Nightshade by P. C. Doherty Page B

us.’
    â€˜Why are you telling us this?’ Corbett asked.
    â€˜The truth,’ Marguerite declared, her face no longer smiling. ‘I simply cannot sit and listen to my brother spin his web of conceit and lies.’ She blinked, her lips a thin bloodless line, staring at the screen behind Corbett as if fascinated by the exploits of Arthur and Guinevere. ‘He grows more ruthless by the month.’
    â€˜Is there anything else?’ Corbett asked.
    She shook her head.
    â€˜And these warnings?’ Corbett asked. ‘I did not raise the matter with Lord Scrope. Do you know of them? Warnings delivered to your brother?’
    â€˜Warnings?’ Dame Marguerite’s face softened. ‘What warnings? ’ She paused as Lady Hawisa, accompanied by Father Thomas, opened the door and swept into the chamber. Ranulf, concerned at Hawisa’s agitation, went across and clasped her hand. Father Thomas sat down on a stool, face in his hands; he rubbed his cheeks and glanced up at Corbett.

    â€˜Lord Scrope is organising a search of the demesne, but I doubt if he’ll find anything.’
    Lady Hawisa retook her seat, glancing prettily at Ranulf.
    â€˜Sir Hugh.’ She shifted towards Corbett, her smile fading.
    Corbett walked across. ‘You know your husband has received warnings?’
    â€˜I know,’ she murmured.
    Corbett sat on the small footstool near her chair. ‘You’ve seen these?’
    â€˜Once or twice,’ she replied, rubbing her brow. ‘My husband …’
    Corbett glanced up. Lord Scrope, the door off its latch, had slipped quietly into the room, Brother Gratian like a shadow behind him.
    â€˜Her husband,’ Lord Scrope slammed the door shut, ‘will answer any of your questions here in his own house. There is no need to ask others.’
    â€˜And the hunting horn?’ Corbett ignored the manor lord’s hot temper.
    â€˜Master Claypole will see to that.’ Scrope went across to the fire, turning his back to warm himself.
    â€˜Master Claypole is so useful for so many things,’ Lady Hawisa murmured.
    â€˜What do you mean by that?’ her husband declared. ‘I have known him years.’
    â€˜Yes, you have,’ his wife replied sweetly. ‘He was with you at Acre, was he not? A squire?’
    Corbett caught the drift of her question.
    â€˜What are you implying?’ Her husband walked across.
    Corbett rose to his feet.

    â€˜Nothing!’ she said wearily. ‘Husband, you hold the Sanguis Christi, you are being threatened about that. You receive warnings about confessing your sins at the market cross.’
    â€˜Tell me,’ Corbett intervened, ‘who actually went to Acre?’
    â€˜Myself, cousin Gaston and other men from Mistleham. We’d heard how the Saracens intended to drive the Templars and all Christian forces from Outremer. We were full of idealism. Gaston and I were young knights. We wished to seek adventure rather than chase the Welsh up their valleys or hunt for Scottish rebels amongst the drenching heather. A party of us took the cross in St Alphege’s church and journeyed east to join the garrison at Acre. Soon afterwards the city was invested by the Saracens. You know the story. Acre fell, we escaped, others didn’t. We lost good men, Corbett, and a great deal of silver and wealth. When Acre was about to fall I hastened to the Templar treasury. I took what I could. I rescued it from the hands of the infidels and brought it back to England. God was rewarding me and others for our good work.’
    â€˜And yet you now have warnings; the Templars and others threaten you.’
    â€˜They have …’
    â€˜May I see these warnings?’
    Scrope pulled a face, then clicked his fingers. Brother Gratian hurried off. Corbett stood staring at the floor. The rest of the company had fallen silent, each busy with their own thoughts. He glanced quickly at Ranulf. The