The king was at the far end of the room, sitting on a huge chest. Around him the floor was covered with rolls of parchment and vellum; a roaring fire burnt in the chimney and the hearth around was littered with bits of coal and wood. Corbett felt the intense heat immediately, for the windows were all shuttered and the room contained at least three braziers as well as the fire. The clerks working at the long table looked as if they regretted putting on so many layers of clothing. The king was dictating letters, now and again breaking off to start another, so all four scribes were virtually writing at once. Corbett had seen the king work like this, an amazing spectacle as he moved from one item to another: whether it be a letter to a sheriff ordering him to be more prompt and accurate in producing the profits of a shire, or to a cardinal in Rome asking him to plead a certain matter with His Holiness.
On Corbett's entry, Edward rose and immediately barked at the scribes to leave. He did not have to repeat his commands. They dropped their pens and filed gratefully from the room. Edward filled two large cups of wine to the brim and brought them over to Corbett and Ranulf. He heard his servant splutter his thanks and noisily guzzle the wine. Edward always surprised Corbett. Sometimes he could be arrogant but then again he could remember the smallest detail about a servant, even going on an errand personally to make matters more comfortable for a menial of the household.
Today, the king was apparently in such a mood. He waved both Corbett and Ranulf to a bench.
'You have been out early, Master Clerk?' The king laughed at the surprised look in Corbett's eyes. 'I sent a messenger to your lodgings and was told you had gone. You have begun to investigate the matter in St Paul's?'
'I have, Your Grace.'
'And what have you found?'
'Nothing much.' Corbett saw the King's eyes darken and realized how fickle the man was. 'I mean, Your Grace, I have learnt a little more. De Montfort was definitely poisoned but the venom used must have been administered during the sacrifice of the mass, probably during the communion of the celebrants. He died within a few minutes of taking the poison.'
'Do you know who administered it?'
'It could be anyone, Your Grace. The finger even points at you.'
The king came so close to Corbett that the clerk could smell the mixture of royal sweat and rare perfume. 'What do you mean, Clerk?'
'Your Grace, you did send wine to de Montfort the evening before the mass was celebrated.'
'I did,' the king replied guardedly.
'You sent it with Fulk Bassett?'
'Yes, that is true,' the king repeated quickly, watching Corbett carefully and casting sidelong glances at Ranulf as if he now regretted his generosity and would like to order the servant from the room. Ranulf needed no second bidding. Putting the cup down, he sprang to his feet, bowed to the king and backed gracefully out of the chamber muttering how he had forgotten something in the great hall. He would have to hasten back and if His Grace and Master Corbett would excuse him then his voice trailed off. Ranulf opened the door and fled down the corridor, leaving his master to face the royal wrath. Corbett waited until he was gone, before speaking.
'Your Grace, the wine you sent was poisoned with the same venom that killed de Montfort. I don't know the precise combination, arsenic, belladonna, the juice of the foxglove, maybe all three. The same poison de Montfort drank during the mass was found in the pannikin of wine you sent him.'
'Do you think, Master Clerk,' the king replied, 'that I would poison wine?'
'No, I do not. But someone else poisoned it to make it look as if you did. Who knows, even Bassett himself.'
The king shook his head. 'Bassett would do nothing, not even draw breath, without the royal command,' he said drily. 'But do you believe all this, Corbett?'
'No, your Grace, I do not.'
'Why?'
'The poison given to de Montfort was a powerful one. As I have said, he died within a few minutes. The wine you sent was opened the evening beforehand.'
'He could have drunk it before the mass?'
'No, he could not, Your Grace; you forget your Canon Law. No one who receives communion or celebrates mass must eat or drink after midnight.'
The king shrugged. He knew some of these priests, they made burdens for other men's backs which they never carried themselves.
'Still, Your Grace,' Corbett persisted, 'even if he had drunk it, he would never have reached the altar alive.'
The king nodded. 'So it would look as if someone,' Edward squinted up at the light streaming through one of the shutters – 'It looks as if somebody wanted to kill de Montfort and make it look as if I wanted to kill him. At the same time, you say, I could have been the intended victim. Perhaps there is no solution.'
'There will be, Your Grace,' Corbett replied confidently. 'If a problem exists, a solution must exist. We must find out who administered the poison or when it was administered. The answer to either of these questions will lead us to the truth.'
The king went back and sat on the bench, his legs apart, head in hands. He rubbed his face, a favourite gesture, toyed with one of the many precious rings on his fingers and looked up at Corbett.
'I know you, Clerk. You have not come here to tell me the obvious. You have come here to ask something haven't you?'
Yes, Your Grace.'
'Then for God's sake,' the king bellowed, 'ask it!' Corbett took a deep breath.
'I don't think anyone would believe, Your Grace, the wine you sent to de Montfort was poisoned by you, but they might ask why you sent the wine in the first place.'
The king shrugged. 'A gift, a peace offering.'
Corbett rose, picked up a stool and walked over to sit close to the king. 'Your Grace, you know I am your obedient servant.' Edward looked at him warily. 'Your Grace,' Corbett repeated, 'I am your obedient servant, but if you wish to find out the truth then, with all respect, I must urge you to tell me the truth. You hated the de Montfort family. You hated the Dean of St Paul's. He was going to denounce you and your taxes before the entire English Church. His words would have gone abroad to the Pope in Avignon, to King Philip in Paris, to the Archbishops and Bishops of Scotland and Wales. So why did you send him the wine?' Corbett licked his lips. 'It could not be a bribe, not to a man like de Montfort. You would need the wealth of an abbey to buy a man like that.'
The king smiled. 'You have a sharp brain, Master Corbett. Sometimes too sharp.' The king rose and walked restlessly round the room. 'But you are wrong. De Montfort was not going to denounce me. In fact, I had bribed him already. I had bought him, Master Clerk. In his speech after mass he was not going to attack the Crown's claims on the Church's revenues but support them.' The king paused to watch Corbett's astonishment. 'You see,
Master Clerk, you are probably an honest man. In your own lights an incorruptible one. You make the mistake of thinking that because you do something or think something, other people do the same. But they do not.' The king jangled the purse which swung from the gold, jewel-encrusted belt lashed round his waist. 'Silver and gold, Master Corbett. I bought de Montfort. A mixture of bribes and threats.' 'And the wine?'
'The wine was sent, Master Corbett, as a gesture to seal our understanding. De Montfort liked the luxuries of the world. Your investigations will prove my suspicions correct. You see, Corbett, yesterday, I was not angry about de Montfort's death but I was angry that he had not at least lived to deliver the sermon I had bought. I virtually wrote it for him myself – chapter and verse. It went back in history: how the Church in this country had constantly supported the monarchs. How Erconwald himself, Bishop of London, the great Saxon by whose tomb I stood yesterday, had done so much for the city, the king and the kingdom.
'I am still angry de Montfort is dead, and I need to find the assassins. Did they kill him for some private reason, or did they kill him because they knew he had been bought? Body and soul de Montfort was mine. His killer is my enemy and I suspect sits close, even at the right hand, of that pompous treacherous prig, Robert Winchelsea, Archbishop of Canterbury.'
The king's chest heaved and Corbett noted that Edward was on the verge of one of his notorious royal rages. The king smacked his hands together and his pacing became more vigorous.
'I can tolerate bishops who oppose me for the right reasons, Master Clerk, but not Winchelsea! He has sly conniving ways, scurrying to Rome, to Avignon, appearing to be a saint, a Becket in finer clothes. Winchelsea is a politician who plots against me. He would like me to be beholden to him. He sees himself as a defender of the Church's liberties. I suspect,' the king almost spat the words out, 'he would relish the fate of Becket and, if he is not careful, he may well meet it.'
Corbett shrugged. The king, watching him closely, returned to sit on the trunk facing him, his anger apparently forgotten.
'You seem surprised, Master Clerk.'
'I am surprised, Your Grace,' Corbett replied. 'Because if I accept what you say, I must also accept the premise that someone discovered that de Montfort had been bought and then killed him. I still believe, however, that whoever murdered de Montfort wished to strike at you.'
'But they have done just that,' the king replied. 'They have stopped de Montfort speaking on my behalf and yet,' the king laughed falsely, 'they have made it appear I was responsible for his death. A clever move, Master Corbett. A brilliant stratgem.'
Corbett shook his head. 'I believe it is worse than that. There is an assassin in this city, Your Grace, who wants you dead. De Montfort was simply a means to an end. I actually believe,' Corbett continued, 'that something went wrong with the plot. One day I hope to prove it.'
The king leaned forward and virtually jabbed his finger in Corbett's face. 'Give me one shred of proof for this.'
'There is one shred of proof. The wine you sent. Why should someone make the clumsy mistake of poisoning it? After all, with de Montfort dead and no speech, why poison the wine? A matter known only to me and one of the canons of St Paul's.' Corbett chewed his lip. 'You see, Your Grace, the murderer, the assassin, made a fatal error. He panicked, for the wine was poisoned not before de Montfort's death but afterwards, to make it look as if you were responsible.'
The king rubbed his face and Corbett waited for him to speak.
'Well, well, Master Clerk,' he finally concluded. 'If you still have your doubts, you had better continue with this matter.'
'I will, Your Grace, on one condition.' The king looked sharply at him. 'On the one condition,' Corbett repeated firmly, 'that you tell me now whatever information you have about de Montfort. If I had known yesterday what you told me today it may have made my task easier.'
The king rose and walked across the room to peer through a crack in one of the shutters. Outside, the beautiful rose gardens of Westminster were carpeted in thick white snow. Nothing grew, no plants, no grass. He was tired of this interview. He feared men like Corbett, men from nowhere, with brains as sharp as the finest razors, a man who could not be bought. Edward knew, deep in his heart, that if Corbett was ever given a task which went against his conscience, the clerk would not do it. If Corbett found a matter which should be rectified, irrespective of the royal wishes, Edward suspected that Corbett would see it as a matter of conscience to do so. The king respected Corbett but saw him as a prig and slightly self-righteous. Edward sighed. He did not really care who had killed the pathetic de Montfort, a base-born, mercenary priest! Edward knew such men could be bought with anything, a house, gold, promotion to high office. What he really wanted was to find out who had spoiled his plan to embarrass Winchelsea. The king felt the rage still seething within him. Oh, how he would have loved to have listened to de Montfort's speech and quietly relished the stupefaction on Winchelsea's face and those of his sanctimonious fellow bishops! The king wanted that. And, above all, he needed the money the Church had in its bulging coffers to launch fresh raids across the Scottish march; to equip a new fleet and take it to Flanders; send his armies across France's northern borders; teach Philip of France a sharp, hard lesson of how English lands there were best left alone. It might still be possible. Perhaps Corbett would achieve this or, at least, help to achieve it. The king turned and smiled at Corbett.
'Master Clerk, I can tell you nothing more. You have our full assurance that whatever you do to unearth the terrible murderer and blasphemer will be supported by us, however long it takes.'
Corbett, recognizing the sign for dismissal, rose, bowed and backed out of the room. In the passageway he gave a deep sigh, grateful the meeting was over. He was fully aware Edward did not really like him but Corbett was equally determined to show the king that he did not trust him. He heard a door open and spun round. The king stood there still smiling like some indulgent father.
'Master Corbett,' he called out, 'your betrothed in Wales, Maeve ap Morgan?'
Corbett nodded.
'If this matter is resolved, we will let you leave our service so you can visit her.' The king continued to smile. 'Indeed, if it is resolved quickly, we will ensure she is brought here to London, to our court. Of course, if you fail,' the king bit his lip as if reluctant to continue. 'But,' he added ominously, 'we are sure you will not fail us.'
Corbett again bowed. When the door was closed he spun on his heel and strode down the corridor, aware of both the royal promise as well as the silent threat.
Corbett spent the rest of the day in his own writing-room, drawing up warrants in the king's name, which declared that Hugh Corbett, clerk, had the royal authority to act on certain matters, and all sheriffs, bailiffs, officials and everyone who owed allegiance to the king, should give him assistance in his task. Once these letters had been drafted and written by Corbett's chief assistant, a small, mouse-like man, William Hervey, they were sent for the king's approval and sealing. Corbett then finished other minor matters, gave orders to his subordinates, sent a servant to seek out Ranulf and instructed Hervey to meet him outside the great door of St Paul's shortly after prime the following morning. The little man nodded his head vigorously; he liked Corbett, who protected and entrusted him with special tasks. At the same time he was in awe of the senior clerk's evident ease of access to the king and other great lords. For his part, Corbett trusted Hervey completely. The man hardly lived outside the Chancery offices, his fingers constantly stained with the grease waxes and different coloured inks they used. He had virtually no life outside his calling; time and again, Corbett had to arouse him from sleep and send him home to his lonely dwellings in Candlewick Street.
Once all these matters were finished, Corbett met Ranulf in the great hall, now emptying of its officials, judges and lawyers. They went back up towards Bread Street where they stopped at a pastry shop, Corbett buying pies to eat as they walked, hot freshly cooked rabbit, diced and sprinkled with strong herbs. Both relished the meal as they hurried along, allowing the hot juices to run down their chins. At the corner of Bread Street Corbett took Ranulf into a tavern they frequented for their evening meal, usually a dish of stewed meat and vegetables, and tonight was no different. Ranulf, once he had drunk and eaten his fill though careful to avoid the excesses of the previous day, wandered off on his usual task of attempting to seduce someone else's wife or betrothed, leaving Corbett staring once again into the darkness.
Ranulf would have given half the gold he owned to know what the clerk was thinking and yet, if he had, it would have been money wasted, for Corbett just sat thinking about what the king had said, planning tomorrow's meeting, hoping that Hervey would ensure the canons Corbett had listed in his letter would be present in the chapter-house. Having gone over in his mind to satisfy himself all was well, Corbett once more turned to the matter of Maeve. So engrossed was he with his own private thoughts that he did not even notice the dark, cowled figure in the far corner glaring balefully across at him.