by Paul Doherty
‘Who is your captain?’ he shouted. ‘I am the king’s officer, Keeper of the Secret Seal …’
‘And I am your old and loyal comrade,’ a voice answered from behind. Corbett glanced around as the captain of archers strode forward, easing off his pointed steel war helmet.
‘Ap Ythel, my friend!’ Corbett grasped the gauntleted hand of this veteran Welsh archer, a personal favourite of the king and leader of the royal bodyguard. The Welshman’s face, brown as a nut, his greying hair and goatee beard closely clipped, creased into a smile. ‘The fighting is over, Hugh.’ He gestured around. ‘All dead, no prisoners. Three of them died immediately in our first onslaught.’
‘And the two yesterday?’
‘We came across them in the forest. They were tossing two corpses into a deep morass. We heard their voices, the splashes.’ The captain of archers shrugged. ‘Each took an arrow to the throat and joined their victims. Hugh, what is going on? I know something about this, but not all.’ He gestured with his head. ‘The Magister and the Wolfman, I have had dealings with them before. They came hurrying to Westminster demanding to see Chancellor Baldock: he immediately dispatched a warrant for myself and thirty of my boys to follow you.’
‘Look,’ Corbett intervened, ‘it’s lovely to hear your sweet voice, but this is urgent. You must make sure there are no survivors.’ He found his mind turning and twisting at all the possibilities. ‘Nobody must leave, and ensure that none of the horses break free. Lay out the dead and mount a strong guard on the chest, a four-locked coffer in the hall. Hurry now.’
Ap Ythel nodded in agreement and strode away. The Wolfman and the Magister approached, wiping their weapons on cloths ripped from corpses. Corbett greeted and thanked them but insisted that they must join Ap Ythel to ensure all was well. He glanced around. Chanson was now tending the horses, using his consummate skill to calm them and usher the animals back into the small paddock just within the wall. Ap Ythel’s archers were gathering the dead and laying them out in a line. Thankfully the cohort had suffered only minor injuries, as most of the assassins had died in that first deadly rain of over forty shafts. Corbett counted the corpses: eight in all, six assassins and the two gruesome, bloodstained cadavers of Rougehead and Ausel.
Remembering the keys, he searched the clothing of both Rougehead and Primus until he found them, and immediately went back into the hall to ensure they would open the intricate locks. They did. Corbett looked inside the coffer. He unclasped one of the exchequer bags and marvelled at the sheer beauty of the precious stones. In this, at least, Rougehead had been clever, collecting miniature items that could easily be hidden and transported.
Hearing shouts and cries from outside, Corbett hastily relocked the chest. No one else, he decided, should see this: the prospect of such riches would turn many a man’s soul. He went back into the stable yard and told Ap Ythel that he did not need the archers to guard the coffer. Instead he summoned Chanson, ordering him to leave the horses and mount a discreet but close watch over that great iron-bound chest. He believed this was a wise decision. Ap Ythel’s men were already searching the dead for anything valuable; nothing would escape their eagle eye: coins, rings, bracelets, as well as the dead men’s weapons, highly prized as many of them were of Milanese and Toledo steel. Corbett, his mind intent on what to do next, ordered the corpses to be stripped of all clothing, which was to be kept apart. Once he was satisfied, the corpses would be buried in the nearest and deepest morass.
‘In the meantime,’ he ordered Ap Ythel, ‘I want you and some of your archers to scour the forest. No one, and I mean no one, must leave this manor or be allowed in without my permission. The news of what happened here must be kept only to us.’
‘Master, what now?’
Ranulf had returned, having found their war belts, purses and his chancery satchel. Corbett gripped his companion’s shoulder.
‘We should have kept Rougehead alive,’ he hissed.
‘And Ausel?’ Ranulf retorted.
Corbett laughed and withdrew his hand. ‘Touché, Ranulf, too true.’
‘Master, either of them alive, Rougehead in particular, would have plotted our destruction. He would have twisted and turned, lied and misled. He hated us more than life itself.’
‘In which case,’ Corbett replied, ‘he paid the price. Ranulf, the Magister Viae is jumping from foot to foot, desperate to speak. Swill down the common table in the hall. Do what you can to clean that filthy place, then we, the Magister, the Wolfman and Ap Ythel can meet to swiftly discuss what has to be done next.’
The morning drew on, the air warming as the sun strengthened. The noise from the forest increased as the liquid coo of wood pigeons mingled with the constant cawing of crows. The creatures of the green darkness, deer, boar, fox and badger, blundered and careered through the line of trees, their constant bustling keeping Ap Ythel’s men on edge. Weapons were piled. Food and drink shared out. The hall table and its floor swilled and cleaned. A brazier lit so the herbs sprinkled on top of the coals could fend off the rank smell. Corbett watched it all as he sat on a stone plinth built into the manor wall.
At last he marshalled his thoughts and gathered the rest to hold council around the common table. Ap Ythel’s lieutenant had found some food, a cask of ale, a few battered platters and ancient pewter cups. They hastily broke their fast and waited for proceedings to begin. Corbett had fashioned a makeshift cross; he passed this round for each of them to clutch, kiss and bless themselves as he put them all on oath, declaring that what was going to be said, planned and executed at their meeting was the Crown’s own business, highly secretive and confidential, and must be regarded as such on pain of forfeiture and death.
‘Very good,’ he declared once they were all sworn. ‘Let us thank God,’ he crossed himself, as did the others, ‘that Rougehead made a fatal mistake. He brought us here first rather than to the mysterious place he was preparing to move on to before your good selves emerged like Robin Hood and his merry band from the fastness of the forest. You guessed that he would come to Temple Combe?’
‘I knew Ausel would flee here,’ the Magister replied. ‘A natural choice to hide in, a manor he once served, deep in the forest. We watched you leave; well, not us,’ he grinned, ‘but those we pay to watch while we sleep. The Sisters of the Street, the beggars in the shadows, the whores and pimps peeping through the shutters. We had similar eyes and ears along the highway to Mile End and Bow village. We were like the mist, all around you.’
‘The Magister,’ the Wolfman spoke up, ‘came enquiring at the Merry Mercy asking to see Chanson, your clerk of the stables. I had followed you to the ale house but then returned to the tavern. I learnt what was going on and I joined them.’
‘Not openly, surely?’ Corbett demanded. ‘It is essential that de Craon does not suspect what has happened.’
‘No,’ Chanson called out as he sat on his stool close to the treasure coffer. ‘We immediately went to Rochfort’s alehouse, God have mercy on him.’ He swiftly crossed himself. ‘The place was as empty and deserted as an old tomb. So I told the Magister and the Wolfman what you had instructed me to do, Sir Hugh, should you mysteriously disappear.’ Ranulf would have clapped his hands in mock approval, but Corbett glared at him. Chanson pulled a face. ‘I knew something was wrong. We immediately went to Westminster and Chancellor Baldock. He met us in the Secret Chancery and we told him what we knew.’ Chanson pointed at Ap Ythel. ‘We were given a warrant and sent to the Welshman at the Tower.’
‘I acted as swiftly as I could.’ Ap Ythel took up the story, his voice lilting. ‘We threaded the forest, moving silently as shadows. We saw no one until we heard the noise of those two assassins disposing of the corpses, the Frenchman Rochfort and that poor boy. It was too late for them, but we ensured that the killers kept their victims company on that long journey into eternal light. May God judge them kindly and show them pity.’ He sighed and sketched a cross on his forehead. ‘We reached Temple Combe just before dusk, b
ut decided to wait until morning.’
‘Wolfman,’ Corbett turned to that hunter of outlaws, ‘how good is your memory?’
‘Excellent, Sir Hugh.’
‘First,’ Corbett drew a deep breath, ‘in your brief stay at the Merry Mercy, do you think de Craon sensed any change or that something was wrong?’
‘No,’ Chanson spoke up, ‘I don’t think so.’
‘I would agree,’ the Wolfman confirmed. ‘Sir Hugh, my memory?’
‘De Craon and Brother Jerome must not learn what has happened here. So, Wolfman,’ Corbett continued, ‘I want you to return as swiftly as possible to Westminster and seek out the king’s close councillors, Chancellor Baldock and Chaplain Reynolds. Tell them that when de Craon and Brother Jerome journey to Westminster tomorrow morning for more of their spurious negotiations, they are to be detained there. Tell Baldock to create some crisis to frighten de Craon. He must point out how the attacks by The Black Hogge have created deep resentment along Queenhithe. How violent unrest is imminent and how the king fears for the well-being and safety of the French envoy. Ask for de Craon and his sinister shadow to be kept in comfortable, even luxurious confinement at Westminster. The chancellor can also stir the pot even more by saying how distraught both the king and my lord Gaveston have become by the sudden and mysterious disappearance of Sir Hugh Corbett and his clerk, Ranulf-atte-Newgate. How they have scoured the city but can find no trace of us. That,’ Corbett added meaningfully, ‘will keep our crafty-eyed minion of Satan both happy and distracted until our return, which,’ he joined his hands as if in prayer, ‘please God, will not be long.’
Corbett felt that matters would have moved swifter if Rougehead had not been killed, yet he conceded to himself that Ranulf was probably correct. Rougehead was best dead. God knows what tangle of lies that wicked limb of Satan would have spun. And yet? Corbett recalled everything he had learnt about the villain: there was something very wrong. Memories and events did not match. Rougehead was skilled at disguise, at slipping and slithering away like a snake, yet he’d been trapped and cut down like some common outlaw …
‘Sir Hugh!’ The Wolfman interrupted his reverie.
‘You have my message for the chancellor?’ Corbett asked. The Wolfman nodded, and Corbett ordered him to repeat it. When he was satisfied, he turned to the magister.
‘You wish to speak? You have something to tell me?’
‘I do, Sir Hugh. You asked me to collect and sift stories and legends about the robbery of the royal treasure from the crypt at Westminster Abbey.’
‘And?’
‘Sir Hugh, I learnt very little. True, I did hear whispers about renegade Templars being involved, but that was all shadow and no substance. You see,’ the Magister leaned his elbows on the table, ‘at that time, I was busy trading with the Hanse. I was in the Baltic. I don’t know what truly happened.’ He paused. ‘However, the evidence indicates that Queenhithe, being one of the London wards closest to Westminster, was deeply implicated in the robbery. Time and again the justices returned to question this person or that, though it is one thing to accuse and another to prove. Nevertheless, more were involved than the old king or any of his officers knew, and that is the problem: gilders, smelters, gold-and silversmiths, jewellers, engravers, taverners and merchants were all interrogated.’
‘I know, I know,’ Corbett intervened. ‘The justices moved from ward to ward. People were put on oath and compelled to confess what they knew. I remember the returns being brought into the royal archive at the chancery, stacks upon stacks of documents. It would take a lifetime to read them. When it was all over, the old king came into that room to view them and lost his temper, indulging in one his murderous rages. He kicked the manuscripts, threw them about and even tore at a few with his teeth. The list of suspects was endless. My task was to pursue Puddlicot, the leader of the gang, while other clerks and justices investigated those who possibly bought, stole and moved the treasure.’
Corbett rapped the table. ‘But to move to the matter in hand, Magister, we await your wisdom.’ He recognised the Magister Viae as a man who loved the masque, the mystery play, the mummery and the pageant, and who was biding his time for his great revelation.
‘Sir Hugh, you may not know where Rougehead was taking you, but I do. No,’ the Magister gestured at Ranulf, ‘let me speak. My lord clerk, you gave me a commission. You asked me to pretend that I was Gaston Foix and to reflect on how I would manage The Black Hogge. You also asked me to become his inveterate enemy, and so I have.’ He plucked from his wallet a roll of parchment, which he dramatically opened, using cups and platters to keep it straight.
Corbett glanced at the doorway. The sunlight was midday strong, the smell of the forest lush, its noisy life carrying across the yard.
‘The day goes on,’ he declared, ‘the hours swallow each other up. Remember, magister, Rougehead was preparing to move out swiftly. I suggest we do not have much time.’
‘We walk in the darkness,’ the Wolfman intoned. ‘We seek the light of the Lord.’
‘And we have found it!’ The Magister Viae now came into his own, straightening up and almost filling out as he prepared to speak. ‘The Black Hogge is a war cog. Fierce and predatory under its cunning master Gaston Foix. The ship ostensibly sails as a privateer under letters sealed by the Duke of Brittany …’
‘Nonsense,’ Ranulf broke in. ‘It’s the war cog of Philip of France, Guillaume de Nogaret and Amaury de Craon.’
‘Of course it is, but how they communicate remains a mystery.’ The Magister shrugged. ‘Perhaps we can discuss that in God’s own time …’
‘Which is swiftly passing,’ Corbett declared.
‘Sir Hugh, I suggest we still have perhaps two to three days to prepare. The Black Hogge is a powerful predator, but it does have weaknesses. It has sailed from a French port in the Narrow Seas but it very rarely returns, and the reason for that is simple. The Narrow Seas are crowded. If it remained there, it would be noticed time and time again. Moreover, if it sailed into a port like Calais and we learnt of this, we could set up a blockade. It would then have a choice: to stay and rot or sail out to face cruel and bloody conflict. Now I am sure that The Black Hogge does return now and again to harbours in the Narrow Seas, but I suspect this is rare and its stay is very short.’
‘So any supplies would have to be put on board hastily?’
‘Precisely, Master Ranulf. The Black Hogge is a lonely hunter; it depends on surprise. It keeps out of the Narrow Seas, hiding in the misty fastness of the northern ocean, taking up a battle position somewhere to the east of the Essex coast …’
‘And as we have discussed,’ Corbett intervened, ‘it could take an eternity to find. Even if we did locate it, any English fleet setting out into the wilderness of the northern seas would break up under the wind, storms and sudden squalls.’
‘Yes, they’d become separated,’ the Magister agreed, ‘and God help any ship if The Black Hogge found it alone and vulnerable. Moreover, we now suspect that news of an English war fleet being dispatched from the Thames would be relayed to Gaston Foix.’
‘So,’ Corbett demanded, ‘you said The Black Hogge has weaknesses?’
‘Water,’ the Magister retorted. ‘The crew need fresh water.’
‘Easy enough,’ Ranulf declared. ‘Even I know about the streams, brooks and rivulets that flow out of Essex: the coves, inlets and natural harbours along its coastline.’
‘Water brings The Black Hogge in,’ the Magister agreed. ‘There is also the need for food. Remember, it is very rarely seen in the Narrow Seas except just before it attacks some hapless English ship, yes? So it must provision elsewhere.’
Corbett, sitting at the end of the table, felt a thrill of excitement. The Magister was stating the obvious, yet, as often in logic, sometimes the obvious was ignored.
‘True, true,’ he murmured. ‘It must be at sea for weeks, even months. Gaston has a full fighting crew, men like those assassins. I am sure they came f
rom The Black Hogge, landed somewhere along the Essex coast.’
‘I agree,’ the Magister replied.
‘Let me think.’ Corbett listened to the sounds from outside: the archers setting up camp, preparing pots of whatever food they had found; the neigh and whinny of horses. He rose and walked over to the doorway, shielding his eyes against the sunlight. The Magister was correct. There was more time and he had to prepare well. He stared across the stable yard. The assassins’ naked cadavers sprawled in a gruesome line, faces masked with dust, torsos smeared with congealed blood where their wounds had opened. Corbett crossed himself and whispered a hasty requiem. How many more, he wondered, would die before this deadly game was played to its final throw?
‘Sir Hugh?’
‘Magister,’ Corbett turned back, ‘I accept the logic of your argument. Gaston Foix not only needs to feed and water his crew of many souls but nourish them well, to sustain their strength.’
‘But where would he get such food?’ Ranulf demanded. ‘If The Black Hogge landed foraging parties to raid farms and villages, the alarm would soon be raised. It would become common knowledge that a French privateer was plundering the coast.’ He winced and gently touched his jaw. ‘A hunting party,’ he continued, ‘would be equally hazardous and not necessarily successful.’ He forced a smile. ‘They would have to kill or plunder a great deal. The crew of The Black Hogge must be at least a hundred and twenty men: mariners, soldiers.’
‘I agree.’ The Magister was enjoying himself. Like a master in the schools, he was leading his audience to the inevitable conclusion. Corbett secretly prayed for patience, steeled his face into expectancy and gestured at the Magister to continue.
‘A farmer could provide food, but that amount would be beyond his capabilities. It would certainly attract attention and provoke suspicion.’