‘Master?’ The clerk crouched down. ‘Master, you’ve got to wake up, it’s well past compline. You’ve been asleep for hours. We have news.’
Corbett, still half asleep, pulled himself up and swung his legs off the bed. Ranulf went across, fetched a stool and sat opposite him.
‘What news?’ Corbett asked.
‘Those three names. .’ Ranulf paused as Corbett took a tinder and lit the small candelabra on the bedside table. He pulled both table and candelabra closer towards him.
‘The three names, Ranulf?’
‘All senior clerks of the chancery, old men. They died rather mysteriously in the eighth and ninth year of the present king’s reign.’
‘Mysteriously?’
‘One at a time. Their deaths,’ Ranulf shrugged, ‘were seen simply as accidents, but it’s strange that Boniface Ippegrave should list their names. Rescales fell down the steps of the old turret tower — you know where the chancery records are stored. He was an old man, the light was poor, he stumbled and broke his neck. Furnival? Well, he liked his wine and often drank deep at night. He also liked the river; his corpse was fished from the Thames close to King’s Steps. The verdict was that he was so inebriated he must have missed his footing and fallen into the water.’
‘And Bassetlawe?’
‘He died rather quietly, sitting at the buttery table enjoying a tankard of ale and some bread and cheese. He was found with his head on his arm as if asleep, but his heart had failed. Master, you don’t think they were accidents?’
‘A month ago I would have said they were.’ Corbett pulled his boots towards him, put them on and got to his feet, picking up his sword-belt. He rearranged his cloak. ‘There’s something else?’
‘Yes, master.’ Ranulf snuffed the candle and followed Corbett out of the chamber into the cold passageway outside. Only then did Corbett, glancing through a window, realise how long he’d slept.
‘I went to Evesham’s house and made diligent enquiries, and sure enough, I was given the name of Elizabeth Vavasour, a sort of maid and nurse to Lady Emma. When she retired, Evesham used his influence to obtain a corrody for her, a pension at St Catherine’s by the Tower. I went there and spoke to the master of the hospital, who introduced me to Elizabeth. I told her she must come to the chancery chamber after compline this evening, that it was urgent, King’s business.’
‘Did she object?’
‘Far from it. She was looking forward to a journey upriver, even if it was through the icy blackness of night.’ Ranulf grinned. ‘Be careful, master, she chatters like a sparrow on a branch. She is full of praise for Sir Walter Evesham, loudly proclaiming that she’ll brook no ill against him. She’ll be here soon.’
By the time Corbett reached his chancery chamber, washed his hands and face, prepared his table and instructed Ranulf and Chanson what to do, Elizabeth Vavasour had arrived. Two bargemen had escorted her through the palace corridors, and by the look on their faces, Corbett realised that they were more than happy to hand over their passenger. Elizabeth Vavasour not only chattered like a sparrow, she looked like one, her small nut-brown face framed by a white wimple above the grey garb of the hospital of St Catherine’s. Despite her age, she moved quickly, plumping herself down on a stool, her little black eyes darting around the candlelit chamber before coming to rest on Corbett.
‘So you’re Sir Hugh, I’ve heard of you. You must have known my master?’
‘Slightly.’
‘He was a good man, Sir Hugh. I know he made mistakes,’ she leaned across the table, her voice falling to a conspiratorial whisper, ‘but he was good, very good indeed.’
‘Tell me, Mistress Elizabeth, you worked for Lord Walter and Lady Emma?’
‘Oh yes, your grace.’
Corbett glanced sharply at Ranulf and Chanson standing behind the old lady, a threatening glance against their laughter.
‘Oh yes, your grace,’ she repeated, ‘I worked for them for many years. I was hired by Lady Emma when she first married Sir Walter. He was very ambitious, determined to rise high in the royal service. Sometimes he did not feel at home with the other clerks, but he soon won the King’s favour.’
‘And the Lady Emma?’
‘She was quiet, very pious, engaged in good works.’
‘And their marriage, it was happy?’
Mistress Elizabeth’s eyes rounded, lips pursed. ‘Of course, Lord Walter was devoted to her.’
‘There was another woman, Beatrice, Lady Emma’s maid?’
‘Oh, her!’ Mistress Elizabeth snorted, and turned slightly, glancing at Corbett out of the corner of her eye. ‘She had airs and graces, a rather haughty young woman. She kept herself to herself. I think there was bad blood between her and Lord Walter, though I never knew the reason. Sir Hugh, I was quite happy with my own little tasks. There was the usual chatter, but in the main, it was a happy household.’
Corbett studied this old woman. She was telling the truth. Walter Evesham had looked after her and made sure that in her old age she’d never starve. He had provided her with a comfortable, warm chamber at St Catherine’s, all the food she could eat and the delicious gossip of other retired retainers.
‘And Lady Emma’s death?’
‘Oh, sir, an evening like this. Lady Emma and Beatrice went out late in the afternoon. They were taking Mary loaves to the almshouses somewhere near the old Roman wall. Darkness had fallen. Lady Emma was courageous. She had Beatrice with her, so there was no link boy or guard. We don’t really know what happened; the attackers were never arrested. Beatrice fled, but Lady Emma was beaten to the ground, her head staved in, her money, goods and all the jewellery she wore taken.’
‘And Lord Walter?’
‘He was overcome with grief. He locked himself in his chamber for days and refused to come out. He didn’t eat or drink. We organised her funeral at St Botulph’s.’
‘And this Beatrice?’
‘Lord Walter scoured London, and her name was proclaimed at St Paul’s Cross. The mayor, sheriffs and bailiffs were all advised, but she had vanished, disappeared off the face of God’s earth. And of course, Sir Hugh, as you know, life goes on. Look at me, I’m a widow four times over! Oh yes, met my husbands at the church door and within a few years followed their coffins in. Surely the Good Book is true in what it says: life is changed not taken away.’
Corbett glanced up. Ranulf had turned his back and walked away, shoulders shaking.
‘Well,’ Mistress Elizabeth blinked, ‘two years after Lady Emma’s death, Sir Walter married again, the Lady Clarice. She was a hussy. I didn’t like her. By then I was growing too frail for heavy duties. Lord Walter said he would give me safe, comfortable lodgings, and so he did, God bless his name. Now, Sir Hugh, if you have finished, I would like to go back, if possible by barge. I know it’s dark, but the lantern horns are bright and those bargemen are so kind and attentive, they listen to every word I say. I must be back soon. There’s a special supper tonight. Cook has offered lampreys cooked in a rich sauce with soft white bread. Oh, every time I eat, every night I press my head against a feather-filled bolster, I always praise Sir Walter, and say a prayer for him. Terrible what happened, wasn’t it, Sir Hugh?’
Corbett nodded. ‘Mistress Elizabeth, I can see that you’re very busy.’ He got to his feet and, taking a silver piece out of his purse, stretched across and placed it in her vein-streaked hand. ‘Please take that, buy some comforts for yourself. I thank you. God bless you, mistress.’
11
Luparius: a wolf-hunter
Mistress Elizabeth, still chattering, allowed Chanson to escort her out of the chamber. Corbett sat down and heaved a sigh. ‘Ranulf,’ he glanced up, ‘when Chanson returns, go about your business. You must be hungry. One final thing, send a courier to Cripplegate ward, find out who holds the keys to St Botulph’s and have them brought here.’
When Ranulf had left, Corbett paced the chamber for a while. He shifted the brazier close to his desk, moving candles and lamps to create a pool of light and warmth, and settled himself. He tried to imagine being Ippegrave, so close and secretive, then smiled: he was that already.Yet in truth, Boniface had been different from him, a bachelor with a doting sister and a secret lover whose name began with M. Corbett smoothed the piece of vellum in front of him, dipped his quill pen in the ink and began to write.