by Paul Doherty
‘And why should others resent you?’ Ranulf asked.
‘You know full well,’ Burghesh retorted. ‘The Templar order is now broken and utterly disgraced, due to the malice of Philip of France and his council of demons, led by his chief minister, Guillaume de Nogaret. Even before they struck, the Templars faced allegations that we lost Outremer. How we have grown fat and lazy on the backs of others.’
‘And of course,’ Mistress Philippa intervened, ‘our comrades here, including Master Ausel, do not suffer from leprosy. According to Master Crowthorne, other inmates of the hospital – indeed, I know this myself – fiercely resent the Templars being here. They argue that St Giles is not a sanctuary, and they blame them for the violence that has occurred. It is interesting that all three murdered Templars had their weapons close by.’
‘They did, mistress!’ Corbett smiled. ‘I follow your logic: they had their weapons ready in the lonely places where they were murdered because they feared attack by some of the inmates here.’
‘It’s certainly possible, Sir Hugh, but why they didn’t actually defend themselves …’
Philippa fell silent as Crowthorne rapped the table.
‘I am responsible for this hospital,’ he rasped, glaring furiously around. ‘I know the humour and condition of all its inmates and I,’ he glared at Ausel, sallow cheeks all a-quiver, ‘should have been appointed master here.’
‘Instead of me, a Templar?’ Ausel countered.
‘A friend of Gaveston.’
‘You mean my lord of Cornwall?’
‘Gentlemen, gentlemen.’ Corbett too banged the table. ‘Let us keep to the business in hand. In brief, the Templar order was dissolved in the winter of 1307 to 1308. Its property was seized. Many of the order fled. You,’ he pointed at Ausel, ‘were appointed master of this hospital. Yes?’ He did not wait for an answer, but pressed on. ‘You opened its doors to other Templars seeking refuge. I believe the Templars here once served in Outremer, members of a cohort known as the Brotherhood of the Wolf. You were involved in the defence of Acre. You returned to England and garrisoned the lucrative but very lonely fortified manor of Temple Combe, deep in the forest of Epping. When your order was dissolved, you fled here for sanctuary. Yes?’
Ausel murmured agreement.
‘Now,’ Corbett continued, ‘you may suffer from various ailments but you are not lepers. You dress as if you are, though I suspect this is a disguise as well as a defence against the risk of contagion. However, as long as you do not share the food and drink of an infected person or bathe in their water or have close bodily contact over a long period of time, the risk of contagion is very rare, or that’s what the royal physicians advise me. Master Crowthorne, I am correct?’ The leech, now more aware of Corbett’s status and power, smiled weakly in agreement.
Corbett rubbed his mouth; he felt thirsty, but he and Ranulf had secretly vowed not to drink or eat in this place. ‘These hideous murders apart, has anything else occurred out of the ordinary?’
His question was greeted with shrugs and shakes of the head. Corbett stared around, feeling a cold, crippling dread. Something was very wrong here; though he could not place it, he nursed a strong suspicion that what he had been told was a tangle of lies. He felt deeply uneasy in Ausel’s company: something in the shift of the master’s eyes revealed a cunning soul, a Templar who seemed to have very little feeling, if any, for his comrades, living or dead, not to mention those poor inmates they had passed in their walk through the hospital.
‘These murders,’ Ranulf demanded, ‘who do you think could be responsible?’
‘Philip of France,’ Stapleton spat back. ‘He wants us either imprisoned or dead. He cannot tolerate the possibility of men like ourselves attending the Council of Vienne to defend our order.’
‘And will you attend?’ Ranulf asked.
‘We will be organised,’ Stapleton blustered. ‘Myself and other Templars, as well as those protected by the Bruce in Scotland.’
‘I wouldn’t proclaim that too loudly,’ Corbett declared drily. ‘Bruce is also very friendly with Philip of France.’
Stapleton turned away in embarrassment.
‘Datchet and Boveney were murdered in places they were accustomed to be,’ Corbett continued, ‘but I have asked Master Ausel this, and I repeat the question: what was Grandison doing in the great meadow at the dead of night?’
‘Truly, Sir Hugh, we don’t know,’ Burghesh confessed.
‘And you, good sisters?’
‘Sir Hugh,’ Philippa grasped the hand of Agnes sitting next to her, ‘I have been visiting St Giles long before the Templars arrived here.’
‘Is that so?’
‘Oh yes. Since my marriage to Raoul, my late husband, well over eight years ago.’
‘And your husband died …’
‘About twelve months since.’ She blinked quickly and forced a smile. ‘The anniversary of his death will be soon.’
‘Mistress, my condolences. What is your work here?’
‘I bring food, drink and other comforts: oils, jars and essences, salves, fresh linen for bandages. Our guild enjoys the support of all the great and the good in Queenhithe.’
‘The sisters do good work,’ Crowthorne declared to a murmur of approval from the rest.
‘And have you, mistress,’ Corbett asked, ‘noticed anything untoward?’
‘Sir Hugh, when Agnes and I come to St Giles, we each have our own tasks. We do our work, we talk and pray with those who lodge here, then we go. I assure you, we have seen nothing suspicious. Have we, Agnes?’
The young woman gazed adoringly back at her older companion.
‘We do good work here,’ Philippa repeated. ‘The politics of princes do not concern us.’ She glanced mischievously out of the corner of her eye. ‘I understand, Sir Hugh, that you too will be lodged at the Merry Mercy, along with your good friend Monseigneur de Craon?’
Corbett grinned back. ‘I am sure,’ he murmured, ‘that de Craon has the same high opinion of me as I do of him.’
‘You will be on the floor gallery: our best and most spacious accommodation, the Pendragon room. Monseigneur de Craon, you will be pleased to know, is on the second gallery, a most comfortable chamber in a different part of the tavern.’
‘I am sure all will be well, mistress.’ Corbett’s smile faded. ‘But back to the matter in hand: no one here knows why these Templar knights have been slaughtered, or who might be responsible?’
‘Philip of France and his minion de Craon,’ Stapleton declared, pulling the bandage down from his chapped lips. ‘Albeit we have no proof of that or how he carries out his murderous designs.’
No one disagreed.
‘Very well. We now have established,’ Corbett gestured around, ‘that this is all a mystery to you knights and your witnesses, our fair ladies here.’
‘We can only say what we see.’ Philippa leaned forward. ‘The sisters of our guild have different tasks with the various groups at St Giles. Agnes and I deal with the Templars. They are men who have taken sanctuary here with few possessions except for their weapons. I understand their manuscripts and books have been seized.’ Her words were greeted with murmurs of agreement.
‘Very well,’ Corbett said. ‘To another matter. Do the names Sumerscale and Fallowfield mean anything to you?’
‘In God’s name,’ Crowthorne exclaimed, ‘who are they?’
‘Two mariners hanged by Master Naseby from the mast of his war cog The Candle-Bright in January 1308, just before His Grace the king married Princess Isabella. Both sailors were accused of speaking contumaciously against the king and Lord Gaveston and making public ridicule of them, implying that my lord Gaveston was the king’s catamite …’
Silence greeted Corbett’s words. He kept his face impassive and stared around.
‘So Naseby, The Candle-Bright, Sumerscale and Fallowfield mean nothing to you?’
‘We did not say that!’ Ausel snapped.
Corbett stared at
this former Templar, now master of St Giles. He sensed the man’s deepening nervousness and wondered about its cause. He could understand Crowthorne’s hostility towards Ausel; the others, however, by the way they sat and rarely looked at the master, also betrayed a dislike, a wariness of their colleague.
‘And?’ Ranulf demanded.
Ausel snapped his fingers at Agnes.
‘I’ll answer,’ Philippa declared. ‘Of course I’ve heard of The Candle-Bright: Master Naseby frequented the Merry Mercy, as do other mariners, but I hardly know much about him or his ship. However, St Giles is in Queenhithe, and its founding charter clearly stipulates that the inmates here must pray for the welfare of the local mercantile community, its guilds, its ships and their crews. Accordingly, Agnes or I, or another member of our guild, would ask Master Ausel to post a notice in the hospital church giving the names of ships leaving Queenhithe, and the date, with a plea for prayer. I’m sure that happened on the day The Candle-Bright sailed – yes, Agnes?’ The girl nodded. ‘Of course,’ Philippa added, ‘we now know that those particular prayers were not answered.’
‘And Gabriel Rougehead, former Templar, king’s approver and Judas man, the person responsible for accusing Sumerscale and Fallowfield and so bringing about their deaths?’ Corbett paused. ‘Gentlemen,’ he looked at Ausel and the others, ‘I can see that name means something to you.’
‘Gabriel Rougehead,’ Burghesh replied slowly choosing his words carefully, ‘was a rogue born out of hell. He was a Templar serjeant, though one guilty of every sin under heaven and a few more to boot. A man of steady wit and sharp mind, he eschewed wine, ale or any strong drink. He had a number of clever, subtle disguises and hid behind a veritable litany of names beside his own: Nicholas Wray, William Parson, Foulkes Fitzwarren and John Priknash.’
‘What!’ Corbett exclaimed. ‘The last one?’
‘John Priknash,’ Burghesh repeated. ‘Allegedly a defrocked priest out of Lincolnshire.’
‘And a …’ Corbett caught himself just in time: it was best if he kept what he knew to himself. ‘I’ve heard of him before,’ he explained. ‘You had dealings with Rougehead?’
‘Not really. Why should we?’ Stapleton demanded. ‘He would occasionally visit this Templar house or that, but then he’d disappear again like the dark serpent he was.’
‘We heard nothing of him for years.’ Ausel spoke up. ‘Till news began to seep through about what had happened on board The Candle-Bright.’ He screwed his eyes up. ‘In the spring of 1308, we also heard about that mysterious fire at the Salamander. Minehost Slingsby and all his minions had to flee for their lives. Apparently Rougehead and his three confederates were not so fortunate …’
‘And so I ask you again,’ Corbett demanded, ‘none of you here had dealings with this miscreant?’ The question was greeted with shakes of the head and murmured denials. ‘In which case …’
Corbett rose, made his farewells and left. Once they were out in the street, Ranulf plucked at his sleeve.
‘You recognised one of Rougehead’s aliases?’
‘John Priknash,’ Corbett murmured. ‘Allegedly a leading member of the gang that broke into the crypt and stole the Crown Jewels. Priknash was suspected, but there was no real evidence or proof. As with some other members of the gang, he disappeared like steam from a bubbling pot, vanishing into thin air. Well, well, well.’ Corbett stared up at the streak of sky that cut between the grim overhanging houses either side of the street. ‘Ranulf, the day is dying, and what a day! Closeted with His Grace and my lord Gaveston, and you with the Magister Viae. What he told you was interesting enough. I will carefully reflect on it.’
Corbett adjusted his war belt and stared down the street. Dirt glistened on the cobbles; shapes and shadows moved in and out of the mouths of alleyways and other enclaves. A lunatic came dancing out of a runnel garbed in a white sheet, a cresset torch in one hand, a frying pan in the other. He did a wild dance, then disappeared into the murk. Two beggars, one sprawled in a wheelbarrow, the other pushing it, left a courtyard whining for alms, only to hastily retreat at the appearance of a wand-bearing beadle. Shops and stalls were closing for the night. Itinerant cooks doused the flames of their crude stoves and grills. A group of carollers wailed their last hymn, whilst pedlars and tinkers loosened the straps around their necks and disappeared into the alehouses along the thoroughfare. Bells tolled. The evening breeze wafted up the stench of the street and the saltpetre strewn to disguise it.
‘What is it, master?’
‘The day is done, Ranulf. Soon we will be for the dark.’
‘As the poet says, however the day is long, at last the bell will ring for evensong.’
‘You have turned to poetry during my absence?’
‘I have turned to a lot of things, master. There is a young lady in Southampton, a maiden chaste and pure.’ Ranulf drew a deep breath. ‘A merchant’s daughter, Sir Hugh.’ He gestured with his head down the murky street. ‘I wonder what she would think if she knew that I was once part of this nightmare world. When I have the time, I am searching for my mother, though God knows whether she’s alive or dead. Do I have brothers or sisters? Who was my father?’
Corbett turned to face Ranulf squarely. ‘You are a strange one, Ranulf-atte-Newgate.’
‘And one who is getting older. I know where I am going, but I also have a hunger gnawing at me to know where I came from.’ He punched Corbett gently on the arm. ‘I am glad you have returned, Sir Hugh. The present business is a tangled mess.’
Corbett pulled his cloak about him. He suppressed a chill of feverish fear, a sure sign that he faced dire danger, yet he could not articulate either its cause or content. Ranulf was correct. They were moving from their usual worlds, the chatter of the chancery or affairs of the heart, drawn into a dense web of deceit and deadly intrigue. He fingered the hilt of his sword, aware of the other man’s gnawing restlessness.
‘We’d best visit Holy Trinity the Little and Parson Layburn,’ he declared. ‘Let’s see if he can cast any light on the gathering dark.’
PART THREE
‘Wheat is sown and weeds are brought forth.’
The Monk of Malmesbury, Life of Edward II
Corbett and Ranulf strode down the street and into a warren-like maze of runnels and alleyways. The sight of two royal clerks, buckled and armoured, sent the shadow people scuttling back deeper into the dark. An enterprising relic seller, however, tried to interest them in a reputedly sacred hunting horn.
‘Very similar,’ he gabbled, ‘to that owned by St Hubert, which of course is the type the Angel Gabriel uses to blow his Ave to the Virgin. Now, sirs, if you are not interested in that, I have a phial of the Holy Milk of the Blessed Mary kept at Walsingham. I …’
He tried to grab Ranulf’s arm, then shrieked as the tip of the clerk’s dagger blade nicked him beneath the chin. Corbett used the occasion to look quickly back, and glimpsed a cowled figure abruptly stop and turn the other way. He was sure someone was following them. The relic seller fled, shouting curses.
‘What is it, master?’ asked Ranulf.
‘I am sure we are being followed. However, whoever it was has now disappeared. Do you know who I glimpsed earlier today, just before I entered the lazar hospital?’
Ranulf shook his head.
‘The Wolfman!’
‘The Wolfman!’ Ranulf exclaimed. ‘You mean the Earl of Pembroke’s retainer, the one who hunts down outlaws for a reward?’
‘The same. I don’t think he was interested in us; more the gateway to the lazar hospital, as if he was carefully watching people come and go. I wonder what he wants and who he is hunting. Anyway, Parson Layburn awaits us.’
They reached the crossroads of Old Fish Lane and Cordwainer Street and the looming mass of Holy Trinity the Little. They climbed the steps, pushed open the iron-studded door and entered the musty-smelling nave. Corbett peered through the murk. The church’s windows were little better than lancets. Candle spigots attached to the
squat pillars either side flared, throwing some light on the macabre funeral ceremony being carried out just before the rood screen. A corpse had been laid out for burial in the parish death cart. The cadaver was swathed completely in white cloths, except for the face. On its chest rested a small platter of salt and dried bread for the sin-eater to chew. On each mouldy corner of the death cart a rushlight flickered feebly, while four old women sat around the corpse wailing a death dirge:
‘We pray this night, this night,
Every night and all,
Fire and sleet and candlelight,
And Christ receive her soul.’
The ancient withered faces of the mourners were daubed in white paint with streaks of red and twisted in grief. Corbett stepped around them and peered down at the shattered, bloody face of the old woman he had last glimpsed in the death chapel of St Giles.
‘Rohesia,’ he murmured. ‘They must have brought her here within the hour.’
‘Can I help you?’ A priest dressed in a white surplice with a black and gold stole around his neck came through the rood screen. An old man with a seamed face and scrawny white hair, though his eyes were sharp and bright. ‘You knew old Rohesia?’ he asked, stepping around the death cart and sketching a blessing above the mourners, who continued their sombre chant.
Corbett introduced himself and Ranulf. He explained how they had visited the leper hospital earlier in the day and now wished to speak to Parson Geoffrey Layburn. The priest, one hand on his chest, bowed mockingly.
‘I am Geoffrey Layburn.’ He extended his right hand for Corbett to clasp. ‘I am greatly honoured by a visit from the king’s most senior clerk. Gentlemen,’ he gestured at the mourners, ‘I think it would be best if I took you somewhere a little quieter.’
He led them into a heavily screened chantry chapel, closing the door behind them and pulling across the thick velvet curtain. He indicated that Corbett and Ranulf should sit on the wall bench, whilst he brought out a stool from beneath the small table altar. The chapel had a large roundel window through which light poured to illuminate the strange paintings covering the walls as well as the plaster above the altar.