by Paul Doherty
'I should be with her,' he muttered. 'Going with her, baby Eleanor and Uncle Morgan to our manor at Leighton.'
Corbett opened his saddlebags and took out his small writing tray, neatly laying out parchment, ink horn, knife and quill. He looked up. Ranulf was moodily staring through one of the arrow-slit windows.
'Come on!' Corbett urged, sitting down in the chair. 'Let us unravel the mysteries here, eh?'
Ranulf made no move so Corbett shrugged, picked up a quill and dipped it into the blue-green ink.
'Primo,' he announced, 'the King's business in London.'
He unrolled the greasy piece of parchment his servant had brought back from Paris. Corbett smoothed it gently. Bardolph had paid for this with his life and Corbett guiltily remembered visiting the dead man's wife in Grubbe Street near Cripplegate. The King had promised her an allowance but the woman had just screamed, cursing him, until Corbett had retreated from the house.
'What did Bardolph die for?' he declared loudly. 'What does this cipher mean? "Les trois rois vont au tour des deux fous avec deux chevaliers".'
'The three kings,' Corbett translated, 'go to the tower of the two fools with the two chevaliers.'
Corbett closed his eyes and tried to picture the crude map of northern France his clerks had drawn up at Westminster. Philip now had his armies massed there, tens of thousands of foot soldiers, squadron after squadron of heavily mailed knights, carts full of provisions. Once the harvest was in his army would cross into Flanders. But where? Did this cipher hold the secret?
'Where will the blow fall?' Corbett murmured to himself. 'Will the French army roll like a wave or will it form into an arrowhead and strike along one road against a certain city?' Edward's Flemish allies had sent importunate pleas for such information. If they only knew Philip's route of march, his battle plan, they would counter it; but their army was small, too thinly spread to provide against all eventualities.
Corbett remembered the King at Westminster, white-faced with rage.
'We are like a cat watching a thousand rat-holes. Where will that bastard in France aim his blow?'
Corbett had replied by urging his myriad of agents in Paris to worm the secret out. Now they had the information but it made no sense.
'What does it mean?' the King had shouted. 'By God's tooth, what does it mean?'
Corbett had quietly explained that the cipher was new, concocted by one of Philip's principal clerks. It would be known only to the King, his inner group of counsellors and his generals on the French border.
'Why can't you break it, Corbett?' the King had begged.
'Because it's like nothing we have ever seen before.'
The King had raged and mimicked him.
'Your Grace,' Corbett quietly insisted, quoting a famous maxim from logic, 'any problem must always contain the seeds of its own solution.'
'Oh, God be thanked!' Edward had snarled and gone on to stare at Corbett with his half-mad, blood-shot eyes. 'And what happens if you unlock the cipher, Clerk? Philip now knows we have it. The bastard might change it!'
Corbett disagreed. 'You know Philip cannot do that. The military preparations are made – any change in plan would cause terrible chaos. He has time on his side and could invade any time during July.'
'In which case,' the King snarled, 'you have only days!'
Corbett closed his eyes. Just before he'd left Westminster his conclusion about Philip was proved correct: the French had taken other precautions about the cipher with deadly consequences for himself. Corbett sighed, opened his eyes and stared down at the cipher. The briefer such messages were, the more difficult to unravel.
' "The three kings go to the tower of the two fools with the two chevaliers." What does it mean, Ranulf?'
His manservant still gazed gloomily through the window.
'Do you miss London?' Corbett asked. 'Or are you still smarting over the Lady Mary Neville?'
Ranulf heard his master but stared bleakly at the sunset, trying to control the rage seething within him. He had loved the Lady Mary Neville with every fibre of his being: her dark, lustrous hair, those lips he had crushed against his own when she had invited him into her bed, wrapping her cool white body round his. Then she had discarded him as she would a piece of needlework. She had fluttered her eyelashes and said she really must return north in the company of Ralph Dacre whom she described as a distant kinsman. Ranulf knew different: Dacre was a court fop with his curled, prinked hair, tight hose, buckled shoes and a blue quilted jerkin which hung just above his elaborate codpiece. So Lady Mary had tripped out of his life, leaving him to seethe with discontent. Ranulf glared over his shoulder at Corbett. Affairs of the heart were his personal business.
'It's not just the Lady Mary!' he snapped. 'You mean the clerkship?'
'Yes, Master. Thanks to you, I am skilled in French, Spanish and the use of protocol, but the King still refuses to elevate me to the position of clerk.'
'He is playing with you,' Corbett replied. 'He wishes to test you.'
Ranulf sneered. 'Thank you, Master, but I suspect the clerkship will slip as easily through my fingers as the Lady Mary Neville did.'
Corbett went across, grasped his manservant's shoulders and swung him round.
'Is this the famous Ranulf-atte-Newgate, the lady's man, the roaring boy! I need you, Ranulf, yet you lean against the wall like some lovelorn maid!'
Ranulf's green, cat-like eyes blazed with anger.
'It's true!' Corbett snarled. He went across to the crucifix and put his hand over the figure of Christ whilst lifting the other to take an oath. 'I, Sir Hugh Corbett, Keeper of the King's Seal, do solemnly swear that if you assist me in these matters, if you break this damnable cipher, you, Ranulf-atte-Newgate, will attend the service in St Stephen's Chapel, Westminster where you will be accepted as a clerk and receive your fee and robes.'
Ranulf knew an opening when he saw one. He grinned.
'So, Master, why are you wasting time? There was no need for the oath.'
'Oh, yes there was!' Corbett retorted. He sat down at the table again. 'But let's leave the cipher for the time being and concentrate on matters in hand.' He picked up a fresh piece of parchment and began writing.
'Item – Robin of Locksley, Robin Greenwood, Robin Hood was, is, an outlaw. He's a skilled bowman, a good war-leader, he has been pardoned once and has returned to the forest to continue his depredations. According to Willoughby, there was a woman present and a huge giant of a man. So this Lady Mary of Lydsford and his erstwhile companion John Little must have rejoined him.'
Ranulf sat down opposite him.
'This Robin,' he interjected, 'has returned with a vengeance. He not only plunders but kills and maims. The attack on the tax-collectors was particularly murderous. He has a hand in the murder of Eustace Vechey and has tried to kill Branwood.'
'But why?' Corbett mused. 'Why the deaths? Why the personal vindictiveness?'
'Perhaps Robin expected higher things after his pardon?'
'Item – the people in the castle,' Corbett continued. 'What do you think of them, Ranulf?'
'Branwood has a hatred for Robin. Naylor is a surly bastard. Friar Thomas…' Ranulf shrugged. 'You know these priests. However, it's Roteboeuf who puzzles me. Have you noticed, Master, the two forefingers of his right hand are severely calloused and he wears a leather wrist guard on his left?'
'In other words, a professional bowman?' 'And Lecroix?' Corbett asked. 'A half-wit, dedicated to his master.' 'And Vechey's death?'
'God knows, Master, how he was poisoned. But I agree, there's a traitor in the castle. Branwood might know, perhaps Naylor, Father Thomas, or even our good friend Roteboeuf.'
Corbett stretched for another quill and, as he did so, heard shouting from the parapet walk. At the same time he felt a hiss of air before a steel arrowhead hit the far wall. Corbett just sat astonished, the shouting outside increased and other arrows whirred into the room. Ranulf grabbed his master and hurled him to the floor. Outside
in the corridor they heard the sound of running feet. Ranulf looked up towards the window. He heard something thud dully against the wall outside and saw splashes of blood on the window sill. There was a sound of men running along the galleries and Naylor yelling outside the door: 'Sir Hugh Corbett, for God's sake, the castle is under attack!'
Chapter 3
Corbett and Ranulf opened the door and ran into the corridor beyond. Both men hurriedly wrapped their sword belts round them and followed Naylor as he clattered down the stairs. In the inner bailey all was confusion. Soldiers ran up the steps to the parapet walks. Screaming women grabbed protesting children. Dogs barked in the far courtyard near the stables while another thrashed on the ground, an arrow in its back. Branwood came hurrying out, dressed in half-armour, his sword drawn.
'The bastard!' he shouted, white-faced. 'That bastard outlaw has the impudence to attack us here! Sir Hugh, for God's sake, stay inside!'
And before Corbett or Ranulf could protest, he almost pushed them back into the keep. They stood in the hot darkness watching the shadows lengthen as Branwood, Naylor and other officers of the garrison tried to impose order. The baileys were cleared of people, the howling dog put out of its misery. Two soldiers entered, carrying a third between them, an arrow embedded in his shoulder. An hour passed before Branwood re-appeared, his face grimy and soaked with sweat. In his hand he carried a dirty sheet.
'The attack's over,' he muttered and grinned mirthlessly. 'One soldier wounded, a dog killed. The biggest blow was to our pride. And this.' He led them into the hall, placed the sheet on the ground and undid it carefully. Corbett gagged and Ranulf quietly swore. A severed head lay there. The side of its face was severely bruised, the eyes rolled back in the sockets, the hair blood-soaked. It was difficult even to estimate how old the victim was or what he'd looked like in life. Around the severed neck hung loose tendrils of skin and muscle.
'For sweet Christ's sake!' Corbett breathed. 'Sir Peter, I have seen enough. Who is it?'
'Hobwell. He was my squire.' Branwood pushed the blood-soaked bundle away with his foot. He went across to a small table and slopped wine into three goblets whilst bawling for Naylor to come and take the head away.
'Where to?' the serjeantasked.
'For God's sake, man!' Branwood roared. 'Who gives a damn? Bury it!'
Once Naylor left, Branwood served the wine. They sat on a bench at the table on the dais.
'Who was Hobwell?' Corbett asked. 'Your squire, I know, but why this?'
'A week ago,' Branwood began, 'Hobwell pretended to be a wolfshead, fleeing to the forest for safety. He was to join the outlaw band.' The under-sheriff shrugged. 'The rest you can guess at. Hobwell was betrayed and Robin Hood has sent his answer.'
A serjeant ran into the hall. 'Sir Peter,' he shouted breathlessly, 'news from the town. Five or six outlaws, hooded and masked, attacked from a cart. Under bales of straw they had a small trebuchet.'
'A catapult!' Sir Peter whispered.
The soldier shrugged helplessly. 'The cart's still there but the outlaws have fled.'
The soldier left. Sir Peter sat with his face in his hands.
'So,' Corbett exclaimed, 'Hobwell was betrayed, the outlaws decapitated him and pitched his head back into the castle, along with a volley of arrows, two of which nearly struck us.'
Sir Peter lifted his face. 'Welcome to Nottingham and Robin Hood's greetings to the King's Commissioners!' He stared round the hall. 'Look,' he whispered despairingly. 'Look how dark it is becoming.'
Corbett followed his glance and noticed the dying rays of the sun piercing the arrow slits high in the wall.
'I hate this place,' Branwood continued. 'It's accursed and haunted. It never brought luck to anyone. A hundred years ago, the present King's grandfather hanged twenty-eight Welsh boys, hostages because of a rebellion in Wales. They were left to dangle from the walls and people say their ghosts still walk here, bringing ill luck. Guy of Gisborne will confirm that. Sir Eustace suffered because of it and now it's my turn.'
Branwood's sombre words were interrupted by Naylor bursting into the hall.
'For God's sake, come!'
'What is it, man?'
He leaned against the wall, panting for breath.
'In the cellars – Lecroix has hanged himself!'
They followed Naylor down the stairs and into the darkened cellar.
'I came down to broach a beer cask,' Naylor explained, pointing to the candle placed in a recess.
The flickering flame made Lecroix's body appear even more ghastly as it hung from the rafters, twirling in a macabre jig. Corbett and Ranulf stared, horrified by the poor servant's grotesque appearance; eyes popping, tongue caught between his teeth, his neck and head twisted awry and his breeches urine-stained.
'Get Physician Maigret and Friar Thomas!' Branwood ordered.
'Oh, for God's sake!' Ranulf snarled. 'Master, hold the body.'
Corbett closed his eyes and gripped the corpse round the waist whilst Ranulf sawed through the rope with his sword. They laid the cadaver gently on the damp earth floor just as Brother Thomas and Maigret arrived. The physician took one look at the body and turned away, hand over his mouth.
'Dead as a nail!' he exclaimed. 'How long?' Corbett asked.
Maigret knelt, put the back of his hand against the dead man's cheek and neck. 'Oh, about an hour.'
'So he must have died during the attack?' Corbett asked.
'I would think so,' Maigret snapped, wrinkling his nose disdainfully.
Corbett crouched on one side of the corpse, Friar Thomas on the other. The cleric whispered words of contrition in the dead man's ear and sketched a blessing in the air as Corbett carefully examined the corpse. He satisfied himself that the hands and ankles were free from any rope marks then undid the dead man's belt. He lowered his head and sniffed at Lecroix's mouth, trying to ignore the streaks of saliva drying on the dead man's beard. Corbett pinched his nose and looked up at Branwood.
'He was drunk when he killed himself. His breath stinks of stale wine!'
Naylor, who had been busy lighting the sconce torches, trudged deeper down into the cellar.
'There's been a wine cask broached.'
Corbett stared into the darkness. He saw a wooden box lying lop-sided, beside it a pewter cup.
'He was a toper,' Maigret commented.
Corbett nodded and stared up at the piece of rope still wrapped round the rafters and once again at the box and fallen cup.
'Did any of you see him this evening?' he asked.
'I did,' Friar Thomas replied, his fat face now drained of any trace of humour. 'Just before the attack I met him on the stairs. He was deeply in his cups.'
Corbett once more examined the corpse, paying particular attention to the fingers, noticing how call used those of the left hand were.
'He was left-handed?' he asked.
'Yes, yes,' Branwood murmured. 'Sir Eustace was always cursing Lecroix because he served from the wrong side.'
Corbett got to his feet, wiping his hands on his robe.
'God knows why,' he announced, 'but perhaps the attack tipped the balance of his mind. I suggest Lecroix came down here to hide. He broached the cask of wine and, in his cups, decided to take his own life. He stood on that box, slipped the rope over the beam and the noose round his neck, kicked the box away and his life went out like a candle flame.'
Corbett stared down. Something was wrong but he couldn't place it. He closed his eyes. He had seen enough for one day. He was exhausted after the hot, dusty journey up the ancient Roman highway, Branwood's revelations, Vechey's death, the grisly attacks on the castle, and now this.
'Sir Peter,' Corbett declared, 'you are right, this castle is accursed.'
'Well, tomorrow,' Branwood retorted, 'we will carry the curse back to the forest. I am going to take this outlaw alive and string him up like a rat in the market place. Naylor, remove the body!'
'Where?'
'In the death house next to
his master. Friar Thomas, keep a still tongue in your head. No one will miss poor Lecroix, and who cares if he was a suicide? He and his master can be buried together.'
The sheriff led them out of the cellar back into the hall where scullions were laying the high table for the evening meal. Just inside the door of the hall, servants were waiting with bowls of water and napkins. Everyone washed carefully and took their places at the high table. Friar Thomas said the benediction and Sir Peter ordered the evening meal to be served. Both Corbett and Ranulf felt queasy after what they had seen in the cellar as well as their visits to the kitchens earlier in the day but the food proved to be quite delicious: a young piglet, its flesh soft and sweetened, served in a lemon sauce, whilst Sir Peter was generous in filling everyone's wine cup with chilled wine of Alsace. He grinned at his guests.
'I cannot guarantee the food and drink are not poisoned but an armed guard now stands in the kitchen. I have sworn that if anyone else dies, the cook and his scullions will hang.'
'Physician Maigret,' Corbett insisted, 'my apologies for asking you this again, but you do know what poison killed Vechey?'
The physician's eyes snapped up. 'No, but I suggest a concoction ground from a dried noxious plant-henbane or belladonna.'
Corbett sipped from his cup. 'And you cannot guess how it was administered?'
'I have told you once,' the physician retorted, 'we have scrutinised everything Vechey ate or drank at table or in his chamber. Why do you ask now?'
'I was thinking of Lecroix. Could he have been the culprit? Could there have been a private feud between him and his master, and then, overcome by remorse, Lecroix took his own life?'
'I'd thought of that myself,' Maigret trumpeted.
'But why?' Friar Thomas intervened. 'Lecroix was a simple man. He could hardly fill a goblet, never mind buy some deadly potion and then administer it in a way no one can discover.'
Corbett sipped at his wine. Lecroix, he thought, might be the murderer but there was something in that cellar, something he had seen which was out of place, and whilst the conversation turned back to the outlaws' recent attack on the castle, Corbett brooded on what he might have missed.