by Paul Doherty
‘They visited Blackfriars and sought the advice of Prior Cuthbert, and he passed on their concerns to other Dominicans who were acting as papal inquisitors in the investigation into the Templars. Prior Cuthbert also secured Henry and Matthew posts on board Naseby’s ship The Candle-Bright. After all, Matthew had seen service in the Middle Sea, and captains are always desperate to hire good men. You and Raoul continued to meet Henry and Matthew secretly, putting at their disposal some chamber or other dwelling you owned in the city. I have established from the records that you do own such properties. In such a place, well away from Queenhithe, once The Candle-Bright berthed, they could relax. You and Raoul would ensure that they had fresh clothes, food and drink and all the necessary comforts.
‘Everything seemed to be proceeding well until the wicked tragedy brought about by that limb of Satan, the renegade Templar Gabriel Rougehead. He struck at a time when the king and Lord Gaveston would brook no opposition. The trial of Sumerscale and Fallowfield, as they called themselves, was swift and summary. On reflection, what could they do? Tell the truth? Proclaim that they belonged to the disgraced Templar order and were now hiding under false names? That would only deepen their guilt. In the end, they paid with their lives for their enemy’s malice!’
Philippa was now sobbing, talking quietly as if to herself. Corbett let her weep from her heart, give voice to the deep hurt, the savage wound to her soul.
‘Mistress.’ He returned to his chair. ‘Mistress, believe me, as God lives, there is justice, there has been justice and there will be more.’ She lifted her tear-streaked face. ‘You have already supped from the cup of vengeance,’ he continued. ‘The murderous execution of Sumerscale and Fallowfield thrust you and Raoul into the deepest pit of despair. Raoul was a good man, a former mailed clerk, a soldier. It was he who approached Slingsby and arranged that murderous supper party, he who swept into that tavern like death incarnate. He joined those wicked revellers and, being a taverner, brought a sack of the finest wine – albeit laced with a powerful potion to induce sleep. Once they had sunk into a deep torpor, he took their heads. The chamber must have been drenched in the blood swilling about, but no one would ever see it. To cover what had happened, as well as to punish Slingsby for his part in the tragedy, Raoul knocked over lanterns and candles, and that chamber of death along with the entire tavern was burnt to the ground …’
‘Justice.’ Philippa lifted her head, drying her tears with the palm of her hand. ‘Sir Hugh, you said there will be justice?’
‘Oh yes!’ He held her gaze and rejoiced at the hope in her eyes. ‘You never knew the names of those Templars who abused your son?’
‘Henry refused to tell me, and he bound Matthew by oath not to reveal anything until they had both confessed to the Inquisition and to some law officer. Henry believed that Temple Combe housed a devilish killer guilty of hideous murders, but he and Aschroft decided to bide their time.’ She smiled wanly. ‘Remember, my lord clerk, I did not want to quarrel with my son. I had a great deal to make up to him.’ She sighed. ‘Raoul already knew about my love child. He had heard the gossip. More importantly, he and Aschroft were good friends, both aspiring to become members of the guild as tavern masters. Of course we hoped to have our own child, but God thought different. In the spring of 1305, we decided to meet Henry at a house we owned in Cheapside. Only then did he begin to talk and hint at certain matters. I loved him, of course, I always had. Raoul was much taken with him. He considered Henry the son he always wanted. In fact it was Raoul who healed the breach between us.’ She rubbed her mouth on the back of her hand. ‘What made you suspect that Raoul was responsible for the judgement dealt out at the Salamander?’
‘I had a cursory description of the man responsible. I recalled Raoul’s size, his training as a mailed clerk as well as the wealth he had amassed. More importantly, the mysterious stranger who swept in like God’s vengeance exuded the scent of Castile. Castilian soap is rare, purchased only by the very wealthy. You loaned me one of your husband’s cloaks; it is still perfumed with that fragrance.’
‘Master Clerk,’ Philippa’s voice was harsh, ‘what you say is in the main true. Henry’s death was so swift, so brutal, so,’ she shook her head, ‘so unnecessary. He was dead and all we could do was look to the cause. We were left with two corpses, one of whom was a beloved son, the other a very good comrade.’
‘Again,’ Corbett intervened, ‘Parson Layburn talked about a mysterious visitor, wealthy, perfumed, who paid generously so Sumerscale and Fallowfield received hallowed and honourable burial. And, of course, Layburn is the parish priest of both your family church and that of Raoul’s family. Did you think he suspected?’
‘Sometimes,’ she smiled, ‘yes, perhaps he did, but what does it matter? Dead is dead; solemn and holy funerals will not bring back the departed. What we did was the best in the circumstances.’
‘Did your son or Matthew ever give details about their lives at Temple Combe?’
‘Very little. Henry prided himself on his manhood. He declared that he and Aschroft would settle matters then he would tell us.’
‘Did you have suspicions? As a member of the Guild of St Martha, you looked after the Templars rather than the lepers. Did you do so in order to watch that group most closely?’
‘Yes,’ she conceded, ‘but I learnt very little. The Templars, as you discovered yourself, remain tight lipped. Indeed, whatever the sins of their comrades, they close ranks, especially during these last doomed days of their order. Moreover, apart from Grandison, I did not like them very much, and perhaps that showed.’
‘As it did for John Naseby, master of The Candle-Bright? It was you, Philippa, who delivered those warnings slipped here and there. So easy for the owner and mistress of this tavern. You could threaten Naseby whenever you wished.’
Philippa gazed back unblinking. ‘Naseby hanged my son, an innocent. God damn him and God damn his ship. I have no regrets whatsoever. I did not punish him; his own sins did.’
‘You also warned me. You tied that message to a spent candle, but one fashioned out of beeswax with the chandler’s mark on its base. I found the same here at the Merry Mercy. It was you, but why?’
Philippa just sat, head slightly cocked, staring up at the ceiling. She half smiled, blinked and gave a loud sigh.
‘Mistress?’
‘Raoul always admired you, Sir Hugh, said you had an integrity that could not be bought or suborned. When Henry was murdered, Raoul thought of petitioning you. Indeed, on one occasion, he prepared to leave for Leighton. He really believed we would get justice at your hands.’ She paused. ‘He had truly come to love Henry. He grew ill with grief; his heart, despite the physicians, was beginning to fail. He believed you would have acted, but time was passing. As his grief deepened, his anger became more intense. He wanted justice done swiftly before he died, so he took matters into his own hands.’ She shrugged. ‘You know the outcome. It was easy to arrange. The killers were trapped and slaughtered as you described. Raoul had no scruples. Once it was over, he fell increasingly ill. In the end, those miscreants killed both my son and my husband.’ She stroked the top of the table, watching her hand going backwards and forwards, lost in her own thoughts. ‘Raoul truly admired and respected you …’
‘So why the warning?’
‘Very simple, Sir Hugh.’ She glanced up. ‘De Craon and Brother Jerome knew you were coming here to investigate, as did Ausel and the Templars. Grandison welcomed it but his companions certainly did not.’ She laced her fingers together. ‘I am no clerk, no lawyer, but I watch people. Those two Frenchmen hate you. They have a burning malice that springs from a murderous frenzy seething in their filthy souls. I am sure they are plotting your destruction. On that particular morning, Ranulf told me you were meeting the king and my lord Gaveston at the Confessor’s shrine.’ She leaned against the table, staring down at Corbett. ‘I tell you this, clerk, both those princes, Edward and Gaveston, will also be punished for what they have done.’
‘Mistress,’ Corbett intervened, ‘you should be careful. There are those who’d say you play with treason …’
‘Aye, Sir Hugh, but God knows the truth and so do you. Anyway, on that particular morning, I really felt as if Raoul’s spirit was very close to me. I glimpsed the hatred de Craon and Brother Jerome nursed against you. I had to give you fair warning. I went to Westminster. I watched the royal party leave. I then hired a beggar boy, one of those who plead for alms by the great door. He came with me, crept into the abbey, quiet as a mouse. He said you were still there. I gave him the message and told him what to do, and left the rest in God’s hands and yours. I had done my duty.’ She half smiled. ‘I hired a common scrivener to disguise my hand but I forgot how distinctive a beeswax candle can be, as well as how observant Raoul said you were.’ She returned to smoothing the surface of the table.
Corbett watched and quietly admired this formidable woman who hid her own sorrow, her grievous soul wounds, so cleverly behind a smiling face and kindly ways.
‘You have no suspicions about others being involved in Henry’s death?’ he asked. She shook her head. ‘Then, mistress, keep this to yourself.’ She glanced up sharply. Corbett smiled and raised his right hand. ‘Believe me, the court is about to reconvene and more justice will be done.’
For the rest of the day Corbett busied himself writing out lists in his own secret cipher, answering Ranulf’s questions as best as he could, and preparing assiduously, as he remarked enigmatically to his clerk, for when the court reconvened. He laid out his finest cambric shirt and costliest robes. He then strolled into Queenhithe and hired a good barber to trim his hair and shave his stubbled cheeks. Later in the evening, he, Ranulf and Chanson ate the delicious supper Mistress Philippa’s cooks had prepared. Corbett made his companions laugh when he conceded that all his personal preparations were for the benefit of Monseigneur de Craon and Brother Jerome when they met the following morning.
The French envoy and Brother Jerome returned to the Merry Mercy just as the church bells tolled the hour of the Lady Mass. Corbett, garbed in his best, was waiting for them in the Cana chamber, wine and doucettes on the table before him. The two Frenchmen were ushered in by a grinning Ap Ythel and an escort of archers. Corbett could almost taste both the shock and the sheer fury of both men. Nevertheless, he strode towards them as if hadn’t a care in the world, bestowing the kiss of peace and proclaiming how it was truly wonderful to meet them so hale and hearty. They ignored this, slumping down on to the proffered seats, seizing the goblets Ranulf had filled with sweet white wine and gulping noisily before slamming the cups down on the table. Brother Jerome was fury incarnate, his gimlet eyes narrow and watchful like those of a hawk restless on its perch, desperate to be free and to kill. De Craon was different, his anger tempered by a fearful watchfulness.
‘Sir Hugh,’ de Craon’s frosty smile never reached his eyes, ‘why were we detained at Westminster?’
‘Not detained, Amaury, rather the honoured and revered guests of His Grace the king. We sheltered you there as a hen protects its chicks beneath its wings. We cherished you as we would the apple of our eye. You must know that The Black Hogge, until its recent total destruction …’ De Craon nearly dropped the wine goblet he’d picked up; Brother Jerome just gasped and gaped. ‘Yes,’ Corbett continued blithely, ‘you must know that The Black Hogge’s depredations caused serious unrest along Queenhithe. The leaders of the gangs knew you lodged here. We did not want you to be swept up, hurt, even killed in some ferocious riot.’ He glanced swiftly at Ranulf and winked.
‘Sir Hugh,’ de Craon spluttered, ‘The Black Hogge totally destroyed?’
‘Oh, completely, Amaury, so rejoice with us. The monster was burnt to a cinder off the coast of Essex. Only about a dozen of its crew survived. Its master, Gaston Foix, along with his officers and his precious pigeons, which he doted on so much and were of such great use to him,’ Corbett abruptly clapped his hands, ‘all gone! What is left of the crew are now lodged in the Tower. They will be exchanged for English privateers, if you will excuse the term, staying as guests in some French castle or fortress.’
‘But Sir Hugh, the details?’
‘Oh, you will learn them soon enough! Now, what else is there?’ Corbett squinted up at the ceiling as if trying to recall what he had to say. In truth he was on the verge of bursting out laughing, and the Frenchmen sensed this. ‘Oh yes,’ he continued, ‘stolen royal treasure was seized at the manor of Temple Combe at Epping. It would appear The Black Hogge landed a coven of mercenaries and miscreants under two renegade Templars, Reginald Ausel and Gabriel Rougehead, to seize this treasure. They failed. All the mercenaries were executed at Temple Combe by soldiers of our king. Ausel and Rougehead were also cut down; their corpses and those of their followers lie buried at the bottom of some deep morass.’ He shook his head in mock wonderment. ‘We always thought Rougehead had died in that mysterious fire at the Salamander tavern, but apparently he must have escaped.’
‘Details?’ Brother Jerome asked, his body tense with anger, his eyes dark pits of smouldering resentment, his face ghostly white.
‘You will get those eventually.’ Corbett remained deliberately offhand.
‘So why are you here? To welcome us back to the Merry Mercy?’ de Craon snapped.
‘I am not here to welcome you to anything, Amaury, but to wish you farewell. Royal letters will soon arrive from the chancery. His Grace the king and my lord Gaveston were deeply disturbed by what was found amongst the wreckage of The Black Hogge.’
‘Which was?’
‘I cannot possibly tell you,’ Corbett continued to bluff, ‘but His Grace is most insistent. He wants you to leave on the morning tide tomorrow. In fact, preparations are already in place. The royal cog, The Holy Ghost is berthed at Queenhithe. His Grace the king insists that both of you leave on it.’
‘Why?’
‘His Grace the king,’ Corbett tried to be as pompous as possible in the hope that he would provoke both opponents, ‘does not have to explain himself to you.’
‘Of course, of course,’ de Craon spluttered, remembering himself, ‘but …’
‘No buts, no buts, Amaury! His Grace will explain to your lord, his father-in-law, at the appropriate time and in the appropriate place.’
‘Of course.’
‘As for you,’ Corbett pointed rudely at the Carmelite, ‘His Grace has decreed that you never be allowed to re-enter this kingdom.’
‘Why, how dare …’ Brother Jerome swallowed hard as de Craon caught him by the wrist.
‘His Grace will also reveal his innermost feelings on this matter,’ Corbett declared sonorously, ‘to your lord, his beloved father-in-law, in due course. Well, well, gentlemen. Mistress Philippa is preparing another banquet to celebrate my return. Do you wish to join us? No? Well, never mind.’ He rose and sketched a bow, and only when his back was to the chamber did he give way to the laughter bubbling within him.
Once he had composed himself, Corbett began feverish but secretive preparations. Mistress Philippa, Ranulf and Chanson were summoned to his chamber and given strict instructions. He begged them not to question him but simply do what he asked and wait for the truth to emerge. Later that day, at his request, Mistress Philippa served a splendid supper in the Cana chamber, where Corbett entertained the tavern mistress, Ranulf, Ap Ythel, the Magister and the Wolfman. Chanson joined them later, reporting how de Craon and Brother Jerome were busy preparing to leave the following morning.
Corbett tried not to drink too much, but the bed he eventually climbed into was so comfortable. Before he lay down, he glanced around: Mistress Philippa’s personal chamber, a place of great luxury. The turkey rugs on the shining waxed floor were of the purest wool. The oaken furniture was polished to a shimmer, whilst the walls were covered with costly arras from Bruges that presented an array of brilliant colours picked out by the light of the beeswax candles placed judiciously around the chamber. Corbett, memorising the details, ex
tinguished the candles and lay down against the feather-filled bolsters. Despite his best efforts, he found it difficult to keep his eyes open. He neither saw nor heard the chamber door open and close: his expected assailant was towering over him, the garrotte cord brushing his neck, before the clerk fully realised what was happening and flung himself violently against the threatening shadow.
Corbett was surprised at the muscular strength of his attacker. He fought back fiercely even as the chamber door was flung open and other shadows joined the fray around the great four-poster bed. Corbett, gasping and swearing, pulled himself away as Ranulf, Chanson, Ap Ythel and two Tower archers dragged Brother Jerome back. The Carmelite struggled to free himself but at last he was thrown to the floor, arms and legs pinioned, the knife in the sheath on his belt plucked away and the smooth garrotte string freed from his fingers. The chamber was in uproar. Mistress Philippa appeared from an adjoining room. Others crowded the gallery outside. As he pulled his boots on, Corbett shouted at Ap Ythel to send everyone back to their rooms. Then he stood up, strapped on his war belt and pointed at the captured Jerome.
‘Fetch his colleague. Show de Craon every respect, but if necessary, drag him to the Cana chamber.’ He tapped Jerome’s bare foot with the toe of his boot. ‘Bind him tight and bring him too.’
Order was soon imposed. A short while later, an agitated de Craon joined Corbett in the chamber. The Keeper of the Secret Seal sat on one side of the table flanked by Ranulf and the Magister. The Wolfman guarded the door along with two archers. Mistress Philippa and Chanson sat at the far end of the table. Minehostess, although secretly advised and warned by Corbett, looked shocked and nervous. De Craon, sitting next to Brother Jerome facing Corbett, made to rise and protest.
‘Shut up!’ Corbett shouted at him. ‘For God’s sake shut up or I will have you chained. This is not some diplomatic meeting between royal representatives. I am King Edward’s justiciar. You,’ he pointed at the French envoy, ‘may well be the accredited ambassador of Philip of France, but he,’ he jabbed a finger at Brother Jerome, ‘well, he can call himself what he wants. He can act the part he chooses. He can be the great Cham of Tartary but the truth is he is Gabriel Rougehead, former Templar, English-born and a subject of our king.’ Corbett rapped the table. ‘I wish to move swiftly. As for you, de Craon, what comes later is up to you. You can protest your heart out to your masters in Paris, but Brother Jerome will not be there. He is going to be hanged, drawn and quartered, the punishment in this kingdom for heinous treason.’