Nightshade by P. C. Doherty

Principal Clerk in the Chancery of the Green Wax was thoroughly enjoying himself, but that was Ranulf. He liked to see Corbett enter a room like a cat stealing into a parliament of mice. Corbett winked at him and went back
to his thoughts, listening to the burning twigs snapping in the hearth. Old sins, he thought, dried and hard, now brought to burning: that was what was happening here.
    â€˜Sir Hugh, Sir Hugh.’
    Corbett broke from his reverie. Brother Gratian had returned with a small chancery pouch. Corbett took it and shook out the contents. The scrolls were small and thin, the warnings very similar. The vellum was of high quality, the script neat, fully formed and easy to read. One set in red ink, the other in black, but apart from this, there was no indication of their source. Corbett studied the carefully formed writing sifting the contents into two, though the message was always the same. The first, ‘The Mills of the Temple of God grind exceedingly slow but they do grind exceedingly small’, and the second, ‘The Mills of the Temple may grind exceedingly slow and exceedingly small, but so do the Mills of God’s anger.’
    â€˜And how were these delivered?’
    â€˜Sir Hugh,’ Scrope replied, ‘traders and merchants are common visitors here. They bring supplies as well as letters or petitions from the markets, the town and the surrounding villages. A scroll pushed into the hand. They cannot remember who, how and when for every scrap of parchment they are given.’
    Corbett handed them back.
    â€˜My lord, whatever you say, these warnings are not linked to what is happening here at Mistleham but to events many years ago.’ Corbett paused. ‘Are you sure there is nothing you wish to tell me?’
    â€˜Sir Hugh,’ Scrope replied, sitting down in his chair and rubbing his knees, ‘if I have to confess, then I would do so to Brother Gratian, but for the rest, this is nothing but villainy. I
sent out search parties to look for the source of that horn but I am sure nothing will be found.’ He gestured at the parchments. ‘The same for those. You’ve seen the warnings, but there again, Corbett, like you I have lived with danger all my life. Whatever comes, I shall face.’ He glared at his wife. ‘And in future,’ he glanced back at Corbett, ‘if you have questions about my doings, then ask me.’ He rose to his feet, clapping his hands softly. ‘I am sorry the banquet ended like this, but I am only the victim, not the cause. Sir Hugh, you look as if you have something more to say.’
    Corbett walked forward. He stood before the manor lord and stared down at him. ‘I do, Sir Oliver. Your mastiffs Romulus and Remus were slain?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜Then I give you a fresh warning,’ Corbett whispered, ‘and I do so most solemnly. If I were you, Lord Scrope, I would reflect very carefully on my circumstances and make sure I was well guarded both day and night. True, warnings have been delivered but they’ve yet to be fulfilled. However, time presses on, the hour grows late and we must all retire.’ Corbett turned away, determined that Lord Scrope would not have the last word. ‘Tomorrow morning, before the Jesus Mass, Master Ranulf and I will go out to Mordern, seek out the corpses of the Free Brethren and give them honourable burial. Father Thomas, Master Benedict, I would be grateful for your presence, and you, Brother Gratian. The Office of the Dead must be recited, the law of Holy Mother Church observed.’ He raised a hand. ‘I bid you good night …’

    Master Henry Claypole stood in the embrasure of the great bow window of the guildhall in Mistleham overlooking the marketplace and stared down at the ice-covered cobbles. A fresh dusting of snow had fallen. Master Claypole likened that to God’s grace sprinkled out to cover the dirt and foulness of the deeds of men. The mayor