Angel of Death

Stephen,' he said. 'The hosts were consecrated and distributed for eating by whom?'
    'By de Montfort.'
    'No one else?'
    'No one else,' Plumpton confirmed smilingly. 'And then what happened?'
    'Oh, for the love of God,' de Eveden, the librarian, broke in quickly, 'you know what happened. Once the host was consumed, the wine was drunk.'
    'Ah yes, the chalice. Who drank first?'
    'De Montfort. He gave it to me and then,' the librarian paused, 'of course, to Ettrick, who brought it back to de Montfort. It was then passed to the celebrants on his left.'
    'Who were?' Corbett interrupted.
    'Plumpton, de Luce and Blaskett. That is right,' the librarian nodded. 'That was the order of the ceremony.'
    Corbett held a finger up. 'The chalice was brought back?'
    'Yes.'
    'By whom?'
    'By me.' Blaskett glared at Corbett.
    'No, it wasn't!' De Luce, who had remained seated and watchful, now interrupted, his voice soft and mellow – a sharp contrast to the rest of the canons. 'Stephen, you did not bring it back.'
    'Who did?' Corbett snapped.
    'Why, Philip,' de Luce turned and stared at Plumpton opposite him, 'you gave it back to de Montfort.'
    Plumpton's face grew angry. 'No, I did not. I…' he paused and then slumped in his chair. 'Yes, you are right, Robert, I did. The chalice had been passed along de Montfort's left, I drank it, then you did, then Blaskett. Of course, Stephen,' Plumpton glared at him, 'you did not bring it back, I remember. You passed it along?'
    Blaskett nodded. 'Yes, that it true.'
    Corbett glanced at Hervey, whose pen was squeaking noisily across the parchment. 'Change your quill, Master Hervey.'
    Hervey smiled gratefully for the respite, placed the hard pen down, picked up another, sharpened its point with a thin knife, dipped it in the inkpot, which he had warmed over one of the candles and began writing again.
    'Now,' said Corbett, 'the chalice came back. What happened then?'
    'We don't know,' de Luce continued softly. 'We had all eaten the host and drank the wine. What do you think we did, Clerk? We bowed our heads and said the usual words of thanksgiving.'
    'Then what?' Corbett began to feel he was losing his grip on the meeting.
    'I heard a sound,' de Luce continued. 'I looked up. De Montfort was turning, his hand was going towards his throat, the rest you know. He collapsed. By the time he was taken to the sacristy he was rigid in death.'
    Corbett glanced round the table at the canons, their learned, worldly faces clear in the candle-light. He looked up at the stone-fitted window, noting that the room was becoming lighter. He felt frustrated. He resented the self-satisfaction of these five men. He had asked his questions and they had answered. There was nothing mysterious. What now, Master Clerk? they were silently taunting him. What can you ask now? Corbett thought of something.
    'What if I told you,' he said slowly, 'that Sir Walter was to take the poisoned chalice to the king to drink before exchanging the kiss of peace with him?' Corbett relaxed, pleased at the hiss of intaken breath. 'What if,' Corbett looked up at the ceiling, 'I tell you that there are some who think that the chalice was not meant for de Montfort but for His Grace. May I remind you, sirs, that the murder, or even the attempted murder, of the Lord's Anointed is high treason. I need not remind you of the new penalties imposed for such a heinous crime. May I also remind you that there are some who maintain a poisoner should be boiled alive.' Corbett, very rarely vindictive, felt he wished to inflict some pain on these smug, self-satisfied men. 'I have heard of a man boiled alive in Wales. He was lashed to a pole and lowered, feet first, into a huge steaming cauldron. His screams lasted for half an hour as the flesh peeled away from his bones.'
    Plumpton rose suddenly, rapping the table with his beringed hand. 'You have no right to frighten us, Clerk!' he said. 'You are insinuating that somebody here poisoned de Montfort but really intended to commit high treason and kill, King Edward. It is true, Clerk,' Plumpton continued remorselessly, 'that we may resent His Grace's demand for taxation, but to resent and argue is not treason. In fact, it is the Church's function to advise the king. The Church anointed Edward. No prince has received such loyalty from this cathedral as our present King Edward.'
    He was about to continue but de Luce put his hand over his colleague's.
    'Sit down, Philip,' Robert said, half smiling. 'I know what our