by Paul Doherty
‘Brother Dunstan,’ Corbett snapped his fingers at the blacksmith, still standing in the darkened transept, ‘bring the arbalest, show us how nails can be loosed through the grille in that door.’
Dunstan approached. He brought up the arbalest, placing a nail in the groove, pushing it tight, as he winched back the cord. He rammed the crossbow hard against the grille of the cell door brought up earlier, positioning it so the nail would clear the small iron bars either side. He released the catch, and the nail whirled out to smash against the wall beyond.
‘See,’ Corbett proclaimed, ‘how swiftly it can be done. At the same time, you posed a great mystery. How could two able-bodied men, warriors, be killed in a secure, sealed chamber, the door held fast, with no sign of resistance or the slightest indication of a struggle? Well?’ He clapped his hands. ‘Now you have it.’
‘Very clever,’ Maltravers snapped, ‘but who is being charged here? Me, Devizes or both of us?’
Corbett stared long and hard at the sheets before him. He dared not glance up. He could not hide the pleasure, the sheer joy at Maltravers’ question. The separation was about to begin.
‘Both of you,’ he said at last, still keeping his head down. ‘And I shall prove that.’ He paused for effect. ‘At least against one of you. However, at this moment in time, I truly believe Devizes was the dagger, and you, my Lord Abbot, the hand that held it.’
He glanced up. Maltravers was leaning forward, hands on his knees; now and again he moved his head as if he wanted to study Devizes sitting beside him. ‘Oh, please God,’ Corbett prayed silently, ‘help me to divide and to vanquish.’
He paused, as if listening to the silence that stretched along that long, dark nave. When he spoke again, his voice was quiet.
‘The act of immolation was the key to another killing. You remember the third prisoner we took during that frenetic fight in the snow just beyond the main gate? We were about to interrogate him. We threatened him with torture. Apparently terrified, he agreed to confess but then began to shout how he was prepared to immolate himself. At the time, Ap Ythel was intrigued by this but did not realise what the prisoner truly meant. Our captured rebel certainly did. He knew that his leader, his ally who sheltered in Holyrood, would undoubtedly be close enough to hear him, and would carry out the act for him.
‘You, Maltravers, and your accomplice prepared for this. We took that prisoner from the cells at his own insistence. He acted as if he wished to put as much distance as possible between himself and the place where he’d been threatened. He was moved, made to walk across the bailey, and in doing so, he made his own immolation all the easier. You and your familiar are undoubtedly skilled bowmen. You visited the cells where we first lodged that prisoner. You could have hidden in one of those secret tunnels and passageways that run like a maze beneath Holyrood. You would have learnt everything you needed to. As for the actual killing, one of you positioned yourself near a window or in some dark recess to loose the deadly shaft. There again, it might have been one of those secret, silent assassins you allowed into Holyrood to lurk and prowl along its hidden passageways and galleries: a matter I shall return to, I assure you.’
‘Where?’ Maltravers shouted, half rising, only to be pushed back by his guard. ‘Where is the proof for all this? I am a Knight of the Swan, a close confidant of the old king, a cherished courtier of his son. I am a cleric—’
‘You are not,’ Corbett retorted. ‘You assumed the garb of the Benedictine order. You follow its rule but you are not, nor have you ever been, a sworn cleric. You are what you are, an old soldier turned bitter and greedy. A man who has grown tired of his life here. A killer who will remove anyone who obstructs the path he wants to follow.’
‘Proof! Evidence!’ Maltravers yelled back. ‘Or will we come to that by and by, which, in my view, will be never?’
‘I have the casket, Maltravers. I have the casket, the dagger and the diagrams describing those secret tunnels beneath the abbey.’
‘You can’t have . . .’ Maltravers fell silent as he realised what he’d said.
Corbett’s declaration and Maltravers’ response stilled all noise along the nave. The disgraced abbot sat as if poleaxed, and for the first time, Devizes looked deeply anxious and alarmed.
‘I have the casket and the plans, Maltravers, and yes, I will come to that by and by. Everything in its due order. So let us return to the murders, and your next victim. Brother Norbert, poor man, a toper deep in his cups, a bore whom people avoided. Nevertheless, he was sharp enough. He had a conversation with that beggar man who wanted to meet Lord Mortimer. He also glimpsed at least one of our enemies being allowed into Holyrood. As regards the latter, I suspect, Master Devizes, that he informed you about it.’ Corbett composed himself for the lie he was about to tell. ‘He certainly told me what he had seen, and how he had spoken to you, the abbot’s master-at-arms.’
‘That drunken old fool couldn’t have . . .’ Devizes’ voice trailed away.
‘Oh, he certainly did, so why didn’t you inform anyone else?’
Devizes, slumped in his chair, just shook his head.
‘Norbert was a gossip,’ Corbett continued. ‘He talked to Raphael and God knows who else, which is why you decided to silence his clacking tongue forever. He had seen things near a postern gate he shouldn’t have. He gabbled about mysterious lights, individuals appearing where they shouldn’t be. He was referring to the cohort of assassins you allowed into that secret hidden maze beneath Holyrood. Above all, he had been in a cell directly opposite the one holding those prisoners taken in the Valley of Shadows. Deep in his cups, he had overheard a conversation about what he thought was emulation but of course was really immolation, the act of self-sacrifice on behalf of the entire tribe.’
Corbett shrugged. ‘Norbert peered through the grille of his prison door. He glimpsed something that looked like a hammer but was actually the crosspiece of an arbalest.’ He glanced at his two fellow justiciars and took heart from their hard, set faces. They were hunters, and he believed they were committed to pursuing a powerful and dangerous quarry, not just empty, flitting shadows. He gestured at the accused. ‘You slipped down to those cells. So easy for you, Devizes.’ He decided to concentrate on the handsome young man whose face was so contorted in hate. ‘After all, you are master-at-arms here. You enjoy the full authority of your abbot to come and go as you please, and of course, you had access to that sprawling secret maze beneath the abbey. You could disappear and re-emerge at will and no one would be any the wiser. Along those galleries weapons and stores were piled, and as I shall demonstrate, your comrades lurked there waiting for the signal to emerge.
‘Anyway, to return to Norbert, he would have been an easy victim, coaxed to draw close to the cell door under some pretext or other. He pressed his head against the grille to peer out, and so met his death.’
Corbett pushed back his chair. ‘I have said enough for the moment,’ he declared. ‘Captain Ap Ythel, offer the prisoners food and drink.’ He pointed to the serving board Ranulf had set up in the transept. ‘There is sustenance: wine, ale, cooked meats and whatever the buttery can provide. During this respite I would be grateful if neither I nor my fellow justiciars are approached.’ He rose, clasped on his sword belt and swung his cloak about him. Noticing a flurry of movement out of the corner of his eye, he turned to confront de Craon.
‘I . . . I . . .’ the envoy stammered.
Corbett’s hand fell to the hilt of his dagger. ‘Keep away, sir, or I’ll hang you from the battlements and take the consequences. I know that you are deeply involved in this mischief.’
De Craon backed off, fingers fluttering. Corbett walked around him and down the nave, Ranulf trailing behind. They passed the guard Mistletoe had posted. Corbett raised a hand in salutation and walked out through a postern door to stand on the main steps of the abbey church.
‘Sir Hugh,’ Ranulf whispered, ‘we do not have the casket or any of those documents.’
‘I
know,’ Corbett murmured, ‘but Maltravers betrayed himself.’ He turned to face Ranulf. ‘You know about the game of five peas?’
‘Of course. You have five cups. One of them hides a pea. You overturn them, move them about. You win if you choose the correct cup.’
‘Very well. So if you turn over four cups and find no pea, where do you think it is?’
‘Under the fifth, of course.’
‘And if it’s not there, where?’
‘The cheating wretch who organised the game must have it.’
‘Precisely. We have searched everywhere and not found anything even resembling the casket, so I can guess where it must be. Take two of Ap Ythel’s archers and pull the abbot’s chamber to pieces. This abbey is full of secret caches and hidden cubicles. I wager you’ll find something cleverly hidden away. It’s logical. Maltravers would have kept both items hidden until the last moment before leaving here.’
Corbett went back inside and the court reassembled, slightly delayed by Maltravers demanding to be taken to the nearest garderobe. He returned, hands rebound, and immediately began to protest at the legality of what was happening, demanding to be released. Mortimer ordered him to be quiet and Corbett resumed his indictment.
‘What,’ he declared, ‘will be asked by those we answer to? What is the fons et origo, the root of all this evil? In truth, one strand is our previous king, God rest him and God bless his memory. We all know about the ferocious battle of the caves at the far end of the Valley of Shadows. During that battle a coven of warlocks together with a host of Welsh rebels were destroyed. Prisoners were taken, many of them cruelly hanged. Some escaped, retreating into the silent vastness of the forests that cover the valley. A certain mysterious young man was also taken prisoner during the struggle. An individual who, according to gossip and rumour, bore an uncanny resemblance to our late king. Indeed, it was the presence of this mysterious individual in the Valley of Shadows that led to the bloody confrontation at the caves.
‘Now after the battle, this young man was not executed but was handed over to the old king’s personal comitatus, the Knights of the Swan. They were ordered to keep him secure in one gilded cage after another until the old king died. Once this happened, they withdrew from court life to adopt the rule, garb and horarium of the Benedictine order. In doing so, they also had to select an appropriate site for their community. They were encouraged to choose this place. Brothers Anselm and Richard, men skilled in masonry, were entrusted with building the abbey fortress. An easy enough task with wood and quarry stone being so close and plentiful: they had at their disposal whatever resources they needed as well as the full support of the Crown. Holyrood was swiftly built, constructed over previous dwellings, perhaps an ancient fortress or shrine: a veritable maze of underground tunnels, corridors and paths that Anselm and Richard kept secret to themselves. Once it was finished, the community moved in, developing and enriching the place even further. They also brought with them that mysterious prisoner. Now at first,’ Corbett spread his hands, ‘Holyrood flourished, but a serpent had entered this Eden.’
‘Devizes! Devizes!’ the prior shouted. ‘John Devizes, I always thought, I suspected something was wrong.’
‘Did you?’ Devizes yelled back, face contorted in anger. ‘And what about you, the Knights of the Swan, soaked in the blood of innocents? I remember you at the battle of the caves: your sword scarlet from tip to hilt, kicking aside the corpses of my loved ones. I saw you and the others hacking and hewing, shattering bone, splitting flesh. I remember the bodies falling, smashing against the cliff side to be pierced on the rocks below. And that wasn’t enough. You fastened ropes round the necks of men, women and children, tossing one end over a branch. They were hoisted to kick, struggle and choke to death. You group of bastards, you . . .’
Maltravers tried to restrain him, whispering heatedly, but Devizes just turned away.
‘You took a hostage after the battle of the caves, didn’t you, Maltravers?’ Corbett declared. ‘Remember? In a fit of mercy, our former royal master allowed each of you to choose one of the prisoners. You chose John Devizes.’
‘Gareth Aplandal!’ Devizes shouted. ‘My true name is Gareth Aplandal.’
‘Of course it is,’ Corbett replied, keeping his face impassive, though he secretly rejoiced at what was happening. ‘However, before this court you are John Devizes, accused of hideous crimes. You were taken into Maltravers’ household, but in a matter of years the servant became the master. I cannot comment on other members of this community, but Henry Maltravers has no love for women. However, his love for you was greater than that of David for Jonathan as described in the Book of Kings. You became lovers. You shared the same bed. You indulged in the same sexual practices.’
Corbett’s declaration provoked nothing but a deep, stony silence from the accused and the others who sat watching and listening. The love he was describing, of one man for another, was common enough at court but very rarely discussed or referred to. The Church strictly proscribed it, whilst the Crown had no choice but to enforce dire penalties on those convicted of such practices.
Mortimer’s harsh voice shattered the silence. ‘You claim they are lovers?’
‘Oh yes, their closeness is a matter of fact. Prior Jude, Brother Crispin? Their very closeness,’ Corbett emphasised.
‘Yes, yes,’ both men replied. ‘But,’ Jude held up a hand, ‘it is not for us to judge.’
‘Of course not,’ Corbett snapped. ‘That is for me. Their closeness is one thing. What I describe is another. Maltravers, I was in your chamber once. I noticed your very comfortable four-poster bed. You made a mistake that day. The curtains on the bed had been pulled back. I noticed that the coverlet on both sides had been disturbed, both bolsters had been used. Two people had slept in that bed.’
‘It’s not uncommon,’ Maltravers protested, ‘for a squire or page to share the same bed as his master. An innocent practice devoid of any sin.’
His reply provoked a loud, sneering laugh from Mortimer and a wry smile from the stony-faced Ravenmaster.
‘Sharing a blanket on the edge of a battlefield or on duty in some freezing castle is one thing,’ the marcher lord scoffed, ‘but a luxurious four-poster bed in a warm, scented chamber is another. You do not deny it, Maltravers, nor does your familiar Devizes. Why? Why should he sleep with you? Is there not a cot bed in your chamber, Father Abbot?’ Mortimer’s voice was heavy with sarcasm. ‘And doesn’t Devizes have his own quarters, his own bed?’
‘You were, and are, lovers,’ Corbett declared, quietly wondering how Ranulf was faring in his search of Maltravers’ chamber. ‘And so we turn to another powerful strand in this murderous masque. Henry Maltravers, you were a leading knight of the old king’s court. You revelled in all the chivalry and pageantry of Westminster and Kings Langley. You sat high in the councils of the king. You rode next to him in battle. You were a lord of the soil before whom everyone scraped and bowed. You dressed in the finest linen. You drank the richest wine and ate the most delicious food. True, you fought on stinking battlefields, in the dark woods of Wales and along the windswept glens of Scotland, but your rewards were very great. Indeed, you were a king in everything but name. You could go where you wanted, do what you liked. You waxed arrogant and proud.
‘However, you were committed to the vision of the Knights of the Swan and their vow to leave public life once the old king died. So when you had to embrace another life, one most suitable for your comrades, men such as Crispin and Jude, you soon grew tired of it. True, you were the abbot of Holyrood, the official keeper of the king’s great relic, the dagger in its priceless casket, and responsible for the Crown’s most important prisoner: that young man masked and confined in the vaults beneath Falcon Tower. But that wasn’t enough. You’d tasted the wine of power and thirsted for it again. More importantly, John Devizes, as we shall call him, captured your heart, your mind, your soul and above all your body. I suspect,’ Corbett continued, ‘you became infatuated wi
th him, that very handsome young man. You took great pride in raising him, educating him in the skills of battle and the use of weaponry. A man to become your bodyguard by day and night.’
He paused as the postern door at the far end of the transept opened and Ranulf strode noisily up the church, beckoning to Corbett with one hand whilst holding a leather sack in the other. Corbett waved him on through the rood screen and then declared that the court would adjourn for a short while.
Once in the sanctuary, the whispers of those gathered in the nave beyond echoing eerily, Ranulf crouched down. He undid the neck of the leather sack and took out a thin folio of vellum sheets pressed between leaves of stiffened parchment. He put this on the floor, then drew out the precious casket with its keys. Corbett hurriedly tried one and then the others, opening the casket and staring at the assassin’s dagger lying within. ‘Hoc habeo,’ he whispered. ‘I have it.’ He patted Ranulf on the shoulder. ‘You are God’s own true good clerk.’
Ranulf glanced away in embarrassment.
‘Where did you find it?’ Corbett asked.
‘As you said, in Maltravers’ chamber. There’s part of a wall, what looks like an ordinary slab of stone, no different from the rest, deep in a shadowy corner, with a table pressed against it. In reality it is a cleverly dressed square of wood, carved, coated and depicted to look like grey stone. We discovered this by tapping every bloody inch of that wall until we discovered what it concealed.’ Ranulf got to his feet. ‘We found the sack.’
Murmuring his thanks, Corbett picked up the folio and took it across the sanctuary to catch a sliver of light. He leafed through the pages, studying the intricately drawn plans, which showed in bright red ink the maze of corridors, paths, passages and galleries running beneath Holyrood. Lines of black ink ran parallel to each of these, twisting and turning to indicate the galleries, steps and stairwells of the abbey above. He noticed how an ‘S’ painted in white demonstrated where a secret opening could be found. Often this symbol had a finely etched note beside it, such as ‘paving to the right of devil’s door’ or ‘stone before the centre of the rood screen’. He could imagine how Anselm and Richard had recorded all this as they plotted the intricate map, taking great pride in what they were doing. Both men had kept what they had found a secret, even from their abbot and his familiar. In the end, this had proved to be a hideous mistake, and the two masons had paid for it with their lives.