by Paul Doherty
‘Finished, Blackstock!’ he yelled. ‘I’ll take you back to Orwell to hang, your brother next to you.’ He stroked his neatly clipped grey moustache and beard, his watery blue eyes flinty-hard as he glared hatefully at this pirate who had sunk three of his ships. ‘The Cloister Map!’ he demanded. ‘Hand me that and I’ll give you a swift death.’
‘How did you know?’ Blackstock countered, staring round. Behind the two enemy captains, his men were being bound hand and foot. Stonecrop, however, remained unfettered, standing apart from the rest. Blackstock had his answer. He glared down at Castledene and Paulents. ‘Hang?’ He smiled. ‘No, I’ll not hang, nor will my brother. You are both marked and sealed by the Angel of Death.’
Blackstock lunged forward, the image of his brother bright in his mind as the longbows twanged and the deadly shafts pierced his face and neck. His life was over even as he tumbled down the steps. Castledene turned the body over with the toe of his boot and stared down. Blackstock’s eyes were already clouding in death, blood gushing out of nostrils and mouth. Castledene knelt down, pulled back the mailed hauberk and rifled through the dead man’s clothes and wallet. When he found nothing, he shouted at his own lieutenant to go down to the cabin and search. The man came hurrying back up the steps, an empty coffer in his hands.
‘Nothing, sir, nothing at all. What shall we do with these?’ He pointed at the prisoners.
‘Hang them all!’ Castledene shouted. ‘From stern and poop! Especially this.’ He kicked Blackstock’s corpse.
Stonecrop came forward, hands extended.
‘You promised me my life.’
‘So I did.’ Castledene, suffused with anger, walked to the side. He turned and gestured at Stonecrop. ‘I promised this man his life. I keep my promises. Throw him overboard; he can swim to the shore.’
Chapter 1
Quis sait, si veniat.
I do not know whether he will return.
Medieval lament
Canterbury, December 1303
The three horsemen made their way along the old Roman road to Harbledown Hill. They’d sheltered at the priest’s house of St Nicholas’s church, using the royal seal to gain warmth and some food before continuing their journey. Now they were approaching the summit of the hill overlooking Canterbury and its splendid cathedral. Snow had fallen. The leaden grey skies threatened more. As they passed the crossroads with their empty gibbets and stocks, the lead rider reined in. Sir Hugh Corbett, Keeper of the Secret Seal of Edward I of England, soothed his skittish horse and pushed back the cowl of his cloak to reveal a long, olive-skinned face. Some men called it hawkish, with its deep-set dark eyes, sharp nose above full lips and firm chin: a watcher and a brooder, or so they said, like a falcon upon its perch, an aspect enhanced by Corbett’s raven-black hair, tinged with grey, swept back and tied tightly in a queue on the nape of his neck. Corbett was tall and slender, careful and fastidious about what he ate and drank. He usually made a joke about this, saying that he would like to regard himself as ascetic; in truth, his stomach was delicate after long and arduous campaigns in Wales and Scotland, where, with the rest of Edward’s troops, he’d drunk brackish water, eaten rotten meat and cut his teeth on iron-hard rye bread. He was dressed in dark red and black, his leather jacket clasped close over a white linen shirt, his dark blue cloak pulled tight over red leggings and high-heeled boots, the best from Cordova, on which silver-gilt spurs jingled. He took off the long leather gauntlet on his left hand and the chancery ring, the symbol of his office, gleamed in the day’s dying light. Then he loosened the broad leather war belt round his waist from which sword and dagger hung.
‘Now,’ he leaned forward, gripping the high saddle-horn, ‘when we reach the top of this hill we’ll see Canterbury, and its cathedral, which holds the shrine of the blessed Becket. We’ll then sing a pilgrim hymn, or perhaps something more liturgical, appropriate to the season.’ Corbett had been looking forward to this. He liked nothing better than the plainchant of the Church, the rise and fall of the music emphasising the awesome words and the rolling Latin phrases which conveyed a deep sense of the spiritual, of man’s place before God. His companions were not so enthusiastic.
‘Master, must we?’ Ranulf atte Newgate, red-haired and green-eyed, his thin white face made even more so by the intense cold, pushed back his own hood and glared at Corbett. ‘We’ve been travelling,’ he moaned, ‘since Lauds.’
Ranulf, Senior Clerk in the Chancery of the Green Wax, simply wanted to ease himself out of the saddle, take off his boots and, as he’d remarked to the third member of their party, the mop-haired, moon-faced Chanson, Clerk of the Royal Stables, toast himself in front of a roaring fire. Now he undid the top clasp of his black leather jerkin and pointed across at Chanson.
‘Despite his name, he cannot sing. He sounds more like a fiend sitting on a scorching skillet getting his arse burnt.’
‘At least I’m not terrified of the countryside,’ Chanson retorted. ‘He is, you know, master. He believes all sorts of gargoyles lurk in the undergrowth.’ Chanson nursed the inside of his right leg. ‘I’ve a sore here,’ he groaned. ‘I need a physician more than I do a hymn.’
‘We’ll sing first,’ Corbett insisted. ‘Chanson, you may do so softly. It’s all part of the pilgrim tradition, to give thanks when you glimpse Canterbury.’ He put on his gauntlet and pulled up his hood.
Ranulf quietly cursed and Chanson whispered insults as they made their way up Harbledown Hill. The snow began to fall again, faintly at first, then the flakes became like great white feathers floating down. When they reached the summit, they glimpsed, through the gathering murk, the King’s city of Canterbury with its crenellated walls, squat castle, brooding Westgate, lofty church towers, and soaring above all this, the minster of the cathedral, its mass of carefully carved masonry rising like a prayer against the evening sky. The lights of the city glowed like candles about it; the smoke from fires and workshops hung like gusts of incense around this holiest of England’s shrines.
For a while, despite the gathering gloom, Corbett tried to point out the principal landmarks, then he dismounted, only to turn abruptly at a sound behind him. Another group was approaching; its leader carried a huge lantern with an enormous fiery candle glowing inside. The strangers passed Corbett’s party, pushing their way by. The light-bearer thrust the lantern pole into a deep snowdrift beside the trackway, sending the shadows dancing. The strangers grouped together oblivious of the chaos they had caused. Ranulf’s horse whinnied and reared, whilst the pack pony Chanson was leading abruptly moved back on its hind legs. Ranulf, exasperated, drew his sword; the icy scraping sound stilled the chatter amongst the strangers. They looked round, and their leader shuffled back through the snow. He was cloaked and hooded, the lower part of his face hidden beneath broad cloth bands. In the poor light his eyes glittered; when he pulled the mouth bands down, his hot breath burst clear on the wintry air.
‘Gaudium et spes.’ He growled the usual Christmas greeting. ‘Joy and hope.’
‘Gaudium et spes,’ Corbett replied, indicating that Ranulf should re-sheathe his sword.
‘We are Les Hommes Joyeuses – the Joyous Men,’ the fellow continued, ‘travelling players. Our carts are somewhere behind us. We have come to give thanks to our patron Thomas à Becket and to God’s Holy Mother.’
‘Then, friend,’ Corbett hid his smile, ‘we shall sing together. But why are you travelling to Canterbury in the dead of winter?’
‘In thanksgiving,’ the leader of the Joyeuses replied, continuing the pretence that he did not know Corbett. ‘To sing a carol to Christ’s Blessed Mother. Last month we sheltered in Suffolk.’ The man, one of Corbett’s spies, chattered on. Corbett waited for the real message. ‘Ah yes, we are glad to be out of Suffolk, with its treasure-hunters, lepers and grisly death. We bring all sorts of news. Ah well,’ he stamped his feet, ‘are we to stay here and freeze?’
In the flickering light of the candle, Les Hommes Joyeuses assumed a funereal ai
r lacking any kind of Yuletide cheer.
‘By what name are you called?’ the leader asked. He wanted Corbett to reassure the rest of his party.
‘Sir Hugh Corbett, king’s emissary to Canterbury, Keeper of the Secret Seal.’
The Joyeuses came forward, their dismal air lifted; hands appeared from beneath cloaks. Corbett heard the scrape of blades being shoved back into sheaths, as cowls and hoods were pushed back.
‘I am sorry,’ their leader confessed, winking quickly at Corbett, ‘we thought you were different, something else, perhaps outlaws or wolfsheads.’ He extended a hand. ‘Robert Ormesby, formerly clerk of Taunton, Somerset, now the Gleeman, poet, mummer and mimer.’
Corbett grinned, grasped the Gleeman’s hand and squeezed it gently. ‘Then let us carol merrily together! What chant?’
‘Advent is drawing to a close,’ the Gleeman replied, pursing his lips. ‘Why not one of the O antiphons? “Clavis David” or “Radix Jesse”?’
Corbett, much to Ranulf’s annoyance, agreed heartily to both and they all trudged to the far side of Harbledown Hill, the snow falling thick and fast. Ranulf was reluctantly coaxed to join in. Tunes were hummed; Corbett conceded the honour of cantor to the Gleeman, whose strong voice broke into the beautiful antiphon: ‘Root of Jesse, set up as a sign, come to save us . . .’
Corbett and the rest joined in the refrain, ‘And delay no more, and delay no more . . .’
The deep-throated singing swelled out under the leaden skies, proclaiming the coming of the Emmanuel, the King of Peace, the Christ child. The words of the antiphon cut through the freezing air, drifting towards Canterbury, the King’s own city, which housed the blessed bones of the murdered Becket and where even more hideous killings were being subtly plotted.
Once the singing was finished, Corbett felt better, and again clasped the Gleeman’s hand.
‘Where will you lodge? Not a stable?’ he joked as he pulled up his cowl.
‘May as well be,’ the Gleeman replied. ‘Perhaps the inn yard at the Chequer of Hope, but if not that . . .’ He shrugged.
Corbett stepped closer, peering at the man. The Gleeman was broad-faced, with well-spaced eyes, thin lips, a snub nose and full cheeks, a merry-looking man with a tinge of cynicism. His light hair was shorn to a stubble, his upper lip and chin freshly shaved and scrubbed.
‘If you fail there,’ Corbett whispered, ‘come to St Augustine’s Abbey near Queningate. Use my name, and I’ll see what I can do . . .’
Corbett made his farewells and strode across to where Ranulf slumped holding the reins of his horse.
‘Ranulf,’ Corbett murmured, one foot in the stirrup, ‘Christmas is a time of friendship, bonhomie and good cheer. All pilgrims to Canterbury pause here to say a prayer or sing a hymn.’ He swung himself up into the saddle. ‘Now we shall press on.’
Corbett spurred his horse forward. Ranulf followed, whilst Chanson on his own palfrey struggled to control the pack pony, which had revealed a wickedly stubborn disposition. Behind them the cries and farewells of the Joyeuses faded as they made their way along the icy trackway.
‘It’s lonely,’ Ranulf remarked.
‘Winter makes hermits of us all,’ Corbett retorted. He slouched low in the saddle, bowing his head against the biting wind. In truth, he’d be glad to reach St Augustine’s. He was tired of the icy sheets which hung everywhere, the cold-veiled mist, snowflakes flying thick and fast like the white bees of heaven, the earth hard as if clasped in a mail corselet, the sky like a cloak of lead stretching above them. At least, he comforted himself, the King had promised that his senior clerk would be home by the Feast of the Epiphany. Corbett desperately looked forward to that, longing to be closeted in his own private chamber with silver-haired Maeve and their two children, Edward and Eleanor. A time of peace, of roaring fires, hot posset ales, roasted chestnuts and apples, mulled wine spiced with nutmeg, braised beef, and above all, the Lady Maeve. He would lie with her and compose a poem. In fact he’d begun one already:
Strengthen my love, the castle of my heart. Fortify with pleasure . . .
‘Master, this business in Canterbury?’
‘The King’s business, Ranulf!’ Corbett broke from his reverie. ‘Three years ago, Adam Blackstock, master of The Waxman, a privateer, was captured and killed off Orwell. The principal ordainer in this was a Canterbury merchant named Sir Walter Castledene.’
‘Who is now mayor.’
‘The same,’ Corbett agreed. ‘Now Castledene had, and still has, an intimate friend amongst the Hanseatic mercantile fraternity, Wilhelem von Paulents.’
‘Who is coming to England with his family.’
‘Precisely. They will be the guests of Sir Walter and the King, and will lodge at the manor of Maubisson on the outskirts of the city, not far from the Dover Road.’ Corbett squinted up at the sky. ‘Paulents, along with his wife, son, maid and bodyguard, a mercenary called Servinus. They are bringing something Paulents once thought he’d lost: the Cloister Map, showing where a great treasure hoard lies buried somewhere in Suffolk. It’s written in a cipher. About four years ago Paulents sent the map to Castledene, but Blackstock seized it from The Maid of Lubeck, which he intercepted and sank. He planned to take the map to his half-brother Hubert, a subtle and skilled scholar who could easily interpret the cipher and seize the treasure. Blackstock was sailing for Orwell to meet Hubert when he himself was trapped and killed. The original map was never found, and Hubert, a master of disguise even amongst the most cunning of counterfeit men, simply disappeared.’
‘And no one else survived from The Waxman?’
Corbett’s horse suddenly started as an owl glided across the trackway, floating like some lost soul into the darkness beyond. He soothed his mount, stroking its neck, then reined it in for a while to let it settle. Behind them Chanson cursed as he fought to control the pack pony, which had also been frightened.
‘No one.’ Corbett threaded the reins through his hands and stared longingly at the distant lights of the city. ‘The entire crew was hanged. The Waxman was ransacked from the top of its mast to its hull, but no trace of the Cloister Map was found. Blackstock must have destroyed it. Anyway, Paulents has been busy searching, and has at last found a copy of the chronicle the original map was taken from. He is now bringing this to England, and he and Castledene will finance the search for the treasure.’
‘And the King? Us?’
‘We act for the King in this matter.’ Corbett wiped the snow from his face. ‘We are the King’s will. You must have listened to Drokensford, Langton and other officials of the Exchequer: the royal treasury is empty. Edward wages bloody war against Wallace and the kingdom of Scotland.’
‘And a greater part of any treasure trove belongs to the King?’
‘Tu dixisti – you’ve said it!’ Corbett quipped.
He urged his horse along the rutted trackway. Now the countryside was not so lonely: houses rose on either side, their gates shut, doors firmly locked against the icy night. The smell of wood smoke, charcoal and fragrant cooking odours urged them on. Somewhere behind a lychgate, a dog barked. Darkness was sweeping in. The moon began to rise and the stars shimmered like pinpricks of light above them.
‘In a word, Ranulf,’ Corbett added, ‘we are here to help decipher the chart, though I believe it may already have been done. We are to ensure Castledene and Paulents agree to the King’s rights, safeguard Paulents, and deal with—’
‘The Lady Adelicia?’
‘Adelicia Decontet,’ Corbett agreed. ‘Soon to be arraigned before Sir Walter Castledene and other justices in the city Guildhall on a charge of murdering her husband, Sir Rauf Decontet. Adelicia was once the King’s ward. If Edward of England has a soft heart for anyone, it is Adelicia “La Delicieuse”. However, her late husband was also a friend of the King. He lent Edward money for his recent wars in Gascony.’
‘So the King will intervene in this matter?’
‘No.’ Corbett turned in the saddle, sheltering h
is face against the driving snowflakes. ‘We are here to see that justice is done. If she truly shattered her husband’s skull as you would a nut, then she’ll not hang, Ranulf, she’ll burn before the city gates.’
‘And why are we staying at St Augustine’s Abbey?’
‘Because it’s more comfortable; because Hubert once studied there. We might learn something, and . . .’
‘And what?’
‘Wait and see. Come.’
Corbett urged his horse into a canter, and Ranulf and Chanson followed, unaware that ahead of them, those twin disciples of Cain, horrid murder and bloody mayhem, also crept towards the King’s city of Canterbury.
Wendover, captain and serjeant-at-arms in the city of Canterbury, was also concerned about murder. So anxious had he become, he truly wished he could slip into the shriving pew at St Alphege’s church and confess all his sins to Parson Warfeld. Yet was he as contrite as the rite of absolution said he should be? Indeed, although he was racked by the fear of hell, the allure of Lady Adelicia’s soft white body, so smooth and perfumed, her golden hair hanging down, those light blue eyes, her soft speech and elegant gestures seemed a total hindrance to God’s grace. Lady Adelicia Decontet had turned Wendover’s world upside down. He was reminded of that wall painting in St Alphege’s which showed three rats hanging a cat and, in the background, an antelope hunting a fox ridden by a rabbit: a parable of the topsy-turvy world he now lived in. After all, he was supposed to keep the King’s peace, not violate it through fornication with a leading citizen’s wife, especially one now imprisoned in the dungeons beneath the Guildhall.