by Paul Doherty
‘You hanged them, master,’ Torpel said, ‘and yet you now seem convinced they were innocent.’
‘Look, my friend,’ Naseby shook his head, ‘I confessed the same to Sir Hugh, how I am haunted by their ghosts, particularly that of Sumerscale. He was very handsome, only a youth, with a gift for mimicking bird calls. He protested his utter innocence until the garrotte knot choked off his breath. You ask about their innocence.’ Naseby tapped his stomach. ‘From the very start I had this feeling at the core of my being that both men had been betrayed. I believe they were victims of a plot. I suspected that Rougehead had been suborned, lavishly bribed to lay allegations, but I don’t have a shred of evidence for this. At the time, everyone was deeply sensitive about the king and his precious favourite, and I was no different.’
He coughed, turned and spat over the side. ‘What really convinced me of their innocence was that before they were hanged, a wandering friar heard their confessions. Of course he couldn’t say what they had told him, but afterwards he informed me in no uncertain terms that he’d heard the confessions of two guilt-free men. I still see their ghosts.’ Naseby’s face had drained of all colour, and he grasped one of the sail ropes lashed to the rail.
‘Ghosts?’ Torpel exclaimed.
‘Corbett said you were a good man.’ Naseby leaned closer as the ship plunged and rose. ‘He said I could trust you.’ He glanced across at the crew busy coiling cordage. The Candle-Bright was now cutting sharply through the waves, the morning mist lifting, the sun about to break through. So why did he feel this deep, cloying fear, as if he was entering a violent storm at the dead of night on seas running fast and furious past a rocky coast? After all, the weather was relatively calm, the sea fairly serene. Soon they would be in Boulogne, and when they had delivered what they had to, they could return to Queenhithe, where Naseby, a bachelor, could eat, drink and enjoy himself at the Merry Mercy, that splendid tavern close to Queenhithe harbour.
‘Ghosts?’ Torpel repeated.
‘Oh, more than that,’ Naseby replied. ‘I’ve received warnings.’ He steadied himself, opened his belt wallet and took out a number of narrow parchment strips, no more than a few inches long. He handed these to Torpel, who, lips carefully mouthing the words, read the warning.
‘“Remember Sumerscale. Where the corpse lies, so the ghosts will gather.”’ He glanced up at a gull that shrieked and swooped, eager to pluck anything tossed overboard. ‘How long have you been getting these warnings?’
‘For the last two months. Since May Day, yes, just after the Virgin Mary’s feast. They are slipped under a door or left on a tavern table when I am distracted or busy with something else. And, no, I don’t know why, or why now. As I informed Sir Hugh Corbett,’ Naseby wiped his salt-caked lips on the back of his hand, ‘recently I made enquiries along the Thames and in the city, and discovered that Gabriel Rougehead and the other three perjurers are dead.’
‘Dead?’
‘Oh yes. They were apparently attending some celebration in the Salamander, the very place where they claimed Sumerscale and Fallowfield made their treasonable remarks, when a fire broke out, reducing the tavern to blackened timber. Rougehead and his coven were burnt alive in the inferno. Talk about judgement from heaven!’
‘What manner of men were Sumerscale and Fallowfield?’
‘I don’t know. I truly don’t. They were good seamen. Served on board this ship for two months. In November 1307, The Candle-Bright was berthed along Queenhithe. Sumerscale and Fallowfield appeared bringing a brief letter of recommendation from Prior Cuthbert, the Dominican guardian of Blackfriars. They signed the book and made an indenture with me agreeing to the articles of war on board ship. Fallowfield was dark-skinned, as if he had served in the Middle Sea: he was the more experienced sailor, Sumerscale the more educated one. They could speak the patois of the ports as well as French. I had few dealings with them; in the main, they kept to themselves, and this made other people suspicious.’
‘You mean that they could have been lovers?’
Naseby forced a grin and slapped Torpel on the shoulder. ‘Laurence, my friend, love between two men is more common than the preachers would have us think. You know my views. The intimate life of the individual soul is a matter best left to that person and to God. I was more interested in who Sumerscale and Fallowfield actually were. Believe me, I have searched London and I could discover nothing …’
He broke off as Torpel walked away to roar orders at a group of sailors engaged in some tomfoolery further down the ship. As he put the parchment strips back into his belt wallet, his fingers brushed his Ave beads. He closed his eyes and swiftly recited the Jesu Miserere – the ‘Jesus have mercy’ prayer – before Torpel returned.
‘And Sir Hugh Corbett was against this voyage?’
‘Very much so.’ Naseby opened his eyes and pointed to the horizon. ‘You know the danger, Laurence, and so do I. You’ve referred to it already. The Black Hogge, a Breton privateer out of La Rochelle. A formidable warship, over three hundred tuns, with strengthened fighting castles on prow and stern; its main mast is as thick as an oak tree and it boasts a smaller one to the fore to provide extra speed. It carries a cohort of skilled men-at-arms and archers, mercenaries who fear neither God nor man. Ostensibly it sails under letters of marque issued by the Duke of Brittany. Of course its real master is Philip of France. A ship from hell!’
‘We are a fighting ship too,’ Torpel countered.
‘Not like The Black Hogge.’ Naseby paused as if listening to the wind wail, plucking at the tight ropes and taut cordage. The Candle-Bright cracked and groaned, pitched and sank as if in reply. ‘That ship sails under its own colours and insignia; its master, the Breton Gaston Foix, is one of the finest and cruellest seamen prowling the waves. What concerns Sir Hugh Corbett, not to mention the king’s council, the city corporation and the city guilds, is that The Black Hogge knows whenever a ship leaves Queenhithe, and what cargo it carries. Not every English merchantman is attacked. Only those that have valuable cargo or might be carrying secret documents to English agents in France, as we do now.
‘Now, Sir Hugh wanted The Candle-Bright to be given an escort of war hulks and fighting cogs, but His Grace the king and his …’ Naseby caught himself just in time, ‘the noble Gaveston did not want to attract the attention of their opponents, the great lords, led by Thomas, Earl of Lancaster. So,’ he pushed himself away from the rail, ‘we are committed. Pray God we make a peaceful landfall.’
The ship’s bell was ringing for the noonday Angelus when Naseby received the answer to his prayer. Torpel was just about to intone the antiphon, ‘The Angel of the Lord declared unto Mary’, when the lookout boy high in the falcon’s perch blew three wailing blasts on his hunting horn. Silence immediately descended. No patter of feet, no shouts or cries, just the cracking and groaning of the cog as it surged through the water. Naseby hurried out of his narrow cabin beneath the soaring stern castle. He fought to control his panic as he peered up at the lookout.
‘What is it boy?’ he shouted.
‘Sail, master!’ came the reply. ‘I see sail bearing down on us!’ He was now standing precariously, leaning forward into the buffeting wind. ‘Two sails!’ he cried. ‘Double-masted.’
Naseby’s heart skipped a beat. The Black Hogge, he was sure of it, though he did not know how that devil ship knew about The Candle-Bright. It must have followed them from the mouth of the Thames, which meant that it had been standing off the Essex coast. Yet how could its master know the actual hour and day that The Candle-Bright left Queenhithe? Naseby’s sense of being haunted deepened. Vengeance was swooping like some sinister hawk across the surface of the deep.
‘Master Torpel,’ he cried. ‘Beat to arms, prepare for battle.’
The ship’s crew hastened to obey the strident calls from their officers. The men-at-arms opened the barbican; swords, daggers, maces and crossbows along with quivers of bolts were distributed. Braziers were primed, the ship’s cook heat
ing the coals to light fire arrows. Every bucket and pail was filled with water in preparation against flames thrown by the enemy. Small barrels of sand were emptied on to the slippery deck. Naseby armed himself with mail hauberk, fighting gauntlets with sharp pointed studs and a conical helmet with a broad nose guard to protect his face. He thanked the sailor who brought them to him, and strapped on the two-sheathed sword belt as he stared despairingly at the fast-running waves.
The Black Hogge was bearing down on them in hideous battle array, its formidable hulk cutting through the waves as its soot-coloured sails caught the wind. The soaring fighting castles at fore and stern would be thronged with archers and slingers; the deck between would house men-at-arms ready with their ropes and grappling hooks. Smoke billowed from braziers, heralding the fiery fury that would soon be unleashed against the English ship. Naseby steeled himself for what was coming, battle sharp and cruel. Surrender would mean nothing. The Black Hogge followed the merciless law of the sea. An enemy ship was to be annihilated. No mercy would be asked and none would be shown.
He recalled the documents Corbett had entrusted to him from the Secret Chancery. He must destroy them. He turned, hastening towards his cabin, but The Black Hogge was closing fast, archers at the ready. Two well-aimed crossbow bolts smashed into his face and throat, and he collapsed in a bloody pulp on the deck of his doomed ship. Peterkin, the lookout boy, high in the falcon perch, froze in terror as he watched his captain’s body being pulled across the deck by Torpel towards the protection of the cabin. The Black Hogge, however, was now turning sideways so that it crashed into the side of The Candle-Bright, towering above the English cog. The French archers raked Naseby’s crew with a deadly hail of crossbow bolts, fire arrows, slingshots and other missiles. Fire caught hold of the sail. Peterkin’s terror deepened as the flames leapt hungrily about him, burning through the cordage so that the entire sail collapsed to the deck.
Time and again the French archers loosed, choosing their targets carefully. Torpel was struck, the force of the arrow so intense that he staggered across the deck and seemed to bounce against the rail. The Candle-Bright tilted and he fell over the side. Peterkin watched his corpse disappear from view. Grappling hooks were now being used, The Candle-Bright being made secure to the side of The Black Hogge. Men-at-arms and archers swiftly boarded. Any resistance was soon crushed. A few of the English crew threw down their weapons and raised their hands in the sign of peace, only to receive a sword or dagger thrust to the heart or throat.
The French turned to plundering both the hold and the ship’s cabin. They moved swiftly. Fires were now burning fiercely, while at the same time the tilting of the English cog allowed the sea to pour in and swamp it. Trumpets sounded their warning. The enemy retreated to their own ship. Ropes and nets were quickly hacked away, The Black Hogge putting as much distance as possible between itself and its victim.
Up on his perch, Peterkin felt The Candle-Bright shake like a dying man struggling for those last few seconds of life. Then it turned and rose. The great mast snapped. Peterkin clung fiercely, eyes closed, as the mast fell sheer, crashing into the sea. He felt salt water clog his mouth and nose. Then the mast floated back up, breaking free of the water, allowing the boy desperate gasps of precious air. Soaked, cold and terrified, he held on for dear life. The Black Hogge was now in full sail away from the scene of slaughter. Peterkin’s last glimpse of The Candle-Bright was its bowsprit, from which Naseby’s corpse dangled. He closed his eyes. If he could only be a bird and fly back to the warm safety of Queenhithe …
Rohesia the rag woman lay fast asleep in the shelter of the wall separating the great meadow of St Giles lazar hospital from the trackway that wound out from Westminster and through Queenhithe ward. She had discovered a clump of sharp thorn bushes clinging to the curtain wall that concealed a small aperture and tunnel, probably the remains of some abandoned sewer or water course running through the base of the ragstone wall. The hatch at the other end of the tunnel was also concealed by a tangle of bramble, which could be pushed aside, giving access to the hospital’s great meadow. Rohesia reckoned she would be safe enough sleeping off the ale fumes there. She was confident that no one would filch her purse or the corpses in her sack. After all, few people if any wanted to do business with the living dead, the lepers of St Giles, those rotting grotesques, their faces, heads and hands hidden beneath thickly swathed binding cloths.
She stirred, moving her head on the thick serge sack that held the corpses of the small dogs and cats she had clubbed to death earlier in the day for their meat and skins.
‘Not a penny less,’ she slurred drunkenly to herself. ‘Tomorrow I’ll get that big tom, fat as a suckling pig, with a good hide and thick fur.’ She closed her eyes, picturing the alleyway that ran past the Merry Mercy tavern; once daylight broke, she would seize that tom cat and club it to death. ‘Oh yes,’ she whispered to herself as she sat up, ‘I will keep its fur and sell the flesh to the mince grinder. He will offer it as wild rabbit or mix it with herbs to fashion good sausages!’
She broke off as she heard a cry, recognising it as the lonely call of some mortally stricken soul. Rohesia had once been a camp follower, accompanying both her husbands, former soldiers, the length and breadth of the wild marches of Wales and Scotland; bleak, battle-strewn border country where death came swiftly as a whirling arrow or the hiss of a dagger cutting the air. She had heard such a shriek many, many times as she combed the battlefields for the wounded and the dead.
Deeply intrigued, she pushed her sack and purse into a thick briar and crawled forward up a slight incline. As she lay peering across the grass glinting under the bright moonlight, she glimpsed a small bench near the reed-fringed mere. She could see it clearly because the lanternhorn that stood to one side glowed fiercely, illuminating the man who sat slumped, arms out, head down. Rohesia studied him closely. No movement, no sign of life. She turned, narrowing her eyes as she peered across the heathland. She could detect nothing untoward. Here and there, the noises of the night: the crack of a twig, the rustle of a bush as a fox or badger hunted for its midnight feast. She glanced up at the cloudless sky. A featherywinged owl, silent as a ghost, glided above the meadow before making its plunge. This was the hour of the hunter, yet Rohesia had a growing feeling that a much more dangerous predator was prowling through the dark.
Overcome by curiosity, she edged forward, drawn by that dark shadow on the bench. As she drew nearer, she realised that he was an inmate of the hospital; he was garbed in the grey robe of the lazar house, his head and face almost hidden by encircling cloths, his weapons drawn, resting on the bench beside him. She moaned, fingers fluttering to her lips, as she glimpsed the dagger pushed deep into the man’s chest. Then she heard a sound and turned. At such close quarters, the small, squat crossbow bolt shattered her face in an instant.
Edward II of England slapped the simple black Purbeck marble slab that covered his predecessor’s remains close to the shrine of St Edward the Confessor in Westminster Abbey. ‘My father,’ he declared, ‘demanded that when he died, his corpse be boiled in a large cauldron until the flesh separated from the bones. He insisted that the flesh be buried and the bones preserved so that when the Scots rebelled against us, those same bones could be taken up against them and he would have victory over our Scottish enemies.’ Edward stroked the back of Peter Gaveston’s head as he brushed by his favourite to stand over Sir Hugh Corbett, who sat on the steps of the tomb. ‘What do you think of that, Hugh?’
Corbett pursed his lips as he recalled the words of Robert Bruce, the Scottish rebel leader: how he feared the dead bones of the old king more than the living body of the new. He blinked as he silently promised to keep such treasonable words to himself.
‘Your Grace,’ he decided to change the dangerous conversation to something more practical, ‘why are we three, the king of England, his leading councillor and his principal clerk, squatting amongst the tombs of your ancestors, admiring the shrine of the blessed Edward
the Confessor?’
‘You mock us, Hugh.’ Gaveston laughed. ‘You know full well why we are here. The tombs are surrounded by hand-picked retainers. We are free of any eavesdropper, spy or scurrier hungry for juicy morsels of gossip, titbits of information for Lancaster and his coterie to chew over like dogs gnawing dry bones. Nor must we forget Monseigneur Amaury de Craon, the fox-faced, fox-souled French envoy, whose mouth is a bowl of lies and whose heart the haunt of treasons. De Craon would pay dearly for such scraps of gossip.’ Gaveston leaned over and squeezed Corbett’s wrist. ‘You know that, Hugh.’
‘In which case, my lord, let us turn to the business in hand.’ Corbett was quick to seize the initiative. Gaveston had announced that they were gathered here to discuss secret matters, and the clerk was impatient to begin. ‘First, The Candle-Bright,’ he declared, ‘which was brought to battle eight days ago by The Black Hogge and destroyed along with its crew.’
‘As you said it might be,’ the king murmured lazily, his heavy-lidded eyes drooping, his full mouth slightly twisted as he ran a bejewelled finger around his neatly clipped moustache and beard.
Corbett stiffened. Edward might look handsome, with hair the colour of liquid gold, olive skin and strange blue eyes, but he could also be highly dangerous. The king inherited his good looks from his father and his exquisitely beautiful mother, the Spanish princess Eleanor of Castile. Nevertheless, despite his physical beauty, he nursed a nasty temper. Indeed, his puckered look, his insistence on meeting here amongst the royal tombs, meant that he was in one of his strange moods when he could abruptly erupt into horrific violence, targeting anyone within reach of his sword arm. Corbett’s only consolation was that the young king never displayed such ferocity towards his reappointed Keeper of the Secret Seal. Perhaps he realised that the clerk would immediately resign in response to such violence.