‘And your mastiff?’
‘Old Ogadon is not as fierce as he looks. He can tell friend from foe; he growls but would only roar at some footpad slipping through the night.’
Corbett smiled as Cuthbert led them back into the chapel and down the steps into the cellar. The tunnel was narrow, the timbered ceiling just above their heads. The first cell on the right, Cuthbert’s own, was neat and clean. High in one corner of its whitewashed walls was a vent that allowed in a crack of light. The chamber was sparsely furnished: a cot bed draped with a black coverlet edged with silver, a stool, a table, shelves over the bed holding pots, platters and jugs. Crucifixes were nailed against the walls; robes hung on pegs, and from beneath the table peeped a small wineskin. The next cell was a storeroom. The far one, its door leaning against the wall, had been Evesham’s. It was similar to Cuthbert’s, but the table, pushed against the wall, was heavily stained with the justice’s blood.
‘Soaked it must have been,’ Ranulf observed. ‘His throat was cut like a pig’s.’
They looked around. The coverlet and sheets on the bed had been removed, as had the jugs and pots from the shelf above it.
‘Any manuscripts?’ Corbett asked.
‘My guest was reading Boethius’
De Consolatione Philosophiae
. It was lying on the bed so it was not stained with blood. Father Abbot had it taken back to the library.’
‘Any other possessions?’
‘Yes.’ Cuthbert scratched his head. ‘A ring or two, a cross on a chain. Abbot Serlo had them washed and sent back to Evesham’s widow.’
Corbett moved to examine the door and lintel.
‘Boethius!’ Ranulf remarked.
‘A suitable choice. The reflections of a minister who fell from power, though Boethius was innocent.’ Corbett turned and smiled. ‘Evesham certainly wasn’t, was he, Parson Tunstall?’
Cuthbert coloured slightly and glanced beyond Corbett as if staring at something else.
‘That will wait, that will wait,’ Corbett remarked and pushed by him to stare down at the table.
Ranulf was right. Evesham’s blood must have splattered out like water, staining the surface; even the two candlesticks standing at each corner were clotted with dried blood. Corbett took a stool, sat down and stared up at Brother Cuthbert.
‘Walter Evesham?’
Cuthbert glanced at Ranulf standing close to him. Corbett gestured with his head. Ranulf patted the lay brother on the shoulder and went to stand in the doorway, whilst Corbett indicated that Cuthbert sit on the end of the bed. The lay brother did so. Beads of sweat wetted his forehead, and the constant licking of lips showed his dryness. A wine toper perhaps? A man who drank to forget?
‘Walter Evesham?’ Corbett repeated.
‘He came here weeks ago. First he sheltered in the guesthouse, then for the last month here.’
‘At his request?’
‘I think so. Abbot Serlo decided it was for the best. You see,’ Cuthbert continued, ‘this is where all who desire a recluse’s life within the abbey come. To be sure,’ he laughed sharply, ‘a rare event. Sometimes one of the brothers simply wishes to be alone for a while.’
‘Did you talk with Evesham?’
‘Sir Hugh, you know I did, at least at the beginning. You’ve heard the story, or at least some of it. Evesham begged for my forgiveness, but if the root be tainted, so is the branch . . .’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Evesham was no sinner come to repentance. He was a malignant. He was born wicked, he died wicked!’
‘Do you really believe that?’
‘For the love of God, Sir Hugh, Evesham was caught in his own foul sin, so what does he do? Falls to his knees and assumes sackcloth, ashes, prayers, fasting, contrition and repentance.’ Cuthbert’s flushed face betrayed the hatred curdling within him. ‘He wasn’t worried about his soul or how he spent the last years of his life; he was more concerned about his neck.’ The lay brother paused, licking at the froth on his lips.
Ranulf took a step forward, hand nursing the hilt of his sword.
‘Keep your dagger man, your bully-boy, well away from me, Sir Hugh. I mean you no ill, I am sorry.’ Cuthbert wiped his mouth on the back of his wrist. ‘I am sorry I have tried so hard to hide my anger.’ He struck his chest. ‘My fault, my fault, I have sinned, I have sinned.’ He glanced up, eyes brimming with tears. ‘Sin never leaves you,’ he added hoarsely. ‘Like some loathsome bramble it trails the soil of your soul and its roots dig deep. Please don’t think my anger is guilt. I do not want to be hauled off to some bleak prison, nor to Father Abbot, who kindly gave me shelter when I was nothing but some poor soul drifting on the winds of life.’ He glared at Corbett. ‘I heard how the King’s hawk had arrived. They know about you, clerk, even here at Syon. Our prior says that you are ruthless in the pursuit of justice, that your soul cannot be bought and sold. Now isn’t that praiseworthy in a world where souls come cheaper than apples from an orchard?’
‘You claim that Evesham the recluse was in fact a hypocrite?’
‘The word is yours, Sir Hugh.’
‘Yes it is, and I believe you.’ Corbett stretched across and touched Cuthbert’s cold, wrinkled, spotted hand. ‘I truly do.’ He smiled. ‘Evesham was caught, confronted and indicted. He turned, swift as a bird on the wing, throwing himself on the King’s mercy, proclaiming himself a sinner come to repentance. Such contrition was accepted.’
‘Because it was in the King’s interest?’ Cuthbert jibed.
‘True,’ Corbett agreed, ‘it certainly was in the King’s interest. Edward of England, the new Justinian, the great law-giver, the promulgator of statute law, the lord of parliament: to have one of his chief justices depicted in open court as corrupt? Indicted as a consorter with outlaws, a receiver of stolen goods, the lord of bribes, the master of chicanery? Oh yes, it was very much in the King’s interest for Evesham to confess, to seek pardon, to hide from scrutiny, to don sackcloth and ashes and sit in the dust.’
‘Until the storm blew itself out?’ Cuthbert observed.
‘You believe that?’
‘Of course. Evesham could kneel and mutter his paternoster, thread his Ave beads and stare at the crucifix. He could eat hard bread and drink the waters of bitterness, but I believe he was secretly preparing his defence. And before you ask, Sir Hugh, God knows what that was! What secrets did he hold about others, about the King?’ He leaned closer. ‘Did his grace, our noble lord, wish him dead?’
‘That’s treason,’ snapped Ranulf.
‘It could still be true,’ Cuthbert muttered over his shoulder. ‘Your master, dagger man, is here to seek the truth; what am I supposed to do, lie? I am simply asking what the truth is. You may keep the King’s Secret Seal but not his soul, Sir Hugh.’
Corbett stared at this man, whose very soul bubbled with anger. He sensed what might have happened; he had seen it before. Men and women who’d hidden and masked their own hurt, nursing it like some festering wound over the years. Then, in one hour, one moment, one heartbeat, all the bile, the bitterness, anger and hurt erupted in a violent act. Had this happened here, or worse? Was Cuthbert pointing to a darker sin? Had Edward the King decided on Evesham’s death here in this lonely abbey? Corbett edged his stool closer.
‘Did you kill Lord Walter Evesham, Brother?’
‘Yes.’ Cuthbert lifted a hand, fingers so curled with inflammation it was more like a claw. ‘Yes, Sir Hugh, in my thoughts I killed him at least a score of times over the last twenty years, and I confessed as much in chapter. But in deed, in fact? No! Look at my hands, clerk, how could these fingers grasp a dagger, let alone Lord Walter’s head, pulling it back for the killing stroke?’
Corbett studied that whiskered old face, eyes all troubled, those lined and furrowed cheeks.
‘I swear by the sacrament that I did not kill him. I hardly spoke to him, or he to me. Evesham suspected I knew his heart. I caught his secret glances. I saw him kneel in prayer, but his visitors brought him wine that he slurped, sweetmeats he gobbled. I heard him lying on his bed quietly humming. Does a pig take to singing, Sir Hugh? Does a cat shepherd the mice? Does the hawk protect the pigeon? I don’t think so. Evesham was plotting. No,’ Cuthbert shook his head, ‘he wrote nothing, he said nothing. He had no manuscripts here except the ones he borrowed from the library.’
‘I believe you, Brother. Now I want you to go back twenty years, to the
fons et origo
of all this. Describe to me what happened.’
The lay brother’s hand went to his lips. He stared hard at Corbett, then sighed.
‘In the beginning I wanted to be a Carthusian, a strict order, but they said my health was too frail.’
‘You proved them wrong on that.’
‘No.’ Cuthbert tapped the side of his head. ‘They were right. In my mind I was too frail. I became a priest, serving as a curate here and there. I recalled the words of St Francis. I tried to preach the Gospel and I lived a chaste life.’ He smiled. ‘That was easy, as was poverty. I truly loved my calling. No archdeacon visited to lecture me on monies missing or the company I kept or the mistress I sheltered. I was a pastor, Sir Hugh, committed to the sheep, and not just their shearing.’
Corbett caught the profound sadness of this soul.
‘Eventually I was appointed Parson of St Botulph’s in Cripplegate. I loved that church, my parish council, the routine of every day, until the Feast of St Irenaeus, the twenty-eighth of June in the year of Our Lord 1284. Have you ever read Irenaeus?’
Corbett shook his head.
‘He said: “The things we learn in childhood become part of our soul.” Outside of the Gospels I’ve never heard a wiser saying. Anyway, on that day, late in the afternoon, I heard the hue and cry being raised, shouts of “Harrow! Harrow!” echoing along the streets. I left the priest’s house. I remember running carefully because a summer sickness had swept the ward, taking the old, the weak, the infirm, the dying. Burial plots had been dug before the summer sun became too strong and dried the ground. I did not wish to stumble into one of these. I reached the north door of the church and went in. I peered through the rood screen; a man crouched there clutching the altar. A royal clerk burst into the church, walking like God Almighty up the nave. He was booted and spurred, brandishing a sword, his face livid with anger. Evesham! The first time I’d ever met him.
‘I stood my ground. A man had taken sanctuary. According to canon law, he was not to be disturbed but allowed to stay. I asked Evesham to leave. Eventually he did, but first he demanded, on my loyalty to the King, whether there was a crypt, a cellar, any secret entrance. I replied no. How many doors? I told him four. Any windows a fugitive could wriggle through? I said that was impossible. He made me swear by the sacrament that I told the truth. I did so, and he stormed off. I could hear from the noise outside that all four doors were now guarded.’ Cuthbert snorted with laughter. ‘They even brought rope ladders and put men up the walls and on to the roof. I went into the sanctuary, and only then did I recognise Boniface Ippegrave. I knew him by sight. He lived in the parish with his sister Adelicia. I am sure,’ he added drily, ‘we shall discuss her shortly. She was a close friend of mine. No, Sir Hugh, I mean close friend, a member of my parish council. I knew her brother to be a royal clerk who attended Mass in the chapels at Westminster. On the few occasions I had met him, he’d proved courteous enough. I asked him what crime he had committed, and he said none. I enquired what he was accused of. He refused to say but pleaded for me to send urgent messages to his sister. I said I would. He was in a most agitated state. He carried a knife, and according to the law of sanctuary he had to surrender this to me. I took it and left the church. Evesham searched me from head to toe. I argued that I was a cleric. He replied that so was he, whilst treason and murder were no defence. He took the knife and asked what other belongings Ippegrave held. I lied; I said nothing, except his clothes and cloak.’
‘You lied?’
‘I glimpsed an inkwell and quill fastened to his belt. You know the sort clerks carry?’
Corbett nodded.
‘Evesham waxed hot and furious. Already the doors were closely guarded; even the graveyard, God’s own acre, was cleared of children and beggars. He made me swear again by the sacrament to tell him everything Ippegrave had said. I told him. He insisted I send no message to Adelicia. I replied that I certainly would and that I’d also bring food. I sent the message but Adelicia was turned away. I remonstrated, but Evesham drove me off with threats. The food I took was examined. Evesham insisted on following me up under the rood screen to watch me hand it over. I also supplied a jakes pot. When I collected that, Evesham made me carry it through the church door and hand it over to one of his guards for disposal on the compost heap. After it was returned, he followed me when I went back into the church to place it in the sanctuary. All this happened during the afternoon and late evening of the first day. As darkness fell, a knight banneret with men-at-arms arrived.’
‘Who?’
‘You know him, Sir Hugh, one of the King’s battle boys, Sir Ralph Sandewic, now Constable of the Tower. He must have brought at least a hundred men. Four camps ringed the church, each guarding a door. In the morning, Adelicia returned. By then Evesham’s wrath had cooled. He demanded what proof she had that she was Ippegrave’s sister. What token could she give? She handed over a jasper ring, a gift from her mother. Evesham took it and said he would think about it. Sir Hugh, I’ve never seen a man so insistent, so ruthless in the hunt. He was determined that Ippegrave would not escape. I heard him chatter to Sandewic about the coming trial. By then Boniface’s coffers both at his lodgings and in Westminster had been searched. Evesham went into the church to remonstrate.’
Brother Cuthbert fell silent, eyes blinking.
‘Tell me what happened.’
‘From what I can remember, Evesham maintained that a great deal of gold was found in Ippegrave’s coffers. More importantly, certain scraps of parchment connected with the Mysterium had been discovered. He said it was enough to indict Boniface.’