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?
Corbett 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.
Corbett replaced the gauze veil, bowed to Plumpton and walked out of the sacristy. Bassett and Ranulf were waiting outside for him.
'What is it?' Bassett asked.
Corbett just glanced at him and walked back across the sanctuary.
Ranulf, wiping his nose noisily on the sleeve of his jerkin, relished the future; mischief was afoot and soon he and his master would be involved. They would be summoned by that high and mighty king and told to go about their secret task. If that was the case, and so far his master had never failed the king, it would mean more money, wealth and status and Ranulf would share in the reflected glory. Ranulf basked in a glow of smug self-satisfaction; the rest of London had been cleared from the nave but he, Ranulf-atte-Newgate, a former felon, a man who had been condemned to swing by the neck at the Elms, could stay. Corbett had once secured a pardon for him and, due to his master's secretive ways and sharp, clever brain, Ranulf had grown wealthy. His master, though taciturn and quiet, was always generous and Ranulf had begun to salt away a sizeable amount of gold with a goldsmith just off the Poultry. Not that Ranulf really cared for the future. He took each day as it came, his two aims being to look after Corbett and to enjoy himself as much as possible.
Ranulf's relationship with the clerk was not an easy one: he often found his master morose and withdrawn. Sometimes Corbett would sit for hours in the corner of a tavern, sipping a cup of wine or flagon of beer, lost in his own thoughts and, if Ranulf tried to draw him, all he received were black looks. The only time Corbett seemed to come to life was in the record room amongst the piles of vellum, parchment, sealing wax, inkhorns and quills. He seemed to take as much enjoyment out of that as Ranulf did pursuing the wives and daughters of various London merchants. Of course, there was always music. In their lodgings in Bread Street, Corbett would often sit in the evening playing his flute quietly to himself, devising new tunes. There was one other reason for the clerk's quiet moods. The Welsh woman, Maeve, Corbett's betrothed, a sweet wench Ranulf thought, though he was frightened of her sharp ways and clear blue eyes. In fact, she was the only woman ever to frighten Ranulf and he half suspected Corbett himself was afeared of her. She had declared her love for his master but, so far, had refused to give a wedding date, saying affairs in Wales were still not settled following the collapse of the revolt in which her fat, wicked uncle had been deeply involved. Yes, the Welsh woman was making life arduous. Ranulf glared at his master's retreating back and, as loudly as possible, blew his nose once again on the sleeve of his jerkin. Bassett grinned, Corbett stopped mid-stride, turned and glared at his servant.
'This time,' he snapped, 'stay outside!' Ranulf smiled and nodded whilst his master, followed by Bassett, pulled back the arras of the altar-screen and rejoined the king. Edward now sat slumped in a rather unregal fashion at the foot of St Erconwald's tomb. Surrey, leaning against the wall, was busy picking his teeth, staring up at the light pouring through the rose window as if seeing it for the first time. Corbett knew his royal master was in the middle of a deep sulk. The king's long, lined face was morose, his eyes half closed as if pondering some private matter. He glanced up as Corbett entered.
'Well, clerk?'
Corbett spread his hands and shrugged. 'It is as I feared, Your Grace. Murder.'
'How do you know that?' Surrey suddenly straightened up. 'Are you a doctor, Master Clerk?'
Corbett sighed. He always feared the enmity of the great lords, men born into greatness who deeply resented anyone on whom greatness was thrust. Corbett was the king's loyal servant; he had studied hard in the colleges of Oxford, worked long hours in cold, cramped scriptoria and libraries; but his elevation had been solely due to royal favour and this was always resented by nobles like Surrey. Corbett had never yet met one nobleman who accepted him for what he was, a clever clerk, a trusted servant of the king.
Nevertheless, Corbett knew how to survive in bitter court politics.
He bowed towards Surrey. 'My Lord is correct,' he smiled ingratiatingly, although he hated himself for doing so. 'I am not a physician but I have some knowledge of poisons.'
'Then you are a rare man,' Surrey interrupted.
Corbett felt the flash of anger seep through him and he bit his lip. Was Surrey insinuating he had something to do with the priest's death? He glanced sideways at the king, who had now risen and was dusting down his robes.
'My Lord,' Corbett began again slowly, 'because of various circumstances, I know certain matters of physic, yet it is common knowledge that a man whose face is still rigid in death, with a swollen tongue and mouth as black as the hole of hell, must have been poisoned. What we must find out,' he turned and looked directly at the king, 'is who poisoned him, where and how.'
Corbett gazed into the king's eyes though he would have cheerfully loved to have turned and stared at Bassett for, when he had announced the priest had been poisoned, he had heard the knight banneret's sharp intake of breath and a muttered curse. Corbett wondered why Bassett should be so concerned. What had it to do with him? But that matter would have to wait. Corbett knew what would happen. The king would tell him to find out the reasons for de Montfort's death, and not to rest until he either found the truth or produced enough information to make it look as if the truth was known.
'Your Grace,' Corbett insisted, 'this matter must be resolved. De Montfort came from a family which everyone knows you hated. He was also a clergyman, close to his Lordship, the Archbishop of Canterbury. He intended to give a speech after this mass denouncing your intention to tax the Church.' Corbett stopped and licked his lips, but the king seemed composed, somehow drawing himself back from the black pit of anger. 'People will say,' Corbett continued, 'that de Montfort was killed by you.'
The king turned his back to Corbett, hands outstretched resting on the tomb, head bowed beneath the great rose window as if lost in some private prayer. When he turned he looked weary.
'It is true what you say, Clerk,' he said softly. 'They will place de Montfort's death, like others of his accursed family, at my door. How can I ever ask the clergy for taxes when as a body they will rise and demand justice for de Montfort's murder?' He squinted at Corbett in the poor light. 'But how?'
'Two ways,' Corbett replied suddenly, almost without thinking. 'Either he was poisoned before mass began or -' 'Or what?' the king snapped.
'Or,' Corbett said quietly, 'the chalice was poisoned.'
Corbett saw even the king's face go pale at the blasphemy he had uttered.
'You mean,' Surrey interjected, 'that the wine, the consecrated wine, Christ's blood, was poisoned by somebody? Then it must have been someone who celebrated mass.'
The earl came across the room and stared into Corbett's eyes.
'You realize what you are saying, Clerk? That a priest or canons of this church, in the middle of mass, the most sacred of ceremonies, poisoned the consecrated chalice and gave it to de Montfort to drink?'
'I do,' Corbett replied, gazing back steadily. He turned towards where the king stood. 'I urge Your Grace to order a guard placed round the high altar and that none of the chalices or patens or anything else be removed until we have examined them.'
The king nodded and muttered a quiet command to Bassett, who bustled from the room.
'This is clever,' the king said slowly. 'Whatever happens, we must be careful. Do we accept de Montfort's death and protest our innocence, for we are innocent, or investigate it? If the latter, each of those canons must be interrogated, which might cause a public scandal – and still we could find nothing. Indeed, we could be accused of trying to put the blame on innocent people.' The king chewed his lower lip and ran a beringed hand through his steel-grey hair. He took off his chaplet of silver and laid it unceremoniously on top of the tomb. 'What do you advise, Surrey?'
'Let sleeping dogs lie!' the earl answered quickly. 'Leave it alone, Your Grace!'
'Corbett?'
'I would agree with my Lord of Surrey,' Corbett replied. 'But there is one thing we have forgotten.' 'What is that?'
'The chalice,' Corbett replied. 'Do you remember, my Lord? You were to receive communion under both kinds. We must ask ourselves, was the chalice poisoned for de Montfort to drink? Or, Your Grace, was it poisoned for you?'
The king rubbed his face in his hands and looked up at the gargoyles above the stone dog's-tooth tracery. Corbett followed his gaze. There, angels jutted out of the walls, their cheeks puffed to blow the last trumpet; beside them, the faces of demons, eyes protuberant, tongues lashing out perpetually in stone. Beneath these gargoyles, in a glorious array of purples, golds, reds and blues, was a painting of heaven: a golden paradise where souls of the blessed in white robes armed with golden harps sang to a Christ eternally in judgement, while beneath their feet, in a hellish haze of red and brown, scaled demons with the heads of monsters and the bodies of lions put the souls of the damned through unspeakable tortures. Corbett watched the king take all this in. Surrey, bored by what was going on, leaned against a wall and stared down at the ground as if he had nothing to add to Corbett's conclusions. The king walked over to the clerk, so close Hugh could smell the mixture of perfume and sweat from the heavy, gold-encrusted robes.
'In this church, Hugh,' the king said softly, ignoring Surrey's presence as of no consequence, 'lies the body of another English king, Ethelred the Unready. The sword was never far from his house and all the heavens seemed to rage against him. Is that to be my fate?'
Corbett could have felt some sympathy but as he watched the light blue eyes of the king, he wondered again whether Edward, the most consummate of actors, was simply allaying his own fears.
'This murder must be resolved,' the king continued. 'Not because of de Montfort's death,' – he almost snapped the words out, 'I wish him good riddance and others of his ilk. But if someone intended to kill me, Corbett, I want him found.'
'If that is so, Your Grace,' Corbett replied quickly, eager to escape this baleful royal presence, 'it is best if I examine the altar and the chalice. You agree?'
The king nodded. 'Go. We shall wait for you here.'