Corbett walked out of the warm chapter-house and into the icy cold cloisters. It was now bitterly cold; the sun had set and a grey dusk was closing in. Flurries of snow fell, adding a fresh carpet to what had come before. An unnatural stillness hung over the cathedral grounds, as if the snow had blanketed everything under a canopy of peace; yet Corbett knew different. Only two years ago the king had ordered a high wall to be erected around the cathedral, strengthened by gates which were locked every night and opened only when the bells rang for prime. Here were men who had fled from the law, seeking sanctuary: the scum of London, broken men declared 'utlegatum' – beyond the law. They came here untroubled by royal officers or other city officials. Through the falling flakes, across the graves and mounds now hidden by the snow, Corbett could see the great stone wall and the makeshift shelters erected against it. Men, women and children, faint figures swathed in skins and rags, like those in a nightmare, slipped silendy by. He saw the dim glow of fires and heard the cry of a baby, painful against the encroaching freezing night. A hopeless scene. The grounds were taken up by the dead and used by those who lived in a sort of half-dead state.
A dreadful place, Corbett concluded, it evoked the old demons in his soul. He remembered a friend, an Arab physician whom he had once met years ago in London, talk of a sickness of the soul which excited the base humours of the body; the mind became clouded and eventually it led to suicide. Corbett thought such a nightmare always awaited him, that he would settle in some black fit of depression and, unable to continue, simply lie down and die. The graveyards and grounds of the Cathedral of St Paul's evoked these demons: here, in Christ's house, where Christ lived, his figure perpetually crucified, the priests fed like pigs, their bodies, sleek, fat, plump, clothed and warm; while the poor, like the cat he had seen earlier, squatted where they could, eating what they had scavenged.
Corbett passed a group of horses tethered together, waiting for their masters to finish their feasdng, the grooms long since disappeared. Corbett rounded a corner and entered the south door of the cathedral. On either side of the gloomy entrance were small wooden iron-barred gates leading to the tower. Corbett ensured these were fastened. He didn't know why, but he simply did not want to pass a door which might be open, for he could not shake off a feeling of evil, of watchful malice. He walked up into the nave. On either side of him the transepts were shrouded in darkness, the stout rounded pillars standing like a row of silent guardians, thrusting the mass of stone, as if by magic, up into the air. The place was deserted. Usually, this market-place of London would be packed by scribes, lawyers, parchment-sellers, and servants. Here men would come to talk of lawsuits and crop prices; women had neighbourly chats even while divine service was being celebrated, sometimes only becoming quiet when the host was elevated. St Paul's was a useful meeting-place where enemies might confer on safe ground; arbitrators decide a land quarrel; a young man with marriage on his mind arrange to meet a young girl and her family.
Corbett jumped as the great bell of St Paul's began booming out, a sign that the curfew would be imposed, the gates locked and chains laid across them to deny access to any of the roaring gangs of lawless youths who terrorized the city at night. It was cold, deathly cold. Corbett walked on past the small, shadowy embrasures where the chancery priests sang masses for those who paid money to escape God's judgement for their sins on earth. He climbed the steps into the choir; on either side the wooden stalls were empty, the carved gargoyles staring in motionless terror towards him. Wall torches still spluttered faintly, throwing deep shadows and giving the patterned stone-work a life of its own. Corbett entered the silent sanctuary. Here too, torches fixed into their iron sockets in the wail provided a little light. Corbett looked up at the high altar which had been cleared. The sacred vessels were now covered with a thick, dark cloth, though the incense from the morning mass still hung in the air like souls who refused to ascend to heaven.
The high altar with its carved frontal was now shrouded in virtual darkness, except for the solitary red winking sanctuary light which shone through the gloom like a beacon in a storm. Corbett remembered the words carved on the wooden sanctuary screen he had just passed through. 'Hic locus terribilis. Dominus Dei et porta coeli' – This is indeed a terrible place, the house of God and the gate of heaven. Corbett shivered. Perhaps it was also the gate of hell. Here Christ dwelt under the appearance of bread and wine, surrounded by a horde of adoring angels, the whole might of heaven's armies. But was that true? Corbett could hardly believe it. Did what the priest say really exist? Was it true? Were some philosophers right when they said that man lived in a world of simple appearances? Did Corbett constantly dwell in the shadows unaware of the true reality beyond it? Or, as St Augustine put it, was man a mere child playing in the rock pools of a beach ignoring the great ocean whispering beside him? Yet there was a reality here, even if it was just the reality of evil. Corbett found it difficult to believe that this cathedral, founded on the ruins of an ancient Roman temple, was really a holy place.
Here, after all, a priest had been murdered, struck down as he prepared to meet Christ himself. Was it God's dreadful judgement on that man? And what more terrible judgement would await those who had planned such a hideous crime?
Corbett jumped. He heard a sound from the far sanctuary wall; drawing his dagger from beneath his cloak he walked softly over, his heart pounding, his mouth becoming so dry that his tongue was rigid between his teeth. The scraping seemed to come out of the wall itself. Corbett, the sweat now breaking out on his body, placed his hand gingerly on the wall and began to feel down to where the sound had come from. Suddenly his shuffling fingers were caught in an icy vice-like grip. The clerk raised his other hand but his palm, wet with sweat, let the dagger slip with a clang onto the flagstone. Corbett tried to curb his rising panic. He saw a ray of light appear in the wall and moaned in terror. Had one of the stone devils, the grinning gargoyles high up the-wall, unexpectedly come to life and in this evil place slithered down serpent-like to seize him? Corbett panicked and he was on the point of screaming when he heard the voice.
'Are you from God or the Devil?' it whispered through the slit of light.
'From God! From God!' Corbett shouted back, trying to compose himself. He had forgotten about the anchorite. The man must have heard him enter the sanctuary and Corbett had blundered into his trap. Was this man the murderer? he thought wildly.
'Let go of my hand!' he yelled. 'By God, if you do not let me go, I will stab you.'
'I heard your dagger fall,' the voice whispered in reply. 'But I wish you no ill. I will let your hand go.'
Corbett suddenly felt his fingers free. He jumped away from the wall, felt for his dagger and retreated slowly backwards.
'Who are you?' he asked, addressing the thin ray of light which beamed down from behind the stonework.
'I am a man of God,' the voice replied. 'My name is Thomas. I have dwelt here, oh, ten, fifteen years. You are the clerk,' he stated.
'How do you know?'
'I saw you this morning when the priest died, scurrying backwards and forwards across the sanctuary. Oh, a man of the world, deep in its affairs. Do you know how the priest died?'
Corbett sheathed his knife and tried to control the trembling in his limbs.
'The priest was murdered. You know that.' Corbett taunted. 'Was it not you who cried out the Angel of Death was visiting this place? How did you know that?'
The ray of light seemed to fade and Corbett, squinting through the darkness, could just make out a pair of eyes smiling behind the slit in the wall.
'There was no vision,' the voice chuckled. 'If you had seen, Master Clerk, what I have seen in this place, then it was only a matter of time before God sent his angel to wreak vengeance.'
'Why?' Corbett asked.
'Why?' the voice rose. 'These canons, these priests, they gabble through the mass; the Devil must collect what they miss out from the Divine Service and put it into his bag, so that when these priests die they will spend an eternity going through the services they have missed, the prayers they have omitted, the sermons they have forgotten. God's word is hurried, hurled away like one throws rubbish into a pit. And the lives they lead! You saw the whores?'
Corbett remembered the woman he had seen at the foot of the sanctuary steps.
'Yes,' he replied. 'I saw the woman.'
'A whore,' the voice retorted. 'De Montfort's whore.'
'You mean the priest who died.'
'The priest who was murdered,' the anchorite's voice was firm. 'You know that, Master Clerk. Oh, I have heard the gossip. I may dwell here, a prisoner of stone, and I do so willingly to atone for my own sins, but I see the sins of others and de Montfort was a sinner. The woman was his whore.'
'Do you know her name?'
'Her name is Legion,' the anchorite replied, 'for she has many devils in her. Ask around. De Montfort was a wealthy, acquisitive man.'
'The king,' Corbett said, suddenly trusting the anchorite, 'has told me to investigate the reasons behind this priest's death.'
The anchorite laughed, the sound pouring out of the stonework. 'There are as many reasons for de Montfort's death as stars in the heavens. Surely he had many enemies!'
'How do you know that?'
'Where do you think, Master Clerk, men come to conspire and plot? Where safer than in the sanctuary of God's own house? De Montfort was no different. But I tell you this most solemnly, Clerk, then I will not speak again to you. De Montfort was killed by his own brethren, here, in the cathedral of St Paul's. In this stewhouse, you will find men more evil than de Montfort, priests who have sold their souls to the Devil. I wish you luck!'
Suddenly the ray of light was extinguished. Corbett realized the anchorite had blown out the candle and would speak no more to him. He heard a rattling in the wall as the anchorite placed a piece of wood or rock in the gap, sealing himself off from the world.
Corbett walked away from the anchorage, back into the centre of the sanctuary and up the broad steps to the high altar. Once again he felt the dreadful stillness return. He placed his hands on the altar, bowed to the crucifix which hung above it and stared around. He tried to picture what de Montfort must have felt. He was standing here above the sanctuary stone; on either side of him stood those concelebrating the mass. The Agnus Dei was over and the host elevated. Other particles of sacred bread, which each of the officiating priests ate, passed along the altar on silver patens; then the chalice was passed around. Did this hold the poison? Corbett had seen Plumpton drink it himself. There had been nothing there. Others had drunk from it as well with no ill effects. But, if there was no poison in the chalice, how did de Montfort die? Was Plumpton correct? Was he looking in the wrong place?
Corbett felt the wineskin beneath his cloak; he had fastened it to his belt where it swung lightly against his leg. Was de Montfort poisoned before the service began? Corbett bit his lip and looked down towards the sacristy door: heavy, wooden, padlocked. Behind that lay de Montfort's body, now rigid and stinking in death, soaked in the poison he had drunk. Corbett thought back. The service had ended just before midday, before the great bell of St Paul's pealed out for nones. It had begun two hours beforehand. If de Montfort had drunk the poisoned wine before mass, it would have been at what hour, nine, ten o'clock in the morning? But would it take so long?
Perhaps Surrey was right; perhaps the matter should be left alone. Was he following some will-o'-the-wisp across a treacherous marsh? But surely there was an answer. Perhaps somebody, some rival had poisoned the wine the king had sent to de Montfort to get rid of this priest, the poison not acting immediately but later during the service?
Corbett sat on the top sanctuary step and thought quickly. There were three things wrong with this. First, despite his many distractions during the service, never once had he seen de Montfort falter or stumble. Nothing strange had been noticed during the mass. Surely a man who was being slowly poisoned would complain of pains? But no such thing had happened. Secondly, if this poison was given before mass, it must have been a very slow-acting one. Yet Corbett, in all his experience, had never heard of this. Most poisons were deadly swift. As a clerk in the King's Bench, he had attended the trial of many accused of poisoning; such poisons acted within minutes. Indeed, that was how the culprit was often apprehended: he or she could never leave the place of the crime quickly enough. Thirdly, and here Corbett was glad he knew a little of Canon Law, any priest who was saying mass and receiving the sacrament, could not eat or drink after midnight. It would be ridiculous to think de Montfort had drunk the wine the evening before, the poison not acting until many hours later.
Corbett frowned in concentration, baffled at the mystery. Whoever had planned de Montfort's murder had plotted it carefully. But why here? Why, if someone wanted to kill de Montfort, do it in the open before the eyes of the king, his court, the chief officers of the crown, and most of the leading dignitaries of London? Indeed, the same mystery surrounded any would-be assassin's attempt to kill the king. Why here in St Paul's at the sacrifice of the mass? Corbett rubbed his eyes; he was exhausted, weary of this matter. He got up and walked back down the nave. He heard a sound, a faint scuffling in the transept. Corbett stopped, feeling the panic and fear return. If he went out there, anyone, virtually a whole army, could hide in the darkness. Yet if someone had wanted to kill him they could have struck when he sat in the pool of light in the sanctuary. Was it just a trick of his imagination? Corbett strode quickly on, almost shouting with relief as he opened the door and stepped into the snowy whiteness outside the cathedral.