It did not snow that night and the outlaws were at least grateful for this small mercy as they stepped out of the line of trees, which marked the edge of Epping Forest, and made their way along the ice-covered track. Here the snow was not deep, having been scattered and crushed by the occasional cart and carriage which had braved the weather. They moved silently, six in number, all armed to the teeth. They wore an assortment of clothes: heavy leather jerkins over soiled lace shirts stolen from their victims or taken from a house they had ransacked; thick, woollen hose pushed into high leather boots; and cloaks of various colours wrapped tightly around their bodies. Each carried a number of daggers as well as swords in their broad leather belts and their leader, Robert Fitzwarren, boasted a small round shield and a conical steel helmet. He had had these ever since the day, years earlier when he had absconded from the royal commissioners of array, who had wanted to take him into Scotland with the king's armies. Fitzwarren had other ideas. He had killed the leader of his troop, stolen what money the fellow carried and, taking whatever arms were available, fled to the dark sanctuary of Epping Forest.
He had lived as an outlaw for years, turning felony into a successful business. The area was full of wolfs-heads, lawless men, peasants who had fled from their masters, soldiers who had deserted from the wars, criminals from the city, murderers, perjurers, blasphemers. Fitzwarren became their leader. Of course, there had been the occasional losses, the ambush which had gone wrong, those betrayed in taverns or drinking houses by some wench who believed her lover had crossed her, but Fitzwarren always survived and attracted other men to him like the glowing flame of a candle draws in the moths.
Now, however, his band had shrunk to less than ten men. It was difficult to track down the venison and even more dangerous to attempt assaults on lonely farmsteads. The peasants had become wary of him, taking steps to guard their families and stock at night. During spring and summer when the traffic of the road increased, the pickings were always easier but, even here, the ferocity of Fitzwarren's reputation had spread far and wide. Few people travelled alone; they were always in convoys and usually escorted by at least three or four soldiers from some castle or fortified manor house. Lately, however, Fitzwarren's luck had improved. When he attacked any traveller, convoy or house, he could only take what he needed: foodstuffs, weapons, clothes as well as enjoy the bodies of female captives. He had lived like an animal, hand to mouth, but then he had met the priest and a new venture had begun. Fitzwarren had begun to collect treasures, and simply moved them into London for the priest to sell. It was a highly profitable relationship which Fitzwarren encouraged, using all his greed and cunning. And if he raised enough money, what then? Perhaps buy a pardon? Re-enter society? Join the fold he had so often attacked?
This morning, however, Fitzwarren was angry, furious enough to leave the forests and take five of his closest followers with him. They kept to the line of trees as long as they could but, if they wanted to approach Cathall Manor, near the village of Leighton, they would have to go out in the open. Hence, Fitzwarren's strict instructions that they be armed to the teeth, each man carrying an arbalest and a quiver of evil-looking crossbow bolts.
As they came to the crossroads, Fitzwarren took his men back into the trees, sending forward the youngest to ensure all was safe. The young man crept forward like a hunting fox, his ears straining for any sound, his eyes momentarily blinded by the snowy whiteness. He looked out for any flash of colour, anything which would warn him not to proceed further. Like the rest, he was frightened of Fitzwarren. Their leader never tolerated failure; anyone who crossed him or failed to carry out a task could expect little mercy. The young man already felt nervous to be out of the forest. He spent most of his days there, protected by its deep darkness and the lack of paths; it was easy for pursuers to get lost, to fall into some marsh or bog and be sucked down, vanish for ever. Fitzwarren, however, knew the secret pathways and kept to them, so the young men realized the mission this morning must be highly important for their leader to take them out of the forest and so far out into the open.
The outlaw edged forward; the crossroads were deserted; on either side, the rough track continued between the line of trees. He could see or detect nothing. He looked at the black, three-branched gibbet which stood there, stark against the light blue sky. Three bodies hung from it in chains, a special punishment for those found guilty not only of robbery but murder as well. The young man grinned, showing a yellow, blackening row of teeth. He had known all three men. They were once members of Fitzwarren's gang, but they had disobeyed orders so Fitzwarren had handed them over to the sheriff's bailiffs at Chelmsford and received the reward. The men had been taken out late in the previous summer and left to dangle there. The bodies had long since decomposed, the eyes plucked out by hungry crows; only the whitening bones stirred gently in their iron cages, rattling as if in protest at the presence of the man who had betrayed them. The young man, satisfied that all was safe, indicated with his hand and was soon joined by his leader and comrades.
The gang walked in single file along the edge of the forest, following the track to the brow of the hill, where they stopped. Fitzwarren looked down at the deserted manor house, its huge encircling wall and barred gates. He gazed around. No sign, no movement: the place was deserted as usual. The only sign of any habitation was faint plumes of smoke on the horizon which rose from the fires and cooking-pots of the surrounding villages. He waited a while; from here he had a crow's-eye view of the entire manor house: the main building with outhouses running parallel to it, forming a courtyard. Usually such a place would be full of activity, grooms, ostlers, blacksmiths, but now it was empty, for the priest liked it that way. Satisfied that there was no danger, Fitzwarren led his small group down the slope through the snow. They avoided the main gate and moved like dogs around the curtain wall till they came to a small postern gate. As usual, this was open. They slipped in. The yard was a muddy quagmire. Fitzwarren examined the tracks carefully but there was nothing out of the ordinary. The stables, byres and barns were all empty and the fire in the blacksmith's long dead. He looked up and there, on the second storey of the manor house, he saw a red coverlet stuffed through a slit window, the sign that it was safe to approach. They walked up to the main door and confidently knocked. Footsteps sounded in the hollow passageway and the door swung open; the steward, Thomas Bassingham, stood there, his small anxious face attempting an ingratiating smile. Behind him, wiping her plump hands on a white apron, stood his wife.
'You are welcome, Master Fitzwarren,' he stuttered.
Fitzwarren smiled and, brushing him aside, strode into the manor house along the main hall into the kitchen and buttery beyond. No fire had been lit, according to his orders, but at least the man had had the sense to place warming dishes around the room and put burning charcoal into a rusting brazier. Bassingham's wife, terrified of these rough-looking men, quietly served them with cold meats, cheeses and flagons of rather watery mildewed beer. The outlaws ate greedily, slurping their food, indicating with their hands when they wanted more. Once they were finished Fitzwarren, seated in the large, oaken chair at the top of his table, stretched, belched loudly and brought his hands crashing down on the table.
'Well, Master Bassingham,' he said. 'You have news of your master?' The steward seemed exhausted. Fitzwarren peered closer. He noticed the lines of anxiety, the dark rings round his eyes, the unshaven face.
'Something has gone wrong?' he asked ominously.
Bassingham nodded. 'I came back from the city as fast as I could,' he bleated. 'I have been travelling ever since. The roads there are almost impassable. My horse -'
'Your horse?' Fitzwarren asked.
'I have not stabled it here,' the man replied smoothly. 'It is elsewhere. I finished the journey by foot. The snow, it is so deep. My wife, she thought I was dead.'
'She may well wish that you were if the news you have brought is not satisfactory.'
'It is not my fault,' the steward almost screeched. 'It's not my fault that the priest is dead.'
Fitzwarren shot to his feet. Bassingham recoiled at the malice in the outlaw's eyes.
'He what!'
'The priest is dead. He collapsed during the mass.' 'So you have brought nothing?'
'How could I? How could I? His house in London has been sealed. There are royal guards around it. The king himself is angry at de Montfort's death. What could I do?' the man whined.
Fitzwarren strode down the table and, grabbing the man by the front of his dirty jerkin, lifted him off his feet.
'You could have brought the gold that your master owes me.' Fitzwarren smiled evilly, his eyes gleaming.
'I could not bring it,' Bassingham replied anxiously, now wishing he had not returned here. He should have stayed in London, fled. He looked sideways. Only his wife, fresh-faced, black curly hair, his beautiful Katherine, she would have pined away without him. Fitzwarren followed the steward's eyes and grinned.
'My men,' he said, 'my men have been in the forest long. It is wrong of me to give them nothing.' He turned and grinned over his shoulder at his comrades slouched round the table. 'Tie this rogue up and then,' he tossed Bassingham aside like a rag doll and walked over to the table, knocking off the dishes and cups with a sweep of his arm, 'and then he shall watch us have our pleasure.'
Bassingham screamed as the outlaws seized his wife but, as Fitzwarren knew, the manor house was deserted, the countryside lay under a heavy cloak of snow. Who could possibly come to their rescue? And Fitzwarren, the rage seething in him, felt that someone should pay for the terrible misfortunes he had suffered.
In London Corbett and Ranulf were attending a meeting of a totally different nature. Hervey had met them outside the south door of St Paul's and, together, they had entered the cathedral just as prime was finishing. Corbett gestured they should stay in the nave, which was still cloaked in darkness. He stared into the pool of light thrown by the tiers of candles which stood in their silver candelabra between the choir stalls. The canons there were now on the final psalm. Corbett listened carefully, letting his mind be soothed by the rise and fall of the chant: how the Lord was going to come on his day of judgement and bring justice to all nations. Corbett smiled wryly when he heard it. If the Lord was coming, he would spend most of his time dispensing justice here in St Paul's. Eventually the leading cantor began the Doxology: Gloria Patri et Filio et Spiritui
Sancto – the response being taken up in one triumphant chant. Silence fell, the canons filed out, candles were extinguished and darkness once more clothed the cathedral.
Corbett did not care if he had been seen or not but, after a brief wait, led Ranulf and Hervey up to the top of the nave, past the choir and out across the courtyard to the chapter-house. It was a different place from where the feast had been held only two days previously. The carpets had been rolled back, the tables stacked against the wall. At the top, on the dais, a group of cowled figures awaited him, their faces looking grotesque in the flickering candlelight, for dawn had not yet fully broken and the chapter-house was still dark and sombre. Corbett gazed around as he walked across the wooden floor, looking up at the shields which hung there, emblazoned with the arms of canons who had served the Church over the centuries: the different colours, blue, red, gold, sable, and the animals, lions, leopards couchant and passant, griffins, dragons, wyverns. Why, he wondered rather aimlessly, did men of God need such triumphant armorial bearings?
When Corbett reached the top of the hall, he bowed and stepped on to the dais. He walked to the head of the table, gratified to see the canons paying him the deference due to a messenger from the king. He lowered himself into the deep, oak-carved chair and gestured Ranulf and Hervey to sit on the bench alongside him. He counted, yes he was pleased, five canons, the same number as had concel-ebrated that fatal mass with de Montfort only two days ago. He studied them, recognizing Plumpton's fleshy face, acknowledging his supercilious glance with a nod. The rest were a mixed sort, young and old, some ascetic, others looking as if they have never fasted for an hour in their lives. All were dressed in dark robes, their cuffs and cowls lined with ermine. Each of them, however, wore the same wary, anxious look as if they dreaded what was going to happen next. Corbett glanced at them again, relishing the moment. For some strange reason he had an almost irrational hatred of these plump priests, these self-styled men of God, for he knew that one, maybe more, had been involved in murder, sacrilege and blasphemy. They sat there now in sanctimonious silence prepared to answer his questions and, if he put a foot wrong, protest loudly to their bishop, the Archbishop of Canterbury, the king, the pope or whoever would listen to them. Corbett allowed Hervey to unpack his writing trays and rolls of parchment. Ranulf sat, hands clasped together, fully enjoying the moment. To him it was like a sweet wine, to sit in judgement on his betters, especially if they were priests.
Once he saw Hervey was ready, Corbett began.
'Reverend Fathers, I am pleased you have acceded to my request, and that of His Grace the king, to meet me here in the chapter-house to discuss the events which occurred this week. Let me refresh your memories of the terrible event. A mass was held last Monday, celebrated by your dearly beloved colleague, Walter de Montfort, dean of this cathedral. Shortly before the communion the dean collapsed. His death was instantaneous. His body was taken to the sacristy and there given the last rites. I examined his corpse and I hasten to add,' Corbett lifted a hand, 'that though I am no physician, it is my belief he was poisoned. I also believe,' Corbett measured his words carefully, 'that the poison was administered during mass itself.' He heard the sharp intake of breath and mutters of "blasphemy". He again raised his hand. 'I put this to you merely as a theory. If anyone disbelieves it, let me tell you the facts as I know them.' Corbett then gave them the same description he had given the king. How de Montfort's rigid face, blackened mouth and tongue, as well as the suddenness of his death, were all symptoms of a fatal poisoning. He referred to Father Thomas, whom many of the canons must have known, and how the physician had informed him that all powerful poisons acted instandy. 'The question is,' Corbett concluded, 'who murdered him, and why?'
As expected, Sir Philip Plumpton was the first to answer.
'How do we know,' he jibed, 'especially since I have given you that flagon of wine, that our late lamented colleague, de Montfort, was not poisoned by the king, or,' he added, looking meaningfully at Corbett, 'by one of the king's minions?'
Corbett ignored the treasonable assertion. 'Again, I refer you to Father Thomas at St Bartholomew's,' he answered. 'He will tell you that if de Montfort drank the wine which the king sent, and which someone else undoubtedly poisoned, he would never have survived the opening prayers of the mass. Of course,' Corbett chose his words carefully to close the trap, 'if you are going to allege de Montfort drank wine and broke Canon Law by not fasting before he celebrated such a holy occasion, let those who saw him do so tell me now?'
His question was greeted with silent disapproval and a shuffling of feet.
'In which case,' Corbett continued crisply, 'perhaps we should proceed.' He nodded to where Hervey sat. 'This is Master William Hervey from the chancery office. He will transcribe my questions and your answers. So, sirs, your names and the offices held?'
Starting on Corbett's immediate left, each canon introduced himself.
'Sir John de Eveden, librarian,' – yellow-faced, thin, emaciated, with white tufts of hair springing out from his scalp. Corbett noticed the loose mouth and the shifty eyes which refused to meet his.
'David of Ettrick,' – the almoner, red-faced, small, completely bald, his podgy fingers fluttering in the air as he introduced himself and his office. Corbett detected a light Scottish ascent.
'Robert de Luce,' ascetic-looking, clean-shaven, his hair, hands and fingers carefully groomed, a studious man, well suited to his task of treasurer. 'Stephen Blaskett,' – young, fresh-faced, bright-eyed, his fingers marked with the same colours as those of Hervey. Corbett surmised, even before he spoke, that he must be chief clerk and secretary for the cathedral.
And finally, the fleshy-faced, charming Philip Plumpton, the sacristan. A man Corbett reckoned to be the most dangerous for, despite the smiling mouth, his eyes were agate-hard. A difficult man, Corbett thought a dangerous man to cross.
When the canons had finished introducing themselves, all of them showing deep resentment at his presence as well as his questions, Corbett took a piece of parchment and, pulling one of the silver candlebra closer to him, he drew an arc on the scrap of vellum.
'Let us say,' he began, 'this is the altar. Would you please indicate where you stood during the sacrifice of the mass.' After a great deal of careful questioning and ignoring Hervey's sighs of annoyance, Corbett had the order established. De Montfort would have been in the centre, on his far left Blaskett, then de Luce with Plumpton alongside the main celebrant, and on his right de Eveden and then Ettrick. 'Tell me,' Corbett continued, 'the order of the service.'
'You know it well,' Ettrick the almoner snapped. 'You were there. I saw you later, busy as a bee, going across our sanctuary.'
'You are from Scodand?' Corbett smiled at him.
'Yes, I am from Scotland,' the man replied. 'From just outside Edinburgh.' He leaned forward across the table and glared at Corbett. 'But before you utter it, I am a faithful subject of King Edward, as are many Scotsmen. Let me tell you that in his recent campaign against Berwick there were many Scots who fought on King Edward's side.'
'I am implying nothing,' Corbett answered soothingly. 'I simply asked if you were Scots. But help me refresh my memory, Master Ettrick. De Montfort would have stood at the centre of the altar facing the east, under the great rose window, above him the crucifix. Yes?'
Ettrick nodded.
'After the consecration, before the communion, what happened?'
Ettrick shrugged. 'We each had our paten, holding the consecrated host.' 'And you ate it?' 'Yes.'
'I do not wish to blaspheme,' Corbett said anticipating any shocked outburst, 'but are you sure that the hosts distributed after the consecration were not changed by anyone on the altar?'
'They couldn't have been,' the high-pitched voice of Blaskett intervened. 'Let us be honest: we were all at the altar. No deacon or server interferes with the bread or the wine after they have been transubstantiated.'
Corbett took careful notice of the theological terms the young man rather pompously used.
'But my question still stands, Sir Stephen,' he said. 'The hosts were consecrated and distributed for eating by whom?'
'By de Montfort.'
'No one else?'
'No one else,' Plumpton confirmed smilingly. 'And then what happened?'
'Oh, for the love of God,' de Eveden, the librarian, broke in quickly, 'you know what happened. Once the host was consumed, the wine was drunk.'
'Ah yes, the chalice. Who drank first?'
'De Montfort. He gave it to me and then,' the librarian paused, 'of course, to Ettrick, who brought it back to de Montfort. It was then passed to the celebrants on his left.'
'Who were?' Corbett interrupted.
'Plumpton, de Luce and Blaskett. That is right,' the librarian nodded. 'That was the order of the ceremony.'
Corbett held a finger up. 'The chalice was brought back?'
'Yes.'
'By whom?'
'By me.' Blaskett glared at Corbett.
'No, it wasn't!' De Luce, who had remained seated and watchful, now interrupted, his voice soft and mellow – a sharp contrast to the rest of the canons. 'Stephen, you did not bring it back.'
'Who did?' Corbett snapped.
'Why, Philip,' de Luce turned and stared at Plumpton opposite him, 'you gave it back to de Montfort.'
Plumpton's face grew angry. 'No, I did not. I…' he paused and then slumped in his chair. 'Yes, you are right, Robert, I did. The chalice had been passed along de Montfort's left, I drank it, then you did, then Blaskett. Of course, Stephen,' Plumpton glared at him, 'you did not bring it back, I remember. You passed it along?'
Blaskett nodded. 'Yes, that it true.'
Corbett glanced at Hervey, whose pen was squeaking noisily across the parchment. 'Change your quill, Master Hervey.'
Hervey smiled gratefully for the respite, placed the hard pen down, picked up another, sharpened its point with a thin knife, dipped it in the inkpot, which he had warmed over one of the candles and began writing again.
'Now,' said Corbett, 'the chalice came back. What happened then?'
'We don't know,' de Luce continued softly. 'We had all eaten the host and drank the wine. What do you think we did, Clerk? We bowed our heads and said the usual words of thanksgiving.'
'Then what?' Corbett began to feel he was losing his grip on the meeting.
'I heard a sound,' de Luce continued. 'I looked up. De Montfort was turning, his hand was going towards his throat, the rest you know. He collapsed. By the time he was taken to the sacristy he was rigid in death.'
Corbett glanced round the table at the canons, their learned, worldly faces clear in the candle-light. He looked up at the stone-fitted window, noting that the room was becoming lighter. He felt frustrated. He resented the self-satisfaction of these five men. He had asked his questions and they had answered. There was nothing mysterious. What now, Master Clerk? they were silently taunting him. What can you ask now? Corbett thought of something.
'What if I told you,' he said slowly, 'that Sir Walter was to take the poisoned chalice to the king to drink before exchanging the kiss of peace with him?' Corbett relaxed, pleased at the hiss of intaken breath. 'What if,' Corbett looked up at the ceiling, 'I tell you that there are some who think that the chalice was not meant for de Montfort but for His Grace. May I remind you, sirs, that the murder, or even the attempted murder, of the Lord's Anointed is high treason. I need not remind you of the new penalties imposed for such a heinous crime. May I also remind you that there are some who maintain a poisoner should be boiled alive.' Corbett, very rarely vindictive, felt he wished to inflict some pain on these smug, self-satisfied men. 'I have heard of a man boiled alive in Wales. He was lashed to a pole and lowered, feet first, into a huge steaming cauldron. His screams lasted for half an hour as the flesh peeled away from his bones.'
Plumpton rose suddenly, rapping the table with his beringed hand. 'You have no right to frighten us, Clerk!' he said. 'You are insinuating that somebody here poisoned de Montfort but really intended to commit high treason and kill, King Edward. It is true, Clerk,' Plumpton continued remorselessly, 'that we may resent His Grace's demand for taxation, but to resent and argue is not treason. In fact, it is the Church's function to advise the king. The Church anointed Edward. No prince has received such loyalty from this cathedral as our present King Edward.'
He was about to continue but de Luce put his hand over his colleague's.
'Sit down, Philip,' Robert said, half smiling. 'I know what our visitor is saying. A dreadful crime,' he continued seriously, 'was committed. One of our brethren was murdered during the sacrifice of the mass, poisoned, if you are to believe Master Corbett. He has nothing to gain from this yet he implies the person who plotted de Montfort's death also plotted that of our king. These are, brethren, most serious and dreadful crimes.'
Corbett was grateful for de Luce's intervention, though he disliked intensely his calm demeanour, as if he was soothing children and included Corbett amongst them. There was a pause in the proceedings; Ettrick rose and went to a small table in the far corner bearing a tray and a jug of wine with cups. He filled these, placed one down near Corbett and gave the rest to each of his colleagues, totally ignoring the outraged expressions of Hervey and Ranulf. A dish of sweetmeats was also distributed. Corbett noticed with wry amusement how no one dared raise a cup or eat a sweetmeat. Ettrick sat down but, observing the silence around him, smiled, shrugged, got up again and came to where Corbett sat. He lifted the cup, toasted him and sipped carefully from it.
'Master Clerk, you may rest assured,' he said, 'that your wine is the best Bordeaux and contains no poison.' The half jest helped to relieve the tension. Corbett smiled, picked up the cup and drank, relishing the full-bodied taste. He passed the cup to Ranulf, indicating with his finger that the sweetmeat placed beside him was also his.
'Let us accept,' Corbett began, 'that de Montfort was murdered. Let us also accept that somebody close to him, who works in this cathedral, wanted him dead. How did they do this? And why?' Corbett narrowed his eyes. 'Why should they go to the trouble of poisoning wine after de Montfort was dead? For I am sure that's when the wine the king sent to de Montfort was poisoned. What did the assassin really intend? Who had grudges against de Montfort?'
This brought almost a giggle from de Eveden. Corbett turned.
'You find that amusing, Sir?'
'I find it amusing, Sir,' the librarian retorted sarcastically. 'You asked who had a grudge against de Montfort. I ask you, Sir Clerk, who did not?'
'What my brother is saying,' Plumpton interrupted, 'is that Master de Montfort was a powerful man, a lonely one; he was very disliked.'
'For what reason?'
Plumpton shrugged. 'He was vindictive, secretive. He never forgave a grudge. He always settled every grievance.' Plumpton looked around, wide-eyed. 'Why not let's tell the truth. Each of us here had a grievance.'
'That is not true!' Blaskett shouted back.
'You wouldn't have said that,' Plumpton added maliciously, 'if de Montfort had got into your bed!'
The young secretarius tried to stammer some reply but Corbett raised his hand to quell the argument.
'It will not serve,' he said, 'for us to argue. I take your point, Sir Philip. I have already gathered that Sir Walter was indeed a strange man and would have had many questions to answer. Perhaps it is best if I interview you each separately.' His invitation was greeted with a murmur of approval. 'Perhaps,' Corbett continued, 'I should begin with Sir John.'
The librarian bowed his assent and Corbett waited while the rest withdrew.