by Paul Doherty
‘Nothing, except . . .’ Corbett snapped his fingers and pointed to the door. ‘I would like that left open.’
‘Our meeting is not yet finished,’ Mortimer declared.
‘For the time being it is,’ Corbett retorted. ‘Ranulf, let us go.’
The two clerks returned to their chamber in Osprey Tower. Corbett pulled stools close to the glowing brazier; from the top of another one, he lifted a jug of mulled wine, a thick cloth wrapped around its handle. He filled two goblets, placing these on the table between the stools. ‘We’ll drink this,’ he sat down, ‘stare into the coals and get warm, then we are going back to that prison cell.’ He winked at Ranulf. ‘Brother Norbert, whoever he is, however frenetic, may have seen or heard something. I wish to question him.’
‘And then?’
‘I can only reflect,’ Corbett pulled a face, ‘and wait for my spy to manifest himself.’
‘A spy?’
‘Of course, Ranulf. Do you think the Secret Chancery would allow a place like Holyrood to live in peace and harmony without any survey or scrutiny? Oh no, ever since this abbey was founded, we have had our secret representative. However, until he decides to show himself, we can do nothing but wait.’
Corbett paused at a knock on the door. Ranulf went to open it, and Mortimer, all cloaked and hooded, swept into the chamber. Corbett rose to greet him, asking Ranulf to fetch a stool and offering the marcher lord a goblet of mulled wine, which he gratefully accepted. Tossing his cloak onto the floor, Mortimer squatted down on the stool, staring narrow-eyed at Corbett.
‘I wonder,’ he murmured, ‘why you are really here, clerk.’
‘Wonder if you must, my lord. I am on the king’s secret business.’
‘Which is?’
‘If I told you, it wouldn’t be secret, would it?’
‘Ah well.’ Mortimer grinned. ‘I have heard rumours about a certain prisoner.’
‘Have you now?’
‘As well as stories about Templar treasure hidden away here.’
‘So that’s why you’re here? Not because of the murders, but to discover what you can about this mysterious abbey?’
‘I am a marcher lord.’ Mortimer spread his hands. ‘I hear the gossip, the rumours, but . . .’ he let his hands fall, ‘I am genuinely concerned. I also heard rumours about men, armed and harnessed for war, assembling in the valley.’
‘Why didn’t you inform His Grace the king?’
‘I did, but he is too busy playing with . . .’ Mortimer glanced away. ‘I did inform the king, but I received no reply. As for Abbot Henry, he knew nothing about such rumours.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I did my own searches. There was a hermit who lived in a cell close to my manor of Wigmore. I persuaded him, paying him good silver to act for me. I chose a man who could look and speak like a wandering beggar, a hermit, a holy man dedicated to God. Anyway, I asked this man to move into the Valley of Shadows and set up a hermitage. In the end, he did not take much persuasion. He was to discover what he could and, when I visited Holyrood, to meet me here.’ Mortimer pulled a face. ‘From the little I have learnt, my hermit kept faith. He dwelt in the valley and then came here as arranged, being shown to the guest house. However, a short while later, he apparently collapsed and died.’
‘From natural causes?’ Corbett queried.
‘So it would appear, but one lay brother – in fact the one now chanting like a lunatic in his cell beneath the Eagle Donjon—’
‘You mean Norbert?’
‘Yes, Sir Hugh, Norbert.’ Mortimer grimaced. ‘Norbert’s a drunk. He told me that when the beggar came here, he asked if I had arrived; of course I hadn’t. A short time later, he was found dead.’
‘So,’ Corbett closed his eyes. ‘You send a spy into the Valley of Shadows. You then arrange to meet him here, so the man knocks on the abbey gate and asks for shelter. He does not realise how our enemies press in from every side. He openly admits he is here to meet you, my lord Mortimer. He wants to share with you what he knows.’ The clerk paused. ‘However, you never learnt what he knew, and you suspect someone here realised who he truly was, why he had come, and so silenced him.’
‘In a word, yes.’
‘So why have you come to me, Mortimer?’
‘Corbett, I am nervous, wary. Here we are sheltering in a desolate abbey fortress. Outside, the devil’s own blizzard blows. A mere walk away, a determined enemy lurks deep in the vastness of the Valley of Shadows. This place houses about seventy fighting men, not to mention servitors and others. It’s the depth of winter. We have diminishing supplies; certainly enough water from the well, but food?’ Mortimer pulled a face. ‘I am not too sure. It’s a situation fraught with danger. I have already dispatched two couriers to my estates, the nearest manor house. I understand your messenger has also left?’
Corbett just stared at the marcher lord.
‘No need for secrecy, Sir Hugh.’
‘Oh, my lord, there’s every reason for secrecy. I accept your description of Holyrood, but there is more to it than that. We are now in the house of murder, where brothers are slain, the abbot is poisoned, ambuscades are sprung, sentries killed, prisoners cruelly silenced. We are in a forest even more dangerous than any stretch of those dark-clustered trees in the Valley of Shadows, and who can we trust? You, my lord?’
‘Of course.’
‘Only time will tell.’ Corbett rose. ‘But now we have other matters to settle. Perhaps when we dine tonight, or some other time?’
Mortimer took the hint and left. Corbett closed the door behind him and sat down, hands out towards the brazier. He glanced at Ranulf, squatting cross-legged. ‘So we enter the web,’ he murmured. ‘Well, Ranulf, let us follow one strand.’
They collected their cloaks and war belts, Corbett also picking up a small wine skin, and went down into the icy bailey and across to one of the passageways beneath the donjon. The row of cresset torches there created a world of fluttering shadows, so that it seemed as though shapes and forms crawled up the walls on either side or darted along the tunnel before them. Silence reigned, an ominous, baleful stillness. They passed the occasional lay brother busy on this task or that and, with the help of one of these, entered the gallery where the two prisoners had been housed. The door to their cell still hung open, though the corpses had been removed.
Corbett went in, wrinkling his nose at the foul smell. Again he could glimpse nothing untoward. He left the cell and went across to where Norbert was imprisoned, peering through the grille at the lay brother sprawled on a palliasse, snoring his head off. He ordered the lay brother who’d brought them to fetch the janitor as swiftly as possible. The man hurried off and returned with the grumbling janitor, who muttered under his breath about taking orders only from the lord abbot. He quickly fell silent when Ranulf drew his dagger and beat its pommel against the cell door.
Corbett heard a clatter from within, followed by moans and protests. He stood back and gestured at the janitor, who opened the door. The two clerks went in. Norbert, bony-faced and balding, his eyes wet with sleep, his cheeks still flushed with wine, crouched, arms folded, against the wall. Corbett told the janitor to go back to the top of the passage and wait for his sign. Then, with Ranulf standing behind him, he squatted down and offered Norbert the small wine skin he’d brought from his chamber. The lay brother greedily snatched it, and slurped one mouthful after another until Corbett wrenched it from his grasp.
‘What do you want?’ Norbert gasped. ‘You must want something.’
‘The two prisoners in the cell opposite, the ones captured in the valley and brought down here, they were killed, murdered. You saw something, didn’t you? You must have.’ Corbett caught a knowing, cunning look in Norbert’s eyes.
‘You want the truth, clerk, don’t you?’ Norbert peered closer. ‘Oh yes, I know who you are, and you should be warned. The devil has come to Holyrood, I have seen him. Oh yes! A misshapen creature with a twisted, ugly black shield on the slumped slope of his back.
He carries a broad cutting lance against his scaly thigh. I saw him and his minion slip through a postern gate, to be met by another demon, who led them away. Oh yes, I see many things, I do. I creep around, a shadow without a form.’ He chomped on his toothless gums. ‘I see many strange things in the murk. Ghosts flit here and there. People appear where they should not be, in chambers with moving lights and dancing flames.’
‘And the two prisoners?’ Corbett lifted the wine skin. ‘I can leave this with you, for what it’s worth, and look . . .’ He dug into his belt purse and brought out a coin, which he held up. ‘Listen, Norbert, the snows will soon go. Spring will return. Merchants and travelling traders will visit Holyrood. Keep this coin and buy yourself something nice, yes?’
Norbert licked his lips, one claw-like hand going out.
‘No, no.’ Corbett put the wine skin and the coin on the ground beside him. ‘Now,’ he urged, ‘tell me.’
‘I heard a sound.’ Norbert hugged himself. ‘I was still full of the strong drink so I knew I had to be careful. I crept towards the door and peered out. The monster carried a mallet in one hand and a nail in the other. Oh yes, I am sure I saw that. Anyway, he turned, so I crouched down like a frog ready to spring, then I heard him hiss, “Are you ready to emulate?”’
‘What?’ Corbett demanded.
‘Yes, clerk, I know it’s strange, yet I am sure that’s what he said.’
‘Emulate – that means to copy, to be like something else,’ Corbett murmured.
‘He banged his mallet against the door and I heard a cry, followed by another, then he was gone and there was silence. Yes, silence!’
‘And Mortimer’s man, you met him in the guest house?’
‘I passed him when he was sitting there. He was waiting for something to eat and drink. I bade him good day and asked him his business. He did not answer but simply asked if the lord Mortimer had arrived. I told him I didn’t think so, but there again, that is not my business. Anyway, that man died too, didn’t he? No mark of violence, not like the others with nails driven through their heads. He just died.’ Norbert laughed. ‘Probably just a lack of breath.’
‘Is there anything else you can or want to tell me?’
‘Perhaps, master,’ again the cunning look, ‘if you could leave that wine and the coin for sweetmeats, perhaps I will remember more. Then you can come back and visit poor Norbert.’
Corbett glanced over his shoulder at Ranulf and asked him to fetch the janitor, who returned, still muttering under his breath. The clerk ignored him and, plucking at his companion’s sleeve, left the dungeon and returned to his chamber. He pressed a finger against his lips as a sign to Ranulf to remain silent until they were firmly ensconced before the hearth.
‘What’s the matter, Sir Hugh?’
‘I do not trust Norbert and I certainly don’t trust this place. Holyrood is a maze of winding stone passages, gloomy galleries and tortuous twisting tunnels where eavesdroppers can lurk like mute gargoyles in the murk. Anyway,’ he sighed, ‘what can we make of what Norbert told us?’
‘Nothing, master. Nothing but the ravings of a lunatic, his wits even more twisted by cups of strong wine.’
‘I don’t know, Ranulf. Sometimes the mad see things we don’t. I will reflect on what he said. Do you know, when we left that dungeon, I am sure we were being watched.’ Corbett paused and smiled at a knock on the door. ‘I thought so; our visitor has arrived. Let him in, Ranulf, I suspect I know who he is.’
Ranulf opened the door and, hiding his surprise, ushered Brother Raphael the sacristan to a stool.
‘Welcome.’ Corbett smiled, clasping his visitor’s hand. ‘Pax et bonum.’
‘And the same to you. Sir Hugh, at last we meet alone.’
‘Indeed we do! Ranulf,’ Corbett gestured at Raphael, ‘our good friend here is . . . how can I put it?’
‘Your spy?’
‘Better than that, I would say our close ally here in Holyrood. Let me explain. The Knights of the Swan were, and still are, very important men. Once they were lords of the soil. They were our former king’s personal bodyguard, his comitatus, his comrades in arms. They were Edward’s men in peace and war, body and soul. They knew the royal secrets, or most of them.’ Corbett smiled. ‘Naturally, when they left the king’s service, the Secret Chancery wanted to ensure,’ again the smile, ‘that everything remained as it should.’
‘Hugh, Hugh,’ Raphael declared, accepting a goblet of mulled wine. ‘Be blunt! The Secret Chancery needed a spy here. I am your comrade, your good friend, but above all I was the old king’s constant companion. I owe it to you and our present king to alert you to any mischief or threat to the Crown. If I am concerned, you will be the first to know.’
‘And is there such a concern?’ Ranulf asked.
‘Yes, there certainly is,’ Corbett replied. ‘Raphael, tell him.’
‘Monsieur Amaury de Craon!’ Raphael placed his goblet on the table and waved a hand. ‘Ostensibly the Frenchman is here because of Brother Richard’s mysterious murder, as well as to convey invitations to pageants organised in Paris. Rest assured I think that’s all a mockery. Amaury de Craon is here because of the Templars. You see,’ he coughed, cleared his throat and then drank from his goblet, ‘my father was a leading jewel merchant in London, a creator of beautiful objects. A man who loaned money to the Crown, especially when the old king refused to repay his loans to the Bardi banks of Florence. I entered the royal service and, like my compatriots, climbed the stair of preferment, from page to squire, to knight, to royal henchman and so on. The old king also retained me as his expert on precious stones and other jewels. Now, Ranulf, you must have seen the casket that holds the dagger used against our former king in Outremer: it hangs above the sanctuary in the abbey church.’
‘I wasn’t present,’ Ranulf murmured, ‘when you showed it to my master, but I have been in and glimpsed it from afar. They say it’s an object of incredible beauty. A fitting container for that dagger.’
‘It was not always so.’ Raphael’s voice became hushed. ‘The old king used to keep the dagger in a jewelled box. However, in the spring of 1307, a few months before Edward died, Jacques de Molay, Grand Master of the Templars, secretly visited the English court. He was deeply fearful about what was happening in France. He had heard rumours, gossip, the secretive chatter from the Chambre Ardente.’
‘Literally the Chamber of Fire.’ Corbett glanced at Ranulf. ‘You’ve probably heard it mentioned. The Chambre lies at the very heart of Philip’s Secret Chancery in the Louvre, the centre of that great spider’s web, where all kinds of mischief are concocted, plotted and carried through.’
‘Too true, too true,’ Raphael murmured. ‘That’s where Philip and his coven – de Nogaret, Marigny, de Craon and the rest – brew their pot of mischief. This time it was the total destruction of the Templar order and the seizure of all its treasures. Now Philip and his coven had heard how the Temple in Paris held a special casket, and believe me, the casket is unique. It is of great age, fashioned out of gold, silver and the world’s most exquisitely beautiful pearls, all of which allegedly comes from the Holy of Holies, Solomon’s temple in Jerusalem. Such a casket is worth at least a dozen king’s ransoms, and of course, many think it possesses miraculous qualities.’
‘And de Molay brought it to England?’
‘Indeed he did, Ranulf. He entrusted it to Edward in return for guarantees from both the old king and his heir that they would do their very best to protect the Templars in England.’
‘But they didn’t . . . they haven’t,’ Ranulf declared. ‘The order lies destroyed in this kingdom as it is in others.’
‘Ah yes,’ Corbett replied. ‘But there has not been the wholesale torture and executions that has taken place in Paris and elsewhere. Anyway,’ he sighed, ‘the casket is now here.’
‘It could be stolen.’
‘No, Ranulf, it is a sacred object in a sacred place, well guarded by the former Knights of the Swan and their
coterie. Moreover, if it was stolen, how could any thief sell it, whilst to break it up would be foolish. All of Europe would be alerted to its disappearance and the felon responsible would not only incur the wrath of the Crown but the full power of Holy Mother Church, who would proclaim the perpetrator excommunicate, worthy of eternal damnation.’
‘Except . . .’ Raphael interjected.
‘Except for Philip of France,’ Corbett murmured. ‘I am certain that de Craon is not only here to check on the casket, but, if he can, to seize it for his royal master.’
‘But that would incur the sanctions you have mentioned.’
‘No, no, Philip is unique in this. The present pope, Bertrand de Got, Clement V, resides in Avignon, so he lies within the power of France. Clement will do whatever Philip tells him. Secondly, if he seized the casket, our French king would proclaim that he is no thief; that the casket was originally kept in the Temple of Paris, and, like all the order’s goods, is forfeit to the French Crown. Finally,’ Corbett rolled his goblet between his hands, ‘as you know, Philip of France does not give a fig for either God or man.’
‘But how will de Craon seize the casket?’
‘I am not sure, Ranulf, and that’s the mystery.’
‘But that’s why you’re here, isn’t it?’ Raphael’s tone turned accusatory. ‘To collect that casket, as well as the mysterious prisoner we’ve housed ever since we arrived here.’
‘Yes, Raphael, it is. I have in my chancery coffer letters, signed and sealed personally by our king, ordering me to do what is best, as well as instructing all loyal subjects to cooperate with me and support me in every way possible.’
‘Father Abbot will resist.’
‘Father Abbot, my friend, will do what he’s told or this abbey will be occupied by royal troops.’
‘And when will all this happen?’
‘I cannot say, but at the right time and in the right place, I shall do the right thing.’ Corbett paused. ‘This snow storm has created new obstacles, new dangers, and will continue to do so. Now, my friend, what news?’