by Paul Doherty
The physician was about to refuse to answer. Corbett leaned over and gripped him by the hand.
'I want to know,' he said quietly. 'I want to know everything. Otherwise I will seize all of Sir Simon's records -his list of rents, taxes, dues and imposts. I'll spend days going through them. If I find there is something you haven't told me, as God is my witness, you will rue the day!' Corbett touched the top of his head. 'Yesterday I was nearly murdered. My patience is running out!'
Selditch fluttered his fingers nervously.
'Holcombe was a tenant farmer outside Bishop's Lynn,' he replied slowly. 'Alan was a native of these parts. There's really very little in the records.' He shuffled his feet.
'How did Alan earn his bread?' Ranulf asked.
'He was steward of the manor.'
'And what does that mean?' Corbett asked.
'He would ride round collecting the manor lord's dues and carry messages and orders.'
'So, he would know the countryside?'
'Oh, yes.'
'And all the hideaways and the secret places?' Selditch nodded.
'Is there anything I should know?'
The physician blinked. 'According to one of the rolls of the manorial court,' he answered slowly, 'two years before King John lost his treasure in the Wash, allegations were laid against Alan of being a smuggler.'
Corbett groaned and hid his face in his hands. He looked up.
'Is there anything else?'
Selditch shook his head, so Corbett dismissed him.
'What's the matter?' Ranulf asked anxiously as the physician closed the door behind him.
'Oh, for God's sake, Ranulf! Can't you see for yourself? Alan of the Marsh and Holcombe planned to steal King John's treasure. A hasty plan, probably concocted once Holcombe knew that he had been hired to guide the treasure train across the Wash. The plan is, however, successful. Holcombe steals the treasure and meets his accomplice at some lonely place. Now they hide most of their plunder; some they take, perhaps to raise ready cash.' Corbett paused to marshal his thoughts. 'Holcombe, however, is suspected. He's hunted down by the Gurneys, who question then execute him and bury his corpse ignominiously with the little treasure he was carrying.' Corbett paused and smoothed the table with the top of his hand. 'Now, of course, it's all supposed to be a secret but gossip and rumours spread. Alan of the Marsh decides to flee. He hides the treasure.' Corbett glanced at Ranulf. 'What would he do next?' 'Try and leave the country?'
'Correct. Now, he is a smuggler like many in these parts. He faces, however, a number of difficulties – hiding, securing a passage, then moving the treasure without anyone knowing. Very dangerous, because he knows he's a wanted man.'
Ranulf shrugged. 'Perhaps he just died?'
Corbett shook his head. 'What about the other possibility? What if Alan of the Marsh was successful? What if he fled abroad, taking the treasure with him to live a life of luxury beyond the Rhine or in southern France? Don't you realize, Ranulf, we could be chasing will-o'-the-wisps.'
'So, why all the mystery?' Ranulf exclaimed. 'Why the murders?'
Corbett rubbed the side of his face. 'I can't answer that. All I do believe is that someone else, or a group of people, is also looking for the treasure.' Corbett sighed. 'However, they too may be chasing will-o'-the-wisps.' Corbett picked up a piece of parchment. 'What we must do is establish a pattern. Yet, what do we have? Dead flowers left under a gallows. A poor baker's wife murdered. Cerdic Lickspittle decapitated, his remains tossed on the beach. Graves being pillaged and Monck murdered out on the moors.'
'Well, at least,' Maltote interrupted 'we have arrested the Pastoureaux and discovered the person responsible for Marina's death.'
Corbett chewed the quick of his thumb.
'Yes, we have,' he muttered. 'But those bastards may also have been looking for the treasure.' He went back, lay on the bed and stared up at the timbered ceiling.
'And we mustn't forget the lights, the strange signalling between ship and shore,' Ranulf added.
'No, no,' Corbett murmured. He turned. 'I have an explanation for that, though it's hard both to swallow and digest. Anyway, leave me for a while.'
Ranulf and Maltote went down to the hall, whispering excitedly about their master's strange mood. Corbett chewed his lip and stared at the ceiling. For some reason he kept thinking of the love-message given him by Culpeper the miller: Amor Haesitat, Amor Currit. And was there something else? Something he had seen or thought about, whilst running across that beach? Corbett closed his eyes. And what had Ranulf told him about that boat beached and hidden away? He smiled as he remembered his logic, a common axiom in the schools: 'If you reduce all matters and reach one conclusion, that conclusion must be the only acceptable one. Consequently, you have discovered the truth.'
'Well, let's test it,' Corbett murmured.
He swung his legs off the bed, grabbed his riding boots and cloak and went out, shouting for Ranulf and Maltote.
They collected their horses from the stables and rode out on to the moor to the Hermitage. Maltote tended the horses whilst Corbett and Ranulf went into the old malt house. As soon as they were inside, Ranulf sniffed.
'I can smell the perfume. It's rather strong. Very similar, I am sure, to what Lady Alice wears.'
'Yes,' Corbett replied. 'I smelled it just before I was struck on the head. Come on, I'll show you what I found.'
He gathered some dry straw and led Ranulf down to the cellar. Corbett placed the straw at the base of the wall and struck a tinder but, when it flared into life, Corbett stared in disbelief at the wall. What he had previously seen had now disappeared, scorched off.
'Someone used a torch,' he murmured. 'Someone lit a torch and brushed the wall.' Corbett pointed to the burn marks and described what he had seen.
'Whatever it was,' Ranulf spluttered, 'it must have been important.'
Corbett and he returned to the yard.
'Let's say,' Corbett declared, staring up to where the seagulls circled, raucously screaming at being disturbed, 'Let's say we had stolen the gold. Where would you hide it?'
'Well, not in a place like this,' Ranulf answered.
'Why is that?'
'Any place visited by others is dangerous. Sooner or later, someone may be fortunate, or skilled enough, to discover where you hid the treasure.'
'But to bury it out on the moors,' Corbett said, 'is dangerous too. You might be seen burying it and there's always the possibility that you might forget exactly where you concealed it.' He mounted his horse. 'But now, Ranulf, on to a different sort of digging – let's go and upset the prioress.'
They arrived at the Holy Cross convent, where Dame Cecily kept them waiting for a while in an antechamber. When they were eventually ushered into her room she greeted them with such a false smile that Ranulf felt his stomach lurch.
'Well, how can we help you now, Sir Hugh?' she simpered. 'I was so shocked to hear about the Pastoureaux. Such a dreadful business. What evil men!'
'Yes, they were smugglers,' Corbett said. 'They smuggled out human flesh for sale in all the devil-ridden markets of the world.' He leaned forward. 'Smuggling is a sin, isn't it?'
The prioress blinked, her doughy face paled.
'Yes, it is a sin,' Corbett continued, 'and a crime – in the evasion of taxes and the infringement of royal authority, so that's how you can help me. You can tell me why you are a smuggler?'
Dame Cecily grabbed the desk to steady herself. 'What is this?' she spluttered.
Ranulf wished that Maltote were here instead of guarding the horses in the stable yard. Dame Cecily's mouth opened and closed.
'Are you accusing me of smuggling?'
'Yes, I am,' Corbett replied, hoping he was correct in his deductions.
'And, pray, what do I smuggle? '
'Yes, you should prayl'Corbett snapped. 'You should pray that the king has mercy on you. You should pray for royal clemency and the forgiveness of your bishop.' He leaned forward. 'You are a smuggler. You own
sheep, you have shearing-sheds, you load the wool into bales and your carters take it down to the custom house at Bishop's Lynn. Now, let us say you have three hundred bales. Two hundred and fifty go through customs and are loaded on board ship at Bishop's Lynn. The ship leaves harbour, probably on the evening tide. Standing off the coast it heads towards Flanders. But instead of sailing across the Channel it anchors off the Norfolk coast and takes aboard the other fifty bales. Whether it sends a boat to the shore or whether a boat is rowed out to it from here, I don't know. You are paid in cash and pay no duty. The ship's captain makes a healthy profit in Flemish ports.'
'This is ridiculous,' the prioress exclaimed.
'No, it's the truth. So now we come to the death of Dame Agnes. She was the treasurer of this priory and every so often she would go for a walk on the cliff top. She would take a staff and a lantern. Most people viewed her as eccentric. In reality, she was signalling to a ship. I believe you even have a small boat in the cove to help you in your nefarious business arrangements.' Corbett got to his feet and walked over to stare at a painting. 'One night, however, tragedy occurred.' He turned, raising one hand. 'Oh, I agree, no foul play was involved, but Dame Agnes was getting old. Perhaps the cliff was beginning to crumble or the wind was too strong? Anyway, the good sister stumbled and fell to her death.' Corbett looked over his shoulder and smiled. 'She was the treasurer to this house and, in time, will be replaced. Your smuggling activities will undoubtedly continue, once snooping royal clerks disappear.'
'You have no proof,' the prioress snarled.
'But I have,' Corbett lied. 'I have interviewed one of the ships' captains. He has confessed all.' Corbett walked back, playing with the hilt of his dagger. 'Perhaps I should also question some of your retainers, particularly those who are so well paid for rowing that boat out?'
Dame Cecily could take no more. She put her head down and sobbed.
'Madam,' Corbett said quietly.
Dame Cecily raised her tear-stained face. 'We have always done this,' she whispered. 'And, Sir Hugh, can you blame us? The taxes are so heavy. Our profits are cut.'
Corbett glanced around the luxurious chamber.
'You could make economies,' he murmured.
Dame Cecily composed herself. 'What will you do, Sir Hugh? Inform the king?'
'Not necessarily,' Corbett replied. 'Provided two conditions are fulfilled.' He saw the hope flare in the prioress's black-button eyes.
'Which are?'
'First, that the smuggling must cease forthwith. Secondly, that you tell me what you know of Alan of the Marsh.'
Dame Cecily burst into tears, her shoulders shaking so much that even Ranulf felt sorry for her.
Chapter 12
'Madam,' Corbett asked. 'Why should a man who died so many years ago trouble you?'
Dame Cecily rose to her feet. She grasped the ring of keys hanging from the belt at her waist and walked over to a large, iron-bound coffer. She opened it, brought out a small roll of yellowing parchment and handed it to Corbett.
'Read it, Sir Hugh. It is a piece removed from the chronicles of our convent that only the prioress of the day is permitted to see.'
Corbett took the parchment over to the window, where the light was stronger. He saw that the convent's chronicle must be a roll of parchment made up of pieces stitched together. The portion he held in his hand had been carefully removed so that the loose ends of the chronicle itself could be re-stitched, leaving no sign that a piece was missing.
Dame Cecily moved towards the door. 'I'll return,' she said. 'I have something else to show you.'
Corbett shrugged and began to read, studying the blue-green lettering, quickly translating the Latin.
'Does it mention Alan of the Marsh?' Ranulf asked.
'No, it doesn't.'
'Then what use is it to us?'
'It is very useful indeed. Listen to this. It's dated August 1217, almost a year after King John lost his treasure in the Wash. In that month a fugitive took refuge in the convent. He reached the chapel and grasped the high altar, claiming sanctuary, which the prioress of the time granted. The fugitive demanded food and water and claimed his right to remain for the statutory forty days. But listen to this, Ranulf. It becomes more interesting. Sir Ralph Gurney came to the convent looking for a fugitive who was held responsible for the disappearance of a priest called James. The lady prioress told him that she had no knowledge of such a felon.' Corbett walked to the table and tossed the parchment down. 'Is that all?' Ranulf cried.
'It's enough,' Corbett answered. 'But I am sure Dame Cecily can tell us more.'
'Who is this priest, Father James?' Ranulf asked.
'God knows!' Corbett replied morosely.
'Why did they put such an item in their chronicle?' Ranulf persisted. 'And then remove it?'
Corbett clapped him on the shoulder. 'A good question, Ranulf. I suspect that something happened between the fugitive claiming sanctuary and the arrival of Lord Simon's great-grandfather. The two events were routinely recorded, but it's what linked the two that led to this portion of the chronicle being removed. Perhaps Dame Cecily may provide that link?'
Eventually the prioress returned. She hurried behind her desk and brought from beneath her robe a velvet bag tied at the neck. She undid this and brought out a gold chalice, which shone and sparkled in the candlelight. Ranulf gasped at the sheer beauty of it.
'Pure gold!' Ranulf breathed. He watched enviously as the prioress handed it to Corbett. 'Look at those diamonds!' Ranulf pointed to the precious stones which encrusted the lip and stem of the chalice.
Corbett weighed the cup in his hand.
'I've read your manuscript.'
Dame Cecily sat down and sighed in resignation.
'And now you know all our secrets, Sir Hugh.'
Corbett put the chalice back on the table. 'I think so. Alan of the Marsh was the fugitive. He was well known to Holy Cross convent. After all, he was steward of Mortlake Manor and would often have dealings with the good sisters here. Indeed, Alan may well have had a hand in the smuggling which' – he laughed abruptly – 'seems to be one of the occupations of this house. However, he was also a thief. He and his accomplice Holcombe had plundered the royal treasure. They would have escaped unnoticed if it hadn't been for the vigilance of Sir Richard Gurney. Holcombe was taken and hanged. Alan went into hiding.' Corbett picked up the chalice and stared at it. 'Now Alan of the Marsh was like the unjust steward in the gospel. He was trapped by the law and his own greed. He couldn't escape through the ports with so much treasure – no ship's master who discovered how much wealth he carried would allow him to live. Corbett stared at the white-faced prioress. 'Now, for a while Alan hid out at the Hermitage but the net was closing in fast. He searched around for a place to hide.'
'He came here?' Ranulf asked.
'Yes, he came here. He knew the law of sanctuary and the then prioress would not deny him.' Corbett put the cup down. 'Am I speaking the truth?'
Dame Cecily nodded.
'So,' Corbett continued, 'while Alan was in hiding at the priory he and the prioress entered into a secret pact. I am sure Alan pointed out that if he was captured he would have to tell the authorities about the smuggling activities of the good sisters here. Of course, he bribed as well as threatened. He had stolen this precious chalice from King John's treasure. He offered it to the prioress as the convent's reward for hiding him.' Corbett glanced at Dame Cecily. 'I gather this is used at Mass?'
'Yes,' she murmured. 'We say it was a bequest.'
'Now, everything proceeded satisfactorily,' Corbett continued. 'The convent kept its smuggling activities hidden and gained a very valuable chalice. But what happened to Alan of the Marsh?' Corbett rubbed the side of his head, still sore after the blow the previous day. He got to his feet and stretched. 'What will happen if the king learns about all this, eh? Well, I'll tell you, Dame Cecily, he would send my Lord of Surrey here to tear this place apart, in the hope of finding his grandfather's treasur
e trove.'
'But that's all we have!' Dame Cecily wailed.
'Oh, no!' Corbett murmured. 'You also have Alan of the Marsh.'
Dame Cecily's face fell. 'But the man is dead!'
'Oh, I am sure he's dead.' Corbett put his hands on the table and leaned over. 'Don't you see? The prioress who sheltered this fugitive and took the chalice is hardly going to let Alan leave, is she? Why not keep him here? Why not see if she could wheedle more gold out of him? Tell me, Dame Cecily, what would you do if you were confronted with such a problem?'
'I don't know,' she spluttered. 'I'd be terrified.' She squirmed in her chair. Corbett sat down.
'Let's look at it as a logical problem, then,' Corbett said. 'You know the convent better than I do, Dame Cecily. Where would you hide a man in a community of women?'
She shrugged. 'He could have become one of the workers on our farm?'
Corbett laughed. 'I hardly think so. First, Alan of the Marsh was well known in the area. Secondly, the then prioress must have been very eager to keep him away from prying eyes.'
'I don't know!' Dame Cecily wailed. 'As God is my witness, Sir Hugh, I do not know!'
Corbett steepled his fingers. 'Do you still have the right of sanctuary?'
Dame Cecily swallowed hard.
'Well, do you?' Corbett snapped.
'Our house surrendered it.'
'When?'
'In 1228.'
Corbett smiled. 'And before that, when someone claimed sanctuary, where would they have stayed?'
Dame Cecily rose to her feet. 'Sir Hugh, I think you had better come with me.'
Corbett raised his eyes at Ranulf as they followed the anxious prioress out of her chamber, along the galleries, across the cloisters and into the empty chapel. Corbett stared around in amazement at the soaring nave, wide transepts and beautifully carved rood screen. Dame Cecily took them into the sanctuary, where the floor was of Purbeck marble and the white altar glistened in the light of burning candles. The sanctuary was dominated by long, stained-glass windows and, high in the wall, on either side, stood stalls of gleaming oak. An intricately carved wooden statue of the Virgin and child stood in the far corner. Dame Cecily genuflected before the winking sanctuary lamp.