In his private chamber in the priest's house Father Reynard was also lost in his own thoughts. Had he done wrong in taking the gold and silver from de Craon? He thought of the widow in her ramshackle hut at the end of the village and the gratitude in her eyes when he gave her a purse of coins. No, he considered it all worthwhile. Father Reynard lifted his head and listened to the sounds outside. Autumn, the season in which he had been born, was here again. The wind was growing stronger, whipping the branches of the trees and shredding them of their fading leaves. Soon it would be Michaelmas, then the feast of All Souls, a time to remember the dead.
He felt a flicker of disquiet Those corpses, the ones he had buried in their makeshift grave under the old elm tree -who were they? Why had they been killed so barbarously and so mysteriously? He rubbed his mouth with the back of his hand. What would a high-born lady be doing in the wilds of Oxfordshire? Visiting a friend at the university or maybe one of the towns like Abingdon? Yet if so, why had no one come forward to claim the corpses? Or were they connected with Godstowe?
'Father Reynard!'
The Franciscan felt the hair on the back of his neck stir as he looked towards the door. Someone was standing outside in the cemetery calling his name. It sounded like a child's voice, lilting and clear.
'Father Reynard! Please, Father Reynard, help me!'
The Franciscan made the sign of the cross in the air. Was it a ghost? An apparition? An earth-bound soul? The ghost of the dead Lady Eleanor?
'Father Reynard, come out!'
The voice was becoming petulant. The Franciscan rose and walked cautiously towards the door, picking up the thick cudgel which leaned against the wall.
'Father Reynard, do come! Please!'
Again the lilting voice cut through the darkness and the priest paused with his hand on the latch. Was it some demon raised by a witch or warlock? On his arrival in the village, the Franciscan had had some trouble with those who practised the black arts and used the cemetery for diabolical activities. There had been strange lights and incantations, the sacrifice of a black cock at midnight, but he had cleared them out and barred the graveyard, threatening the congregation with the pains of excommunication in this life and Hell fire in the next.
'Father Reynard, I mean no harm.'
The priest grasped the cudgel tighter, opened the door and stepped into the darkness. The wind caught his face as he closed the door behind him. He stared into the blackest night.
'Who's there?' he shouted. 'In God's name, child, who are you? What do you want?'
Only the wind moaning through the trees answered his cry. Father Reynard walked across to the cemetery, making out the dark shapes of the wooden crosses, mounds of earth and ghostly elm trees.
'Who are you?' he repeated. 'Where are you?'
He strained his eyes and glimpsed a shadow darker than the rest He gasped in horror. A child, a small, dark, hooded figure was sweeping across the grass towards him with hands joined as if in prayer. Father Reynard too began a prayer and was half-way through it when the crossbow quarrel hit him full in the chest, ripping open skin, bone and muscle. The priest collapsed, the blood pouring through his mouth and nose tasting like iron. He felt the soft grass against his cheek. He saw himself as a child, running towards someone. His mother was holding our her arms to him. He knew he was dying.
'Absolve me, Domine!' he muttered as his eyes closed and his soul was extinguished.
The next morning Corbett was up early, shaking awake a tousled-headed Ranulf and a heavy-eyed Maltote.
'Come on,' he shouted good-naturedly. 'Maltote, you will stay with us. We go to London and then on to Leighton.'
Ranulf sprang up, pleased to abandon the fresh air of the country and head back to the seamy streets of London and the rounded pleasure-giving body of Mistress Semplar. Maltote staggered to his feet and went down to relieve himself in the necessary house. Corbett met him coming up the stairs.
'Master, shouldn't I return to the royal camp?'
Corbett noticed his surprised expression.
'No, Maltote.' He put his hand on the messenger's shoulder. I need a man-at-arms, someone to protect me.' And, before the young soldier could ask whether he was being sarcastic, Corbett slipped by him.
The nuns were just leaving their convent church. Theyglanced shyly at him out of the corner of their eyes and giggled, remembering his appeal of the night before. Lady Amelia, majestic as a queen, swept by. Corbett bowed respectfully and, pushing by the labourers and other villeins coming in from the fields to break their fasts, went out of the Galilee Gate, across the track and into the woods. There he positioned himself, trying to glimpse Dame Elizabeth's chamber from where she had alleged she had seen the horsemen waiting in the trees. At last Corbett achieved the correct position. If Dame Elizabeth, as she surely must be, was staring curiously out of her window now, she would be able to see him.
Corbett squatted down and examined the ground, sifting carefully through the fallen leaves and twigs. At last he found what he was looking for horses had stood there. He picked up the dry droppings and crumbled them in his hand. He could not say when, but the horse dung and the faint indentations in the dry earth showed riders had stood there for some time. Dame Elizabeth had not been dreaming or seeing things.
Corbett rose, wiped his hands and went back into the priory. He heard the lamentations and cries as he walked through the Galilee Gate, and hurried around to the main entrance where a distraught Lady Amelia was being supported by the two Sub-prioresses, their own cheeks wet with tears. A young peasant boy had remounted his lathered horse and was galloping away from the priory.
'Lady Amelia, what is wrong?'
The Lady Prioress raised tearful eyes, shook herself free from the clinging sisters and wiped her cheeks.
'God rest him, we argued enough,' she muttered. 'But the poor man is dead.'
'Who, My Lady?'
'Father Reynard,' she whispered. 'He was found murdered in the cemetery this morning. A crossbow bolt in his heart.' She clasped her hands and stepped closer. 'What is happening, Corbett?' she asked. 'Such a peaceful community once, now murder and death at every turn.' She stepped back, her eyes hard. 'Is it you, Clerk? Are you a death-bringer? Does murder slide behind you?'
'No, My Lady,' he replied sharply. But we are in the eye of a gathering storm. Unless I find a solution to the puzzle, hundreds – perhaps even thousands – more will die in Gascony, on the Narrow Seas, and in our towns along the southern coasts. Now, My Lady,' he took her cold hand and raised it to his lips, I bid you adieu. I will return. If you have further information, send the fleetest messenger you can hire to my manor at Leighton. It can be found by following the Epping road down into London.'
Corbett nodded at the two hard-faced Sub-prioresses and went to order Ranulf and Maltote to saddle their horses as swiftly as possible. He told them briefly what had happened and, satisfied that they had packed everything, led them out towards the Galilee Gate.
'Hugh – Master Corbett!'
The clerk turned. Dame Agatha was hurrying towards him. She, too, had been weeping.
'I heard,' she said breathlessly, 'about Father Reynard's death.' She thrust a small linen-bound bundle into his hand. 'Some food for your journey. Take care!' she whispered. 'You will come back?'
I will come back.'
He glimpsed the tenderness in her eyes and looked away, embarrassed.
'God be with you, Sister.'
Corbett returned to a grinning Ranulf, who was holding the heads of the horses.
'Mount!' he ordered gruffly. 'You find something amusing, Ranulf?'
The mischievous grin disappeared.
'No, Master,' he replied innocently. 'I just wondered if we could invite some of these sisters down to Leighton. The Lady Maeve would relish such company.'
Corbett gathered the reins in his hands and leaned towards Ranulf.
'Mark my words,' he snapped. 'If you so much as whisper a word about Dame Agatha to the Lady Maeve, you will regret the day I ever plucked you out of Newgate!'
Ranulf drew back, eyes rounded innocently.
'Of course, Master, he replied slyly. 'I was only trying to help.'
They cantered down into the village and led their horses into the graveyard. A small crowd had gathered outside the church. Corbett gave a child a penny to hold the horses and they went into the priest's house. The villagers had laid Father Reynard out on the table and an old woman, tears streaming down her face, was gently bathing the corpse before it was sheeted for burial. Corbett went across, saw the horrible wounds and glimpsed the short, feathered quarrel still embedded in the man's chest
'God have mercy on him,' he muttered. 'Did I cause this?' He gazed down at the now peaceful face of the priest 'Why didn't you go?' he whispered. 'Why didn't you go when I told you to?'
'Master?' Ranulf muttered, 'the assassin must have been very close. The quarrel is embedded deep.'
'Strange,' Maltote interrupted, his face drawn and white as he stared down at the gory, blood-spattered wound. 'Strange,' he repeated. 'The assassin must have been lying on the ground or Father standing on some steps? Look, the crossbow quarrel is turned upwards.'
Corbett peered closer and agreed. The quarrel was embedded at an angle.
'Was Father Reynard found in the cemetery grounds?' Corbett asked the grizzled woman. She blinked away a tear and nodded. Corbett dug into his purse and handed her some coins.
'Prepare him wed,' he said. 'He was a good man, a dedicated priest He deserved a better death.'
They went back out into the cemetery. At Corbett's bidding an old man showed them the blood-spattered piece of ground where their priest had been found. Corbett walked over the soft rather damp clay of the cemetery, Ranulf and Maltote on either side.
'Look, Master, here!' Ranulf squatted down and pointed to the small indentation of a boot. He looked up at Corbett 'Like a child's,' he whispered. 'But what child wears boots in an Oxfordshire village?'
'It could have been a woman,' Maltote interrupted.
Corbett just stared back and shook his head. A vague idea formed at the back of his mind.
'Father Reynard's death,' he concluded, 'however distressing, must wait for a while. Come,' he announced, 'we have far to ride.'
Within the hour they were out into the countryside, following the track which would lead them down to the old Roman road. The clear autumn day drew to a close and Corbett made them rest their horses for a while. Ranulf and Maltote, lost in their own thoughts and conversation, allowed him to walk ahead. The clerk wanted peace and calm after the shock of Father Reynard's death. He was glad to be free of Godstowe and the cloying, hidden menace which seemed to permeate the place like some unwholesome stench. Moreover, Corbett loved this time of the year and realised how much he missed Maeve and the serenity of his own manor house. Like here, the leaves at Leighton would be turning a reddish-gold, there would be the faint smell of wood smoke, and Corbett wondered if his wife was also out in the fields enjoying the last lingering warm embrace of summer.
They cleared the thick, wooded hills of Oxford and went down into the open countryside. Corbett stopped his horse to watch some labourers in the fields below working to bring in the last of the crops. In an adjoining field a sower, a basket cradled in his hands, scattered the life-bearing seeds, whilst behind him two young boys danced and cavorted, swinging their slings to drive off the marauding crows and ravens. Somewhere a dog howled and Corbett shuddered. He remembered that ghastly hunt across the fields at Woodstock and bit his lip at the despair he felt So far he had found no way to resolve the conundrum facing him. There were pieces missing. Why were Lady Eleanor's saddle bags packed? Who was her secret admirer or friend? And was Lady Eleanor planning to flee to him? Corbett blinked and felt tired. He must study this mystery, take each strand and follow it through.
Behind him Ranulf laughed and Corbett looked back. The evening dusk was failing, the breeze rather cold. They had to hurry on. Corbett wished he was back in his chamber at Leighton Manor, Maeve with him. He could listen to her gentle teasing before going into his secret room and memorandising the questions which bedeviled him. He turned and smiled at Ranulf.
'Come!' he shouted. 'Let's ride a little faster to the nearest tavern. Some food and drink before we decide whether we shall continue our journey.'
They mounted and spurred their horses into a gallop, thundering along the rutted track past the crossroads where a decaying skeleton swung, the neck and head twisted, a macabre dancer against the darkening sky. Corbett fleetingly wondered if it was a portent
They stayed at a tavern that night as the weather turned foul. Heavy rain clouds gathered and the roads next morning were clogged with thick, heavy mud. Nevertheless, they were in London just before mid-day, following White Cross Street through Cricklegate. They broke their fast in a small tavern near Catte Street, Ranulf revelling at being back in London, straining like a dog on a leash, wanting to be off on his own personal business.
Corbett warned him: 'Stay with me, Ranulf, and you too, Maltote. Whoever killed Father Reynard shot at us the previous evening. He may well have trailed us back into London.'
Maltote was only too pleased to agree though Ranulf sulked for a while. They stabled their horses and pushed their way through the noisy, colourful streets. There Ranulf quickly regained his good humour he pointed to a group of Spaniards in their multi-coloured hoods, mantles and stupendous codpieces. He and Maltote quarrelled about what was genuine fur, and what the jewelled embroidered motifs and the bright hues on the cloaks of some retainers really signified. All around them were the cries of tradesmen and costers, the distant shrill braying of trumpets as the household of a noble moved majestically through the city under flapping banners down to Westminster. Ranulf, nudging Maltote, leered at the pretty ladies in their fillets and low-waisted dresses; sometimes his words were drowned by the clamour of the crowd and the mid-day peal of the bells of London tolling for prayers from their great stone-washed, stately towers.
They passed into West Chepe where the throng was greatest. This broad, cobbled area, the main market place of the city, was packed with carts bringing in wine from the vintners, lawn for the cloth guilds, and vegetables packed high for the stalls and booths in the Poultry. They went through the Shambles where the butchers, ankle-deep in blood and gore, slit open the swollen bellies of cows, pigs and sheep. They allowed the blue entrails to fall on huge platters which were scooped up by young, ragged-arsed apprentices to be cleansed in vats of scalding water. A group of chandlers stood next to a long line of gutted pigs, arguing with their owner about the price of the fat which they would buy to make tallow candles. The noise was terrible and the stench made them retch. The cobblestones were soaked by streams of black blood over which swarms of fat flies hovered.
They continued on past Newgate prison, the stench from the inmates even more revolting than that from the Shambles. A beggar, the lower part of his face eaten away by sores, did a strange dance, hopping on one leg while a small, skeletal boy clothed in rags played a haunting tune on a reed pipe. Ranulf threw him a penny, then cursed as he slipped on the decaying corpse of a rat They hurried past Fleet ditch, the corpses of dead dogs floating in the slime, and along twisting lanes which ran through the high, four-storey houses, the upper floors projecting out on wooden pillars so the rooms above could catch the sun. Here, hawkers and costermongers pushed their little handcarts, crying 'Bread!', 'Eels!', 'Fish!' and 'Meat pies!' and on every comer stood tipplers who sold drinks to passersby out of small, iron-hooped barrels.
'Master, where are we going?' Ranulf called
'Smithfield!' Corbett shouted back, pushing away an apprentice who offered him spiced hot sheep's feet At the mouth of Cock Lane a group of young prostitutes – slim-waisted and lecherous – shouted out their lies and danced with sheer delight at the prospect of mischief. One of them apparently recognised Ranulf and called out honey-phrased invitations as to what she would offer for a silver coin.
I have no stiver!' he shouted back, ignoring Corbett's warning frown.
'Nor any balls, by the look of it!' one of the whores retorted.
The ladies of the town shrieked with laughter whilst Ranulf, his face flushed, hurried on as fast as he could. They crossed the open dusty area of Smithfield to where the hospital of St Bartholomew stood. Corbett asked the others to stay at the great gate whilst he went across the open square. He relished the coolness, the raised beds of flowers and herbs, and the elaborately carved fountains splashing in the centre. He caught the tangy smell of soap, though he also sniffed the stench of corruption and the dank smell of a charnel house which stood in one comer of the grounds.
Corbett went up the great steps of the hospital, past the group of old soldiers, their limbs grotesquely amputated, who enlivened each other with stories of their past A young boy with a ladle and a stoup of water wetted their grizzled mouths. Corbett stopped a lay brother.
'Is Brother Thomas here?' he asked.
The little man nodded his bald head, his eyes simple as a child's. He beckoned Corbett to follow him along whitewashed corridors to the herb-scented chamber of Brother Thomas. The apothecary was sitting at his small desk under the open window but rose, laughing and clapping his hands as he recognised Corbett. He threw down his goose quill and grasped the clerk's hands, pumping them up and down vigorously.
'Hugh, you have returned! Come in!'
He almost pulled him into the room, dosing the door behind them. He shifted a pile of yellowing parchments from a small pallet bed and cleared a space for Corbett to sit.
'You want some wine or a cup of water?'
'The water will be best, Brother.'
Brother Thomas nodded and splashed an earthenware bowl to the brim.
'You are wise, Hugh,' he said. 'Always remember what Galen said, though Hippocrates maintained different: "Wine before sunset is not to be recommended." You are well? And the Lady Maeve?'
For a while Corbett and the apothecary discussed gossip of mutual interest, acquaintances at Westminster, at the court, as wed as the scandal of a certain physician now being investigated by the authorities at the Guildhall. The apothecary's face became serious.
'I know why you are here, Hugh,' he said sharply. 'Poison, the queen of murders. I am right, am I not?'
'You are right, Brother.'
'So what is the problem?'
'Could you sell me a poison, Brother? I mean, Belladonna or the juice of the Nightshade?'
The apothecary waved at the shelves around his room full of little phials and casks.
'They are yours for the asking, Hugh.'
'And they will kill?'
'In seconds. Ten or twenty heart-beats before the poison ices your heart and stops your breath.' Corbett stood up and stretched.
'But poisons that would only kill if taken regularly over a long period of time, do they exist?'
The brother's eyes became even more sombre.
'Oh, yes, Hugh. Such potions do exist, but not here. They are of the Italian mode. Deadly concoctions.' He paused. 'For example, five hundred years ago an Arab produced a white, odourless powder, highly poisonous, from realger, an ore found in lead mining.' Brother Thomas shrugged. 'In small quantities, it may be medicinal, but given regularly will eventually cause death.'
'Could I buy it in London?'
The apothecary nodded.
'Of course.'
'Who from?'
'A Hell-hound not far from here. The first alleyway on Faltour's Lane off Holborn Street. Go down there and look for the apothecary's sign. He is a Spaniard, a Portuguese, a Moor… I don't know, but he may tell you more than I can. You see, Hugh, as I said, some poisons are medicinal A little arsenic can cure disorders of the stomach, but given in regular small doses becomes a poison. I once heard the confession of a merchant from the Portsoken who wished absolution for killing his wife. For two years he fed the poor woman poison.' The apothecary turned and looked out of the window. 'You'd best go now, Hugh. The day is drawing on and this apothecary's shop is the very gateway to Hell. Or,' he grinned, 'as you manor lords would say: "Where the shit lies, the flies always gather."'
Hugh grinned, thanked him, and went back to the hospital gates where he warned Ranulf and Maltote to be on their guard. They followed a maze of alleyways which ran to the north of the city down to Holborn. Corbett realised that Brother Thomas was correct The weak sun was setting and the area near the old city wall was one of musty decay. The stalls were battered, selling shabby geegaws. There were very few well-dressed citizens, most of the denizens of the alleyways being rogues and villains; tinkers, trying to sell without permission from the Guilds, professional beggars, and rat-faced slum dwellers looking for easy prey.
They found Faltour's Lane and turned into the dirty refuse-filled alleyway, the daylight almost blocked out by the overhanging gables of the houses which reared up on either side. Ranulf stopped his chatter and when Corbett drew his sword so did his companions as a blatant warning to the dark shapes which lurked in the half-open doorways. A beggar, smitten with white leprosy, one ear and half his nose eaten away, came out of the shadows, his hands extended, begging for alms. Corbett threw him a coin, raised his sword, and the beggar scuttled away.
The clerk was now uneasy. The alleyway was narrow, lined with darkened doorways; some had shadows deeper than the rest and Corbett knew he was being watched. Any sign of weakness or fear and the cutpurses lurking there would be on them like a pack of dogs. He stood beneath the apothecary's sign, dagger still drawn; two cats raced by, screeching and squabbling over the half-gnawed body of a rat. Corbett jumped, cursing his own nervousness. He sheathed his dagger, whispered to Ranulf and Maltote to wait at the top of the alleyway, and knocked gently on the shop door.
A young man opened it Corbett was immediately struck by the fellow's swarthy good looks and elegant dress: dark purple hose, soft buskins on his feet, and an open-necked, spotless, white cambric shirt. The man smiled as if intrigued by Corbett, muttering a few words first in Portuguese and then in English. Corbett, acting his part, looked nervously back down the street and said he needed certain potions. The man smiled, his smooth dark face creasing in a grin, lips parted to reveal ivory white teeth as he gestured like a long-lost friend for Corbett to enter. Inside the shop was simple but clean; the stone floor had been recently scrubbed, the walls coated with lime to keep off flies. It was devoid of any furniture except a zodiac sign nailed to one wad, a small wooden table and two huge, high-backed chairs. The apothecary introduced himself.
'My name is Julio Cesar. Doctor, physician, formerly apothecary to his most Catholic Majesty, Sancho, King of Portugal. Now exiled from that country due to a,' the black eyes slid away, 'misunderstanding. And you, Sir?'
'Matthew Droxford,' Corbett lied.
The apothecary studied him, a faint smile on his full red tips as if he knew his visitor was lying.
'And you want some medicine?'
Cesar elegantly waved Corbett to a seat before disappearing into the small back room beyond, returning with two crystal goblets brimming with iced sherbet He gave one to Corbett before sitting down opposite, sipping from his own cup as if he had all the time in the world. Corbett tasted the drink gingerly. He knew this man, not by name or reputation, but by smelling the rotten evil about him. Oh, he would be a doctor, an apothecary, but he was also a poisoner. Corbett could not prove that but he recognised the kind of man who could concoct cunning elixirs which could kill a man or woman and leave no trace.
Cesar put his own cup down on the floor.
'Come, Sir,' he said briskly. 'Your business? Why are you here?'
'You have been recommended to me,' Corbett answered brusquely. He half smiled, his eyes narrowed. 'You are a gentleman, Signor, you will understand if I give no names. I am married, and my wife has been unfaithful.' He saw the flicker of amusement in Cesar's face. 'Not for the first time,' Corbett continued hurriedly. 'I am a man of honour, Signor. I cannot divorce her nor can I proclaim myself a cuckold, to be a common joke amongst my tenants and fellows. I have not stinted in providing my wife with every luxury. I have begged for her fidelity.'
'But she does not keep her word?' The apothecary leaned closer, like a priest ready to listen to a confession. 'And now, Signor, you wish to carry out sentence?'
'Yes. I want a powder, a potion, one which will not kill immediately but over a period of months, undetected by her or any physician.'
'Signor, that will be expensive.'
Corbett asked the price and stifled his amazement at the reply. It would take most of the silver he had on him and that would be just for half an ounce of what was needed. Nonetheless, he agreed; the apothecary rose and disappeared into the back room, emerging a few minutes later with a small leather bag. He offered it, smiling, to Corbett.
'You may taste it, Signor. It will not harm you. It's no more dangerous than chalk. But if you took it regularly…' He shrugged.
Corbett took the powder and counted out the silver. The price was worth it. The powder he would throw away but the information the poisoner had provided was invaluable.