by Paul Doherty
Corbett took one look and turned away, gagging. Gisborne lay there. The embalmer, or whoever had dressed the body for burial, had done his or her best and the blood had been washed from the jagged neck, but the decapitated, bruised head still lay askew. Corbett recognised Gisborne's features despite the face being covered with purple-red bruises, as if the head had been bounced like a ball. He sat down on the altar steps and watched as Branwood re-sealed the coffin.
'So Gisborne met with failure?'
'You could say that,' Branwood sarcastically replied. 'He lost over a dozen of his own men. My Lord of Gisborne,' he tapped the side of the coffin, 'would not be advised and tried to take on the outlaw horde. We went to assist but returned within the hour. Gisborne was already too deep in the forest.' Branwood sheathed his dagger. 'Yesterday evening his body was pitched on the Brewhouse stairs with his head alongside in a barrel of pickled pork. If I may advise, Sir Hugh, in your next letter to the King, perhaps you could tell His Grace that with regard to Nottinghamshire outlaws, their capture and execution should be entrusted to those officers the King has appointed here.'
'I shall tell him that,' Corbett muttered as Branwood strode out of the chapel.
The clerk got wearily to his feet, picked up his saddlebag and cloak, genuflected to the altar and wandered across the inner bailey to his own chamber in King John's tower. He found this deserted but checked that everything was as he had left it, including those items he'd filched from Vechey's room. He washed, changed and lay for a while on the bed, half-dozing until woken by Ranulf and Maltote.
'Was your journey successful?' his manservant asked.
Corbett pulled a face.
'You have heard of Gisborne's defeat and death?' 'The whole town is buzzing with the news,' Ranulf replied.
Corbett rubbed his eyes.
'And you, Ranulf, any success with that cipher?' He mournfully shook his head.
Corbett rose and stretched. 'Maltote, be so kind as to fetch some wine and perhaps some bread from the buttery. Tell that surly cook the King's Commissioner demands it.'
He waited until the messenger had slipped out of the room.
'Ranulf, this mystery of the outlaw.' Corbett threw up his hands in exasperation. 'If a man like Gisborne cannot trap him then what chance do you and I have? The cipher is still a mystery and time is passing. Once those French troops cross into Flanders, the King will need us in London. Oh, by the way.' He walked over to Ranulf. 'On my journey to Kirklees, someone tried to poison me. Did you tell anyone here where I was going?'
Ranulf's face looked the picture of innocence as he raised his hands. 'As God is my witness, Master, I did not even discuss the matter with Maltote.'
'Well, someone tried to kill me. Either the traitor in the castle or…'
'Achitophel?'
Corbett nodded.
Maltote returned with a jug of wine, three cups and a platter containing some small white loaves and strips of dried bacon. They sat round the table, Corbett sharing out the food as he listened to Ranulf chatter about what had happened in the castle since his departure.
'And the fair Amisia?' he interrupted. 'Have you seen her today?'
'No.' Ranulf grinned. 'Maltote and I were separating some of Sir Peter's soldiers from their coins.'
Corbett chewed his bread and half-listened as Ranulf gleefully described how some of Gisborne's foresters, after their return to the castle following their master's death, had boasted how easy it was to beat Maltote at hazard. Ranulf had been only too eager to put the matter straight with what he called his 'miraculous dice'.
Corbett had finished eating and taken out his writing implements when there was a loud knocking on the door.
'Come in!' he shouted.
A castle servant entered, a man Corbett did not recognise behind him.
'It's Halfan!' Ranulf exclaimed. 'The landlord of The Cock and Hoop.' His smile faded at the landlord's sombre look.
'He wants to see you,' the servant explained. 'Sir Peter Branwood told me to bring him here.'
'Very well,' Ranulf replied. 'You may go. Halfan, what's wrong?'
The taverner waited until the servant closed the door behind him.
'Master,' the landlord's eyes flickered, 'I have bad news!'
'What is it? The Lady Amisia?'
'No, no, the wench is well. It's her brother, Rahere the Riddle Master. He was found murdered this morning in an alleyway just off from the tavern. Someone had garrotted him.'
'What?' Ranulf sat down on a stool.
'Probably thieves,' the landlord continued. 'He always carried a heavy purse and this has now gone. They took his belt and boots. The rogues must have been stalking him from the market place.'
Corbett looked at Ranulf's white face and hastily refilled his cup.
'And the girl?' Corbett asked.
'As I said, she's safe. Hysterical, so I called the local physician who gave her some wine and valerian drops.'
Corbett remembered the bow string round Hecate the poisoner's throat.
'Come on, Ranulf, Maltote!' he urged.
He fairly hustled the taverner and his two companions out of the chamber and down the steps. Taking great care to stay away from the castle garrison, they slipped through the postern gate of the inner bailey and down into the town.
The Cock and Hoop tavern was quiet as they entered. The landlord explained that he had done the 'Christian thing' by having the corpse laid out in one of his outhouses for the coroner's visit.
'God knows what will happen,' the fellow muttered. 'The wench is almost witless and all the coroner could declare was murder by person or persons unknown.'
He led them across the cobbled yard, lifted the latch and took Corbett and his companions into a sweet-smelling stable. The man nervously lit oil lamps placed on the wall and pulled back the sacking covering the corpse stretched out on freshly laid straw.
'Two corpses in one morning,' Corbett muttered.
He knelt beside the Riddle Master, trying not to look at the blue-black face, protuberant eyes and tongue. He looked at the cord wrapped round the man's neck. Maltote had already backed out, his face turning a tinge of green, whilst Ranulf was caught between grief for his new-found friend and distress for the loss his sweet Amisia must now be suffering.
'It's the same,' Corbett muttered, getting to his feet. He carefully pulled the sheet back over the man's face.
The taverner extinguished the oil lights and they went back into the yard.
'Apart from Ranulf,' Corbett asked, 'did this Rahere speak to anyone else?'
'He was well known.' The landlord scratched his balding pate. 'But he kept to himself. Sometimes he would set us a riddle. He was always either here or in the market place. He did say he wanted to visit the castle, and on one occasion I think he left Nottingham.'
'When?'
'According to one of my customers, about three days ago. He left in a hurry but then returned.'
Corbett stepped back. Three days ago he had begun his journey to Locksley and Kirklees. He looked angrily at Ranulf.
'I told no one in the castle.' Ranulf was quick-witted enough to catch the drift of Corbett's thoughts. His eyes fell. 'Or here. Except Amisia.'
Corbett dug into his purse and brought out a coin which he flashed before the inn-keeper's shrewd eyes.
'This is for the corpse. A swift burial in a town cemetery. And this,' he plucked out a second coin, 'is permission to go through the dead man's baggage.'
The taverner needed no second bidding but took Corbett, Ranulf and a now gaping Maltote up to the dead man's chamber.
'It will be empty,' he explained. 'The wench, I mean the Lady Amisia, is in another chamber.'
Corbett thanked him. Once the taverner had disappeared, Corbett ordered Ranulf and Maltote to search the chamber and pile the dead man's belongings in the middle of the bed.
At first there was nothing: clothing, belts, baldricks, hose, change of boots, some spoons, a chased silver cup. But then Ra
nulf, eager now to make up for his mistake, pushed aside the bed and, using his old skills as a burglar, began to test the floor boards. He cried out in delight as he prised one loose and brought out a small coffer. It was no more than a foot long and the same wide, secured by three locks. Ranulf handed this to Corbett who, without a second thought, broke all three locks with his dagger. He then sat on the edge of the bed, sifting through the parchments.
'Ah!' Corbett put the manuscripts aside, grabbed his dagger and jabbed at the bottom of the casket, lifting the wooden slats to reveal a secret compartment. He plucked out a small medal and a roll of parchment which he quickly studied.
'Our friend Rahere was in truth a Riddle Master,' he commented wryly.
Corbett tossed the unfurled parchment at Ranulf, who scanned the Norman French: signed by William of Nogaret and sealed with the Privy Seal of France, the letter instructed all seneschals, bailiffs and officers in the kingdom of France to give every support to the King's most trusted servant, Rahere.
'It was dangerous to carry this,' he remarked.
'Not really,' Corbett answered. 'Many French merchants carry such warrants.'
He handed the medal over and Ranulf scrutinised the portrait of a king sitting on a throne.
'Who is it?' Ranulf asked.
'Philip's grandfather, the sainted Louis. To an ordinary English harbour official, such a medal would appear innocuous. However, they are only given to very trusted servants of the French King. If Rahere showed such a medal, together with that strip of parchment, he'd be allowed access to any castle or town, be able to draw monies or demand military support. Ranulf, your good friend Rahere, God rest him, was Philip's most trusted agent as well as that skilful assassin, Achitophel!'
Corbett perused more pieces of the parchment. 'And who would suspect a Riddle Master? I tell you this, Rahere or Achitophel, God damn him, was responsible for the deaths of at least a score of my agents. And if I carried out an investigation into the circumstances surrounding their deaths, I am sure some witness would remember that, coincidence upon coincidence, Rahere the Riddle Master was somewhere in the vicinity when they died. We always did wonder how Achitophel could not only kill people in France but also in England. Of course a travelling minstrel, especially a man of his skill, would be welcome anywhere.' Corbett laughed sourly. 'I wager there are at least six members of the King's own Privy Council who would be prepared to sing his praises, afford him protection, provide hospitality, write out safe conducts and references.'
'Well, how did he know you were in Nottingham?'
'Oh, I expect the Lady Maeve, perhaps Lord Morgan Llewellyn, the Earl of Surrey, even the King himself, has been skilfully approached by this trickster and handed the information over to him without a second thought.'
Ranulf, staring moodily at the floor, nodded and glared at Maltote who was softly tut-tutting under his breath.
'You can shut up!' he hissed. 'You liked him as much as I did! Master, do you think Amisia is also guilty?'
Corbett pursed his lips and shook his head. 'I doubt it. It's a fairly common trick. I mean, apart from the Lady Maeve, how many other people know of the human filth we wade through, Ranulf? It's a well-known device,' Corbett continued bitterly, 'and one used time and again. A group of monks go through Dover; seven are genuine, the eighth is a spy. A collection of merchants go to Canterbury; all seem honest burgesses but one's a spy. Or the troupe of jugglers, the gaggle of students. In this case, Ranulf, it's the beautiful sister who'll attract attention, not the merry rhymester.' Corbett added. 'Yet she will still have to be questioned.'
'But,' Maltote interrupted briskly, 'if Rahere came to Nottingham, Master, he had no guarantee of meeting you.'
'Achitophel was no back-street thug or roaring boy, Maltote,' Corbett replied. 'He was a skilled assassin. He would search out the terrain, plan his move and carry out murder as swiftly and silently as a plunging hawk. Three days ago I left for Locksley. Ranulf chatters to Amisia, Amisia chatters to her brother who hastens after me. And what better way of killing one of the King's clerks? All the coroner would declare was that I ate something which did not agree with me. I would be dressed for burial, coffined and laid beneath the sod before anyone really knew who I was.'
'I am sorry, Master,' Ranulf apologised. 'I was tricked like some coney in the hay.'
Corbett shrugged. 'Don't apologise, Ranulf. Your friendship with Rahere might still bear fruit. You see Rahere, or Achitophel, would have two orders. One was to kill me but the second would be to discover if I had broken the cipher.' Corbett stared directly at his manservant. 'You did discuss the cipher with the Riddle Master?'
Ranulf closed his eyes. 'Yes,' he mumbled. 'But, as God is my witness, I never gave him the reason why.'
'You wouldn't have to,' Maltote tactlessly retorted, and got a swift kick in the shins for his pains.
'Of course,' Corbett continued, ignoring the pantomime, 'Achitophel soon realised we hadn't broken the cipher, and planned my death. That's why he wanted to meet me. Like an executioner who studies a man's weight and stance before putting the noose round his neck and turning him off the ladder. Perhaps I might reveal some weakness or details of a journey I was planning.' He looked over at Ranulf. 'I don't suppose he was any help with the cipher?'
'No, Master, but what's in those pieces of parchment?'
'Nothing remarkable. Letters from friends and acquaintances which may be ciphers carrying instructions and other messages. My colleagues at Westminster will enjoy studying them.' Corbett sifted amongst the pieces of paper on the bed. 'Nevertheless…'
'Who killed him?' Ranulf suddenly asked.
Corbett began to laugh softly, much to the surprise of Ranulf and Maltote who could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times Master Long Face laughed in a week.
'Master, what is so funny?' Ranulf snapped.
'Can't you see, Ranulf? Rahere or Achitophel made the greatest mistake which can beset any assassin or hunter. Indeed, he has much in common with Gisborne. In both cases the hunter became the hunted. We know there is a traitor in the castle. He would watch us and become intrigued by your constant visits and deep conversations with a mere Riddle Master in a Nottinghamshire tavern.'
Realisation dawned on Ranulf.
'Of course!' he breathed. 'And the traitor would think Rahere some agent of the King, a spy providing valuable assistance to us here in Nottingham?'
'Correct! Did you see anyone from the garrison keeping a close watch on you, Rahere or this tavern?'
Ranulf shook his head. 'Never once.'
'Of course our traitor would have to be very careful. And what do you do with a problem you can't resolve, Ranulf, eh?' Corbett pulled a face. 'The simplest solution is to remove the mystery and murder Rahere. For his part, Achitophel was so intent on watching us, so confident in his own disguise, he would never suspect danger from another quarter. I suppose he left the tavern this morning on some personal errand, was attacked, quickly garrotted, and his purse and boots removed to make it look as if he was the victim of some alleyway assault.'
'Amisia will blame us,' Ranulf mournfully replied.
'No,' Corbett assured him. 'For the moment, Ranulf, do not tell her why we are here, or indeed anything about her brother's secret profession. She will take time to recover from this grievous wound alone. Further revelations might drive her out of her wits.'
Corbett resumed his sifting amongst the pieces of paper on the bed.
'What are you searching for, Master?'
'Achitophel or Rahere was an intelligent man, a well-paid agent, a trusted spy of King Philip, but he would not know the cipher until you gave it to him. Tell me, Ranulf, if you were in his position, bored, waiting for events to develop as you lounged about some tawdry provincial town, what would you do? You are, by nature,' Corbett continued, 'a solver of riddles.'
'I would try to solve this one,' Ranulf reflected. 'I would see it as a challenge.'
'Exactly! Of course, Rahere would
never tell you but he would have to satisfy himself. Remember, Ranulf, he was a well-placed agent who knew the minds of his masters in Paris. What I am looking for is some indication of the path he followed.'
'He always told me it could be some poem or song,' Ranulf crossly added.
'So we will ignore all those,' Corbett muttered, much to Maltote's delight.
Corbett checked the papers again. Most of them bore riddles or rhyming poems. One piece, however, caught his eye and he plucked it out. Corbett studied this carefully: a crude portrayal of a chess board.
'I wonder?' he scratched his head and sat on the edge of the bed.
The landlord came back and asked if there was anything they wanted. Corbett absentmindedly asked for some wine, a quill, and an ink horn. Then, with Ranulf and Maltote craning over his shoulder, he began to add to the manuscript, writing down each piece: king, queen, bishop, knight, castle, pawn.
An hour passed, the wine jug emptied and Corbett's exasperation grew.
'You see,' he commented loudly as if talking to himself, 'every cipher is based on something: the titles of books, verses from the scriptures, the names of angels or the first letter of certain towns. But this is different.'
Ranulf jabbed a dirty finger.
'Why is the piece of parchment so neatly divided down the middle?' he asked. 'It's as if Rahere specially creased it, to cut the chess board neatly in half, four rows of squares on either side.'
Corbett held the piece of parchment up to the sunlight pouring through the unshuttered window.
'I wonder?' He got to his feet. 'Look, Ranulf, Maltote, put everything back as you found it. Amisia will soon awaken. Ranulf, stay here and comfort her. Swear the landlord to silence about what we have done. Assure Amisia that I will give her every protection but see if you can learn anything fresh about her brother's activities. Maltote, you come back to the castle.' Corbett became lost in his own thoughts again, the piece of parchment wrapped tightly in his fist.