Death's Dark Valley

by Paul Doherty

  ‘Does de Craon know of our existence, or does he think we are merely Welsh rebels fighting against the English Crown?’

  ‘De Craon,’ Crispin snorted, ‘is a fool, pompous and arrogant. He completely underestimated Corbett. Anyway, what he thinks does not concern us. Remember, we are as bitterly opposed to Philip of France as we are to Edward of England – even more so. Philip has crushed the Templar order. Some of its members were our brothers. He too has to pay for his crimes. He may well be planning to glory in what he has done. However, he and his coterie are so arrogant they cannot see the filth in their own midden yard.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘Oh, my friend, a rich, ripening scandal, secret except to us. Did you know that all three of Philip’s daughters-in-law are playing the two-backed beast with young knights of the French court? They meet long after sunset in the lonely, deserted Tour de Nesle, close to the Seine.’

  ‘But not too deserted?’

  ‘No, my friend. We have brought them all under close scrutiny.’

  ‘Paracelsus?’ Dalrymple’s voice was thick with a Scottish burr. ‘You talked of us leaving here, but what about you?’

  ‘I am very wary of Corbett. I too underestimated him.’ Crispin was determined to be honest. These men were members of his coven; deceit and subterfuge between them would not be tolerated. ‘I described to you what happened in Holyrood, how Corbett let me go, but I could see from his eyes that he wasn’t satisfied. I also made mistakes.’

  ‘What mistakes?’

  ‘Hush, my friend, not so harsh. You were sheltering here whilst I was being scrutinised. Now that Corbett is finished with Maltravers, Devizes and de Craon, he may well turn to me again. He knows I dressed the corpses of the dead. As I said, six of these were killed by Devizes with a nail loosed from a specially crafted arbalest. I demonstrated to Corbett how a nail could be driven into a man’s skull using a mallet. He is going to wonder why I, a former knight, a soldier skilled in physic, did not reach the same conclusions he eventually did.’

  ‘And why didn’t you?’

  ‘I did, but I kept my suspicions to myself. My task was only to watch, wait and secretly assist if I could. Neither Maltravers nor Devizes realised that I was one of your brethren. I had to maintain my mask. Easy enough. Maltravers was determined on creating chaos so as to escape, and I just watched.’ Crispin paused. ‘Corbett will also ruminate on Raphael’s death, and again, on reflection, I made a mistake. Raphael was the sacristan, guardian of the precious casket. He would certainly not have allowed anyone to take it, and even if they had, they would have needed all the keys to free it from its chain and open it. The casket I saw during Maltravers’ trial had certainly not been forced or damaged.’

  ‘So Raphael must have taken it down?’

  ‘Of course, but he was not going to flee with it. Accordingly, he must have released it on the orders of the only man who could demand it, namely Maltravers. Now on that same evening, Maltravers asked for a powerful potion. He complained that he could not sleep and his humours needed to be pacified. I prepared a draught for him. At the time, I wondered about the real reason for requesting it, and now I know.’

  ‘Raphael?’

  ‘Yes. I liked Raphael, I felt sorry for him, but Maltravers had decided on his death. I strongly suspect that my sleeping potion was mixed with a cup of the richest Bordeaux. Raphael, pleased to be given such recognition by his abbot, would have drained it to its very dregs. Maltravers seized the casket, whilst Devizes, at the dead of night and assisted by those he’d brought into Holyrood, took care of Raphael along those secret, hidden galleries.’

  ‘Did you know of this?’

  ‘Not really; just a suspicion.’ Crispin sighed. ‘The potion I distilled was powerful. Raphael would have been left as easy prey for the war hounds. Moreover, on that particular morning, Maltravers betrayed no sign of a poor night’s sleep or the effects of any sleeping draught.’ He shook his head. ‘I entered the potion in the ledger kept in the infirmary. At the time, I did not regard it as significant. Now, though, it’s only a matter of time before Corbett finds that ledger and discovers the entry, the last I ever made.’

  ‘You could have destroyed it.’

  ‘Brother, I had no time. I was being watched, whilst any attempt to erase the entry would only have deepened suspicion.’ Crispin fell silent. He took a swig from the wine skin beside him and passed it on. ‘What now?’ he murmured, wiping his lips. ‘Well, because of Corbett, I had best go deep into the valley. I will watch Maltravers lose his head, and then I will disappear. You will also leave?’

  ‘Like you, tomorrow,’ replied Dalrymple.

  ‘Good.’ Crispin rose to his feet, fanning his face with his hands. ‘I will take a breath of night air.’

  ‘I will come with you.’

  Corbett watched from his hiding place as the two men left the makeshift lodge. They kept the door open, allowing the light from the fire and the lanternhorns to illuminate them against the dark, making them easy targets for Ap Ythel’s archers concealed in the undergrowth. The bowmen loosed, and their shafts took the two men in the chest, belly and neck. Crispin and his companion collapsed, alerting their comrades inside, who rushed out straight into an arrow storm.

  Only when death had silenced the last man did Corbett, Ranulf, Ap Ythel and their guide Brancepeth emerge from the darkness, the other bowmen slipping around them to bend over their victims, searching for weapons and valuables. Corbett knelt beside the stricken Crispin and watched the light fade from those cunning eyes.

  ‘Sir Hugh?’ Ranulf knelt beside him.

  ‘I had my suspicions,’ Corbett declared. ‘Crispin seemed to be very eager to be gone. Before he left, I dispatched Brancepeth with a lantern to the mouth of the valley. Sure enough, our keen-eyed archer glimpsed him shuffling through the slush. Brancepeth also discovered others lurking deep in the treeline, waiting for our apothecary, whose ledger betrayed him: a bold, clear entry describing the sleeping draught he distilled. Ah well.’ Corbett rose to his feet. ‘Drag the corpses into the hunting lodge. On our return to Holyrood, ask Prior Jude to dispatch a burial party late tomorrow. Come, let us return. This business is not yet finished.’

  The next morning, with daylight strengthening, Henry Maltravers, garbed in a white shift, hands bound before him, was taken from the cells beneath Falcon Tower. Four of Ap Ythel’s bowmen escorted him across the bailey, past spectators including de Craon. He was made to climb the makeshift ladder onto the execution platform, where the Ravenmaster, garbed completely in black, except for a red leather face mask, was waiting, resting on the hilt of his two-edged razor-sharp war sword. Corbett, Ranulf, Mortimer and Mistletoe followed as justiciars and official witnesses.

  Corbett walked to the edge of the execution platform. Leaning against one of the corner posts, he stared out at the mouth of the Valley of Shadows, that place of gloomy greenness that had witnessed so much penetrating pain and deep hurt. A place of slaughter, a haven of ghosts, a valley reeking of murder and the spilt blood of innocents. He wondered about Matilda Beaumont and Edmund Fitzroy. Were they still sheltering in the valley, hiding in some dwelling deep amongst the trees, or had they already left? Corbett felt he had done what he could. He had saved that young man from summary execution, but what about the future? As long as Matilda lived, Fitzroy would be safe, but once she died, he would be left to his own devices, just another beggar wandering the roads of the kingdom. He might be tempted to proclaim his true identity. If he was foolish enough to do so, he would become an object of ridicule and mockery. Worse, his existence might become known to some cruel, sharp-eared official who wished to portray himself as a loyal and assiduous servant of the Crown. Fitzroy would be arrested and, if he persisted in his claims, executed as an imposter who spoke contumaciously against the king. Whatever the real truth about his parentage, be it Edmund’s own story or Matilda’s explanation, his best chance of survival was to keep silent.

  Corbett closed his eyes
and murmured a prayer for the young man’s safety. He heard a sound behind him and glanced over his shoulder. The old priest, Father Bernard, had clambered breathlessly onto the platform and immediately intoned the psalm for the dying. The smoke from the beacon fires lit along the parapet cleared. Corbett, staring across at the valley mouth, could make out small groups beginning to gather. They would peer through the strengthening light and see Devizes’ dangling corpse before viewing this last act in the bloody pageant played out at Holyrood. He wondered if Beaumont and Fitzroy were there, or the survivors of that ferocious battle at the caves where Maltravers had washed his sword deep in the blood of their family and friends. In a sense, they were seeing justice and retribution; a strange sort, yet still a reckoning for the vicious slaughter some eleven years earlier. More importantly, at least for Corbett, did more Black Chesters still lurk there?

  ‘We are ready,’ Father Bernard declared. Corbett turned. Maltravers, eyes blindfolded, now knelt before the block. Two of the archers made him edge closer, pushing the condemned man’s head down so the nape of his neck was clearly exposed, his chin firm against the edge of the block. The archers withdrew. It looked as if Maltravers was trying to move, but the Ravenmaster, silent and swift, was ready. He stepped softly to the side, balancing himself carefully, then brought back his great sword, a flash of steel that hissed through the air, severing Maltravers’ head in one sheer cut. The head bounced away as the torso, blood spurting, shuddered and trembled before collapsing onto its side.

  The Ravenmaster picked up the head by its straggling hair and lifted it high so all could see. Corbett turned away.

  ‘When spring comes,’ Mortimer declared, coming up close beside him, ‘I promise you, Sir Hugh, I’ll take every one of my battle host, my war band, into that valley and sweep it clear.’

  ‘I am sure you will,’ Corbett murmured. ‘Nevertheless, I doubt you’ll find much, and when you leave, believe me, my lord Mortimer, the shadows will return.’

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Edward I was a great and terrible king. He was an outstanding warrior and a most able general, but he was also arrogant and subject to fits of violent temper. True, Death’s Dark Valley is a work of fiction, but it faithfully recreates the character and moods of both Edward I and his son Edward II.

  Edward I did fight in Outremer. He was attacked by an assassin, whom he killed, whilst the story of his beloved wife Eleanor sucking the poison from the wound he received is fairly well documented. Edward reckoned his survival was due to a direct act of God, and he kept the assassin’s dagger as a sacred relic in his treasury in the crypt of Westminster Abbey. In 1305, a gang of burglars broke into the crypt and helped themselves to the Crown Jewels and other treasures, including the assassin’s dagger. I cannot establish whether it was ever recovered.

  Edward I’s hot temper was legendary. He was given to throwing himself on the floor, screaming and cursing, beating and kicking anyone who was imprudent enough to get too close. He did attack his own daughter, Joanna, when she announced that she had secretly married Ralph Monthermer. According to the wardrobe accounts, he snatched the crown from her head and threw it into a fire, where it was rescued only by the intervention of a rather courageous servant. The king eventually relented and accepted Joanna’s marriage to the love of her life.

  Edward’s son and heir was also the object of his father’s violent temper. The prince was foolish enough to ask if certain territories could be handed over to his Gascon favourite, Peter Gaveston, and the king truly lost his temper, physically attacking the young man and calling him the son of a whore. Indeed, he seized his son’s head so violently, he plucked out his hair. The prince was then banished from the king’s presence for a considerable period of time, whilst Gaveston was sent into exile – the first of many!

  Reports about Edward II not being his father’s true son and heir did surface during Edward II’s reign. In 1316, a clerk named Thomas de Tynwelle was accused of proclaiming this rumour publicly in an Oxford park. However, much more serious was the emergence of John Deydras, also known as John of Powderham, who appeared outside Beaumont Palace near Oxford and loudly proclaimed that he was the true heir of the realm, son of the illustrious King Edward, and that the latter’s successor, who now occupied the throne, was not of the blood royal and had no right to rule.

  Apparently John was tall and fair, with more than a passing resemblance to Edward II, although he was missing an ear. He claimed that when he was a baby, he had been attacked by a pig, and his nurse, terrified of the old king, had substituted a peasant’s son in his place. He pointed out that the present king’s absorption with rustic pursuits strengthened his claim. Deydras was eventually arrested and brought before Edward II at Northampton. At first the king welcomed him with sarcasm, greeting him with the phrase ‘Welcome, my brother.’ Deydras, however, insisted on his claim and was put on trial for sedition and treason. We do not know whether he was tortured, but eventually he confessed that he was an imposter and that he had proclaimed his story at the instigation of the devil, who had appeared to him in the form of a cat. His defence did not save him from execution. He was hanged on the gallows in Carfax in Oxford, his cat suffering a similar fate.

  After 1311, Edward II seems to have sunk into a living nightmare. He must have felt haunted and hunted by forces beyond his control. In 1312, the barons, led by Thomas of Lancaster, seized Gaveston and cut off his head on Blacklow Hill in Warwickshire. Edward had the head sewn back on the corpse, which he embalmed and refused to bury until ordered to do so by the Church. In 1313, he joined Philip of France in a glorious pageant staged in Paris. It was during these celebrations that the Tour de Nesle scandal broke. Philip’s three sons were left without wives. (They all later remarried, but not one of them begot a male heir, leaving the crown of France open to claims from their sister’s son, Edward III of England.)

  The following year, Edward II decided to settle the question of Bruce once and for all. He led a magnificent array into Scotland, only to be comprehensively defeated at the Battle of Bannockburn. There was no let-up in his troubles. In 1321, the barons, including Roger Mortimer of Wigmore, rose in revolt. Mortimer was captured and placed in the Tower. Ever resourceful, with a secret coven of supporters in London, he escaped that grim fortress, one of the few prisoners ever to do so, and fled to France, where he met up with Edward II’s disaffected queen, Isabella. They collected an army around them and invaded England. Edward was captured, deposed and imprisoned in Berkeley Castle, close to the Welsh March. In September 1327, he was murdered, probably on the express order of Mortimer. For the next three years Mortimer acted as master of the realm, until he was seized at Nottingham, tried and sentenced to death. He was the first man to be hanged at Tyburn.

  I thoroughly relished weaving all these different strands into Death’s Dark Valley. I am also grateful to my secretaries and typists, Mrs Linda Gerrish and Mrs Sally Parry, for preparing the manuscript for publication. I do hope you enjoyed this tale of medieval, yet not so merry, England!

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