by Paul Doherty
Corbett’s curiosity and surprise deepened as they approached a huge grille-like gate. Again this had three locks requiring the attention of each of his companions. Beyond it was another similar set of gates. At last they reached the end of the passageway. Corbett stopped in amazement. Beyond the bars of a long cage stretched a truly sumptuous chamber: its ceiling was decorated a deep blue with golden stars, its walls were hidden under costly tapestries, the finest arras gleaming with gold and silver thread. Turkey rugs, pure wool matting dyed a deep scarlet, covered the floor. Capped braziers glowed softly and exuded thin streams of perfumed smoke, whilst shuttered vents in all three of the walls allowed in light and air. The furnishings were of richly polished wood; aumbries, chairs, a chancery desk, coffers and caskets and, in the far corner, a small four-poster bed, its blue and silver curtains pulled close. On either side of the bed stood tables containing shimmering jugs and goblets. There was a jakes cupboard in the far corner, pegs for clothing, and a well-furnished lavarium with jug, bowl and small trays for soap, razor and little pots of unguents.
Abbot Henry, leaning heavily on his walking cane, pointed at the door, which Crispin hurried to open, and Corbett followed his three companions into that luxurious yet eerie chamber. The abbot beat his cane on the floor. Corbett heard movement, a cough, followed by exclamations from the curtained four-poster, and its curtains were pulled back to reveal an extraordinary figure sitting on the edge of the bed.
The prisoner – Corbett realised it must be a man – got up and walked towards Abbot Henry. He was garbed in a brown woollen nightgown that covered him loosely from neck to sandalled feet; his head was cowled, his face hidden by a mask. Corbett, hiding his surprise, noticed how the apertures for eyes, nose and mouth were neat and precise, expertly cut and sewn. The leather was probably the best of Cordova or Toledo, supple as wool and easy to manage. From the softness of his ungloved hands and the way he walked, Corbett realised the mystery prisoner must be fairly young. He pulled back the cowl and the clerk glimpsed blond hair, coiffed and neatly cut, with a few strands protruding at the side and back of the mask.
The prisoner bowed to Abbot Henry, and Corbett moved away, walking around him to scrutinise the intricately fitted clasps at the back of the man’s head that kept the mask in place, noting the small locks for keys that were undoubtedly held by the abbot.
‘What is this?’ he demanded. ‘Who is this? Abbot Henry, I have heard rumours, the tittle-tattle and gossip of the Secret Chancery. How a certain prisoner was being held fast, concealed from public view. But I never imagined anything like this. Would you remove the mask?’
‘Yes, yes,’ the abbot murmured. He opened his belt wallet and took out three very small keys, the type fashioned by the masters of the craft to open the delicate coffers and caskets of high-born court ladies. The masked man crouched in front of him. All was now deathly silent except for Maltravers murmuring to himself. He paused in what he was doing, beckoning at Crispin and Jude, telling them to prepare the chamber. The two men hastened to obey, arranging tables and chairs in a line close to the bed.
When the third clasp was loosened, the prisoner, head bowed, shook the mask off and straightened to stare directly at Corbett, who could only gape in surprise.
‘Sir Hugh,’ Brother Jude declared, ‘what do you see?’
‘In heaven’s name,’ the clerk exclaimed, ‘I am looking at the king.’
The prisoner smiled and shrugged. ‘Who am I?’ he whispered.
‘I cannot believe my eyes,’ Corbett replied, ‘but I would swear that you are the king’s own twin, his blood brother.’
‘Except for this.’ The man turned his head slightly and Corbett could see the scar where his right ear should have been: a grievous wound, but now healed and almost hidden by the golden hair.
The clerk took a step closer. He reckoned the prisoner to be no more than thirty summers old. He was tall, slim, long-legged beneath the gown; his face was handsome, his skin the same tawny hue as that of the old king and his heir. His features were well formed, his blue eyes heavy-lidded – the left one slightly drooping, as with all the Plantagenets – his moustache and beard cleanly clipped and precise. He made a mocking bow, kicking away the mask on the floor beside him: even that gesture reminded Corbett of the old king, who had been free with both fist and boot.
‘Monsieur.’ The young man pointed. ‘You must be Sir Hugh Corbett, Keeper of the Secret Seal. Abbot Henry told me you were coming and that you would be allowed to see me.’ He turned to Maltravers, who stood leaning on his walking cane. Corbett noticed how the abbot’s two henchmen stood like statues, keen to judge his reaction.
‘Enough.’ Maltravers tapped his cane on the floor. ‘Let us make ourselves comfortable and then we can hold our council of secrets.’
The prisoner sat on the edge of the bed. Corbett and the rest took the chairs arranged to face him. The clerk was still surprised, though the shock of the revelation was now receding as he reflected on what he knew about the old king. Was this young man a true Plantagenet? he wondered. Or the by-blow of some secret love affair? During the life of his beloved Eleanor, Edward had been faithful, but afterwards . . .
‘It’s best if we begin,’ Maltravers declared harshly. ‘Edmund,’ he nodded at the prisoner, ‘tell Sir Hugh who you are and why you are here.’
‘My name, my name,’ the young man sang. He paused to scratch the healed scar, and for just a few heartbeats, Corbett wondered if he was slightly awry in his wits. ‘My name is Edmund Fitzroy.’
‘Edmund, son of the king,’ Corbett translated. ‘Are you claiming to be the old king’s son and heir?’ He shook his head in disbelief.
‘Tell Sir Hugh your story,’ Brother Jude insisted.
‘It is not a story,’ Fitzroy protested, his lower lip jutting as if he was about to cry. ‘It’s the truth.’
‘Then tell me,’ Corbett declared softly. ‘Master Edmund, I truly want to know who you are and why you are here.’
‘And so you shall. I am the true son of Edward and his beloved wife Eleanor. I was born in Caernarvon Castle on the twenty-fifth of April in the year of our Lord 1284.’
Corbett hid his surprise at the declaration, as well as at the subtle change in Fitzroy’s demeanour and speech, the prisoner becoming more confident and assured.
‘When I was ten months old,’ the young man continued, ‘I was crawling across the inner bailey of Caernarvon Castle when I was attacked by a sow, which savaged my right ear. The royal nurse, absolutely terrified at the old king’s violent temper, realised she might well hang for her neglect, so she changed me for the child of a thatcher, a baby boy with more than a passing resemblance to myself.’
‘You have proof of this?’ Corbett demanded. He glanced at his three companions, who sat stony-faced, their hands thrust inside the voluminous sleeves of their robes. He wondered if any of them kept a dagger concealed there. He felt as if he was in a dream here in this luxurious cell, deep in a lonely abbey fortress.
‘What proof does he need?’ Maltravers murmured. ‘For heaven’s sake, look at his face and tell me that he is not the old king’s son.’
‘But is he legitimate?’
‘There are those who will say that he is,’ Prior Jude declared. ‘Think, Sir Hugh!’
Corbett caught his breath as he considered the possibilities. He kept his features schooled, but he recognised the threat implicit in Jude’s words. All those who opposed the present king would be delighted to support a possible rival. He could just imagine how the subtle clerks of the great barons would weave their story, pointing out that the king was not fit to rule; that he was more interested in digging ditches and other farmyard tasks than in wearing the crown and ruling like a true prince. They would argue that his weaknesses, foibles and vices were due to the fact that he had been given something to which he had no right.
The clerk moved in his chair, leaning forward. ‘So you,’ he pointed at Fitzroy, ‘were exchanged for a peasant’s son. T
hen what happened?’
‘The royal nurse provided my foster parents with gold and silver, on condition they take me away and hide themselves in the fastness of the Welsh March.’ Fitzroy shrugged. ‘And so they did. Oh.’ He paused and gestured to Abbot Henry. ‘Perhaps we could have some ale. I have become quite thirsty.’ He smiled crookedly.
‘Yes, yes.’ Corbett nodded.
Jude rose and crossed to a long polished serving table. He filled tankards from a jug, distributed these and retook his seat. As Corbett sipped at his ale, he forcibly reminded himself that this was no dream, despite the bizarre nature of what he was being told in this eerie chamber by such a mysterious individual.
‘We came here to the Valley of Shadows, to its very end,’ continued Fitzroy. ‘We joined a settlement of foresters, charcoal burners and wood cutters. I had a happy childhood. I grew to manhood and never thought about who I truly was until . . .’ He paused. ‘Until the old king’s soldiers, veterans of his wars in Wales, began to comment on my likeness to their royal master. My father, or rather my foster father, died a few years after we arrived in the valley: his wife always claimed that his death was due to the restless spirits that haunted the place.’ Fitzroy narrowed his eyes. ‘She was never at peace. She fell ill just after what was reckoned to be my eighteenth summer, a fever, some malignancy of the lungs. But before she died, she confessed to what had happened in that royal bailey at Caernarvon, though she begged me to remain silent, for if I proclaimed my truth to the world, my mouth would soon be stifled.’
‘Did you tell anyone?’ Corbett asked, aware of how still and quiet the chamber had fallen. He glanced at the others, who sat staring hard at the mysterious young man. He suspected that all three had played some part in the events now unfolding.
‘I told Grunewald, one of three hermits who lived in an enclosure at the end of the valley, near Caerwent cliffs. There are a number of caves there, ancient dwellings, deep and broad, hollowed out before even Christ was born, or so they say.’
‘And what did this Grunewald advise?’
‘The same as my dying mother, but . . .’ The prisoner pulled a face and sat blinking as though trying to recall something. ‘Time passed,’ he continued, fingers going to his lips. ‘Then one day a party of horsemen arrived in the village, about ten in number. They rested their horses and asked for food and drink at the village alehouse, a tavern called the Glory of the Morning.’ He laughed sharply. ‘It was certainly not that. Its keeper, Osiric, however, was kind enough to provide me with work and lodgings after my mother died. I swept, cooked and cleaned.’
‘These visitors, who were they?’
‘At first, Sir Hugh, I thought little about them: mercenaries, wandering swordsmen looking for employment along the Welsh March. They stayed at the tavern for a few days, sleeping in what chambers and outhouses the hostelry could provide. Sometime later they were joined by another ten. Of course the villagers were surprised at the arrival of so many strangers in such a short time.’
‘And you?’ Corbett asked, his suspicions pricked. ‘These men watched you, yes?’
‘Yes, Sir Hugh they did. They also began to describe their lives as wandering swordsmen. I was fascinated and asked to become one of them; after all, there was nothing for me in the valley. I was keen to wander and savour the world they described. They offered me a mount and battle harness from their supplies. Of course I accepted, and became one of their company.’
‘But who were they, these mercenaries?’ Corbett demanded. He felt a tingle of fear as he recalled certain writs and letters he had studied in the Secret Chancery. ‘And when did this happen, how long ago?’
‘Eleven years ago.’ Abbot Henry’s voice was abrupt, incisive. ‘You must have seen the letters, Sir Hugh?’
‘Yes, yes, I did. Royal licences authorising the Knights of the Swan to ride hard and fast to this valley to apprehend certain traitors.’
‘Let him tell his story.’ Abbot Henry’s voice was hardly above a whisper.
‘They proclaimed themselves to be mercenaries.’ Fitzroy’s tone became a little more cultured, and Corbett wondered if this mysterious pretender was a mummer, ever ready to change masks as his story demanded. ‘In truth, I am not too sure who they were. On more than one occasion they mentioned a lord, someone who called himself Paracelsus. To this day I do not know who they meant. I never discovered . . .’ Fitzroy paused as Corbett abruptly rose to his feet.
‘Sir Hugh?’ Maltravers demanded.
Corbett just shook his head as he turned and walked to the door of this eerie midnight chamber. Paracelsus! He felt his mouth go dry. Paracelsus, that dweller in the dark, leader of a sinister coven that had spread its venom throughout the kingdom. A force from hell, dedicated to wreaking mayhem, chaos and anarchy at every turn. He had confronted such malignancy at another time and in other places. He had thought he had destroyed that cohort of hell earlier in the year, but now he wondered. Had those he garrotted on stakes along the shore beneath the towering crag of Tynemouth Priory only been one link in the chain? How far did that chain stretch? He had no proof, no evidence, yet he believed his presence here at Holyrood had something to do with those dark spirits. He took a deep breath and crossed himself; only time would tell.
‘Sir Hugh?’
‘My apologies, Lord Abbot, brothers.’ Corbett retook his seat and pointed at Fitzroy. ‘Do continue.’
‘We must have travelled a day’s journey, riding hard towards one of the ancient Roman roads, when one of the scouts came hurrying back. I was simply a rider in the group, but I realised something had alarmed my companions. We could not go on. We returned to the Valley of Shadows, and the leader of our cohort, a Scotsman called Dalrymple, asked for the villagers’ support. What I did not realise until then was that the community my foster parents had fled to was, in the main, implacably opposed to the king of England and all his works. The families who dwelt there, relicts of certain clans and tribes, had fought strenuously for the Welsh prince Llywelyn and his brother David. When these two were slaughtered by Edward and his armies, those who could retreated into the vastness of the valley to shelter from English rule. They were left alone and so held their peace. However, when they heard that an English army might re-enter the valley, they decided to resist and joined the mercenaries in their retreat. Men, women and children, all fled to the cliffs of Caerwent.’
As Fitzroy sipped at his tankard, Corbett tried to recall all that he had learnt about this mysterious valley, which, he knew from the charts he had studied, ended in a soaring wall of rock.
‘The mercenaries and the villagers fortified the caves,’ Fitzroy continued. ‘These could only be approached by goat paths, very steep shale-covered trackways. Both the villagers and the mercenaries believed the caves could be defended. Barricades were set up; from behind these they could loose a veritable storm of arrows and other missiles.’
‘And water?’ Corbett asked.
‘Many of the caves were soaked due to hidden springs. Barrels of food and drink were also filled and taken there. As for what happened next . . .’ Fitzroy’s voice faltered and he gestured at the abbot.
‘Sir Hugh.’ Maltravers drew himself up, both hands resting on his walking cane. ‘You asked if I, if we, had ever threaded the full length of the Valley of Shadows.’ He paused. ‘Of course we have, and he’ – the abbot pointed at Fitzroy – ‘is the cause. Reports were received at Westminster about a young man who bore a striking resemblance to both the king and his heir, sheltering in the Valley of Shadows along the Welsh March. So concerned was the king that he decided to move his court to Caernarvon. These reports were mere straw in the wind, yet it was worrying enough that this young man was also known to others and might pose a danger.’
‘And who were these others?’
‘We do not know; enemies of the king either within or without. God knows, they are legion, be it Philip of France or Bruce of Scotland, not to mention the disaffected here in Wales.’ The abbot banged his
cane against the floor. ‘You know how such rumours can spread and strengthen.’ His tone was now pleading. ‘Dust in the wind, yet still irritating. Suffice to say,’ he added briskly, ‘the king and his Secret Chancery set up a watch on all approaches to this valley. We learnt soon enough about a force moving swiftly, well armed with all the harness of war. The king ordered us, his personal comitatus, the Knights of the Swan, to investigate.’ He paused as if trying to choose his words carefully. ‘We were to provide what you clerks call une tiele remedie.’
‘A suitable remedy,’ Corbett translated. ‘In other words, you were to kill that young man, removing the problem completely.’
‘In a word, yes.’
‘Sir Hugh, you can imagine the problem.’ Brother Jude spoke up. ‘How can you attack caves that can only be approached by twisting goat paths? Our archers found it almost impossible to loose upwards at an enemy so deeply concealed.’
‘We arrived and pitched camp.’ Abbot Henry’s eyes closed in concentration, seemingly lost in the past. ‘It was autumn, a good season for war. The weather was warm, the ground underfoot firm. Any attack on the caves was soon beaten back, even if we approached with locked shields.’ He opened his eyes and smiled as if savouring a memory. ‘Edward the king eventually arrived and changed all that, as he did everything. We were not to attack from below, but from above.’ His smile widened. ‘You are surprised, Sir Hugh?’