Corbett re-entered the sanctuary. The candles had been extinguished and the church cleared. In the far corner, Winchelsea and his host, the Bishop of London, stood in close conversation with Bohun and Bigod. Other nobles and ecclesiastical dignitaries stood round, their faces full of false concern, as if they had taken the events of that morning as a personal shock. A few canons stood gaping at the high altar now ringed by royal men-at-arms, who would allow no one through. Most of the people had left, though the drama of the morning's events the singing, the chants and the dreadful death hung as heavy in the air as the fragrant clouds of incense.
Corbett stopped, noticing a figure at the foot of the sanctuary steps. It was a woman dressed in a kirtle of white and gold damask and a mantle of the same material, trimmed with ermine and fastened around her shoulders by great lace bows of gold and silk, each with its rich knob of gold tassel. Her fair hair hung down her back, held in place by a thin, silken net studded with gems. Her face was long and smooth, almost regal if it hadn't been for the bold eyes and the sly twist of her mouth. Corbett had never seen her before. At first he thought she may have been a lady of the court but he looked closer at the painted lips and nails and dismissed her as a high-class courtesan, maybe a mistress of one of the great ones still standing in the sanctuary, or even that of a canon of the church. Corbett wryly remembered the old proverb: the cowl doesn't make the monk; many priests were as ardent for the ways of flesh as they were when they preached publicly against the same sins in their pulpits. Corbett was about to turn away when the woman suddenly called out in a rather harsh voice.
'Is de Montfort dead?'
Corbett turned and, before he could think, replied, 'Yes, the fellow is dead.' By the time he had regained his composure, the woman had spun on her heel and walked boldly down the nave of the church, her broad rich hips swaying suggestively under the silken gown. Corbett would have liked to go after her and ask why she was so interested, but the king was waiting, so he turned and walked up the line of men-at-arms. As he approached, one of them put out a hand to stop him, but Bassett, hurrying behind, had a whispered conversation with the Captain of the Guard and Corbett was allowed through.
He strode up the main steps and stood at the altar. It was long, broader than Corbett had thought, and made of marble. Its frontal was covered with intricate carvings of angels and shepherds, a scene treated with almost childish gaiety; the shepherd was blowing so loud a blast upon his bagpipe he could not hear the heavenly song. Corbett looked at the carving, touching its smoothness, forgetting for the moment the task in hand as he admired its intricate, carefully carved tracery. He crouched down and looked at the faint wine stain and noticed that similar red blotches stained the carpet. Had wine been spilt? It seemed a little had. He shrugged and rose to scrutinize the altar itself, placing his hands on it, feeling beneath the linen, now covered in pools of pure wax, the precious cloths which, he suspected, were sendal, samite, sarcanet, damask silk and velvet. The top cloth itself pure white with embroidery around the edges in tawny brown, gold, green and deep blue. In the centre of the linen cloth was a red cross which marked the relic stone every altar bore but because this was the cathedral of St Paul's, it covered some of the rarest relics: a splinter of the true cross, grains from a stone on which Christ had stood before he ascended into heaven, a piece of the Virgin's veil and relics from St Paul's tomb in Rome.
On the altar stood beautiful jewel-work: huge candlesticks, a mass of writhing, intertwining, silver foliage, adorned with tiny gold figures of men and demons; small shallow cruets with stems of coloured crystal engraved with scenes from the Passion of Christ. There was a many-rayed monstrance, patens of pale, beautiful silver gilt, some still holding consecrated hosts. A gold-encrusted thurible had also been left there in the confusion and beside it a jewel-covered, boat-shaped incense-carrier. Corbett scrutinized all of these carefully. Many priests would consider him guilty of blasphemy, for the sacred bread and wine were still on the altar, but Corbett believed he knew enough of theology to realize blasphemy is what one intends, not what one does. He murmured a short prayer, struck his breast again, muttering 'Peccavi,' believing God would see into his heart and realize he meant no disrespect but was pursuing the truth; for surely, here, a terrible crime had been committed? But how?
Corbett went through the rite of the mass. After the Agnus Dei, all the celebrants would take a host from the silver patens on the altar: Then the chalice would be taken up, each celebrant taking a sip before passing it on to his fellow. Is this how de Montfort had been poisoned? Corbett walked towards the thurible and picked up the gold cap; inside the small charcoal pieces were now cold. Corbett sniffed but smelt nothing except burnt incense. The wild fantasy occurred to him that perhaps de Montfort had been killed by breathing some deadly fume, but he dismissed it. If de Montfort had smelt it, so had others in the church; yet they were hale and hearty while de Montfort lay dead in the sacristy, his body going rigid in death. Had the host been poisoned? Corbett rejected the idea. After all, no priest would know which host would be given to him and that did not fit into his suspicion of the king being the intended victim rather than de Montfort. It must have been the wine.
Corbett walked over to the solitary chalice, still half full with wine. He picked it up and smelt it, but could only detect the fragrant tang of grape. He put a finger in and was about to taste when a voice suddenly shouted out, 'That is blasphemy!'
He turned to find that Winchelsea, his face pale with fury, had come to the bottom of the altar steps and was glaring through the ranks of soldiers at Corbett.
'What are you doing, man?'
'My Lord Bishop,' Corbett replied, 'I do nothing except on the king's orders. De Montfort was poisoned at this altar. I mean no blasphemy but somewhere here lies the venom which killed him. If we can find that then we can expose the poisoner.' Corbett looked at the archbishop glaring at him.
'You have no right. You are a layperson,' the Archbishop snapped. 'You should have my permission or at least that of his Lordship, the Bishop of London, before you even approach the altar.'
'My Lord Bishop,' Corbett said, tired of the farce of speaking over the shoulders of the men-at-arms, some of whom were grinning broadly at the altercation. 'My Lord Bishop, if you object to what I am doing, then see the king. Or, if you wish, excommunicate me. Yet I mean no disrespect. On this altar lies the source of de Montfort's death and I intend to find it.'
'The clerk is right,' another voice broke in and Corbett turned to see Plumpton at the far corner of the altar gazing up at him. 'My Lord Bishop,' Plumpton continued smoothly, 'the clerk means no disrespect. He is here on the king's orders. There is enough tension in this church. Now, perhaps if I assisted him?'
The archbishop nodded and Plumpton waddled up the steps past the soldiers and joined Corbett in the centre of the altar.
'Have you found the poison, Master Clerk?'
'I have found nothing,' Corbett said, turning his back on the still fuming prelate. 'This is the principal chalice?' He picked up the beautifully engraved cup.
'That is the only chalice,' Plumpton replied. 'It belonged to de Montfort. He was very proud of it. After all, it was given to him by the great Earl Simon himself.'
'And he drank from this?'
Plumpton nodded.
'Then this was the source of his death.'
Plumpton took the brimming cup and drained it before placing it back on the altar. 'I do not think so,' he said. 'I have drunk the consecrated wine because someone had to and, in a few minutes, you will find out if it was poisoned. I think, Master Clerk,' he smiled at Corbett, 'you already know that. The chalice is not poisoned. Remember we all drank from it at mass.'
Corbett chewed his lower lip and nodded. He could find nothing here. 'Sir priest,' he said, 'thank you for your help. I meant no disrespect.' Corbett gestured with his hand. 'I realize the priests here must clean and tidy the altar but I order you now, and this is from the king himself, none of this must be removed from the church until it has been examined again.'
Plumpton shrugged his shoulders. 'Of course. But,' he said, 'I understand the king waits for you now. My Lord Bishop of London has prepared a banquet for us to celebrate the king's discomfiture but the cooks are ready and de Montfort's death has surely not spoilt our appetite.'
Corbett grinned, passed through the ranks of soldiers down the altar steps, gazed coolly at the still glowering archbishop and walked back behind the rood-screen to join the king. He found Edward had regained his composure and allowed in others of the royal household: marshals, stewards, courtiers, all bustling around, attempting to impose some order on the chaos which had broken out. The king had a silver ewer of water and napkins brought to him. He washed his hands with fragrant soap and allowed the royal barber to comb his beard and hair and replace the silver chaplet. Once that was done, Edward announced that His Grace the Bishop of London awaited them in the chapter-house and, followed by a trail of retainers, Corbett and Surrey included, the king strode back into the sanctuary. He ignored the others standing there and, walking out of the east door, went through the windswept snow-covered cloisters and into the chapterhouse of the cathedral.
The white plaster walls of the great chapter-house were covered in costly Flemish tapestries and thick Persian carpets had been laid on the polished oaken floor. Candelabra of thick silver, each with a pure wax candle, kept away the darkness. There were braziers full of charcoal on small wheels; fresh herbs had been placed on them before their steel caps were fixed and they were wheeled into the room.
In the far wall a huge fire roared, fed with sea coal and fresh pine logs and at the end of the hall, on a dais under a heavy rafter beam draped with red, white and gold hangings, stood the great table; behind it, carved oaken chairs. The table itself was covered by a white cloth and bedecked with silver and gold ornaments. The canons had evidently raided their treasury, removing all the precious ornaments to grace the hall and so awe the king. Corbett wondered if it was meant as a quiet jest at Edward's expense. He would have heard de Montfort's tirade against royal taxation and then been brought here and feasted at the church's expense, the bishops and canons taunting him with the treasures they so avidly denied him. The king, as if realizing the joke intended for him, did not wait for others to join him from the cathedral, but strode to the head of the hall and took the main seat on the dais. After that it was a frenetic scramble for places, people jostling to be as close as possible to the royal table on the dais. Corbett did not mind. The king had asked him to stay but Corbett whispered it would be better if he dined in the body of the hall and listened to any rumours or whispers which were circulating. The king had nodded. Corbett however realized that Edward, if he was the object of someone's malice, was as vulnerable here as he was in church.
'Your Grace,' he murmured, 'had best be careful what he eats or drinks.'
Surrey, who had placed himself at the king's left hand, turned angrily to Corbett. 'You need not worry, clerk,' he snapped. 'The king will not eat or drink what I have not eaten or drunk first.'
'Then my Lord,' Corbett replied coolly, 'knowing His Grace's life is in your hands and I have your word for it, I feel safe.' He bowed towards the king and withdrew, leaving Surrey, not the most nimble-witted of Edward's courtiers, to wonder if an insult had been given or not.
Corbett chose his place carefully. Already he had suspicions about Plumpton – far too gracious, far too pleasant, almost happy and relieved to see de Montfort dead. A man, Corbett considered, who needed questioning. So when people took their places, he slipped quietly onto the bench beside Plumpton. The canon, apparently pleased by his company, soon engaged him in a detailed conversation about the history of the cathedral whilst carefully avoiding any reference to de Montfort's death. Corbett listened carefully, though wondering where Bassett and Ranulf were. Ranulf, unable to find a seat in the hall, was quick-witted enough to know he would be served better and faster if he went into the kitchens, claiming to be a royal retainer; while Bassett would undoubtedly be carrying out some secret errand of the king. As Plumpton talked, Corbett thought of Bassett, a young man, a knight banneret probably from a landed family. Corbett had met such young men before: they were becoming ever more popular at the court, were totally devoted to the king and seemed to embody that dreadful legal maxim, 'The will of the Prince is force of law.' Bassett was one of these. A ruthlessly ambitious young man for whom there was no morality, no right or wrong, no heaven or hell, no grace no sin, no good no evil, nothing but the will of the prince.
As the king grew older he seemed to surround himself with such men, for Edward could never brook opposition even as a young man, and in his old age found it, however slight, totally intolerable. Corbett had seen Edward fight in Wales. There the king had shown magnanimity to defeated rebels, but now? Corbett looked up the long hall to where the king sat in regal splendour at the high table. Now it was different. Corbett had heard about the expedition to Scotland, the sheer butchery, the king's murderous intent. Men like Surrey who sat beside the king were simply an extension of this royal fury. Surrey was an able soldier, a veteran warrior. He would put a town to the torch as easily as he would cross a street or mount a horse. Sometimes Corbett wondered whether he should serve the king; he had done well with estates in Sussex and was the proud owner of tenements in Suffolk, Shotters Brook, Clerkenwell and Bread Street. He thought of a phrase in the gospel, 'What does it profit a man if he gain the whole world but lose his own soul?' Corbett had to walk gingerly in the intricate politics of the English court, where it would be so easy for a man to lose his way and, eventually, his soul.
The present case was no different. Corbett believed the chalice may have been meant for de Montfort but he had remembered the conversation before mass when Bassett had reminded the king (Corbett had been seated behind him) how, after the priest had taken the chalice as a gesture of friendship, the same cup would be brought for the king to drink. But who would want to kill Edward? Corbett sighed. There must be hundreds. Philip of France,
Edward's sworn enemy, would be only too pleased to see the king die in his cups, or collapse before the high altar in his principal cathedral. Philip would then announce to Christendom how it was God's judgement on a perfidious English king. There were the Welsh chieftains, rebellious and seething with treachery. Corbett had dealt with such; that was how he had met Maeve… her sweet diamond-shaped face framed by long silver-blonde hair flickered into his mind. Corbett closed his eyes and removed the vision. If he started thinking about Maeve nothing would be done. Finally, of course, there were the Scots. Corbett had met their chieftains, Bruce and others, ruthless men totally determined not to give one inch of Scottish soil to England.
Maeve's smiling face returned, so Corbett asserted himself by gazing round the hall. The meal was being served; the Bishop of London's cooks, despite the season, had done their best to provide a banquet. Baked mallard, teal, small birds served in almond milk, capon roasted in syrup, roasted veal, roasted pig, herons, tartar flesh, jellies, broiled rabbit, pheasant, venison, even hedgehogs skinned and baked in a rich sauce, cranes, partridges, custards, oranges, sweet doucettes all served up by a myriad of retainers. They were equally generous in filling the pewter cups from flagons of rich red wine. Corbett, despite his long fast, did not feel hungry. He still remembered de Montfort's face, the blackened mouth and swollen tongue. Moreover, in the far corner of the hall he had just seen a cat carrying the half-gnawed body of a rat and this, together with some of the gaping ulcers on the arms and hands of several of the serving boys, had decidedly put him off his meal. So he sipped quietly at the wine, vowing that as soon as the banquet was over, he would make his way into the city to justify his own hunger.
Plumpton was still talking and Corbett let him babble on as he carefully examined his wooden platter or roundel, tracing with his finger certain verses of the Bible inscribed on it in gilt lettering. This was indeed wealth. The canons of St Paul's may not have known much of poverty but they certainly did about wealth. Even in a nobleman's house the roundel or trancher would have held stale bread, but here it was different. Even the cups given to them were of pewter. Their meals had been served on silver and gold dishes; the candles on the table were pure wax; the drapes on the wall were thick and heavily encrusted with gold. No stone floor, but polished wood covered with carpets. Charcoal braziers, the black metal polished clean, glowed red, giving off not only heat but a sweet fragrance. Plumpton, beside him, sat dressed in a thick robe and cowl lined with white ermine, his fleshy hands covered in rings. Corbett almost recoiled at the womanish perfume the man emanated. The priest seemed oblivious to this as he described the workings of the cathedral until Corbett, tired, decided to interrupt.
'Sir Philip,' he said softly, 'who would want de Montfort dead?'
Plumpton turned, his face beaming with pleasure. 'I for one.'
'You did not like the dean?'
'No,' he said, 'I did not like the dean, a mysterious, strange man. I would have liked his post, the office of dean. It should have been mine anyway.'
Corbett was slightly taken aback at such a disclosure.
'And how many more disliked him?'
Plumpton spread his hands and gazed around. 'The cathedral is a small city in itself. There is the bishop, the dean, the treasurer, the sacrist, the almoner, the librarian. We have our servants, those who clean the church, those who serve us here. Our huntsmen, our washerwomen, our messengers, our tailors. I don't think you'd find one who liked Master de Montfort or who is going to weep copious tears because he is dead.'
Plumpton sipped from his cup and peered closely at Corbett. 'And you, Master Clerk, do you think it was an accident? I have heard say you announced it as murder. It is murder, is it not.'
'What do you think?' Corbett asked. 'Who would murder the Dean of St Paul's?'
Plumpton grinned again.
'Why not ask your master, the king,' he said.
Corbett placed his hand firmly on Plumpton's arm. 'Sir priest,' he said, 'some men would say that was treason.'
Plumpton slowly removed Corbett's hand. 'Some men, Master Clerk, say it is the truth.' He gazed steadily at Corbett. 'Why not ask your king? After all, was it not Bassett who brought a flagon of wine, the best Bordeaux, as a gift from your royal master, just before mass began?'
Corbett stared back. 'I did not know that.'
'There are many things that you did not know,' the priest replied peevishly. He suddenly raised a beringed hand and snapped his fingers. A servant, one eye covered by a black patch, shuffled forward. Corbett looked at him, the emaciated face, the long lank hair, the greasy leather jerkin and canvas apron tied around his waist.
'Simon,' the priest said softly, 'is my servant. Simon has something to show you.' He whispered into the servant's ear, the man nodded and shuffled away.
Corbett turned back to the table where around him the general hum of conversation was unbroken; people ignored him, intent on filling their own bellies and acquiring some warmth against the savage cold outside. The wine was now circulating freely and already some of the canons looked the worse for wear, bleary-eyed and droop-mouthed. Corbett knew the king would stay here most of the day, intent on showing he had nothing to hide or fear, and would be only too willing to relax and feast himself on the riches of the Church. Corbett would have liked to go but waited until the servant reappeared. In one hand he carried a cup, in the other a leather pannikin of wine. Corbett looked at the cup, which was empty: a simple design, made of good-quality pewter. The pannikin was of leather lined with gilt; the stopper of hard-boiled polished leather fitted the top snugly. Corbett had seen many such used around the royal palace. He looked at the cup, sniffing at the brim and caught a faint but strange smell. He then uncorked the pannikin of wine and the bitter sweet smell almost made him choke. Plumpton watched in amusement.
'They are yours, Master Clerk. That smell, this morning in the sacristy, it is the same now. I am sure, Master Clerk,' Plumpton continued smoothly, 'that if you took a gulp of that, you would not leave this hall alive. But they are yours. I give them as a free gift, for in the wrong hands they could well be used as a weapon against the king.'
Corbett nodded. 'I will not forget,' he said. He replaced the stopper carefully, making sure it was screwed in tightly, rose and without a word to Plumpton or his shadowy servant, walked from the hall, with both cup and pannikin concealed beneath his robe.