Hugh Corbett 17 - The Mysterium (15 page)

‘Don’t.’ Corbett lifted a hand. ‘My lord, you know the law. This is a commission of oyer and terminer. I will take whatever evidence I require.’

‘You will return them?’

‘When I have finished.’ Corbett lifted his arms and leaned his elbows on the arms of his chair. ‘Of course you received more information.’ He held out a hand. ‘I will have that too.’

Again Staunton nodded, and Blandeford handed over more scraps of parchment. These were different, providing the times and dates of nocturnal meetings between Walter Evesham and the two gang leaders at Evesham’s mansion in Clothiers Lane. Corbett studied them sifting amongst them.

‘At first we couldn’t believe it,’ Staunton murmured, ‘but then we brought the information to the King. We organised a watch and, as you know, entered Walter Evesham’s house and found him deep in conversation with the two riffler leaders. There was the question of gold that had been stolen from the mint. The King decided that Evesham, Waldene and Hubert the Monk should be committed for trial. He hoped to execute all three as a warning to the rest. Evesham threw himself on the King’s mercy. He promised a full confession that would detail everything.’

‘Did you get one?’ asked Ranulf.

‘No, Evesham’s murder ended all that. However,’ Staunton sighed, ‘the information at least gave us the power to arrest and detain Waldene and Hubert’s gangs. We thought it best to keep the leaders separate from their followers. They were all placed in Newgate and would have later gone on trial in Westminster Hall, but of course, Evesham’s murder frustrated all this. His detailed confession would have been vital, but once he was dead, the King had no choice but to free the two gang leaders.’ Staunton shrugged. ‘Ostensibly they had done no wrong. Evesham was holding the stolen gold; there was no evidence linking them to it. They maintained the pretence that they had been summoned by Evesham to his house, and how could they refuse the King’s chief justice?’

‘Yes, yes, I understand all that,’ Corbett waved his hand, ‘but this Land of Cockaigne? Do you know its author, the spy who gave you such information?’

‘Sir Hugh, if we did, we would tell you.’

‘But you do have other information?’ Corbett insisted. ‘Waiting outside is the clerk who rejoices in the name of Lapwing as well as a string of other aliases as long as anyone’s arm.’ He paused as Staunton shifted uneasily in his seat.

‘My lord,’ Corbett sighed, ‘am I to drag it out from you word for word, letter by letter? Lapwing is your man, isn’t he? You are on oath.’

Staunton glanced at Blandeford, who simply stared down at his hands.

‘Answer the question.’ Ranulf lifted his head. ‘My lord, I am waiting for your answer, an answer that is on oath.’

‘There is no need to talk to me like that, clerk.’

‘There’s every need,’ Corbett replied. ‘We are not here to while away the time. I want the truth. The man known as Lapwing is a beneficed clerk. He knows Latin and Norman French. He is well dressed, courteous and educated. He is or was your spy. Yes or no?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then tell me about him. I want the truth.’ Corbett rapped the table. ‘He was caught in the company of those at St Botulph’s who were tried and executed as traitors and felons, and produced a writ signed by the King saying that what the bearer of that document had done, he had done for the good of the kingdom and the welfare of the Crown. That document was witnessed by both of you. So, we have Lapwing, who is your man, yes or no?’

‘I have said yes.’

‘And what is his real name? What is his provenance?’

Staunton closed his eyes and sighed.

‘Answer!’ Ranulf demanded sharply.

The judge opened his eyes and glared at Ranulf across the table.

‘I shall remember you, sir.’

‘And I shall not forget you, sir. Please answer.’

‘Do so,’ Corbett murmured, ‘for the love of God, either here, or I can have the men-at-arms outside put you in chains. We shall then go to the King’s palace at Sheen, where this mummery will be repeated. Lapwing?’

‘Lapwing is a clerk,’ Staunton replied. ‘As you know, his real name is Stephen Escolier. He was educated in the halls of Oxford. He entered the household of the Bishop of Winchester and served abroad. Last autumn, around Michaelmas, he returned to London and took lodgings in Mitre Street, where he lives with his mother. The reason he returned to London is that she is ailing and he needs to look after her. He approached me for service, for employment, a benefice, a sinecure, anything I could give him. Despite the letters from the Bishop of Winchester, I was unable to help, but then Escolier, or Lapwing as he calls himself, made me an offer. He told me that he had a secret grievance against Giles Waldene and Hubert the Monk, and offered to become a member of their coven and betray whatever he discovered. Now as you can appreciate, that was a dangerous enterprise, yet the clerk impressed me: he was razor-witted, intelligent and observant. I agreed, and Escolier became Lapwing, a wandering scholar with a ready tongue and a sharp knife. He joined Waldene’s coven and soon established a cordial relationship with that reprobate. Lapwing can read and write, Waldene could not, so he was glad to acquire such a skilled and enterprising clerk. Lapwing gave us information about what mischief was being planned and plotted: abductions, assaults, but above all, who amongst our so-called city fathers was hiring Waldene. I paid him well.’ Staunton spread his hands. ‘You must also appreciate that he only worked for me for a short while. Evesham’s fate actually hindered us bringing such work to a successful conclusion.’ He shrugged. ‘A few more months and we’d have had enough evidence to indict many of the gang leaders in London ten times over.’

‘But he was not your spy in the Land of Cockaigne, the one who gave you information about how Evesham protected Waldene and Hubert the Monk’s followers.’

‘No.’

‘And you are certain he did not provide you with information about their secret meetings at night?’

‘No. I have asked him about that. He replied that he would have loved to have done so but such information did not fall into his hands.’

‘But when Waldene and Hubert the Monk’s followers were arrested and lodged in Newgate, Lapwing was not taken up?’

‘Of course not. He carried that small roll of parchment that he showed you. No king’s officer would have dared touch him.’

‘And yet he was found with them in the graveyard of St Botulph’s.’

‘Yes, he had visited Waldene in prison. When the riot broke out, he heard about the criminals escaping to St Botulph’s and went there. A keeper from Newgate recognised him near the lychgate. Lapwing was seized and had to continue the pretence.’

‘Had to?’

‘Sir Hugh, he was our spy. He hoped to acquire more information about what had happened. Of course the criminals who sheltered in St Botulph’s had no chance of surviving. Lapwing was arrested, but he made sure he was one of the last to be brought before you, and only then did he produce his letter. You of course had to release him.’

Corbett glanced through his sheaf of papers. ‘Let me go back to Evesham. You visited him at Syon?’

‘Of course we did. Evesham may have become a recluse, a hermit, a man turned to God, but the King was insistent that he should answer our questions.’

‘And did he? What questions did you ask?’ demanded Ranulf.

Staunton dismissed him with a flicker of his eyes and turned back to Corbett. ‘We visited Syon Abbey on a number of occasions. We asked Walter Evesham about certain matters in the city, but he replied that he had become “lost in God” and had no remembrance about what had happened. He did not wish to discuss anything he’d done except confess that he had sinned against God and the King. Remember, Sir Hugh, Walter Evesham was one of us,’ he glanced disdainfully at Ranulf, ‘an Oxford clerk, skilled in logic and debate. He could argue with the best; in the end he told us very little.’

‘Do you think his repentance was genuine?’

‘Of course not! Walter Evesham may have proclaimed he was trying to save his soul, but I suspect he was desperately trying to save his neck.’

‘Do you think he intended to stay in Syon until his natural death?’

‘I cannot speculate on what that viper of a man was plotting, but yes, he may have intended that.’ Staunton leaned forward. ‘Sir Hugh, I do not like the way you are talking to me. Am I a suspect? Do you think that I, or Master Blandeford here, have Evesham’s blood on our hands?’

‘Why not?’ Corbett whispered. ‘Why not? We are royal clerks, not God’s angels. Lord Evesham was proved to be a felon. Boniface Ippegrave was proved to be a felon. It is possible that you and Master Blandeford secretly entered Syon Abbey and executed Evesham for your own mysterious purposes.’

‘How dare you!’ Blandeford blustered.

‘Merely a hypothesis,’ Corbett remarked. ‘You may say not probable, but I say it’s possible. You could have also, on that same evening, gone down to Queenshithe, taken Ignacio Engleat out and murdered him. Both of you are mailed clerks,’ he continued quietly. ‘You have fought in the King’s armies in Wales and in Scotland as I have. You have killed men as I have. You could have entered the tavern of the Angel’s Salutation and executed Waldene and Hubert the Monk. It is possible. You could have visited Walter Evesham’s house, and decapitated Richard Fink and the Lady Clarice. All things are possible and therefore probable.’

‘This is ridiculous,’ Staunton protested. He made to rise, but then sat back as Ranulf also moved in his seat.

‘My lord,’ Corbett tapped the table, ‘don’t you understand? Can’t you see? We are all on trial. Walter Evesham was Chief Justice in King’s Bench, yet he was an ally, a close friend, of two of the greatest rogues in the city. He twisted and perverted justice. He profited from robberies. If that happened in the green wood, what might happen in the dry? So yes, my lord, you are a suspect, as is Master Blandeford, as is everybody in this chamber. How far has such corruption spread, how deep does it reach?’

‘I have told the truth,’ Staunton said flatly.

‘Oh my lord, I am sure you have.’ Corbett smiled. ‘I will go on oath that you have told me the truth, but you’ve not told me the full truth, and for that we may have to question you both again. Now go.’ He waved a hand and returned to his papers as Staunton and Blandeford rose noisily, pushed back their chairs and, muttering amongst themselves, left the chamber.

‘Sir Hugh, you have upset them.’

‘Master Ranulf, I intended to. Both of them are ambitious and very ruthless men.’

‘Ruthless enough to murder?’

Corbett turned to face Ranulf squarely. ‘Yes, my friend, to murder. They are King’s men. There’s something here,’ he gestured vaguely, ‘something I cannot form into an idea, an emotion, a feeling, a suspicion. The King has a hand in these matters, but why, where and how I don’t really know. Enough of speculation. Let’s question the mysterious Lapwing.’

Barrator
: a corrupt official

The young clerk came swaggering in. He paused just inside the chamber to place a hand on the Book of the Gospels and recite the oath, reading swiftly from the piece of parchment Chanson gave him. Then he walked forward and, without being invited, sat down on one of the chairs. He crossed his legs, playing with the ring on his finger, staring now at Ranulf then back at Corbett.

‘Master Escolier, known as Lapwing,’ Corbett jabbed a finger at him, ‘you were lucky enough not to lose your head at St Botulph’s.’

‘Sir Hugh, all my life I have been fortunate. It’s not the first time, and I doubt if it will be the last, that I have risked losing my head.’

‘Clever-mouthed,’ Ranulf declared, ‘but you’ll answer our questions truthfully. You’ve taken an oath. You can still hang or be crushed to death for perjury.’

‘Have I said I won’t answer? Ask your questions, whatever you wish.’

‘Why did you go to the Angel’s Salutation?’ Corbett demanded.

‘I heard the news, rumours about Giles Waldene and Hubert the Monk being murdered. Of course I wanted to know.’

‘Why?’

‘I hated them.’

‘Ah yes, your masters Hervey Staunton and Master Blandeford claimed you had some grievance against the rifflers.’

‘That’s correct, Sir Hugh. Many years ago my father was a prosperous merchant, a chandler. He sold precious wax both to the city and abroad.’ Lapwing spread his hands. ‘What Waldene and Hubert did was simply demand that he pay them a tax, a sort of protection. My father protested. They assaulted him grievously and wrecked his shop. I never forgot.’

‘And where do you live now?’

‘In Mitre Street, a small house with my mother.’

‘And before that?’

‘I went to school at St Paul’s, then on to the halls of Oxford. Afterwards I took employment with his grace the Bishop of Winchester. I served him well and long, but I had to leave because my mother is ailing.The bishop gave me letters of testimony and I returned to London. I tried to seek employment here and there, but as you know, it is difficult. I approached my lord Staunton, but he could not give me a benefice or office. I later discovered how Waldene and Hubert the Monk had waxed fat and powerful. I told Staunton that I would join their coven and betray them. I would have loved nothing better than to see both of them hang from the Elms in Smithfield.’

‘And were you not afraid?’ Ranulf asked. ‘I mean, a clerk from the household of the Bishop of Winchester mingling with wolfsheads? ’

‘Master Ranulf, like you I have worn armour. I have stood in the battle line in Scotland and Gascony. The letters of his grace the Bishop of Winchester will attest to that. I am not afraid of the cut and thrust. I’ve seen more bloodshed in my life than others do in many lifetimes. It did not concern me. Moreover, I had grievances against both those rogues.’

‘And so you joined Giles Waldene’s coven. He accepted you?’