of politics, though I think he’s an empty vessel that makes a great deal of sound. The parish priest is Father Thomas. He served with us in Wales as chaplain. I promoted him to many benefices but then he converted and took true religion, claiming he wanted to serve God’s poor. He resigned all his benefices and sinecures. His family hails from Mistleham, so I appointed him to the church there, or at least,’ Edward grinned, ‘Scrope and I persuaded the bishop to do so. Then there’s Lady Hawisa. I suspect she has no real love for her husband, but she is faithful enough, vivacious, intelligent and comely, though a little tart of tongue. Finally, there’s Scrope’s sister Marguerite.’ Edward stretched and smiled. ‘Marguerite Scrope,’ he repeated. ‘Fourteen years ago, Corbett – though perhaps you don’t remember her – she was one of the leading beauties of the court: a singular sort of beauty, different from the type of woman who sits in her window bower and makes calf’s eyes at any knight who passes by. No, Marguerite loved life, dancing, hunting and hawking. I often teased her that she should have been born a man. She thanked me courteously then roundly informed me she was happy with the way she was. By the time her brother came home from Outremer, something had happened to Marguerite; she became withdrawn and reflective. She entered the Benedictine order as a nun, her qualities were soon noted and, with a little help from friends at home and court, she was appointed Abbess of St Frideswide, which lies in its own grounds just outside Mistleham. I doubt if she has really changed. I had a letter recently signed by both her and Father Thomas, protesting at her brother’s destruction of the Free Brethren and demanding that I exercise my authority to ensure their honourable burial. Never mind them, Corbett! Essex is vital, a shire that straddles all the great roads to and from London and the eastern ports. I don’t want any disturbance there. I want this settled. I’ll be visiting Colchester soon. I want Scrope brought to book before the Sagittarius or Bowman does it for me.’

  ‘Sagittarius?’

  ‘The Bowman,’ Edward explained. ‘A mysterious killer who appeared in Mistleham without warning just after the New Year, as if that town didn’t have enough problems. An archer, a skilled one, armed with a longbow, the type we brought from Wales. He announces his coming only by the blast of a hunting horn. Some people claim he’s Satan, or a ghost or one of the Free Brethren come back to haunt them. When the horn blows, somewhere in Mistleham, or on the roads outside, a person always dies: a wellplaced arrow to the throat, face or chest. So far five or six people have been killed in this way. Most of them young, cut down like running deer.’

  ‘Attempts have been made to capture him?’

  ‘Of course.’ Edward laughed drily. ‘Hugh, you’ve served in Wales; think of the power of those longbows. Yew staffs, the ash arrow whistling through the air. A master bowman, a skilled archer, can be a silent, deadly killer. Shafts can be loosed in a matter of heartbeats, then he disappears into the forest or an alleyway with no sight or sound.’

  ‘You mentioned the Free Brethren of the Holy Spirit. Could any of them have survived the massacre and be exacting vengeance?’

  ‘I doubt it,’ Edward replied, chewing the corner of his lip. ‘The Free Brethren apparently carried no arms, though there are rumours to the contrary. Even if they did, such people are not skilled in the arts of war.’

  ‘And this is not directed against Lord Scrope but the townspeople of Mistleham?’

  ‘Well it could be.’ Edward paused. ‘Hugh, Lord Scrope committed murder. If the Free Brethren had perpetrated a felony, they should have appeared before the justices of oyer and terminer or even been summoned before the assizes, but to be brutally cut down, massacred? Now I can’t appear to be protecting a group of wandering rogues against a manor lord, definitely not one as powerful as Scrope, but if this bowman continues his attacks, sooner or later people will look for a scapegoat. I don’t want some uprising in Essex. I want the matter brought to an end, and you’re the best man to do that.’

  ‘And you are sure, none of the Free Brethren survived?’

  ‘I doubt it. Father Thomas reports there were fourteen in number, and there were fourteen corpses, each carrying the brand of their guild upon them. A cross,’ Edward patted his chest just beneath his throat, ‘here. Father Thomas tried to reason with Scrope, but that ruthless bastard is adamant. The corpses still remain unburied. No one escaped.’ The King sucked on his lips, then gestured round. ‘You must be wondering why I brought you here. This is my treasure house, Corbett – evilly looted. I kept my precious goods here, gifts from old friends and Eleanor …’ He blinked away the tears that always came when he mentioned his beloved first wife, Eleanor of Castile, now buried beneath her marble mausoleum in the abbey above them. ‘You know the story, Corbett? I was in Outremer when my father died. Eleanor was with me. A secret sect of assassins who lived with their master, the Old Man of the Mountains, in their rocky eyrie in the Syrian desert, had marked me down for death. They struck, the assassin stealing into my tent with a poisoned dagger. I killed him but he still wounded me. Eleanor, God love her, sucked the poison from the gash and saved me.’ Edward sighed noisily. ‘I dedicated the dagger to St Edward the Confessor and placed it here in the crypt. Those whoresons stole it! One of the gang, John Le Riche, tried to sell it in Mistleham, but he was trapped by Scrope and his minion Claypole. They hanged Le Riche out of hand and now hold the dagger. Scrope, to impress me, is acting the hero-saviour, but I don’t believe his tale. I want that dagger back and the truth behind Le Riche’s abrupt capture and even swifter execution. Do what you have to.’ Edward searched in his wallet, pulled out a small scroll and handed this to Corbett, who unrolled it. The writing was in the King’s hand, the writ sealed with his privy seal: ‘To all officers of the Crown, sheriffs, bailiffs and mayors. What the bearer of this letter has done, or is doing, is in the King’s name and for the benefit of both Crown and Realm …’

  ‘Sir Hugh, master!’ Hugh broke from his reverie and glanced quickly to his right. Ranulf, who had been studying him closely ever since they left Westminster, gestured ahead. ‘We are approaching London Bridge, master.’ He smiled. ‘It’s best if we are vigilant.’

  Corbett gazed around. This was a part of the city where one’s wits and sword must be sharp and ready. A bank of mist was rolling in from the Thames. The roar of the river as it poured through the arches of London Bridge, breaking around the protective starlings, sounded like a roll of drums, not quite drowning the clamour of people surging along the busy thoroughfare overlooking the river bank. The cries and yells of watermen, bargemasters and weary rowers mingled with the shouts of traders and their apprentices offering a variety of goods from hot pies to leather bottles. A group of enterprising hawkers had set up stalls to sell wineskins, purses, leather laces, deerskin bags, belts and all sorts of medicinal herbs to those making their way down to Westminster, up on to the bridge or further north to the gloomy mass of the Tower. Another line of suspicious-looking marketeers offered fur from ‘monstrous, mysterious beasts in the East with fair heads, bodies as black as mulberry, with crimson backs and multicoloured tails’. These itinerant traders were now being carefully questioned by market beadles over their licence to sell in the area.

  Corbett surveyed the crowd, watchful against any violence or protest at the royal standard Chan
son had displayed, yet apart from a yell deep in the crowd about how the King’s testicles should be enshrined in a hog’s turd, there was no open resentment. Business certainly looked brisk, as was royal justice. The stocks and thews were full of street-walkers, ribalds and drunkards, not to mention the sky-farmers, counterfeit men caught red-handed in their trickery. A butcher guilty of selling foul meat had been singled out for special treatment; he was forced to stand in a cart beneath the gallows with the rotting entrails of a pig wound around his throat and the lower part of his face to rest just beneath his nose. A man who’d pulled the hair of an archdeacon in a brawl was now having his own plucked out. The screaming victim was being stridently lectured how, when punishment was finished, he must walk barefoot across the bridge three times with scourgers following behind. A little further on a wandering preacher pointed to an execution cart, its wicker baskets full of the remains of Scottish rebels, beheaded, quartered and pickled, to be displayed on London Bridge. He openly warned: ‘Man born of a woman lives only for an hour. His days are bound in wretchedness and woe! He bursts forth like blossom only to fall quickly to the ground, to pass away like a shadow, nowhere to be found.’

  Closer to the entrance to London Bridge, great beacon fires blazed in empty pitch casks. Around these gathered the poor, the infirm, drooling beggars and the dribbling insane. Franciscans dressed in coarse brown robes moved amongst these offering bread and strips of boiled meat. The sick and their ministers rubbed shoulders with the serjeants-at-law moving up and down to the courts of Westminster, all adorned in their splendid scarlet robes and pure white silk coifs. Along the river’s edge ranged a line of scaffolds decorated with stiffened frozen cadavers on whose shoulders kites, ravens and crows settled to pick and pluck at brain or eye whilst women squatting beneath the gibbets offered scraps of clothing from the hanged as talismans against ill luck.