by Paul Doherty
'Strange murders,' he murmured. 'People with secrets.' He remembered the physician's ink-stained fingers. I must talk to Selditch,' he muttered. 'He seems to know the secrets of these parts.'
He undressed hurriedly and slipped into his own bed. He pulled the blankets high – despite the merrily spluttering charcoal braziers the room felt cold. Before he drifted into sleep he reflected that it was more than just an investigation into the Pastoureaux that had brought Monck to Hunstanton.
Chapter 3
Corbett was awakened early by the tolling of the manor bell. This also roused the servants, the signal for the daily life of the manor to begin again. Corbett rose and threw a blanket around his shoulders as a servant knocked on the door and brought in large, steaming earthenware jars of hot water to fill the basins and laid out fresh napkins and towels. Once he'd left, Corbett shouted at Maltote and Ranulf to rouse themselves and hastily shaved and washed. Then he broke the seals of his chancery bag and set out his writing instruments on the table. His two companions were hard to wake, so Corbett pulled aside the shutters of the window and opened the small casement. The cold morning air seeped in. Ranulf and Maltote staggered out of bed cursing and muttering. Corbett, however, ignored them and stared through the window. The mist still lingered.
Corbett felt more comfortable and relaxed than the night before. He finished dressing; he made sure he wore long, thick, woollen hose and a brown, serge gown over his shirt tied at the neck and cuffs. He pulled on Spanish leather riding boots, took his military coat and a quilted pair of gloves. He recalled the mysteries of the night before and wrapped his sword belt around him, telling Ranulf and Maltote to do the same.
'Hurry up!' he barked. 'We must leave early!'
He ignored Ranulf's mutterings and went out into the gallery, where a servant took him down to the manor chapel – a small, white-washed room, black-timbered with a simple altar under the window. Father Augustine had already begun to say Mass. Gurney was there with his henchman Catchpole. Afterwards they went down to the hall, colder and not so welcoming as the night before. There they were joined by the others, including Ranulf and Maltote still heavy-eyed with sleep and glowering at their master. Alice was still abed but Selditch came down, chattering as merrily as the night before. Servants brought them ale, freshly baked bread and strips of meat heavily coated with malt. Corbett urged Ranulf and Maltote to break their fast quickly.
'I'll take you to the Hermitage,' Gurney offered.
Monck insisted on going with them, although Gurney argued that Catchpole's presence would provide sufficient protection.
The physician and the priest also wanted to go – 'Just in case,' Selditch said, glancing quickly at Gurney.
Corbett studied both men closely. They seemed friendly enough to him, but a little more guarded than on the previous evening and he wondered what they had to hide. Monck remained as taciturn as ever; he tapped his leather gloves against his thigh, impatient to move on. A groom announced that their horses were ready and they swung their cloaks about them and went out into the yard. The sun, surprisingly strong for November, was burning up the mist. Corbett looked back at the old manor with its dressed-stone ground floor and half-timbered upper storeys.
'How old is Mortlake?' he asked.
'It dates from before the Conqueror's time,' Gurney replied, 'but my great-grandfather pulled the Saxon house down and rebuilt it, using the best stone and finest oak.'
Corbett stared appreciatively. Mortlake Manor was a long, rectangular building well defended by a curtain wall within which was a small village of barns, stables and smithies.
'And the land?' he asked.
Gurney grinned. 'It extends as far as you can ride, but some of the soil is salt-soaked, though further inland it yields good crops. However, it's the sheep that make us rich. But come!'
The rest had already mounted their horses. Ranulf and Maltote were trying to hide their smiles at the sight of the fat physician being bundled into the saddle and Father Augustine looked decidedly ill-at-ease on a rather sorry-looking roan. Corbett and Gurney mounted. The gates were thrown open and they followed the trackway out of the manor and across the moors. In the distance, Corbett could hear the thunder of the surf. Now and again rabbits, startled by the hoofbeats, darted across the gorse in a flurry of fur; short, fat-tailed sheep scattered, bleating, before the horses. The mist was still thick and Gurney shouted to them to keep together. At one time they had to rein in as he led them around a small, weed-fringed marsh.
'It's treacherous country,' he said from the depths of his cowl. 'Hugh, be wary where you go. Try and keep to the paths. The same applies to the beach. The tides are fickle. Sometimes they come in slowly like the night, at others they will rush in to catch the unwary.'
'Which is the point of my story last night,' Physician Selditch spoke up. 'The whole coastline of the Wash is treacherous. Sudden tidal surges can make trickling streams into full-grown rivers, as King John found to his cost.'
'Was the gold never recovered?' Ranulf asked, intrigued by the prospect of a royal treasure lying nearby, waiting to be discovered.
'There are many legends,' Selditch replied. 'Some say that beneath Sir Simon's land a royal ransom waits to be collected.'
He broke off as they cleared the marsh and Gurney urged them forward. Corbett realized that Gurney was leading them further inland, along a well-beaten path; they were travelling south, keeping the coast to their left. He pushed his horse alongside Gurney's.
'What is the Hermitage?' he asked.
'It's really an old farmstead, a small outlying manor. The soil around it is rather poor. In my father's time it fell derelict. Sometimes it was used by shepherds and the people of the roads, travelling friars, anyone.'
'And why did you give it to the Pastoureaux?'
Gurney pulled back his cowl and wiped the sweat from his brow.
'Why not? They seem God-fearing and hurt no one.' He smiled. 'No, don't think of me as a saint, Hugh. In return they provide free labour on my farms.' He pointed through the shifting mist. 'See the light, we are almost there.'
Gurney broke into a gallop. The mist, as if expecting them, suddenly cleared and the Hermitage came into full view. However, as Gurney reined in, all Corbett could see was a high wall, a stout oaken gate and, above this, a tiled roof and the thatch of other dwellings.
'Who goes there?' a voice called.
Corbett, squinting his eyes, saw a man standing on one of the gate pillars. A tinder was struck and a torch flared.
'Who goes there?' the voice repeated.
Gurney gestured to his companions to stay still as he edged his own horse forward.
'Sir Simon Gurney!' he shouted, standing up in the stirrups, 'with the king's emissary, Sir Hugh Corbett.'
'Wait there!' the voice called.
The figure put the torch down and disappeared. Corbett urged his own horse forward.
'But, Sir Simon, you said this was your land and property?'
Gurney shrugged. 'Yes, but I gave the Pastoureaux the same rights as any other religious house. You just can't ride in as you please. Don't forget, Hugh, the countryside is plagued with wolfsheads and outlaws who would help themselves to anything – food, drink, not to mention any woman under sixty!'
He stopped speaking as the gates swung open. Two men came through and walked towards them. Corbett watched them curiously.
'The older one,' Gurney whispered, 'is Master Joseph. The other is Philip Nettler, the abbot and prior, you might say, of the house.'
The two men drew near. Master Joseph was about fifty, rather small, with a sun-tanned face and light-blue eyes which crinkled as he smiled at Gurney and bowed towards Corbett. Sharp-eyed, Corbett thought – he looked more like a military commander than a cleric. Philip Nettler, the younger man, had black tousled hair, a thin narrow face, hooded eyes and tight lips. He seemed more wary, and his eyes strayed beyond Corbett to where Monck sat like the figure of death on his horse.
Maste
r Joseph smiled up at Gurney. 'Good morrow, Sir Simon.'
'This is the king's emissary here, Sir Hugh Corbett,' Gurney said.
Master Joseph stretched out his hand to Corbett, who clasped it. It was smooth and warm. 'And may I introduce Master Philip.'
Again Corbett shook hands, but this time he felt a slight unease. Nettler's face was guarded and he refused to meet Corbett's eyes.
'The king's emissary, Sir Hugh?' Master Joseph voiced his companion's concern. 'Why are you here? You've not come to interfere or move us on?'
Corbett smiled and shook his head.
'Master Joseph, you are blunt so I'll be equally honest in return. The bishops are concerned about any new communities and have conveyed their anxieties to the king. He is' – Corbett chose his words carefully – 'interested in what you do, though at the moment more intrigued by the recent deaths in the area.'
'Aye, I thought so.' Master Joseph's voice suddenly betrayed a country burr.
'We have nothing to do with those.' Nettler spoke up, his voice high, rather waspish. 'Sir Simon knows we keep ourselves to ourselves.'
Monck suddenly urged his horse forward. 'Are we to stay here and freeze?' he asked.
'Sir Simon,' Master Joseph said flatly, 'you gave us the Hermitage and your solemn word that, as long as we lived here in peace, we had the right to say who came or left. We are an enclosed community. We cannot allow anyone, without a by-your-leave, to ride in and ride out.'
He stared at Gurney's other companions. Corbett saw the shift in attention and noticed a slight worry in the Pastoureaux leader's eyes when he caught sight of Ranulf.
Master Joseph, as though he had made up his mind, took a step back. 'Sir Simon, you are welcome, as always. So are Sir Hugh Corbett and Master Monck. Surely the others can wait outside?'
Gurney agreed, and he, Corbett and Monck rode forward, leaving Ranulf and Maltote to converse with an aggrieved Father Augustine and a rather disappointed Selditch. At the gates all three dismounted and followed Master Joseph and Nettler into the wide enclosure. Corbett stared around. It looked to him like any other small farm. There was a low one-storeyed house surrounded by a number of outhouses. Two dogs lay dozing at the entrance to a small barn near a well and some scrawny chickens pecked on the cobbles. He saw a small pig-sty and, on one side of the farmhouse, a small grassy hillock which probably served as a rabbit warren. Master Joseph followed his gaze.
'We are largely self-sufficient,' he said. 'We have plenty of water, we have fresh meat, and we grow our own herbs. Sir Simon pays us in cash or in kind for our work. And the sisters of the Holy Cross are generous to us, as are some of the more prosperous farmers.'
Corbett stared around. The place looked shabby yet well kept – the Pastoureaux had apparently worked hard to build their refuge.
'It's very quiet,' he said.
Then he heard the faint sounds of singing and Nettler pointed across to the farmhouse. 'The community is at prayer.'
'Then perhaps,' Monck said tartly, 'you should have allowed Father Augustine to enter.'
'The community rule is quite precise,' Master Joseph said. 'No more than three visitors are allowed at any one time. Father Augustine will understand.'
Corbett remembered the sour look on the priest's face and thought otherwise.
'You pray often?' he asked, tapping his feet on the ground and wondering if the Pastoureaux would take them in from the cold.
'Our rule is sweet but light,' Master Joseph replied.
Corbett looked quickly at him; he was sure he detected a note of sarcasm in the man's voice.
'What we do,' Master Joseph continued hurriedly, 'is rise, say prayers, study, do some work and return for community prayers and a meal at night.'
'And you never leave here?' Monck asked.
'Only for our journeys to Bishop's Lynn.' This time it was Philip Nettler who replied. 'Father Joseph and I go there when, now and again, we need supplies and when a period of purification is over.'
'Purification?' Monck asked innocently as if that was the first time he had heard the word.
'We are the Pastoureaux.' Master Joseph enthused. 'We are Christ's good shepherds. We accept young men and women of good standing and prepare them in our rule.' He cleared his throat. 'When they are ready we take them to as port, in our case, Bishop's Lynn. We secure passage for them abroad, to our house at Bethlehem, where Christ will come again.'
'You really believe that?' Monck asked, not bothering to hide his sneer.
'Don't you?' Master Joseph asked, blue eyes widening in surprise. 'Don't you, Master Monck, accept the Church's teaching that Christ will come again?'
Monck sensed the theological trap opening for him and drew back.
'It's just strange,' he muttered.
'I have been there,' Joseph said. 'And so has Philip. The Lord is coming.'
Monck returned to the attack. 'But in France and on the Rhine the Pastoureaux are ungodly!'
Master Joseph spread his hands. 'Are we to be held accountable for that? Surely some of your priests are not what they should be?' He lowered his voice to a mock whisper. 'They even say that not all friars, monks, bishops – even popes – are what they should be.'
Philip Nettler, who had been busy hobbling their horses, now came back, wiping his hands on his brown fustian robe. He looked squarely at Gurney.
'Sir Simon, have we ever done any wrong? We never knew Master Monck's servant, who was so barbarously murdered, or the poor baker's wife. We very rarely go down into the village. We cause no trouble.' He pursed his lips. 'But now we have troubles of our own.'
'What troubles?' Corbett asked.
'One of our sisters is missing. Marina.'
Gurney, concerned, looked at Master Joseph.
'You mean Marina the tanner's daughter?'
'Yes, she left last night wanting to visit her father, Fulke. She has not yet returned.'
Master Joseph saw Corbett rubbing his hands together against the cold.
'Come in! Come in!' he urged.
He led them across the yard into the farmhouse. The kitchen was a long, low-beamed room. A small log fire burnt in the great hearth; beside it an oven, where bread was baking, turning the air sweet and moist. The room was clean but furnished sparsely – some chests, shelves with a few pots and pans, and a long trestle table ringed by stools. Master Joseph offered some wine or ale, but Corbett refused. They gathered around the hearth, taking their gloves off and warming their fingers. A door at the far end of the room opened and the rest of the community came in. Corbett looked at them with interest. There were sixteen of them – ten men and six women – all young. They looked cheerful enough. The men had their hair cropped, the women had theirs gathered high under simple blue wimples. All wore brown robes, bound by a cord around the waist, over hose or leggings and stout leather sandals or boots. Corbett idly wondered how discipline could be maintained among people so young but dismissed his thoughts as unfair. Such mixed communities were common in France and 'double' houses of men and women were favoured in the order Gilbert of Sempringham had founded in England.
The community sat down around the table. Master Joseph went over to say grace before ale and bread were served. The Pastoureaux chatted quietly among themselves, almost oblivious of the visitors watching them.
'Are they all local?' Corbett whispered.
'It depends what you mean by local,' Nettler replied. 'There are about four from the local village, others from further afield.'
Corbett studied the young men and women. He knew the life of back-breaking work they had escaped from and wondered what they'd think of the Holy Land after the cold dampness of England. He also caught their concern and heard the name Marina whispered. Gurney walked over and began a conversation with one young man whom he recognized. Nettler moved across to hover anxiously. Suddenly Master Joseph straightened like a hunting dog, ears straining.
'What's that?' he asked.
The room fell silent. Then Corbett heard it too
– a pounding on the outer gate and Ranulf's voice. Master Joseph hurried out. Nettler told the other Pastoureaux to stay where they were. Corbett, Gurney and Monck followed Master Joseph out. They hurried across the yard. Master Joseph unbarred the gate. Ranulf pushed him aside.
'Master!' he called. 'Sir Simon!'
'What's the matter, man?' Gurney snapped.
'One of your servants – a huntsman or a verderer – has found the body of a girl. She's been murdered!'
'Oh, Lord help us!' Master Joseph's face paled. 'Oh, God forfend that! Master Nettler, stay here!'
Gurney had already hurried on to where Father Augustine and the physician stood by their horses. With them was a man dressed in a dirty brown leather jacket and leggings pushed into high riding boots. Gurney turned to him.
'Thomas, what is it?'
The man turned. His usually tanned, bearded face was now pale, his eyes had a haunted look.
'Further along the moors I was out looking for poachers' snares. There's a girl's body.' The man hawked and spat. 'You'd best come and see!'
He took off in a long loping run, Master Joseph hurrying behind him. The rest collected their horses and followed. They travelled about a mile across the moor and there, in a dip in the land just before a small copse, lay the girl's corpse. Her brown robe was thrust back over her young breasts, her legs spreadeagled, her hose pulled down about her ankles. The physician dismounted and went over to study the corpse. Corbett went with him.
'She's been raped!' Selditch said as they knelt beside her. 'Look at the bruises on her thighs.'
Corbett glanced fleetingly, then turned his attention to the thin rope tight around the girl's neck. He used his knife to cut it loose. He brushed back the girl's long, lustrous, black hair with a gentle hand and stared pityingly at the pathetic face, mottled and bruised, a trickle of dried blood at the corner of the half-open mouth. The eyes were wide open, staring blindly into the gorse. Corbett looked over his shoulder at Master Joseph, who was staring, pallid-faced, down at the corpse.