‘I am of that disposition, Sir Hugh,’ Lady Mathilda interrupted.
‘Oh, I am sure you are. You really believed you would not be caught. If you felt threatened you’d remove me, like your assassin Moth killed Maltote. What did it matter? Anything to fuel the King’s rage or suspicion. Nevertheless, you took precautions: the Bellman’s days seemed numbered so you killed Master Appleston so that he took the blame.’ For the first time Lady Mathilda’s lower lip trembled. ‘You really didn’t want to do that, did you?’ Corbett asked. ‘Appleston was a symbol of your brother’s magnanimity, his generosity of spirit. But someone had to take the blame. So, late last night, you and Master Moth paid him a visit with a jug of wine, the best claret from Bordeaux. Appleston would sit and talk. He then fell into a deep sleep and you and Master Moth held the bolster over his face, pressing down firmly. Appleston, drugged, unable to resist, gave up his life as easily as the others. Afterwards, with the door locked, you left enough evidence to make anyone think Appleston was the Bellman, then you disappeared back to your chamber.’
‘If,’ Lady Mathilda retorted, ‘that did happen, how can you prove it?’
‘Appleston had retired to bed. He was planning to go to the schools the following morning — he left out fresh robes. He also had a sore on his lip and when you pressed the bolster into his face, you touched the scab and made it bleed. You then turned the bolsters over and put the stained one beneath the others. In trying to depict Appleston as a suicide, you made a dreadful mistake.’
‘Very shrewd,’ Lady Mathilda taunted. ‘But where’s the real proof? The evidence for the Justices?’
‘You have heard some of it.’
‘Mere bird droppings!’ Lady Mathilda scoffed. ‘You can peck and poke to your heart’s content, Master Crow, but you’ll find no juicy tidbits.’
‘Oh, I haven’t started yet,’ Corbett replied, looking round the room. ‘I’ll have you imprisoned in the cellar, Lady Mathilda. Then I and Master Bullock will go through this chamber.’ He smiled into Lady Mathilda’s face. ‘We’ll eventually find the evidence we need: pen, ink, parchment. Oh, and I forgot to tell you, the anchorite at St Michael’s Church, the one you wished you’d dealt with-’ Corbett stared boldly lest she detected he was lying. ‘The anchorite saw Master Moth go into the church with the poisoned wine.’
Lady Mathilda brought back her head. ‘It was too dark! Black as night. How could she see anybody in that gloom?’
‘Who said the anchorite was in her cell?’ Corbett lied. ‘She was just within the doorway. She gave me a description which fits Master Moth. She then recalled,’ Corbett continued remorselessly, ‘the same person pinning the Bellman’s proclamations to the door of St Michael’s Church.’
‘You are lying!’
‘I’m not.’ Corbett drew in his breath for his greatest lie. ‘You see the night Moth went to St Michael’s, he dropped the mallet. Magdalena, hearing the sound, came down from her cell above the porch. She peered through a crack and saw him: the same dark hood and cowl, that boyish, innocent face.’ Corbett rose to his feet to ease the cramp in his legs. ‘I shall tell you what will happen now, Lady Mathilda: I’ll go before the Royal Justices and provide them with the same evidence I have laid before you. They may not issue a warrant for your arrest but they’ll certainly be interested in Master Moth.’ He sat back in his chair. Ranulf was still staring at Lady Mathilda with the same fixed look. ‘You know the mind of the King,’ Corbett continued. ‘He’ll show no mercy. Master Moth will be taken downriver to the Tower and into its dark, dank dungeons. The King’s torturers will be instructed to apply their finest arts.’
‘He’s a deaf mute!’ Lady Mathilda cried.
‘He is an intelligent and malicious young man,’ Corbett retorted. ‘And your accomplice in murder.’
‘He killed Maltote,’ Ranulf declared, stepping forward. ‘He killed my friend. You have my word, Lady Mathilda, that I will join the King’s torturers. They’ll question and question until Master Moth agrees to tell the truth.’
‘Do you want that to happen to Master Moth?’ Corbett asked quietly.
Now Lady Mathilda bowed her head. ‘I’d forgotten about that,’ she murmured. ‘I’d forgotten about Master Moth.’ Lady Mathilda glanced up. ‘What would happen if I told you what I know?’
‘I am sure that the King would be merciful,’ Corbett replied, ignoring Ranulf’s black looks.
Lady Mathilda pulled up the cuffs of her sleeves. She leaned back in her chair, turning sideways to stare into the cold ash of the fire hearth.
‘Put not your trust in princes, Master Corbett,’ she began. ‘Forty years ago, I, and my brother Henry, were scholars here in Oxford. My father, a merchant, hired a master and I joined Henry in his studies. The years passed and Henry became a clerk at the royal court.’ She smiled grimly. ‘Something like yourself, Sir Hugh. I went with him. The old king was still alive but Prince Edward and my brother became firm friends. Then came the civil war with de Montfort threatening to tear the kingdom apart. Many of the court left to join him but my brother and I held fast. I went into London to spy for the King’. She turned in the chair. ‘I risked my life and gave my body so the King could learn the secrets of his enemies. I listened to conversations, picking up information, for who would believe that the pretty little courtesan in the corner thought about anything but wine and silken robes? My brother stayed with the King. He was instrumental in organising Edward’s escape and was always in the thick of the fight. After the war-’ Lady Mathilda waved her hand. ‘Oh, you know Edward. He showered us with gifts, anything we wanted: manors, fields, granges and treasures.’ She looked at Corbett squarely. ‘Brother Henry became sick of the bloodshed and the carnage. He didn’t want to spend his life in some manor house, hunting, fishing and stuffing himself with food and wine. He had this vision of an Oxford college, a Hall of learning. What Henry wanted, so did I. I loved him, Corbett.’ She glanced at Ranulf. ‘I had more passion, Red Hair, in my little finger than you have in your entire body.’
‘Continue,’ Corbett said, wary lest Ranulf be provoked.
‘The years passed,’ Lady Mathilda continued. ‘The college grew from strength to strength. My brother and I spent all our wealth. Then Henry grew ill, and when he died, this pack of weasels turned on his memory.’ Her voice rose to a mocking chant: “‘We don’t want this and we don’t want that!” “What a name for an Oxford college!” “Shouldn’t its statutes of government be changed?” I watched them,’ she added contemptuously. ‘I could see what was going on in their heads: as soon as I died and my body was dumped in some grave, they’d begin to dismantle Sparrow Hall and re-fashion it in their own way. I appealed to Edward for help but he was too busy slaughtering the Scots. I asked for confirmation of my brother’s foundation charter, only to receive a letter from some snivelling clerk saying that the King would attend to the matter on his return to London.’ Lady Mathilda paused, breathing quickly. ‘Where were the King’s promises then, eh, Corbett? How could he ever forget what the Braose family had done for him? Never trust a Plantagenet! One afternoon I was in the library, leafing through that book you found in Appleston’s chamber and the memories flooded back.’ She shook her head, lips moving soundlessly, as if unaware of Corbett.
‘And you decided to become the Bellman?’ he asked.
‘Yes, I thought I’d raise the demons in the King’s soul. So I began to copy out the proclamations. It took days, but about a baker’s dozen were done and Master Moth was despatched to display them.’ She smiled grimly. ‘Poor boy! He didn’t really understand what I was doing but he was the perfect weapon. If he was stopped he could act the beggar. Who’d ever be suspicious of a deaf mute? I showed him the mark of the bell and he carried a little bag of nails and a mallet.’ She clapped her hands in glee. ‘Oh, I felt such relief!’ She smiled in satisfaction. ‘Then I wrote to the King telling him about the traitor at Sparrow Hall and that I would search him out.’ She pursed her lips. ‘Oh, I had his attention then! The King was all ears! There were couriers and letters sent under the Privy Seal to his “dear and loyal cousin Mathilda”. I never meant to kill,’ she added as an afterthought, ‘but I made a mistake. The King might have been frightened but Copsale wasn’t. He was intent on changes here and he didn’t like me. Everyone knew he had a weak heart so his death would not appear suspicious. I raided Churchley’s store room of potions and helped Master Copsale to his higher reward.’ She shrugged. ‘I thought it would end there,’ she continued in a matter-of-fact voice. ‘I really did, but old Ascham was sharper than I thought. He was suspicious of both Appleston and me: he began to hint and make allusions, sometimes I would catch him watching me at the table. He had to die. It was so easy. I slipped into the garden with Master Moth. He tapped on the shutters, and when Robert opened them, I loosened the bolt, threw in that note, closed the window and slammed the shutters close: the bar, freshly oiled by Master Moth, fell into place.’