by Paul Doherty
The king came across and took the dagger from Corbett’s hand. ‘A flesh wound, but still highly dangerous as the blade had been coated with a deadly poison. My mother, with no thought to herself, sucked out the poison and cleaned the wound with her tongue. My father suffered no lasting effects, and on his return to England, he came here to Edward the Confessor’s shrine and dedicated the knife as an offering to the memory of that holy king, placing it with his treasure, the Crown Jewels and other precious items, in what he considered to be one of the safest places in England …’
‘The crypt of Westminster Abbey,’ Corbett declared, ‘a great underground chamber with walls twenty feet thick, deep beneath the abbey chapterhouse, entered through a set of iron-bound doors and down a steep spiral staircase with a broad gap that can only be spanned by a set of specially constructed wooden steps.’
‘You know it well, Sir Hugh?’ Gaveston demanded.
‘Tell him,’ the king urged.
‘Eight years ago last April,’ Corbett played with the silver cross on the chain round his neck, ‘a master felon, a certain Richard Puddlicot, organised a gang that broke into the crypt. They hired a special mason, John of St Albans, to work at opening one of the crypt windows overlooking the abbey cemetery. The gang was very successful and stole a great deal of treasure, the Crown Jewels and other precious artefacts. The old king commissioned me to hunt down Puddlicot, that prince of thieves. When I finally apprehended him and some of his henchmen, they were tried, found guilty and hanged. The king ordered Puddlicot’s corpse to be peeled and his skin nailed to the door leading to the abbey chapterhouse.’
Corbett pointed at the dagger. ‘I recovered a great deal of the treasure, but a goodly portion remained missing and still does. I distinctly recall not recovering that dagger. Your father was desperate for its return.’
‘This dagger,’ the king replied, balancing it in his hands, ‘was used to murder Ralph Grandison, thrust deep into his heart: a killing blow. Whoever committed that murder must have been involved in the great robbery eight years ago. So you see, Hugh,’ Edward moved so close that Corbett could smell the rich rose water the king rubbed into his skin, ‘my father-in-law, Philip of France, is making a public mockery of me. The Black Hogge is his doing. I am sure the murders amongst the Templars can be laid at his door. And now this dagger. Whoever is working for Philip must have some of the treasure looted from the crypt.’
Edward abruptly clasped his hands around Corbett’s face. The clerk’s fingers fell to the hilt of the dagger on his belt even as he heard Gaveston’s sharp intake of breath. ‘Hugh, you have been away from royal service for years, locked up with your family, your precious bees, your love of plainchant, whilst I have been drawn deeper and deeper into my father-in-law’s snares. In Scotland, Bruce threatens me. A few miles to the north of London, Lancaster and the other earls gather ready for war. I am a king on the verge of becoming a public mockery, and the cause and origin of my great discomfiture sits in the Merry Mercy weaving his web on behalf of His Satanic Majesty in Paris.’
‘Edward, Edward,’ Gaveston hissed. ‘Your Grace.’
The king took his hands away and stepped back. ‘Hugh,’ he pleaded, ‘I need you. Untangle the web. Trap the spider and send him scuttling back into the dark. Will you do that for me?’ Corbett stared into the king’s eerie light-blue eyes. ‘For the sake of the Crown, for the memory of my father and my beloved mother, and for me, Hugh, just for me?’ He extended a hand, and Corbett grasped it.
A short while later, the king and Gaveston left the royal enclosure, the household bodyguard closing around them in a clatter of steel, Edward, mercurial as ever, shouting how Corbett should accompany them to the palace at Sheen and study the royal beehives. The clerk listened to the king and his favourite clatter down the abbey nave, rubbing his face where Edward had so roughly grasped him. He walked across to a small altar dedicated to the Virgin and lit a taper. He whispered a requiem for Ralph Grandison’s soul, then returned to the royal tombs, staring down at the plain black marble slab that enclosed the remains of his former master, Edward I.
He closed his eyes as he recalled that sunny day so many years ago at Windsor when he had taken the oath of fealty, swearing to be the Crown’s servant body and soul, in peace and war, against all enemies both within and without. Edward had leaned down and whispered in his ear, ‘Hugh, remember this day. When the time comes and my son needs you, really needs you, answer him. Promise me that.’ The old king had taken his face gently between his hands. ‘God be my witness, Hugh, keep fealty or I shall come for you from beyond the grave.’
‘I have given my oath,’ Corbett whispered into the dark, ‘and I shall keep it.’
He left the tombs and moved up through the incense-sprinkled air of the abbey nave. He entered the lady chapel and sat down on a plinth, staring at a host of candles blazing before the statues and wondering how his wife, the Lady Maeve, and their two children, Edward and Eleanor, were faring at Leighton Manor. And his bees? Would Boudon, his steward and assistant, take care of everything? He smiled to himself. Boudon knew more about bees than Corbett ever would. The clerk just wished he could go home for a day or two to rest. He would love to discuss with Boudon what he’d recently read in Pliny’s Natural History: how bees in flight, if overtaken by darkness, would stop, cluster and lie on their backs to protect their wings against the morning air. Was that true?
Corbett pulled his war belt closer as he reflected on what the king and Gaveston had told him. In truth, the real problem was The Black Hogge’s ability to attack any English ship. He must remember that and move to the tip of the arrow point. Once that was resolved, the problem could be confronted and cleared. The same was true of the murder of the Templars at St Giles. What was the reason for those deaths? Undoubtedly Philip of France and de Craon had a hand in it all, but the appearance of the assassin’s dagger also indicated that the French might have had some involvement in the robbery of the crypt eight years ago.
The English Crown faced a veritable storm of problems. Corbett had heard rumours about them as he worked in the Secret Chancery chambers at both Westminster and the Tower. He had been dealing with reports and news from his spies along the Scottish March when he had begun to be drawn into the mystery of the Templars’ deaths and the depredations of The Black Hogge. Now he was fully committed. De Craon was ensconced at the Merry Mercy. Corbett had responded. He had already dispatched his clerks to the tavern to make searches as well as to hire chambers for themselves and Corbett. ‘It will be best to set up house as close to the fox’s den as possible,’ he had advised them. ‘I am sure de Craon will be delighted to see us.’
He watched the dagger-like flame of a taper fall and rise. He heard a sound, a footfall behind him. He swiftly drew his dagger and turned, but there was nothing. He returned to watching the candle flame, its constant burning soothing him. He missed the Lady Maeve, his children and Leighton Manor. Nevertheless, he was pleased to be back in the Secret Chancery. After an absence of almost six years, he felt as if his wits and brains had become slightly rusted. Now he had to be sharp and sure. The Secret Chancery was like the Great Conduit in Cheapside. All kinds of information flowed through it: chatter, gossip, scurrilous stories, the judgements of the itinerant commissioners, the decisions of manor courts and the constant backbiting and petty infighting amongst the clergy. All this had to be collected, the wheat sifted from the chaff as it was closely scrutinised.
In the end, Corbett was convinced that de Craon was very much the spider, spinning a tangled, treacherous web under the pretence of being here at Westminster to discuss certain items of business with leading royal officials. Ranulf was already on the hunt. By now, the senior clerk in the Chancery of the Green Wax should have moved into the the Merry Mercy tavern: it was time they closed in on the spider.
‘Ah well,’ Corbett murmured. He made to bless himself, but froze at a sound behind him. This time he was certain. He had half drawn his dagger when something hit
the tiled floor beside him and rolled to rest against a pillar decorated with scenes from hell in which demons, giant apes with human faces, plucked the souls of the damned impaled on ugly thorn bushes. Corbett turned slowly, but nothing disturbed the dark hush of this hallowed place. He could detect no threat, no moving shape or flitting shadow. He resheathed his weapon, then walked over and picked up the cylinder-shaped object, the slender remains of a pure beeswax candle with a piece of parchment twined round it. He undid this and stared at the warning inscribed upon it.
Sir Hugh Corbett, Keeper of the King’s Secret Seal, put not your trust in those in power. Go back, sir, to your manor, your wife, your children, your estate and your beloved bees. Do not enter the tournament field.
He read the dark-inked message once more, then placed both parchment and candle in the wallet on his belt. ‘So the dance begins!’ he murmured to the darkness. ‘Dance I shall, and in time so shall ye.’
Corbett patted his wallet and stared at the demonic scene painted on the pillar. Warnings did not frighten him. He was intrigued, curious. Who would know he was here at Westminster? He had moved out of the Secret Chancery offices a few days earlier. He had suspected he was being followed, and if so, it must be some henchman of de Craon; who else? De Craon was no friend of his; he would love to take Corbett’s head. So why the warning?
‘We shall see,’ Corbett whispered. ‘We shall wait to discover what form this deadly dance takes.’
PART TWO
‘By this the whole kingdom had been greatly injured.’
The Monk of Malmesbury, Life of Edward II
Gallows Day at Queenhithe Steps was regarded as a holiday by many. The grisly execution of felons always attracted grotesques, ribalds and rifflers: these swarmed out of their dingy, dank dungeons, eyes bright, wits sharp for any easy mischief. Clothed in filthy rags, they were still well armed with battered daggers, blades and dirks pushed into the rope belts around their waists. Garbed in fluttering cloths, coarse leather sandals on their feet, cowhide cloaks flapping in the breeze, the denizens of London’s underworld surged down the broad thoroughfare along Dunghill Lane to the glittering Thames, where the soaring gallows jutted out over the edge of Queenhithe quayside. Here the corpses of eight river pirates would hang, twist and rot for three turnings of the morning tide.
The execution carts would leave Newgate once the Angelus bell had tolled and the daily rota of masses had been completed. The city mob would be joined by the whores from Cock Lane and elsewhere. These ladies of the night would have their heads covered with the most garish wigs fashioned out of horsehair and dyed every colour of the rainbow. Close by, their pimps would shepherd them as cats would captured mice. These squires of the sewer, as they proudly called themselves, would be sharp-eyed for any customer desperate enough to pay the price and lead his chosen whore up some dark, needle-thin runnel to obtain whatever squalid satisfaction he needed. Musicians, troubadours, storytellers and fire-eaters also set up shop, standing on carts, boxes or barrels. One enterprising itinerant ballad-monger had dressed himself in black and then painted a white skeleton over it, his face covered by a corpse mask. This minstrel of the midden heap stood on a wheelbarrow with a small boy beside him to collect the coins as he bawled out a story about ghosts being seen tramping the coffin paths on the far side of Queenhithe.
Naturally people stopped to listen, and the crowd attracted the food sellers, who, now free of the watchful eyes of the market bailiffs, pushed their movable stoves and grills on filthy hand carts to some suitable enclave. Once there, they would fire the coals to cook chunks of horse, cat and dog meat soaked in the spiciest sauces to disguise both the age and origin of their produce. The taverns, cook shops, ale houses and bakeries also prepared for the surging crowd, the shopkeepers ever vigilant for the nips, foists and legion of false beggars who would come crawling out, eager-eyed for easy pickings. After all, the weather was good for a hanging.
The shit-strewn streets and alleyways had dried and hardened underfoot, although the lack of any breeze along the narrow thoroughfares meant the foul odours from the public jakes, midden heaps and lay stalls hung like a pall in the air as the sun warmed the fetid streets. The only relief from the stench was the saltpetre being strewn from the gong carts. These same carts caused obstructions and accidents in the tightly packed streets, where the air was riven by the agonising shrieks of dogs and cats caught under their wheels. Prayer groups also gathered to provide spiritual comfort to the condemned: the Guild of the Hanged and the Fraternity of the Good Thief, who perfumed the stinking air with their smoking thuribles and squat beeswax candles.
Ranulf-atte-Newgate, senior clerk in the Chancery of the Green Wax, watched all this as he leaned against the gatepost of the Merry Mercy tavern. The great double doors of this splendid hostelry had been thrown open. Behind Ranulf, others gathered to watch the approaching procession. Mistress Philippa Henman, tavern mistress and prominent member of the vintners’ guild, was taking no nonsense. Ranulf watched her admiringly. Philippa, he reckoned, had not yet reached her fortieth summer, though she dressed like an older woman in a gold-edged Lincoln-green dress that covered her from neck to just above her elegant yet workaday boots with their squat heels and silver buckles. She wore fawn doeskin gloves, whilst her thick auburn hair was primly collected beneath an old-fashioned veil secured by a dark brown headband. She glanced up, caught Ranulf’s eye, smiled and walked briskly forward.
‘Master Ranulf, would you agree,’ she indicated with her hand towards the gateway, ‘that in view of what is happening outside, perhaps I should arm my household? Though the alderman and sheriffs have promised a formidable cohort of bailiffs. Ah, and I see them here.’
Ranulf followed her direction. Groups of burly individuals, in either the livery of the city or the colours of Queenhithe ward, were now shoving their way through the throng, heavy cudgels at the ready. The crowd greeted their arrival with cheers and boos. Ranulf, however, was more interested in Mistress Philippa’s beautiful face: the high, prominent cheekbones, the ivory sheen of her unpainted skin, the full, generous lips and the slightly slanted eyes that seemed to dance with merry mockery. She seemed aware of his scrutiny, turning swiftly and glancing coyly at him.
‘You study me, sir,’ she teased, ‘yet there are many wondering why you are here. A senior royal clerk adorned with his medal of office,’ she leaned over and gently tugged at the chain around Ranulf’s neck, ‘not to mention that you wear the signet ring of the chancery. And yet,’ she stood back, swaying enticingly as she looked Ranulf up and down, ‘you dress like a man-at-arms in your dark brown leggings and jerkin, though your boots and war belt are of the finest Cordovan, your sword and dagger well hilted, your wallet thick and heavy.’
‘You are most observant, mistress. You study sharply.’
‘But not as much as you, Ranulf-atte-Newgate!’ She now leaned so close that Ranulf could smell her rich perfume, a distillation of crushed fresh lilies. ‘You must wonder how a widow woman like myself came to be a vintner, tavern mistress and merchant.’ She raised her eyebrows in mock question.
‘Your husband?’
‘The good Raoul.’ Philippa’s face softened. ‘Dead this last year.’
‘Of what?’
‘A wasting sickness.’ Philippa glanced away as if to hide the expression on her face, before turning back with a smile. ‘I am well skilled in this trade, from an ancient merchant family from Queenhithe.’ Her voice took on the pompous tone of a guild master. ‘A purveyor of fine wines and other similar products from the vineyards of France.’ Her smile faded. ‘I am glad that you and Sir Hugh Corbett will be here, a powerful counterweight to Monseigneur de Craon. I have heard a great deal about Sir Hugh. My husband was older than me, a self-made man, but in his early days he was a mailed clerk. I understand he and Sir Hugh were comrades. Time eventually separated them, but Raoul always talked highly of Sir Hugh. He had the deepest respect for him, and consequently so do I, which is more than I can say
for Monseigneur de Craon.’
‘You dislike him?’
‘The French have waged war on English ships for decades,’ she hissed. ‘De Craon is part of all that. I recognise the rules. He hides behind the mask of an accredited envoy and can demand whatever lodgings he wants.’ She laughed softly. ‘He chooses to set up camp at the heart of London’s busiest ward, because he is a spy. He collects information and intelligence. He also flirts with me. However, it is not just my cooking skills and my pretty face that attracted him to this place. The Merry Mercy is a crossroads, the hub of a wide circle of activities, be it the city, the river, the port or Westminster. I am right, am I not?’
‘Very much so,’ Ranulf agreed. ‘De Craon is a hunter who casts his net far and wide. How long has he been here?’
Philippa screwed up her eyes and chewed the corner of her lip. ‘At least three months.’
‘And it’s no coincidence that it was about three months ago that The Black Hogge made its presence felt.’ Ranulf sighed. ‘And yet we cannot object. In Paris, our own envoy, Lord Scrope, insists on hiring chambers that overlook the main entrance to the Louvre. Mistress, apart from playing cat’s cradle with our Frenchman, do you have much to do with him?’
‘As little as possible.’