by Paul Doherty
‘And the beggar man?’ Ranulf asked.
‘Oh yes.’ Corbett tapped the table. ‘I suspect you soon discovered that he had been poisoned. You reported the same to your lord abbot. He in his wisdom asked you to keep the matter confidential. An incident of little significance. Holyrood had enough troubles without investigating the death of a wandering beggar.’ The clerk pulled a face. ‘I may have it wrong, but that is the general thrust of my argument. To be succinct, Brother Crispin, you knew the abbot hadn’t been poisoned. You concluded that this was significant. After all, why should he pretend? You also realised that the beggar man had been poisoned but made little of it. You knew all about Maltravers’ relationship with Devizes. You must also have suspected that the master-at-arms knew his lover had not been poisoned. You must have asked yourself: what did those two intend? Now such information would have been vital to me. It would also have saved a great deal of anguish and bloodshed. You remained silent. You may believe that you did nothing wrong. Believe me, you did nothing right.’ He spread his hands. ‘I will give you your life. I will let you walk away from this, but you must tell me the truth.’
Crispin put his face in his hands and for a while quietly sobbed. Corbett leant over and took the infirmarian’s hands away, staring hard at a man who could have done so much to avert the hideous litany of killings.
‘Well,’ Ranulf demanded, ‘the hours pass. Judgement awaits. My master has asked for the truth.’
‘Of course I knew.’ Crispin sighed deeply. ‘I suspected Maltravers was dissembling and I wondered why. I knew of his relationship with Devizes. You are correct, Sir Hugh. I am a physician. I watch and I observe. It was apparent to me that Maltravers was tired of Holyrood, of the Knights of the Swan and our boring daily horarium. I recognised that he was infatuated with Devizes. I concluded that he wished to be gone. We spoke in parables to each other, but the meaning was very clear. An unspoken understanding was reached. In a word, Maltravers would look after me, take care of me whatever the future held.’
He drew a deep breath. ‘I never knew, I never imagined what horrors would engulf us. The death of the beggar man should have been a warning. I was already deeply alarmed at the murders of Anselm and Richard. However, at the time, it didn’t occur to me that they were so closely linked to Maltravers’ devious plan.’ He shrugged. ‘I did examine the beggar man’s corpse. I strongly suspected poison. I informed Maltravers and Devizes. They said that I only had suspicions, that it was vital not to deepen the atmosphere of distrust in Holyrood. That I should have the corpse swiftly buried and keep the matter confidential until Maltravers decreed otherwise.’ He blew his cheeks out. ‘When I was a boy,’ he continued slowly, ‘running in the long meadows outside Canterbury, I stumbled into a marsh. The more I struggled, the more trapped I became. So it was with this. I could only watch and weep at what was happening.’
‘Maltravers knew that, didn’t he?’ Ranulf accused. ‘That you were party to the suspicions Sir Hugh later developed into a damning indictment. At the end of the trial he was threatening you when he shouted about swans sliding serenely into the dark. He was demanding you bring poison for a swift, painless death, and so you did. You knew the wine would be tasted and found good. You secreted the poison on yourself, and when Maltravers was ready, he would administer it. The finger of suspicion might be pointed at you, but where was the proof? And in the end, who would really care? Maltravers was unmasked, disgraced and punished. You would argue that he must have kept a phial of poison hidden away. You would mention that Devizes had used such a noxious potion to silence the beggar man.’ He clapped his hands in front of Crispin’s face. ‘And so we have it.’
Crispin just shook his head and looked at a point beyond Corbett. He blinked, swallowed hard and moved restlessly in the chair, clutching its arms as if he was in the grip of a deep fear. Corbett felt there was something very wrong but he could not put his finger on it; just a deep unease about this most cunning and devious man. He suspected the infirmarian was a skilled mummer, an actor donning and doffing various masks. Nevertheless, as yet he had no evidence, nothing to allege, accuse or indict, and so the die was cast.
‘I promised you your life,’ he declared brusquely, ‘and I will keep my word. Collect your belongings and go. You are no longer a member of this community. You have forfeited your right to be a Knight of the Swan and your privileges as a former courtier. Be gone, for if I see you again after first light tomorrow, I shall arrest you as a felon.’
Crispin Hollister, former Knight of the Swan, once apothecary in the king of England’s private chamber, leant against the crenellations on the top of Falcon Tower. He had waited and prepared in the hours following his confrontation with Corbett. He really could tarry no longer. Maltravers had demanded poison, but that was not to be, and perhaps it was for the best. He had to humour both his former abbot and that interfering royal clerk. Now it was time to leave.
He moved the lanternhorn so that it rested safely and securely on the stone ledge. He then raised and lowered the shutter, pausing to stare out through the darkness at the mouth of the Valley of Shadows. Still sweat-soaked after his interrogation by Corbett, he pulled both cowl and cloak closer about him, then returned to the lantern. He lifted the shutter a number of times, and smiled to himself in relief as an answering light flashed from the trees.
He picked up the lantern and hurried back to his chamber, where he collected a bulging leather pannier, leaving the room without a backward glance. He made his way down across the cobbled inner and outer baileys to a narrow postern door guarded by hobelars under the command of one of Ap Ythel’s bowmen. He declared who he was, and the archer, already informed by his captain, unlocked the postern and ushered him out across the makeshift bridge, slamming the door firmly behind him.
Crispin allowed himself a wry smile. He had made mistakes, but so had Corbett, and this was one of them. He was free! He had escaped and was suitably prepared for his journey. Beneath the comfortable robe, he was garbed in the warmest woollen garments, and the boots he wore were of the finest Moroccan leather, whilst the pannier slung across his shoulder contained all the valuables he would need. He had also packed weapons: a thin Italian stiletto, and several small phials of the deadly poison he had distilled. He walked purposefully through the slush, pausing briefly to stare back at the looming mass of Holyrood, with its towers, roofs, cornices and battlemented walls.
‘It’s over, it’s finished,’ he whispered.
He stared around. He was confident he was not being followed. He could neither see, hear nor detect anything untoward. He looked up at the cloud-free sky; a full moon hung low, so the light was good and provided a clear view of the path leading into the valley. He trudged on, trying to ignore the eerie calls of the night and the sinister gliding shadows of the birds of prey. Memories flooded back as he recalled his life’s journey to this very place and time.
His father, a prosperous London apothecary, had begun it all: he had taken his son to clandestine meetings of the coven in this ruined church or that derelict mansion on the desolate moorland north of the city wall. Crispin recalled the arrival of visitors, hooded and visored, at dead of night, long after the bells had fallen silent. His father had secretly supported the likes of de Montfort and other rebels against the English Crown. At the same time, he openly encouraged young Crispin to join the royal household as a page, a squire and then a full-belted knight.
From the very start, Crispin had been immersed in the beliefs and rituals of the Black Chesters. He had shared their vision of a kingdom without Crown or Church, free to act as they wished, including the worship of other gods. At the same time, he had acted the role of a loyal retainer of the Crown. Accordingly, there had been no clash, no confrontation. As Crispin had confessed to his dying father, he had slid into court life as smoothly as a knife into its sheath, though he had taken a blood oath that he would assist the coven whenever the opportunity presented itself.
He had kept his word.
He had been in Outremer with Prince Edward when the Old Man of the Mountain, leader of a sect of Islamic zealots, had sworn to dispatch his assassins against Edward’s interference in a struggle that did not concern him. Crispin had learnt when the assassin would strike, and it was he who secretly advised his royal master to meet the sultan’s envoy accompanied only by an interpreter. In the end, the attack had failed, the assassin killed and Edward saved by the loving ministrations of his wife. After that, Crispin had lain low and silent, acting as the king’s most loyal henchman in both peace and war.
He paused at a mournful owl hoot from the fringe of trees he was now approaching. He stood listening for a while before slowly walking on. He had to get away. He was wary of Corbett, and wondered if his departure from Holyrood had been watched by one of Ap Ythel’s keen-eyed archers. He stared around but could see nothing to alarm him, whilst he was determined not to hurry or give away the fact that he was fleeing for his life to the shelter of his coven. He realised that it would only be a matter of time before that interfering royal clerk continued his searches and so raised more questions about Holyrood’s apothecary.
The valley he was now approaching had played such a vital part in his life. He had urged both the old king and the Knights of the Swan to choose this place for Holyrood, though that had not been difficult. Others of the brotherhood wanted the same, especially the masons Anselm and Richard, whilst the old king was only too pleased to have such a powerful presence on the Welsh March. However, he had finally decreed that Holyrood would be the place. The valley certainly had its secrets. In his days at court, Crispin had heard rumours about the rift between Edward and Joanna. He had searched carefully for the reason behind the violent quarrel between father and daughter. He’d also learnt about that mysterious young man sheltering in the valley and had passed such information onto the Black Chesters. He had warned the coven about the king’s growing vigilance and his deepening interest in their presence in the valley. Unfortunately, they did not heed his advice and left it too late. No escape was possible, so they decided to make a stand against the encroaching royal army.
During the battle at Caerwent cliffs, Crispin had secretly allowed some rebels to escape, among them the twin boys he had saved, those master bowmen whom Corbett had slain out in the snows. He moved the pannier to sit more carefully over his shoulder. He felt genuinely sorry for those who had died. Anselm, Richard, Mark and poor Raphael, comrades who had served in the shield wall alongside him for many a year. The manner of Raphael’s death particularly saddened him, yet what could be done? Comradeship with the Black Chesters was the most important thing. There were tasks to be achieved, a vision to follow, and above all, vengeance to be inflicted on those who opposed them.
Crispin walked on. He was now in the entrance to the valley, the trees dark and ice-covered, clustered close. A sharp breeze stirred the frozen flakes and sent them all a-flutter. Eerie cries echoed loudly, then faded away. He took a deep breath. He was home! He was with his brothers, he was sure of it. He peered into the darkness and glimpsed lights glowing on either side of the path.
‘Greetings, my brethren,’ he called out. ‘Greetings from Paracelsus, your leader.’
Dark shapes emerged from the trees. Six men, all cloaked and hooded, the clink of their weapons the only sound to break the silence.
‘So you escaped, Paracelsus?’ one of them demanded. ‘We know what has happened. Mortimer’s proclamation was clear and stark.’
‘Enough of that.’ Crispin beckoned them forward. ‘My friends, let us clasp hands.’
They did so, Crispin patting each man on the shoulder to reassure them that all was well. They then led him off into the trees, following a narrow trackway that cut through the gorse and bushes, a secret path known only to those who had created and used it.
They walked silently until they reached a clearing. A derelict verderer’s lodge stood in the centre of the glade; a stout, squat shed fashioned out of tree trunks with a moss-covered thatched roof, the door and shutters recently repaired. Inside, a fire in the centre of the room blazed fiercely, its smoke winding up through a large vent in the ceiling. Around it were leather-covered flock-filled sacks to serve as seats. Crispin made himself comfortable as his comrades hastily prepared a meal: strips of meat laid out over a grille placed above the fire. These were cooked to an even brown and served on wooden platters with a potage of stewed vegetables, some coarse bread and wine skins bought from a passing trader. For a while they ate and drank in silence. Crispin stared around; his comrades certainly looked as though they had spent days, even weeks, in this cold, hard valley. They were unwashed and unkempt, their clothes shabby, their hair, moustaches and beards uncut and straggling.
‘We must leave here soon,’ he declared, pointing at their weapons piled in a corner. ‘It is too dangerous to stay. I no longer trust the valley. More importantly, our struggle has changed and we must turn our banners elsewhere.’
‘Why?’ one of his comrades demanded.
‘Because I am your leader, Paracelsus,’ Crispin retorted, throwing the remnants of his food onto the flames.
‘So we have failed here?’
‘No, no, far from it.’ Crispin leant forward so the dancing fire illuminated his hawk-like face. ‘Listen, my brothers, to what I say. You heard Mortimer’s proclamation?’
‘I thought he was one of us,’ the Scotsman Dalrymple interrupted. ‘The lord Mortimer,’ he repeated, ‘was supposed to be one of us.’
‘And so he was, and so he is, and so he will be,’ Crispin soothed.
‘Even though we killed his men?’
‘And they slaughtered ours. You know the letter and the spirit of our bonds, the indentures we signed?’ Crispin drew himself up. ‘Each of us is to act as he thinks fit at a certain time and in a certain place. Mortimer’s hour has not yet come, but it will. Only the future will tell. Now listen carefully. We may have seemingly lost in Holyrood, but that’s not the truth. The abbey is now only a relic of what it was and what it should be. Corbett will return to London, Holyrood may well be abandoned . . .’ He paused at the murmur of approval. ‘And there’s more. The Knights of the Swan have been dealt a grievous wound, disgraced and made to pay for the slaughter here in this valley. Oh yes,’ he smiled thinly, ‘think, my brothers. Most of the Knights of the Swan have been killed, executed for their crimes. They were former comrades of mine, but Anselm, Richard, Mark and Raphael have paid for their sins. Blood for blood, my brothers. All suffered a violent death, dispatched swiftly into the dark.’
‘And Maltravers joins them tomorrow morning.’ One of the group spoke up. ‘A great loss, Paracelsus?’
‘No, far from it. Maltravers’ execution weakens the Knights of the Swan even further. He was never really one of us: he was just an old man who became slothful and lecherous, arrogant and greedy. He loved the luxuries of life. He was easy to twist; Devizes achieved that. After that, it was enough simply to watch the pageant unfold. And so it did.’ Crispin proceeded to give a pithy description of recent events in Holyrood, now and again pausing to answer questions from his comrades.
‘Holyrood will become a ruin and the Knights of the Swan are depleted and disgraced,’ Dalrymple murmured. ‘Yet Corbett still survives. If it wasn’t for him, we could have wreaked more damage.’
‘No, no, hush.’ Crispin shook his head. ‘Corbett can wait. If we tried to destroy him, it would only be a distraction, an obstacle. He has very powerful friends at court and in the Church who would turn violently on us. So first we must weaken them, then we can deal with Corbett.’
‘And the prisoner?’
‘He has served his purpose. Let him wander the kingdom: his story will only add to the growing clamour against our present king. When the Crown weakens, so will the Church. Chaos will reign and we can do what we want.’
‘But how? What path do we now follow, Paracelsus?’
‘We must go to the heart of the old king’s legacy.’ Crispin paused as he heard the scr
eech of some animal, followed by the chilling call of a night bird. ‘We should not delay here too long,’ he murmured. ‘But to answer your question. We have a new battlefield. We must prepare for that and get ready to reap a harvest that has truly ripened over the last few months.’
‘Gaveston?’
‘Yes, my friend, the Gascon royal favourite. He too may be of our persuasion.’ Crispin laughed sharply. ‘Or at least his mother was, being burnt as a witch. We should renew our friendship with Gaveston. We must permeate his household, influence his retainers, advise his henchmen that their master should stand his ground and persuade the king to do likewise. Thomas of Lancaster and the others will respond in kind. Standards will be unfurled to the clatter of weapons and the kingdom will slip into civil war. So, you must depart from here and move close to the royal palaces such as Westminster, Beaumont, Kings Langley. Our brethren in Scotland will play their part. Bruce is fast encroaching on English strongholds; it is only a matter of time before they fall. Our comrades will give him every assistance in achieving this.’