Nightshade by P. C. Doherty

of that?’ Corbett asked. ‘That they were all killed?’

    â€˜Yes,’ Dame Marguerite intervened. ‘When I heard about the attack, I couldn’t believe all had been slain. I asked Brother Benedict here to go to Mordern. He knew all of the members by face if not by name. He came back to report that all were dead. I disagree with my brother: perhaps they did deserve execution, perhaps they were a threat to the King’s peace, but now they are dead, they must be buried.’
    â€˜And so they will be.’ Corbett straightened up. ‘I carry the King’s warrant in this matter. Tomorrow morning, Lord Scrope, I, and some of your retainers, will go out to Mordern. We will collect the corpses. If the ground is too hard, which I suspect it is, they will be burnt. Father Thomas, Master Benedict, you are most welcome to come. I would like the corpses blessed, given the rites, some prayers. God’s work and that of the King shall be done.’ Both priests agreed. Lord Scrope pulled a face and looked away. ‘One final matter.’ Corbett lifted his hand. ‘Lord Scrope, you returned from Acre about twelve years ago, yet the events we have just described occurred only in the last twelve months.’ He paused. ‘So, let me get the sequence of events clear in my own mind. The Free Brethren arrived last year at the beginning of Lent, early March 1303?’ Everyone nodded in agreement. ‘They moved into the forest of Mordern and settled in the deserted village there. At first they were accepted. You, my lord, disliked some of their teachings but they seemed innocent enough.’ Again a murmur of agreement. ‘They worked in the parish church,’ Corbett continued, ‘rendering a vivid painting. Then, during November last, Lord Scrope, your suspicions were aroused that the Free Brethren were not what they pretended to be: the sharpening of weapons, the practice
of archery in the forest, the journey to Orwell. You decided to strike, and by the end of Advent, the Free Brethren were all dead. In the New Year the Sagittarius appeared, inflicting vengeance wherever he could. Now all this occurred in the last year. So what has changed? You, Master Benedict, have been in England for how long?’
    The chaplain blew his cheeks out. ‘Oh, about fifteen months. As I told you, Sir Hugh, I did good service in Bordeaux and I was given letters of accreditation to the Lady Abbess here.’
    â€˜Yes, yes, and you, Brother Gratian?’
    â€˜I have been Lord Scrope’s confessor for about a year. He wrote to our house at Blackfriars and asked them to choose a man. They selected me, and I was happy to come.’
    Corbett was about to continue when the lowing of a hunting horn brayed through the night. Not even the thickness of the manor walls or the shutters across the windows could dull the threatening sound. Corbett thought he had been mistaken, but then the note came again, braying long and mournful.
    â€˜Where is he?’ Lord Scrope whispered. ‘He must be here.’
    It was as if some evil wraith had swirled into the solar. A deathly silence, followed by clamour as people sprang to their feet. Corbett was more interested in the horn-blowing and wondered how close the Sagittarius was to the manor. Scrope, however, was hurrying towards the solar door, the sound of servants running echoing along the gallery outside. Everyone followed the manor lord out, but Corbett gestured at Ranulf to stay.
    â€˜Are we under attack?’ Ranulf whispered. He had changed for the banquet, dressed similarly to Corbett, though he’d also brought his war belt. He went to pick this up from the floor but caught
Corbett’s quick shake of the head and stopped even as the third horn blast echoed from the darkness outside.
    â€˜What do you think, master?’
    â€˜Murder!’ Corbett whispered. ‘The demon that slumbers like bread in an oven. A person can appear