‘And?’ Corbett asked.
‘Everywhere I go, master, I have the feeling it has already been inspected very cleverly, thoroughly scrutinised for something.’
‘You are sure?’ Corbett turned in the chair.
‘Certain, master. Not just an ordinary search, but something else. Now whether it took place before Sir Rauf was killed or afterwards . . .’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t know.’
Under Ranulf’s direction, the meal was hastily served to all who wanted it in the hall, a long, gloomy chamber warmed by the fire roaring in the hearth. Desroches and Parson Warfeld returned, but Corbett kept his own counsel. The meal continued quietly; even the guards, sitting at tables or on the floor with their backs to the wall, whispered amongst themselves, aware of the oppressive atmosphere. Afterwards Corbett had the hall swiftly prepared. A high-backed chair was placed at the centre of the high table on the dais, a similar chair on the other side, with stools at either end for Ranulf and Parson Warfeld. Corbett ignored protests from Castledene and others at being kept waiting so long. Ranulf undid the chancery bags, taking out a replica of the privy seal, a crucifix, and Corbett’s commission with its huge purple seals. This was unrolled in the centre of the table, kept flat by weights placed at each corner. The crucifix on its stand was moved to the right of this, the royal seal to the left. Corbett called for his war belt, drew his sword and laid it across the commission. Ranulf busied himself with his own chancery tray, aware of the deepening silence amongst the others gathered further down the hall. They knew what was about to happen. Corbett had the candelabra lit and brought closer. He grasped the sword in one hand, the seal in the other, then held them up.
‘Edward, by the grace of God,’ he intoned, ‘King of England, Lord of Ireland and Duke of Aquitaine, to all sheriffs, bailiffs, officers of the crown and all faithful subjects, know you by these letters patent I have appointed Sir Hugh Corbett, Keeper of the Secret Seal, to investigate all matters affecting our Crown and Person in our royal city of Canterbury. All subjects on their loyalty to the Crown . . .’ The solemn words rolled out, Corbett’s powerful voice echoing through the hall as he laid a duty on each and every one to tell the truth, which they would swear on the Book of the Gospels, adding that anyone who told a lie was guilty of perjury and would suffer the dire consequences. Corbett knew the commission word for word, and he emphasised the power and the strength of the royal warrant. At the end, having given the place and date of its issuing, he put the seal back on the table, his sword across the commission, and gestured at the others to approach the dais.
‘You have heard what the King has ordered,’ he declared, his voice still carrying. His gaze moved from face to face. ‘These are important matters. Master Ranulf here will keep a fair summary of what is said. Parson Warfeld will swear each person on oath that they tell the truth. I shall call you one by one. You shall answer my questions!’
The hall was cleared. Corbett declared he would have no need for the city watch; Chanson would guard the door. Ranulf bowed his head to hide his smile, then gazed cheekily across at the Clerk of the Royal Stables. Chanson was full of his own importance as he took up position, war belt strapped about him, an arbalest already primed on a bench beside him. Ranulf knew the truth. There were two things you never asked Chanson to do: the first was to sing, and the second was to touch any weapon, as Chanson would do more harm to friend than foe.
Corbett coughed, and Ranulf’s smile faded. With the hall empty except for a highly nervous Parson Warfeld, Corbett took his chair, snapped his fingers and beckoned Warfeld on to the dais. The parson sat on the high stool and placed his hand on the Book of the Gospels, repeating the words Corbett said, promising to tell the truth or face the full penalties of statute and canon law, under which anyone guilty of gross perjury would face the hideous sentence of being crushed to death.
‘Very well.’ Corbett relaxed in the chair and stared hard at the cleric. ‘Parson Warfeld, you are a priest at St Alphege?’
‘I am, Sir Hugh.’
‘For how many years?’
‘Two.’
‘Did you know Adam Blackstock, Hubert the Monk or Blackstock’s ship
The Waxman
? Is there any connection between you and that ship, its captain or his half-brother?’
Warfeld opened his mouth, then glanced quickly at the Book of the Gospels, its leather covering etched with a brilliant cross of gold.
‘I . . .’
‘The truth!’ Corbett insisted.
Warfeld lifted his face. ‘I had a cousin,’ he declared, ‘a sprightly young man. He lived near Gravesend.’
‘He was a sailor?’
‘Yes. He worked the cogs between London and Dordrecht; sometimes he joined the wine fleet.’
‘And?’ Corbett asked. ‘Parson Warfeld, you are on oath. Be brief and succinct.’
‘His ship was attacked by
The Waxman
. My kinsman was his widowed mother’s only son. Blackstock took no prisoners; the ship and all its crew simply disappeared off the face of the earth.’
‘And revenge?’ Corbett asked.
‘What revenge, Sir Hugh? Blackstock is dead. Hubert has disappeared. My cousin’s death was one of those tragedies; there are many in the city of Canterbury who have suffered similar.’
‘And there is no other link or connection between you and
The Waxman
?’
Warfeld pulled a face and shook his head.
‘Though you didn’t tell me that at the beginning?’
‘Sir Hugh, you didn’t ask.’
Corbett half smiled. ‘Very well, very well.’ He tapped the table. ‘Were Sir Rauf and Lady Adelicia ever shriven by you?’
‘Yes,’ Warfeld replied. ‘At Easter or thereabouts, as canon law dictates. Sir Hugh, I cannot break the seal of confession.’
‘I’m not asking you to. Their marriage was sterile, loveless?’
Warfeld nodded. ‘From the little I know.’
‘Was Sir Rauf impotent?’
‘Sir Hugh, Desroches and I have spoken on that. I was his priest, not his physician.’ Corbett sensed the good parson knew more, but decided not to press the matter.
‘Did you know Lady Adelicia had a lover?’
Warfeld’s eyes slid away. Corbett studied this priest, fresh-faced, plump, well fed, with a glib tongue for ready answers. Warfeld stared down at the tabletop. Corbett realised how they were both circled by pools of light from the candelabra, and beyond that was the darkness, threatening, quiet, concealing the truth about what had happened in this dreadful house.
‘Parson Warfeld, I asked you a question. You are on oath. Did the Lady Adelicia have a lover?’
‘I’ve told you the rumours,’ the priest replied grudgingly. ‘She was seen at The Chequer of Hope, as was Wendover, captain of the city guard.’ Warfeld joined his hands as if in prayer. ‘Sir Hugh, I can join with Desroches and speculate about Sir Rauf and Lady Adelicia, but I cannot tell you facts. Canon law very clearly states a confessor must be prudent—’
‘Very good,’ Corbett interrupted, ‘but there were rumours that Lady Adelicia had a lover, and Wendover was the man named?’
‘Yes, but no one dared speak about it. Sir Rauf could be a vicious man. He may only have had Lechlade as a servant, but if he wanted to, he could whistle up bully boys from the city.’
‘Did you know anything about Decontet’s past?’
‘No, only that he was born in Canterbury. He prospered, he used the riches of this life to buy the world and so lose his immortal soul.’ The priest shrugged.
‘And on the day he died, that Thursday, where were you?’
‘I have told you, I was in my church. A boy burst in; he said he’d been sent by Physician Desroches and that there was something very wrong at Sir Rauf’s house so I must come swiftly. I gathered my cloak, put on some boots – the weather was cold as I remember – and hurried over.’
‘And when you arrived?’
‘Desroches and Lechlade were inside the house – standing in the porch. Sir Rauf’s chamber was locked. Desroches hammered on it but there was no answer. We made the decision to break down the door. Desroches told us to concentrate on the hinges. Lechlade had informed us about the lock, how it was special and its key held only by Sir Rauf. We snapped the hinges, forced the door and entered the chamber. It was confusing. The door itself had slipped out of the lock so it had to be held, then leaned against the wall. Candles were burning, though some had guttered out. Sir Rauf lay on the floor, face towards his desk. The base of his skull,’ Parson Warfeld tapped the back of his own head, ‘was smashed, the blood forming like a puddle around him. I did what I could. I whispered the words of absolution, the rite of the dead, then we waited. Oh yes, we did search the house, but we discovered no further disturbance. We tried Lady Adelicia’s chamber and found it locked, then she returned and came into Sir Rauf’s chancery chamber. By then Desroches had sent for Castledene, who also arrived.’
‘Tell me precisely,’ Corbett demanded, ‘what happened.’
‘Well, Lady Adelicia and her maid were riding palfries. They came through the main gate and on to the forecourt. Lechlade went out to help them dismount and brought them in. Desroches told her the news. Lady Adelicia did not seem very upset. She viewed the corpse and answered the Mayor’s questions – or tried to. Sir Walter examined her cloak—’
‘Why?’
‘He said that was the procedure to be followed.’
‘And where was the cloak?’
‘In Sir Rauf’s chancery chamber.’
‘And?’
‘Bloodstains were found. Sir Walter asked Lady Adelicia where the blood might have come from. She replied that perhaps she may have passed a flesher’s stall or brushed a wall in the shambles and stained it. Sir Walter insisted that we visit her chamber.’
‘And who had keys to that?’
‘Ah yes, I remember that well.’ Warfeld’s fingers fluttered to his lips. ‘When we found Sir Rauf, we also found a keyring on his belt. Lechlade recognised that. Three keys in all: one to his coffer, one to his own chamber held only by him, and the third to his wife’s, but we didn’t force that door. We thought it would be improper until Lady Adelicia returned.’
‘And Lady Adelicia had her own key?’
‘Yes, Sir Walter insisted that we go to her chamber and search it. By then she was under suspicion. We went up. Lady Adelicia unlocked the door and we entered. We found a napkin stained with dried blood lying on the floor, as if dropped in a hurry. Lady Adelicia proclaimed her innocence and denied any knowledge of it. Castledene ordered the room to be searched, and more bloodstained napkins were found behind the bolsters on her bed. Sir Walter immediately took her into his care as his prisoner, saying she would have to return with him to the Guildhall. After that,’ Warfeld shrugged, ‘the rest you know.’
‘And why did Desroches go to the house?’
‘Sir Hugh, I don’t know. He was Sir Rauf’s physician.’
‘Specially hired by him?’
‘I think so, but you’d best ask him. Sir Rauf spoke highly of him. That was one thing Sir Rauf cared about: his own health. No physician dislikes gold, Sir Hugh, and Sir Rauf could be generous when he wanted, or when it suited him.’
‘Was Desroches a constant visitor?’
Warfeld pursed his lips and shook his head. ‘Not that I know of. He was simply his physician. I think he visited both Sir Rauf and Lady Adelicia. I know little more except one thing . . .’
‘What?’ Corbett asked.
Ranulf’s quill squeaked as it raced across the parchment.
‘Lady Adelicia’s journeys to Canterbury were fairly common, at least once a week. Now, Sir Hugh, I am parson of St Alphege, and one of our problems is mice.’ He smiled. ‘I have more mice than I have parishioners. I wage constant war against them. Now and again I go out for a walk to get away from their squeaking, the dirt between the benches. God’s fresh air can be so soothing. I walk across the wasteland. Sometimes I’d see Lady Adelicia leave, but on occasion I would glimpse her young maid, Berengaria, come hurrying back.’
‘On foot?’ Corbett asked.
‘Oh yes. I mean, the journey into Canterbury is not far. Lady Adelicia liked to ride there. From what I gather, they would both stable their horses in a nearby tavern and go on to The Chequer of Hope. Lady Adelicia acted foolishly. She thought she was in disguise but people could see through that. If you go back to the same place regularly, it’s only a matter of time before tongues begin to clack.’
‘But you sometimes glimpsed Berengaria hurrying back?’
‘Oh, certainly, and she did do so furtively.’ He coughed. ‘Berengaria now lodges with me, but I have not asked her myself. I dare not intrude. I tell you this,’ the parson stammered, ‘because others may have seen her. I only saw her return on two or three occasions. I thought that confirmed the rumours. I mean, when a lady goes to the market, her maid always accompanies her, so it’s a matter of logic, isn’t it? What was Lady Adelicia doing so as to dismiss her maid, to let her go where she wished? But,’ Warfeld shrugged, ‘you’d best ask them yourselves.’
Corbett felt uneasy at Parson Warfeld’s glib answers. Was the man just nervous or was he hiding something, simply unwilling to become involved?
‘Are you finished with me, Sir Hugh?’
‘No, Parson Warfeld, I’m certainly not, and I want you to stay until I am. You are to administer the oath to each witness on the Book of the Gospels. When you have done this, you may leave and I will quickly question each person. So, you’d best bring in Wendover.’
A short while later the captain of the city guard swaggered insolently in, sword slapping against the top of his boot. Corbett glanced quickly at Ranulf and winked. The Senior Clerk in the Chancery of the Green Wax sprang to his feet, roaring at Wendover to show more decorum. How dare he come into the presence of the King’s justice bearing arms? Did he not know the law on treason? The sword belt was immediately unbuckled and handed to Chanson and a more humble captain took his seat to mumble the oath. Corbett waited until Parson Warfeld had left.