by Paul Doherty
Eventually they reached the corpse chamber, a cavernous room stretching beneath the infirmary. Brother Mark’s mortal remains were laid out on a high wooden table with thick tallow candles in sockets on all four corners. The air reeked of pine juice as well as herbal essences stewing in large pots around the dimly lit chamber with its row upon row of mortuary tables. Only one of these, as Brother Crispin wryly remarked, held ‘a guest’: a beggar man who had staggered into the abbey before he collapsed and died.
Corbett watched as the infirmarian and his assistants stripped Brother Mark’s corpse, then he and Ranulf, with Chanson staring furtively from behind them, joined Crispin in scrutinising the body. The cold, hardening flesh was criss-crossed and bruised with old scars and battle wounds, but apart from the gruesome death blow to the forehead, Corbett could detect nothing significant.
Brother Crispin told his assistants to withdraw. Once they had done so, he brought a pair of powerful prongs from his medical coffer and used these to clasp the nail driven deep into the dead man’s forehead. Slowly he pulled it out, the serrated edges of the nail grinding the bone, dark blood slowly trickling out. He held the nail up so that Corbett could clearly view it, then crossed to a barrel of water and washed it carefully with a rag. Next he took a small but heavy mallet from his coffer. Corbett sensed what was about to happen but decided to hold his peace. The infirmarian strode across to stand over the corpse of the beggar man. He beckoned Corbett and Ranulf to join him. The clerks studied the pathetic remains: the beggar’s belly skin was discoloured, a filthy froth between his lips.
The infirmarian placed the heavy black nail in the centre of the dead man’s skull, its pointed tip piercing the skin. ‘Have no qualms, Sir Hugh, this poor creature’s soul has long gone to the angels. I mean no disrespect. You know we search for the truth, and this unfortunate, though dead, can assist us in our quest.’ He paused. ‘I have reflected,’ he murmured, ‘how long it would take to drive such a nail into a man’s skull, and I don’t think it could be done swiftly.’
Corbett held his breath as the infirmarian made sure the nail was positioned correctly before hitting it with three powerful blows to drive it as deep into the beggar man’s skull as it had been in Brother Mark’s. Some black blood trickled out of the wound, and Corbett noticed how both the skin and bone of the man’s forehead were ruptured.
‘In the name of all that is holy,’ he whispered, walking back to Brother Mark’s corpse. ‘How could this be done? Here lies an able-bodied man, a former soldier, whose skull was pierced, yet there is not a shred of evidence to indicate he was drunk or being fed some opiate to render him senseless. There is no other wound or blow to his head or body, no proof that he was held by another. Nevertheless, he goes out into that kitchen yard and allows his assailant to draw close and drive a nail into his forehead with two, even three blows. There is no sign of any resistance, no protest, no sound. So how? And why? Why kill a refectorian, a man dedicated to God and pledged to honour the name and soul of his dead royal master? Why have two of his companions been murdered in a similar way?’
‘So many questions,’ Crispin grated. ‘Sir Hugh, do you have any answers?’
‘The only logical explanation,’ Corbett retorted, ‘and it’s a beginning, not a conclusion, is that a member of this community has turned, like some rabid wolf, on his comrades. But as for the why and the how, that must remain a mystery.’
Corbett’s unease only deepened as he left the mortuary and led Ranulf up the steps onto the broad parapet walk that circled the abbey buildings. For a while the two men stood muffled in their cloaks, buffeted by an icy breeze as they stared across at the Valley of Shadows.
‘We have entered the forests of the night,’ Ranulf murmured. ‘Here on this high wall, I stare into the blackness and confess that I feel truly frightened. Sir Hugh, what is happening?’
‘I don’t know,’ Corbett replied, ‘except that some evil has emerged to prowl around this place. God knows why, Ranulf, but I have a nagging suspicion.’ He paused at the mournful hooting of an owl carried by the night breeze from the green darkness so close to them. ‘I do wonder,’ he continued, ‘if the evil here is linked to that business in Scotland, that secret society, Satan’s own coven: the Black Chesters.’
‘I thought we destroyed them. You executed their leader, Paracelsus.’
‘I thought the same, Ranulf. You may recall how after we left Scotland, I had business in York and elsewhere before returning to my manor at Leighton. Chanson and Ap Ythel accompanied me. Now.’ Corbett patted the stonework and turned to face his henchman. He glanced over Ranulf’s shoulder, his gaze drawn by the fire bowls burning fiercely along the wall, their flames leaping up against the night. In the flickering light, Ranulf’s face seemed a deathly pale, sheened with sweat. Corbett caught his companion’s deep, curdling fear.
‘Come.’ He plucked at Ranulf’s cloak, pulling him closer. ‘Let’s at least go down to some merry fire. I came up here so we could be alone.’
He was about to turn away when an arrow whipped through the air just above their heads. ‘In heaven’s name!’ Ranulf exclaimed. He was about to lean over the crenellation, but Corbett pulled him down to crouch behind the stonework.
‘Keep low,’ he hissed, ‘and follow me.’
The clerk turned, and was almost crawling towards the steps when he heard a scream further along the parapet walk. He glanced up and glimpsed the watchman stagger, hands going up to the shaft piercing his throat before he toppled to fall like a stone into the bailey below. Corbett and Ranulf reached the steps, straightened up and hurried down. The alarm had already been raised, the abbey bells tolling the tocsin once more. By the time they had reached the cobbled outer bailey, others had gathered. The watchman who had been struck, a lay brother garbed in a boiled leather jerkin, thick woollen hose and sturdy boots, lay sprawled on his back, eyes staring blindly up at the flickering torches gathering around him. His short stabbing sword was still fastened in its sheath, so Corbett reckoned he must have seen nothing untoward; his conical helmet, lying a short distance away, was unmarked.
Corbett ignored the exclamations of those gathering around as he swiftly studied the death wound. The arrow, a slender yard-long shaft, had pierced the man’s throat just beneath the chin. ‘A master bowman,’ murmured the clerk. ‘An archer wielding a powerful war bow with long feathered shafts.’
‘But so high,’ Ranulf replied. ‘He would have had to draw close to the walls.’ He paused at the clatter of hooves as a postern gate was opened and a hastily arranged party of horsemen dispatched across a makeshift bridge to scour the darkness.
‘Too late and too futile.’ Corbett shook his head and got to his feet, plucking at Ranulf’s sleeve. They pushed their way through the gathering throng. Corbett nodded to Brother Crispin, who was demanding to see the corpse, then led Ranulf back into the deserted refectory. They checked on a sleeping Chanson, head down on the table, before going to warm themselves over the capped braziers.
‘Don’t be so surprised at what you saw,’ Corbett declared. ‘What we have just witnessed is the mark of a true archer. I have seen the likes before in Wales. They can take the eye out of a bird and place a shaft through the narrowest cleft. They move on foot, garbed in brown and green to keep them subtly disguised and hidden, but . . .’
‘Sir Hugh?’
‘Ranulf, these archers are highly skilled, yet this one seems to have moved far too swiftly, which might account for his poor aim. He narrowly missed us because we also moved, a mere heartbeat before that arrow pierced the darkness above us.’
‘And . . .’
‘He would have had to notch again, take aim and loose at the watchman, yet that poor soul was killed even as we crouched down. Moreover, he was further along the wall than us. No bowman could move so quickly.’
‘So there must have been two.’
‘Yes, Ranulf, certainly more than one, but who they were and why they attacked . . .’ Corbett shook his hea
d. ‘What I suspect is that the attack on us was not specific. These enemy bowmen were searching for a target, any target along the parapet wall.’
‘And this could be the work of the Black Chesters?’
Corbett was about to reply when a lay brother hurried in, gasping how the lord abbot and others were assembling in the council chamber, and would Sir Hugh be kind enough to join them?
‘We have no choice.’ Corbett plucked at his companion’s sleeve. ‘We are invited to the tournament, and battle is about to begin.’
The lay brother led them out through the darkness and into the council chamber, which lay close to the abbey church. Corbett and Ranulf were ushered to their seats. Corbett slouched down, staring around at the guests making themselves comfortable, turning to the lay brothers responsible for the buttery table, telling them what they would like to eat and drink. He himself asked for a goblet of mulled wine and a platter of capon sprinkled with herbs. Once this was served, he ate and drank slowly, as if paying full attention to the meal.
Ranulf smiled to himself. He now knew ‘Master Longface’, as he sometimes described Corbett, and his little foibles. The clerk was highly skilled at apparently watching one thing when in truth he was closely scrutinising something else; today was no different.
‘You know all these guests?’ Ranulf whispered. Corbett nodded imperceptibly, and continued his scrutiny of the man at the head of the table: Henry Maltravers, former Knight of the Swan, close confidant and friend of the old king, now abbot of this great abbey fortress. Corbett knew Maltravers of old, and considered him a true warrior. The abbot had sketched a bow towards the clerk as, resting on his canes, he allowed two assistants to help him to sit in the great throne-like chair. He had the face of a hunting falcon, shaven of all hair, which made his narrow eyes seem all the more watchful. His high cheekbones and sunken cheeks told of a man hard as iron, a blood-soaked warrior. The son of a London armourer, he had entered the old king’s service as a page, and had fought his way up to become a royal henchman, a knight banneret in the Brotherhood of the Swan.
Corbett watched as the abbot made himself comfortable, wincing at a pain in his stomach, which he kept rubbing with thick, stubby fingers. He turned to speak to Devizes, his master-at-arms, who stood behind his chair, garbed for war in his hauberk, a conical helmet cradled in the crook of his arm. Devizes’ mailed coif was pulled over his head to frame a truly handsome, even beautiful face. Nevertheless, both he and his master were true men of war. The abbot even had his sword belt slung over the newel of his chair.
Maltravers was a fine example of the church militant, a warrior who believed in both prayer and the power of his arm. As he glanced down the table, he caught Corbett’s eye again and winked, then gave that thin smile that never reached his eyes. He and Corbett had served together in Wales, Gascony and Scotland, and the clerk strongly suspected that Maltravers had asked the young king to send his Keeper of the Secret Seal here to Holyrood to assist on certain matters. On either side of the abbot sat his two henchmen, Prior Jude and Brother Crispin, both veteran warriors, skilled in battle: in their brown woollen robes, the three men looked like blood brothers, stern-faced, yet openly worried about what was happening in their abbey.
Across the table, head down and playing with his food, sat Roger Mortimer. Corbett studied him out of the corner of his eye and quietly wondered what mischief, what villainy, brought this most sinister of marcher lords to Holyrood. Mortimer abruptly glanced up and stared across at the clerk with those glassy blue eyes, so light that Corbett wondered if there truly was a soul behind them. He held the marcher lord’s gaze. Mortimer gave a lopsided grin and returned to his food, fingers flicking at the crumbs on his jerkin, lost in his thoughts. Corbett wondered what he was thinking about, then mentally recited the opening verse of a psalm: ‘The Lord is my light and my help, whom should I fear.’ Certainly Mortimer!
He glanced at the crucifix fixed on the far wall of the chamber. Mortimer was arrogant and deeply ambitious, determined to build his own fiefdom along the Welsh March. He would bully, harass and even kill any who opposed him, yet there was more. Despite his rugged looks and easy charm, he also enjoyed a chilling reputation as a warlock. A dark-souled lord of the midnight rites, with a penchant for consulting conjurors and others steeped in the black arts. Corbett had no proof of this; just the whispered gossip of the Secret Chancery. According to what he had learnt from a lay brother, Mortimer had arrived at Holyrood with a small though well-armed retinue. The marcher lord had been lodged in one of the towers. He had not bothered to change, and was still swathed in a mud-stained travelling cloak, eloquent testimony that he had ridden hard and fast to reach Holyrood. The Keeper of the Secret Seal wondered why.
Corbett heard murmured French behind him. He turned in his chair and stared up at the smiling face of Amaury de Craon, Philip IV’s special emissary to the English court, Master of Secrets in the French king’s chancery at the Louvre in Paris. De Craon finished thanking the lay brother who’d brought him in before extending a hand, which Corbett clasped. De Craon tightened his grip.
‘So good to see you, Hugh. You are never far from my thoughts.’
‘In which case, we have something in common.’ Corbett withdrew his hand and let it fall to the hilt of his dagger.
‘Pax et bonum,’ the Frenchman murmured with that knowing smile that always infuriated Corbett. ‘And it’s good to see you too, Ranulf.’
The Clerk of the Green Wax rose and proffered his hand, leaving Corbett to marshal his own thoughts and emotions. The French envoy settled himself, still smirking. Corbett studied this most devious man, a true fox, with his wiry russet hair, moustache and beard, his ever-darting eyes, sharp nose and pointed features. Corbett had crossed swords with de Craon more times than he could remember, and he knew the Frenchman loathed and detested him. A man who would not hesitate in taking Corbett’s life if he could do so without any hurt to himself.
‘Sad days, Hugh, sad days . . .’ De Craon broke off as the abbot, wincing in pain, leant forward and tapped the top of the table.
‘Gentlemen, my brothers, cherished guests, welcome.’ Maltravers made a face as he rubbed his stomach.
‘Father Abbot, are you well?’
‘Yes, Crispin, thanks to you, I am getting better. Now we are all gathered here—’
‘My Lord Abbot.’ Corbett leant his elbows on the table. ‘I am here, as you know, on the king’s business. I carry his warrants, licences, letters and seals.’
‘And?’ Mortimer lifted his head, his handsome face wreathed in a smile. He stroked his neatly clipped moustache and beard, which, like the long golden hair framing his swarthy features, were streaked with grey. ‘And?’ he repeated.
‘Precisely,’ Corbett snapped. ‘I am here to ask questions. So, my lord, why are you here? Not to mention,’ he turned to de Craon, ‘our august envoy from France.’
The abbot stilled objections from his guests, rapping the table and glaring down at Corbett. ‘Sir Hugh, Monsieur de Craon brings greetings and messages from King Philip of France. He has hastened here—’
‘A truly arduous journey from Tewkesbury,’ de Craon interjected. ‘I am here for two reasons, Sir Hugh. First, a kinsman of the French king has been cruelly murdered at Holyrood. My royal master has every right to demand an explanation as well as seek assurances that the perpetrator will be caught and most rigorously punished.’
‘As for me,’ Mortimer drawled, dismissing de Craon with a flick of his hand, ‘as you well know, Sir Hugh, I am the king’s justiciar in these parts. I exercise the right of oyer and terminer – to hear and to deal with all matters of law. Moreover, I too was a member of the old king’s comitatus, although not a Knight of the Swan. For like you, I am married and the father of children – indeed, many children, some within wedlock, others who are truly bastard.’ He gave Corbett a meaningful look, as if both of them knew full well that the love of women was not shared by the Knights of the Swan.
‘And
your second reason for being here?’ Corbett turned back to the envoy.
‘Sir Hugh,’ Abbot Henry forced a smile, ‘I appreciate there may be other business you want to prosecute, but we are gathered here now to discuss the real dangers this abbey faces. We must take action, and soon. Today is the seventeenth of November, the year of Our Lord 1311. We celebrate the feast of St Callixtus, pope and martyr; we too are martyrs to our calling.’
He paused to take a deep breath. ‘We are Knights of the Swan, the old king’s comitatus. We have wielded our swords for him in fierce battle. We have confronted the spear storm and endured the arrow flood. As pages we followed him in Outremer. As squires and young knights we shattered the war bands and the armed hosts of his enemies – be it the tribes here in Wales, the traitor de Montfort, or those rebels who prowl the rugged hills of Scotland. We hoped, we prayed to follow our king to Jerusalem. We vowed that if we could not do this during his lifetime, we would give up our swords and shields for the psalter and the Ave beads. We also vowed to assume the mantle of the Benedictine order and to follow its rule. The old king accepted our pledges of loyalty. He granted us this abbey and its lands, including the Valley of Shadows, the entrance to which we now guard . . .’ The abbot fell silent, rubbing his stomach as he gestured at Jude to continue.
‘Our stay here’, the prior’s hard-clipped voice rang through the chamber, ‘has proved to be most successful, but now we sip deep from the cup of sorrows. On the eve of the feast of St Simon and Jude, Father Abbot fell grievously ill after drinking from his goblet in his chamber. He was undoubtedly poisoned.’