Nightshade (20 page)
Authors: P. C. Doherty
âRanulf!' Corbett had broken from his reverie. âLet's be gone.'
Ranulf finished what he was eating, put on his gauntlets and gently urged his horse across the cobbles, following Corbett through the milling crowds and on to the winding path that cut through town towards the road to Mordern Forest. At first they had to ride carefully around the carts and sledges, the sumpter and pack ponies, as well as a party of falconers returning from their hunt, poles heavy with the bloodied corpses of rabbits and quail. Pedlars and tinkers surged along the trackway, eager to reach the market square to do a day's business; these were followed by a group of pilgrims marching on foot behind a banner displaying the likeness of Thomas à Becket, whose shrine they hoped to visit in Canterbury. At last the noisy bustle died. The sea of russet, green, brown and black hoods of other travellers washed around the two clerks and was gone. The clamour of voices died. The odours of cooking, smoke, sweat and the barnyard disappeared as they rode out into countryside. An icy landscape stretched before them, dotted with copses of trees and hedgerows, the occasional farmstead and outbuilding and, in the far distance, the sombre line of Mordern Forest.
Corbett and Ranulf guided their horses carefully along the frozen trackway, hoods pulled well over their heads, mufflers
raised against the nipping cold. Ranulf was almost relieved when they eventually entered the bleak, deserted village. The Principal Clerk in the Chancery of the Green Wax was certain that Satan, the Warrior of Hell, did not live in smoky, fire-licked caverns but in the white waste of eternal winter. Armed or not, accompanied only by Corbett humming the tune of a hymn, Ranulf was most wary of the brooding loneliness of the countryside, the crows cawing like demons above him, the ravens floating like dark angels across glades echoing with eerie sounds from the undergrowth. They rode into the cemetery, reined in, dismounted and tethered their horses. A cold wind moaned through the trees, sweeping across the battered crosses and stone memorials.
raised against the nipping cold. Ranulf was almost relieved when they eventually entered the bleak, deserted village. The Principal Clerk in the Chancery of the Green Wax was certain that Satan, the Warrior of Hell, did not live in smoky, fire-licked caverns but in the white waste of eternal winter. Armed or not, accompanied only by Corbett humming the tune of a hymn, Ranulf was most wary of the brooding loneliness of the countryside, the crows cawing like demons above him, the ravens floating like dark angels across glades echoing with eerie sounds from the undergrowth. They rode into the cemetery, reined in, dismounted and tethered their horses. A cold wind moaned through the trees, sweeping across the battered crosses and stone memorials.
âThe haunt of ghosts!' Corbett murmured.
They walked over to the funeral pyre, now nothing more than scraps of charred wood and layers of grey ash being swept around by the wind. Corbett stared down. He took his sword and sifted through the debris, then crouched, lifted a handful of dust and let it trail away.
âRemember, man,' he murmured, âthat thou art dust and into dust thou shalt return.
Sic transit gloria mundi
; thus passes the glory of the world, Ranulf.' He glanced sadly up at his companion. âAlways remember. Golden boys and golden girls must, in their time, turn to dust.' He beat the dirt from his gauntlets and stared up at the sullen sky.
Sic transit gloria mundi
; thus passes the glory of the world, Ranulf.' He glanced sadly up at his companion. âAlways remember. Golden boys and golden girls must, in their time, turn to dust.' He beat the dirt from his gauntlets and stared up at the sullen sky.
âYet it does not end here, Ranulf. Oh no, we are spiritual beings. Souls survive, hungry for the eternal light. Blood remains blood and, in the realm of the Holy Spirit, cries for justice. That is why we are here, where, I suspect, the veil between what is seen and unseen grows very thin.'
Ranulf stared bleakly at his master and gestured around. âIs this God's justice, Sir Hugh?'
âNo, Ranulf, it isn't, but it is the beginning of it. In God's own time, at a place of his own choosing, justice will be restored. Not a tear spilt, not a child abused, not a woman broken, not a man ill used goes unnoticed. All things end well in God's own time, but he uses us, Ranulf. He keeps us close to his right hand for his own secret purposes.' Corbett pulled his hood completely over his head. âHe needs our wits and good sense, those talents he has given us. So look around, Ranulf, what is missing here?'
His companion stared around, then down at the pieces of blackened wood, the slimy grey dust. âMaster?'
âBones.' Corbett smiled. âFire consumes everything but human bone, yet I cannot see a scrap or a chard. Someone has been here to clear the remains.'
âFather Thomas?' Ranulf queried. âOr some of the townspeople as an act of mercy? The Free Brethren did have their friends in Mistleham.'
âPerhaps.' Corbett shrugged. âBut first that verse: “Rich, will richer be, Where God kissed Mary in Galilee.” Ranulf, you begin with the first row of graves; I shall start at the far end of God's Acre.'
âWhat we are searching for?'
âA carving,' Corbett replied, âa depiction of Gabriel's annunciation to the Virgin at Nazareth.'
Ranulf walked away, boots crackling on the bracken and gorse that curled across the cemetery. Corbett started at the other end. An eerie experience, the mist seeping through the trees, crawling towards them like the souls of those departed who'd lived and
died here, slipping through the air curious as to why the living should be so busy amongst the dead. Corbett moved from one headstone or battered cross to another. Most of them were faded. All of them evoked memories of his own dead, his parents, sister and first wife, those gone before him. He was whispering the Requiem when Ranulf shouted and he hastened over to a tombstone in the middle of the cemetery. It had been carved out of good stone many years before; the names and prayers had been hidden by lichen and moss except for the exquisitely carved roundel depicting the Angel Gabriel, wings extended, hovering over a kneeling Virgin.
died here, slipping through the air curious as to why the living should be so busy amongst the dead. Corbett moved from one headstone or battered cross to another. Most of them were faded. All of them evoked memories of his own dead, his parents, sister and first wife, those gone before him. He was whispering the Requiem when Ranulf shouted and he hastened over to a tombstone in the middle of the cemetery. It had been carved out of good stone many years before; the names and prayers had been hidden by lichen and moss except for the exquisitely carved roundel depicting the Angel Gabriel, wings extended, hovering over a kneeling Virgin.
âMaster, look!'
The lichen had been loosened to reveal the carving whilst the actual grave was almost smothered in frozen gorse and bracken, most of it taken from elsewhere and piled over the grave bed to conceal it as much as possible. They hurriedly cleared away the vegetation and began to hack at the ground using their swords, daggers and a small axe Ranulf kept in his pannier bags. The ground was hard, though it was obvious that the bank of earth had been piled quite recently. The soil beneath was loose, and as they dug, the noisome stench of corruption seeped out, forcing them to cover their mouths and noses. Corbett, recalling advice given to him by his physician friend at St Bartholomew's, hoarsely ordered Ranulf to put on his gauntlets and to remember to scrub both hands and face when they returned to Mistleham. The horrid stench grew worse. At last they reached the corpse of the hanged man, still in his hose and linen shirt: all slimy, seeping with dirt and corruption. The belly had swollen and burst, whilst the face was nothing more than a bloated bag of messy decaying flesh, the
noose still tight around the throat. Corbett felt his gorge rise; Ranulf turned to retch. They both had to walk away, pulling down their mufflers to gasp at the clear air.
noose still tight around the throat. Corbett felt his gorge rise; Ranulf turned to retch. They both had to walk away, pulling down their mufflers to gasp at the clear air.
They returned with fallen branches to prise the corpse free from its resting place. Corbett, experienced as he was in tending the dead on battlefields, found this gruesomely macabre. John Le Riche â and Corbett knew it must be he â was now a hideous mound of putrid flesh. Corbett had to remind himself that this had once been a living soul. They removed the corpse and returned to the grave, where they sifted another layer of gruesomely soaked soil and reached the arrow chest. They pulled this up, tipping back the lid, and drew out several smaller leather bundles. They loosened these and emptied them. Ranulf whispered in awe at the fast-growing pile of rings, bracelets, cups, ave beads, small jugs and platters, a glittering jewel-encrusted hoard of precious metals and stones. Other pouches held diamonds, rubies and mother-of-pearl, crucifixes, signet seals, brooches, head pins, necklaces and armlets. The last item was a wooden casket containing two rolls of parchment. The first depicted a drawing very similar to the painting in St Alphege's Church. Corbett studied this and handed it to Ranulf.
âSee, whatever they devise, they plan first. It's a faithful copy: the castle being stormed, the man lying in the bed, the banqueting scene, the flight, the great dragon soaring above, the strange symbols and plants.'
The second scroll was longer, etched in red and blue ink, depicting a vivid picture of hell consisting of great concentric circles or trenches. Each circle was separated by strange geometric symbols similar to the ones around the painting in St Alphege's.
In the first trench, according to the scribble beside it, were blasphemers, who were sent endlessly hopping or skipping by horned demons armed with scourges and horrid whips. In the next trench, sorcerers and witches, who had twisted nature by magic, were now twisted themselves, heads facing backwards so their tears rolled down their buttocks. Crawling about the next pit were horrible reptiles searching amongst the thieves and robbers, who, for having robbed people of their property, were now robbed of their souls in one of two ways: either reduced to ashes by the sting of a scorpion, then reassembled for the torture to be repeated; or melted into wax, mingling into each other so they were not able to recognise who they were as, in their earthly lives, they'd been unable to distinguish between what was their property and other people's. Other trenches were drawn and explained. Each was filled with sinners, but the centre of hell was reserved for Lord Oliver Scrope, bound fast, eternally consumed by the divine fire.
In the first trench, according to the scribble beside it, were blasphemers, who were sent endlessly hopping or skipping by horned demons armed with scourges and horrid whips. In the next trench, sorcerers and witches, who had twisted nature by magic, were now twisted themselves, heads facing backwards so their tears rolled down their buttocks. Crawling about the next pit were horrible reptiles searching amongst the thieves and robbers, who, for having robbed people of their property, were now robbed of their souls in one of two ways: either reduced to ashes by the sting of a scorpion, then reassembled for the torture to be repeated; or melted into wax, mingling into each other so they were not able to recognise who they were as, in their earthly lives, they'd been unable to distinguish between what was their property and other people's. Other trenches were drawn and explained. Each was filled with sinners, but the centre of hell was reserved for Lord Oliver Scrope, bound fast, eternally consumed by the divine fire.
âWhat does it mean?' Ranulf asked.
Corbett leaned against the headstone, staring at the ruined church. âRanulf,' he looked over his shoulder, âthose paintings were a warning to Lord Scrope. The Free Brethren had two ideas: one was to draw on the fall of Babylon, which is really a parable for the fall of Acre. The second was a vision of hell, with Scrope, the greatest sinner of them all, lying at the centre. Apparently they decided on the fall of Babylon, but this begs the important question, one that has been hinted at but never developed. The Free Brethren definitely came here to wreak vengeance on Lord Scrope. They, or some of them, certainly hated him; they had a grudge to settle. Hence the paintings, their weapons. Perhaps they really did plan to storm Mistleham Manor.'
âBut why?' Ranulf asked. âWhat connection did the Free Brethren have with Lord Scrope?'
âThe vital question,' Corbett declared. âI still don't know, but there was a connection; a hidden, lasting one, formed of blood and riddled with festering resentments and grievances.'
âIf that was so,' Ranulf argued, coming up to stand beside Corbett, âtheir deaths should have ended the matter.'
âWhich begs two possible conclusions,' Corbett replied. âFirst, not all of them were killed in the massacre; or second, is there someone else, associated with the Free Brethren, carrying out vengeance on their behalf? I don't know, Ranulf.'
âAnd the treasure?'
âAh.' Corbett smiled thinly. âMaster Claypole has a great deal to answer for. This is what I suspect. The King's treasure in the crypt at Westminster was robbed, its contents hauled away. Now I know from Drokensford that many goldsmiths in London were implicated in receiving these stolen goods and selling them on the open market. Now, to do that, Puddlicott and his gang must have made arrangements with goldsmiths in the city to receive what they'd stolen.'
âAnd goldsmiths elsewhere?' Ranulf asked.
âPrecisely!' Corbett retorted. âJohn Le Riche didn't come here by accident. Think, Ranulf! Puddlicott and his gang would cast their net far and wide. They would have negotiated with London merchants but they would also look for customers elsewhere. Why not Mistleham, a prosperous Essex wool town? And its mayor, Master Claypole, who appears to have no sense of right or wrong, never mind any loyalty to the Crown. Le Riche wasn't trapped, not in the way Claypole or Lord Scrope described. That devious
pair had a more subtle plan. They'd received the proclamations from the King, warning that his treasure had been taken and promising the strictest penalties for anyone who received stolen items. Le Riche turns up in Mistleham expecting a hero's welcome. Instead he is arrested. Scrope and Claypole manage his trial, his imprisonment and his swift hanging.'
pair had a more subtle plan. They'd received the proclamations from the King, warning that his treasure had been taken and promising the strictest penalties for anyone who received stolen items. Le Riche turns up in Mistleham expecting a hero's welcome. Instead he is arrested. Scrope and Claypole manage his trial, his imprisonment and his swift hanging.'
âBut surely Le Riche would have objected, made allegations against them?'
âWhat proof did he have?' Corbett asked. âI suspect he was given drugged wine; from the moment he was arrested his wits would have been dulled. For all we know, Scrope and Claypole might have promised him some form of escape, either from prison or the hangman's noose. We both know, Ranulf, how an understanding can be reached with the executioner, a tight leather collar around the throat to protect it, the body later cut down and the victim revived.'
âBut that didn't happen?'
âAh.' Corbett pointed towards the church. âLe Riche had to be careful. He couldn't simply go blundering into Mistleham, so he came to Mordern Forest and took shelter amongst the Free Brethren. They would be welcoming hosts. Whatever we think about them, Ranulf, the Brethren seemed quite sincere in their beliefs, with little regard for wealth or treasure. Le Riche hid his ill-gotten gains with them and moved into Mistleham to negotiate with Claypole.' He waved a hand. âI suspect there was some previous secret agreement between Le Riche, Claypole and Scrope, but it proved false. By then Le Riche would have been desperate: nine months as
utlegatus
â beyond the law â would have exhausted him. In a word, he was ambushed. He was certainly given some opiate; completely drugged, he was hustled off to the scaffold.
Perhaps he was promised his life; we'll never know. The Free Brethren, realising that more villainy had been carried out by Scrope, cut down Le Riche's corpse, brought it back to Mistleham and gave him what could be called honourable burial here in this deserted cemetery. They also held on to his plunder.'
utlegatus
â beyond the law â would have exhausted him. In a word, he was ambushed. He was certainly given some opiate; completely drugged, he was hustled off to the scaffold.
Perhaps he was promised his life; we'll never know. The Free Brethren, realising that more villainy had been carried out by Scrope, cut down Le Riche's corpse, brought it back to Mistleham and gave him what could be called honourable burial here in this deserted cemetery. They also held on to his plunder.'
âAnd buried it with him?'
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