Song of a Dark Angel hc-8

by Paul Doherty

  'Probably,' Corbett said. 'But there was someone ahead of us, too. God knows there are enough who knew about our journey. It's a well-known outlaw trick – single out strangers in the area, lure them in the wrong direction and see what happens. Someone from Hunstanton got to the crossroads before us, changed the sign, waited for us to take the wrong path and tried to entice us into that marsh with a lantern. Don't forget, we delayed longer at Mortlake Manor and the villagers, or who ever it was, know every path and trackway in this area well.'

  'But who?' Ranulf demanded. 'Who is the bastard? So we can go back and cut his throat!'

  'It could be anyone,' Maltote replied, full of confidence after his master's praise. 'Sir Hugh is right. They went ahead of us and laid their trap.' He preened himself. 'We messengers are used to such stratagems. What do we do now, Master? Go back to Mortlake?'

  'No. Maltote, you know which route we followed and the wrong path we took. So, up on your horse and ride like the wind. If you see lights, and it's a hamlet or village, come back!'

  Maltote obeyed, the hoof beats of his horse receding into the distance. Corbett and Ranulf stood at the crossroads, and despite their efforts to keep warm, began to freeze.

  At last Maltote returned.

  'There's a small hamlet. I asked one of the peasants.' The messenger pointed. 'This is the road to Bishop's Lynn. Shall we continue, Master?'

  Corbett agreed. Surprisingly, he did not stop at the hamlet but, ignoring the protests of his companions, pressed on to Bishop's Lynn. The mist became denser, colder, more cloying and Corbett wondered if he had made the right decision. For a while Ranulf moaned loudly but eventually the darkness and the freezing cold silenced him. He slumped on his horse, pulling his cloak and hood about him in sullen resignation.

  At last they reached Bishop's Lynn. Corbett's legs were numb. He was in no mood to argue with the city watch, who had already declared the curfew and closed the gates, and a display of warrants and Ranulf's angry shouts quickly had a postern gate opened for them. One of the wardsmen led them down St Nicholas Street to the town's most spacious tavern, the Lattice House on the corner of Chapel Street. Once again Corbett used his authority, this time to obtain stables for his horse and a chamber for himself and his companions. They all stripped and washed in bowls of steaming hot water, brought up by sleepy-eyed servants. Once dressed in clean clothes, they went down to the taproom for something to eat. All three were too exhausted to talk and the steaming bowls of meat and thick local ale soon made them heavy-eyed and drowsy. They returned to their chambers and flung themselves down on their beds.

  All of them slept late. When Corbett awoke, he felt refreshed, suffering little, apart from a stiffness in his legs, from the previous day's misery. They broke their fast. Maltote went out to make sure the horses were clean and properly stabled and, at Corbett's instructions, took their muddy clothes down to the tavern's wash-house. The landlord, eager to make a profit from such important visitors, had promised that his servants would wash them.

  'Maltote can stay here,' Corbett decided. 'Ranulf, we'll go down to the Guildhall.'

  'What are we looking for, Master?'

  'First, the roll of electors. I want to see if there's a Holcombe still alive in Bishop's Lynn.' 'And what else?'

  'A miller known as Culpeper, whose daughter was recently murdered in Hunstanton.'

  They left the tavern, leaving instructions for Maltote, and went up St Nicholas Street along to the Guildhall, which stood opposite the soaring towers of St Margaret's church. A beadle tried to stop them. Corbett explained who they were and, within minutes, an officious alderman was offering him every assistance.

  'Yes, yes,' the man muttered, his face full of importance. 'We have tax rolls, electors' rolls, subsidy rolls. If there is a Holcombe, these will tell you.'

  'And the miller known as Culpeper?'

  'Oh, he's well known. But you won't find him at his mill.' The alderman pointed to the great fat hour candle burning on its stand. 'He'll be down at the quayside, near the custom house, supervising the barges taking flour downstream.'

  Corbett left Ranulf to scrutinize the tax rolls.

  'Don't forget the goldsmith, Edward Orifab,' he added, then walked down Purfleet Street towards the quayside. He found the city very noisy after the silence of Mortlake Manor. Bishop's Lynn was reminiscent of London, with its narrow alleyways, overhanging houses and the shouts of traders from behind their stalls and gaudily painted booths. The cries of children, as they skipped between the crashing carts, vied with the neighing of horses and the shouts of drovers, whilst the rank smells from the open sewer did nothing to dull the haggling and bartering round the busy market stalls. The taverns and alehouses were doing a roaring trade as this was market day. The peasants from the outlying villages were thronging in to sell their produce and buy provisions before the snows fell and the roads closed.

  The weather had turned fine. The skies were cloud-free, though the lanes and alleyways were still soaked from the previous day's rain. Corbett had to watch where he stepped as he struggled through the crowd down to Purfleet quayside. At last he reached the riverside. The wharves were packed with a tangle of shipping – small herring boats, fishing smacks, merchant ships and even a great belly-bottomed cog belonging to the Hanse. The air was thick with the smell of salt, fish and spices and the quayside thronged with carters, port officials, merchants and sailors. Traders stood offering a wide range of goods, from ribbons to hot pies – Corbett found their shouting and talking in different dialects and tongues confusing. At last he espied a port official dressed in his brown fustian robe and carrying a white wand of office. After more deliberations, Corbett was eventually directed to the Green Wyvern tavern next to the custom house, where Culpeper and other members of his guild met to do business. In its taproom Corbett found Culpeper, a thick-set, burly man with watery eyes and vein-streaked face. He was already deep in his cups, chattering to his fellows. Corbett had to shout to make himself heard.

  'You had a daughter, Amelia?'

  Culpeper sobered up. He put his tankard down and pushed his face close to Corbett's. 'What is that to you?'

  Corbett explained who he was and Culpeper rose drunkenly to his feet.

  'I've drunk enough,' he muttered. 'And this is not the place to talk.'

  He led Corbett back out on to the quayside and into the timber custom house. The miller slumped down on a wooden bench just inside the entrance and gestured at Corbett to do the same.

  'I know it's early,' he slurred, 'but it's market day and the price of flour has risen.' He gazed bleary-eyed at Corbett. 'A man has to reward himself, as well as forget the past.'

  'What have you to forget, Master Culpeper?'

  'A daughter named Amelia. She was our only child. I lavished everything upon her – finery, trinkets, clothes – nothing was too good for her. But she was headstrong.' Culpeper turned away to wipe the tears from his cheeks. 'I went to Hunstanton, you know, to bring her body back. Her mother wanted that. Now we have locked away the past and I let it be.'

  'Do you know why she was murdered?'

  'God knows! Or at least he pretends to. Who would hurt poor Amelia, eh, Master Corbett? What a death, to be strung up like a rat on that lonely, horrible gibbet!'

  'Why did you let her go to Hunstanton?'

  The man blew out fumes of ale and placed his fat hands on his thighs.

  'I had no choice. Amelia was finished here. A laughing stock, a shame to her family! Somebody once called her "used goods". Can you imagine that, eh, Master Corbett? A lovely girl being discarded like a piece of dirty cloth?'

  Corbett remained silent. He could guess what was coming. No miller was popular because no miller was poor. Such a tradesman always provoked envy amongst those who had to buy his products.

  'Amelia became pregnant,' Culpeper explained. 'What, oh, some ten, twelve years ago.'

  'And the father?'

  'We never knew. Never once did Amelia talk about him.' 'You honestl
y never knew?'

  'No, it was always a great secret. You know the games young, lovelorn women play? She would say she was visiting friends or relations.' Culpeper blinked. 'Anyway, Amelia became pregnant, but she told no one about the father. The child was born, but died within days. Amelia became listless. She had not only lost her child but the man she loved. All she would say was that something had ended which could never continue.' Culpeper wiped the tears from his eyes with the back of his hand. 'The years passed. Amelia never referred to her love and he certainly made no attempt to communicate with her. Now, Master Fourbour was a constant visitor to our mill to buy flour for his bakery in Hunstanton. He knew about Amelia's past but offered his hand in marriage. She, surprisingly, accepted. I don't know why.' He shrugged. 'The rest you know.'

  'Was Amelia happy with her husband?'

  'Sir, Amelia was never happy. Fourbour loved her and I think she tolerated him. And, before you ask, she never gave any indication of the tragedy which befell her. Only recently, when going through certain belongings she had left behind, I found a piece of parchment in a small, velvet pouch. Here, you can look for yourself.' Culpeper fumbled in his wallet. He took out a small, dark-blue velvet bag and gave it to Corbett. 'I always carry it around with me.' His voice became choked. 'It's the only memento I have.'

  Corbett undid the pouch. The parchment was a mere scrap, cut in the shape of a heart. On it was written Amor Haesitat above Amor Currit. The four capital letters were heavily emphasized.

  'Love hesitates,' Corbett translated softly. 'Love hastens.'

  'Do you know what it means, Sir Hugh?'

  Corbett smiled compassionately at the miller.

  'It's one of those keepsakes, Master Culpeper, loved by the young and those still in love. But it is also a puzzle.'

  'You can keep it,' Culpeper murmured. He grasped Corbett's hand. 'Keep it!' he urged. He paused as two officials entered, chattering noisily as they went up the wooden, spiral staircase.

  'Find her killer!' Culpeper pleaded. 'Bring him to justice. Let him hang like my poor Amelia!'

  Culpeper put his face in his hands. Corbett patted him gently on the shoulder and sat till he regained his composure.

  'Master Culpeper, does the name Alan of the Marsh mean anything to you?'

  The miller shook his head.

  'Or Holcombe?'

  'No, Sir Hugh, why?'

  'Nothing. You have heard of the Pastoureaux at Hunstanton?'

  'Oh, yes, they come here.' 'Who do?'

  'The Pastoureaux or, at least, their leader, Master Joseph. He comes to buy supplies, and sometimes negotiates with captains about his young men and women who wish to travel to the Holy Land. I often see him near the custom house.'

  'Who else from Hunstanton comes here?'

  'Sometimes Sir Simon Gurney and that surly man-at-arms of his, Catch-'

  'Catchpole,' Corbett finished.

  'And the people from the convent come to sell their wool. Oh, yes, and Sir Simon's physician, a fat man called Selditch. Why do you ask?'

  Corbett got to his feet. 'I just wondered. You are a native of these parts?'

  'Yes.'

  'Does the name Orifab mean anything to you?'

  The miller shook his head.

  'Does much smuggling go on?' Corbett asked.

  Culpeper's face widened into a grin. 'Sir Hugh, I shouldn't be telling you this, but that is the most lucrative trade around here. Everybody smuggles, but catching them and proving it is another matter!'

  Chapter 10

  Corbett left Culpeper and went back to the Guildhall, where Ranulf was sitting on the steps waiting for him. 'Any luck, Ranulf?'

  'None whatsoever, Master. The last Holcombe died some forty years ago. However, I have found our goldsmith, Edward Orifab. He owns a large shop only a few alleyways from here. Our alderman gave me directions. But, Master, I'm starving!'

  Corbett and he went to a nearby tavern and sat at the long table which ran from one wall to the wine tuns. Corbett looked at the cat stalking the counter where the meat would be cut and, seeing the greasy blobs of fat lying on the table, confined himself to bread and ale. Ranulf, however, who had a stomach as hard as flint, ate with relish a dish of meat.

  Ranulf then led Corbett to a large goldsmith's shop in Conduit Street, its black beams and pink plaster freshly painted. There was a large stall in front manned by a journeyman and two apprentices, who informed Corbett that their master was not in. Corbett and Ranulf ignored their shouts and entered the shop. They found the goldsmith, a dour, vinegary-faced fellow, sitting at his counting table surrounded by chests and coffers. Corbett was reminded of a picture of a miser in a stained-glass window. He almost expected to see a devil appear to drag the man off to hell. Orifab hitched his fur-lined robe around him and sniffed, his gimlet eyes dismissing Ranulf and Corbett as not really worth attention.

  'What do you want?' he demanded.

  'Some manners for a start,' Ranulf replied cheerily. 'Didn't your mother ever tell you, manners maketh the man?'

  'I'm busy,' the fellow retorted. He moved stacks of coins around the table.

  Ranulf grabbed the table and shook it. The coins were sent spilling. Orifab leapt to his feet, lips curling like a dog.

  'Master Orifab,' Corbett intervened. 'My name is Sir Hugh Corbett and I am here as the representative of the king. I need to ask you some questions.'

  The goldsmith stepped back, knocking his stool over. He smiled, his head bobbing like a fawning dog.

  'I didn't know,' he muttered.

  'Well, you do now!' Ranulf told him – he enjoyed baiting the pompous and the wealthy in the presence of old Master Long Face.

  'What is it you want? How can I help?' Orifab stuttered. The goldsmith sat down and waved them to a bench in front of the table.

  Corbett remained standing.

  'Do you know Robert the reeve from Hunstanton village?' Orifab pressed his lips together and shook his head. 'He came here,' Corbett continued quietly, 'a few weeks ago to collect a bequest.'

  The goldsmith blinked and looked down at his coins. 'Yes, yes, I remember.'

  'Who left that bequest?'

  The goldsmith laced his fingers together nervously and stared longingly out of the window.

  'It's a secret,' he mumbled. 'I can't tell you.'

  'Fine,' Corbett replied and turned to go.

  Ranulf pushed his face a few inches from the goldsmith's pale cheek.

  'Master Orifab,' he hissed. 'Within a month you will receive a summons from Westminster. The barons of the exchequer will demand your presence and ask you the same question. I sincerely hope you give them a better reply than you gave Sir Hugh!'

  'Wait! Wait!' The goldsmith jumped to his feet, alarmed at the prospect of a long and tiring journey to London. He waved Corbett over. 'I'll show you,' he whispered. 'But you mustn't tell anyone, particularly my wife.'

  Corbett pulled a face at Ranulf. The goldsmith scuttled out to tell the journeyman to look after the shop. He then led Corbett and Ranulf down Tower Street, past Greyfriars, to a large house standing in its own grounds. Orifab pushed the garden gate open. He looked furtively around and knocked at the door. A pretty young maid answered and immediately beckoned them in. As soon as the door was closed behind them Ranulf took one look at a young girl scampering, half-dressed, upstairs and began to'chuckle. As they went into a small antechamber, Ranulf grabbed Corbett's arm.

  'Ever been to a molly-shop, Master?' he whispered.

  Corbett narrowed his eyes.

  'A brothel!' Ranulf hissed.

  Corbett stared around the small room. It was luxuriously furnished, with dyed rugs on the floor, and a log fire spluttered in the small hearth. The chamber boasted at least four chairs, all with quilted backs, as well as a large, polished chest. Two tapestries on the wall, however, convinced Corbett that Ranulf was correct. Both were classical in style and both depicted young women in various stages of undress, boldly displaying their charms to lascivious-looki
ng satyrs.

  A tall, grey-haired lady came in. She looked rather dour, with her prim face, sharp features and long brown dress. She smiled at Orifab, but looked suspiciously at Corbett and Ranulf.

  'You have brought us guests, Master Orifab?'

  'No, Madam,' Ranulf replied, whilst Orifab shifted from foot to foot. 'We are king's men.'

  The woman stepped back so quickly Corbett thought she was going to flee.

  'There's no need for any alarm,' Corbett said. 'I couldn't give a damn what you do here. But, apparently, Master Orifab wishes us to meet someone.'

  'Rohesia,' the goldsmith whispered. 'They wish to meet Rohesia. Mistress Quickly, I suggest you allow them to.'

  He went up and whispered in the Mistress Quickly's ear. She threw one fearful look at Corbett and hastily left the room. A few minutes later she returned, accompanied by a tall, beautiful young woman. The newcomer wore a green taffeta dress, and her corn-coloured hair was covered by a wimple of the same colour, bordered at the edge with gold thread. Jewellery sparkled from her fingers and there were gold and silver bangles on her wrists. The tight-fitting dress emphasized her ample bosom and her slender waist. She looked as innocent and gentle as a young fawn. Corbett thanked God that Maeve would never know about this part of his mission.

  'You wish to see me, Master?'

  'By yourself.'

  Mistress Quickly and Orifab hastily left the room. Ranulf closed the door behind them. Corbett waved the young woman to a seat.

  'You are called Rohesia?'

  'Yes, I am.'

  'Do you know who I am?'

  'No. Mistress Quickly didn't tell me.'

  'I am Sir Hugh Corbett and I am here on the king's business. I come from Hunstanton. I want to know why you left considerable monies with the goldsmith Orifab for Robert the reeve from that village?'

  The change in the young woman was remarkable. Her eyes became hard and unblinking, the generous lips became a thin, angry line and the golden hue of her face quickly dimmed.

  'That is none of your business, sir.'

  'It will go badly with you if you do not answer. Why did you leave money for Robert the Reeve?'