Death's Dark Valley

by Paul Doherty

  Corbett was tempted to adjourn the court and study the folio in greater detail, but the murmur of voices from the nave was growing louder. The hours were passing and he wished to proceed as swiftly as possible. Ordering Ranulf to keep the sack and its contents safe and, for the moment, secret, he returned to the court and resumed proceedings.

  ‘You,’ he pointed at Maltravers, ‘became bored of your life here, frustrated and angry. You wanted to be away, safe and comfortable with your young lover. In a word, you had grown tired of all the nonsense surrounding the Knights of the Swan and the old king, and had had enough of being lord of a lonely, bleak abbey fortress along the wilds of the Welsh March. You wanted to return to a life of luxury, but how?’ He shrugged. ‘You missed what you once had, but you had responsibilities here. And where could you go? Oh yes,’ he raised his voice and glared at de Craon, ‘this Eden had more than one serpent.’

  ‘Be careful, Corbett, I am an accredited envoy.’

  ‘Oh shut up,’ Corbett retorted. ‘You are now before the Crown of England’s court of King’s Bench, accused of meddling in matters no accredited envoy has any business with, so no more of your nonsense, your posturing, your rank hypocrisy.’ He sifted amongst the sheets of vellum. ‘To return to this precious pair, these assassins, murderers of their own brethren. You certainly prove the dictum that man can become wolf to man, for that is what you two are: slaughterers, killers to the bone. You, Maltravers, plotted how you could still live in the luxury you were accustomed to if you gave up this abbey and all it held. You were already walking down a path leading into a deep spiritual darkness. Devizes became your lover between the sheets. He held you close as he turned your soul and twisted your mind. I do not know if he loves you, but I am sure he hates what you and this abbey represent.’

  Corbett rose and came around the court bench to confront Maltravers. ‘Do you think,’ he leant down, ‘do you really think that he has forgotten or forgiven the battle of the caves? The hideous massacre of his family and loved ones? He may have been a boy, but a child can hate as much as he can love, and that is passionately. Isn’t that correct?’ He turned to Devizes. ‘You watched your loved ones die. Did you see them hanged like hunks of meat from the trees? Did you?’ he taunted. ‘Do you remember that? Were you there as they gasped out their last breath, bodies twitching, legs kicking, their faces turning purple? Is that what made you the killer you now are? Come, come tell me.’

  Devizes, his features mottled with anger, abruptly brought his head back and spat into Corbett’s face. The bowman standing behind him punched the master-at-arms, and would have done so again, but Corbett raised a hand.

  ‘I have my answer,’ he murmured, and taking the napkin Ranulf brought, he wiped the spit from his face and walked back to his chair. ‘Devizes never forgot the massacre, but others did. The seasons passed and the Knights of the Swan prepared. I am sure the location of Holyrood was chosen by the king, because he wanted an English presence close to that sombre valley. Anselm and Richard would have been delighted at such a site, and I am sure that you, Lord Abbot, and the handsome young man who pleases you so much heartily concurred.’

  ‘We all agreed to this place,’ Brother Jude intervened. ‘But from the very start, Devizes was close to Maltravers, forever whispering into his ear.’

  ‘True, true.’ Crispin was staring at Maltravers with an expression of compassionate desperation, as if he wished to help his former master but realised he couldn’t. ‘This venture was begun eleven years ago,’ he continued, ‘and finished about seven years later. The old king died and we assembled here. However, from the very start, Devizes was so close to our abbot we called him his shadow. We thought it innocent enough, believing that Maltravers may have seen him as his son; he was certainly his constant companion.’

  ‘Think of a web being woven,’ Corbett declared, ‘or the twisting of cords into a rope.’ He emphasised the point with his fingers. ‘The location of this abbey fortress, its bleakness, standing so close to the Valley of Shadows. The survivors of the massacre sheltering there, full of hatred for the English and certainly for Holyrood. Maltravers growing tired of it all, absorbed, infatuated with his young lover, who in turn dreams dire dreams of revenge against the abbey and all it symbolises.’

  He rose and came round the table to stand over de Craon, who glared sullenly back. ‘And so at long last, monsieur, we come to you. You see,’ Corbett bent down, staring into the envoy’s hooded eyes, ‘we all know that the Benedictine order originated in France and has the French king as its protector. However, this ancient and sacred privilege covers all offshoots of that great order, including the community at Holyrood. Indeed, in the charter of foundation of this abbey, a copy of which is kept in its library, both the king of England and the king of France are styled as protectors to whom the abbot has the inalienable right to appeal for help, sustenance and defence. It is a right enshrined in the order, confirmed by kings and declared sacrosanct by popes. The present Holy Father, the Frenchman Bertrand de Got, Clement V, living in exile, the guest of your august master, has confirmed this.’ He returned to his chair. ‘In truth, Maltravers, you plotted to create a casus belli, a case for war, a pretext to appeal to the king of France.’

  ‘Why?’ de Craon demanded. ‘What good—’

  ‘Not for the English Crown, I agree,’ Corbett interrupted. ‘But your friend and ally Maltravers, well known as an envoy to the French court, was to spin a web and so provoke a veritable storm. You, my not-so-saintly Lord Abbot, entertained de Craon at Holyrood last Easter. By then, the murderous mischief you were brewing was coming to the boil. First Devizes would secretly negotiate with the valley dwellers: the survivors of the tribe who had sheltered there after the massacre as well as those in alliance with the Black Chesters. The word would go out to other wolfsheads, outlaws and rebels that a profit was to be made in the Valley of Shadows. An opportunity to wreak terrible revenge by plundering and destroying an English stronghold, a fitting response to Edward of England. Naturally, the French Crown would be only too willing to assist such mischief. No, no, de Craon, save your protests of outraged innocence. More importantly, Devizes made it known that the rebels in the valley had support from within Holyrood. Someone who would encourage them and sustain them with money and weapons, and give them the means to take the abbey fortress that could otherwise easily withstand any attack from outside. This someone, this leader, was called Paracelsus, in this case one name for two souls united in the most devious plot.’

  Corbett paused. ‘And so we come to how this murderous scheme was brewed.’

  The Ravenmaster spoke up, raising his hand slightly. ‘Surely what was happening in the valley would have reached the ears of the community here. Crispin and Jude are veteran warriors.’

  ‘You must remember,’ Crispin called out, ‘that although we were highly suspicious of the valley and knew that the people who lurked there did not like us, we also concluded that they could do little about it.’

  ‘Very true,’ Corbett agreed. ‘And think, sir.’ He smiled at the Ravenmaster. ‘People did get to know. People did try to inform the community.’

  ‘That’s correct,’ Mortimer said. ‘I had my own spy, that beggar man whom you, sir’ – he pointed at Devizes – ‘poisoned. He was bringing me information about what he’d learnt.’

  ‘We have established that.’ Corbett spoke up. ‘Nor must we forget that Devizes was master-at-arms at Holyrood. Correct me if I am wrong, but wasn’t he the person responsible for leading patrols into the valley?’ A murmur of agreement answered his question, Crispin and Jude nodding their heads.

  ‘Nor must we forget that hunting party,’ added the prior.

  ‘Oh no,’ Corbett replied. ‘That hunting party was slaughtered because of what they may have seen, something dark and malevolent forming in the valley, a real threat to Holyrood. Of course their destruction was also part of the fires of terror being stoked and fanned in and around this abbey.’

  ‘Yo
u can prove all this?’ Maltravers stirred, lifting his bound hands.

  ‘I have the casket containing the dagger,’ Corbett retorted. ‘I also have the folio, the map of that secret maze. Both these you hid in your chamber. You were going to leave them there until just before you left with de Craon. Yes?’

  Maltravers kept his head down and did not meet Corbett’s gaze.

  ‘So we shall start with that folio. Somehow you discovered that Anselm and Richard knew about the maze and kept its whereabouts in a secret document. They had to be removed. You coldly plotted their murders for four reasons. First, to silence them. Second, to steal that secret. Third, it gave de Craon a pretext to bustle in here all concerned about the brutal murder of a kinsman, albeit a very distant one, of his royal master. Of course he also brought a repeat invitation for you to attend the lavish royal pageant being planned for next year in Paris. It was all a sham. You plotted to be in Paris long before then.’

  ‘And the fourth reason?’ Mortimer demanded.

  ‘Oh, to bring you here, my lord, not that you needed much encouragement.’ Corbett glanced meaningfully at the marcher lord. ‘You came as the king’s justiciar, yes?’ Mortimer nodded. ‘But Maltravers also invited you,’ Corbett smiled, ‘as he did me. He wrote to both the king and the Secret Chancery about the hideous murders committed here and his sense of growing danger following an attempt on his life. Naturally, because of Holyrood’s reputation, the treasures it held and the special prisoner it housed, my presence here as Keeper of the Secret Seal was also urgently needed. In fact, both you and I were enticed here to act as witnesses.’

  ‘To what?’ the Ravenmaster demanded.

  ‘To what I am going to describe. Now, Anselm and Richard were murdered in the way I have explained earlier. On the night we arrived, Brother Mark was killed because of what he had seen, whilst the beggar man had been poisoned to silence him. Oh, it was all a great mystery! Maltravers claiming he too had been poisoned, his life threatened. Fire arrows seared the night sky. One of Holyrood’s sentries was killed on the parapet. All ominous echoes of the old king’s war in Wales. Of course the firebrands and the murder of that poor sentry were simply distractions, as well as a way of keeping our watchmen away from the walls. You, de Craon, arrived, but I suspect that a sumpter pony from your retinue turned off in the darkness to carry sustenance and weapons to our enemies in the Valley of Shadows.’

  ‘Nonsense!’

  ‘Nonsense, monsieur?’ Corbett retorted. ‘Brother Dunstan has a pile of weapons seized from those we killed in the passageways below. Most of these came from the royal foundry at Dijon.’ Corbett gestured at Dunstan, who still stood watching from the darkness of the transept. ‘Our Brother Dunstan is an expert on all kinds of weaponry.’

  ‘Weapons from Dijon are used by many mercenaries.’

  ‘Hired by you!’

  De Craon just shook his head and glanced away.

  ‘To return to my indictment. The murderous masque so cleverly plotted and planned hurtled on. There was no respite. We were hardly here when we were dispatched into the valley, at your insistence, Maltravers. We were to seek out the hunting party. We discovered that they had been slaughtered. We in turn were attacked and suffered casualties. God knows what you really intended, but such mayhem simply provided further grist to your mill. We took prisoners, who were later murdered. We then we suffered mysterious attacks from within. Somehow a hostile force had managed to get into Holyrood and stalk its community like a pack of wolves would a flock of sheep. But why?’ Corbett rapped the table top with his fist. ‘Why?’ he repeated.

  ‘And there’s more,’ Mortimer declared.

  ‘Yes, my lord,’ Corbett agreed. ‘There is certainly more. The precious casket, the sacred relic of our former king. I think it’s time we saw these.’

  He turned and nodded to Ranulf, who brought the sack from the transept, opened it and drew out the folio, followed by the casket, which provoked exclamations and cries of surprise. Maltravers just sat, mouth slightly gaping, whilst Devizes closed his eyes, lips moving soundlessly as if he was quietly praying.

  ‘You stole this casket and the folio,’ Corbett accused. ‘You concealed them in that secret cabinet in the wall of your chamber, Maltravers, all ready for your abrupt departure. You wanted to make it look as if Raphael had stolen the casket, which is why you abducted him as well as my comrade Ranulf.’

  ‘But why?’ The Ravenmaster spoke up.

  ‘I will answer that. I have touched upon it before. But we now come to the very root of all this evil. You, Maltravers, with your accomplice, entered into a secret pact with de Craon.’ Corbett glanced at the envoy, then tapped the hilt of his sword, lying close to him on the table. ‘Good,’ he breathed, ‘no more stupid protests. You intended to flee to France with that casket, taking with you Holyrood’s mysterious prisoner. You would leave this abbey fortress as if it were some abandoned ruin, its community of former Knights of the Swan in total and utter disarray. Holyrood would be depicted as a place of pressing danger, offering no defence despite the best efforts of the English Crown. You would invoke your charter of foundation, the rule of St Benedict and appeal to the king of France. I can only imagine the glee of King Philip and his council, whatever they might say in public.

  ‘The old king’s precious relic, in its priceless casket, would be given place of honour in the royal chapel at Saint-Denis. And of course, think of the mischief that could be stirred by possessing a prisoner who looks so much like the old king. The gossip and chatter that would sweep the courts of Europe! The cries and exclamations! The suggestions and the comments! More importantly, certain questions would be loudly and publicly aired to embarrass the English Crown further. Such as: is our present king the true monarch and rightful heir of his father? Reflect on the mockery, the hypocritical cant, the false concern, the treachery and intrigue that would spill from the cauldron of devilry tended so lovingly in the chambers of the Secret Chancery at the Louvre.’

  ‘But surely,’ the Ravenmaster protested, ‘the English Crown would have Maltravers and Devizes, as well as the prisoner – whom I must see – proclaimed as criminals, traitors and thieves.’

  ‘No, no,’ Corbett shook his head, ‘and this is the hideous paradox, the subtle contradiction in all of this. Maltravers would claim that he and Holyrood had come under brutal attack from within and without – its abbot almost murdered, some of its leading officers slaughtered, and a precious relic stolen by a prominent member of the community – and what could he do about it? He had appealed to the English Crown, but this profited nothing. Not even the presence of Sir Hugh Corbett, Keeper of the Secret Seal, and Lord Mortimer, the king’s justiciar, could deter the perpetrators. You and I, my lord, were to be Maltravers’ witness to the chaos and turbulence that swept this abbey. We could do nothing to prevent it. Even our beloved comrade Ranulf-atte-Newgate, senior Clerk of the Chancery of the Green Wax, was abducted and was to have been murdered. If we could not protect him, what sustenance could we provide anyone else?’

  ‘You talk of defence, protection,’ Mortimer queried, ‘but to return to those assassins who prowled Holyrood . . .’

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘Sir Hugh, it’s the depth of winter; everyone was swathed, cloaked and hooded against the cold. How could those bowmen distinguish friend from foe in the bailey below?’

  ‘Ah yes.’ Corbett tapped the sheet of vellum before him. ‘On reflection,’ he continued, ‘I noticed that when it comes to dress, de Craon, Maltravers and Devizes always wear something red. That is your colour, isn’t it, de Craon?’ The envoy just stared back. Corbett pointed at the master-at-arms. ‘You, Devizes, with your so-called holy hood, whilst your master wore a pectoral cross on a red ribbon – yet you know all this, don’t you, de Craon?’

  The French envoy simply shrugged and glanced away.

  ‘I suspect our assailants,’ Corbett continued, ‘were under strict instructions not to harm anyone wearing red.’ He paused
. ‘Strange, Norbert in his rantings about demons entering Holyrood mentioned he’d glimpsed the Angel of Death tinged with red. I suspect he was referring to you, Devizes.’

  Mortimer pulled at the collar of his own blood-coloured jerkin. ‘And if you wore red by chance, then you were truly fortunate.’

  ‘As long as someone was killed,’ Corbett agreed, ‘it did not really matter. The terror deepened.’

  ‘All very well,’ the Ravenmaster interjected, ‘but this casket – surely the English Crown would demand the return of such a precious relic?’

  ‘Oh I am sure it would, but there again,’ Corbett shrugged, ‘Maltravers is its official keeper, whilst the casket was once housed in the Temple at Paris, and . . .’

  ‘Since the dissolution of the Templar order,’ the Ravenmaster smiled, ‘everything once owned by them is forfeit to King Philip. Moreover, as has been noted, Pope Clement V is firmly in the French king’s power. He would uphold such a claim.’

  ‘But the blame for the theft of the casket was placed on poor Raphael. How would Maltravers account for having the casket if Raphael had stolen it?’

  ‘My lord Mortimer, you have seen the maze of galleries beneath this abbey. Maltravers would concoct a lie, one amongst many. How his faithful master-at-arms searched the labyrinth and found where Raphael had hidden the casket. How, fearful of it being stolen again, he kept the discovery secret until he was safely in France. In the end, he would depict himself as the loyal abbot, the faithful keeper of the relics of Holyrood, who was poisoned, attacked and threatened. He first turned to the king of England for help, and when that failed, to Philip of France. In truth, he was tired and sick of Holyrood and all it stood for. He wanted a life of quiet opulent luxury with his young lover. Philip of France would provide that.’