‘Heresy?’
‘Heresy,’ Edward agreed. ‘Lord Scrope is a strict believer. Hewas encouraged in this by his personal chaplain, a Dominican, Brother Gratian.’
Corbett sat back, allowing himself to relax. Although he didn’t like it, he realised why he had been summoned here. The Dominicans worked as papal inquisitors, constantly vigilant against heresy.
‘Lord Scrope turned on the Free Brethren. He summoned up his levies and attacked them as they sheltered in the derelict church of Mordern. Those who survived,’ Edward sighed, ‘Lord Scrope summarily hanged from the oak trees around the church.’
Corbett stared hard at the King as he recalled stories of a heinous massacre in Essex that had seeped into the Chancery offices at Westminster.
‘Lord Scrope maintains they were outlaws, heretics,’ Edward continued. ‘He was supported by Brother Gratian with letters and scripts from his minister general as well as the curial offices of the Pope at Avignon. He claims he has God’s own mandate to root out heresy whenever he sees it.’
‘This Gratian, how long has he been with Lord Scrope?’
‘God knows!’ Edward retorted. ‘He certainly does not act on my authority.’
‘So the Free Brethren of the Holy Spirit are all dead?’
‘Yes, but to make matters worse, Scrope refuses to have their corpses buried. They still lie out at Mordern or dangle from the trees. Scrope says they should rot where they died as a warning to others.’
‘You could send in commissioners.’
‘Oh no.’ Edward smiled. ‘Lord Scrope is supported by HolyMother Church whilst both Lords and Commons are hot against such wandering groups.’
‘And the good people of Mistleham?’
‘Encouraged by their newly elected mayor, Henry Claypole, they were only too willing to support Lord Scrope in his assault on the Free Brethren. You know how it is,’ the King added bitterly. ‘A shire town, a community hostile to strangers. If a bucket went missing, the Free Brethren were responsible. If a woman was seduced, the Free Brethren were to blame, especially with their singular views on the sins of the flesh.’
‘And there was some truth in these accusations?’
‘Of course! The Free Brethren were what they claimed to be, expounders of free love, professional beggars living on their wits as well as the charity of others.’ Edward rubbed his hands together. ‘Look, Corbett, Scrope acted sine auctoritate – without authority. I want to warn him that that must never happen again, and under my authority, we must have those corpses buried, secretly but properly.’
‘And the others?’ Corbett asked. ‘Anyone of note?’
‘Henry Claypole, the mayor. A true firebrand. Some say he’s Scrope’s illegitimate son, a by-blow, the result of his dalliance with a certain Mistress Alice de Tuddenham. Claypole believes he is the legitimate heir to Scrope, whom he served as a squire in Outremer. A bustling, fiery man, Claypole is used to the cut and thrust of politics, though I think he’s an empty vessel that makes a great deal of sound. The parish priest is Father Thomas. He served with us in Wales as chaplain. I promoted him to many benefices but then he converted and took true religion, claiming he wanted to serve God’s poor. He resigned all his benefices andsinecures. His family hails from Mistleham, so I appointed him to the church there, or at least,’ Edward grinned, ‘Scrope and I persuaded the bishop to do so. Then there’s Lady Hawisa. I suspect she has no real love for her husband, but she is faithful enough, vivacious, intelligent and comely, though a little tart of tongue. Finally, there’s Scrope’s sister Marguerite.’ Edward stretched and smiled. ‘Marguerite Scrope,’ he repeated. ‘Fourteen years ago, Corbett – though perhaps you don’t remember her – she was one of the leading beauties of the court: a singular sort of beauty, different from the type of woman who sits in her window bower and makes calf’s eyes at any knight who passes by. No, Marguerite loved life, dancing, hunting and hawking. I often teased her that she should have been born a man. She thanked me courteously then roundly informed me she was happy with the way she was. By the time her brother came home from Outremer, something had happened to Marguerite; she became withdrawn and reflective. She entered the Benedictine order as a nun, her qualities were soon noted and, with a little help from friends at home and court, she was appointed Abbess of St Frideswide, which lies in its own grounds just outside Mistleham. I doubt if she has really changed. I had a letter recently signed by both her and Father Thomas, protesting at her brother’s destruction of the Free Brethren and demanding that I exercise my authority to ensure their honourable burial. Never mind them, Corbett! Essex is vital, a shire that straddles all the great roads to and from London and the eastern ports. I don’t want any disturbance there. I want this settled. I’ll be visiting Colchester soon. I want Scrope brought to book before the Sagittarius or Bowman does it for me.’
‘Sagittarius?’
‘The Bowman,’ Edward explained. ‘A mysterious killer who appeared in Mistleham without warning just after the New Year, as if that town didn’t have enough problems. An archer, a skilled one, armed with a longbow, the type we brought from Wales. He announces his coming only by the blast of a hunting horn. Some people claim he’s Satan, or a ghost or one of the Free Brethren come back to haunt them. When the horn blows, somewhere in Mistleham, or on the roads outside, a person always dies: a wellplaced arrow to the throat, face or chest. So far five or six people have been killed in this way. Most of them young, cut down like running deer.’
‘Attempts have been made to capture him?’
‘Of course.’ Edward laughed drily. ‘Hugh, you’ve served in Wales; think of the power of those longbows. Yew staffs, the ash arrow whistling through the air. A master bowman, a skilled archer, can be a silent, deadly killer. Shafts can be loosed in a matter of heartbeats, then he disappears into the forest or an alleyway with no sight or sound.’
‘You mentioned the Free Brethren of the Holy Spirit. Could any of them have survived the massacre and be exacting vengeance?’
‘I doubt it,’ Edward replied, chewing the corner of his lip. ‘The Free Brethren apparently carried no arms, though there are rumours to the contrary. Even if they did, such people are not skilled in the arts of war.’
‘And this is not directed against Lord Scrope but the townspeople of Mistleham?’
‘Well it could be.’ Edward paused. ‘Hugh, Lord Scrope committed murder. If the Free Brethren had perpetrated a felony,they should have appeared before the justices of oyer and terminer or even been summoned before the assizes, but to be brutally cut down, massacred? Now I can’t appear to be protecting a group of wandering rogues against a manor lord, definitely not one as powerful as Scrope, but if this bowman continues his attacks, sooner or later people will look for a scapegoat. I don’t want some uprising in Essex. I want the matter brought to an end, and you’re the best man to do that.’
‘And you are sure, none of the Free Brethren survived?’
‘I doubt it. Father Thomas reports there were fourteen in number, and there were fourteen corpses, each carrying the brand of their guild upon them. A cross,’ Edward patted his chest just beneath his throat, ‘here. Father Thomas tried to reason with Scrope, but that ruthless bastard is adamant. The corpses still remain unburied. No one escaped.’ The King sucked on his lips, then gestured round. ‘You must be wondering why I brought you here. This is my treasure house, Corbett – evilly looted. I kept my precious goods here, gifts from old friends and Eleanor …’ He blinked away the tears that always came when he mentioned his beloved first wife, Eleanor of Castile, now buried beneath her marble mausoleum in the abbey above them. ‘You know the story, Corbett? I was in Outremer when my father died. Eleanor was with me. A secret sect of assassins who lived with their master, the Old Man of the Mountains, in their rocky eyrie in the Syrian desert, had marked me down for death. They struck, the assassin stealing into my tent with a poisoned dagger. I killed him but he still wounded me. Eleanor, God love her, sucked the poison from the gash and saved me.’ Edward sighed noisily. ‘I dedicated the dagger to St Edward the Confessor and placed it here in the crypt.Those whoresons stole it! One of the gang, John Le Riche, tried to sell it in Mistleham, but he was trapped by Scrope and his minion Claypole. They hanged Le Riche out of hand and now hold the dagger. Scrope, to impress me, is acting the hero-saviour, but I don’t believe his tale. I want that dagger back and the truth behind Le Riche’s abrupt capture and even swifter execution. Do what you have to.’ Edward searched in his wallet, pulled out a small scroll and handed this to Corbett, who unrolled it. The writing was in the King’s hand, the writ sealed with his privy seaclass="underline" ‘To all officers of the Crown, sheriffs, bailiffs and mayors. What the bearer of this letter has done, or is doing, is in the King’s name and for the benefit of both Crown and Realm …’