by Paul Doherty
‘I have seen enough.’ Corbett got to his feet and pointed at the far wall, where iron-spiked collars, chained leads and thick leather muzzles hung. ‘Now listen, sir.’ He turned to the keeper. ‘The dogs are not to be fed tonight or tomorrow morning. Just before first light, as the bells chime, you are to bring them, all muzzled and harnessed, to the devil’s door of the abbey church. Do you understand? All eight dogs, unfed, and muzzled so tightly they cannot bark and howl for their food. Yes?’
The keeper made to object, but fell silent as Ranulf and Ap Ythel both drew their long Welsh stabbing daggers.
‘I understand, master,’ the keeper mumbled. ‘But why?’
‘To stop these attacks on your innocent brothers and save this abbey from further bloodshed. What I have told you, keep to yourself, or face the penalty . . .’
Corbett returned to his chamber. Ranulf and Ap Ythel headed for the buttery for something to eat. Before they left, Corbett gave the captain of archers precise instructions to deploy his bowmen both near the main gateway and at all postern doors. He was to accept no objections from whoever else mounted a guard. Ap Ythel nodded his understanding.
Corbett was fairly pleased at the progress he was making. On his journey back from the kennels, he realised the sky was clearing and the air felt a little warmer. He hoped for rainfall to hasten the thaw. He was tempted to visit the church, light some tapers and pray for Maeve and their two children, as well as all the others he loved. In the end, he decided it was more prudent to stay where he was, recite the psalms and retire to bed.
Ranulf-atte-Newgate, Clerk of the Chancery of the Green Wax, drank deeply with Ap Ythel before staggering back to his chamber in Osprey Tower. He first checked on ‘Old Master Longface’, but the door was locked and bolted. ‘Fast asleep, God bless him,’ Ranulf muttered. Head down, he carried on up the steps; he didn’t even glimpse the shadow that darted out of a dark enclave. The resounding blow to the head immediately felled him, and he slumped against the stairwell wall before sliding into unconsciousness.
When he awoke, shaken and shoved, a pannikin of icy water thrown into his face, Ranulf didn’t know where he was. Hands and feet bound, he was squatting in a tunnel, black as night with only one flaring torch battling against the murk. It was cold, bitterly cold, whilst the cords lashed around his wrists bit hard and deep into his flesh. He wondered if he was alone, because he was certain he heard a groan further up the passageway. He took a deep breath as he recalled the events of the previous evening: visiting the kennels, drinking with Ap Ythel, leaving with the captain of archers, who was determined to ensure that all the postern gates were closely guarded, and now this . . .
He began to be aware of where he was and what was happening. He felt a shiver of fear. Corbett was planning to release those war dogs through the secret entrance near the devil’s door, and Ranulf was certain that he was now in one of those hidden tunnels. Would Corbett search for him? He heard a sound and glanced up. A figure emerged from the dark and a fist slammed into Ranulf’s face, badly bruising his lips. The clerk struggled against his bonds as his attacker roughly slapped his cheeks time and time again.
‘Who are you?’ he shouted, as he tasted the blood bubbling between his lips. ‘Where am I? Who are you?’ He jerked at another stinging slap across his face.
‘I am your death,’ a voice grated. ‘And how you die and how fast you go is a matter for me.’ The voice had that sing-song cadence of the Welsh, though its tone was harsh. Narrowing his eyes, Ranulf could make out a hooded face, glittering eyes above a bushy moustache and beard.
‘Now.’ The face drew closer. ‘You and Corbett were down in the kennels. You were visiting those war dogs. What is going to happen? Will Corbett use the dogs to sniff us out? Or have you found a secret entrance? Will those mastiffs be dispatched down here? We have heard their howling. Have they deliberately not been fed, their blood fired to seek out the blood of others?’ He struck Ranulf hard, knocking the clerk’s head back against the wall. ‘Answer my questions. Why does the Welsh traitor Ap Ythel have men watching the postern doors? Tell me.’
‘My death may be coming,’ Ranulf replied through bloodied lips, ‘but yours is definitely on its way. The hunter is about to plunge, so look up my friend. Corbett is a true hawk and he will catch you in his talons.’ He flinched at another stinging slap, then his assailant rose and walked away. Ranulf watched him go, disappearing into the darkness. He strained his ears for any sound. He thought he heard movement, but that was only an echo from somewhere deep in the tunnel. ‘Ah well,’ he whispered, grimacing at the pain and soreness of his face, ‘they never do what they should.’
Moving his bound hands, he felt down to the inside of his right riding boot, fingers scrabbling at the narrow leather pocket. Eventually he drew out a small, needle-thin knife. He twisted this carefully, for its edge was razor-sharp, and began to sever the rope between his wrists . . .
Corbett was roused early the next morning by a thunderous knocking on his chamber door. He rose and opened it to a lay brother gasping for breath as he stammered how the lord abbot needed Sir Hugh in his chamber as swiftly as possible. Corbett drew on his boots, fastened his war belt, wrapped his cloak about him and followed the lay brother out across the inner bailey. Dawn was about to break. The sky was clear, tinged with a strengthening glow in the east. The weather had turned decisively warm, whilst it had rained long and hard during the night. The snow was now rapidly turning to a sludgy mess, sliding off roofs, sills, cornices and corners. The lay brother, slipping and slithering before him, carried no torch or lantern less they attract the attention of the mysterious assassin dealing out death in Holyrood.
Abbot Henry, Devizes, Crispin and Jude were already gathered in close council as Corbett strode into the abbot’s chamber. He paused just within the doorway as he heard clear across the abbey the howling of the war dogs, which were now being muzzled.
‘I understand.’ Abbot Henry pulled himself up in his chair. ‘I understand you have been across to the kennels. You have given the keeper certain orders. Why? By what authority—’
‘By the king’s,’ Corbett snapped, and took a stool. ‘By the king’s own authority. Assassins, traitors, one or more, prowl the precincts of Holyrood. I believe they are using a maze of secret galleries and tunnels beneath the abbey to move around without revealing themselves.’
‘Ah,’ Jude gasped. ‘I did hear rumours of such a possibility, but I never . . .’
‘Brothers Anselm and Richard spoke of it,’ Crispin agreed. ‘I thought it was all gossip, I never gave it a second thought. Until these present events, we had no reason to believe there were hidden galleries beneath us.’
‘And you, Father Abbot?’
‘Again, Sir Hugh, rumours, but no one ever stumbled over any secret door or hidden entrance. Now you claim to have discovered such places?’
‘I have, and I intend to use them.’ Corbett paused at a knock at the door. Mortimer, without a by your leave, swaggered into the chamber, took a stool and sat down. He then lifted a hand and cocked his head at the renewed howling of the war dogs. ‘Something is happening.’ He forced a smile. ‘I went down to the kennels: the beasts are furious at not being fed, whilst their keepers are getting muzzles and harness ready.’
‘Something is happening,’ Corbett agreed. ‘So listen . . .’
The Keeper of the Secret Seal then described in brief, pithy phrases what he had discovered and what he intended to do about it. He told Mortimer that he had no choice but to help him in these important matters. Mortimer did not object, but rubbed his hands in glee.
‘The dogs will be taken from their kennels,’ Corbett continued, ‘and on my order released down a tunnel near the devil’s door. The passageway will then be sealed. Once that happens, the assassins – and I am sure there must be more than one – will have to either flee or fight. Of course, they will try to escape through any secret passageway or tunnel within the inner or outer bailey. Ap Ythel will deploy
his bowmen. You, Lord Mortimer, and you, my Lord Abbot, will place your hobelars and men-at-arms where I command; they will act under my orders. They are to be harnessed for battle and, where possible, carry war bows or arbalests.’ He glanced up at Devizes. ‘Do you understand?’
The master-at-arms nodded.
‘And you, my lord Mortimer?’
‘I await your orders with relish.’
‘Good, in which case . . .’ Corbett made to rise, gesturing at the marcher lord to follow.
‘Sir Hugh,’ the abbot declared. ‘The casket has disappeared.’ Corbett sat down again. ‘That’s the real reason for summoning you. The precious casket and the dagger it contained have vanished, and just as mysteriously, so has our sacristan Raphael. A lay brother preparing the sanctuary for service noticed the casket had gone. Quite wisely, he did not raise the alarm. I do not want members of our community rushing out to expose themselves to more arrow storms. Instead, he went to Raphael’s chamber; the door was off its latch, with no sign of anyone inside. More worrying is that his weapons, boots, pannier and travel cloak have also gone.’ The abbot crossed himself. ‘We must consider the possibility that Brother Raphael has stolen the casket and fled. The thaw is deep and swift; trackways and paths will soon be clear.’
‘But I have all the postern doors closely guarded.’
‘Ah yes, Sir Hugh, but for whom?’
‘Assassins who are hiding deep in this abbey but who will soon try to get out.’
‘So you are looking for an enemy,’ Abbot Henry retorted. ‘Not for a member of our community, a senior official wanting to leave. We have not questioned all the guards, but it is possible Brother Raphael has gone, though the reasons why will remain a mystery until we speak to him again.’
‘Could he have left through the secret tunnels?’ Mortimer asked.
‘If he did,’ Corbett replied, ‘then he too is our enemy.’
Crispin waved a hand. ‘Raphael is our comrade! He is brave and true; we cannot judge him until we discover the truth. Now, Sir Hugh, is it possible that these secret tunnels run outside the walls of the abbey?’
‘Possibly, but I do not think so. The two architects, Anselm and Richard, built and developed Holyrood to include the foundations of previous buildings. I suspect the tunnels, if they really do exist, run the length and breadth of this abbey fortress but no more. Like you, Abbot Henry,’ Corbett continued, ‘I am deeply worried about the disappearance of Raphael and the casket. However, first we must deal with the enemy within. My lord Mortimer, Master Devizes, it is time we did so.’
When Corbett and his two companions reached the devil’s door, Ap Ythel had already lifted the paving slab, members of the community crowding round to peer down and excitedly discuss what this could mean. Corbett abruptly imposed order, dispersing the spectators and dispatching Mortimer and Devizes to fetch their men. As soon as they’d gone, he sent Ap Ythel to the keeper of the kennels, waiting deep in God’s Acre to bring his dogs in.
‘Once he’s here,’ murmured the clerk, ‘the hunt begins.’
‘And I will deploy my men,’ Ap Ythel declared, ‘arrows notched, bows at the ready for any stranger to appear in the abbey precincts, though we also need Mortimer and Devizes’s retainers.’
Corbett nodded his approval. He watched Ap Ythel go and began to wonder where Ranulf could be. He felt agitated, and tried to compose himself as he stood in the shadow of the devil’s door, a few armed lay brothers nearby. The keeper of the kennels and his assistants brought the war dogs across: the muzzles on the hounds were firmly clasped so they could no longer bark or howl, though their eyes blazed with fury and their muscled bodies rippled as they strained against the leads fastened to their spiked leather collars. Corbett could see their handlers were finding it increasingly difficult to restrain them. The beasts were famished, eager to be free, and could not be safely restrained for much longer.
He ordered the keeper to take the mastiffs down the steps. At the bottom, their muzzles and leads were removed and the hounds sped off into the dark, their bell-like howling even more terrifying as it echoed back down the gallery.
‘Sir Hugh.’ Corbett turned. Ap Ythel, his bow strung, arrow notched, walked into the church. ‘It’s Ranulf, Sir Hugh.’ The clerk caught the anxiety in the Welshman’s eyes. ‘I don’t want to worry you, but I went to his chamber and his bed has not been slept in. What could that mean? Ranulf should be here. He would want to be here, but there is no sign of him. We know he has not left the abbey, so where could he be?’
Ap Ythel paused at a blood-chilling scream down the nave. He and Corbett hurried towards it, but then stopped. A paving stone close to the entrance to the rood screen had been pulled back, and a figure was clambering out, sword and dagger at the ready to drive away the hound attacking him. The man was screaming, jabbing with his weaponry. He tried to pull the slab across, but the hound burst up after him, snarling and lunging, and caught the screaming fugitive by one of his legs. The man thrashed about in his own blood as the war hound savaged him time and again, dragging him down into the darkness from which he had tried to escape.
Chanson, Clerk of the Stables, sat in the cavernous inglenook of the majestic hearth that warmed the even more majestic tap room of the Angel, Tewkesbury’s finest tavern, a hostelry famous for its good cheer, savoury food and delicious drink. The tavern chambers were most comfortable, the mattresses shaken and the sheets changed every month. The floors had been carpeted with clean rope matting and the air was warmed and sweetened by capped braziers crammed with herbs sprinkled over burning charcoal.
Chanson had arrived there three days previously and was now firmly ensconced. He had heard all about the snow storms sweeping the Welsh March, and he thanked God that the blizzard had not spread across the border shires. His journey had been hard and freezing cold, but he had made good progress and arrived safely in the great market town. He had determinedly rewarded himself with all the comforts the Angel could offer, including the charms of Beatrice, the cross-eyed chambermaid who cleaned his room and entertained him in the evening, when the light faded and the lanterns were lit.
Following Corbett’s orders, Chanson had visited the great abbey of Tewkesbury and met the clerk Stroman, popularly known as Mistletoe. In the reception chamber of the abbey’s incense-fragranced guest house, he had immediately recognised Mistletoe from his days in the Secret Chancery: a small, ever-smiling man with the round face of a red-cheeked cherub, thinning silver hair and watchful blue eyes. Mistletoe had taken the sealed letters Chanson had pushed across the table, deftly slipping them into a pocket of his pure wool robe. ‘I’ll see to these soon enough,’ his smile widened, ‘and when I do, I will visit you at the Angel.’ He gestured at the pewter goblet on the table before Chanson. ‘Drink your mulled wine, my friend, it will fire your blood and warm your bones.’
Chanson had spent the rest of his time at the Angel waiting for Mistletoe. He had eaten and drunk to his heart’s content and bounced Beatrice time and again. He knew that something was going to happen, but what? He had brought messages to Mistletoe and the clerk would respond, but how and when was a matter of time. Chanson had busied himself. Imitating Sir Hugh, he took careful note of his surroundings and who came and went. He had noticed a new arrival at the Angel, a man who, by his own admission, had travelled hard from London. Chanson was struck by the stranger’s singular appearance. He was garbed from head to toe in black leather, with a war belt of the same colour. A strange-looking creature, with a pointed, clean-shaven face, white as the purest snow, framed by lank reddish hair, he reminded Chanson of a hunting ferret he had owned as a boy on his father’s holding south of Mapledurham. The man was very precise in his movements, eating and drinking carefully, keeping to himself, though sometimes he was accompanied by two ruffians garbed in the royal livery. This precious pair would sit or slouch at a nearby table whilst their master dined by himself. The more he stared, the more Chanson became convinced he had seen the man before, though for
the life of him he could not remember where.
Chanson half dozed as he wondered about Corbett and Ranulf, locked away in that forbidding abbey fortress. In truth, he was relieved to be away from Holyrood’s oppressive atmosphere, though he knew he would have to return. Travelling tinkers and chapmen were bringing tales of how the blizzard had receded and a deep thaw had swiftly set in, turning paths and tracks to a slushy mess. The Severn and its tributaries had swollen, breaking their banks. Nevertheless, the roads were being cleared and would pose no real difficulty for the journey back to Holyrood.
Chanson closed his eyes and slept for a while until he was gently shaken awake by the ever-smiling Mistletoe.
‘Come, Chanson.’ He waved to a window seat, where the black-garbed stranger was also sitting. ‘Join me and my friend in a dish of the softest, sweetest pork, cooked in garden spices, with a sprinkling of ground black pepper. We will drink the finest ale, rich and matured.’
Intrigued, Chanson left the warm hearth. He clasped hands with both the stranger and Mistletoe, then sat down, taking his horn spoon from his pouch and polishing it with a napkin. They all sat in silence until the food and drink were served and eaten, then Mistletoe put his own spoon down and patted the stranger on the arm. Chanson noticed how the man kept his gloves on even when eating.
‘Master Chanson, Clerk of the Stables to Sir Hugh Corbett, who as we know is Keeper of the Secret Seal and Master of the Secret Chancery. This, my friend, is the Ravenmaster, held over the baptismal font as Ralph of Ancaster, now popularly known by his title, for certain services to His Grace the king in the royal fortress of the Tower of London.’