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sharp-eyed, keen-witted Lady Maeve. Now, he clicked
his tongue, the game had begun again. He recalled with relish his own secret meeting with the King after the Jesus Mass earlier that day. Corbett and Lady Maeve had followed the King out of St Stephen’s Chapel, then moved to greet the Chief Justices, Hengham and Staunton. The King had plucked Ranulf by the sleeve and shepherded him into a window embrasure overlooking the old palace yard. Edward had pulled him close, eyes gleaming like those of a hunting cat.
    â€˜You’ll be off to Mistleham in Essex, Master Ranulf.’
    â€˜Yes, your grace.’
    â€˜Take care of Brother Corbett.’
    â€˜Yes, your grace.’
    â€˜You’re ambitious, Master Ranulf, keen as a limner. I can do much for you.’ The King was so close Ranulf smelt the fragrance of the sweet altar wine he had drank at the Eucharist. ‘Keep a sharp eye on Lord Scrope, a bustling, evil man with a vile temper and murderous moods.’
    â€˜Yes, your grace.’
    â€˜Yes, your grace,’ Edward echoed. ‘Yet I tell you this, Master Ranulf, if Scrope threatens Corbett, if he is a danger with that foul temper of his …’ He glanced away.
    â€˜Your grace?’
    â€˜Kill him, Master Ranulf, kill Scrope! Show no mercy to that rebel who has taken the law into his own hands!’
    â€˜By what right, your grace?’
    â€˜By my right, Master Ranulf. Keep this close, for you and you only.’ Edward pushed a sealed scroll into Ranulf’s hand and left.
    The Principal Clerk in the Chancery of the Green Wax had
opened the scroll and read the message: ‘Edward the King to all officials of the Crown, sheriffs, bailiffs and mayor, know this, what the bearer of this letter has done he has done for the good of the King and the safety of the realm.’

2
    On that day the justices began their deliberations.
    Annals of London , 1304
    Father Thomas knelt beneath the rood screen in the freezing darkness of his parish church. On trestles before him, draped in purple and surrounded by ghostly glowing funeral candles, lay the corpses of Wilfred and Eadburga, faces white as wax, their horrid wounds now dried, nothing more than purple stains, their limbs all washed and anointed. Tomorrow Father Thomas would sing their requiem mass and take the coffins out through the corpse door into God’s Acre for burial. He moved, trying to ease the cramp in his legs and thighs. How many had been killed now? Seven? Yes, seven. These two unfortunates, and then there was Edith and Hilda, slain while leaving their cottage, and Elwood the blacksmith’s son, cut down as he trotted out a horse for his father to inspect, Gwatkin the carter and Theobald the fuller. Father Thomas was distracted by the glittering sanctuary lamp. He stared into the darkness, glanced up at the tortured face of Christ on the cross then back at the pyx hanging on its thick silver chain above the high altar. Was all this the truth? he wondered. Did Christ die and rise again? Did the appearance of bread house the resurrected body of Christ? He adjusted the purple stole around his neck and shifted his bony
knees on the hard, cold paving stones. He gazed fearfully around. Blackness! Silence, except for the scurry of mice in shadowy corners. A freezing cold night! Father Thomas thought of his warm cot bed and the diced stewed meat bubbling in that heavy cauldron above the hearth fire, hot and spicy. He shook his head, grasped the ave beads wrapped round his fingers more tightly and intoned a verse from the psalm:

    One thing I asked of the Lord, for this I long.
To dwell in the house of the Lord, all the days of my life.
To savour the sweetness of the Lord and behold his holy temple.

    This was followed by the De Profundis: ‘Out of the depths have I cried to you, oh Lord …’
    Father Thomas stopped and moved restlessly. He was distracted. Did the ghosts of Eadburga and Wilfred hover here? Did