by Paul Doherty
Again that crooked smile. Corbett got to his feet and went to the door. With his hand on the latch he paused. 'Lavinius!'
'Yes?' Monck half-turned in his chair.
'You should tell me the truth. I assure you of this, more murders will occur.'
Monck just went back to his papers and Corbett left, closing the door quietly behind him. He went along the passage and stood at the top of the stairs. He could hear Maltote and Ranulf laughing below. He hoped that the precious pair had not enticed anyone into a game of dice. He went back to his chamber. Outside the wind was howling, beating on the windows and rattling the shutters. Beneath the wind's sombre song Corbett could hear the waves crashing on the rocks as the sea poured into the Wash. He knelt down, made the sign of the cross, and said his favourite prayer: 'Christ be in my head and in my thinking, Christ be in my eyes and in my seeing, Christ be at my left hand and my right.'
His mind drifted. Was Maeve well in London? And baby Eleanor? He shook himself and went back to his prayers, but he found it difficult to concentrate. He gave up, crossed himself and lay, dozing, on the bed. After a little while he undressed, got into bed properly, pulled the blankets about him and went instantly to sleep, dreaming about running across a lonely beacon, pursued by dark, hooded figures.
When he awoke the next morning, Ranulf and Maltote, still fully dressed, were lying on their beds looking, as Ranulf would have put it, as happy as pigs in a mire. Corbett opened the shutters. The wind had dropped, the mist had almost gone and he glimpsed an ice-blue sky. Rubbing his hands against the cold, he washed, shaved, dressed and went down to the buttery. The hour candle on its iron spigot made him realize how late he had slept, for the flame had already reached the tenth circle. Gurney came in, cheery-faced, stamping his feet and blowing his hands.
'Good morning, Hugh. Why do horses always give trouble in winter?'
He poured himself some mulled ale and hungrily snatched mouthfuls of bread and meat as he walked up and down the buttery. Alice came in with Selditch. They stood discussing the day's events, the atmosphere jovial because Monck had already gone walking.
'By himself as usual,' Gurney added wryly. 'Never have I met a man who liked his own company so much.' Then he put his tankard down as a clamour came from the front of the house. With a clatter of boots Catchpole came rushing into the buttery.
'Sir Simon!' Catchpole leaned against the door jamb to catch his breath. 'Sir Simon, Sir Hugh, you'd best come, now!'
'What's the matter?' Alice asked, her voice high.
Catchpole wiped the sweat from his face. 'I've been down to the village. They've caught Gilbert and his mother.'
'Oh, Lord save us!' Gurney grabbed his cloak and shouted at the servants to prepare the horses.
'What are they doing?' Corbett asked.
'They are pressing Gilbert to plead – the old way, under a heavy oaken door with weights on top.'
'And Gunhilda?'
'They have brought out the ducking stool.'
Gurney hurried from the buttery. Corbett went back to his own chamber. He put on his sword belt, boots and cloak, and looked despairingly at his two servants. They were still snoring their heads off. Corbett hurried down to join Gurney and Selditch who stood, booted and spurred, in the yard, shouting for their horses. They left the manor a few minutes later, accompanied by six of Gurney's burlier servants and thundered down the path towards the village.
The green in front of the tavern was full of people milling about. For a while all was confusion; mud, dung and even a few rocks were thrown at Gurney's party. Gurney's retainers, using the flats of their swords and their whips, eventually imposed order and forced their way through. The scene at the edge of the pond was terrible. Gilbert lay pinned beneath a heavy door on which boulders and iron weights had been placed. The flaxen-haired young man was semi-conscious, quietly moaning to himself. Fulke the tanner was kneeling beside him, shouting at him to confess. Further along, the villagers had rolled a massive tree trunk to the edge of the pond and, over this, slung a long pole with a small chair at one end. To this was strapped a pathetic old lady, tied like a sack of straw. Her ragged clothes were soaked, her long, grey hair slimed with pond water. A group of burly villagers, under Robert the reeve's direction, swung the poor woman in and out of the icy water whilst the crowd, women and children included, simply shouted: 'Confess! Confess! Confess!' 'This is murder!' Corbett shouted.
He strode over and pushed the reeve away. Behind him Gurney and the rest began to clear the weights and the heavy door from the prostrate young man.
'You have no authority here!' The reeve's face was ugly and red, swollen with anger and ale.
Corbett drew his sword.
'I am Sir Hugh Corbett, the king's representative here. And that woman will be tried only by due process of law!'
A low grumble of protest greeted his words. Emboldened, Robert the reeve took a step forward. Corbett, gripping the hilt two-handed, raised the sword.
'What are you going to do, Robert?' he said softly. 'Attack me?'
The reeve hastily stepped back.
'Bring the bitch in!' he shouted over his shoulder.
The ash pole was pulled back and the ducking stool lowered into the shallows at the edge of the pond. Corbett splashed up to it.
'Oh, Christ, have pity!' he breathed.
Gunhilda's dirty grey hair was clamped to her lined, seamed face. Corbett took one look at the heavy-lidded, half-open eyes and the sagging jaw and knew it was too late. He felt for the blood beat in her neck and her scrawny wrists, but there was not even a nutter. Drawing his dagger, he slashed the woman's bonds and took her up in his arms. She was as light as a child. He walked back up the muddy green.
'You bastards!' he roared.
The reeve quietly slunk away. Gurney and Catchpole came up.
'Corbett, what's the matter?'
'The old woman's dead!' Corbett answered. 'Murdered by these bastards!'
He walked on and placed the old woman's corpse on a table that stood outside the tavern. He arranged the body carefully, pulling the dirty skirts over vein-streaked, spindle-like legs. He listened once more for her heart beat.
'Dead from drowning or from shock.' He stared at Gurney. 'Either way, Sir Simon, this woman was murdered.'
Two of Gurney's men brought the blond young man towards him. Corbett went over to him, put his hand gently under his chin and raised his face. Gilbert was obviously slightly simple, slack-jawed and heavy-eyed. An ugly swelling had closed one eye and bloody bubbles frothed at the corner of his mouth. He was also a mass of bruises from head to toe.
Corbett took a wineskin from one of Gurney's retainers and forced it between the young man's lips.
'He is a murderer!' Robert the reeve shouted. With a throng of villagers behind him he had rediscovered his defiance.
Corbett glared at the reeve's fat, pompous face.
'You and your friends are murderers!' he shouted. 'Gunhilda is dead and her blood is on your hands!'
Gilbert's strangled moan echoed Corbett's words.
'This man,' Corbett shouted hoarsely, 'must be tried by the due process of law before the king's justices. He is now my prisoner.'
Father Augustine pushed his way through to the front of the crowd. Gurney, standing now beside Corbett, beckoned him forward.
'Father, couldn't you have stopped this?'
The priest's eyes flickered from Gurney to Corbett. He licked his thin, dry lips and stared shamefacedly down at the old woman's corpse.
'I tried to,' he muttered, 'but their blood lust was up. You can't blame them, Sir Hugh. Marina's corpse lies cold in my church. Who will answer for her death, eh?'
Gurney snapped his fingers at his retainers. 'Take the woman's corpse to the church. Father, I'll pay the burial dues.'
'And the young man?' Corbett nodded towards Gilbert, who was straining at his captor's arms and staring slack-mouthed at his mother's bedraggled body.
'Take him to the manor!' Gu
rney told his men. 'Get Master Selditch to tend his wounds!'
Corbett stared round at the villagers.
'The king and his court lie nearby at Walsingham. He will not be pleased to hear of this violence and disorder. And any person who lifts his hand against Gilbert puts himself beyond the king's peace.'
'Sir Hugh speaks the truth,' Gurney confirmed. 'A terrible evil stalks this place. More violent deaths have occurred in the last few months than in living memory. So, go! Disperse to your homes!'
They went. There was some grumbling from hot-heads, but already wiser minds were beginning to prevail. The crowd broke up, the women hustling their children back to their cottages, the men remembering that ploughing and harrowing had to be done. Gilbert was bundled into the saddle of one of the retainer's horses and a taciturn Gurney led them back to the manor house. Just before they entered the gates, he pulled his horse alongside Corbett.
'Hugh, I thank you.'
Corbett looked at him.
'I know what you are thinking,' Gurney said. 'Perhaps I should have shown more force, but these are my people. I held Marina at her baptism.'
Corbett patted him gently on the arm.
'Sir Simon, I'm not your judge,' he said. 'Gilbert may well be guilty and if he is he should hang for that terrible crime. But he may be able to help us. You have dungeons?'
Gurney nodded.
'Then take him to them, but make him comfortable.'
Gurney agreed and they clattered into the yard.
Alice and her maids hurried out and Gurney hastily explained what had happened. Alice led them into the hall and the kitchen boys brought in stoups of ale, bread, cheese and salted bacon. Monck was already sitting before the fire with a heavy-eyed Ranulf and Maltote. He seemed a little calmer than the night before and listened patiently while Corbett described what had happened in the village.
'You will question Gilbert?'
Corbett nodded.
'Good!'
'But shouldn't you do so?' Corbett asked. 'Surely Marina's death is linked to the Pastoureaux? She was a member of their community.'
'No, no.' Monck shook his head and played with the pommel of his dagger. 'You deal with Gilbert.'
Corbett hid his annoyance. 'Tell me, where is Lickspittle buried?'
'In the village cemetery.'.
'Did he leave any effects?'
'Yes, some papers, geegaws, daggers, swords, the clothes he died in. Selditch prepared the corpse, though that was done hurriedly enough. A decapitated body is not something to linger over.'
'May I look at these effects?' Corbett asked.
'In time.' Monck got to his feet. 'Now I am busy with the venerable sisters of the Holy Cross convent.' He patted Corbett patronizingly on the shoulders. 'You take care of the rustics, Corbett. Leave other matters to me.' He walked out of the hall.
Corbett winked at Ranulf and Maltote. 'And how are my lively lads?'
Ranulf groaned. 'Too much wine, too little water,' he said. 'It's Maltote's fault – he invited Catchpole to a drinking contest.' He stopped speaking as Catchpole himself came into the hall.
'Sir Hugh, the prisoner is in the dungeons.' The old soldier grinned. 'It's a long time since we had a prisoner.' 'Is he comfortable?'
'Aye, but fearful of being hanged.' Catchpole smiled. 'But, there again, aren't we all?'
Corbett finished his ale and walked out to the courtyard. He watched as Monck mounted his horse and galloped out through the gates. Corbett went back up to his own chamber and took a special key from his saddlebag.
'Every self-respecting housebreaker has one, Master,' Ranulf had once explained. 'All locks are similar and this key fits most.'
Corbett hastened down the gallery towards Monck's room. He slipped the key into the lock. It turned easily.
'Well,' Corbett said to himself, 'Ranulf was right.'
He opened the door and stared around the chamber. The stools were precisely positioned around the table, the blankets neatly arranged on the bed. Monck's tidy mind, Corbett thought. Monck's saddlebags lay tidily under the window, but they were securely strapped and buckled. Corbett went across to the small table beside the bed. A thick beeswax candle stood there and the wax had dripped down, forming a brittle crust on the table.
'I wonder?' Corbett whispered to himself.
Monck might be a strange character but he was still a clerk. Perhaps he, like Corbett, would sit in his bed late at night poring over parchments, scribbling notes on his writing tray. Corbett knelt, felt beneath the bed and smiled in triumph as his fingers caught hold of three pieces of parchment.
He pulled them out carefully and sat on the edge of the bed to study them. The first appeared to be a list of precious objects. Corbett examined it closely; these items were not mere baubles but silver plate, cups, even a cope. It was difficult to decipher the writing because Monck had used many of the personal abbreviations so beloved of chancery clerks. Corbett put the list on the bed and studied the second piece of parchment. At first he could make no sense of the strange lines drawn on it. He smoothed the parchment out and then realized he was looking at a crude map of the Hunstanton area. It was very similar to the one he had drawn. He traced with his fingers the coastline of the Wash, as drawn by Monck, and found the crosses that marked Holy Cross convent, Hunstanton village, Mortlake Manor, the gallows and the Hermitage. It was more detailed than his own map and covered a wider area, including Swaffham, the area around the Wash and the river Nene. It was here that Monck had done the most scribbling, with dotted lines criss-crossing each other. On the third piece of parchment was a crude drawing of the coastline and a sketch of a cog under sail.
Corbett tried to memorize every detail of all three parchments before pushing them back under the bed. He got up and, making sure everything was in its place, walked across and looked out through the unshuttered window which, like his, overlooked a grey, sullen sea.
Whatever brought you here, Monck, he thought, it's not the Pastoureaux!
He left the chamber, locking it securely behind him, and went down to the others sitting in the hall.
'Sir Simon, may I see the prisoner now?' he asked.
Gurney nodded. 'Catchpole will take you down. Selditch is already with him.'
Catchpole escorted Corbett along a passageway which ran by the kitchen. He stopped before a metal-studded door, opened it and revealed steps leading down into a cavernous darkness relieved only by the flickering light of a few sconce torches. At the bottom of the steps was a long passageway hewn out of the rock. Corbett touched the wall in surprise. Catchpole, leading the way, stopped. 'Didn't you know, Sir Hugh, that Mortlake Manor is built on a warren of passageways and tunnels? It used to be a ferry point for those who wanted to travel across the Wash.' He pointed to the ceiling. 'Some people say the Romans had a watch tower here with a beacon to guide their ships. After that the Saxons, then old Duke William of Normandy built a keep. You should talk to physician Selditch, he knows the history of the place. But, come.'
They continued down the narrow sloping passage. Corbett felt a flicker of panic and tried to control his breathing. Maeve and Ranulf always teased him about his horror of enclosed spaces. At last Catchpole stopped before a heavy timber door with a small grille at the top. He unlocked it and mockingly ushered Corbett through.
The dungeon was no more than a bare, cavernous storeroom, though Gurney had tried to make his prisoner comfortable. Gilbert was sitting on the edge of a cot bed with Selditch on a stool opposite him. The physician was washing the prisoner's face with a mixture of water and wine and applying an unguent to the large bruise around his eyes. A small, three-branched candelabra provided a pool of light. Gilbert hardly looked up but stared morosely at the rush-covered floor whilst Selditch, busy with his medicines and potions, mumbled a greeting. At last he finished.
'There!' He smiled at Corbett. 'No real injury, some bruising on his chest and legs. But he'll live to stand trial.'
'They murdered my mother!' Gilbert
muttered.
'They say,' Corbett replied quietly, 'that you murdered the girl.'
Selditch got to his feet. 'I'll wait for you outside, Sir Hugh.'
Corbett nodded, sat on the stool and waited for the physician to close the door behind him. 'Gilbert!' he ordered. 'Look at me!'
The young man lifted his podgy, slack face and rubbed his wavering, watery eyes. Could this man, Corbett wondered, clumsy, slightly dim-witted, catch and murder the young fawn-like Marina? He closed his eyes – an idea had occurred to him but it flickered like a weak flame and he lost the thread. Something about Marina being out on the moors? Corbett stared down at his hands. Yes, that was it! Marina was a local girl. She knew the area well. If she was threatened, why not try and return to the Hermitage? Or had she gone to meet, not her father in the village, but someone from the manor? The visitors – the Prioress and Father Augustine – had, obviously, been abroad that night. Selditch had arrived late at table. But anyone could have left the manor – Catchpole had mentioned underground passages. Had someone used one of them to slip out of the manor?
'I didn't murder the girl,' Gilbert mumbled.
Corbett pointed to the scratches on the man's hands and wrists as well as the few on his face.
'Where did you get these?'
'When I was running away, the brambles tore at me.' 'And what about the amber necklace found in your house?'
Gilbert shook his head blankly. He stared unblinkingly at Corbett.
'I wouldn't hurt Marina. Gilbert loves Marina. All Gilbert wanted to do was stroke her soft hair.'
Corbett studied the young man. You are no murderer, he reflected, but you are someone's catspaw.
'Gilbert, the necklace was found in your hut.'
'Somebody put it there.'
'And Marina refused to meet you.'
'No, she didn't.'
Corbett's head snapped up. 'What?'
The young man smiled so slyly that Corbett had to pinch himself. Perhaps Gilbert was more intelligent, more cunning than he had thought.
'You met Marina?'
'Yes, at our usual place, the old oak on the moors. Marina met me twice. I put something there. When we were young we used to play there. Marina, me and Blanche.'