by Paul Doherty
‘No, not by our old master.’
‘Too true,’ Maltravers whispered. ‘Edward could and would do the unexpected. He brought up siege equipment, catapults and slings to pelt the caves with rocks and fire, though even that proved difficult. Eventually a traitor, a hunter, showed us a path that snaked around the cliffs to their summit. Edward was delighted and immediately ordered wood, ropes, pulleys and carts to be taken up.’
‘Carts?’ Corbett exclaimed.
‘Yes, with their wheels removed. You’ve seen those war carts, Sir Hugh, planks of wood and iron clasps that can easily be assembled. Once we’d secured the ridge above the caves, we built fighting platforms that could be lowered by pulley from the summit. You can imagine how difficult it became for the defenders. If they came to the mouth of the caves, they would meet an arrow storm.’
Maltravers fell silent. Corbett stared at Fitzroy even as he imagined those fighting platforms being lowered by the king’s engineers. So much effort, so much violence and bloodshed. So who really was this young man?
‘I know what you’re thinking.’ Fitzroy declared.
‘Do you now?’ Corbett replied.
‘Yes, yes I do. You are thinking that if I am the king’s true son and heir and I was in those caves, I could have been killed.’
Corbett shrugged. ‘I would hazard a guess that Edward demanded that the young man he was searching for be taken prisoner. Yes?’
‘True.’ Maltravers murmured.
‘We took those caves one by one,’ Prior Jude declared without raising his head, and Corbett felt a shiver. He knew the old king’s reputation, his ferocious temper. ‘We used long spears with hooks on the end. Those who did not die in the arrow storm, we dragged out for capture or just let them fall.’ Jude pointed at Fitzroy. ‘He was taken prisoner.’
‘And the others?’ Corbett demanded, even though he dreaded the answer.
‘We took a few.’
‘And the rest?’
‘They were hanged, men, women and children.’
Corbett closed his eyes. Fitzroy put his face in his hands.
‘We hanged them on the trees below the cliffs of Caerwent,’ growled Maltravers. ‘You knew the old king, Sir Hugh. He saw them all as traitors. He had unfurled his royal banner before the assault. He’d offered them terms for surrender; their only response was a shower of fire arrows. Some of them escaped, but the rest were slaughtered. We tried to plead with the king, but he was obdurate.’
Corbett stared at Fitzroy, who had now composed himself. The Keeper of the Secret Seal knew that Maltravers was telling the truth. The old king was ruthless and, when crossed, bloodthirsty in the extreme.
‘I was spared,’ Fitzroy said. ‘But I saw others die, strangled on the end of a rope.’
Crispin spoke up. ‘We were allowed to choose one or two captives to pardon. I took twins, two young boys no more than twelve summers old. I tried to comfort them, but one morning, just before we left the valley, they escaped.’
‘I chose a young maid.’ Jude murmured. ‘But,’ he shook his head, ‘she died out of sheer grief.’
‘And I chose Devizes,’ Maltravers declared. ‘A truer soul I cannot hope to meet.’
Corbett eased himself in his chair. The chamber had fallen silent. His companions seemed lost in their own thoughts, memories perhaps of those hurling, bloody days when Edward of England imposed his iron will. He closed his eyes and prayed quietly. Time and again he had advised his royal master to show mercy and pardon, but Edward was Edward. When he had fought Simon de Montfort, the king had extended the ban to Simon’s entire family. He had seen himself as God’s henchman on earth, with the power of life and death.
Corbett opened his eyes, fighting off a wave of sheer tiredness. He pointed at Fitzroy. ‘When you were captured, what did the old king say?’
‘Nothing,’ Maltravers retorted swiftly. ‘Isn’t that right, Edmund? He said nothing to you except to tell him the same story you have told us.’
‘I met him in the royal pavilion,’ Fitzroy declared. ‘He pitched it on that open ground before the cliffs of Caerwent. He sat slouched in a chair, staring at me in a way . . .’ He shrugged. ‘He frightened me, Sir Hugh. I was terrified.’
‘And then?’
Fitzroy spread his hands as if to encompass the entire chamber. ‘I was brought to a place like this, a gilded cage.’
‘Tell me,’ Corbett demanded. ‘Tell me about Paracelsus.’
‘I know nothing, Sir Hugh, except that I heard his name mentioned by the mercenaries and some of the villagers. They talked of him as if he was some lord and leader.’
‘And the Black Chesters?’ Corbett caught an abrupt sense of alarm from the prisoner, as well as unease from the others. Fitzroy’s face changed, a fleeting expression of deep fear. ‘You are glib and smooth in your speech.’ The clerk decided to be blunt. ‘But I feel you are not telling the truth, or at least not all of it.’
‘I . . . I know of the Black Chesters,’ Fitzroy stammered. ‘I have been asked about them. Those mercenaries may have been part of their coven, but . . .’ His voice rose in a wail. ‘I am what I am. I know nothing about secret societies.’
‘Who said they were secret?’
‘Sir Hugh, do not try and trap me. I will tell you what I know. The mercenaries, as well as many of the villagers, mentioned the Black Chesters. They talked about them with deep respect, especially their leader, Paracelsus. When I first came to the village, I thought what I saw was the truth: men and women trying to live their lives. It was only when the mercenaries arrived that I learnt about Paracelsus, the Black Chesters, but even then it was only murmured words or whispered phrases.’
‘Sir Hugh,’ Maltravers intervened, ‘our guest, this young man, knows very little about politics; he is what he is.’
‘And after his capture?’
‘As he has said, he was moved from one gilded cage to another, this royal castle or that royal palace, usually in London or places such as Kings Langley. The old king stipulated that the mask be worn, and when he was moved, he was always confined in a covered litter. Our master also demanded that he remain constantly under our watch.’
‘And our present king, surely he knows about this?’
‘Of course, Sir Hugh, but the hour is now late; night draws on. Perhaps we can discuss such matters in my chamber?’
A short while later, with the handsome Devizes leading the way, Corbett and the others left the prisoner and climbed the steps of Falcon Tower to the abbot’s palatial chamber. A truly princely room, well furnished, even opulent, with thick Turkey rugs on the floor, its walls covered with brilliantly hued tapestries. The air was heavy with perfumed smoke from the fire, and braziers where small pouches of herbs and spices shrivelled in the heat.
Corbett made himself comfortable in a chair set before the fire, as did the others. Devizes served richly mulled wine. The clerk sipped this as he studied the young man, the only known survivor of a hideous massacre. He quietly conceded to himself that Devizes was truly handsome, noting the beautiful oiled skin, the carefully coiffed blond hair, the supple wrists. Devizes’ long fingers were decorated with rings, their stones shimmering in the light from the fire and the dancing flames of the pure beeswax candles that Raphael the sacristan had placed around the chamber. At first glance the young man might be regarded as effete, yet there was something dangerous about him. He was a street fighter, probably well versed in dagger play and the clash of the sword. Corbett sensed this just by the way Devizes moved, how his long fingers would fall as if to caress the jewelled pommel of the long, thin Italian dagger hanging in its brocaded sheath from his war belt.
The master-at-arms caught Corbett’s stare. He smiled and crouched beside him, jug at the ready to refill his goblet. The clerk allowed him to, smiling his thanks.
‘You are staring at me,’ Devizes declared. ‘You have seen me before, Sir Hugh?’ His voice was soft, pleasant, with more than a tinge of an accent.
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��Of course not,’ Corbett murmured, toasting the young man with his goblet. ‘But I have just learnt of your origins. How you came to be here.’
‘Through God’s own special grace and the favour of Abbot Henry.’ Devizes’ smile faded. ‘Sir Hugh, I am Abbot Henry’s man, body and soul, in peace and war.’ The smile returned, the full red lips parting to show even, white teeth. ‘But such devotion is not difficult. Abbot Henry is a great lord.’
He fell silent as Maltravers banged his tankard on the arm of his throne-like chair before turning to whisper to Crispin on his right and then Jude on his left. ‘Devizes,’ the abbot ordered, ‘guard the door.’ Once the master-at-arms had left, Maltravers leant forward, hands out towards the flames. ‘Sir Hugh, you must have questions?’
‘I certainly do. And the principal one is who is that prisoner and what will happen to him?’
‘You are brusque and I will respond in kind. The accepted wisdom is that our prisoner is a by-blow of the old king or of our former master’s brother Edmund Crouchback, Earl of Lancaster, father of the present Lord Thomas . . .’ Maltravers let his words drift. Corbett recognised the abbot’s reluctance to talk about Lord Thomas, leader of the baronial opposition and the most fervent adversary of the present king and his Gascon favourite Gaveston. According to Lancaster’s proclamation, Gaveston was the son of a witch and a catamite, filthier than any whore from the stews of Southwark. Edward and Gaveston had not overlooked such insults, and everyone recognised that the king’s struggle with Lancaster would be to the very death.’
‘So,’ the clerk chose his words carefully, ‘Edmund Fitzroy is illegitimate and our present king accepts this?’
‘Yes.’
‘And what does he want done?’
‘In this vale of tears, Sir Hugh,’ Brother Jude cleared his throat, ‘the most pragmatic solution would be to kill Fitzroy. Yes, I know that is stark and cruel, but what if the opponents of the present king, or indeed anyone opposed to the Crown, seized that young man and proclaimed him to be our legitimate ruler? This kingdom could dissolve into conflict. So perhaps it is best that one man die than the realm be riven by bloody civil war.’
Corbett stared at the gargoyles carved on each corner of the cavernous hearth shaped like a dragon’s snout. One depicted a jester, his stupid face framed by a hood festooned with bells. The other was a monk, fat-faced and cross-eyed. He glanced away as he reflected on what had been said. Was Brother Jude correct? Should he also quote scripture and claim that ‘it was best if one man died for the people’? Nevertheless, in the end, neither the old king nor his successor wanted the blood of their possible kinsman – and an innocent one at that – on their hands.
‘So what is the remedy?’ the clerk demanded. ‘Life imprisonment, constantly guarded? But what happens, Abbot Henry, when you and your brothers here have gone to God? Who will care for him then? Surely they will think of a more ruthless conclusion to all this?’
‘Sir Hugh.’ Maltravers scratched his head. ‘That is one question we have also asked but never answered. Perhaps you can offer some solution?’
Corbett tapped his fingers as he stared into the fire. The question of the prisoner was vexing, but there were other matters to address.
‘Abbot Henry, brothers, I mentioned the Black Chesters. I sensed your unease.’
‘Of course you did,’ Crispin declared. ‘We know who they are, Sir Hugh: a secret society, a witches’ coven dedicated to anarchy and chaos, its adherents implacably opposed to the law of Christ and the way of Holy Mother Church. They can be found in all places, be it a monastery, or a chamber in a royal palace. Our late master talked of them, but during his reign they really never manifested themselves.’
‘Except here,’ Corbett interrupted. ‘They sheltered our prisoner, they opposed our king, and that explains his ruthlessness. But do you know anything else?’
‘Once we left the valley,’ Maltravers declared, ‘we heard very little about the Black Chesters. Indeed, since then, our only news has been rumours that you, Sir Hugh, had a most violent confrontation with them along the Scottish March and utterly destroyed them.’
‘I would like to think so,’ Corbett retorted. ‘But, God be my witness, I am not too sure any more. If the Black Chesters have survived, then they will certainly see our prisoner as a great prize. Now correct me if I am wrong, but I believe you are thinking of transferring that prisoner to my care.’
PART TWO
Even brought face to face before the king himself, John did not deny what he had already said.
Life of Edward II
Corbett and Ranulf sat close to the hearth in the clerk’s chamber in Osprey Tower. Corbett had left Maltravers and the others to their deliberations and returned to find Ranulf waiting for him. The Clerk of the Green Wax assured his master that Chanson was fast asleep, and as everyone knew, once the Clerk of the Stables fell into a deep slumber, even the last trumpet would not rouse him. Corbett refused the offer of a drink or the dried meats a lay brother had brought. He still felt warmed by the mulled wine he had recently drunk.
Once he had returned, he had wasted no time. He had sworn Ranulf to secrecy, his hand over a crucifix, before informing him about Fitzroy and the possible dangers that young man faced, as well as those he posed to both Crown and kingdom. When Corbett had finished speaking, Ranulf rose, pacing the chamber, scratching his cropped hair, as he always did when deeply agitated.
‘What can be done, master?’ he demanded. ‘What will happen? Do we spend the rest of our lives guarding such a prisoner? And where? At Leighton? Or do we cart him off to some far-flung monastery in Cornwall, or even better, the wilds of Ireland? If people learn of our secret – and they undoubtedly will – we will be swept up in the tempest! Sweet Lord, help us!’ He came back and stood over Corbett. ‘Master, you know there are those powerful enough to seize on all this. They would reject our true king as a peasant’s son who seems more interested in gardening than ruling. Such opponents would use it as a pretext for civil war, and yet . . .’ Ranulf paused. ‘Do you think the prisoner is telling the truth? Is he the old king’s true heir, our legitimate ruler?’
‘Ranulf, I truly don’t know. But do you remember Mistletoe?’
‘Mistletoe?’ Ranulf exclaimed. ‘Yes, it’s the name given to John Stroman, one of the Secret Chancery’s most senior clerks. He always likes to wear sprigs of mistletoe; he believes they keep him safe in body and soul.’
‘Yes, Ranulf, you are correct.’ Corbett took a deep breath. ‘Mistletoe could be of considerable assistance. Chanson will leave at first light. He is to travel as fast as he can to Tewkesbury. He will ask Mistletoe to carry out certain searches on my behalf. Mistletoe used to be a keeper of the records; more importantly, he has a nose for the scandals of the royal family.’
‘I could go.’
‘I need you here.’ Corbett laughed. ‘Chanson will go, with letters from me. He will ask Mistletoe, out of the love he bears me, to divulge to no one else the task I have assigned to him.’
‘Which is?’
‘The task I have assigned to him in my letters,’ Corbett quipped. ‘And if he is successful, then I will tell you. Now, let Chanson sleep the sleep of the just: he will need all the rest he can get before his long ride back to Tewkesbury. In the meantime, let us concentrate on the present. We will list what is happening, even though everything seems cloaked and hidden, a deeply murderous mystery.’
He pulled across a sheet of scrubbed vellum and the chancery tray Ranulf had taken from his panniers. He chose a sharpened quill and dipped it into the black ink shimmering in its capped pot, the clasp now pulled back. He waited until Ranulf sat down next to him and made his first entry as he half listened to the distant sounds of this lonely abbey fortress.
‘Item.’ He spoke as he wrote. ‘Holyrood stands at the mouth of the Valley of Shadows; it now houses the old king’s personal comitatus, the former Knights of the Swan, who are the reason for this abbey. They are, to all intents and pur
poses, monks, brothers who have taken vows of loyalty to the memory of their dead master as well as to the rule of St Benedict. They have been joined by others, lay brothers, who are probably members of their former retinues. In the end, Ranulf, these are warriors, soldiers, as skilled in combat as any Templar knight. They live their communal life and, bearing in mind their secret predilections and attitudes, are happy enough in a so-called celibate community. Henry Maltravers is their sworn lord abbot: Crispin, Jude and Raphael his principle henchmen.
‘Item. Life at Holyrood was calm and harmonious until recently, when suddenly, without any apparent reason, three of the brothers, all former Knights of the Swan, were brutally murdered. One in his chamber, another on the steps of a tower and a third in a kitchen yard, this last killing occurring on the very evening we arrived here.’ Corbett glanced up. ‘Indeed, a great deal has happened to mark our arrival. Is that significant? Is Brother Mark’s death linked to us and our mission? A show of defiance?’
‘You are correct,’ Ranulf agreed. ‘Much has happened since we came. We must not forget the fire arrows, or the murder of that sentry high on the walls, as well as the attack on us.’
‘I don’t think we were chosen because of who we are, Ranulf; it was simply that we were in the wrong place at the wrong time.’
‘So why was that attack launched?’
‘To frighten, to cow the community of Holyrood, the same tricks and stratagems used by the Welsh tribes when they fought Edward and his armies.’
‘And the guards and sentries along the walls?’
‘To make them more cautious?’
Corbett abruptly rose to his feet and began to pace the chamber. He felt very tired, but also fearful. He was aware of encroaching danger, yet he could not define what this actually was, or where it might spring from. ‘What if . . .’ He returned to his seat. ‘What if a hostile force is slipping into the Valley of Shadows? If you were responsible for this, you would move men by night, yes?’