Dark Serpent (Hugh Corbett 18)

by Paul Doherty

  He pressed on. ‘Gabriel Rougehead is a master of disguise, a man of shifting shadows. No one, and I repeat no one, has a clear description of him. I discovered that eight years ago when I was pursuing Puddlicot: a conclusion shared by my comrades here.’ He gestured at the Magister and the Wolfman, who murmured their agreement. ‘However, what we have learnt, Brother Jerome, thanks to the Magister, is that the ladies of the night, the filles de joie, at the Queen of the Night, the brothel you frequent in Queenhithe, talk of a wound on your right shoulder.’ Corbett patted himself. ‘Many Templars have a cross here. You’ve had yours removed.’

  ‘An old wound,’ de Craon retorted.

  ‘Nonsense. Brother Jerome, you have another wound on your thigh. We know Gabriel Rougehead was smitten in such a place by a Mameluke sword during the attack on the Accursed Tower at Acre. Finally, the same ladies of the night say your body skin is that of someone who has lived in Outremer. Of course it might take time, but we could also scrutinise your credentials to be a Carmelite. They have a principal foundation here at Aylesford in Kent. I am sure such a search would find no evidence for a Brother Jerome. Finally, of course, we have caught you red-handed in Mistress Philippa’s chamber armed with a knife and a garrotte, your wicked soul set on more murder. Oh no.’ Corbett raised a hand. ‘You are Gabriel Rougehead. The malefactor who died in the fire at the Salamander three years ago was one of your cat’s paws; the same is true of the vile creature who abducted me and took me to Temple Combe.

  ‘Now that man, the so-called keeper of the Sunne in Splendour at Saltcot, was as fit for hell as you are, but he made certain mistakes. Gabriel Rougehead’s mother came from Nanterre, not Auxerre. Rougehead moved amongst the clerks of the Holy Chancery, the secret world of the Louvre Palace. He must be skilled in Norman French, as you are, Carmelite. Yes,’ Corbett’s voice turned sardonic, ‘that’s what I will call you. The creature at Temple Combe, however, could only speak the lingua franca of the gutter. When I talked swiftly to Primus, the leader of the assassins, the cat’s paw demanded to know what I said. Surely a clerk skilled in Norman French would understand another clerk speaking the same tongue? Finally,’ Corbett picked up the goblet he had brought into the room, ‘Gabriel Rougehead eschewed wine, ale and any such heavy drink; your creature at Temple Combe could not drink enough to soothe his nerves.

  ‘There were other mistakes. He claimed the great robbery of the royal treasury in the crypt took place on the eve of St Matthew’s feast day, the twentieth of September, when of course it was on the eve of the feast of another evangelist, St Mark, which as you know, or should do, falls on the twenty-fourth of April. A leader, a participant in such an audacious robbery, would never make that mistake.’

  Corbett sat back in his chair, and the Carmelite stared at him, black eyes unblinking, the bruise he’d received to his right cheekbone blossoming a bluish red, his bloodless lips moved silently as if talking to himself. Corbett guessed he was quietly cursing his confederate at Temple Combe. ‘Oh, I agree.’ The clerk waved a hand. ‘You trained your friend and ally very well. What was he? A brother, a kinsman, a member of your acting troupe? I understand you led one of those?’

  ‘I would like to know about the treasure,’ de Craon intervened. ‘If it was stolen by my colleague here, as you allege, he seems to have shared that very valuable information with a number of people: Reginald Ausel and the individual you call his cat’s paw.’

  Corbett pointed at his prisoner. ‘A ruthless man. One, I am sure, no member of his coven would dare cross; also very powerful. He has the ear of no less a person than the king of France and that king’s first minister, de Nogaret. Moreover, they were preparing to move the treasure out of England. Once in France, such items are easy to trade. In this kingdom the likes of Ausel trying to sell a sapphire ring from a royal treasure horde would be highly dangerous. You are a dark serpent, Rougehead. You writhe and turn, you hide and strike, you slough off one skin for another. Look at you now, head and face all shaven. Three years ago you were tousle-haired, bearded, ready to act as the king’s approver and dispatch two innocents to a gruesome death.’ He lifted a hand. ‘You are like a certain reptile I have read about: you change, you assume a disguise to blend in with your surroundings, but now you have been caught out.’

  He paused. Mistress Philippa was sobbing quietly; Chanson had his arm around her shoulder, trying to console her.

  ‘True,’ Corbett continued, ‘I know very little about your life. After the fall of Acre, you left the Templar order. According to my comrades here, you had a troupe of actors that I understand included members of your kin. Do you play chess, Carmelite?’ The pebble-black eyes never shifted. ‘There’s a classic move in that game where you use one piece to attack, but that’s not the really dangerous piece; it is simply a front, a gambit to mask a much more devastating strategy. You became very skilled at such a game, playing it in times of danger. God knows what other mischief you became involved in. However, in 1303 you were back in England as one of Puddlicot’s leading henchmen under the name of John Priknash. You helped rob the crypt and took your portion of the loot to your old comrade Ausel at Temple Combe, a good place to hide treasure. Ausel would do exactly what you said, wouldn’t he?’

  Corbett sipped at his wine. He was trying to provoke his victim, but so far the Carmelite seemed to be lost in his own thoughts. ‘Ausel would do exactly what you said,’ he repeated, ‘because you knew his filthy secret. He was the abuser and killer of innocents. He slaughtered in other localities; he certainly did so in and around the forest of Epping. He also turned on a young man of his own order, a page training to be a squire, Henry Poultney, an orphan placed in the Templar order by those who received him as a baby, the Franciscan Minoresses of Aldgate.’ Corbett paused at a fresh outburst of tears from Mistress Philippa. ‘That lady,’ he pointed at the tavern mistress, ‘is the mother of Henry Poultney. I have her permission to make that relationship public. I have also closely appraised her of your wickedness and that of Reginald Ausel, a man she tried to help.’

  He smiled thinly. ‘Ausel, whilst pretending to be a figure of righteousness, asked Philippa Henman if she knew of any taverns along the coast of Essex that he might purchase to start a new life once the Templar order ceased to exist. She informed him about the Sunne in Splendour, which she knew of from John Poultney, father of her love child. But,’ Corbett shrugged, ‘such personal details do not concern you.’ He pointed at de Craon. ‘Philip of France launched his attack on the Templar order, which began to disintegrate. Henry Poultney, now protected by Matthew Aschroft, fled the order. They assumed false names and tried to seek out the papal inquisitors.’

  Corbett gazed into his goblet. Gabriel Rougehead, the Carmelite or whatever he called himself, was truly trapped. If he didn’t confess now, Edward’s personal household would ensure that he did so before meeting a violent death on the scaffold. Corbett, however, was determined that de Craon should take the full story back to Philip of France as a warning that if he and his coven wanted to enter the lists, the clerk would always be there to meet them.

  ‘Ausel became truly terrified,’ he continued, putting the goblet down. ‘The former Templar had left a bloody trail wherever he had stayed. Others,’ he gestured at the Wolfman, ‘were becoming interested in him. Proof might be very difficult to find. However, two former Templars eager to indict him was another matter, so you returned to England. Ausel would remind you of what might happen to the treasure if he was arrested and interrogated. You decided to trap Poultney and Aschroft at the Salamander, a notorious tavern with a most unsavoury history.’

  ‘In which case, why should they go there?’ the Carmelite scoffed, determined to concede nothing.

  ‘Sir Hugh.’ Corbett turned. Mistress Philippa had now gently removed Chanson’s arm and stood swaying slightly. ‘I have never understood, nor have you told me why Henry and Matthew should have gone to the Salamander. They knew no one there.’

  ‘Mistress, please,’ Corbett
indicated with his hand, ‘please sit and I shall tell you.’ Philippa, coaxed by Chanson, sat down. ‘Henry and Matthew knew no one in the city apart from you, mistress, and your husband. However, that relationship was being kept most secret. I too was intrigued about their visit to the Salamander. I asked myself who else Henry Poultney knew in London. Where could he go for advice and sustenance?’

  ‘Of course,’ Philippa retorted, a wan smile on her face, ‘the Minoresses who first raised him.’

  ‘I sent the Magister to see them.’ Corbett watched the accused swallow quickly time and again. ‘Mother Augustine certainly remembered a visitor, a Dominican who showed her papers and seals – forged, of course – and told her he was desperate to meet Henry Poultney on a matter of life and death, an issue of great importance. Did Mother Augustine, the Dominican asked, know where Henry Poultney and Matthew Aschroft were? Of course she did. You knew that, Rougehead. The two men had visited her and told her about their assumed names and their service aboard The Candle-Bright. She was, I understand, greatly amused at the false names: Sumerscale and Fallowfield were two of the meadows at the Minoresses where Henry used to play as a boy. Mother Augustine’s Dominican visitor,’ Corbett leaned over, jabbing his finger at the prisoner, ‘was you disguised yet again.’

  ‘I did not …’ The Carmelite’s voice faltered and he seemed to slump in his chair.

  ‘After that,’ Corbett continued, ‘it was easy. The Candle-Bright berths, you get a message delivered to your intended victims. How they must meet somebody who can help them, at a certain hour on a certain day at the Salamander. They accept the invitation and step into the trap. Henry may have wished to visit the tavern anyway, a place where his father once served – you told him that, mistress?’

  ‘Yes, yes I did.’ Mistress Philippa was huddled tearfully next to Chanson.

  ‘What could they answer during their trial when asked what they were doing at the Salamander? How could they talk of mysterious messages, of scandals in the Templar order, of their real names and identities?’ Corbett shook his head. ‘It would only make a bad situation worse. Both men went to their deaths. You, Rougehead, thought that was the end of the matter and tarried a while in England. You did not know about Raoul and Philippa Henman. They were truly grief-stricken, but eventually they recovered to plot their revenge, that bloody banquet at the Salamander. Of course, being who you are, you were deeply suspicious and persuaded a member of your coven to take your place.

  ‘On that eventful evening, you lurked in the shadows and followed Raoul Henman back here. You vowed to settle with him and Mistress Philippa. You may have been intrigued by their involvement and wished to find out more, which is one of the reasons why you and de Craon now lodge here. You were furious at the attack on the Salamander, the deaths of your henchmen; that explains your presence in Mistress Philippa’s chamber tonight. She would have been found dead, but of course you were under strict instructions to leave this city and this kingdom; you might even have been gone before her corpse was found.’

  Corbett paused. He’d noticed how de Craon had moved slightly away from his former colleague, though he did not seem agitated. He recalled what Agnes had told him. Did de Craon fear this miscreant? Did he resent him? Had the renegade Templar been foisted on de Craon by King Philip and de Nogaret?

  ‘I suggest,’ Corbett continued, ‘you played an important part in the French attacks on the Templar order. More importantly for me, you became involved in subtle, secret stratagems to weaken this kingdom and its king.’

  ‘Be careful,’ de Craon snapped.

  ‘Silence!’ Corbett retorted. ‘We all know now about the depredations of The Black Hogge. Its master Gaston Foix owned courier pigeons. These were brought to London and allowed to nest and feed in the abandoned dovecote at St Giles. Who would notice anything amiss? After all, the master of the lazar hospital, Reginald Ausel, was Rougehead’s close confidant and ally. The names of English cogs leaving Queenhithe are published in St Giles so its inmates can pray for the safety of those ships and their crew.’ Corbett forced a smile. ‘How ironic! In any other circumstance a truly pious gesture, but you used that information to bloody effect. Courier pigeons would leave with their messages for The Black Hogge, hiding in the misty vastness off the Essex coast.’

  ‘I was not party to any of this,’ de Craon protested. ‘Nor was His Grace King Philip.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Perhaps there are those of the French council who have taken matters into their own hands, without the knowledge or permission of my royal master. Of course, as soon as I return to Paris I shall …’ He broke off as Corbett began to clap loudly and slowly.

  ‘Be that as it may,’ the clerk declared, ‘a dark tapestry of sinister treason was unrolled. Rougehead’s cat’s paw manages the Sunne in Splendour, the provisioning place for The Black Hogge. Ausel controls the lazar house. The royal treasure hidden at Temple Combe is marked down for France. I, one of King Edward’s closest advisers, will disappear along with my henchman Ranulf, never to be seen again. Your king would love to dig his hands into jewels and other precious items that once belonged to the English Crown, to play with my chancery ring knowing how its wearer lies buried God knows where.’

  ‘I have heard enough,’ de Craon snapped.

  ‘No you have not!’ Corbett lifted a hand. The archer standing behind de Craon drew his sword and brought the flat of its blade down on the Frenchman’s shoulder. Corbett glanced at the Carmelite. He sat, face impassive except for the blinking of his eyes and the slight movement of his lips, as if talking to himself. Was Rougehead resigned to his fate? Corbett wondered. Or was he plotting some strategy? An offer to tell the English Crown all that he knew in return for his life? Corbett secretly vowed that he would keep the prisoner under the closest scrutiny.

  ‘So Gaston Foix was controlling The Black Hogge; the cat’s paw was at Saltcot, Ausel at St Giles and you, the Carmelite, at Westminster. A subtle disguise, Master Rougehead. You are lean, sinewy, head and face closely shaved, garbed in the brown and cream of the Carmelite under a religious name. A nominee to the French court, an envoy to England. No one would suspect that you were once an English Templar. You and Ausel were determined that it would remain so. The Templars at St Giles had to die for a number of reasons. King Philip did not want any of them becoming involved in a protest to the Pope at the Council of Vienne. More importantly, men like Grandison entertained deep suspicions about Ausel. Ausel was weak; if he was attacked, cornered, God knows what he might say. And of course you,’ Corbett pointed a finger, ‘needed little encouragement to sup another man’s blood.’

  ‘Including yours,’ the accused spat back.

  ‘Including mine,’ Corbett agreed. ‘You enjoyed slaying those Templars, it was easy. Frightened, tired old men, hapless chickens, whilst you were the fox allowed into the hen run. You kept your murderous work at St Giles confidential to yourself and Ausel; even that cat’s paw at Temple Combe did not know the truth. It made me wonder. I mean if the Rougehead of Temple Combe spent most of his time looking after the Sunne in Splendour, then who was responsible for the slayings at St Giles? Ausel? No. And so I began to reflect, whilst the mistakes your cat’s paw made helped me to my conclusion. He was a fool, wasn’t he? Swept up in his own arrogance.’ The Carmelite looked as if he was about to reply, but then shook his head.

  ‘Yes, you were the fox in the hen run,’ Corbett continued. ‘You were brought in, concealed by Ausel, shrouded in the lazar robe he had given you. You preyed on Boveney, an old man sitting in an enclave, his eyes dazzled by the sunset. Datchet in his chamber, his back to you. And Grandison? Ausel must have told you he was a comrade of mine. He was lured to that bench in the meadow, his belly full of wine, his mind all muddled. You killed him in the blink of an eye, using the dagger plundered from the royal treasury some eight years ago. A mocking insult both to me and to the Crown of England. A taunting reminder about the robbery and how a considerable part of the plunder had never been found.’


  ‘And their weapons?’ The Magister Viae spoke up. ‘I understand they were killed with their weapons close by.’

  ‘Oh, there is no great mystery there,’ Corbett murmured. ‘Is there, Ranulf?’

  ‘The Templars were resented at St Giles,’ Ranulf declared. ‘Some of its inmates were leper knights; weak, blighted, but still warriors. The Templars kept their weapons close by in case of attack by these.’

  ‘Which eventually occurred,’ Corbett added, ‘thanks to you.’ The Carmelite’s lips creased in a ghost of a smile.

  ‘And Slingsby?’ Philippa called out.

  ‘Ah yes.’ Corbett turned to her. ‘I did wonder if you were responsible for his death, but,’ he smiled, ‘you are of good heart, Mistress Henman. You, however,’ he pointed at the Carmelite, ‘are a true blood-drinker. You kill like other men breathe. I don’t know why you killed Slingsby. Were you concerned that he might recognise you? Did you nourish a murderous grievance against a tavern master who lured four of your companions to their deaths and nearly did the same to you? Or did you just want to silence a clacking tongue?’ The Carmelite smiled, as if savouring some secret joke. ‘You lured and trapped Slingsby in the entrance to the garderobe, a lonely, deserted place at that time of day. A swift thrust to the heart as you pushed him inside to slump on to the seat, then you closed the door and slipped away.’