faces looking grotesque in the flickering candlelight, for dawn had not yet fully broken and the chapter-house was still dark and sombre. Corbett gazed around as he walked across the wooden floor, looking up at the shields which hung there, emblazoned with the arms of canons who had served the Church over the centuries: the different colours, blue, red, gold, sable, and the animals, lions, leopards couchant and passant, griffins, dragons, wyverns. Why, he wondered rather aimlessly, did men of God need such triumphant armorial bearings?
When Corbett reached the top of the hall, he bowed and stepped on to the dais. He walked to the head of the table, gratified to see the canons paying him the deference due to a messenger from the king. He lowered himself into the deep, oak-carved chair and gestured Ranulf and Hervey to sit on the bench alongside him. He counted, yes he was pleased, five canons, the same number as had concel-ebrated that fatal mass with de Montfort only two days ago. He studied them, recognizing Plumpton's fleshy face, acknowledging his supercilious glance with a nod. The rest were a mixed sort, young and old, some ascetic, others looking as if they have never fasted for an hour in their lives. All were dressed in dark robes, their cuffs and cowls lined with ermine. Each of them, however, wore the same wary, anxious look as if they dreaded what was going to happen next. Corbett glanced at them again, relishing the moment. For some strange reason he had an almost irrational hatred of these plump priests, these self-styled men of God, for he knew that one, maybe more, had been involved in murder, sacrilege and blasphemy. They sat there now in sanctimonious silence prepared to answer his questions and, if he put a foot wrong, protest loudly to their bishop, the Archbishop of Canterbury, the king, the pope or whoever would listen to them. Corbett allowed Hervey to unpack his writing trays and rolls of parchment. Ranulf sat, hands clasped together, fully enjoying the moment. To him it was like a sweet wine, to sit in judgement on his betters, especially if they were priests.
Once he saw Hervey was ready, Corbett began.
'Reverend Fathers, I am pleased you have acceded to my request, and that of His Grace the king, to meet me here in the chapter-house to discuss the events which occurred this week. Let me refresh your memories of the terrible event. A mass was held last Monday, celebrated by your dearly beloved colleague, Walter de Montfort, dean of this cathedral. Shortly before the communion the dean collapsed. His death was instantaneous. His body was taken to the sacristy and there given the last rites. I examined his corpse and I hasten to add,' Corbett lifted a hand, 'that though I am no physician, it is my belief he was poisoned. I also believe,' Corbett measured his words carefully, 'that the poison was administered during mass itself.' He heard the sharp intake of breath and mutters of "blasphemy". He again raised his hand. 'I put this to you merely as a theory. If anyone disbelieves it, let me tell you the facts as I know them.' Corbett then gave them the same description he had given the king. How de Montfort's rigid face, blackened mouth and tongue, as well as the suddenness of his death, were all symptoms of a fatal poisoning. He referred to Father Thomas, whom many of the canons must have known, and how the physician had informed him that all powerful poisons acted instandy. 'The question is,' Corbett concluded, 'who murdered him, and why?'
As expected, Sir Philip Plumpton was the first to answer.
'How do we know,' he jibed, 'especially since I have given you that flagon of wine, that our late lamented colleague, de Montfort, was not poisoned by the king, or,' he added, looking meaningfully at Corbett, 'by one of the king's minions?'
Corbett ignored the treasonable assertion. 'Again, I refer you to Father Thomas at St Bartholomew's,' he answered. 'He will tell you that if de Montfort drank the wine
When Corbett reached the top of the hall, he bowed and stepped on to the dais. He walked to the head of the table, gratified to see the canons paying him the deference due to a messenger from the king. He lowered himself into the deep, oak-carved chair and gestured Ranulf and Hervey to sit on the bench alongside him. He counted, yes he was pleased, five canons, the same number as had concel-ebrated that fatal mass with de Montfort only two days ago. He studied them, recognizing Plumpton's fleshy face, acknowledging his supercilious glance with a nod. The rest were a mixed sort, young and old, some ascetic, others looking as if they have never fasted for an hour in their lives. All were dressed in dark robes, their cuffs and cowls lined with ermine. Each of them, however, wore the same wary, anxious look as if they dreaded what was going to happen next. Corbett glanced at them again, relishing the moment. For some strange reason he had an almost irrational hatred of these plump priests, these self-styled men of God, for he knew that one, maybe more, had been involved in murder, sacrilege and blasphemy. They sat there now in sanctimonious silence prepared to answer his questions and, if he put a foot wrong, protest loudly to their bishop, the Archbishop of Canterbury, the king, the pope or whoever would listen to them. Corbett allowed Hervey to unpack his writing trays and rolls of parchment. Ranulf sat, hands clasped together, fully enjoying the moment. To him it was like a sweet wine, to sit in judgement on his betters, especially if they were priests.
Once he saw Hervey was ready, Corbett began.
'Reverend Fathers, I am pleased you have acceded to my request, and that of His Grace the king, to meet me here in the chapter-house to discuss the events which occurred this week. Let me refresh your memories of the terrible event. A mass was held last Monday, celebrated by your dearly beloved colleague, Walter de Montfort, dean of this cathedral. Shortly before the communion the dean collapsed. His death was instantaneous. His body was taken to the sacristy and there given the last rites. I examined his corpse and I hasten to add,' Corbett lifted a hand, 'that though I am no physician, it is my belief he was poisoned. I also believe,' Corbett measured his words carefully, 'that the poison was administered during mass itself.' He heard the sharp intake of breath and mutters of "blasphemy". He again raised his hand. 'I put this to you merely as a theory. If anyone disbelieves it, let me tell you the facts as I know them.' Corbett then gave them the same description he had given the king. How de Montfort's rigid face, blackened mouth and tongue, as well as the suddenness of his death, were all symptoms of a fatal poisoning. He referred to Father Thomas, whom many of the canons must have known, and how the physician had informed him that all powerful poisons acted instandy. 'The question is,' Corbett concluded, 'who murdered him, and why?'
As expected, Sir Philip Plumpton was the first to answer.
'How do we know,' he jibed, 'especially since I have given you that flagon of wine, that our late lamented colleague, de Montfort, was not poisoned by the king, or,' he added, looking meaningfully at Corbett, 'by one of the king's minions?'
Corbett ignored the treasonable assertion. 'Again, I refer you to Father Thomas at St Bartholomew's,' he answered. 'He will tell you that if de Montfort drank the wine
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