‘Evesham, Engleat, they must have searched for you?’
‘Boniface was clever. He openly lodged with his sister but he hired secret lodgings for me in Paternoster Row. Because of what he earned, as well as his gambling, he was able to furnish good chambers, warm and snug.You guessed correctly. I assumed another name, Mathilda. I was always very skilled with the needle and I made good silver as a seamstress. Time passed. Boniface became busy on this task or that, but what he called Evesham’s web truly fascinated him. He came to realise that Evesham seemed to exercise power and influence well beyond Westminster. He couldn’t really decide between Engleat and Evesham; was it an unholy alliance? Was Evesham really innocent of any wrongdoing? Was Engleat the guilty one? Or did Evesham just turn a blind eye to his companion’s malice? He played with the problem as any scholar would a vexed question of logic, constructing puzzles, composing verses—’
‘I stand in the centre, guiltless,’ Corbett interrupted, ‘and point to the four corners.’
‘Yes, yes,’ Beatrice replied, ‘that was one of them. Boniface, however, was determined on one conclusion. He truly believed that through Evesham and Engleat he could unmask the Mysterium. He never really told me the details, though he listed names, possibilities. He kept going back to the death of Lady Evesham and those involved. He believed Coroner Fleschner could have done more, and wondered if that official was in the pay of, or being blackmailed by, Engleat, Evesham or both of them. In the days before Boniface’s death—’
‘So you were certain that he was killed?’ Corbett asked.
‘Boniface would never desert me. In those last days he became frenetically busy, so absorbed with the problem I did not tell him I was enceinte, expecting a child. Then it happened. Rumours swept the ward about how Boniface Ippegrave, arrested in Southwark, had fled to St Botulph’s in Cripplegate. I wanted to visit him, but he had warned me to be very wary, especially of Engleat. I did come down here but the church was closely guarded by soldiers and bailiffs. I became frightened and went into hiding, and then Boniface disappeared. Oh, I heard the rumours, the gossip and the chatter, which over the weeks gradually faded. In my heart I knew Boniface was dead. If he had survived, if he had escaped, he would have come back to me.’ Her voice shook. I grew deeply concerned for myself,’ she stretched across and grasped Lapwing’s arm, ‘and for my unborn child. I fled to a distant kinswoman in Winchester, where Stephen was born. I took yet another name and professed to be a widow, and an old wool merchant, wealthy and kind, asked for my hand in marriage. He accepted Stephen as his own, educated him, sent him to the schools then on to the halls of Oxford . . .’
‘Do you think,’ Ranulf demanded, ‘that Evesham suspected Boniface was sheltering you? Was that another reason he turned on him?’
‘Perhaps,’ Beatrice murmured, ‘but what danger would I be to Evesham? A maid who’d fled when her mistress was murdered.’
‘So tell me, mistress,’ Corbett intervened. ‘You are on oath. I ask you, on your loyalty to the King, have you ever told any other living person apart from your son what you have just confessed to me?’
‘No,’ she replied flatly. ‘I wish to God I could say I had. I know what you are going to conclude, Sir Hugh.’
‘Stephen Escolier,’ Corbett’s voice turned hard, ‘also known as the Lapwing. You are young, energetic and skilled. You had the motive and the strength to kill Sir Walter Evesham, his henchman Engleat, Waldene and Hubert the Monk. Coroner Fleschner was also guilty of crimes against your mother, so he too died. Clarice, Evesham’s second wife, you viewed as guilty by association with Evesham. You killed her and the man who tried to protect her, Richard Fink. You also entered this church and tried to slay Evesham’s son, Parson John. On occasions you took your father’s name, on others you aped the Mysterium, the assassin your father hunted. The evidence against you weighs heavy. Can you give me any reason why I should not arraign you for murder before King’s Bench?’
‘No, no,’ whimpered Beatrice, ‘no, it can’t be!’
‘Mistress, who else knew what you did? Either your son is guilty, or both of you are. Remember, you’ve still to account for your own conduct in escaping the murderous attack upon your former mistress Lady Emma.’
‘I know, I know,’ Beatrice whispered. ‘To quote the psalm, that sin is always before me. I knew that one day I would have to pay a terrible price.’
‘Master Stephen,’ Corbett rose to his feet, ‘how say you?’
The accused clerk, face pale and taut, just stared back. He opened his mouth, but then closed it and stared beseechingly at his mother.
‘Sir Ralph?’
Sandewic leapt to this feet, shouting orders at the guards near the door. Lapwing broke from his fear.
‘They deserved it!’ he screamed, lunging at Corbett. Chanson came up behind and grasped him by the shoulder, and Ranulf ran around the table and helped him pull Lapwing back.
‘They deserved it!’ Lapwing screamed again. ‘They killed my father, and given the opportunity they would have killed me. God’s judgement was visited on them and they died for their sins. I have no regrets, do you hear, king’s clerk?’ He licked the froth from his lips. ‘But I’m also innocent,’ he moaned.
‘You face many charges.’ Corbett approached and tapped him on the chest. ‘One hideous murder after another, then there’s the affray at Newgate and the poor innocents who died in and around this church. You have a great deal to answer for.’ He grasped Lapwing’s wrist between his hands. ‘Do you think,’ he hissed, ‘that because you are a clerk you can claim benefit of clergy, that your powerful friends Staunton and Blandeford will help you? I tell you this, sir,’ he ignored the piteous sobbing from Beatrice, who sat crumpled on a stool, ‘you will never be a free man. Sir Ralph, have your guards take Master Lapwing to the Tower. Lodge him in the keep.’
‘And his mother?’ asked the constable.
Corbett crouched beside Beatrice, pulling her hands away from her face. ‘Mistress, the case against your son presses sorely hard, as it does against you. You may return to your lodgings. If you attempt to flee, that will be taken as a sign not only of your own guilt but also your son’s. If you’re captured fleeing you could be hanged out of hand. Do you understand me? You must know the law and its penalties.’
Beatrice, face ghostly white, stared back, eyes shocked, lips trembling.
‘Master Sandewic, have someone escort Mistress Beatrice back to her lodgings. Lapwing, you’re for the Tower. Perhaps the King’s questioners can elicit the truth from you.’
‘I’ll not be put to the torture,’ Lapwing whispered.
‘What you have done,’ Corbett intervened swiftly, ‘is a matter for the courts. Now take him away.’
Lapwing, recovered from his shock, tried to break free of his guards, shouting curses at Corbett before turning tearfully to his mother, who, escorted by two archers, trailed sorrowfully behind. The procession left the church, the door slamming shut behind them. Sandewic grabbed his sword-belt and cloak from one of his henchmen and fastened these on, asking Corbett if the business was finished. He replied that it was, and was making to go down the nave when Ranulf plucked him by the sleeve.
‘The evidence against Lapwing weighs heavy. His own mother’s confession was damning enough. After all, who else knew?’ He pointed down the nave. ‘They certainly didn’t.’
Corbett nodded, eager to join the remaining three. They’d watched the drama unfold and were now staring expectantly towards him.
‘Sir Hugh?’
‘Yes, Ranulf?’
‘Lapwing had no war dog. You never mentioned that murderous assault on you.’
‘Think.’ Corbett walked back. ‘Think, Ranulf.’ He raised his voice so that it echoed through the hollow church. ‘Lapwing was as accustomed to dealing with the wolfsheads and outlaws in the Sanctuaries at Westminster and White Friars as we are. In this city you can hire killers by the dozen. I am sure he did that. Thank God he failed. I’d be grateful,’ he gestured around, ‘if you’d douse the braziers, the lights and candles. Lock this church behind me.’
‘I’ll do it, and then . . .’
‘And then what, Ranulf?’
‘Certain business in the city.’ Ranulf smiled, eager to evade Corbett’s hard glance. ‘We should celebrate, Sir Hugh. You’ll return to Leighton Manor?’
‘In a while,’ Corbett retorted. ‘When this is truly finished.’
He walked down the nave to where Brother Cuthbert stood with Adelicia resting on his arm. Parson John beside them raised his hand in blessing.
‘Sir Hugh,’ asked the priest, ‘is it true? We’ve heard some of it. Will Master Lapwing be indicted for these hideous murders?’
‘He’ll certainly go before King’s Bench.’
‘And his mother?’ Brother Cuthbert asked.
‘She too will face charges.’ Corbett walked across and extended his hand for Parson John to grasp. The priest’s grip was limp, fingers cold. ‘I’m sorry,’ Corbett murmured, holding his gaze. ‘Your mother being brutally murdered. I tell you this, sir, the woman who calls herself Mistress Beatrice has a great deal to answer for.’
‘Could she have been an accomplice?’ Parson John asked.
‘Certainly,’ Corbett replied, ‘and I assure you, when Master Lapwing goes on trial in Westminster Hall, you will all be there to hear the evidence.’
Beatrice Escolier dug her needle into the intricately brocaded cover, then lifted her head and stared around the small but comfortable solar of her narrow house in Mitre Street. She pushed away the footstool and spread her hands to catch the warmth from the fire burning merrily in its covered hearth. She stared at the carved faces of the woodwoses that decorated the mantel and wondered about Sir Hugh Corbett, so clever, so cunning, yet, like an arrow launched true and straight, aiming for its mark. In many ways he reminded Beatrice of Boniface, single-minded and determined. She stared across at the shuttered window. Another day had passed. Despite what Corbett had said, nothing had happened. Here she was in a warm, sweet-smelling chamber whilst Stephen languished in some cold dungeon in the Tower. She’d pleaded for him, wanted to visit him, but Corbett had proved obdurate. She must stay here and wait.
Beatrice sighed, rose and lit the lantern horn on the flat top of the black oaken chest, then the candles on their spigots. Tongues of flame glowed greedily, shooting up to catch the glitter from the cups, ewers, mazers and silver platters on the shelves, the mother-of-pearl wall crucifix as well as the gold and silver threads of the tapestries covering the walls. She moved back to the chair before the fire, her hand grazing the psalter on the small table next to it. Perhaps she should pray. She moved a candlestick, took up the psalter and turned to her favourite prayer, the Benedictus of Simeon. She always admired the exquisite, minutely jewelled painting that decorated the capital B. The young clerk depicted there in his green cote-hardie and white leggings, standing in a stall holding a breviary, always reminded her of Boniface.
Beatrice began to cry quietly. She settled back in the chair, giving way to her memories and the cloying heat. If she half closed her eyes in this chamber of dappled light, she might catch her beloved staring at her as he always did with that lovely smile. She closed her eyes then startled at the knocking on the front door. She picked up a candlestick and went out into the icy passageway, the cold from the flagstones seeping through the soft warmth of her buskins.
‘Who’s there?’ she called.
‘Mistress, it’s only Parson John. I’ve come to ensure all is well, to show I bear no ill favour.’
Beatrice bit her lip, pulled back the bolts at top and bottom and opened the door. The light was swiftly fading. Parson John, muffled in a great cloak, stamped his feet, pulled down the muffler from his mouth and smiled as he showed her the small stoppered flask in his right hand. ‘Mistress, I am freezing, but this is rich claret, the best from the vineyards of Gascony. Heated with a burning poker and sprinkled with some crushed apple and nutmeg, it would make a heart-warming posset.’
‘Come in, Father, come in.’
The priest passed by her and she closed the door.
‘You’ve bolted it?’ he asked.
‘No, Father.’ Beatrice smiled. ‘Now you’re here that’s protection enough. Do . . .’ She gestured at the door to the solar. ‘Go in and warm yourself.’ She bustled in after him, pulling out a stool so the priest could sit by the fire. Parson John undid his cloak, pulled off his gloves and sat down, hands towards the heat.
‘Mistress,’ he smiled, ‘unstopper the flask, let’s drink some warmth.’
She hastened to obey, taking down two pewter goblets from the shelf above the mantle. She placed these on the table, broke the seal of the flask and filled both cups, then busied herself thrusting two narrow pokers into the burning logs, before going towards the scullery to search for her nutmeg sprinkler. She was almost there when the door to the solar opened and she whirled round with a start. Sir Hugh Corbett, followed by his two henchmen, Ranulf and Chanson, entered. Parson John sprang to his feet.
‘Sir Hugh, I never heard you . . .’
‘You were not supposed to.’ Corbett pressed the priest’s shoulder, forcing him to retake his seat. ‘Ranulf, help Mistress Beatrice make us all comfortable.’ He gestured at the quilted seat. ‘I’ll sit here, next to our good Parson John.’ His voice, rich with sarcasm, made the priest turn abruptly. ‘Oh, by the way,’ Corbett pointed at the belt around the priest’s waist with its long sheathed dagger, ‘unbuckle that, sir.’
Parson John obeyed. Corbett took the belt and placed it on the other side of his chair. Ranulf had pulled up another stool so that he could sit on the parson’s right. Chanson, armed with a small arbalest, stayed near the door. Corbett sniffed the air appreciatively.
‘Sweet herbs, good meat and fine wine.’ He picked up the flask. ‘You brought this, Parson John?’
‘Yes, a gift to share with Mistress Beatrice. I wish to comfort her.’