by Paul Doherty
The master-at-arms sketched a bow, then he and the captain of archers left the council chamber.
Corbett turned to Mortimer. ‘My lord, I must ask you to deploy your men again. One final search of all the abbey outbuildings. More than that we cannot do.’ He rose to his feet, Ranulf likewise. ‘Until the casket is found,’ he rapped the table noisily, ‘you must accept me for what I am, the custos of Holyrood. I am its keeper, acting with the full authority of the Crown. There must be no dispute over that or anything I decide. Abbot Henry,’ he bowed, ‘gentlemen.’
Corbett and Ranulf left the chamber. Once the door closed behind them, Corbett raised a finger to his lips for silence, beckoning Ranulf to follow him down the steps. Out in the inner bailey, he asked a lay brother clearing away the detritus of the recent battle to come back with him and wait in the stairwell for Brother Crispin. When the infirmarian appeared, the lay brother was to ask him to bring the individuals Corbett described to the abbey church, where the two clerks would be waiting.
‘Well, Sir Hugh, what do you think?’ Ranulf asked as soon as they were seated in a small chantry chapel in the south transept of the abbey church. ‘Do you think Raphael was the enemy within?’
‘I am not sure, Ranulf, but let’s wait.’ Corbett pulled his cloak about him and pointed at a crackling brazier. ‘Fire burns. Time is the same: it flickers, it dims and flares, but it also cleans and purifies. Time burns through all the nonsense and lies of men. Believe me,’ he gripped Ranulf’s wrist, ‘I have my suspicions, but first we must resolve the falsehoods spun about this place.’
He rose, walked to the far wall and peered at a painting depicting David the warrior boy killing Goliath with one well-aimed shot from his sling. Above God’s hero floated a white swan, wings extended. The struggle below was narrated in vigorously coloured frescoes – David whirling his sling, Goliath falling, a bolt to his forehead. ‘I wonder,’ murmured the clerk, ‘if our killer got his idea of murder from this painting?’
Ranulf rose and came to stand beside him.
‘One thing it doesn’t tell us, Sir Hugh, is how those murders were perpetrated. We all know the victims were killed with a nail to the forehead. But how was it done?’
‘In the end, Ranulf, the killings were carried out with sheer cunning. It’s just interesting to speculate whether this is how our assassin views himself – a David confronting a giant Goliath – but if so, who is David and who is Goliath? I mean . . .’
Corbett fell silent as a door opened and Brother Crispin strode up the nave with two lay brothers, their harness all stained, boots caked in a disgusting sludge. The clerks left the chantry chapel to greet them, Corbett indicating that they should follow him into a pool of light thrown by a cresset.
‘Thank you, Brother Crispin, gentlemen.’ Corbett opened his purse and took out two coins. He pressed one into the callused palm of each of the lay brothers. ‘So it was you two who found Raphael’s corpse?’
‘Yes, Lord Corbett, it was.’
‘Brother Crispin, I have viewed the corpse. When he was killed, Raphael was garbed in the simple robe of this community?’
‘He was.’
‘He wore no armour, a mailed jerkin, for example?’
‘He did not.’
Corbett turned back to the lay brothers. ‘Gentlemen, when you discovered the corpse, did you find any weapons or baggage close by?’
‘None whatsoever,’ one of them replied flatly. ‘Only the pathetic remains of a hapless man.’
‘Tell me.’ Ranulf stepped forward. ‘Where did you find the corpse? I appreciate you were searching a labyrinth, but can you recall if it was discovered in an enclave on a passageway that turned abruptly left, along which you may well have come across the corpse of a war dog?’
‘Yes.’ The man spoke slowly. ‘We were going down a passageway. I was in front, I’d already turned a corner. I lifted the torch and saw the dead mastiff. I was about to hurry forward to inspect it when Matthew here called me back. I returned, and he beckoned me into an enclave.’ He shook his head. ‘Truly terrible. The torn, bloody remains of one of our brothers. I knew Raphael, I liked him. He was loved by us all. So who would kill him, and why?’
‘I wish I could give you satisfaction, but at this moment I cannot.’ Corbett thanked both the infirmarian and his companions, then watched them leave. ‘Ranulf,’ he murmured. ‘Why did you ask that question?’
‘Remember what I told you, Sir Hugh, when we first met after I escaped? I was held prisoner. When I woke from the blow to my head, I had my back to a wall with a tunnel stretching in front of me. I’m sure I heard a groan from somewhere ahead. On reflection, I believe that was Raphael, and that he must have been a prisoner like myself. Only he did not escape. Once the battle began, his captors left him to the mercy of the dogs.’
‘Some mercy,’ Corbett replied. ‘I tell you this, Ranulf, Raphael was not the enemy within, though it was made to appear that way. Our opponent intended to seize both the sacristan and the casket and hide them away in that labyrinth of darkness. Raphael would eventually have been murdered and the casket concealed. But what then? How was this supposed to play out? Ah well, let us see.’
Corbett and Ranulf left the church and returned to their chambers. Corbett settled down with sheets of vellum and a tray well stocked with parchment, knives, quill pens, sanders, pumice stone and ink pots. He recalled what he had seen, heard and felt and, using his secret cipher, swiftly wrote down the conclusions he had reached. He half listened to the sounds of the abbey as it returned to its normal routine, the wounded being tended, the dead prepared for hasty but consecrated burial in God’s Acre. The nave and sanctuary of the church had been cleansed, purified and blessed so that ceremonies could still be performed and divine office recited.
The two clerks joined the rest around the high table in the refectory when supper was served. At first the conversation was desultory, until de Craon, who had been playing with his food, announced that he really must dispatch one of his clerks back to Tewksbury, though he was worried about the weather. This was discussed; the general opinion was that the thaw was deep-set and swift, so roads and trackways would be open. Abbot Henry offered two lay brothers as an escort. De Craon gratefully accepted this, adding with a sigh that he too must leave in the very near future. Corbett, watching the envoy carefully, wondered what mischief de Craon intended, even though his opponent acted as if greatly deflated.
The next morning, the French envoy’s clerk and his escort left. Corbett, standing on the steps of Osprey Tower, watched them go. He was about to return to his chamber when the bell above the great gateway began to toll, a sign that someone was approaching Holyrood. He and Ranulf joined the rest in the outer bailey. The rider had already entered, the drawbridge rising behind him. The new arrival provoked guffaws of laughter, as he looked too big for the mount he rode, feet hanging down well beneath the horse’s withers. Corbett smiled as the rider dismounted.
‘Chanson!’ Ranulf called. The Clerk of the Stables patted his horse on the neck, handed the reins to an ostler and came sliding and slithering over to Corbett. The three men met in a clasp of hands and murmured assurances that all was well before retiring to Corbett’s chamber.
Once the Clerk of the Stables had made himself comfortable, his belly full of bread, hot stew and a jug of ale, he handed over a chancery pouch, saying that it contained a letter from Mistletoe, with what intelligence he could offer. Corbett broke the seals, opened the letter and read its contents with deepening gloom. He handed it to Ranulf, who, when he had finished, groaned and passed the letter back. Corbett then briefly but bluntly informed Chanson about the mysterious prisoner. He emphasised the need for secrecy and silence, making the Clerk of the Stables solemnly vow that he would never divulge to any living soul what he was being told. Chanson spluttered his agreement, adding that he’d heard rumours before but never imagined the truth behind them.
‘So what do we do?’ he pleaded, wide-eyed. ‘In God’s n
ame, Sir Hugh, the Ravenmaster is coming here to execute the prisoner. Is that right?’
‘In law, yes,’ Ranulf replied. ‘You see, the prisoner claims to be the late king’s son and heir. Such an allegation is a clear case of high treason, since it accuses our present king of being a pretender. The prisoner has convicted himself out of his own mouth. There is no need for a trial, for evidence or proof. Just by making his claim, the prisoner has condemned himself to death. The Ravenmaster is also here to seize the casket, which has now been stolen.’
‘But why the Ravenmaster?’ Chanson asked. ‘Sir Hugh, why didn’t the king send his orders direct? You have been given full power to act as his envoy.’
‘You are correct, Chanson, but . . .’ Corbett pulled a face, ‘the king knows I would not lift a hand against a hapless prisoner. I cannot drag him out of his cell, put his head on a block and sever it. The king knows that, Lord Gaveston knows that, and I know that. As for the casket, the king also suspects that I am most reluctant to seize such a treasure from the sanctuary of an abbey church and carry it back to London. I would have the deepest scruples over such an act. The Ravenmaster does not share my reluctance. Myself, Abbot Henry, Lord Mortimer and all the merry crew in this benighted place will be expected to cooperate and comply with the Ravenmaster as a matter of loyalty to the Crown.’
‘So what shall we do?’
‘Ranulf, I truly don’t know, but let me think, let me reflect and let me pray.’
Corbett shut himself away for the rest of the day, but early the next morning he roused Ranulf and Chanson, telling them to join him in the refectory. Once they had broken their fast, he moved to the business at hand.
‘Chanson,’ he began, ‘I know people laughed at you when you arrived here yesterday, but you are a wonderful judge of horseflesh.’
‘They can laugh their heads off, master. That mount is a garron. It is swifter, more nimble and more sure-footed than any mountain goat. I requisitioned it from mine host at the Angel in Tewkesbury and it certainly proved its worth. The thaw may well have set in, but it’s the sheets of ice that pose the greatest danger: that garron moved as if it was crossing a meadow on a summer’s day.’
‘Good, good,’ Corbett replied. ‘You are rested and fed, and so is your worthy mount. You are to return today.’ He stretched across and gripped Chanson’s wrist. ‘You must hasten back as fast as you can to Tewkesbury, seek out Mistletoe and give him this letter.’ He pushed across a small leather case, which Chanson seized and placed in his belt wallet. He then rose and clasped hands with Corbett and Ranulf, assuring them that he’d be gone within the hour.
PART FOUR
He said certain and shameful things about the king.
Life of Edward II
The normal bustle of life at Holyrood returned, the daily horarium imposing its own order and harmony. Mortimer dispatched a small cohort into the mouth of the valley, but the only person they encountered was an old woman pulling a sledge who said she wanted to seek shelter in Holyrood for a while. The horsemen brought her back and she sat on a ledge in the inner bailey, her paltry possessions piled high on the sledge, while she sipped from a blackjack of mulled ale a servant had brought.
Ranulf came down on some errand and the woman deliberately pulled her sledge so that the clerk slipped and knocked into it. He turned to offer his apologies.
‘Keep calm, Ranulf of the Red Hair,’ the woman hissed. ‘Give no sign of recognition or surprise. I need to speak urgently to Sir Hugh Corbett.’
‘Many people want that, lady.’
‘About the prisoner kept here?’ she asked archly.
Ranulf immediately returned to the tower and brought down Corbett, who squatted in front of the old woman. She now pulled back her hood to reveal iron-grey hair and a strong, fair face that still exuded some of the beauty she must have enjoyed in her youth.
‘I remember you.’ Corbett offered his hand to her; she clasped it, then raised it to her lips and kissed it. Corbett smiled his thanks. ‘I remember you,’ he repeated, ‘when we first invaded the Valley of Shadows. You were standing amongst the trees, not far into the valley. When I looked again, you were gone.’
‘Sir Hugh.’ The woman removed a wisp of hair from her face. ‘Are we to freeze here? I must insist that you take me into your chamber. It’s the only place someone like myself will be safe. I need not tell you that death stalks this abbey, busy with its scythe.’
Once in Corbett’s chamber, his visitor settled herself in a chair before a brazier with the two clerks sitting on stools beside her. She sipped at the mulled wine and ate the bread, cheese and dried meat Ranulf served. She dined delicately like any court lady, using forefinger and thumb, wiping her hands and mouth on the napkin provided. Once she had finished, she stretched out her hands to the warmth.
‘My name,’ she began, ‘is Matilda Beaumont. I am from a noble family, though a descendant from the wrong side of the blanket, so I have no pretensions to nobility. I was born here, the only but beloved daughter of John and Margaret Beaumont, who owned a small farm deep in the forest though close enough to the mouth of the valley.’
‘Your family farmed?’
‘No, Sir Hugh, my father was a verderer, a forester, given royal licence to hunt and to use forest wood. He had a prosperous business taking produce down to Tewkesbury or the merchant barges that ply the Severn. My mother was a seamstress, and a very good one. From spring to autumn she and I would accompany my father to the markets further south, where she could sell what she had stitched and woven.’
‘Mistress, what does this have to do with—’
‘Oh, Sir Hugh, everything. One autumn day, I left my father’s house. I must have been about seventeen or eighteen summers old, a true wide-eyed maid. In my dreams, day and night, I lived the life of a courtly princess being worshipped by a knight resplendent in gorgeous harness and livery.’ She smiled, and Corbett caught the former beauty of her face. ‘My heart fed on the tales that travelling minstrels, troubadours and songsters performed or narrated when they visited our farm for safe lodgings. My parents were trusted, respected and well known to those travelling up and down the Welsh March.
‘Anyway, on that autumn day – it must have been around the feast of St Matthew, when the seasons change – I journeyed deep into the forest, to my own special cave, a great hollowed chamber in a rocky mound overlooking the loveliest of woodland glades, a sanctuary of warm green darkness where the trees did not cluster so close and the sun broke through like lancets of light in a church. Nearby bubbled a spring of fresh water, lovely to the taste. Inside, the cave was comfortable and dry. When I first discovered it, I found traces that someone else used to visit it and play there: pieces of cloth, the tattered remains of a girl’s toys, an empty jar of unguent. On that particular day, as I approached the cave, I heard voices and the strident screams of a baby.’
She paused and stared into the fiery coals. ‘I will not talk for the sake of talking, Sir Hugh. I appreciate you are a very busy man. I will keep what I have to say as stark and clear as possible. I made myself known to the three people hiding in the cave – and they were hiding! In their desperation, they told me the truth, and startling though it was, I knew they could not be lying. The man and one of the women were dressed richly, like high-born courtiers, in gorgeously brocaded jerkins and soft woollen robes.’ She took a deep breath. ‘One of the women was a nurse called Eleanor Bridges; the other was Joanna, a royal princess, beloved daughter of the late king, sister to the present one and the mother of the bastard child she held wrapped in swaddling clothes.’
‘And the man?’ Corbett asked softly. ‘Though I can guess his name. Ralph Monthermer?’
‘Yes, a Welsh marcher lord. You know something of him, Sir Hugh?’
‘I work in the Secret Chancery. I have heard stories, tales, whispered gossip, but little else. Fragments of the tale I believe you’re going to tell me.’
‘To cut to the chase, Sir Hugh, Ralph and Joanna had fall
en deeply in love. By moving from one royal manor to another, this palace or that in Gloucestershire and elsewhere, Joanna had managed to keep her secret safe: that she was pregnant, heavy with Lord Ralph’s child. She and her lover had struggled to keep both the pregnancy and the birth well hidden.’
‘And she confessed everything to you?’
‘Sir Hugh, listen, I learnt all this on that day and the days following. Joanna and Lord Ralph truly liked me. They trusted me. They had to; there was no one else. They were desperate. The king’s rage against them ran deep and dangerous. Now, their baby was injured, sorely wounded.’ Matilda waved a hand. ‘I shall come to that in a while. They had no choice but to accept my offer and go to my house. My parents, good and kindly, welcomed them warmly. Indeed, my mother recognised Eleanor as one of the valley people. Eleanor used to go to the cave as I did, when she was a green stripling. She knew the valley, even though she had left to serve in the royal manor at Tewkesbury. It was obvious that Joanna trusted her implicitly. A few years earlier, she had taken Eleanor into her household as her personal lady-in-waiting.
‘Joanna and Lord Ralph begged us to keep matters as secret as the confessional. The princess produced a crucifix with a relic of the sacred Veil of Lucca. We all took a solemn oath on our immortal souls. My mother, helped by Eleanor, tended the baby, who had been sorely wounded on the right side of his little head.’
‘Oh sweet Lord,’ Corbett breathed.
‘Princess Joanna,’ Matilda continued, ‘eventually told us how the old king must have learnt about the birth. He swept into Tewkesbury like the Furies on horseback, and his daughter had no choice but to tell him the truth. She and Lord Ralph met the king in the manor solar. Joanna hoped her father would accept both Ralph as her husband-to-be and their child as his grandson.’ She shook her head. ‘Nothing of the sort.’
‘Of course, of course,’ Corbett whispered. The old king would never accept either. As I said, mistress, I have heard rumours about Lord Ralph and Princess Joanna. Indeed, I asked a clerk now retired from the Crown’s service to search his memory for stories, rumours and gossip about one of the old king’s daughters. Now I know the true source of such rumours. I can guess what happened. Edward, even on a summer’s day, with all things running smoothly and harmoniously, could lose his temper, and God help anybody who came within range of his fist or his boot.’