Dark Serpent (Hugh Corbett 18)

by Paul Doherty

  ‘Are we ready?’ Corbett whispered. ‘Remember, do not speak as we approach. St Michael and St George guard us.’

  Both boats pushed out. The Magister and his crew pulled away. Corbett watched the oarsmen of his own boat bend and pull. Closer and closer they drew to The Black Hogge, massive, dark and threatening. The Magister was now a distance away, his boat turning slightly in its manoeuvre to cross the bows of the war cog. The day was dying, the breeze sharper, the incoming tide powerful. Corbett pulled up his hood. The ship’s hull was now very close, soaring like some monster above them. He recalled his days as a mailed clerk, scurrying to join the others at the foot of some siege ladder. This was no different.

  The leading oarsman whispered an order, and the shore boat scraped against the deep-bellied hull. Corbett glanced up as a mass of cordage was hoisted down towards them. Men were shouting from the taffrail above. He drew a deep breath, gripping the tangle of net being lowered. Two of the oarsmen helped as he and Ranulf began to load the casks, barrels and skins. Ranulf drew his stiletto, winked at Corbett and began to pierce the skins and barrels as they became tangled in the hard-roped net.

  ‘As much as possible,’ Corbett whispered.

  A voice rang out above them. A rope ladder was lowered and Corbett carefully stepped on to it, Ranulf behind him. The cog moved on the swell. The ladder slapped against the side as the ship twisted and turned. Above Corbett’s head, the net and its bulky cargo was being slowly pulled up. The clerk closed his eyes and murmured a prayer. He could hear the shouts and cries caused by the Magister’s boat, which was now tangled beneath the bowsprit. At last he reached the gap in the taffrail, and he and Ranulf were pulled on board.

  Corbett became aware of a broad deck. Men milled about; they smiled and raised their hands. Corbett responded, talking swiftly in the sailors’ patois. Ranulf was close beside him. The net and its cargo sprawled on the glistening deck. Corbett shouted orders, urging members of the crew to push it closer to the great squat mast. Mariners hurried to obey. Corbett stepped back. Ranulf opened the sack beneath his cloak and took out a small fire pot, charcoal gleaming through the slits. He carefully put this down, followed by another, tilting them slightly so the tops came off and the flames leapt out. At first, no one noticed. A tongue of fire ran along one of the punctured skins, a darting, dangerous blue-gold flame. Ranulf threw the third pot, its coals fully flamed, only to slip on the oil now oozing out, his hood going back to reveal his red hair. Corbett grasped his arm, pulling him back to the gap in the taffrail.

  The crew were now alerted, distracted both by the flames dancing over the casks, skins and barrels and by these two strangers hastily retreating across the deck. Shouts and cries raised the alarm. Corbett glimpsed a man coming out of a cabin beneath the stern castle; he was sure it was the master, Gaston Foix, but then a sheet of flame erupted from the net now resting against the mast. More cries and shouts echoed. Corbett glanced to his left, where members of the crew were trying to untangle the mass of ropes around the bowsprit. It was time to leave. He pushed Ranulf towards the taffrail, on to the dangling, swinging rope ladder. Ranulf, nimble as any squirrel, scrambled down. Corbett followed. Above them they could feel the fierce heat from the fires raging on board.

  A crossbow bolt whipped the air around them. Corbett tried not to panic, hurrying down, almost kicking Ranulf into the waiting boat. The oarsmen immediately pulled away. The light was poor, the glistening sea reflecting the fire above them. One of the oarsmen screamed, body jerking, arms flailing, as a crossbow bolt pierced his skull. He thrashed about, then toppled over the side into the sea. They could do nothing for him. Corbett recalled the details of their plan and ordered the oarsmen to turn and pull beneath the bowsprit. Ap Ythel, the Magister and three archers scrambled aboard even as their captain tossed the primed fire pots on to the open casks and slit skins. The boat they had left, saturated with oil, erupted into sheets of flame, which leapt hungrily to embrace the wood, ropes and cordage of the bowsprit.

  ‘Pull away, pull away!’ Corbett urged. ‘We have been …’ He fell silent as another oarsman screamed, kicking out in agony at the pain of the arbalest bolts that had shattered both chest and stomach. The archer lurched forward, blood spluttering out of nose and mouth. Ap Ythel leaned against him, spoke softly in Welsh, then, with one swift cut, slit the man’s throat, giving him the ultimate mercy. The boat crammed with men swerved and twisted on the tide still surging in. They were now free of The Black Hogge, buffeted by both the breeze and the racing waves. Corbett glanced over his shoulder. The enemy ship was sheeted in flame, whilst a roaring fire had broken out around the bowsprit. Any attempt to control and quench the blaze had been given up. Members of the crew were trying frantically to escape, jumping overboard, desperate to cling to anything.

  ‘Contrary to popular law,’ the Magister declared, ‘not all mariners can swim; indeed, very few can. God have pity on them.’ He turned and began to count the men now crowded around him, jostling for comfort in the cramped conditions.

  ‘We have lost three,’ Ap Ythel declared. ‘Two here, whilst Ap Thomas fell overboard when we were beneath the bowsprit. I tried to grab him.’

  ‘I think the ship moved and cracked his skull,’ one of the other archers proclaimed in a singsong voice.

  ‘Poor Ap Thomas, I shall miss him.’

  Corbett stretched out and touched Ranulf lightly on the arm.

  ‘Well done, Clerk of the Green Wax.’

  ‘I shouldn’t have slipped.’

  ‘Many things shouldn’t have happened …’ Corbett broke off as a crack echoed across the water. The Black Hogge was now breaking up, showering the sea around it with fiery shards and a furious blaze of sparks. A pall of black smoke was spreading around and above the ship as it continued to disintegrate in the heat.

  ‘You see,’ the Magister, crouching next to Corbett, spoke up, ‘The Black Hogge has been at sea during the height of summer, so its woodwork, sails and cordage are bone dry. Oil and fire will create an inferno fiercer than in any blacksmith’s forge.’ He grabbed Corbett’s arm. ‘You’ll remember your promise, Sir Hugh?’

  ‘I shall never forget. Rest assured …’ Corbett broke off as the keel crunched into the pebbled beach. The rest of Ap Ythel’s archers came running down to help pull the boat clear, chattering in their native tongue, shaking hands with their comrades and shouting congratulations, though one of them began to chant a lamentation for the fallen. Corbett asked Ap Ythel to impose order, pointing to what the surging tide was now driving in: pieces of wreckage and the occasional corpse, most of these displaying gruesome burn wounds. At Corbett’s request, Ap Ythel deployed his archers along the beach, war bows strung, arrows notched.

  The setting sun now poured across the sea, creating a glittering blood-red path that seemed to stretch towards The Black Hogge. The ship was no longer the majestic, formidable cog of war but a smouldering funeral pyre of darting flames and plumes of thick black smoke. Its remains were beginning to sink. Corbett could glimpse corpses, pieces of wreckage and the occasional survivor clinging on to a barrel, chest or sturdy piece of timber. Ap Ythel wanted vengeance for his three men, eager to kill anyone who came out of the sea. The Magister was equally ferocious in his judgement: the crew of The Black Hogge were pirates, they had been caught red-handed. According to the law, they were wolfsheads and could be slain on sight. Corbett had to exercise his authority, producing the royal seal and finally drawing sword and dagger. Ranulf followed suit.

  In truth, Corbett was sick and tired of the killing. ‘I do not thirst for my enemy’s blood,’ he declared. He wanted the survivors to remain as such. He needed these to discover how The Black Hogge seemed to know so much so swiftly about English ships leaving Queenhithe. Moreover, they could be exchanged for English prisoners held in France. By the time the first survivors crawled out of the sea, he had convinced his colleagues. Moreover, the sight of over a dozen bedraggled, dazed and wounded men and boys also softened attitudes. T
he archers lowered their bows. Ap Ythel ordered the prisoners to walk up over the sand hills whilst Corbett reassured them they were not being taken to their deaths but to be questioned. One of the prisoners appeared to doubt this and broke free, careering along the beach. Before Corbett could stop him, an archer, his bow strung, loosed two shafts in a matter of breaths; these struck the fugitive full in the back so he collapsed and lay still. Frightened by this, the rest of the prisoners complied.

  Once over the sand hills, Ap Ythel made them sit down, and a water pannikin and pieces of dried biscuit were shared out. Corbett then began to question them, proclaiming that cooperation would earn them greater mercies and that if they complied, they would be held as prisoners of war and eventually sent back to France: this apparently comforted them and made them more pliable. A tall, thickset man, Sulpice, a lifelong sailor out of Harfleur, became their spokesman. He assured Corbett that Gaston Foix and all his officers were dead. Sulpice talked swiftly, Corbett translating for the others. Apparently the oil spilt on the constantly tilting deck soon spread everywhere, dripping down into the hold, whilst the fire erupting around the bowsprit only intensified the fury of the attack. The deck became a lake of fire that spread swiftly.

  Sulpice and the Magister began to exchange comments in the lingua franca. Corbett used the opportunity to walk up the sand hills and stare out over the sea. He felt an eerie sadness. The majestic and magnificent Black Hogge was now nothing but a mess of charred timber and dying pools of fire beneath wisps of dark smoke. He walked back to the prisoners, demanding to be told how Gaston Foix could know so much about the movements of English shipping. Sulpice just shrugged, turned away and spat. Ranulf drew his sword and dagger. Ap Ythel notched his bow.

  ‘Les oiseaux! Les oiseaux!’ The young man who stepped forward was no more than thirteen summers old. Sulpice shouted at him. The boy made a crude sign back and replied with an invective even Corbett couldn’t follow, although he was distracted by what he’d just heard. He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry: such a simple solution! Once again he, a so-called master of logic, had ignored the obvious.

  He told Ranulf to resheathe his sword, then took two coins out of his belt purse, thrust one into Sulpice’s hand and went to kneel by the boy, who was now beginning to shiver. Corbett wrapped his own cloak about him and pressed the second coin into the boy’s thin, callused hand, smiling at the lad’s narrow face and fearful eyes.

  ‘What is your name?’

  ‘Geranti.’

  ‘Geranti, tell me about the birds. Courier pigeons, yes? They carry messages in little drums or miniature canisters attached to their legs. The thinnest parchment is used, the message cryptic?’

  Geranti nodded, adding that he had been Gaston Foix’s page, his cabin boy. Corbett translated for the rest, the news causing surprise, consternation and laughter, then demanded silence as Geranti described how the pigeons were kept in cages below the deck. Apparently they were Gaston Foix’s pride and joy, his personal pets, and they regarded The Black Hogge as their home nest. Sulpice, now realising that refusal to answer would achieve nothing, also participated in the discussion. Stamping his feet and rubbing his arms, he described how Foix loved the birds and kept them well fed. Apparently these courier pigeons were released to some place in London, where they would be fed before bringing back messages with news about English shipping. Foix would use his sea charts to return The Black Hogge to the same position, or near it, so the birds could find it more easily.

  ‘But where did they fly to?’ Corbett demanded. ‘To whom were they sent?’ Sulpice simply pulled a face and spread his hands, whilst Geranti shook his head, and Corbett sensed that they honestly didn’t know.

  Deeply intrigued and wishing to reflect on what he had learnt, Corbett entrusted the prisoners to Ap Ythel and the Magister whilst he and Ranulf walked back to the Sunne in Splendour. They found Penda and Gunhilda all alarmed by the sounds they’d heard and the sight of the glow of a fierce fire against the sky. Corbett swiftly comforted them, satisfying their curiosity as well as winning their full cooperation with an offer. Master Rougehead and his minions, he assured them, would never be coming back. The Sunne in Splendour was now theirs. He solemnly promised that as soon as he returned to London, Ranulf would go to Westminster and have this offer sealed, witnessed and formally enrolled on the great exchequer remembrancer. Both innocents were delighted. Corbett gave them direct and precise instructions how, if they wished, they could collect a copy of this document from the general chancery office near the great hall of Westminster. He also made them memorise his name and those of Ranulf and Chanson before talking to them further about Master Rougehead and his journeys to London.

  Once satisfied, Corbett left the Sunne in Splendour to sit by himself, even refusing Ranulf’s offer of food. He reflected on his imprisonment at Temple Combe, Rougehead’s drinking, his hatred, what he had spat out and how he’d acted. He also recalled the patois he’d heard on The Black Hogge.

  ‘I wonder,’ he whispered to himself. ‘I truly do.’

  Ever since leaving Temple Combe, certain suspicions had begun to flourish in Corbett’s mind. He wondered whether what he had seen and heard was the truth. He suspected he had been drawn into a game of shifting shadows, of clever half-truths and subtle lies. Just because something was obvious didn’t mean it shouldn’t be scrutinised most carefully. Corbett, now quietly chastising himself for overlooking the possibility of the French using courier pigeons, promised himself that he would study all that he had seen, heard and learnt so that he could eventually find a path out of this tangled shadowland and confront his real opponent.

  He let himself relax. He now felt tired and hungry. He returned to the tavern taproom and had a brief meeting with Ap Ythel and the Magister, who agreed to take the prisoners to the Tower and to keep them secure there. They also solemnly promised to ensure that what had happened at Temple Combe and Saltcot remained secret until ordered otherwise. Corbett thanked them, then gratefully accepted Ranulf’s offer of a bowl of meat stew and a goblet of watered wine. Seated with his companion in the small buttery adjoining the taproom, he took out his horn spoon and slowly ate the spiced meat. Once finished, he wiped the horn spoon clean and sat cradling his wine cup.

  ‘Sir Hugh?’

  ‘Ranulf.’ Corbett struck his breast. ‘Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa. My fault, my blame. I ignored the obvious because I didn’t reflect on it!’

  ‘Master?’

  ‘Many years ago, Ranulf, when I was young and handsome, a mailed clerk all buckled for battle, the old king’s chancellor Robert Burnel, Bishop of Bath and Wells, picked me to be his henchman, his heir, his successor. He was the hardest of taskmasters. Much harder than I ever was on you. Burnel instructed me on all matters regarding the Secret Chancery: its hidden alphabets, the scytale of the ancients, the tradecraft of the Byzantines and the exotic alphabets of the Arabs. The old king, then a young prince, returned from Outremer in love with what Burnel called the art of secret writing, of dressing messages up in parables and of communicating secrets in the safest way. Now, the use of courier or messenger birds is as old as creation itself …’

  Corbett paused as some of the Welsh archers, never ones for ignoring an opportunity, broke into one of their battle hymns, giving praise to the setting sun, a strong, vibrant chorus of deep, heart-plucking melody. On any other occasion Corbett would have loved to sit and listen, or even better, participate.

  ‘Noah!’ Ranulf said, desperate not to let him give into temptation and join the singers.

  ‘Noah,’ Corbett agreed. ‘According to scripture, he released that dove from the ark in the hope of finding dry land. Many kings and princes have used birds as couriers. I know that. Burnel made me read all the ancients, especially Pliny’s Natural History. Pigeons have served as couriers for thousands of years. The ancient Greeks dispatched them to proclaim the victor in the Olympics. The Roman consul Hirtius also used them during the siege of Modena; the Saracens in
Outremer. Saladin and his ancestors were most skilled in their management, whilst Genoa and Venice have watch towers in the Middle Sea that communicate by courier pigeon. Now according to Burnel, when the old king came back from Outremer, he was full of admiration for this system.’

  ‘So what happened?’ Ranulf asked.

  ‘Edward Longshanks,’ Corbett pithily replied, ‘had, apart from his love for his wife Eleanor, one consuming passion …’

  ‘Hawks and falcons?’

  ‘Hawks and falcons,’ Corbett agreed. ‘He adored them, he called them his children. You have seen the great mews he had built at Queen’s Cross? Once, when his favourite hawk fell ill, I had to take a waxen image of the damned bird to Becket’s shrine at Canterbury and light dozens of tapers around the saint’s tomb so the hawk would recover. Thank God,’ he breathed, ‘it did. On another occasion I had to physically restrain the king from beating to death a squire who had accidentally injured a hawk. Anyway,’ Corbett glanced up at the darkening sky, ‘pigeons and hawks do not mix. Hawks are ferocious hunters; their appetite for blood must be sharpened. They are trained to search out their quarry, then kill it. Pigeons are their natural prey: fat, cumbersome in the first few flusters of flight, they are easy to catch; a hawk could satisfy its appetite for days. Edward would not have pigeons close to where his court moved, be it Windsor, York or Berwick. Little wonder the old king forgot, even forbade, the use of courier pigeons – and so did we!’