Corbett was up early the next morning, the fears, anxieties and tremblings of the previous evening quite gone. The wine had soothed his nerves and Corbett was intent on resolving the mystery of de Montfort's death once and for all. It had hung around his neck like a whetstone and he was angry at how his blindness had kept him caught like some criminal in the stocks. He roused Ranulf and questioned the sleepy servant on what he had done the previous evening, satisfying himself that the ward's watch had been notified of the assassin's death and the body taken away. Corbett then roughly instructed Ranulf to follow him to St Paul's and, ignoring his servant's grumbles and muttered protests about the base ingratitude of certain masters, especially high-ranking clerks from the Chancery, bundled him out of the door. Ranulf protested meekly at the lack of breakfast so they stopped at a baker's stall and bought a fresh, hot loaf, which Corbett thrust into Ranulf's hands, telling him to eat as they walked along.
The morning mist was beginning to lift and a faint sun was already making its presence felt when they entered the deserted courtyard of St Paul's. They found the cathedral locked, but the chapter-house was in uproar.
The Scotsman, Ettrick, solemnly informed them of what had happened. The canons had risen at dawn to sing divine office and heard the terrible news that Sir Philip Plumpton had been brutally murdered, the wire of the garrotte still round his throat. Corbett closed his eyes and murmured a quiet requiem for the fat, rather silly priest's soul, now going to meet its maker. Corbett allowed the Scotsman to take him up to the dead priest's chamber on the second storey of the chapter-house. Corbett gave Plumpton's poor corpse a cursory examination: the priest's eyes were still wide open, little attempt having been made to remove the horror and shock of death. Corbett crossed himself and, turning, asked Ettrick if he could question certain servants. He brushed aside the Scotsman's protests, insisting such an interrogation was essential and should be done immediately. The clerk secretly hoped he was not talking to the murderer but, even if he was, this might only hasten matters and perhaps help flush the assassin out into the open.
The servants named were brought to him and ruthlessly questioned; Corbett took them back to the days after de Montfort's death. Who had approached them? Who had assigned their duties? When he had satisfied himself, Corbett told them to leave the cathedral and not to return for at least four days. He gave the two servants in question three silver coins, to buy their silence and arrange their swift departure from the cathedral precincts. After which, Corbett, with Ranulf in tow, quietly left St Paul's for a nearby tavern. Corbett, armed with sword, dagger and a mail shirt hidden beneath his tunic, was confident that de Montfort's murderer would not try an assassination attempt so soon after the failure of the first. Provided he stayed with the crowd and away from solitary places, Corbett felt safe. In the tavern he surprised Ranulf with his generosity, ordering the best ale and food the place could serve. Once his servant had eaten Corbett asked him to find a young friend, an acquaintance and bring him to the tavern as soon as possible. The servant looked at his strange master and was about to protest, but one look at Corbett's stern face and hard eyes convinced him it would be useless.
The clerk had to wait for at least two hours before
Ranulf returned. The young man he brought was personable enough for Corbett's uses. The fellow introduced himself as Richard Tallis but Corbett, brushing aside his friendly greetings, entrusted him with a message: he was to go to the Cathedral of St Paul's and seek out a certain priest Corbett named and ask if that priest would be kind enough, before vespers, to hear the confession of someone who believed he had committed a terrible sin and wanted to confess it to him alone. Tallis looked surprised and Corbett thought he was about to protest but, after two gold coins had exchanged hands, Richard promised he would do his utmost and, unless Corbett heard to the contrary, everything would happen as arranged.
For the rest of the afternoon Corbett stayed in the tavern replenishing his drink as he carefully went over what he had learnt in the last few days. Corbett believed he had found the murderer of de Montfort, the would-be regicide, the slayer of Plumpton and the man who had attempted to kill him by proxy the previous evening. Corbett felt as satisfied as he ever would in this world that he had uncovered the truth, but believed it would be futile to confront the culprit with his evidence. Better to allow the man to confess his own guilt and thus meet his just rewards.
The hours seemed to drag but at last Corbett gauged the time had come for him to return to St Paul's. Ranulf, who had spent the afternoon wandering in and out of the tavern on a number of minor errands, was asked to go with him. His servant, of course, agreed willingly, for he sensed that his master was close to the kill. Ranulf knew Corbett, with his own devious sly ways, was about to bring a murderer to justice and he, who hated the fat priests and their grasping hypocritical ways, fully intended to see matters reach their climax. Corbett, however, insisted that although Ranulf was to accompany him into the cathedral, he was to stay in the background.
St Paul's was empty when they entered. Because of winter, business finished early in the afternoon and the place was so cold that few people bothered to linger longer than necessary. Corbett went up to the confessional, the place where the priest would sit and shrive the sins of those seeking repentance. It was really a wooden trellis screen attached to a pillar. The priest sat on one side with his back to it, while the penitent would knee on a small wooden stool on the other. Corbett knelt and waited. He heard a sound from far beyond the sanctuary, a door opening and closing and the soft slithering sound of a man walking towards the screen. The priest sat down murmuring the 'In nomine Patris' followed by the 'benedicte' and quietly invited Corbett to begin his confession. The clerk, in a whisper to disguise his voice, began with the usual ritual.
'Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.' Corbett stated the last time he had been shriven and mentioned a number of sins, those which immediately sprung to mind and, even though he was in danger, Corbett smiled wryly as he realized that most of his offences were either lustful thoughts or anger towards Ranulf. He heard the priest stir angrily at being called out to absolve such minor offences. So Corbett, steeling himself, his hands now dropping to the hilt of his dagger, began the most dreadful confession he had ever made.
'Father, I know a murderer, the name of the man,' he continued hurriedly, 'who has killed two men, plotted to murder the king, the Lord's anointed, and has tried to murder someone else.' The priest stirred but Corbett continued remorselessly. 'Father, what am I to do? In justice, should I keep this information to myself? Or should I hand it over to the authorities?'
The priest turned towards the screen.
'No, Master Corbett,' Robert de Luce hissed through the screen. 'You have come to the right place.'
In the faint light of the cathedral, Corbett stared through the holes of the lattice screen at de Luce's hard, angry eyes. He sensed the man was mad, not witless like some fool in the streets, but a man driven to insanity by hate. The look of malice in de Luce's eyes was something tangible. Corbett felt sudden dread, and wondered whether this dramatic confrontation of the murderer was the wisest possible course of action.
'I have come,' Corbett said, dropping all pretence, 'to tell you what I know. To ask you to confess to what is true. You, Robert de Luce, treasurer of the Cathedral of St Paul's, the senior canon in this church, murdered Walter de Montfort during the sacrifice of the mass, attempted to murder me because I was near the truth and certainly killed Philip Plumpton because he too discovered it. I also believe deep in my heart, though I cannot prove this, that you intended to murder His Grace the King: the poisoned chalice was meant for him.'
'And how do you know all this, my clever clerk?' de Luce rasped.
'The chalice,' Corbett replied, 'first went to those on the Dean's right, de Eveden and Ettrick, before being passed on de Montfort's left to Plumpton, yourself and Blaskett. You knew de Eveden only pretended to drink the wine so enough would be left to disguise the poison you sprinkled as you grasped the chalice after Blaskett had drunk. And who would glimpse this sleight of hand? Your colleagues had just taken the sacrament and would stand heads bowed, eyes closed. Logic dictates either you or Plumpton was the poisoner. Plumpton's dead so it has to be you. You forgot one thing: the Hostiam pacis – the kiss of peace. De Montfort had to offer the chalice to the king and, before doing so, drink from it again. This is where your plot to slay the king went wrong. De Montfort drank the poisoned chalice and immediately fell dead. In the confusion you took de Montfort's chalice and, under your chasuble, dashed the lees of the poisoned wine onto your own garments. It wouldn't be much. After all, five men had drunk from it -de Montfort twice. The chalice bowl was small, it would contain little wine. Yet when I went up to the altar, after de Montfort's death, I found the chalice almost full. I suggest, Sir Priest, that after you dashed the chalice against your cope, you seized a cruet and refilled the chalice with wine. Actually, you needed only to put in a few drops, but, of course, you filled it too full. Yesterday Sir Philip Plumpton realized that the chalice was full when it should have been empty, and, secondly, that there was no wine left in the cruet. Of course there wasn't – you had poured what was left into de Montfort's chalice!'
De Luce sniggered. 'Very clever. But surely there would have been a trace of poison in the chalice?'
'Oh, yes, but you made sure it was gone. Beneath your chasuble, in the confusion following de Montfort's death, you wiped the chalice completely clean. Only it left a stain on both the chasuble and alb. I saw them when I met you and the other canons in the sacristy. After Sir Philip's death it was simply a matter of interrogating the two laundresses who work here. They told me that in the afternoon of the same day de Montfort died, you gave them an alb to clean, giving them strict instructions to remove all stains. The chasuble you ignored: it is too heavy to clean, such stains were commonplace and no one could really prove they had been acquired when you wore it at that fatal mass. The alb was different. Isn't it strange, priest, that in your arrogance, you never thought of washing it yourself? Mind you,' Corbett continued, 'there were other signs. The drops of poisoned wine on the altar frontal. They were still there after you dashed the wine under your chasuble. Finally, the wine on the carpet, to the left of where de Montfort had stood. In your haste to refill the chalice after de Montfort's death, some wine had fallen on the ground. It must have been spilt then. You know Canon Law, and de Montfort was a rigid disciplinarian. If consecrated wine had been spilt during mass there would have been an elaborate ritual to clean it up afterwards.'
'Is that all, Clerk?' de Luce hissed.
'Oh, no,' Corbett replied. 'You hoped that once de
Montfort was dead, the dean's scandalous private life would cloud the identity of his murderer. You even tried to pass the blame on to other people. De Montfort, ever the boastful man, had declared that the king had sent him a pannikin of wine. Once you had refilled the chalice, and while de Montfort's body was being taken to the sacristy for anointment by Blaskett, it was simply a matter of slipping up to de Montfort's room, poisoning the wine and, under your heavy ceremonial cope, bringing it down to the small vestry in the sacristy. I am right, am I not, Sir Priest?'
'Oh, you are, Clerk,' de Luce replied, his eyes glittering with malice behind the screen.
'Only one problem remains, de Luce,' Corbett snapped – 'why?'
De Luce cocked his head to one side as if this was a real problem. 'Oh, it is quite easy,' he said in a sing-song whisper. 'You see, I did not intend de Montfort to die, though I did not mourn his death, but our beloved king was a different matter. You see, Corbett, have you ever lost someone you loved? I did. I had a brother. I loved him more than any other person in the world. I do not know if you have studied my background, Corbett. Perhaps you will and will find I was born in Flanders. I came here and was promoted in the English king's service. Edward himself offered me the benefice here and, in doing so, I extended the royal favour to my own brother. A merchant, he came over to England, expanded his business and, because of Edward's involvement in Scodand, went to Berwick. He was there, in the Red House, when Edward put it to the sack as if he was some new Attila or Genghis Khan. My brother died, so did his pleasant-faced, innocent wife,' de Luce's voice cracked under the strain, '… their lovely children. You see, Corbett, the king had to pay for these murders. No one gave him the right to sack cities. No one gave him the right to slay an innocent man, a beloved brother, his wife and young children just because the burgesses of Berwick were stupid enough to hold out longer than they should have done. When I heard the news I resolved that Edward should die. Not quietly. But in the open. In the sight of the Church, of Edward's parliament, and in the eyes of God, if there is one. Edward would fall dead and my brother's death would be avenged.' De Luce picked at the screen absent-mindedly with his finger, a half smile on his lips, a faraway look in his eyes. Corbett felt afraid. The man was completely mad but hid it under a mask of cold reasonableness.
'You see, Corbett, I had forgotten that de Montfort would drink from the chalice again. If that fool Ettrick had not reminded him, my plan would have worked and de Montfort would have been blamed. Men would have seen it as proof that the de Montfort family had not forgotten their persecution at the hands of King Edward. But,' he shrugged as if it was a matter of little importance, 'de Montfort did drink it again and my plan was thwarted. But then I saw further possibilities. If I wanted men to believe that de Montfort had killed the king, why should not the king kill de Montfort during the sacrifice of the mass? The scandal, the blasphemy, the sacrilege, would weaken Edward in the eyes of everyone in Western Christendom, not only in England.'
Corbett watched de Luce intently and saw the madness in the priest's eyes.
'You are right,' the priest continued smoothly. 'Everything was confusion after de Montfort collapsed. It was simply a matter of going to the altar, as if to arrange certain items, and pick the chalice up. I lifted my chasuble and dashed what was left of the wine against my alb, rubbing it clean before refilling it. Nobody would notice and, if they did, I would have some satisfactory explanation. I thought it would work until your interfering questions began but, even then, I thought I was safe. After all no one loved de Montfort. His whore had been present at mass. Blaskett and de Eveden feared him, Plumpton envied him and, of course, dear Ettrick, the Scotsman, he was the one who reminded de Montfort to drink the wine a second time.' De Luce now looked directly at Corbett. 'And you, with your meddling ways! And your half-finished questions. By all rights you know,' de Luce continued conversationally, 'you should be dead now. I knew Plumpton had deduced something. The fat fool's excitement last night convinced me that the farce you made him go through yesterday morning had awakened his usually dormant brain and fitful memory. So I killed him.'
De Luce smiled. His hands dropped down. 'And now, Corbett, your penance!'
Hugh would always regret he had not watched this mad, evil priest more intently. Only when the word 'penance' was uttered did he begin to move away, but it was too late. De Luce, the smile still on his twisted lips, managed to thrust the long, thin, stiletto-like dagger through a small aperture deep into Corbett's shoulder. The clerk screamed at the red-hot pain, his hand going up to feel the blood pumping out and collapsing as de Luce moved quickly out of the screen and up the cathedral. He heard voices, Ranulf shouting, the sound of drawn swords and the whirr of a crossbow bolt. Then the darkness mercifully obliterated his agony.
Corbett woke a few days later in a lime-washed chamber of St Bartholomew's Hospital. The mattress was soft enough, slung over a low truckle bed. He glanced round and saw the black crucifix on the wall, a bench, two stools and a small table. He knew he was in St Bartholomew's because Father Thomas was standing there, his back to him, mixing some potion at the table. Corbett stirred and called out.
Father Thomas turned round, his face beaming with pleasure. 'So, Hugh, you have decided to rejoin us.'
Corbett struggled to rise, but a hot knifing pain, which shot from his shoulder all the way down his right side, forced him back on the bed. He could feel the sweat pouring down his face and body.
'You should lie still, Hugh,' Father Thomas said, a note of authority in his usually gentle voice. He bathed the clerk's head with a cloth dipped in warm, herb-strewn water and, bringing a small cup, held Corbett's head and forced the clerk to drink the dark, bitter mixture.
'This will make you sleep eventually,' the monk said.
Hugh lay back and stared up at the ceiling. 'How long have I been here?' he asked.
'Eight days.'
'What happened?'
Father Thomas patted Hugh on the head as if he was a child.
'Stay there.'
He went to the door and called down the passageway. Ranulf came in wringing his hands, his face a picture of concern and compassion. Behind him was Maeve. Corbett could hardly believe his eyes and, if he had not been warned by the pain, he would have sprung out of bed. She came quietly into the room, pulled a stool over and sat down beside him. Taking one of his hands in hers, she kissed it gently and stroked it affectionately, just looking at him. Corbett realized how beautiful she was, the bright corn-coloured hair peeping out beneath the dark blue wimple over her head. Her face, however, was paler than usual, almost alabaster, and her eyes larger and darker. He could see the dark shadows of sleeplessness around them.
'Maeve, when did you arrive?' he said huskily. 'I thought you were in Wales. The roads? How could you get through?'
Maeve smiled. 'We did not come by road but by sea.'
Corbett clasped her hand tightly until she winced. 'It is so good to see you.'
Ranulf, the clerk's servant, had been standing there, his look of concern now replaced by one of deep grievance at being ignored.
'Ranulf, what happened at St Paul's?'
Ranulf shrugged. 'I heard you yell. I saw the priest leave and come from behind the screen, the dagger still in his hand. I had brought a crossbow, and even in that light he was still a good enough target.'
'You killed him?'
Ranulf shrugged again and smiled. 'Of course. The bolt went straight into the back of his neck. He died very quickly before the high altar, just near the anker house.' Ranulf went over and sat on a bench against the far wall. 'He cursed you before he died, while the anchorite behind his wall shouted out about how God's justice had visited his temple and that the evil man would go down into the deep pit of hell, and so on, and so on.'
'And the king?'
Ranulf gave a sigh. 'He sends his thanks. I told Hervey what had happened. He wrote some of it down and gave it to the king.'
Corbett groaned. The one thing he did not want was someone reporting back, putting words in his mouth. 'Did the king seem pleased?'
'Very. As I said, he thanked you.' Ranulf thought that now was not the time to tell about the heavy clinking purse the king had tossed to him.
'Does he want to see me?'
Ranulf shook his head. 'Oh, no. He said you were to rest. He's off to Flanders, taking an army there. But he said he would see you on his return.'
Corbett nodded and again thought of his favourite verse from the psalms: 'Put not your trust in Princes.' The king was as fickle as the sun in winter. He thought back to St Paul's, again seeing de Luce's eyes glaring at him through the screen, and cursed his own stupidity and folly. He should have been more cautious. Yet Maeve had come. The only woman, indeed, the only person, he had ever really loved.
'And how long will you be here?'
'Oh, for months,' she said. 'Long enough for you to get better and for us to get married.'
Corbett could have shouted with joy. He felt the winter outside had broken, the spring had come at last and there was something to live for.