Nightshade Read Online Free Page A

heartbeats, then he disappears into the forest or an alleyway with no sight or sound.’
    â€˜You mentioned the Free Brethren of the Holy Spirit. Could any of them have survived the massacre and be exacting vengeance?’
    â€˜I doubt it,’ Edward replied, chewing the corner of his lip. ‘The Free Brethren apparently carried no arms, though there are rumours to the contrary. Even if they did, such people are not skilled in the arts of war.’
    â€˜And this is not directed against Lord Scrope but the townspeople of Mistleham?’
    â€˜Well it could be.’ Edward paused. ‘Hugh, Lord Scrope committed murder. If the Free Brethren had perpetrated a felony,
they should have appeared before the justices of oyer and terminer or even been summoned before the assizes, but to be brutally cut down, massacred? Now I can’t appear to be protecting a group of wandering rogues against a manor lord, definitely not one as powerful as Scrope, but if this bowman continues his attacks, sooner or later people will look for a scapegoat. I don’t want some uprising in Essex. I want the matter brought to an end, and you’re the best man to do that.’
    â€˜And you are sure, none of the Free Brethren survived?’
    â€˜I doubt it. Father Thomas reports there were fourteen in number, and there were fourteen corpses, each carrying the brand of their guild upon them. A cross,’ Edward patted his chest just beneath his throat, ‘here. Father Thomas tried to reason with Scrope, but that ruthless bastard is adamant. The corpses still remain unburied. No one escaped.’ The King sucked on his lips, then gestured round. ‘You must be wondering why I brought you here. This is my treasure house, Corbett – evilly looted. I kept my precious goods here, gifts from old friends and Eleanor …’ He blinked away the tears that always came when he mentioned his beloved first wife, Eleanor of Castile, now buried beneath her marble mausoleum in the abbey above them. ‘You know the story, Corbett? I was in Outremer when my father died. Eleanor was with me. A secret sect of assassins who lived with their master, the Old Man of the Mountains, in their rocky eyrie in the Syrian desert, had marked me down for death. They struck, the assassin stealing into my tent with a poisoned dagger. I killed him but he still wounded me. Eleanor, God love her, sucked the poison from the gash and saved me.’ Edward sighed noisily. ‘I dedicated the dagger to St Edward the Confessor and placed it here in the crypt.
Those whoresons stole it! One of the gang, John Le Riche, tried to sell it in Mistleham, but he was trapped by Scrope and his minion Claypole. They hanged Le Riche out of hand and now hold the dagger. Scrope, to impress me, is acting the hero-saviour, but I don’t believe his tale. I want that dagger back and the truth behind Le Riche’s abrupt capture and even swifter execution. Do what you have to.’ Edward searched in his wallet, pulled out a small scroll and handed this to Corbett, who unrolled it. The writing was in the King’s hand, the writ sealed with his privy seal: ‘To all officers of the Crown, sheriffs, bailiffs and mayors. What the bearer of this letter has done, or is doing, is in the King’s name and for the benefit of both Crown and Realm …’
    â€˜Sir Hugh, master!’ Hugh broke from his reverie and glanced quickly to his right. Ranulf, who had been studying him closely ever since they left Westminster, gestured ahead. ‘We are approaching London Bridge, master.’ He smiled. ‘It’s best if we are vigilant.’
    Corbett gazed around. This was a part of the city where one’s wits and sword must be sharp and ready. A bank of mist was rolling in from the Thames. The roar of the river as it poured through the arches of London Bridge, breaking around the protective starlings, sounded like a roll of drums, not quite