Dark Serpent (Hugh Corbett 18)

by Paul Doherty

  Once they’d left St Giles, Crowthorne’s sardonic farewell ringing in their ears, Corbett plucked at Ranulf’s sleeve and led him to a small ale house, where barrels served as tables and crates as stools. The floor was a mess of sawdust from a nearby carpenter’s shop. Ale, beer and coarse wine was sold from casks on the greasy common table. The clerks took a seat in the corner. Corbett had chosen the ale house as a good place to hide away from the public eye.

  ‘So, Ranulf,’ he began, ‘we now know that the courier pigeons nested in cages on The Black Hogge; they were probably Gaston Foix’s personal property: a pastime he pursued, one of the possible reasons he was chosen. Anyway, in the beginning, those pigeons were brought into that dovecote at St Giles, where they were nested, fed and released. This would be repeated time and again until a pattern was set. Weeks passed and eventually the pigeons flew from The Black Hogge across southern Essex and into the city to feed and nest. They would then be used to send information back.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Remember, St Giles lazar hospital was founded by merchant mariners. One of the clauses in the hospital’s founding charter is that its inmates pray for ships and crews leaving Queenhithe. The names of such cogs are, as we know, displayed publicly in the hospital chapel. The Guild of St Martha informed us of this.’

  ‘So Ausel didn’t even have to search for the information?’

  ‘Precisely. The Candle-Bright, let us say for argument’s sake, sails on a Tuesday morning. Ausel knows this immediately and dispatches a courier pigeon; the message reaches The Black Hogge within hours. All the Frenchman has to do is plot a route as fast as possible tacking south-west. Naseby will take the shortest route to Boulogne and The Black Hogge simply pursues him.’ Corbett sipped at his ale. ‘Agnes and Philippa did no wrong. No one could have guessed at how such information could be passed so swiftly and accurately to Gaston Foix. However,’ he added warningly, ‘there are certain matters I must question young Agnes about. She and her mistress have played their part in these present troubles.’

  ‘Sir Hugh?’

  Corbett drained his tankard. ‘My friend, no questions now; I am still searching for answers. I hope to find most of these at Holy Trinity the Little.’

  In fact Holy Trinity the Little was closed, the locks on its main door ceremoniously sealed by the archdeacon’s court. A notice pinned above the locks proclaimed how the church was under interdict because of ‘heinous and sacrilegious slayings in the sanctuary’. The proclamation added that the church would remain closed until purified and reconsecrated. A troupe of enterprising travelling players had caught the mood and set up stall on the steps to present their version of Cain slaying Abel with, surprisingly enough, a female member of their troupe acting the part of God. They played out their drama before a large painted canvas depicting the Chorus of Despair at mankind’s first murder. Corbett, despite his own absorption with killing and chaos, studied the canvas carefully, particularly the corner paintings where fanged frog demons conducted terrified choristers who were being forced to read hellish music with notes that looked like barbs or blots of blood imprinted on a man’s bare buttocks. This unfortunate lay crushed under a gigantic harp; above him, on its wire strings, other sinners hung impaled.

  ‘This painting certainly preaches the horror of murder,’ he murmured, ‘though little about its resolution. Let’s find Parson Layburn. He may be able to assist …’

  They went round the church to the sacristy door, which was now being repaired by workmen. Inside at a table sat Parson Layburn and his parish clerk, who both forced hasty smiles as Corbett and Ranulf entered.

  ‘Parson Layburn,’ Corbett sat down on the bench, Ranulf beside him, ‘I want to scrutinise your parish accounts from 1288 to the present. I need to look at mass offerings, chantry gifts, the purchase of funeral plots and other such necessaries. Now, whilst I do this, my good friend and learned colleague, Ranulf-atte-Newgate, would like to ask you and your clerk certain questions …’

  Both men hastened to comply. Corbett sat at the sacristy table going through the parish rolls, ledgers, memoranda and registers. The suspicions he had entertained hardened into certainties, whilst Ranulf, skilled at questioning, managed to draw the priest and his clerk on the hidden scandals of his parish. The afternoon wore on, the ringing of nearby church bells marking the hours of prayer. At last Corbett believed that he and Ranulf had learnt what they needed. He thanked Parson Layburn and went back through the busy, hot streets to the Merry Mercy tavern.

  ‘Are we closing on our quarry, Sir Hugh?’ Ranulf asked as soon as they were in Corbett’s chamber.

  ‘Do you remember that mummers’ masque outside Holy Trinity the Little? God eventually hunts down Cain the killer and brands him as a murderer for all to see. Well,’ Corbett patted Ranulf on the shoulder, ‘we are close to doing God’s work here, and a killer will soon be trapped, a true blood-drinker.’

  ‘But that was Rougehead, surely, Rougehead who has now gone to judgement?’

  Corbett refused to be drawn further, but sat down at the chamber’s chancery desk, laid out his writing implements and, using his own cipher, began to list his conclusions. The market horns had sounded and the bells rung to mark the end of the day’s trading when a messenger arrived from Chaplain Reynolds saying it was proving more and more difficult to keep de Craon and his henchman at Westminster. More importantly, Reynolds declared, rumour and gossip were already hinting at the wholesale destruction of The Black Hogge.

  Corbett sat and reflected, staring hard at a triptych celebrating the life of the great scholar Anselm. Eventually he made a decision. He sent a message back to Reynolds asking that de Craon be kept in luxurious confinement for one more day; after that, he should be released and brought back under close escort to the Merry Mercy.

  The following day Corbett continued with his clerking, pausing to welcome Fitzosbert, the Wolfman and the Magister. The information they had brought was either street gossip or from the records of the chancery and the exchequer. He thanked all three, saying that what they told him only confirmed what he already knew. Later in the afternoon, he decided he was ready. He invited Agnes Sokelar by herself to his chamber. Ranulf guarded the door as Chanson had been dispatched on other business.

  ‘Mistress Agnes,’ Corbett began, ‘thank you for coming to see me. I will try to be both blunt and succinct. Why do you visit de Craon in his chambers?’

  ‘Why do you think, Sir Hugh?’ She shrugged. ‘I have my own reasons.’

  ‘Which are, mistress?’

  ‘I lie with him.’ Agnes’s face now lost that mousy, rather shy look; she became harder, more defiant. ‘Sir Hugh, I am no maid, some lady locked in the tower.’ She glanced over her shoulder at Ranulf. ‘A man has his pleasures and, if single, does as he wishes. Indeed, both marriage oaths and the vows of celibacy a priest makes are easily set aside. Your learned colleague Ranulf here is proof enough, not to mention Parson Layburn and Brother Jerome.’

  ‘Mistress, I am not here to accuse you but to ask you why. I am not your judge. There is good reason for what you do, isn’t there?’ he continued. ‘I know you love your father deeply. I assure you that I mean you and yours every good.’ Agnes put her face in her hands, her body seeming to crumple, her shoulders sagging as she quietly wept. ‘Mistress,’ Corbett said soothingly, ‘I need you to answer me.’ She took her hands away.

  ‘I love my father, Sir Hugh. He was, he is a hero. When I was a child, he fought his way out of the Accursed Tower at Acre. He saved me, but despite his bravery, not my mother.’ She dried her eyes and took the goblet of watered wine Corbett poured for her. She sipped at the drink, watching Corbett retake his seat. ‘He has hated the Templars ever since. However, it is not only that. When the royal treasure was stolen from the abbey crypt, rumours ran rife that my father was involved. He was not. He was totally innocent. He has always believed that such rumour-mongering was the work of Templars who may themselves have participated in the robbery. Anyway, he
fell under suspicion, and because of that, he received no further preferment. And then The Black Hogge began its reign of terror in the Narrow Seas. People wonder who is providing its master with such accurate information.’ Her face became all fierce. ‘Again the finger of blame is pointed at my father.’ She paused to wipe her eyes on the sleeve of her gown. ‘I know my father patronises that house of pleasure, the Queen of the Night, as does Brother Jerome, the French envoy’s henchman. My father has his needs but he also hoped to form a friendship with the Carmelite and so discover more …’

  ‘And so you decided to court Monsigneur de Craon, or,’ Corbett added tactfully, ‘allow him to court you?’ She nodded. ‘I follow the logic of that,’ Corbett declared. ‘And you volunteered to help Mistress Philippa at St Giles as one of the sisters of the Guild of Saint Martha. A brave decision for a healthy young woman – to enter a lazar hospital. Ostensibly you were there to help, but secretly …’

  ‘My father is a harbour master. You can imagine the tittle-tattle and gossip that sweeps the taverns and ale houses where the river folk gather. We hear most of this chatter. Rumours that the Templars were involved in the robbery at the crypt, as well as being responsible for trying to implicate my father in that crime. Consequently, I wondered if they were also the source of the lies about him secretly providing The Black Hogge with information about cogs leaving Queenhithe. Of course then there were the murders of the Templars at St Giles, the suspicion that the French envoy was somehow involved in those, as he was in the depredations of The Black Hogge. So yes, Sir Hugh, both my father and I thought we should fish in such a pool. I joined Mistress Philippa in her duties to see if I could learn anything.’

  ‘And did you?’

  ‘No. All I saw at St Giles was a group of tired, rather weak old men; they didn’t really need my help, though the lepers did.’

  ‘And in strict accordance with the founding charter of St Giles, you provided the master, Reginald Ausel, with a detailed list of English ships leaving Queenhithe so the inmates of the lazar hospital could pray that their crews would have safe voyage?’

  ‘Yes, yes, I did. My father gave me such a list and I handed it over to Ausel, who published it in the hospital chapel.’

  ‘And Ausel was most insistent about receiving it?’

  ‘Most certainly. He said on more than one occasion how such a duty, being part of the founding charter, had to be scrupulously observed. In addition, he said, he was my lord Gaveston’s nominee to the mastership and so he must be seen to be fulfilling such a duty in both the spirit and the letter of the law.’

  ‘I am sure he did,’ Corbett remarked wryly.

  ‘Sir Hugh?’

  ‘So, learning little or nothing at St Giles, you decided to allow Monsigneur de Craon to pursue you and discovered what?’

  ‘That Monseigneur de Craon is a gelding rather than a stallion. Quite content with the ministrations of my fingers rather than anything else.’ Corbett glanced warningly at Ranulf, who slouched on his stool, one hand covering the bottom of his face.

  ‘I wondered, Mistress Agnes, why Monseigneur de Craon never left the tavern for the pleasures of the city.’

  ‘He said I satisfied him fully, that I must keep secret what I did. How one day he would invite me to Paris.’

  ‘And you did all this …’

  ‘To discover anything I could about The Black Hogge, to depict my father as the man who solved the mystery. It’s well known along Queenhithe that it must be the work of the French.’

  ‘And did you discover anything?’

  ‘Nothing, Sir Hugh. I did closely question de Craon once, but he flatly denied any knowledge of that sea monster or its doings.’ She paused, chewing her lip. ‘It’s strange, Sir Hugh, what I did discover.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Monseigneur de Craon hates you.’

  ‘I am sure he does.’

  ‘And he truly fears his henchman Brother Jerome. So much so that I wonder who is the master …’

  ‘Agnes, is there anything else you know about the murders at St Giles, or indeed anything else connected with these mysteries?’ The young woman shook her head. ‘In which case, I thank you. I would be grateful if you’d ask Mistress Philippa to join us.’

  Agnes’s smile faded. ‘You won’t …’

  ‘No, but I do need to see your mistress urgently.’

  Philippa Henman came in all a-fluster, her cheeks pink with exertion. Sweat laced her soft, sweet face whilst her veiled headdress was slightly askew and her gown stained from cooking. She kept wiping her hands on a scented napkin as she took the proffered seat, informing Corbett that the reason for her busyness was that she was preparing a splendid banquet to celebrate their return. Corbett thanked her and offered some watered wine, which she refused, then sat staring down at the manuscript before him. He wanted this woman to be soothed, to be calm before he began his journey into her past.

  ‘Sir Hugh?’

  ‘Mistress Philippa Henman,’ he glanced up and smiled, ‘I shall tell you your story.’ Philippa’s fluster disappeared and she straightened up, neatly folding the napkin and placing it on the table. ‘Many years ago,’ Corbett pulled a face, ‘not a lifetime, but certainly an era when we were both fresh and hopeful, a young man appeared in Queenhithe. John Poultney had left his birth village of Saltcot in Essex and the tavern he’d inherited, the Sunne in Splendour, because both village and hostelry had become profitless, windswept and deserted. He arrived in Queenhithe with little money but high hopes and became apprenticed as a vintner, working in taverns such as the Salamander and elsewhere.

  ‘I suspect John Poultney was a very handsome, charming and talented young man. You certainly thought so, didn’t you? A mere slip of a girl, what, fifteen or sixteen summers old? You fell deeply in love with him. You planned to marry. You couldn’t wait, and when you are young, the blood runs hot. You became pregnant out of wedlock. That could soon be rectified, but then disaster struck. John Poultney died from a bout of the sweating sickness that sweeps London every so often. Your family were desperate to ensure a reputable future for you, so you were hidden away like a recluse. The baby was born, a healthy male child, vigorous and strong. He was nurtured and nursed, then handed over to the Franciscan Minoresses at their house just north of the Tower.’

  Corbett’s heart went out to this grief-stricken woman as the mask she assumed every day slipped away. ‘Mistress, I have very little proof for what I say except what I found in the records of Holy Trinity the Little: the costly funeral arrangements, requiems and chantry masses for John Poultney. Oh, they were all paid anonymously, including the stipend for a host of tapers to be burnt before the statue of St John, your beloved’s patron saint. Now John Poultney had no family. Your parents have died, Philippa, but these anonymous donations continue to be made at certain times of the year: “For the repose of the soul of John Poultney.” Parson Layburn believes the donor is you. When closely questioned, our good priest grudgingly conceded that there is some mystery about your past. My informants along the streets and alleyways of Queenhithe, when persuaded to answer, also talked of rumours, gossip about long-lost people and events in your life.’

  Corbett paused to sip at his goblet. ‘Anyway, let’s go back down the passage of the years. Your baby boy is placed with the Franciscan sisters, the Minoresses at Aldgate. Secret instructions are given that, at the appropriate time, the boy should be sent to a Templar house and trained to be a page, a squire and then a knight. If, as an adult, he does not wish to become a Templar, that would be his decision. Nevertheless, by then he would have received an education and training in both his horn book and the exercise of arms.’

  Corbett glanced down, as if consulting the notes he’d written. When he looked up again, Philippa was staring at the table. He couldn’t see whether she was crying or not. ‘Mistress,’ he continued, ‘the hour rings burn away. Once again time eats itself up. I must press on. Eventually you re-entered the guild life of Queenhithe ward. You met my
old comrade Raoul Henman and, due to the legacies left by your parents, you and Raoul, now husband and wife, were able to purchase this tavern.’ He paused and crossed himself swiftly. ‘God forgive me, at one time I did wonder if Raoul profited from the robbery in the crypt. My apologies for that.’

  He rose, stretched and walked over to Philippa, gently pressing her right shoulder. ‘God knows, but you may wish to tell me about Raoul learning of your love child, Henry, to whom you also gave his father’s surname. One thing I am sure of, you and your son were reconciled and I believe he was more than accepted by your husband. I suggest this reconciliation took place in or around the year 1305. Your own parents had died, the Merry Mercy was a flourishing concern. It was obvious that you and Raoul would never have children. God knows how matters would have proceeded, but Philip of France intervened. The Templar order soon collapsed; a sudden fall and a mortal one. Between 1305 and 1307 I suspect your son took the name Sumerscale and began to intimate that perhaps the accusations against his order were not all spurious lies. He wanted to deal with this vexed problem before resuming a normal life. The three of you decided to keep everything secret and confidential until the Templar crisis was over, and then you could publicise matters.’

  ‘And this vexed problem, as you call it?’ Philippa’s voice was challenging.

  ‘Something had happened in one of the Templar houses,’ Corbett replied. ‘Your son may have been sexually attacked. He wanted justice, vengeance, but he also needed protection. In this, he was successful. Matthew Aschroft, a Templar serjeant, became his constant companion and guardian. He too took a different name, Fallowfield. I will explain these pseudonyms later. No doubt both men feared their former order, or at least some of its members. This would explain the false names, the secrecy, the decision not to drag you into their campaign as well as their determination to lay charges against the Templars.