by Paul Doherty
Corbett sighed and tried to relax. More importantly, he reasoned, Gaveston was present. Handsome as a peacock, languid, even effeminate in appearance and gesture, the royal favourite would always pacify Edward and quell any tantrum or outburst. Gaveston was the king’s mentor and master in all things. Corbett noticed with quiet amusement how king and favourite had their hair, moustache and beard similarly coiffed and wore the same type of gown, edged with ermine, boasting the Plantagenet royal colours of blue, scarlet and gold.
Edward thrust his head forward aggressively, finger jabbing the air. ‘Don’t be coy, Sir Hugh. Tell us what happened.’
‘The Candle-Bright,’ Corbett replied, ‘was taken mid-voyage. The Black Hogge must have been standing off the Essex coast when the cog cleared the Thames estuary and entered the Narrow Seas. It simply followed using the night and morning mist as a disguise. Now Master Naseby and his henchman Torpel were excellent mariners. They knew the dangers, as we all did. The Black Hogge has two sails and is more powerfully built, a true cog of war; its size means that when it came alongside The Candle-Bright, its archers could pour down a veritable arrow storm, a hail of missiles and fire shafts. The privateer closed swiftly and the battle did not last long. I learnt this from the sole survivor, the young cabin boy who served as lookout on the falcon perch. Those crew who survived the arrows were put to the sword.’ Corbett crossed himself. ‘God have mercy on their souls. The Candle-Bright became a floating funeral pyre. Before he cut loose, Gaston Foix, master of The Black Hogge, hanged poor Naseby’s corpse from the bowsprit of his own doomed ship.
‘The Candle-Bright’s mast collapsed and the lookout managed to use the wreckage to stay afloat. He was most fortunate. Later in the day, a herring boat, blown off course, found him and brought him back to Queenhithe. Both Ranulf and I have questioned him closely but there is nothing more to be learnt. The Candle-Bright should never have left Queenhithe without a suitable escort, but the damage is done.’ Corbett paused. ‘Naseby was carrying very important letters to one of our most skilled agents in Paris, the French clerk Tallefert. The letters were written in cipher. If they were taken, if the cipher is broken …’ he rubbed his face, ‘then God help poor Tallefert and anyone associated with him.’
‘We can send another ship to Boulogne,’ Gaveston interjected, ‘this time with an escort.’
‘But that doesn’t resolve the root of the problem,’ Corbett retorted. He tried to hide his anger at the loss of The Candle-Bright, the brutal death of good men such as Naseby and Torpel, not to mention the life-threatening danger Tallefert and others now faced.
‘The root?’ the king asked.
‘Your Grace, with all due respect,’ Corbett declared, ‘it is fairly simple. The root, or at least one of them, is The Black Hogge, a ferocious, powerful French warship. Oh, I know it claims to be a privateer, sailing under letters and warrants issued by the Duke of Brittany.’ He shook his head. ‘We all know that’s nonsense. Gaston Foix receives his orders directly from the Secret Chancery in the Louvre. Or, more specifically, Monseigneur Amaury de Craon in London.’
He leaned closer so he almost came between the king and his favourite. ‘Now, ostensibly de Craon is here to discuss certain items of business: English-held Gascony, the grievances of French merchants in Bordeaux, the need for a common front in dealing with the Templar order and the arrest of its members.’ Corbett waved a hand. ‘And so on, and so on.’ He paused. ‘The reality is different and highly dangerous to the English Crown. To be blunt, the French now control the sea lanes to Bordeaux and consequently our entire wine trade with Gascony. They also control the sailing routes across the Narrow Seas to the English-held county of Ponthieu, our foothold in Normandy. They have virtually imposed a blockade and are managing this most effectively through a formidable ship of war, captained by one of King Philip’s best mariners.’
Corbett glanced at the king and Gaveston. They had stopped fidgeting and were now listening intently. The clerk had decided not to mention his own secret talks with Naseby. He would not reveal the ship’s master’s deep fear that he was being haunted by the ghosts of the two men he had hanged for allegedly speaking and acting contumaciously against the two princes Corbett was now advising. To do so would not be politic or serve any good. Corbett had already decided that when he could, he would thoroughly investigate the executions of Sumerscale and Fallowfield.
‘Sir Hugh?’
‘The Black Hogge is dangerous, sire, to you and yours.’ Corbett gestured at Gaveston. ‘For many, many reasons, be it commerce or communication with officials abroad. Above all, it brings you into grave disrepute with your court, the commons, the merchants of this city and the people of your kingdom. You are being grossly shamed, you are made to look ineffective and weak …’
‘Yes, yes.’ Edward stamped his feet, beating his fists against his thighs like some frustrated child deprived of a toy.
‘Edward, Edward.’ Gaveston’s voice came as a soothing whisper. ‘Corbett is Your Grace’s most faithful servant. He speaks the truth. He tells you the way things are rather than how they should be. If he cannot advise us, then we are truly lost.’ Edward raised a hand in acknowledgement and Gaveston nodded at Corbett to continue.
‘The Black Hogge hovers somewhere off the English coast in those turbulent northern seas. Its master, God knows how, seems to be miraculously informed about ships leaving London. The Candle-Bright was a case in point. Now it is virtually impossible to keep such a ship’s sailing a secret – a child standing on a hill can watch it leave.’ Corbett played with the signet ring on his finger. ‘The true mystery is how The Black Hogge, out in the misty vastness, is informed of that event: the ship’s name, its destination and the hour it sailed.
‘I have learnt from sailors along Queenhithe that there could be a fast-moving herring boat, a fishing smack, which takes up position in the estuary and knows where to take all the information its crew learns about our ships leaving the Thames.’ He pulled a face. ‘Others dismiss such an idea as fanciful. Nevertheless, The Black Hogge is regularly informed. Even if we sent warships, fighting cogs and galleys, these would surely be noted and the information relayed to the privateer, which would simply disappear into the icy vastness of the northern seas to lurk and wait for fresh opportunities. Of course we could direct cogs from one of the Cinque Ports, or indeed any harbour along our coastline, but that would be costly. Even if we dispatched an entire fleet, would they find the enemy ship? We could spend an eternity floundering about. So let’s move to what I consider to be the true underlying cause of our present problems.’
‘De Craon?’
‘De Craon, sire, that master of mischief and lord of liars. He must be dug out, root and branch. I look forward to crossing swords with him. I understand he lodges at the Merry Mercy in Queenhithe,’ Corbett shrugged, ‘and I suspect he protests his innocence about what is happening. If accused, he would act gravely insulted and insist that his diplomatic rights and all the attendant niceties be observed. He lodges at that tavern because it is opulent and comfortable, but above all, it is close to the heart of the London merchant community, where information about shipping is easily and readily available.
‘The Merry Mercy is a splendid tavern under the ownership of Philippa Henman, the beautiful widow of the late Raoul Henman, vintner and alderman of Queenhithe.’ Corbett brushed some dust from the sleeve of his jerkin. ‘I have yet to meet Philippa. Many years ago, I knew her late husband. We were comrades. A stalwart man, Raoul. A mailed clerk till he discovered that his true talent was choosing a good wine and providing delicious meals. He became one of the finest taverners in London. I can certainly see why de Craon chose the Merry Mercy.’
‘Philippa,’ the king replied, choosing his words carefully, ‘is a true and loyal subject: I know she keeps Monseigneur de Craon under close observation.’
‘That is so, sire,’ Corbett agreed. ‘As she does Matthias Sokelar, harbour master at Queenhithe and elsewhere. Rather fortuitous
, isn’t it,’ Corbett rubbed his hands together, ‘that the French envoy lodges at the very tavern where the likes of Naseby sheltered on occasion, and where the man directly responsible for English shipping also has his chambers. Could there be a link between Master Sokelar, Philippa Henman and de Craon?’ He raised his hands. ‘But that would be too obvious. The searches my henchman Ranulf of Newgate has made, not to mention my other spies, have revealed nothing amiss.’
‘Indeed,’ Gaveston replied, ‘as the accredited envoy of the French king, de Craon has every right to choose his own lodgings. You, Sir Hugh, will make the most exacting scrutiny of de Craon, Mistress Henman and anyone involved in the departure of shipping, be it royal or otherwise, along the Thames …’
Corbett tapped his foot, his spurs ringing eerily. ‘It all comes back to the problem of The Black Hogge and how it knows so swiftly and accurately about the movements of English cogs. That is the mystery we must resolve.’ He paused. ‘Now, Your Grace, I understand there are other matters. I have heard rumours about strange deaths in the leper house at St Giles, also in Queenhithe ward, a short walk from the Merry Mercy.’
‘You are correct.’ The king rose and stretched, staring across the tombs. Corbett and Gaveston also rose. The clerk glanced around the hallowed precincts. Noises from the abbey community echoed faintly. A lector chanted at the far end of the nave in one of the side chapels. Echoing more ominously were the prayers of the Guild of St Dismas the Good Thief, pious men and women who assembled in the abbey every Thursday to pray for the repose of the souls of those executed outside the main gate of Westminster Abbey, sombre prayers that talked of darkness and divine justice.
The king, muttering to himself, walked away to ensure the royal mausoleum was still ringed by his personal guard. When he returned, he indicated that Corbett and Gaveston should retake their seats on the steps of the various tombs that towered around them. Corbett noticed how Edward sat close to that of his mother, gently caressing the dark marble as if he wished to plunge his hand through the hard stone to grasp the very essence of the only woman he had ever loved.
Edward followed Corbett’s gaze. ‘Not a day goes by but I remember her.’
‘The most gracious of ladies, sire.’
‘When she died,’ Edward murmured, ‘my father also died, at least in spirit. He became cold, cruel and capricious, just like Philip of France.’ He forced a smile. ‘That’s another reason why we meet here. Peter, my beloved, the Templars?’
‘The Templars.’ Gaveston sighed. ‘The fighting monks who became bankers and landowners from here to the far borders of the Easterlings. The Templars have lost their vision. They are no longer what they should be, and their decline has hastened since the fall of Acre and their expulsion from Outremer in 1291, some twenty years ago. Philip of France has dissolved their order. He has seized their property, land and treasure. Templars have been arrested, flung into the dungeons of the Louvre and elsewhere, tortured until they confessed to the most heinous crimes, including devil worship, black magic, sodomy,’ Gaveston smiled wryly, ‘and a host of other abominations. The order is finished. Their grand master, Jacques de Molay, will probably end up being burnt alive by the Inquisition. Philip has Pope Clement V in the palm of his hand. No one will dare object, except for those Templars sheltering here in England.’
‘Yes, yes, I know of some of them from many years ago.’ Corbett nodded. ‘Young men who believed they could continue the fight in Outremer only to lose and flee back to England. Such a change,’ he mused. ‘Once the warriors of Christendom, they returned to become merchants and shopkeepers. From what I know of the French, I suspect King Philip is demanding that all Templars be handed over to him, whilst Your Grace,’ he bowed towards the king, ‘will insist that they are still your subjects and so within your love and protection.’
‘Very well put, Hugh,’ the king agreed. ‘But my beloved father-in-law disagrees. He argues that all Templars fall within his power on the legal basis that he has been appointed by the papacy to manage the dissolution of this once famous order. Consequently he has issued warrants for the arrest of Templars sheltering here.’
‘I remember one such,’ Corbett mused. ‘He served with me as a mailed clerk both in Wales and in Scotland before leaving for Outremer. So long ago.’ He screwed his eyes up as he recalled his turbulent youth drinking and carousing with other wild bloods in the taverns along Cheapside. ‘Ah yes, Ralph Grandison.’
‘Ralph Grandison is dead,’ Gaveston declared flatly. ‘Murdered two nights ago. His corpse was found on a bench near the mere in the great meadow of the lazar hospital at St Giles in Queenhithe.’
Corbett closed his eyes and put his face in his hands. ‘Ralph, Ralph,’ he whispered, ‘so full of life.’
‘It is not the first such murder.’ Gaveston patted him on the shoulder. ‘William Boveney, a former serjeant in the order, was also stabbed through the heart about a week ago.’
‘Yes, I heard about that, as I did about de Craon’s insistence that since all Templars are under the authority of the French crown, they should be handed over to him immediately. Ranulf and I have been watching that fox closely.’ Corbett paused.
‘What?’ demanded Edward.
‘Your Grace, I understand the Templar order ceases to exist. The papacy has dissolved it?’
‘Yes, Hugh,’ Gaveston replied. ‘All this happened during your retirement. Many English Templars vanished into thin air or travelled across the Rhine to join the Teutonic knights in their fight against the Easterlings. One group, who served as a cohort in Acre, calling themselves the Brotherhood of the Wolf, moved from their manor deep in the forest of Epping and sought sanctuary in the leper hospital, the lazar house of St Giles here in Queenhithe, under the pretence that they are infected by that dreadful disease.’
‘And are they?’
‘I doubt it very much. However, it provides a pretext for sheltering there, for us doing nothing about them. Very few people volunteer to enter a lazar house.’ Gaveston paused, leaning his head back against the marble tomb, staring at the light pouring through one of the lancet windows. He held up a hand. ‘We do not have time for details, Hugh. You must collect them. You have no objection to entering a leper house?’
Corbett shook his head. ‘I have been well advised. Leprosy is only contracted by close and constant contact with the infected over a long period of time. In particular sharing their food, the water they bathe in. But why do you want me to—’
‘A number of reasons.’ Gaveston leaned forward. ‘First, two English knights have been murdered there; that in itself warrants investigation. Second, these murders may have been perpetrated here in our kingdom, in our principal city, at the behest of Philip of France. We know he wants these knights extradited to Paris. If that can’t be done, their deaths would be equally satisfying. Philip fears that when Pope Clement convenes a general council at Vienne, these same knights might mount a vigorous defence of their order and disprove the allegations against them.’
‘But how could de Craon plot and perpetrate such murders?’
‘We know he is deeply interested in what happens at St Giles, which is probably one of the reasons he lodges at the Merry Mercy, only a short walk away from the hospital. Of course he cannot enter the place. The master knight, Reginald Ausel, a former Templar,’ Gaveston grinned, ‘and a distant kinsman of mine, was appointed to his post after the papacy dissolved the order. Ausel would resist with weapons drawn any attempt by de Craon to enter St Giles. Indeed, speaking of that,’ he scratched at a bead of sweat beneath the high collar of his cambric shirt, ‘as you will discover, what is so puzzling about the two murders at St Giles is that both knights had their weapons drawn, yet they were killed silently, with virtually no evidence that they resisted.’
‘You say de Craon shows great interest in the leper hospital. How do you know that?’
‘From Mistress Philippa Henman, minehost of the Merry Mercy. Mistress Philippa, as a member of the vintners�
� guild, supplies St Giles with meat and drink at a reasonable price. She is also lady abbess of the Guild of St Martha, a group of merchant ladies, widows and wives who do good work at the hospital. After all, St Giles still houses a considerable number of leper knights.’
‘So you think de Craon definitely had a hand in these murders?’
‘Oh yes, we do,’ Gaveston replied. ‘Hugh, the Templars are finished, their members divided. Some now actively work for Philip in his attacks, both public and secret, on the order. The French may well have an assassin, a spy amongst the Templars at St Giles, either one of their company or someone else. Just think how Philip would relish these knights being slaughtered one by one at the very heart of our kingdom.’
‘And there is more?’
It was the king who replied. ‘Oh yes, my Keeper of the Secret Seal, as you suspect, there is always more. I want you to discover what is truly happening at St Giles.’ He bent down and opened the leather chancery satchel close to his feet, drawing out a dark blue velvet cloth. He unfolded this to reveal a long ivory-handled dagger, its curling blade of the finest Damascene steel, the remnants of a scarlet cord still clinging to its hilt.
Corbett took the dagger from the king and carried it over to the candle spigot, a blaze of light before a statue of the martyred King Edmund. Moving the dagger between his fingers, he scrutinised the fine handle. The ivory was slightly chipped and stained, whilst the blade, he was sure, had been recently bloodied.
‘Sire,’ he called over his shoulder, ‘this is Moorish.’
‘A blade belonging to one of the assassins who serve the Old Man of the Mountain in his secret fortress high in the hills above Aleppo in Syria,’ replied the king. ‘They feed on hashish and are dispatched to slay anyone their master has marked down for death. Over forty years ago, my father served in Outremer. His wife, my beloved mother Eleanor, went with him. Father proved to be what he always claimed to be, a true warrior of God, so the Old Man of the Mountain ordered his assassins to slay him. They invaded his tent, but Father, God’s own swordsman, killed all three of them, though not before one of them managed to cut him with that blade.’